The Time Machine of Marwar

Early March, 1850
Marwar, Western India The caravan reached the ancestral haveli shortly before dawn. The eastern horizon was only beginning to pale. Servants carrying brass lamps moved silently through the corridors while the household slowly stirred awake. By the time Ramu came to the dining hall, the smell of breakfast drifted through the courtyard. Anand, his friend and travel companion, was waiting. “You were gone for a while,” Anand said. “Did you secure the professor’s task?” “Yup.” Ramu sat down while a servant poured buttermilk into his cup. Anand tore off a piece of roti. “This thing the Professor sent you to find—what exactly is it?” Ramu reached for the buttermilk. “According to Bapji, it’s a small toy he made when he was young.” Anand waited. “And the English are looking for it too. We have to send it back before they do.” Anand raised an eyebrow. “A scientific instrument, I guess?” “Well…”Ramu thought for a second, “Bapji made me promise not to tell anyone exactly what it is.” “Not even me?” Ramu looked at him in silence. Anand pressed a hand dramatically against his chest. “Oh, Ramu.” His voice trembled with exaggeration, “You’ve broken my heart.” They both laughed. The servant brought in another stack of freshly made rotis. The breakfast spread was simple but abundant: fresh bajra rotis brushed with ghee, a clay bowl of garlic chutney, stewed lentils seasoned with cumin, thick yogurt, and a large brass pitcher of chilled buttermilk. As Anand enjoyed the typical Marwari breakfast, his eyes wandered around the courtyard. The haveli was magnificent. Three stories surrounded the central courtyard, their galleries linked by rows of carved arches. Every wall seemed alive with color. Elephants marched across desert landscapes. Peacocks spread their tails beneath flowering trees. Caravans wound their way through distant kingdoms. Krishna played his flute beside rivers no one in the village had ever seen. Even British steamships appeared among the murals, reminders of a world far beyond Marwar. Generations of Marwari merchants had painted their journeys onto these walls. Wealth announced itself everywhere—not through gold, but through confidence. The confidence of a family that had traded across deserts for centuries. “I thought your uncles lived here,” Anand said. “They do.” “I haven’t seen a single one.” “Perhaps they’re still asleep.” Anand glanced around again. The household seemed fully awake. Servants hurried between rooms. Women crossed the upper galleries. Someone was already shouting instructions to stable boys. But he let the answer pass. Perhaps wealthy families kept different hours. After breakfast they climbed the main staircase. Halfway up, they stepped aside to allow a man to pass. He looked to be in his fifties. His white angarkha was immaculately pressed. A neatly tied turban sat upon his head. Several rings flashed briefly as he adjusted the shawl draped over one shoulder. Anand immediately bowed, “Greetings to you, Uncle.” The man smiled warmly, “You must be one of the guests from Bombay.” “Yes, Uncle.” “Was the journey difficult?” “Not too difficult.” “And the roads?” “A little rough near Nagaur, but manageable.” “Good. Good. We worried the desert winds might arrive early this year.” “The weather has been kind to us.” “Then may it remain kind.” The man nodded approvingly and smiled again, a brief, genuine smile. Then he continued down the corridor. Without once looking at Ramu. Without acknowledging his presenceWithout even pausing—As though he were invisible. Anand remained frozen until the man disappeared from view. Then he turned slowly toward Ramu. “What was that?” Ramu continued walking, “That was my uncle.” “He didn’t even look at you.” “No.” “Does he not recognize you?” “Oh, he recognizes me.” Ramu’s voice remained calm, “Perfectly.” Neither man spoke for several seconds. The silence followed them down the corridor. That afternoon they sat in the chowk, the central courtyard that formed the heart of the haveli. The courtyard lay open to the sky, yet felt enclosed by the vast arcaded galleries that rose around it on all four sides. A visitor who looked too quickly might almost feel dizzy. The men sat on low cushions drinking tea while the afternoon drifted lazily through the courtyard. The guides argued about routes. One of the guards cleaned his musket while another slept in the shade. Anand leaned back and glanced toward the upper galleries, “No one has invited you upstairs.” Ramu shook his head. “No one has asked how you’ve been.” “No.” “And no one seems particularly happy you’re here.” “That would be accurate.” Anand frowned, “I don’t understand.” For a while Ramu said nothing. His eyes wandered across the painted walls, following merchants, kings, and forgotten journeys preserved in fading color. “Bapji gave me his name,” he said at last. Anand waited. “He could not force everyone else to accept it.” The realization and shock arrived together in Anand’s eyes. “You are not Professor’s son?” A warm breeze stirred the prayer flags hanging above the courtyard. Ramu lowered his eyes. For a moment he seemed about to answer. Then Anand lifted a hand, “You don’t have to tell me.” Ramu looked up. Anand smiled. It was the same smile Ramu had come to know over the years—open, easy, entirely without judgment. “No matter what,” he said, “you are my best friend.” Somewhere in the upper floors of the haveli, a door closed.