It dismayed Ram Singh that many Indian kingdoms and principalities had begun to imitate the English armies. But fortunately there still remained a few that were wedded to the old ways of war — Awadh, Jaipur, Jodhpur and Jhansi for instance. And then there was the Mughal army, which still remained a powerful draw: such was its centuries-old prestige that even now, when the old empire’s territory was shrinking fast, a man who served in its legions could be sure of commanding the respect of his village.
For all these armies, the region around Nayanpur was a proven and preferred recruiting ground so Ram Singh knew that his son Bhim would not lack for options. And sure enough other recruiters soon began to arrive at their door. Some were professional ‘gatherers’ of jawans — jamadars and dafadars — with links to several kingdoms and principalities. The jamadars were usually senior men and some were known to Ram Singh from his own soldiering days. When they came to visit, charpoys would be placed under the shade of the mango tree outside and hookahs, food and water would be sent for.
Often it was Kesri who was called on to serve the visitors and light their hookahs. No one minded if he loitered, listening to what was being said: since he wasn’t available for recruitment, his presence made no difference. Bhim, on the other hand, was not allowed anywhere near the recruiters. That would have been as improper and unwise as for a girl to step out brazenly in front of a set of prospective in-laws.
Ram Singh would start by questioning the recruiters minutely about such matters as the salary that was being offered and how regularly it was paid; how booty was divided and what sorts of battas — or allowances — were provided. Was there a batta for clothing? Was there a marching-batta? Or a bonus for campaigns away from the home station? Who provided the food when in camp? How large was the camp-followers’ bazar? What did it offer? Was accommodation provided in the home station?
Only if these queries were answered to his satisfaction would Bhim be produced before the recruiter. And just as their mother always found a way, when the time was right, to present her daughters to their best advantage before the families of prospective grooms, so would their father do the same for his son. When the moment came he would send Kesri to fetch his brother. The boy would arrive with a plough slung over his shoulders, dressed in nothing but a vest and langot, so that his impressive physique was bared for the recruiter to see. Then, Ram Singh would ask him to groom the jamadar’s horse, which he would proceed to do with a will, thereby showing himself to be a well-brought-up, obedient boy who could follow orders respectfully.
The jamadars were not the only ones to come looking for able-bodied youths: some of the recruiters were serving jawans, back on leave. Bringing in recruits was a way of earning commissions, so rounding up a few young fellows was a good way to make a bit of money.
For Bhim and Kesri the younger soldiers were much more interesting than the grey-whiskered elders who usually came by. Some of the jawans were friends or acquaintances from nearby villages so there was no need to stand on ceremony with them; some even stayed the night and then the two brothers would lie awake till dawn, listening to their stories.
One day a cousin from a neighbouring village came to visit. Although not much older than Kesri he had already spent a couple of years in Delhi, in the service of the Mughal army. This was his first visit home and he could not, of course, be allowed to leave without spending the night: the boys took their charpoys out into the courtyard and were soon absorbed in their cousin’s stories. He described Delhi’s temples and mosques, forts and palaces. When he and his company went on marches, he said, their unit was far outnumbered by their camp-followers. The bazar that trailed behind them was like a small town, only much more colourful. One whole section of it was given to naach-girls — and they were the most beautiful women that anyone had ever seen, from Afghanistan and Nepal, Ethiopia and Turkmenistan. Boys like Bhim and Kesri, he said, could not conceive of the things these girls could do with their bodies — no more than they could imagine a banana being peeled with the tongue.
Of course it couldn’t be left at that. The boys plied him with questions and after a little bit of nahi-nahi and other pretences of modesty, he told them all they wanted to know and more — how it felt to have the contours of your face stroked with a nipple, and what it was like to have your instrument enveloped by muscles that could squeeze, pluck, and even glide, like the fingers of a musician.
For Kesri this was dangerous territory, for one of the most important aspects of his regimen of training, as a wrestler, was the control of the inner workings of the body — especially its desires and their manifestations. To that end he regularly practised a variety of exercises, intended to prevent the loss, accidental or intentional, of his vital fluids. But that night his training proved unequal to the task: he woke suddenly to find that he had succumbed to a swapnadosha — a ‘dream-mishap’.
As for his brother Bhim, he knew at once that this was exactly the brand of soldiering that would suit him best. With Kesri’s encouragement he went to their father the next morning and told him that he wanted to go to Delhi with his cousin. Ram Singh willingly gave him his blessings and promised to make all the necessary arrangements.
Preparations for Bhim’s departure started at once and involved the whole family. Clothes were made, bedding and blankets were prepared, and an array of equipment was assembled — flints, powder, musket-balls for his goolie-pouch, and an assortment of edged weapons, long and short.
Kesri, in the meantime, was busy ploughing the poppy fields. But try as he might, he could not stop thinking of his brother Bhim’s forthcoming journey to Delhi, mounted on a horse, with his weapons slung behind him and a fine new turban on his head. By contrast his own bare body, with a filthy langot knotted around the waist and flies settling on his pooling sweat, was a reminder of the lifetime that lay ahead of him, of trudging endlessly behind draught animals, jumping aside when they spurted dung in mid-stride, season after season, watching the crops come and go, counting it a luxury to snatch an hour’s sleep in the shade of a tree in the afternoon, and at the end of the day, struggling to wash away the mud that had hardened into a second layer of skin between his toes. And in the meantime Bhim would be going from city to city, filling his bags with booty, eating rich meats and fowl and revelling in the embraces of beautiful women.
Abandoning the oxen in the middle of the field Kesri went to sit under a tree; tears trickled down his cheeks as he sat there, clutching his knees. That was how Deeti found him when she brought over his mid-day meal of rotis and achar: she understood without asking what the matter was; she stayed with him through the afternoon and helped him finish the ploughing.
At the end of the day, when they were walking home, she said: Don’t worry, it will happen. You will leave too.
But when, Deeti? Batavela. Tell me — when?
*
For several days after his unfortunate encounter with Mrs Burnham and her daughter, Zachary lived in hourly fear of being evicted from his comfortable new lodgings on the budgerow. It seemed just a matter of time before a khidmatgar arrived with a letter to inform him that his employment had been terminated because of his lapse from decorum.