The Splendor Of Silence (36 page)

Raman and Sayyid stayed crouched under the banyan tree, the wind whipping up red dirt in swirls and eddies as they each huddled in the relative comfort of their blankets. The dust flew in to sting Raman's legs and his stomach through the rents in the blanket, but he was thankful for the little protection it provided. Every now and then, he put out a hand blindly to feel for Sayyid's shoulder and to make sure that he was still near him. And so he rode out the storm. Conversation was not possible, so, ensconced within the tough roots of the many-armed banyan tree, Raman allowed a lassitude to overcome his body and immersed himself in his thoughts.

Sayyid had shown him Mila's note at breakfast that morning, and Raman had read it briefly and put it away, more because he could do nothing about it, could not turn back to Rudrakot, and did not really want to either. He was a little discomfited by the tone, what was it she had not been disrespectful, Mila would never be that, could never be that. But she had always before, in all of her conversations with him, made her desires seem like requests. Not this time. Dearest Papa, she had written, Captain Hawthorne has expressed a wish to visit Chetak's tomb, and I will take him there tomorrow. Ashok comes with us and I wanted to let you know of our plans in case we leave before you waken in the morning.

Shutting his ears to the blast of the wind, Raman admonished himself not to be too fanciful and too imaginative, just as Mila always was. She could create stories out of little beginnings, and give them legs, torsos, heads, ears, eyes, and noses to make them complete. She must have been fired last night, and yes, there was something different in the way she had written that note, but it was nothing, surely it was nothing? Then, because he had little else to do, thoughts about the suitability of Mila's going away on such a pleasure visit with a man they knew so little about came to Raman. Normally, busy as he was with a hundred myriad troubles during the day, he would give very little credence to such proprieties. But he had nothing to do during the dust storm. He was physically exhausted from what had already been a long day for him, and the queries and complaints of the villagers had mentally taken his strength too, but Mila, Ashok, and Kiran were still never far from his mind. Ashok was with her; if only Sayyid could have been too, Raman thought. He reached out to pat

Sayyid's shoulder again, and felt a reassuring press of fingers upon his hand in return. Sayyid was the very soul of goodness and decorum--his presence would have stilled all gossiping tongues if they had even thought of wagging in that direction. Sayyid should have gone with Mila. But he was being unnecessarily stupid here, Raman thought. For he had liked Sam Hawthorne, immensely, more in the short time he had known him than any other man. And Raman was used to being confident in his ability to judge men's characters upon first acquaintance; it was one of his best and most finely honed skills. Sam Hawthorne would be properly solicitous of his Mila. Raman sighed. It was not Sam Hawthorne he was worried about, it was the ladies at the Victoria Club. Well, at least they would return later this evening, and safely, and even as he thought this, the wind flattened him against the banyan's roots and knocked his head against the bark. Raman pulled the smelly blanket closer about his face with a sense of dread. The storm would have reached them too, and if it lasted any longer Mila, Ashok, and Sam would have to stay the night at Chetak's tomb.

"Sayyid," he said.

He heard Sayyid reply, his voice muffled by the roar of the wind and the blanket over his mouth, "Ji, Sahib, I know. But they will be safe for the night, at least that."

"Did you send the telegraph?" Raman asked, bending close to Sayyid's ear.

Sayyid nodded and Raman sat back again. It was curious that Captain Hawthorne was an officer in a regiment called the Third Burma Rangers, more curious that the Americans had already formed, trained, and sent out an entire regiment to help in the retaking of Burma. Why, Burma had just fallen. Were the Third Burma Rangers a regular army unit or what else? Who was this Sam Hawthorne? Why had he come to Rudrakot? The telegraph he had sent to Calcutta last night would answer some of these questions for him.

Chapter
Twenty.

In his own account of what he did, Neill continues that the first culprit was a subadar of the 6th who was made to do the work with a sweeper's bush put in his hand by a sweeper; a Mahommedan officer of the civil court was flogged and made to lick up part of the blood with his tongue. "I will hold my own," Neill continued, "with the blessing and help of God. I cannot help seeing that His finger is in all this "

-Philip Mason, A Mauer of Hono, [974

*

They departed when the moon had just begun to ascend, cutting a newly hewn gold arc into the horizon. When it finally rose, perfectly round and enormous, it would take on a honeyed cast, like a harvest moon.

Sam stepped down the stairs from Chetak's tomb and into, literally, another world. For the next few minutes, his breath stilled as the glorious silver-blue brilliance of a million stars percolated into the air around him. There was so much light that the desert was better illuminated at night than it had been at midday. When the sun was out, its rays had seared Sam's retina, almost blinding him; now there was a clear and cool ultramarine light that bled right into his skin. His fingernails were shadowed half-moons, the lines on his palms, normally brushed lightly, stood out indigo black, and Vimal's eyes glowed with a fire. Sam could see for what seemed to be miles to the extremity of the earth, with no obstructions or fuzziness in the images imprinting themselves into his brain. The field punishment center was discernible in every detail, the empty guard towers, the mammoth walls, the closed gate. For just a moment, Sam hesitated as he stood there. If he could see so far, and so lucidly, they could see him too.

"Tonight is the night Chetak rides out, Captain Hawthorne," Vimal said softly.

And that meant no one would dare to linger outside for fear of seeing the horse. "Let's go," Sam said. And they set out.

The desert air was fresh, cooled and scoured of the day's heat. It had even cooled enough in the last two hours to necessitate a fire in Chetak's tomb as they ate the last of the provisions the servants had brought for their dinner. Cold grated-egg sandwiches with pepper and salt, thick slices of cucumbers, tomato juice or warm Bloody Marys (their ice had long since melted and puddled into the sawdust in the ice coolers), coffee and tea, and a platter filled with Indian sweets--coconut bus, sweet samosas stuffed with jaggery and lentils, mysorepak, a chickpea-flour bite-size cake. "This is our dinner?" Sam had asked, incredulous; he had expected much less when Mila had sent Ashok to warn him that they might not have enough to eat since they had not come prepared to spend the night. "Sorry it's so little," Mila replied. "This was to be for our tea, and Sayyid would not have expected us to have to stretch it for dinner." The sweets were almost too sweet, and Sam felt a rim of sugar still coating his tongue as he walked beside Vimal. There were no sounds in the empty desert night. Nothing but the rhythmic flap of their shoes upon the hard dirt, Vimal's feet dragging more than Sam's as he struggled with the weight of the giant varan he had strapped across his back like a rucksack. The varan slumbered, undisturbed by the jolting ride it was being given. Its head lolled this way and that, slapping against Vimal's neck.

"Why do we need that thing?" Sam asked in disgust. "Couldn't you leave it back at the tomb? Ashok would have looked after it for you."

"Oh no," Vimal said, reaching around to pat the varan's back and to stroke its long tail. "We need him." He glanced at Sam with a lambent smile, his teeth ultrawhite in the light from the stars. "You'll see." He looked ahead of them. "It's not very far, Captain Hawthorne, and here in the desert, sound travels vast distances. We must no longer talk and must keep our noise to a minimum."

Sam nodded and paused for a minute, allowing Vimal to trudge ahead. He turned to look back at Chetak's tomb, black and gloomy in the starlight. They had already come enough of a distance that Sam could n
o l
onger see the orange glow of the fire left burning on one end of the verandah. At the other end, Mila had given instructions to the servants to make up beds for them with the tarpaulins they had brought. She lay down next to Ashok, her hand linked through his. Vimal was to be across the stone floor at the other end of the wall and Sam could sleep anywhere he wanted. Sam and Vimal had waited for Mila and Ashok to fall asleep and, even thus, she would not let go of Ashok's hand. She did not like Vimal, Sam had thought again, watching her through the cigarette smoke. He had not lain down or even rested, merely sat against a wall and looked at her, smoking one cigarette after another.

Night had come rushing in on them even as the mighty Lu wind had died and departed. At one moment, there had been the murk of the storm, at the other the gloom of night, and so returning to Rudrakot was out of the question. It would have been madness to seek out a path in the dust storm, and even greater lunacy to attempt to capture that thin, metallic ribbon of road in the night. With everyone else around, Mila had retreated from Sam. She would no longer even look at him; when she talked, it was with a stilted affectation, as though she was being a little too polite to a stranger. Sam, his nerves still throbbing from the encounter under the red tablecloth, had been bewildered at first, had sought her out only to be rebuffed, and had finally become angry. What had he, they, done wrong? Ashok and Vimal chattered all through dinner. Mila ate little and once asked Sam for a cigarette. She put out a hand to steady the lighter as he held the flame for her and then flushed at the contact of their skins. Why? Sam wanted to ask, exhilarated.

She had stared at Vimal, at his overfamiliar gestures toward Ashok, the touch on the shoulder, the rubbing of his forearm. Ashok's eyes glittered; he was in the throes of some excitement and was jittery. At various times during the day, Ashok had accosted Sam and asked him for a cigarette, and he did so again after dinner. Then Mila and Ashok began a spat. She harangued him for his smoking; Ashok was astounded at first, saying that she knou, he smoked, she even stole the odd cigarette from him every now and then. Come off it, Mila. She would not listen and insisted that he put out the cigarette right away or she would tell Papa. Now. Ashok's lower lip began to tremble, and soon Mila too was in tears and they both ended up bawling in each other's arms. Sam had stared at them, bemused. Why all the fighting? Why would she not look at him? Why was she so distraught?

Only Vimal was unaffected. At the first signs of the quarrel, he had risen, taken himself to the other end of the tomb, and only returned to hear Mila giving orders to the servants about the sleeping arrangements. Ashok and Mila lay down almost immediately and held hands, the ankles of their opposing feet looped around each other. At one point, well after Sam had thought her asleep, Mila had turned to her side, toward him, her face cushioned under her left hand. She opened her eyes and looked at Sam for a long time, as though she was memorizing the features of his face. Neither of them spoke, and this was what Sam remembered the most--the lingering scrutiny from Mila, filled with an intensity, a yearning, even a want, and behind it all an aching sadness. Why? Sam wanted to ask, but he had been too mesmerized by the flicker of the fire's gold over her smooth cheek, the length of iridescent hair along her chin. The linen of her pants was stretched tight over the bow shape of her hips. She had taken off her boots and her feet were long and narrow, her toenails painted with a clear varnish. Her hair flowed behind her. Sam's hands hankered for a touch of that hair, of that skin, but he did not make a move. His gaze kept returning to hers and he tried to seek out what she would not tell him in words. Finally, Mila slept.

Sam reached Vimal easily, even without lengthening his stride, and saw that the boy had begun to slow his steps to a crawl.

"I'll carry that monster on your back," he said in a whisper.

Vimal nodded gratefully and unslung the vapid varan from his back and helped Sam tie him on. The varan's skin was cold and a little slippery, and its feet and hands came to clench at Sam's shoulders and back with a surprisingly puissant hold. Sam almost shouted from that sudden pain and Vimal quickly peeled the varan's fingers &mil Sam. He spoke to the animal softly, his voice breaking into song, and the animal quietened. It relaxed and laid its head against Sam's neck.

"You experienced his hold on you, Captain Hawthorne," Vimal said as they moved on. "That is why we need him."

They reached the outside of the field punishment center thirty minutes later. The sandstone walls loomed before them whittled and chiseled into a smoothness by twelve years of ferocious Lus. It looked as though the building had been there for centuries, embedded in the ground, beate
n i
nto the earth by the sun and the winds, glossed to a shine by the stars in the sky. Sam put his hand on the stone. It bore some traces of roughness, of nicks and slips from the stonemason's chisel, but the mortar used to bind the stones together was thin and hardened to a shiny patina. There were no footholds on these walls; it was an effective prison. Even if it had not been birthed in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a desert, miles from any vestiges of civilization, the field punishment center would have been a formidable fortress.

Sam put his ear to the stone and coolness seeped into his skin.

"They all sleep," Vimal said. He glanced up at the moon, which had risen to a quarter of the sky and was now the gleaming white of seashells. "Twelve o'clock. The witching hour in your literature, Captain Hawthorne. In our legends, the ghost of a horse will walk now."