1857: The Revolt : Chapter Two

Bored with playing cards, Wilberforce looked outside. It was raining cats and dogs. The lightening flashed at intervals making the dark sky look scary. It was two pasts mid-night and they were still stranded in the club. The sultry weather was getting on his nerves. If only they could have the doors and windows opened, he wished, but he knew it too well that this shall invite the mosquitoes and that would be more deadly than the torrid interior. He opened two of his shirt’s upper buttons to let the air circulate and heaved a sigh of relief.

He then looked towards his other friends, Howard, Haddow and Malleson. They all appeared burnt out and exhausted, more because of swelter than drunkenness or sleepiness. For want of any other occupation, they had been forced to play cards for almost six hours now. He looked down at the empty bottles cluttered around their chairs like several sets of fallen bowling pins. He then looked up at the ceiling, where a big punkha hanged over their heads. What would life be in India without this apparatus, he guessed. He observed, it was a frame of wood and canvas, suspended from the ceiling and attached, by a cord, to the hand of some punkhawali, who was suppose to keep it in motion, thus fanning the air above their heads. Suddenly Wilberforce realized that the sway of the punkha was slowing. He turned round to see that the punkhawali had fallen into slumber. It was by way of habit that she still kept the punkha swinging. The baby in her arms was also snoozing.

“Your turn”, said Haddow pulling Wilberforce out from his abstraction.

Without even looking at the cards Wilberforce threw the Joker of Spade.

“Don’t you have a club?” asked Haddow with skepticism.

“Club?” reiterated Wilberforce, “Yes, I do.”

On realizing his error, Wilberforce tried to take back his card to which Malleson objected, “Hey, what are you doing? Once you have put down your card, you can’t take it back.”

“But, I do have a club”, said Wilberforce.

“You should have realized that earlier. Nothing doing now”, quipped Malleson.

“If he has a club, then how can he play any other suit?” questioned Haddow.

The altercation ended with disruption of the game. Haddow and Malleson, both flung their cards on the table. The child sleeping in the lap of punkhawali woke up because of the sudden hullabaloo and started crying. In her nervousness, the punkhawali pulled the baby to her breast and forced her nipples into his mouth. There was scarcely any milk in her dehydrated bosom that drooped to the level of her waist, yet the feel of his mother’s nipple silenced the child. Meanwhile, punkhawali hurriedly pulled the punkha again. The sudden change in the swing blew a few cards off the table.

Howard frowned and said, “Confounded, lazy niggers, these Indians!”

Chancing upon this opportunity to change the topic, Dr. Haddow remarked, “Confounded and regressive. Will you believe it, these Indians still ascribe most of their illness to evil spirits!”

“If their medical doctrines would disgrace an English farrier, their Astronomy would be laughed at even by the girls in our boarding schools”, quipped Malleson while trying to patch up with the doctor.

Wilberforce was also drawn into the favourite past time of the British living in India. He said, “Their history abounds with kings thirty feet high and reigns thirty thousand years long.”

“What do you say about their geography that is made of seas of treacle and butter?” said Haddow and they all laughed heartily.

“Just think of it, they call themselves offspring of the ancient Indus Valley Civilization. Will a civilized race ever immolate its women?” said Malleson in an obvious reference to the Sati practice that required widow to sacrifice herself on her husband's funeral pyre.

“You mean, it really happens?” asked Wilberforce with surprise.

“Yes, obviously. Why should I make a tall tale? The practice was in deed carried out until 1829 when Lord Bentinck banned it”, explained Malleson to the new ensign
.
“And it has been a pain in our neck ever since,” complemented Howard. Adding to Wilberforce’s surprise he added, “The orthodox Hindus have formed something called Hindu Sabha to protest against the abolition. I understand, they are now spreading all kind of rumors about Hindus being divested of their religion. I ask you, being superior to them, both in science and religion, is not it our duty to refrain the Indians from performing such barbaric customs?”

Wilberforce looked impressed and beamed with the assumption that British are superior beings by nature and so are the masters of India. He said, “Hell with this Hindu Sabha, or whatever it is called. We have done our duty and I, for one, take pride in the fact.”

The rain had stopped by now, but lightening continued. With the intention to wind up the session, Dr. Haddow enquired, “Anyone to wet the colour today?”

“Wilberforce.” answered Malleson.

“Then he also takes care of the bills”, chuckled Haddow.

“As you wish”, said Wilberforce in acceptance.

“It is not the matter of your wish, my dear, it is the tradition that you must keep”, shot back Malleson. According to this tradition anyone carrying the colour for the first time had to give standing champagne to the mess. This they called ‘wetting of the colour’. Wilberforce had his share of carrying the colour some time back, but since the troop was on march, wetting of it had been postponed.

Now having made, Wilberforce debit his account, they all departed.

*********

In wee hours of the night sepoy Khudabaksh was fully awake and attentive. Thanks to the heavy shower, there was a substantial drop in temperature. A husky smell rose from the soil, while croaking of frogs filled the air. The atmosphere could have made anyone feel relaxed and dreamy, but not him. His ears were fully alert to a distant sound of gallop. This would be Lieutenant Malleson on his usual visit to the guards at night, he guessed. He knew that the Lieutenant had been late today, but it was understandable because of the downpour.

As the sound of gallop became clearer, he prepared himself to attend to the officer. It was a matter of routine that he called aloud, “Who goes there?”

There was no reply from the other end. This surprised Khudabaksh, for the officer would have called back, “All OK?”

In his astonishment, he called again, “Who is that?”

Still no one replied. This prompted Khudabaksh to challenge, “Speak up, or I fire.”

Even as the wet earth absorbed much of the sound, he could sense that the horse had picked up its pace. With no other option left, he fired.

The bullet hit its target and the rider fell down. The victim could be spotted under the lightening as he rolled in pain. He felt as if he was sinking and the external darkness filled him internally. With great grit and determination he took out something from the clutches of his dhoti. It was a piece of paper and safety matches. His hands trembled as he tried to light the matchstick and after several attempts he did succeed in it. With similar endeavor he was able to burn the piece of paper with the lighted matchstick. But suddenly a blow of air extinguished the matchstick and, with it, his life was also put out.

By then Khudabaksh had come close to the intruder. The first thing that he noticed was a piece of paper clinched in the fist of the deceased. He tried to pull it out, but it was firmly held, as if the intruder shielded it more than his own life. Finally when he was able to take out the paper with much effort and immense patience, he looked up at the intruder. The deceased was a middle-aged person clad in dhoti and indigenous angarkha. He wore a pagri on his head, a part of which covered his face. Although the light was not enough to pronounce his features, Khudabaksh could make out the distinct mark of teeka on his forehead. There was something about the teeka, which prompted Khudabaksh to think that those three-line marks were not done with the usual roli, but blood. He knew that the teeka of blood was put as a symbol of sacrifice. Was this man on a self-sacrificial bid? This thought moistened his forehead.

Khudabaksh looked around to see the victim’s horse standing at a distance pounding his rear hoof on the ground. He was neighing as if he was moaning his master’s death. Leaving the corpse, Khudabaksh went up to the makeshift battalion temple almost in a state of trance. For sometime he stared at the flickering flame of the oil lamp put on the doorsteps of the temple, even without flickering his own eyelid. Then he remembered the piece of paper that he had got from the hand of the victim and looked at it. It was beautifully calligraphed and had a seal of the Emperor of Hindustan over it. Was he seeing things? He looked at the piece of paper more carefully. The identification was unmistakable. He got interested.

It was difficult to read from the half burnt paper and he had to concentrate more on the faint words. It read, “The Almighty has bestowed you with wisdom, nation, wealth and authority so that you may annihilate those, who interfere with your faith.”

He read and read it again, and again. There was something magnetic about those letters that pulled him. He could sense the words making their way straight inside his mind and soul and he felt captivated. As those words engrained themselves deep into his heart, his soul was filled with remorse. The futility of his life became more and more apparent. He had not only killed a compatriot on way to his righteous duty, he had been killing himself as well. He rose himself with great effort from the doorsteps of the makeshift temple and with heavy steps walked himself towards the deceased. He could not make himself look even into the closed eyes of the victim. Tears gushed out from his eyes and his sight was half blocked. He felt a sense of gratitude towards the Unknown Soldier and bent his head in respect and salutation.

He now went up to the victim’s horse and patted him on his back. The horse stood firm as if he was unwilling to make up with his master’s assassin. He pulled the horse by the reins to bring him to the deceased body. He then gently tried to lift the body over the horse’s back. On sensing this, the horse bent on his legs and let Khudabaksh put his master’s body on to his back. A gratified Khudabaksh fondled his mane to which the pet responded by caressing Khudabaksh’s wet cheek. Khudabaksh then made a soft whistling sound and his own pony came loping. By this time, he had tied the Unknown Soldier neatly on the other horse’s back. He now flung himself upon his pony, held its reins tight, and taking hold of the other horse’s rein too, vanished into the thickness of the dark night.

…Meanwhile on the southern end of the cantonment, Lieutenant Malleson found himself struck by the fresh air outside. He had left the mess apparently quite sober, but the change in atmospheric pressure and the cool breeze rocked his senses. Acting on the liquor that he had consumed and weariness out of sleepiness, the breezy air caused him to fall off his pony and faint. Had it not been for Dr. Haddow, who was the last one to leave the mess, he would have been there the whole night, sleeping in the ditch that he was plunged in.

Perhaps Dr. Haddow was aware that Malleson was the orderly officer of the day and as such had to visit the guards at night. On seeing the prostrate officer, he tried to wake him up by shaking his shoulders, but failed. He shook him by the collar, but again to no avail. He then pulled Malleson on his burly shoulders and took him around before finally disposing him to his bed.

The next morning, Malleson was surprised to find himself in the comforts of his bed. Neither he knew or remembered, how he came here. He knew that his conduct was tantamount to Court-martial, still he was truthful to note in his report that the guards had not been visited at night. So, he was little surprised when the Adjutant called in to say that he should immediately report at the orderly room.

The Colonel was there, waiting for him in the orderly room.

“Good morning, sir,” said Malleson and felt his tongue stiffening.

“Lieutenant Malleson, I find that your report omits to mention that you visited the guards last night,” said the Colonel in a stern voice.

Malleson was not sure if he had heard it right. He just rolled his tongue over his hardening lips, and kept mum.

The Colonel continued, “I do not understand this, for I see that the sergeants of the Quarter Guard and the Prison Guard state that turned up at 3:35 and 3:50 respectively. How do you account for this?”

Malleson just hung his head as the Colonel added, “You should be more cautious in filling your report in future. You may go now.”

Malleson thanked his stars as he left the orderly room, still not knowing what made the sergeants report that he had been to them. Still, he went back to make the modifications in tune with the other reports. What certainly missed these reports was the last night incident at the temple site.

Later, in the evening, it was found and ascertained that sepoy Khudabaksh was missing. Yet, no one could tell, when and where did he go?

****

The fakir had hardly settled himself in a corner of the village, when the news of his charismatic deeds spread like wild fire. Villagers from far and wide came to seek his blessings and put an end to their sufferings. One of the visitors to the camp was the absconding sepoy Khudabaksh. After running away from the cantonment, he had first organized funeral for the deceased soldier in accordance with the Hindu rites. Even as he was a Muslim, he was familiar with the fact that gifting of the cow was an integral part of the Hindu custom, but he had no cow and he knew that no Hindu would ever sell him a cow for the fear of her being slaughtered. So, he gifted the soldier’s horse to the Brahmin, who had performed the last rites. Having done his bid, he still felt restlessness within himself and so had come here seeking solace.

The fakir was draped in a black robe. The white pear necklace around his neck showed more brightly against his robe. Though his long and flowing beard and shabby hair presented a cluttered look, yet his overall personality was fascinating. His deep-set, large dark eyes stood out and a look into them could hypnotize anyone. Khudabaksh too felt hypnotized as he looked into those captivating eyes. When he recovered from his trance, he found himself bent over the legs of the fakir in a posture of salutation.

“Good that you have come. I was waiting for you,” said the fakir, while extending his hand over Khudabaksh’s head.

He looked around to see who was the fakir addressing to and found none, but himself in line with the fakir. He was puzzled and surprised, why would the fakir wait for him? Or for that matter, how in the world did he know that he, Khudabaksh, would be coming? To clear his doubt he asked, “You mean, me?”

“Yes, certainly. You have an important role to play,” answered the fakir clearing his initial doubt, but at the same time raising his surprise further.

He felt bound to his place, entirely immovable. However hard he tried to move, he failed. He stood there motionless, his hands clasped in the posture of pranam. The fakir waved his empty hand in thin air and came out with something. As if some external force was driving him, he found himself walking towards the fakir. The fakir put that something in his hand. Khudabaksh felt its coarse texture and noticed that it was a piece of chapatti. Taking it to be prasad, he was about to eat it when the fakir commanded, “Spread it to every village of Hindustan. Let this be your dakshina to me.”

Khudabaksh looked even more puzzled than before. His mind was full of queries, but the only words that he could utter were, “As you wish, baba!”