The Time Machine of Marwar

What Remains

The calls grew louder. Then lanterns appeared. Small yellow lights moving across the darkness beyond the dunes.

A second caravan.

For several tense moments nobody moved. The survivors gripped their weapons.

Ramu sat pale and shaking beside the buried chest.

Anand could barely breathe.

Then a familiar trader’s greeting drifted across the night.

Not a challenge. Not a war cry.

A merchant’s call.

Relief swept through what remained of the caravan.

The newcomers arrived cautiously.

Nearly thirty men, twice the size of Salim Khan’s caravan.

Their leader was a broad-shouldered merchant with a gray beard and eyes that seemed permanently narrowed against desert winds.

He surveyed the scene without speaking.

The dead. The wounded. The blood-dark sand. The severed arm. The shattered baggage.

For several moments he said nothing.

Then he looked at Salim Khan.

“How many?”

“Three dead. One missing.”

The older merchant nodded.

No surprise. No horror. Only recognition.

The desert had shown him similar scenes before.

——

The newcomers worked immediately.

Water skins were opened.

Bandages appeared.

Lanterns were hung between kneeling camels.

One man cauterized Ramu’s wound while three others held him down.

The smell of burned flesh filled the night.

Ramu never screamed.

His face simply turned white.

Anand nearly fainted watching.

A group of men spent nearly an hour searching the surrounding areas. The desert gave them nothing.

Eventually one of the merchants found Madan’s headwrap half buried beneath the sand. Nearby, a line of footprints ran toward the dune. There were no footprints leading away. Only the marks of a man running for his life.

The desert had swallowed the rest.

Salim Khan stared at the headwrap for a long time. Then quietly picked it up.

No one suggested searching further.

The desert had already made its decision.

————

The dead were gathered shortly after dawn.

Karim.

Gopal.

Bhura Ram.

Three bodies lay side by side upon the sand. Next to them was Madan’s headwrap. It was patted clean and was arranged as neat as possible.

The survivors stood silently around the dead.

Anand stared at the bodies. His head felt tight and heavy, as if it was wrapped in a cluster of hot steam.

Then his knees gave way. He collapsed beside Gopal.

“I’m sorry.”

People immediately looked at him.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”

The wind pushed sand into his mouth. He coughed. The words kept coming.

“I’m sorry.”

He reached toward Gopal’s face. His trembling fingers tried to wipe away the blood.

The blood had already mixed with dust. The more he wiped, the dirtier it became.

“Your mother…”

His voice broke.

Gopal’s mother. The kind woman who took care of Chotu kaka and trusted him with her son. She was waiting for Gopal to return home from his first caravan.

Anand turned. His eyes found Karim.

“Your wife…”

The words barely escaped.

Karim’s young wife. The one Karim spoke about occasionally on the road yet everyone noticed his voice softened when he mentioned her.

Anand’s shoulders shook. Then he looked toward Bhura Ram.

The singer. The storyteller. The man whose voice had filled the desert only yesterday.

“Your children…”

The words dissolved into a sob.

He covered his face.

“I’m sorry.”

Anand lowered his head until it nearly touched the sand.

“They came because of me.” The words were barely audible.

"Anand!” Ramu's voice was trembling.

“Why Anand? Why…”

“Do you still remember the Bhopa?” Anand smiled bitterly.

“Do you remember the songs about the father of gold lion?”

“They were about my family.”

Ramu searched in his memories then as if a lightening struck him. He gasped. He stared at Anand shockingly.

“The bhopa sang, that gold lion was dead. that was my Mahadu. The land that was taken, that was my family estate."

“Ramu… the British threatened me with my family.”

Ramu shook fiercely. His eyes were full of tears. For a second he almost rushed toward Anand. Then his sight dropped at the bodies lying on the ground. His face almost twisted. He stood there, looking at him. He knelt down, crying too.

“I thought they only wanted the route.”

The words came faster now. As though they had been trapped inside him for days.

“I thought they wanted a drawing.”

“I thought they wanted to find us.”

“I thought they would steal it.”

His voice collapsed.

“I did not expect people would die. I did not expect that you would lose one arm.”

Quietness. Nobody knew what to say, until the leader of the other caravan gave out a heavy snort.

“You believed them.”

Anand stared at him. He knew he did not need to explain to a stranger. However he felt an urge to let the words out.

“I thought I understood the game.”

He glanced at Ramu, but quickly looked down, as if it was too painful to face his best friend.

“I thought I could explain everything to the Professor when I returned to Bombay.”

His fingers tightened.

“I thought I was making a difficult choice.”

He closed his eyes, tears came down again.

“I thought we were playing chess.”

A long pause.

“They were hunting.”

“What do the British want?” The leader of the other caravan asked Salim Khan.

Salim hesitated.

“To be honest with you, brother. I do not know either.”

The older merchant nodded. He was only the guide. It was likely that he would not be given much information.

And the desert had its own rule: The more you knew, the more likely you were to die because of it.

They both said nothing more, but started preparing for the funeral.

————-

Karim was buried first.

The Muslims washed him as best they could.

Water was precious. Far too precious. Yet nobody suggested skipping the ritual.

A cloth was soaked. The blood was cleaned from his face and body.

He was wrapped in white cloth.

Then Salim Khan and other merchants carried him beyond the camp.

When the body was finally lowered into the earth, facing West, the direction of Mekka.

Salim stood with the muslims from the other caravan.

Then the prayers began.

The words drifted away on the wind.

Simple.

Ancient.

Familiar.

The kind of words spoken by countless caravans before them.

When the grave was closed, a ring of stones was piled above it.

As the membrane, for as long as the desert allows it.

⸻

The Hindu rites proved harder.

There was almost no wood.

The second caravan dismantled broken crates and damaged pack frames. Every splinter that could burn was collected.

Even then, everyone knew it would not be enough.

Not for two full cremations.

Not in the Thar.

Bhura Ram and Gopal were laid upon separate pyres.

The flames caught quickly. Then slowly began to weaken.

The dry desert wood vanished too fast.

The fires struggled. Collapsed. Rose again. Collapsed once more.

No one said anything.

Everyone could see the same truth.

The dead deserved more than this, but the desert had already taken more than enough.

By sunset the fires had burned themselves out.

Neither cremation was complete.

The survivors stood silently around the blackened remains.

An elderly merchant brought a stone.

No explanation was needed.

Chotu Kaka took it.

For a long moment he simply stood there.

Then he stepped forward.

The ritual had to be completed. If the dead were buried with the skull closed, their souls would never rest in peace.

The sound was soft.

Almost lost beneath the wind.

Several men lowered their heads.

No one spoke.

⸻

Pits were dug beneath the cooling ashes. The remaining bones and charred remains were gathered carefully. Nothing would be left for scavengers.

The graves were filled. Then covered with stones. Thorn bushes were dragged from nearby scrub and piled on top.

Before the graves were closed, Chotu Kaka knelt beside the ashes.

He searched quietly through the embers. The heat burned through the cloth wrapped around his fingers.

At last he found several small white fragments.

Bones.

Some belonged to Gopal, some Bhura Ram.

He wrapped them in two separate strips torn from his own turban.

Then tied the bundle shut.

One day, if God both permitted it, those fragments would reach the Ganges.

The journey would be completed.

⸻

Madan’s headwrap was folded carefully and placed beneath a cairn of stones overlooking the dune that had taken him.

⸻

No one spoke to Anand since the confession.

The conversations moved around him.

Water was passed around him.

Decisions were made around him.

Ramu and him avoided the eye contact, not knowing how to interact.

Anand understood.

His confession had not merely revealed the truth. It had ended his place among them.

⸻

As the sun climbed higher, Salim Khan sat beside the leader of the second caravan and spread a rough map across the sand.

Several minutes passed before the merchant spoke again.

“You cannot continue to Banaskantha. If they found you once, they can find you again.”

Salim nodded.

He, an experienced desert guide, knew his counterpart was right.

The merchant drew a second route.

Longer. Far more dangerous. It curved south and west.

Avoiding the trade roads entirely.

Avoiding Banaskantha.

Avoiding almost everyone.

Salim recognized it immediately.

“The Rann.”

The merchant nodded.

“The salt marshes.”

Even speaking the name felt uncomfortable. For much of the year the land was neither sea nor desert. A white wasteland of salt, mud, mirages, and hidden channels.

Few caravans crossed it willingly. Fewer crossed it twice.

“It will slow you down,” the merchant said.

“It will hurt.”

He glanced toward the wounded Ramu.

“But if someone is hunting you…”His finger pressed into the line, “…it is the best chance you have of reaching Bombay unseen.”

Silence followed.

The wind moved softly across the dunes.

Finally Salim nodded. The decision had already been made. He simply admitted it.

“We go through the Rann.”

The merchant finished his tea. Then stood.

“My caravan continues south.”

He extended his hand.

“We cannot escort you there.”

Salim accepted the handshake.

Neither man apologized.

In the desert every caravan carried its own fate. No one could carry another’s for very long.

Yet the merchant did not leave immediately.

Instead he spent the rest of the afternoon preparing them for a road he himself had no intention of taking.

His men brought supplies from their own caravan.

Extra water skins. Dried dates. Flour. Salted goat meat. Medicinal herbs. Lengths of rope.

None of it was discussed.

None of it was recorded.

The items simply appeared beside Salim Khan’s baggage.

One merchant helping another survive. Nothing more needed to be said.

The most unusual gifts were bundles of cloth.

Long strips of thick woven cotton.

At first Ramu assumed they were bandages.

Salim shook his head.

“For the camels.”

He picked up one of the strips and crouched beside a kneeling animal.

“The Rann will cut them.”

Ramu frowned.

“The salt?”

“Salt crystals. Broken shells. Hidden cracks.”

“The desert wounds men.”

His eyes drifted toward Ramu’s missing arm.

“The Rann wounds everything.”

The lead merchant from the other caravan brought another roll of the cloth. Hearing the conversation, he used a stick to draw shapes in the sand.

“Do not trust the white ground.”

A line.

“Some places are hard.”

Another line.

“Some places only look hard.”

He stabbed the stick downward.

It sank several inches.

“Beneath the crust there can be mud deep enough to swallow a camel.”

“The mirages are worse.”

Salim nodded.

“In the Rann, they trick your judgment.”

The merchant handed Salim the roll of the cloth.

“Use it before the first salt flats.”

Salim accepted the bundle.

“InshaAllah one day I shall return your favor.”

The older merchant nodded.

Then the merchant looked toward the western horizon.

The sun was beginning to fall.

Neither caravan moved again that day. The dead had taken enough strength from the living.

Before dawn, their roads would separate. One caravan would disappear into the southern trade routes. The other would turn toward the white emptiness of the Rann.