Into the Desert
1350 Words
Two days after leaving Pali, the world began to empty.
The villages grew farther apart.
The wells became rarer.
The trees disappeared one by one until only thorn bushes remained, crouching low against the wind.
By the third day, there was little left except sand, stone, sky, and distance.
The caravan moved slowly across the landscape.
Six camels carried most of the supplies.
One carried water.
Another carried food.
A third carried tools, blankets, cooking pots, and spare tack.
The leather bag entrusted to Ramu occupied the place of honor atop one of the supply camels.
Wrapped in layers of wool and secured beneath a weathered leather cover, it was roughly the size of a traveling chest. Too large to hide beneath a cloak, too heavy to carry comfortably for long.
Professor Narayan had insisted it never leave their sight.
The men obeyed.
The caravan itself consisted of eight men.
Two guides.
Four attendants.
And the two young travelers from Bombay.
Salim Khan, the senior guide, rarely spoke unless he had something worth saying. He navigated by stars, wind, and memory. No one in the caravan had ever seen him lost.
His counterpart, Bhura Ram, possessed no such restraint.
He sang.
Constantly.
Folk songs.
Love songs.
Travel songs.
Songs about kings, horses, monsoons, and women who broke men’s hearts.
He sang while riding.
He sang while walking.
He sang while unloading camels.
At first Anand found it amusing.
After three days he found it unavoidable.
“Does he ever stop?” he asked.
“No,” said Salim Khan.
“Not while awake.”
The old guide sounded resigned.
The attendants were an equally mixed collection.
There was Chotu Kaka, who treated tea as a sacred responsibility.
Karim, broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed, whose elder brother served with a military unit near Bombay. Karim had quietly learned to shoot from him and possessed a rifleman’s confidence that bordered on arrogance.
Madan, younger and perpetually sleepy, who seemed capable of falling asleep anywhere.
And sixteen-year-old Gopal, who came from the same village as Chotu Kaka. They were not truly related, but had called each other uncle and nephew for so many years that nobody remembered when it began.
This was Gopal’s first caravan.
Chotu Kaka had brought him along to earn some money and see the world beyond his village.
That evening Bhura Ram launched into another song while camp was being assembled.
His voice rolled across the dunes, rich and smooth.
It reminded Anand of Chotu Kaka’s masala tea.
Strong.
Sweet.
Impossible to ignore.
“Now there’s a comparison I’ve never heard before,” said Ramu.
Chotu Kaka snorted.
“Both improve the world.”
The old attendant was already preparing the evening tea.
Every evening, Chotu Kaka somehow managed to produce milk.
No one ever seemed entirely certain where it came from.
“Where do you keep finding milk?” Anand finally asked.
The old man looked offended.
“Finding?”
He pointed toward a particularly bad-tempered she-camel standing a short distance from the camp.
“Lakshmi provides it.”
As if on cue, the camel attempted to bite Karim.
Karim jumped backward.
The camel looked disappointed.
“She’s generous,” Chotu Kaka added.
“No,” said Karim. “She’s possessed.”
The camp erupted in laughter.
The old attendant returned to his kettle.
He treated tea as a sacred responsibility.
Water.
Black tea.
Cardamom.
Ginger.
Milk.
And an alarming quantity of sugar.
Then came his favorite part.
He poured the tea from one brass cup into another.
Higher.
Higher.
And higher.
The amber stream stretched through the desert air.
Chotu Kaka looked pleased with himself.
Nearby, Gopal was polishing Anand’s boots.
Not merely polishing them.
Worshipping them.
The leather had already been cleaned twice that day.
Now the boy was wrapping each boot carefully in soft cloth before placing them beside Anand’s blanket.
“You know they’ll be covered in sand again tomorrow.”
“Yes, Sethji.”
“Then why polish them like palace treasures?”
Gopal looked up.
“Because if I wrap them properly, the sand won’t get inside.”
Anand shrugged.
Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he asked,
“Sethji, when we reach Bombay, will you hire me?”
“To do what?”
“Anything.”
The boy pointed proudly at the boots.
“I can polish shoes.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“I can polish young sethji’s shoes too.”
Before Anand could answer, Chotu Kaka’s voice arrived from the tea kettle.
“Two weeks in the desert and already he wants city life.”
The old man waved a spoon.
The camp laughed.
Gopal immediately protested.
“I only said I wanted work.”
“You want easy work.”
Chotu Kaka pointed the spoon at him.
“Come walk beside camels for twenty years. Then we’ll discuss work.”
Gopal made a face.
Even Salim Khan smiled.
Later that evening, as tea circulated through the camp, Gopal asked how the two friends had first met.
“At Elphinstone college in Bombay,” said Anand.
“The English school?” Gopal's eyes glittered.
“Yes.” Anand smiled, pointing to Ramu with the chin, “He stole my mathematics notes.”
“I borrowed them,” Ramu corrected.
“For six months.”
“You got them back.”
“Covered in corrections.”
Gopal burst out laughing immediately.
So hard that tea nearly spilled from his cup.
Bhura Ram continued singing.
Long after sunset, the song drifted across the dunes.
The desert felt almost peaceful.
Almost.
The shouting began shortly after midnight.
Camel bells erupted somewhere beyond the firelight.
Men were already scrambling to their feet when Ramu moved.
Not toward the rifles.
Toward the leather bag.
Within seconds he had scraped a shallow pit beside the camp.
The bag disappeared beneath the sand.
A flat stone followed as the marker.
Only then did he stand.
Anand was already reaching for a rifle.
His eyes flicked repeatedly toward Ramu.
Making sure he was still there and safe.
Without a word he tossed another weapon through the darkness.
Ramu caught it.
“Ready?” Anand asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
Together they stepped outside.
Shadows moved at the edge of the firelight.
A camel screamed.
Someone shouted in a language Ramu didn't recognize.
Then—nothing.
The hoofbeats faded.
The shouting stopped.
By the time Anand and Ramu reached the edge of the camp, the thieves had already been swallowed by darkness.
The attack, if it could be called that, was over.
A few frightened camels groaned and shifted nervously.
One of the tethering ropes had been cut.
Several water skins lay scattered across the sand.
Nothing appeared to be missing.
Karim was still swearing.
Madan looked half asleep despite the commotion.
“They never intended to fight,” Salim Khan said.
The guide knelt beside the tracks.
“Just boys.”
“How can you tell?” Gopal asked.
“They ran.”
Salim pointed toward the fading tracks.
“Real thieves ride away with camels.”
“Then what were these?” Anand asked.
“Apprentices.”
The whole camp cracked up.
Even Karim laughed.
Within half an hour the camp had settled again.
The camels were retied.
The fire rebuilt.
Chotu Kaka produced tea as though attempted robbery were merely another weather condition.
Soon steaming brass cups were passing from hand to hand.
The panic faded.
The desert resumed its silence.
“Did they steal anything?” Anand asked.
“Nothing,” Karim replied.
“Tsk.” was Anand’s response.
The whole group looked at him.
“For a terrible moment I thought they might steal Bhura Ram.”
The singer looked offended.
“Why me?”
“Because then we’d finally get some sleep.”
Gopal exploded with laughter.
The boy laughed so hard he nearly fell backward into the sand.
Bhura Ram responded by singing even louder.
The entire camp groaned.
Above them the stars stretched from one horizon to the other.
The tea was hot.
The danger had passed.
Or so they believed.
- Writer
