Flood of Fire (11 page)

Bhyro Singh acknowledged that this was not the case at his own regimental base: instead every sepoy was given a hutting-allowance, to build his own shack.

But believe me, Ram Singhji, no one minds doing this because that way we can all live as we like, among our own kind.

Now, with the first seeds of doubt sprouting in his mind, Ram Singh began to voice other, more pressing objections to the Company's service.

Say what you like, Bhyro Singhji, he said. But these Angrez firangis are beef-eating Christians. For Rajputs it can only bring shame on our families if we work for them. Isn't it true that everyone who joins the Company's paltans must eat unclean and forbidden things? That he must live side by side with men of all sorts, including the lowest?

The havildar burst out laughing.

Ram Singhji, he said, you are completely mistaken: the English care more about the dharma of caste than any of our nawabs and rajas ever did. There is not a sepoy in the Bengal Native Infantry who is not a Brahmin or a Rajput. And these are not impostors, trying to pass themselves off as twice-born: every sepoy's caste is carefully checked, as is his body. As you know, in the old days the armies of Hindustan were like jungles – men went into them to hide, so that they could change their origins. After a few years of fighting ordinary julaha Muslims would pass themselves off as high-class Afghans, and half the men who called themselves Rajputs were just junglees and hill-people. Our badshahs and maharajahs put up with it because they were desperate for recruits. That is how it has been in Hindustan for hundreds of years: everything has become degenerate, people have forgotten the true dharma of caste and they do whatever they find convenient. But now at last things are being put right by the Angrezi Company. The sahibs are stricter about these matters than our rajas and nawabs ever were. They have brought learned men from their country to study our old books. These white pundits know more about our scriptures than we do ourselves. They are making everything pure again, just like it was in the days of the earliest sages and rishis. Under the sahibs' guidance every caste will once again become like an iron cage – no one will be allowed to move one finger's breadth, this way or that. Already the sahibs have done more to keep the lower castes in their places than our Hindu kings did over hundreds of years. In the gora paltan no one can join unless he is known to be
of high caste, and no person of doubtful origin will last more than a couple of days. All our cooking we do ourselves or else we hire high-caste servants to do it for us. If we raise a question about any sepoy the officers will convene an inquiry at once. If there is anything doubtful about the man's caste-status he is sent straight back to his village. Why, even the girls supplied by the Company, for our ‘red' bazars, are always from high castes.

Bhyro Singh paused to let his host absorb what he had said.

I tell you, Ram Singhji, he continued, the Company has more respect for the dharma of caste than we do ourselves. Why, just listen to this: some time ago the English officers made a new rule that a bell had to be rung in our camp after every few hours. Of course none of us wanted to do the extra work so we said that it was against our custom for high-caste men to ring bells. And what do you think? Immediately they hired special bell-ringers to do the job! Do you think our nawabs and rajas would care at all about such things? If we told them we couldn't ring bells they would have laughed and kicked us in the gaand.

Ram Singh was visibly impressed by these arguments but he continued to protest: But still, Bhyro Singhji, there's no izzat in working for firangi beef-eaters.

But Muslims are beef-eaters too, aren't they? Bhyro Singh countered. And that did not stop you from agreeing to send your son to the Mughal army in Delhi? To serve the Mussalman badshahs was always a matter of honour for our fathers and grandfathers. With the Company there is even more reason for pride, since the British are purifying Hindustan. For thousands of years everything in this land has declined and degenerated; people have become so mixed that you cannot tell them apart. Under the British everyone is kept separate, each with their own kind – the whites are with the whites and we are left to ourselves. They are the true defenders of caste, Ram Singhji, and if you have any thought of your son's dharma you will send him to us.

But dharma is not just a matter of rules, Ram Singh objected. We are Rajputs and for us our worth, our
maryada
, lies in how we show our courage. No man can be a true warrior in the gora paltan – valour and skill count for nothing with them. Why, during the Battle of Assaye some of our best fighters went forward and challenged
the enemy to send their bahadurs, for single combat. Do you know, not one man stepped out from the Company's ranks? There was not one man in their entire army who was brave enough to be a real bahadur! Even though most of their sepoys were Hindustanis, like us, they had lost both honour and courage, izzat and himmat, after joining the Company's army. Even we were ashamed for them.

A smile appeared on Bhyro Singh's face. But Ram Singhji, he said, in a silky voice: Tell me, who won at Assaye?

Unable to think of a retort, Ram Singh hung his head.

Bhyro Singh's smirk widened: The old ways of fighting may have been good for making heroes and bahadurs, Ram Singhji, but they didn't always win wars. And that's the thing with the English way of fighting – it does not depend on heroes. The Company's army is not made up of a great number of bahadurs: the whole army fights like a single brave warrior. That is why people speak of the ‘Company Bahadur'. The entire army is like one man, one body, obeying a single head; every Company sepoy has to learn this by doing drills. Everyone has to obey the one above him, right to the very top. No one can ever refuse to follow orders or he will be shot. It is not like our Hindustani armies, which are made up of men whose main loyalty is to the sardar who pays them – and if that sardar takes a bribe they will all go off with him. Our Angrez officers understand this very well, and before every battle they send the baniyas to offer bribes to the sardars of the other armies. Almost always it happens that three or four of them accept, and then they either ride away or they stand aside during the fighting. Isn't it true that this is what happened at Assaye?

Yes, said Ram Singh. It cannot be denied. But that wasn't the only reason the Angrez army won. They had better cannon than us. Better bundooks too.

Exactly! said Bhyro Singh. Unlike our Hindustani rajas and nawabs, the Angrezes are always studying and making changes. Every year their cannon get better and better. They are always looking to make improvements in their weapons and they don't allow anything to get in the way of that.

Cutting himself short, Bhyro Singh jumped to his feet: Here, let me show you something.

He went to the horse-cart, which was tethered nearby, and came back with two swords, both sheathed in their scabbards. One of the swords was curved and the other straight; he placed them both on a charpoy, and seated himself beside them.

Look at this talwar! he said, drawing the curved sword from its sheath and laying its shining blade across his knees.

See how beautifully it is made? See how sharp the blade is?

He picked up a fallen mango leaf and held it to the sword's edge. The blade sliced right through the leaf, almost at the touch.

This is the weapon my father and grandfather carried, Bhyro Singh continued. It is the weapon I was first taught to use, and it is still the weapon of my love. Compared to it, the swords we are given by the English are nothing to look at.

Drawing the straight sword from its scabbard he laid it across his knees, beside the talwar. It was a dull grey in colour, with a sharply pointed tip and straight sides. There were no ornamental designs etched upon the blade and it showed no signs of having ever been touched by the hands of a craftsman.

These English swords are all alike, said Bhyro Singh. They make thousands and thousands of them, all exactly the same. Compared to our talwars, they are blunt, ugly things.

He thrust a leaf against the edge of the blade and succeeded only in bruising it.

But when it comes to fighting, said Bhyro Singh, it's a different matter. He rose to his feet and brandished the unsheathed talwar in front of him.

Look at this talwar, said Bhyro Singh. It is a weapon that cuts with its edge. To use it in battle a soldier must have plenty of space around him. Or else he will hurt his own men.

He motioned to the others to step back and made a slashing motion, so that the tip of the talwar drew crosswise arcs in the air, swinging from shoulder to waist on one side and then the other.

When I use this sword, said Bhyro Singh, none of my own men can be near me. We have to stand at least two swords' lengths away.

Laying aside the talwar, he now picked up the English sword and held it in front of him.

This weapon is also a sword, he said, but it works in a completely
different way. It is meant not for cutting with the edge, but for impaling with the tip. That is what it is meant to do. With these weapons a column of men armed with swords and bayonets can advance shoulder to shoulder: they pose no danger to each other. Even if their numbers are much smaller, their column has more weight because it is more closely packed. When a line of our soldiers meets a line of men with talwars they will always break through. The fighters armed with talwars cannot turn us back, no matter how brave they are, or how highly skilled. If they try to form a mass they will hurt themselves more than us. Their talwars cannot be used in the same way as a straight sword or a bayonet – the curved blade does not allow that. To fight at all, they need space and that becomes their weakness, no matter what their numbers. That is why they always scatter in front of us.

The havildar handed his swords to his men, to be sheathed. Then he turned again to Ram Singh.

You see, Ram Singhji, he said, there are good reasons why there is no army in Hindustan that can withstand the forces of the Company Bahadur. Sometimes armies run away just at the sight of us. If you want your son to fight on the winning side, if you want him to come home alive, with money in his pouch, you will give him to me and I will turn him into a sepoy for the Company.

At this point Bhim intervened, saying to his father in a loud whisper that he had made up his mind: he wished to go nowhere but to Delhi.

That brought the argument to an end. Bhyro Singh gave a dismissive shrug, as if to say he had done what he could: All right, then I will take your leave now, Ram Singhji. I have said what I had to. If anything changes, I will be at the mela tomorrow.

With that he ushered his men to the horse-cart and they went on their way.

*

Shireen was returning from one of her daily visits to the Fire Temple when she was intercepted by a khidmatgar. A visitor had come to the house to offer his respects, he said; the gentleman was waiting for her in a receiving room on the ground floor, with her brother.

Kaun hai?
said Shireen. Do you know his name?

The boy could tell her nothing except that the visitor was a
topeewala-sahib
– a hat-wearing white man.

Veiling herself with the end of her white sari, Shireen went to the door of her brother's baithak-khana. Seated inside, with her brother, was a tall man with a face like a wind-eroded cliff: his cheeks were scored by deep lines and his temples were marked by protruding, crag-like bones. He was clean-shaven, his complexion a weathered, sunset pink. His jacket and trowsers were a funereal black and he was wearing a dark armband around his sleeve.

In complexion, as in clothing, the visitor looked very much a sahib, yet there was something about his deportment that did not seem entirely European. Nor was there anything Western about the gesture with which he greeted her – a salaam, performed with a cupped hand and a deep bow.

‘Shireen, this is Mr Zadig Karabedian. I am sure his name will be familiar to you – he was a close friend of Bahram-bhai's. He has come to pay his respects.'

Shireen bowed her head without removing her veil. Bahram had often spoken to her about ‘Zadig Bey'. She remembered that he had befriended him on a journey to England, some thirty years before. Zadig Bey had grown up in Egypt, Bahram had told her: he was an Armenian Christian, a clockmaker who travelled widely in connection with his trade.

Bibiji, said the visitor in fluent Hindustani; please forgive me for not coming earlier, but my visit to Bombay has been much delayed. Like you I have suffered a bereavement.

Oh?

He pointed to his armband: My wife of many years was carried away by a hectic fever a few months ago.

I'm very sorry to hear that, Zadig Bey. Where did it happen?

In Colombo. But I must count it my good fortune that I could at least be with her at the end. God did not grant you even that.

Behind the veil, Shireen's eyes suddenly filled with tears: No; He did not …

Bibiji, I cannot tell you how much I have been saddened by your husband's death. Bahram-bhai was my dearest friend.

At the sound of her late husband's name Shireen's eyes flew to her brother's expressionless face. Over the last few weeks Bahram's
name had become almost taboo in the Mestrie mansion; people seemed to avoid mentioning him in order to spare themselves the ignominy of being reminded of his bankruptcy, and of the disgrace he had brought upon his family and relatives.

Shireen herself hardly ever spoke of Bahram now, except with her daughters, and even they talked about him as though he were someone else, a different man: it was as if his death, combined with the catastrophic failure that had preceded it, had become a kind of re-birth, begetting a man who was utterly unlike the person they had known: a man whose career had been doomed to failure from the start; whose every success was a portent of the disaster he would bring upon those he loved most.

The girls had always doted on their father but now they could no longer speak of him except in tones of shame and reproach – and nor could Shireen blame them, since Bahram's bankruptcy had robbed them not just of their expectations of inheritance, but also of a considerable part of the respect they had previously enjoyed in their husbands' families.