The Day of the Scorpion (4 page)

‘Mr Mohammed Ali Kasim?’ he inquired, as if making a formal identification.

‘Yes.’

‘This way, please.’

Kasim picked up his suitcase and bedroll. The others stood
aside for him. At the doorway he looked down into the face of the officer whose eye he had held during the night. He said, ‘I’d be grateful if you’d help me with my baggage.’

Standing below, near by, were two military policemen. The carriage was in a goods yard. A 15-cwt truck was parked at the shuttered entrance to a warehouse. Kasim smelt coal dust. The officer reached up and Kasim nudged the suitcase forward until he felt its weight taken. The bedroll followed. The officer set both down on the cinders. Kasim turned round to face inwards as he climbed down the narrow, perpendicular steps; then stood waiting. The officer with the armband came down. He indicated the luggage.

‘This is all your luggage?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very well. My men will take you to the truck. Go with them, please.’

‘May I be told where you are taking me?’

The officer with the armband hesitated.

‘To the Fort,’ he said abruptly.

‘The Fort?’

Again the officer hesitated. Kasim thought he was surprised. ‘You’re in Premanagar,’ he explained.

‘Thank you. I didn’t know.’

He glanced round. One railway siding looked like any other. He had not been in Premanagar since his tour of the province in 1938. He had never visited the Fort, but he had seen it from a distance. He had no clear visual recollection of it. Premanagar, he remembered, was not far from Mirat where his son Ahmed was. If they ever told his family where he was, and allowed him visitors, perhaps he would see Ahmed.

II

Major Tippit was a small man with very little hair. What was left of it was yellowy white. His face was lined and wrinkled. He had a high complexion. ‘I’m a historian really,’ he explained. ‘I retired from the army in 1938, but they dug me out. It was decent of them to give me the Fort, wasn’t it?’

Kasim agreed that it was.

‘There’s a lot of history in the Fort. I’m writing a monograph. Perhaps you’d like to read some of it and give me an opinion, one day when you have a moment.’

‘I have a great number of moments.’

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. Let us see, now, how long has it been?’

Major Tippit glanced at the papers on his desk but did not make any effort to find one in particular.

Kasim said, ‘Nine days.’

‘And you are comfortable?’

‘I am comfortable.’

‘Have you any complaints?’

‘Several.’

‘Oh yes. Lieutenant Moran Singh told me he’d made a note of them. It’s here somewhere I expect. I’ll look into them.’

‘Can’t you look into them now?’

Major Tippit had very pale blue eyes. He gazed out of them at Kasim as if he had reasons for not dealing with complaints but couldn’t remember what they were. He clasped his bony little hands together on the desk – the kind of man, Kasim guessed, who, lacking skill, energy or resolution, would make up for them with a mindless, vegetable implacability. The unpleasant young Sikh, nominally under Major Tippit’s command, would know exactly how far he could go, what would be allowed to him by way of license, and what disallowed.

‘First of all,’ Kasim said, ‘is it really Government’s intention to keep me in solitary confinement? I understand the Fort has a number of civil prisoners like myself. We are not criminals. We shall probably be here for some time. The others seem to mix quite freely. I can see them in the outer courtyard from the window of my room. But since coming here I’ve been kept isolated and have spoken to no one except my guards and Lieutenant Moran Singh. Is this state of affairs merely temporary or is it to continue?’

‘Yes, I see.’

Kasim waited.

‘I am sorry you feel like that. The old zenana house is
extremely interesting. I must come over one day and point out some of its more remarkable features.’

‘Some of my fellow-prisoners would be interested in it too.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so. If I may make bold, they are not of similar intellectual calibre. The other prisoners here are very much from the rank and file of your movement.’ A look of almost intense disappointment came on to Major Tippit’s face, as if he had only just realized what they were talking about. ‘We were told several weeks ago that we might have to provide accommodation for a VIP detenu. Of course we immediately thought of Mr Gandhi or Mr Nehru. At first I believed we had nothing suitable. Amazing how you can overlook something that’s right under your nose. I had become so used to sitting here and looking through the window and seeing the zenana house, so used to going over there and using it for my own private purposes – I did a great deal of reading and writing and studying there – that I came to think of it really as an extension of my office. Then of course it struck me how eminently suitable it was. In the heart of the citadel, and if I may say so, constantly under my eye. One has that kind of obligation if one takes one’s duties seriously. I made the necessary arrangements at once. It was the last thing I did before going on leave. One has to be prepared. I knew I would miss using the little house. I always found it so conducive to meditation. I confess I was a little sad when I returned last night and Lieutenant Moran Singh said that the zenana house was now occupied. However, I was most interested when he told me who you were. A member of the ancient house of Kasim. The Fort was once within the territory administered by the Kasim who was a viceroy of the great Moghul. But you know that? Your kinsman, the present Nawab of Mirat, is directly descended from him. I thought last night how interesting it was that a Kasim should have come back to stay in Premanagar. And frankly I was rather relieved that the occupant of the zenana house was of the Faith. Tell me, are you a Sunni or a Shiah Muslim?’

‘Major Tippit, you have not answered my complaint. My impression is that the officers who conducted me from Ranpur brought a letter to you from Sir George Malcolm. Is
there anything in that letter that suggested I should be kept isolated?’

‘A letter?’

‘I think the one near your left elbow. I recognize the heading.’

Tippit looked down, picked the letter up, glanced at it.

‘Oh yes. Lieutenant Moran Singh mentioned a letter. I have not read it yet.’

‘Would you do so now?’

Tippit looked down again, stared at the letter. His eyes showed no movement of reading. After a while he replaced the letter near his left elbow.

‘Well?’ Kasim asked. ‘Is there anything that suggests or orders solitary confinement?’

‘No.’

‘Is there anything about newspapers?’

‘You have permission to read newspapers.’

‘Good. But I have not been given any. That is my other complaint.’

‘I will speak to Lieutenant Moran Singh about it.’

‘I’ve spoken to Lieutenant Moran Singh about it several times. I’ve given him a list of the newspapers I want. I’ve also written to my wife asking her to send newspapers. That letter and several other letters are still here. They are on your desk.’

‘I’ll read them as soon as possible. You understand that they must be read?’

‘I understand nothing of the sort. They will be read in Ranpur, either in the censorship office at the Secretariat or by a member of the Governor’s staff. Sometimes by both. I have not so far written personally to the Governor as he requested me, but I shall be doing so presently. I should like to be able to make some comments to him on whatever the current situation is.’

Major Tippit glanced up – not, it seemed, recognizing a threat. He said, ‘Things have been very distressing, haven’t they?’

‘Major Tippit, how can I tell how things have been? I have no radio, no newspapers, my guards tell me nothing, Lieutenant Moran Singh tells me nothing and does not even post my
letters. No letters have been given to me either. By now I should think there would be several.’

‘Such senseless violence. It is difficult to know where to apportion blame. And that poor girl, that unfortunate woman. It has incensed people. Looting, rioting, burning. Yes, yes. One expects. Deplores but expects. But these other things . . . I was delayed because the railways have been so uncertain. In Ranpur feeling is running high. In Mayapore the civil have handed over to the military. The whole country is seething. Will you have some tea?’

‘No thank you.’

‘It is ten o’clock. I always have tea at ten o’clock. A regular régime. While I’m away things get out of hand. It is five past ten.’ He said this without looking at his watch. He made no effort to have tea brought in. Chapprassis were waiting on the bench outside, but he did not call one of them. He said, ‘But they will be better now that I am back. Lieutenant Moran Singh has conducted everything with precision and now that I am back to say the word everything will fall into place. I’m afraid I cannot change the arrangements for your accommodation. Have you any other requests?’

‘I should like further supplies of pen, paper and ink.’

‘I will tell Lieutenant Moran Singh. He will arrange it with one of the clerks.’

‘There are two habitable rooms in the zenana house, the one I have as a bedroom and the one I use as a study. I should like to share these rooms with one of your other prisoners.’

‘Which one?’

‘Any one. I don’t know who you have got here.’

‘As I said, rank and file. I cannot allow it. It is against my principles. I am surprised that you wish it. You are a man who has been in a position of authority. Well, well, that is a lonely business. I too am living alone in this fortress, Mr Kasim. I am glad you are here. We can talk together sometimes. I am interested in Islamic art and literature as well as in history. The early eighteenth-century Urdu poet, Gaffur, was also of your ancient family, so I understand. I have translated some of his verses into English. You might like to have a look at them.’

Kasim bowed his head.

‘In one or two cases I believe I have managed to convey something of the splendour and simplicity of the original. You are well acquainted with the poems of Gaffur, Mr Kasim?’

‘At one time, yes. As a boy. Since then other things have tended to occupy my mind. You said that the country is seething.’

‘Looting. Arson. Sabotage. Policemen have been murdered. Track has been torn up. Magistrates imprisoned in their own jails, Congress flags run up. Troops called out. Inevitable loss of life. Waste. Violence. Terrible violence. To no purpose. It’s being stamped out. It’s best forgotten. I should not talk about it.’

‘You said something about a girl.’

‘She was raped. Another woman was attacked. An elderly woman. The Indian who was driving her to safety was murdered.’

‘Were they Europeans?’

‘English. The woman was a mission school teacher. The girl who was raped was of good family. They have arrested the men.’

‘Was this in Ranpur?’

‘No. In Mayapore. The military have taken over. Your people have done terrible things. I do not understand you, Mr Kasim. Over this we are in opposite camps. We are enemies. But I am a humane man.’ Major Tippit paused. ‘I’m a historian, really. The present does not interest me. The future even less. Only through art and contemplation of the past can man live with man. I hope you will be content. Think upon the Fort as a refuge from life’s turmoils and disappointments.’

Kasim waited, then when he saw that for the moment Tippit had no more to say, he rose, thanked his jailer for the interview and said, ‘I have your permission to return to my quarters?’

He walked alone across the space that separated the Fort commander’s office and the zenana house, under the eyes of
the chapprassis and the armed sentries who patrolled the colonnaded veranda of the old barracks. In the centre of the courtyard a neem tree provided some shade. Puddles in the red earth reflected the blue of the sky. Puffs of cloud too light to cast shadows moved quickly, driven by the prevailing south-west wind. By midday it would probably rain.

The courtyard was enclosed to the east by the barracks, to the north, west and south by high crenellated red brick walls with bastions built into the angles. In the west and south wall there were gateways closed by studded wooden doors. Close to the southern wall was the square pavilion where Major Tippit lived. Abutting on to the northern wall was the old zenana house, a two-storey construction of stone and brick with fretted wooden arches shading the upper and lower verandas. A wooden stairway gave access to the first floor. The rooms below were in use as storehouses. The dry smell of grain and sacking pervaded the place. Above, the veranda gave on to rooms all but two of which were ruinous. The farthest of these were boarded in. The two which were habitable were closest to the wooden staircase. Inside, they were lit by the open doors and by windows in the outer walls. These windows were blocked by fretted stone screens that gave the occupant views, through any one of their many apertures, of the outer courtyard and the inner and outer walls of the Fort. The courtyard where the zenana house stood had obviously been the women’s. The barracks must have been servants’ quarters. He could not see what lay behind the southern wall, other than the dome of the mosque, but from the outer windows of his rooms in the zenana he could see beyond the farther walls to the plain.

The walls of his two rooms were whitewashed. In one room there were a bed, a chair and a wardrobe; in the other a table, a chair and a calendar. The calendar was Kasim’s own. He did not mark off the days. There seemed no point in doing so when the period of his imprisonment was not determined. ‘I rise at six as usual, waking by habit,’ he wrote now to his wife. ‘They give me breakfast at eight. The two hours are spent bathing and dressing and reading. After breakfast I walk round the compound, unless it is raining, then write in my journal, and letters, until lunch. After lunch I doze for a
while, then read until four, when they bring me some tea. After tea I walk again. After that I bathe. Then read. Then supper. Time of course hangs heavily. Today I expect letters at last. Please give my love to the children when you write to them. I am told there has been some unrest. I hope you are safe and unharmed by it. There must be a great deal for you to attend to. Do not write more often than you can well afford to. One thing I dislike is not being allowed to shave myself. They have taken my things away and send a barber every other day. Today is a bristly morning. I suppose they are afraid I might hurt myself with the razor. Even my little mirror is gone. I shall forget what I look like, no doubt. They have let me keep your and the children’s photographs, because they are only covered with mica. I have the portraits on my desk. Pray remember every morning and night Ahmed Gaffur Ali Rashid. Our noble but eccentric ancestor! Looking at the photographs has reminded me of him.’