Pali
951 Words
Three days later, the caravan left the haveli and headed south.
Pali was the last great market town before the long journey across the desert.
Every caravan traveling between Marwar, Sindh, Gujarat, and Bombay eventually passed through it.
For two days they rested.
Supplies were purchased, waterskins repaired, and pack saddles inspected. The camels were fed until they seemed incapable of eating another mouthful.
The town itself seemed incapable of silence.
From dawn until long after sunset, the streets echoed with the cries of merchants advertising cloth, spices, tea, tobacco, and camel feed. Bullock carts rattled over stone roads. Bells hanging from camel harnesses chimed constantly as caravans arrived and departed.
The air smelled of cardamom, turmeric, leather, wood smoke, dust, and animals.
Every road seemed crowded with movement.
Merchants from Marwar bargained with traders from Sindh.
Gujarati brokers argued over cotton prices.
Money changed hands everywhere.
So did information.
Near a tea stall, a dusty courier dismounted and handed a folded note to a caravan office keeper, who immediately dispatched two boys in different directions.
Farther down, a group of Gujarati merchants dissolved the moment a stranger approached, their smiles arriving and departing with equal precision.
Outside a caravanserai, two traders were already adjusting their route.
“Just received word,” one of them murmured. “Prince Rahma wants another shipment of silk.”
Ramu smiled.
“Messages travel faster than camels.”
On the first morning, Ramu and Anand wandered through the bazaar together.
Ramu pointed occasionally toward a shop.
“That one belongs to my uncle.”
A few streets later he pointed again.
“That one too.”
“And that one?”
“Yes.”
Anand laughed.
“Does your family own the entire town?”
“Only the profitable parts.”
The answer was delivered with such perfect seriousness that Anand nearly believed him.
They continued walking.
Several shopkeepers greeted them politely.
Others nodded in passing.
None recognized Ramu.
Or if they did, they gave no sign of it.
Anand noticed.
Ramu pretended not to.
Neither mentioned it.
By the second afternoon, Anand escaped the noise of the caravanserai and wandered into the bazaar alone.
Anand rarely returned from a market empty-handed.
Before long he had purchased a bundle of brightly dyed cloth, several packets of spices, a bag of almonds and pistachios, and a small wooden camel painted in red and gold.
He turned the toy over in his hand and smiled.
The boy would spend a month showing it to everyone he met.
A little later he stopped at a cloth merchant’s stall and spent nearly twenty minutes examining fabrics.
“You have excellent taste, Sethji,” the merchant said.
“So my wife keeps telling me.”
The merchant laughed.
Eventually Anand selected a length of deep indigo bandhani embroidered with tiny mirrors.
He hoped she would like it.
And by the time he reached Bombay, the second child would almost be here.
For a moment he seemed to be looking far beyond Pali.
If the roads were kind, they would be home before May.
He was still thinking about that when a Marwari shopkeeper’s assistant hurried after him.
“Sethji.”
Anand turned.
The boy could not have been more than ten.
He glanced around nervously before lowering his voice.
“There is a message for you.”
“What message?”
“The English sahib Charles from Bombay wishes to know your return route.”
Anand stared.
“Charles?”
The Governor of Bombay.
The boy nodded.
“He says he is a friend of Professor Narayan.”
Anand suppressed a sigh.
Of course it was Charles. The professor said the English wanted that “stuff” too.
For several seconds Anand said nothing.
Then he asked quietly,
“Why are you telling me?”
The boy looked confused.
“Because you are in charge.”
Anand felt a flash of irritation.
The uncle at the haveli.
The shopkeepers.
The merchants.
Now a shop assistant.
One after another, people seemed perfectly willing to step around Ramu as though he were standing in someone else’s shadow.
“In charge?”
The boy blinked.
“You own the caravan, don’t you?”
“No.”
The boy looked genuinely puzzled.
Anand could already hear the explanation forming in his mind.
The prestigious young master from Bombay.
The camels.
The guards.
The money.
Of course he must be in charge.
Of course Professor Narayan’s adopted son was merely accompanying him.
The thought lingered.
The boy knew who Ramu was.
That meant the shopkeepers did too.
The whole Pali probably knew.
Yet they pretended they didn’t.
Anand felt his face grow warm.
“You may tell the sahib that our route is none of his concern.”
His voice was as dry as the desert wind.
The assistant swallowed.
“Yes, Sethji.”
“And if there are any further messages, give them to your master.”
He deliberately stressed the last word.
The assistant lowered his eyes immediately.
“Yes, Sethji.”
The boy disappeared back into the crowd.
Anand stood there for a long moment.
When he returned to the caravanserai that evening, Ramu was sitting beneath a lantern making notes in a leather-bound notebook.
Several sheets of mathematical calculations lay scattered beside him.
Anand almost told him.
Then he asked himself:
For what?
So another stranger could do the same?
So another person could decide who mattered and who did not?
He closed his mouth.
“Did you find the gifts for your family?” Ramu asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Anand sat down beside him.
He decided not to mention the English or what had happened that afternoon.
- Writer
