The Correction
1343 Words
Bombay
From the day Charles Harrington verified the formula hidden inside the jewellery chest, his mind had never known peace again.
The papers on his desk gradually disappeared beneath pages of calculations, columns of figures, fragments of equations and half-finished theories.
His sleep became shallow and unreliable. Strange dreams woke him in the middle of the night. By dawn he would find himself staring at the ceiling, replaying the same question again and again.
Why?
Why him?
Why not me?
Professor Jhunjhunwala never returned to Government House for tea.
Charles visited him repeatedly, trying to persuade him to study the machine again.
The answer was always the same.
No.
Eventually, the professor stopped responding whenever Charles mentioned either the machine or the formula.
Then one morning his Aide-de-Camp mentioned that record showed that Ramchand Jhunjhunwala and Anandrao Patil left Bombay.
“Destination?” Charles’ eyes sharpened.
“Rajasthan.”
Charles rose so suddenly that his chair scraped across the floor.
Of course.
Of course.
The professor had told him that the machine remained in the family haveli after he moved to Bombay.
He slapped the desk.
“No.”
The machine could not remain hidden.
Not now.
Not after the formula.
Not after everything he had learned.
He possessed the theory. Soon he would possess the machine itself.
“Send a message.” He ordered the Aide-de-Camp.
“To whom, sir?”
“To Anandrao Patil, through our contacts among the Marwari trading houses.”
He stressed.
“Mark it confidential.”
The aide nodded.
“Tell him we only require one thing— the route.”
The message left Bombay that afternoon.
A normal commercial letter travelled weeks across the desert. The private courier networks of the Marwaris operated differently. By the fresh horses, the trusted riders and relay stations, the message shall arrive Pali within a week, which would be their last stop before entering the desert.
Charles smiled, once they reach Pali, the message would have been already waiting for Anand.
Charles’s calculation was precise.
He cannot do anything to Professor Jhunjhunwala.
A celebrated scholar, a respected educator and a member of one of western India’s most influential merchant families— to move openly against him would create problems, the problems could even question his governance.
Anandrao Patil was different.
Landowners came and went, one could always be replaced by another.
“I hope he acts wisely.”
Two weeks later the answer arrived.
Anandrao Patil refused.
Without the route, locating a caravan inside the Thar Desert would be difficult.
The official permits only recorded destinations.
Between Rajasthan and Bombay stretched hundreds of miles of desert. Hundreds of wells. Hundreds of paths. Too many possibilities.
At this point, Charles considered some “pressure” would be necessary.
A few days later a petition appeared at the Collector’s Office.
A neighboring landowner claimed that portions of the Patil estate had been acquired illegally generations earlier.
The allegation required investigation.
The estate was frozen.
Officially.
Temporarily.
Unfortunately for the Patils, the order arrived during harvest season.
Wheat stood ready in the fields. Laborers waited for instructions. Mango orchards neared their first collection. The crops remained where they were.
The government seals remained where they were.
The days passed. The sun grew hotter. The seals remained.
Soon other things began to happen.
British officers appeared in nearby villages.
Always polite.
Always smiling.
They drank tea, asked harmless questions, stayed for half an hour.
Then left.
The next day they returned.
The families visited were carefully selected.
People gradually realized that they were all the relatives, business partners and family friends of the Patil’s.
Some officials would casually mention the Patils.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Soon the entire district understood the message.
The Patils had become dangerous company.
One afternoon Charles’s deputy sat inside the Patil drawing room.
The house had been built in the fashionable Victorian style favored by prosperous landowners.
Old Patil sat opposite him.
Exhausted.
The deputy spoke gently.
“We know you Indians have your own methods of communication in the desert.”
“We require only a sketch and the route.”
The deputy folded his hands.
“Help us obtain the items and the estate will be released immediately. And the compensation will be generous.”
“And of course your family and friends may get back their peace.”
⸻
Danta State
The Maharaja welcomed Charles personally.
“My dear Governor," the Maharaja said, bringing his palms together in a traditional greeting, bowing his head slightly with effortless grace.
Charles returned the salute with perfect diplomatic decorum, removing his military hat. "Maharaja Sahib, it is my absolute honor to see you again."
Servants appeared in a silent procession, carrying heavy solid-silver trays of tea and refreshments.
Upon Charles’s table, they laid freshly baked English scones, still warm from the palace kitchens, paired with fine Darjeeling tea and imported clotted cream. Upon the Maharaja’s table, the silver platters held fresh figs from the inland oases and traditional Indian sweets infused with saffron.
After the usual courtesies the Maharaja smiled.
“I assume this visit concerns the dam.”
Charles smiled back.
“It does.”
The ruler leaned forward.
“Will the British support it?”
“Completely.”
The Maharaja’s eyes brightened, “Tell me about it.”
Charles’s voice became unusually mellow, almost persuasive, a tone the Maharaja had rarely heard from him.
“Your Highness.”
“Imagine a generation born without fearing drought.”
The room grew quiet.
“Imagine green fields when every neighboring state has turned brown.”
“Imagine merchants choosing Danta because water is guaranteed.”
The Maharaja listened.
Charles continued.
“We shall build a great gravity dam across the narrowest section of the valley.”
“Thousands of tons of stone.”
“The finest engineers in the Empire.”
“The same minds that designed the Ganges Canal.”
The Maharaja sat straighter.
Everyone knew the Ganges Canal, one of the greatest engineering achievements of the age.
Charles saw the reaction and pressed forward.
“We shall transform the mountains themselves.”
“Terraces carved into the hillsides.”
“Water flowing from level to level.”
“Fields where today only thorn bushes grow.”
“When drought arrives elsewhere, Danta will remain green.”
His voice softened further.
“It will be your Hanging Garden.”
“It will be your legacy.”
For a moment the Maharaja’s gaze drifted somewhere beyond the ceiling.
He could already see it.
Water.
Fields.
Trade.
Prosperity.
A stronger state.
At length he returned to the present.
“When can construction begin?”
“Whenever Your Highness is ready.”
Charles cleared his throat.
“There is, however, a small favor.”
The Maharaja gestured.
“Please.”
“We require assistance recovering a certain tool.”
“What sort of tool?”
“I cannot say more.”
Charles held his gaze.
“But it is extraordinarily important. We would wish your Highness can send your palace guards for it.”
“Important enough that I can entrust it only to a friend.”
The Maharaja remained silent.
“Who else is involved?”
“No one.”
Charles answered immediately.
“Only myself, and for myself.”
He leaned slightly forward.
“It is a tool for selection.”
The Maharaja looked surprised.
“Selection?”
“Yes.”
“A tool capable of identifying true excellence.”
“A tool capable of placing capable men where they belong.”
“A tool capable of preventing talent from being wasted.”
He paused.
Then spoke more quietly.
“A tool capable of correcting the mistakes of chance.”
The Maharaja examined him carefully.
Charles continued.
“It will put the right people on the correct track.”
“Actually…”
He shook his head.
“It will put history itself back on the correct track.”
The Maharaja considered for a moment. Then he turned toward a servant.
“Summon the Captain of the Palace Guard.”
- Writer
