The Time Machine of Marwar

The Bhopa

The desert changed again.

The dunes grew lower.

The distances grew larger.

For most of the day the caravan traveled through a landscape so empty that even Bhura Ram’s singing seemed swallowed by the horizon.

Toward evening they reached a lonely caravan station.

A cluster of mud-brick buildings stood around a deep well. A few date palms leaned against the wind. Several caravans had already stopped for the night.

It was not much.

But in the desert, it was enough.

After supper, Ramu carried the leather chest into the tent and placed it beside his blanket.

Anand laughed.

“You sleep beside that thing every night.”

“Bapji’s orders.”

Anand shook his head.

“Ramu. you are almost thirty.”

“And?”

“You obey Professor Jhunjhunwala as though you were still twelve.”

For a long moment Ramu said nothing.

The fire crackled outside.

Finally he spoke.

“Bapji’s kindness is a debt I can never repay.”

He was silent for another moment.

Then he said quietly:

“I will tell you a story that you may take as entertainment on this boring night in the desert.”

Anand settled back against a saddle.

Outside, Bhura Ram was singing to no one in particular.

The wind carried fragments of melody across the camp.

Ramu’s gaze remained fixed on the stars.

Then he began.

“29 years ago, a boy was born to a Bhanji family, the lowest caste in Marwar. His parents had died before he turned six. Illness had taken them both within a short span of time.

The boy was sent to the Jhunjhunwala family haveli as a servant to clean the courtyard.

One afternoon, when he should have been sweeping, he was drawing numbers in the dirt with a stick.

The professor happened to walk past.

He stopped.

Watched.

And asked him, ‘Are you interested in mathematics?’

‘Yes sir.’ He answered, ‘I heard you telling one student that mathematics is the language of God.’

The professor smiled, indicated him to carry on.

The boy muttered, ‘And I want to know how God decides people’s life… and death.’

The professor’s smile froze.

Since then, the boy was moved into the inner household and the professor began giving him small lessons whenever time allowed.

The boy continued asking questions.

The professor continued answering them.

Later, the professor discovered that his young pupil had developed a troubling habit.

He refused to stop studying.

Several times he was found awake long after midnight, scratching calculations onto scraps of paper by lamplight.

Eventually he was assigned to clean the professor’s library which contained hundreds of books.

Mathematics.

Astronomy.

Natural philosophy.

History.

Languages.

Entire worlds bound between covers.

Somewhere during those years a small bookshelf appeared beside the professor’s desk.

It took a while before the boy realized the shelf had been built specifically for him.

It stood low enough for a child to reach.

The books upon it changed constantly.

Elementary mathematics.

Astronomy.

Stories.

Whatever the professor thought he might understand.

Whatever the professor hoped he would eventually understand.”

The memory brought a smile to Ramu’s face.

“When he was nine years old, the professor announced he would leave for Bombay.

The British were establishing a new college and wanted Indian scholars to assist in its creation.”

Ramu glanced toward Anand.

“It became Elphinstone.”

Anand nodded knowingly.

“On the morning of the announcement, this boy had been standing outside the dining room.

He knew the professor was leaving. What he did not know was whether he would be left behind.

Then someone called his name.

He entered.

The professor was seated at the head of the table. Family members surrounded him. He looked directly at the frightened boy.

‘From now on, you are taking my name.’

The boy stared at him. Certain he had misheard.

The professor nodded gently, as if to comfort him.

‘No one will know you in Bombay.

We shall begin the new journey together, beta.’

After saying this, he indicated the boy to leave. And he did, holding the tears as much as he could.

He almost reached the doorway before the shouting began.

Professor’s uncles.

The aunts.

His brothers and cousins.

But it did not matter. This boy was alive, as if he had never been.

He went with the professor to Bombay, as the son and as his student and assistant. When the Elphinstone College officially opened, he attended as the first bunch of the students.”

Ramu fell silent.

The story was over.

The desert wind whispered through the camp. Somewhere beyond the firelight a camel groaned.

Ramu looked toward his friend.

Anand was staring at him. His eyes were full of tears.

For a moment neither seemed to know what to say.

When Anand finally spoke, his voice was unusually soft.

“Thank God.

Thank Professor Jhunjhunwala.

And thank fate that somehow brought us into the same classroom.”

Ramu mumbled something.

Anand took in a breath and gave a smile.

“If the professor had walked down a different corridor that day, I might have spent my university years surrounded by sensible people.”

Ramu laughed despite himself.

“What a tragedy.”

“A terrible tragedy.”

They sat smiling at one another.

For a brief moment the desert felt very small. And the world felt unexpectedly kind.

A sound interrupted them.

A faint metallic jingling drifting across the night.

Bhura Ram straightened his body. His head snapped toward the well.

The jingling came again. Then a long, mournful note rose above it.

The guide sprang to his feet.

“A Bhopa!”

Without another word he was already hurrying toward the gathering crowd.

Anand stared after him.

“I have never seen a man so excited.”

“You have never met a Bhopa.”

“Apparently not.”

Curiosity eventually won.

A few minutes later the entire caravan found themselves seated among merchants, travelers, camel drivers, and villagers beneath the open sky.

At the center of the gathering stood a painted scroll stretched between two poles.

The cloth glowed crimson in the firelight.

Figures covered every inch of its surface.

Kings.

Warriors.

Horses.

Battles.

Gods.

Entire generations seemed to live within its painted world.

A Bhopi moved carefully around the scroll carrying a brass lamp. The flame illuminated different scenes as she passed.

Beside her stood a man holding a ravanhattha. It was a string instrument. Its bow was decorated with dozens of tiny bells. Every movement of the bow sent a cascade of delicate chimes into the night air, resembling the ankle bells worn by dancers.

The Bhopa began to sing. The Bhopi echoed. The ravanhattha answered.

Bhura Ram was enchanted and singing along.

Even Salim Khan eventually surrendered and began tapping a rhythm against his knee.

Chotu Kaka distributed tea.

Gopal listened with wide eyes.

Karim claimed he was not interested.

No one believed him.

For a while the night belonged entirely to stories. The old heroes rode again. The old battles were fought again.

The audience laughed. Sighed. Nodded.

Anand relaxed.

The tea was good. The music was better.

Then the tune changed.

It happened so gradually that few people noticed.

The ravanhattha slowed.

The bells on the bow continued their soft metallic whisper.

The Bhopa’s voice dropped lower.

The Bhopa looked directly into the darkness beyond the firelight.

Then he sang.

“Father of Gold Lion.

Husband of Jasmine.

Listen carefully.”

The crowd grew quiet for a moment, then quickly settled back into the rhythm of the performance.

Only Anand frowned.

Gold Lion.

His son’s nickname.A foolish little name that existed only inside the privacy of their bedroom. They never dared use it in front of relatives. The aunties would immediately accuse them of bragging.

And Jasmine.

That was what he called his wife. There had been a jasmine plant growing beneath the window of her parents’ house.

How could this be coincidence?

And if it was not coincidence…

How could they possibly know?

The interlude ended.

The Bhopa continued.

“Your land has been taken.

Your hands hold a treasure.

Your heart carries a map.

Draw the treasure.

Speak the map.

Your land will return.”

The bells jingled softly.

Around him, people exchanged puzzled glances.

“What legend is this?”

Someone shrugged.

Another reached for more tea.

Most seemed unconcerned.

As long as there was music, nobody minded a little confusion.

Anand’s jaw tightened.

Charles.

Of course.

The governor’s meddling had followed them all the way into the desert.

The realization brought not fear but irritation.

What sort of man used folk singers as spies? And threatened the son of Bombay’s powerful landowner like this? Is he crazy?

“Despicable,” Anand muttered.

He glanced toward Ramu, almost burst out.

No.

Not tonight.

Not after everything his friend had just shared.

The poor man had spent half the evening reliving his childhood.

There was no reason to burden him with Charles’s games.

Let Charles play his tricks.

Once he returned home, a few conversations would settle the matter. Someone always knew someone. Someone always knew a man who could mediate.

One way or another, the matter could be handled properly.

Satisfied with this conclusion, Anand rolled his eyes at the still-singing Bhopa.

Then he drained the last of his tea and stood.

The matter seemed settled.

He returned to his tent and decided to sleep early that night.