He turned his head then, as a woman’s voice spoke authoritatively behind him: ‘Oh, come down, child, you’ll hurt yourself.’ His sister swept along the narrow path-way among the trees, the pallu of her sari falling to her waist as she strained agitatedly towards the wall, buttocks and hips pumping massively. ‘What are you doing just standing there, ji, go get the small couch from my veranda,’ she snapped at her husband, who jerked himself out of a slack-lipped reverie and hurried off. A few minutes later (meanwhile: ‘Sikander! Tell me about Sikander!’), Arun appeared again, tussling with the awkward shape of the couch, which he placed under the wall; the two men stood on it, and with Shanti Devi hurling instructions and imprecations, they managed to reach up and pull her down, the firangi’s wife, the protuberance at her front bumping into their arms and faces, and they seated her on the couch: she sat like a queen or a goddess, one leg drawn across her front, flat, and the other angled straight down, off the couch, planted firmly on the ground.
‘Tell, tell, tell, about Sikander!’
‘Why do you want to listen to their terrible stories, child?’ Shanti Devi said. ‘What is your name?’
‘I am Janvi. He calls me Jenny.’
‘How beautiful you are,’ Shanti Devi said, raising a corner of her sari and wiping the sweat away from the girl’s forehead. ‘Did he really capture you in a battle?’
‘I was a coward. I loved life too much. I couldn’t jump.’
‘What has he done to you, to make you like this?’
‘He calls me Jenny,’ she said, as if that explained everything.
‘You should go back to your house,’ Shanti Devi said. ‘What will he think, what will he do if he finds out you’ve been going into a strange house, in front of strange men.’
‘I want to hear about Sikander.’
‘Really,’ Arun said. ‘This could cause unpleasantness. You should go back.’
‘I want to hear about Sikander!’
‘Brother, sister, listen,’ Ram Mohan said. ‘Listen. Sikander was a king, a king of a place far away. Driven by a motivation which we yet have to ascertain, he killed people until he was king of all Greece; he then decided to kill more people until he was king of the world. On the way he did many things, including cutting a knot which had resisted unravelling for eons, and this was what we were doing when you stumbled in on us, analysing that event, I mean. I think it couldn’t be done. Brother here was of the opinion that a strong man could have cut such a knot. So we decided to try it, and you can see what happened.’
‘Oh, my hand. Shanti, we need a doctor.’
‘It’s nothing much, I’ll put some turmeric on it, it’ll be all right.’
‘So, I think Sikander saw this knot, tried to untangle it, lost his temper, tried to cut it, broke his wrist, fell to the floor, frothing at the mouth, and then screamed for his personal guards, who hacked away at it for an hour or two with axes until they finally managed to destroy it. How’s that, brother?’
‘That’s not what RajaSahib wants to hear,’ Arun said, massaging his arm. ‘You want to get us exiled?’
‘No, no, I suppose not,’ Ram Mohan said. ‘But what about the motivation? Why did he want to kill the world?’
‘I don’t know,’ Arun said. ‘How would I know about a thing like that?’
Shanti Devi shook her head wearily. ‘Who can understand a man?’
‘Revenge,’ Janvi said, slowly and very clearly. ‘Revenge.’
‘Revenge?’ Ram Mohan said. ‘For what?’
‘The world,’ Janvi said, and raised a hand to her face, rubbing a cheek, faster and faster, until her lips twisted and rose away from the teeth.
‘Oh, child, don’t do that,’ Shanti Devi said, catching hold of Janvi’s wrist and pulling her close, smothering her in the expanse of sari that stretched across her front. ‘You should take care of yourself. For the sake of your son, you understand.’
Janvi stiffened. ‘It’ll be a daughter.’
‘A daughter?’
‘A daughter.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I won’t have his sons. Not his sons. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.’
‘All right, all right. What are you waiting for, ji? Start the story’
So Arun turned so that his profile was to Janvi, placed one foot in front of the other, raised an arm in a declamatory position, and began; Ram Mohan sat at the foot of the couch, looking up at Janvi’s face, saying a word now and then, and the old story meandered along: Sikander was born (Ram Mohan made notes on a tablet —out-of-ordinary birth? evil omens? a prophet raving in the palace yard? a curse? family persecuted by the world? unfortunate events damaging the soul as it descended into flesh?), grew up, was tutored by a famous philosopher (who exactly was this teacher? pinched old man? frustrated soldier-turned-guru? school-yard tactician yearning for glory? pederast?); Sikander tamed a stallion (fabulous birth for the stallion? symbolic value? did the horse have official status as friend-of-the-king, or minister? why horse? why friend? why do heroes/villains/butchers fall in love with horses?) and then began the bloody business of subjugating all the other Greeks (where are the victims’ histories? how many died?), armed, of course, with the oldest rhetorical trick in the book: ‘Unite, countrymen, the enemy looms at the gate’; unnerved by fear of the Persians (passionate speeches? the Persians as rapists/idolaters/beasts?), the Greeks regimented themselves behind Sikander, and then he plunged into Asia, disposed of the Persians, his clock-work battalions moving as one being (how can men do that? why were the Greeks able to do that better than others? is this a good thing?), and, having done this, of course they didn’t stop (did they ever intend to? did they know all along? did they care? did they believe they owed it to the barbarian world? did they see themselves as bearers of light? did they dream of a Greek peace, even as they lopped off heads and executed villages? was the victims’ pain invisible to them? did they not hear the screams? did they see a Greece that sat like a fat leech over the world? or were they just greedy? or did they like murder? are all cities and nations doomed to expansion? is murder our passion? is it? who are these filthy Greeks anyway? O my questions); like an arrow he came, an arrow aimed at the cities of gold, the streets paved with gems, the fabulous Pagoda tree, the Golden Bird (did the old tutor tell him, once, lips wet, about the wealth of the country beneath the towering Abode of Snow? did he hear, once, when he was so young that he barely even remembered the telling, about the richest country on earth, the source of spices and royal cloth and sandalwood?); and as he came down into the Punjab he met some naked sadhus (what did they say to him? did they laugh at him? or did they just ignore him and his armies? did they frighten him?); and finally the battle by the Indus, the elephants screaming, throwing men and trampling horses, but he wins again (why? why do some win? and others lose? such simple questions), and brave king Porus stood in chains (who was this Porus? what was his story?), and Sikander asked, pompous and patronizing, how should we treat you? and Porus replied, like a king treats another king (well done, Porus, who are so full of the grand theatricality that is the best trait of our countrymen), and then Sikander, it is said, set him free and turned back (turned! retreated? withdrew? ran away? was it the vast armies waiting on the plains?); and then he died, of a fever. (Who was this Sikander? Why did he do what he did? This shall be our question.)
As Janvi listened, her face grew calm; she looked around at the Parashers, and it seemed that she really saw them now, and in the following days and weeks, as the story grew, as it accumulated flesh over the bare bones of that first day, as it collected characters, motivations, conflicts, thunderous scenes of battle, quiet moments of reflection, climaxes, beginnings, her small body seemed to accumulate energy and purpose, so that Ram Mohan marvelled at how she had been transformed into a paragon of motherly health: still quiet, but now it was as if she was gathering herself for something momentous. When her time came, she gave birth without any fuss, and appeared the next day at her usual seat, smilin
g.
‘Child, child,’ Shanti Devi said. ‘You should be resting. Where’s your new daughter?’
‘He has her,’ Janvi said. ‘They are his, both daughters, I don’t care. But now. I have to meet privately with Uday Singh. Will you tell him to come here?’
‘Who?’ Arun said.
‘Uday Singh. His second-in-command. I want to talk to him without my husband knowing.’
‘I can’t go around whispering to soldiers about private meetings,’ Arun said. ‘If somebody finds out, they’ll think I’m planning a regicide or a coup or something. I’ll be lucky if they let me poison myself. No, no.’
Janvi turned to Ram Mohan, who was massaging his leg, seated cross-legged next to her couch. ‘Will you?’
‘Me? Me?’ In his agitation, he relaxed his customary guard over his lips and tongue, resulting in a vaporous discharge of spittle. He covered his mouth quickly and tried to smile.
‘Oh, don’t you send him out there, to totter around, spraying secrets at anyone who has two minutes to listen,’ Arun said. ‘Don’t do that. Then we shall certainly hang.’
‘What is her choice if you don’t, ji?’ Shanti Devi said, raising her eyebrows. ‘What but it?’
‘You would do it too, wouldn’t you, you smirking fool?’ Arun pulled at the sacred cord that looped over his shoulder, sending it hissing around his body. ‘No, no, enough. This I won’t do. Already I’ve allowed danger to hang over my house. No more.’
‘What danger are you talking about?’ Shanti Devi hooted. ‘You’re always talking about danger that nobody else can see.’
‘And you, you, you’re always ready to do anything if she asks. Not a care in the world if your own family lives or dies or anything.’ Arun turned, stopped to glare at Janvi, and then went striding off towards the house. Shanti Devi heaved up after him.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll settle him in five minutes.’
They heard the fight as it drifted through the various rooms of the house; from a minor skirmish it developed speedily into a full-scale engagement: at first the shouting spoke mostly about the logic of the situation, about the probability of danger and the limits of obligation, but then soon the voices shrieked about wounds taken and given long ago, about years-old insults and ancient family feuds, and snatches of the quarrel echoed amongst the trees, frightening the birds into sudden flight: ‘If it hadn’t been for my father you would have still been back chanting slokas in that sleepy village of yours for a tenth-of-a-paisa a morning; all because of him you’re here today wearing fine clothes and putting on courtier’s airs.’ ‘And what airs do I put on now? What do I do but work day and night to support you and that brother of yours. For two dozen years I’ve supported that slobbering idiot brother of yours; in all this time he’s never done a day’s work.’ ‘Leave my brother out of it. Don’t say a word about my brother.’ ‘Oho, so your family’s sacred. We can’t discuss your family, but you’ll insult my poor mother day and night. I see, I see.’
Ram Mohan ducked his head between his knees and scratched aimless designs in the dust between his toes; he tried to shut out the familiar design of abuse that was forming in the house, the old repeated pattern of insult that circled around the one thing always finally unsaid, the one resentment that accumulated more bitterness, like a pus-filled canker, the one fatal accusation held close to the heart by both sides but left unused: ‘You have given me no children.’ But today the husband and wife scratched and tore at each other with unusual ferocity, probing and hurting until Ram Mohan could stand it no more: he flung himself prone and locked his arms over his head, pounding the ground with his feet; he felt a hand on his shoulder.
‘Be quiet,’ Janvi said calmly, gazing off at the house. ‘They’ll be finished with each other soon.’
‘I wish I could go,’ he said. He had never left the house alone. ‘I wish.’
‘Yes,’ she said, and her eyes moved, and she watched as he pulled his feet up under him and crouched, hands resting palm up before him; then she sat back and waited. When the sun settled behind the house and the chattering of the birds became an unbroken clamouring, Shanti Devi walked out to the garden again, not exultant but with the certain, magnanimous tread of the victor.
‘It’s all right. Everything is all right.’ she said. ‘He’ll go.’
So, two days later, in the grey of early morning, Uday Singh appeared at Arun’s gate, his face hidden by a shawl wrapped around his shoulders and head; amongst the trees, he bowed low to Janvi and swept his palms together, saying ‘Khama ghani, hukum’; after he had seated himself on a white sheet spread in front of her couch, she waved the others away, and they watched the two motionless figures as the garden filled with the clear light of first winter. Occasionally, under the call of cicadas, they heard the murmur of her voice, level and constant; finally, they heard Uday say something, and then he strode past them, flinging the shawl about his shoulders, his face held carefully impassive, and that afternoon the court was told that Uday Singh, commander in His Majesty’s armies, had been given leave for compassionate reasons and had ridden north on personal business. Now, Janvi was quiet and gentle and fulfilled; she seemed to enjoy the warmth of the afternoon sun and the little bursts of wit that peppered the play about Sikander; every afternoon, when Arun read out their morning’s work, becoming, in succession, Sikander, the teacher, the holy men at the edge of wilderness, and Porus, Ram Mohan watched her face carefully, trying not to blink, measuring her reactions and cutting and pruning the work accordingly.
One evening, when the worst of the winter was over, they had finished their reading and discussion, and were gathering their booklets and pens in the early twilight when a dark figure vaulted over a wall in a flapping of cloth. Ram Mohan dropped an ink-stand, stumbled back, tripped and sat jokingly, stammering in fear, ‘Ah-ah-ah-ah.’
‘Don’t be frightened, boy, it’s only me. If they knew I came back and brought something for you, Parasherji, they would suspect us both. There were questions enough when I left. I just got back, and I think they know. So I came in the dark.’ Uday laid a bundle wrapped in white cloth before Janvi; he quickly untied the knot on top and peeled back layers of muslin, and a soft orange glow lit his face from below. Ram Mohan pulled himself closer, and reached out to touch, wonderingly, the little orange balls made of smaller spheres.
‘Laddoos,’ he said. ‘You went away for three months to bring back laddoos.’
‘From what confectioner?’ Arun said. ‘From what witch have you brought these things back into my house? Why do they glow like that?’
‘Pretty,’ Ram Mohan said.
‘Don’t touch them,’ Arun said.
‘Listen, hukum,’ Uday said. ‘Like you said, I went and spoke to him, but he is caught up in an extraordinary combat for a kingdom, or something greater than kingdoms. So he couldn’t come, but he said “Take these to her. Tell her to eat them, one at a time, to put each one whole into her mouth. Tell her she will have sons. Tell her she will have sons worthy of their mother. Tell her she will have sons who will face the world. Tell her to have sons.” So I have come back with these for you. Now I must go. They must be expecting me at the palace.’ He hid himself in the folds of a grey blanket and clambered up the wall.
‘O Rama, save us,’ Arun said.
‘Give me one,’ Janvi said; she held out a hand, steady.
Ram Mohan picked up one of the laddoos with the tips of his fingers and held it in the hollow of his right hand; it felt heavy, like iron, and despite the warmth of its brilliance, it was cool against his skin; he held it out, his biceps twitching a little from the weight. Janvi took it, held it up, and it danced in her pupils like fire; her tongue flicked out, red, and then her cheeks puffed out and her eyes bulged; for a moment or two, her throat worked, and then she fell over onto her side and rolled off the couch, struggled across the tamped-down clay, hands reaching until they brushed against Ram Mohan’s dhoti, and she held on, body arching. Ram Mohan touched he
r face and flinched at the clammy sweat that instantly coated his fingers; at last, she managed to get it all down, and her mouth opened and she gasped for breath: ‘Aa-ha, aa-ha, aa-ha.’
‘What is it, child?’ Shanti Devi said.
‘At first,’ Janvi said, panting, ‘a sweetness so sweet I thought it was ambrosia. Then a bitterness so complete that I thought my mouth was melting. Then it forced itself soft but insistent down my throat and I felt it in my belly and my bones and my blood, and I felt it settle in and harden like steel.’
‘Oh, god, what is it, child? Where is it from?’
‘Give,’ Janvi said. ‘Give me another one.’
‘No,’ Ram Mohan said.
‘Give.’
‘Please.’
‘Give.’
‘No, no more.’
‘Mohan,’ she said.
He picked up another laddoo and placed it on her mouth, feeling how soft her skin was just below, how the fullness of the lower lip curved away into the sweep of the chin; she swallowed, and again her body thrashed against him.
‘Worse,’ she said. ‘That was worse.’
‘Please,‘Ram Mohan said.
‘Sons, ‘she said. ‘I must have sons.’ And she swallowed another, and her hips lifted off the floor this time and smashed down, and he felt the tears break from his eyes; this time, when her throat had stopped working, she screamed, a quavering hiccup. ‘I can’t. No more.’