‘No, no,’ he protested. ‘You don’t understand, it was a belaying pin.’
‘Which you were no doubt buttering?’ She laughed again. ‘You must not think me a gudda or a griffin, Mr Reid, for I assure you I am neither. I am a good deal older than you and am not easily foozled. I can assure you that the meaning of “jailing the Jesuit” and “soaping the sepoy” are not lost on me. Why, I have even heard of “saluting the subedar” and “lathering the lathee”. But it doesn’t matter, you know: they all add up to the same thing. And it really will not do, Mr Reid, to conceal from yourself the true causes of your unfortunate condition. It is but a disease and the first step towards a cure is to accept that you are a sufferer and a victim.’
Now she reached out and gave his arm a sympathetic pat. ‘You need help, Mr Reid,’ she said, in a softer voice, ‘and I am determined to provide it. I am aware that you are a stranger to this country, friendless and alone — but you should know that while I am here, you will not lack for a pillar to lean upon. I will not begrudge the loss of a small measure of my own modesty in order to rescue you from sin and disease. Mine will be but a trifling sacrifice, compared to those of the missionaries who daily run the risk of being thrown into cooking pots by brutes and savages. For many years my husband has exerted himself to save wayward girls from lives of sin. It is only right that I should do the same, for you.’
They had now reached the compound of the Burnham mansion. The coach came to a stop where a path branched off from the driveway, leading in the direction of the budgerow’s mooring.
Zachary jumped out, mumbled a hasty good night, and was hurrying away, when Mrs Burnham leant out of the window: ‘And remember, Mr Reid — your hands are for prayer. You must be strong. Together we will conquer the continent of darkness that lurks within you — you need have no fear on that score!’
Four
Kesri’s first voyage down the Ganga, to the military cantonment at Barrackpore, was a slow one, in a three-masted pulwar that stopped at every small river port on the way. But it was the most eventful journey of his young life, and for years afterwards he would be haunted by his memories of it.
It was on this journey that he made the acquaintance of his brother-in-law to be, Hukam Singh, Deeti’s future husband. He was a nephew of Bhyro Singh’s and even though he was about the same age as Kesri, he had already served a couple of years in the Pacheesi. He was put in charge of the recruits, of whom there were six altogether, including Kesri.
Hukam Singh was tall and well-built, and he liked to use his physical presence to bully and intimidate those of lesser bulk. But Kesri yielded nothing to him, in either size or strength, and was not as deferential as the other recruits. This did not sit well with Hukam Singh, for he had grown used to lording it over the recruits. He quickly understood that Kesri was unlikely to fear him in the same way the others did so he took another tack, trying to wear him down with insults and spite, ridiculing his dark complexion and constantly reminding him that he had left home without a daam in his purse and was travelling on borrowed money. Nor were his insults always uttered to Kesri’s face: Kesri learnt from the others that out of his hearing Hukam Singh had cast doubt on his origins and parentage, and was putting it about that he had been thrown out by his own family.
Through the first week, Kesri bit his lip and shrugged off the provocations. But then one day, Hukam Singh took it a step further: he threw his soiled langot and vest on the deck and ordered Kesri to pick them up and wash them.
Kesri was left with no option but to take a stand: he shrugged and turned away, which enraged Hukam Singh. Didn’t you hear me? Go on. Do it!
Or what? said Kesri.
Or I’ll tell my uncle, Havildar Bhyro Singh.
Go ahead, said Kesri.
See if I don’t …
Hukam Singh went storming off to look for his uncle and shortly afterwards all the recruits were summoned to the pulwar’s foredeck. This was where Bhyro Singh spent his days, enjoying the breeze. He was lying on a charpoy, taking his ease with a hookah, as the boat wallowed slowly along. He crooked a finger at Kesri, motioning to him to squat on his heels in front of him. Then he went on smoking, in silence, until the discomfort in Kesri’s knees had begun to turn into real pain.
E ham ka suna tani? said Bhyro Singh at last: So what is this I hear? I’m told that you’re beginning to get big ideas about yourself?
Kesri said nothing and nor did Bhyro Singh expect an answer.
I should have known, said the havildar, that a boy who’ll run away with strangers, disobeying his own father, will never be anything but a cunt and chootiya.
Then all of a sudden his hand flashed out and slammed into Kesri’s cheek.
Bhyro Singh’s weight and size far exceeded Kesri’s, for he was, after all, still a stripling. The force of the blow turned his head sharply to the side and sent him sprawling on the deck. There was a ringing sound in his ears and his nose was choked with the smell of his own blood. He brushed his hand across his face and saw that it was streaked with blood. He understood now that Bhyro Singh had hit him not just with his hand but also with the mouthpiece of his hookah, which had ripped open his cheek. Nothing that he had encountered as a wrestler had prepared him for this.
Then he heard Bhyro Singh’s voice again: It’s time for you to learn that the first rule of soldiering is obedience.
Kesri was still sprawled on the deck. He raised his head and saw that Bhyro Singh was standing over him. Now, the havildar drew one leg back and slammed his foot into Kesri’s buttocks, sending him skidding over the deck-planks. As Kesri rolled away, the havildar followed behind, hitching up his dhoti with his hands. He kicked him again, and then again, aiming the last blow so that the nail of his big toe dug right into the crack of Kesri’s buttocks, tearing through the thin folds of his dhoti and langot.
Kesri brushed his eyes again and then slowly raised himself to a crouching position. He could see the other recruits cowering in the background, their terrified eyes flickering between himself and the havildar, who was standing above Kesri, with the bloody mouthpiece of his hookah in one hand. His other hand was inside his dhoti, scratching his crotch.
Kesri realized then that his beating had no actual cause as such, but was a kind of performance, meant not just for him, but for all the recruits; he understood also that Bhyro Singh wanted them all to know that inflicting pain and humiliation was, for him, a kind of animal pleasure.
Then Bhyro Singh flung the mouthpiece of his hookah at Kesri: Go and clean this — wash your filthy blood off it. Yaad rakhika and remember, this is just your first dose of this medicine. If it doesn’t cure you then there’ll be a lot more.
The beating left Kesri bruised in body — but it did not escape anyone that in enduring it he had also earned a minor victory: for at the end of it Bhyro Singh had not, after all, ordered him to wash his nephew’s underclothing. Nor for that matter had Hukam Singh plucked up the courage to remind his uncle of his original complaint. Kesri took this to mean that Bhyro Singh had no great regard for his nephew. He concluded also that Hukam Singh both feared the havildar and desperately wanted to emulate him; this was the noxious soil in which the young sepoy’s swagger and spite were rooted.
After this incident Hukam Singh’s attitude towards Kesri changed in subtle ways. His barbs became more guarded and he seemed to accept that Kesri would not put up with being treated as a servant. At times he even seemed to acknowledge that Kesri was probably the most soldierly of the recruits.