A Reasonable Compromise
1602 Words
The ravanhatta let out one final, shuddering cry.
The music stopped.
Around the low fire, the tension broke. A few caravan hands stretched, laughing softly at the end of the song. Someone tossed another twig into the embers.
Anand’s heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
The Gold Lion is dead.
The words burned inside his skull.
He stood up.
His legs were weak, his raw thighs stinging with every movement, but he forced himself to adopt the easy, arrogant stride of a wealthy city elite.
He reached into his vest. His fingers wrapped around a heavy silver British-Indian Rupee.
“A fine song,” Anand announced as he approached the singers.
The Bhopa immediately bowed. His massive red turban swept the dust.
“Blessings upon you, young sahib! May your pockets never empty!”
Anand leaned down to place the coin into the brass plate. In that split second of proximity, beneath the fading campfire chatter, he whispered:
“How do I give you the thing?”
The Bhopa’s smile never changed. His eyes briefly met Anand’s. As he bowed lower, a rapid murmur escaped beneath his moustache.
“Tomorrow before breaking camp, bury the note beneath the thickest hitching post. Cover it with dust. My men will find it.”
Then he stepped back, clapping his hands and loudly blessing the generous donor.
The performance resumed. Nobody noticed anything.
Anand turned away. His hands were empty. His sweat felt cold beneath his shirt.
He did not return to the fire. Nor did he return to his tent. Instead he wandered into the darkness.
One step. Then another. The desert stretched endlessly before him.
Mahadu.
How could Mahadu be dead?
The boy had never been sick, never weak, never still.
Anand could not make sense of it.
Had the British killed him?
No. If that were true, his family would have sent another message directly to him through other network.
An accident? Something connected to the British?
No answers came.
Suddenly Mahadu’s face appeared before him.
The memory struck with such force that Anand stopped walking.
Mahadu running through the courtyard carrying a wooden stick twice his height, declaring himself commander of the estate.
He tripped over the stick and fell flat on his face, the stood up furious because everyone was laughing.
Five minutes later he had forgotten why he was angry.
Another memory followed.
Mahadu sitting in his lap, insisting he could count faster than his father, and getting every number wrong, but arguing confidently anyway.
Anand’s vision blurred.
The desert vanished.
For a few seconds he could almost hear the boy laughing. And that shattered him.
Tears rolled down his cheeks, through his beard, into the sand. He made no attempt to stop them.
Somewhere behind him a voice called out.
He turned.
Gopal.
The servant stood near the camp, watching him.
Anand waved.
Go back.
Gopal hesitated.
Anand waved again.
Then again.
Eventually the young man nodded and disappeared.
Anand resumed walking.
Above him the stars filled the sky. The desert wind carried a strange emptiness.
Everything felt distant.
Separated.
Isolated.
He and Mahadu no longer belonged to the same world. A boundary now existed between them.
Permanent.
Impossible to cross.
His fists clenched. The joints of his fingers ached. His forearms trembled from the force.
My Mahadu.
Were you afraid?
Did it hurt?
Did you call for me?
Was your mother beside you?
The thought of Sitabai struck him like a blow. His entire scalp tingled.
She was carrying their second child.
A daughter, she insisted.
A son, Anand always argued.
Neither had been willing to surrender the debate.
Now the memory made him sick.
Dear God.
Was she alright? What huge grieve and fear was she enduring these days. How could she handle this while carrying a baby inside her? And without the husband next to her?
Anand stopped breathing for a moment.
And what about Father?
Mother?
His sisters?
The fear arrived at once.
Would there be another death after Mahadu, and another one?
When he finally turned back toward camp, he saw a figure waiting near the tents.
Ramu.
Anand quickly wiped his face, pretending to cough.
Ramu placed a hand on Anand’s back.
He frowned.
“You are shaking.”
Anand forced a smile.
“I don’t feel well.”
“Perhaps the fever is coming back.”
“You should be lying down,” Ramu said. “Why were you wandering around alone?”
Anand lowered his face into the shadows.
“Tonight I miss Mahadu.”
Ramu smiled gently.
“Mahadu… Such a handsome boy. And clever too.”
He laughed softly.
“He is probably counting the days until you return.”
Anand nearly broke.
But Ramu noticed nothing.
“Bapji said the same thing before we left.”
Ramu chuckled.
“‘Come back before the loo begins.’”
Silence followed.
Then Anand asked quietly:
“If Professor asks something of you… would you always do it?”
Ramu looked puzzled.
“Of course.”
“I have never disobeyed Bapji.”
“Not once.”
“And never will I.”
“My entire life was shaped by him.”
Anand understood. He said nothing more.
Later the camp fell asleep. One by one the voices disappeared. The camels settled. The fire collapsed into embers.
Only Anand remained awake.
He knew he would do something before dawn, something Ramu would never forgive.
But I have no choice.
His jaw tightened. His lips turned white.
The British would never touch the Professor— a celebrated scholar, a respected intellectual, the son of one of western India’s most influential Marwari families.
Nor would they touch Ramu.
But if they needed someone vulnerable…
Someone expendable…
Someone whose suffering carried no political consequences…
Of course they would choose me.
A chill spread through his body. His hands began shaking again.
He looked toward Ramu’s sleeping form.
Was any of this really his fault?
Probably not.
Ramu likely had no idea how serious the situation had become.
He was loyal to the Professor almost to the point of stupidity, but he would never knowingly harm me.
Then what about the Professor?
The Professor was in Bombay. Surely he knew something. Had he tried to help? Or was he powerless too?
Anand stared at the shallow pit beside Ramu’s bedding. Beneath the sand rested the leather chest.
What was it?
What could possibly justify all this?
The British had not asked him to steal it. Nor has the asked him to harm anyone.
Only a drawing, and a route.
Nothing more.
They would still have to find the caravan, to catch it, to take it.
Perhaps they would fail.
Perhaps the caravan would reach Bombay first.
The desert was large. Anything could happen.
If Ramu discovered the truth, he would never forgive me.
He is a little foolish.
But the Professor would understand.
The Professor was kind, reasonable, and compassionate.
Surely he already felt guilty for what had happened.
Surely he would recognize this for what it was.
A temporary compromise.
The only path left open.
He would speak to Ramu and make him understand.
Anand suddenly felt a surge of rage.
A toy.
A stupid toy built in the Professor’s youth.
Why me?
Why my family?
Why Mahadu?
Why should my son pay the price?
His entire body shook.
If I do nothing now…
If I simply wait…
If I let Sitabai and the others face this alone…
Am I even a man?
Before breaking camp, Anand rolled onto his side and quietly reached for his notebook.
Like Ramu’s, its pages filled with mathematical calculations, geometric puzzles, and idle equations invented during long evenings on the road.
For a long moment he stared at a blank page.
Then he uncapped his pen.
“The British did not ask for details,” he reminded himself.
“They only wanted a sketch.”
His hand began to move.
He drew the leather chest: A simple outline. Its approximate dimensions. Its rough shape.
Nothing more.
He deliberately omitted which camel carried it. He omitted the shallow pit beside Ramu’s bedding.
Below the sketch, he added the only information he could provide.
Three wells.
The final three wells before Banaskantha.
Salim Khan had mentioned them repeatedly during recent days.
Would Salim suddenly change the route?
Would the British fail to find them?
Perhaps.
The desert was vast. The route can change anytime.
But another thought immediately followed— If do not find us, will they return to my family?
His stomach tightened. The anxiety felt unbearable. His lips were cracked and dry.
No matter what happens, once I reach Bombay, I will find someone.
Someone from Elphinstone.
Someone in Government service.
Someone with influence.
There must still be somebody.
He folded the paper once. Then again. The tiny square rested in his palm.
Nearby, Gopal stirred in his sleep.
The servant blinked, saw Anand awake, and immediately tried to rise.
Anand pressed a hand gently against his shoulder.
“Sleep.”
Gopal hesitated. Then exhaustion pulled him back under.
Outside the tent, Karim sat watch beside the dying embers, on night duty. He glanced up as Anand emerged.
“I need to relieve myself.”
Karim nodded.
Anand walked away from the camp.
Near the well stood the largest hitching post in the encampment.
Anand knelt.
He pushed the folded paper into the dry sand. Covered it. Pressed the surface flat. Then scattered a little dust across it.
He stared at the spot for several seconds. Then turned back toward the sleeping camp.
- Writer
