Afterwards, the sensation of returning to awareness was like none that Zachary had ever experienced before. It wasn’t like rising upwards, from darkness towards light; rather it was like falling from a cloud. He had no conception of how much time had passed but he knew that he was still on the floor, his limbs entwined with Mrs Burnham’s.
When he stirred and tried to disentangle himself, she whispered into his ear: ‘No not yet: wait a little. Tomorrow we will wake to an eternity of guilt and remorse. Since we have only this one night together, we may as well deserve our punishment.’
Zachary pulled his head back in surprise. ‘What do you mean, Mrs Burnham? Are you sayin there won’t be another time?’
She brushed her lips tenderly against his face. ‘Yes, m’dear — I’m sorry but it must be so. This is the last and only time. Don’t you see? It is too dangerous — if even a whiff were to reach Mr Burnham, he would murder us both. It is too great a risk.’
‘But why should any whiff reach him? We can be careful, can’t we? There will be other nights when the house is empty, surely?’
She shook her head and gave him a melancholy smile. ‘And to what end? Where can it lead? You’re a penniless boy, and I’m a wife and mother, much older than you.’
‘How old are you then?’
‘Thirty-six. And you?’
‘Twenty-one. Almost twenty-two.’
She kissed him on the forehead. ‘You see,’ she said. ‘I’m old enough to be your aunt. You’ll grow tired of me soon enough. Let us forget about the future and make the best of the hours that are left to us.’
*
The subedar’s tent was at the head of the sepoy lines, facing the parade ground. The tents of the English officers lay on the other side: in one of them an immensely enlarged silhouette of Captain Mee’s head could be seen, projected upon the canvas by a brightly glowing lamp.
The subedar’s tent was also well illuminated, with candles and lamps. Assembled inside were some fifteen men. Of these a dozen were Kesri’s fellow afsars — NCOs of the Pacheesi. They were all blood relatives of the subedar: unlike Kesri, who was in his soiled uniform, they were all dressed in off-duty clothes, dhotis and ungahs.
As for the visitors, Kesri recognized only one: Chandan Singh, Deeti’s brother-in-law — a scrawny youth with a slack mouth and darting eyes. Kesri had met him once before, at the cantonment in Barrackpore. He had come to take Hukam Singh back to their village, after his discharge from the army. On that occasion he had especially sought Kesri out to thank him for saving Hukam Singh’s life.
It was on Kesri’s lips now to say some customary words of condolence to Chandan Singh, in acknowledgement of his brother’s death. But when Chandan Singh turned to look at him the words died on Kesri’s lips — the youth’s face was screwed into an angry scowl; his eyes were bloodshot and filled with rage.
Kesri realized now that something was very wrong. He noticed also that he was the only man standing — the subedar had not invited him to take a seat even though everyone else was sitting, including a couple of men who were junior to him in rank. It dawned on Kesri now that this was not just a deliberate insult: it was as if he had been summoned before a tribunal, a cross between a court martial and a caste panchayat, with the subedar presiding as the supreme judge.
Kesri stiffened, as if on parade, and turned to face Nirbhay Singh.
Subedar sah’b, he said, you sent for me?
Yes, Havildar Kesri Singh, said the subedar. I sent for you. It is because we have received some very serious news today.
The subedar’s voice was slow, measured and grave. Kesri recognized his tone, because he had watched him testify at several courts martiaclass="underline" his bearing was the same today as it had been on those occasions. His expression was one of unsmiling gravity; his words flowed at a slower pace than usual and were more clearly enunciated. The pitch was perfectly steady and when he wanted to emphasize something he did it not by raising his voice but by stroking his moustache.
Some time ago, said the subedar, looking directly into Kesri’s eyes, I told you that I had received a letter with news of deaths in my family. I told you that my brother Bhyro Singh had passed away, as also my nephew Hukam Singh, with whom you had served in Burma, and who was married to your sister. Today we have learnt much more about their passing, from Chandan Singh and these others from his village. They have travelled for months to bring us the news. We have learnt that the matter was much more complicated than we had thought.
The subedar paused: And we have learnt also that you are implicated in it.
Me? cried Kesri. But how is that possible? I was here, with all of you. I did not even know of these things. How can I be implicated?
Through your sister.
Here a slight tremor entered the subedar’s voice and he paused to stroke his moustache and collect himself. When he resumed, his voice was steady again.
It appears, havildar, that your sister had been having illicit relations with another man — a herdsman of low caste.
At this a collective sound, a groan of horror and revulsion, rose from the assembled men. Kesri stared at the subedar for a moment, in disbelief. Then he cried out: Impossible! I know my sister — I know she would not do anything like that.
Now Chandan Singh, who had been crouching tensely in a corner, lost control of himself and began to shout. If you knew that bitch, he screamed, then you would know that she is a randi — a whore! And a murderer too. She poisoned my mother … and my brother …
Chup rah! The subedar signalled to Chandan Singh to hold his tongue: It’s not your place to speak here.
Then he turned to Kesri again.
What we have learnt today, havildar, is that your sister ran off with the herdsman immediately after Hukam Singh’s death. It seems she had made preparations for her escape even before — she had sent her daughter into hiding. This is why there is a strong suspicion that she poisoned Hukam Singh; but we will let that pass since it cannot be proven. What is certain, in any case, is that the two of them had planned their escape with great care: their intention was to pose as girmitiyas and run off to the island of Mauritius, across the sea. But on the way they were recognized by my brother, Bhyro Singh — that was how he met his end. It was your sister’s lover who killed him, with her help.
Kesri had never heard such an unlikely tale. E na ho saké — this cannot be true. He shook his head in disbelief: Subedar-sah’b, you know I have the greatest respect for you. But how can I believe all this? My sister has never been out of our zilla; how could she have planned to go across the sea? It is just not possible.
But that is what happened, said the subedar. An official inquiry was held in Calcutta many months ago. We were not aware of it because we were in the jungle. But the conclusions and judgements have been printed and published — in English and Hindustani.
He held up two pieces of paper.
Here are the judgements. We have all gone through them — there can be no doubt of what happened. Chandan Singh and the other men travelled to Calcutta so that they could attend the hearings and ensure that the killers were brought to justice. But God has already seen to one part of that: Bhyro Singh’s murderer, your sister’s lover, is dead. He drowned while trying to escape from the ship. But your sister is still alive, and while she lives, neither I nor my family can be at peace, for we cannot forget the shame and dishonour she has brought on us — and on you too, Kesri Singh, for you are her brother.