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Kim moved unerringly
through Chandini Chowk to the railway station. The dust
of Delhi settled on his shoulders. He passed men squatting
in the sunlight with the tools of their trade wrapped
in bits of gunny: carpenters, bricklayers, iron workers,
carvers. They waited to be hired, patiently, quietly.
Each skill had is own lane in the chowk. And what could
one not purchase from this ancient market? Anything
and everything was to be had, a catalogue of which would
fill tomes. The city was full of vitality and fluid
movement. Camel caravans came and went, following the
old silk routes which neither time nor the changing
of empires could erase. They existed not on maps hut
in the memories of these traders.
Delhi was now only a
backwater but Kim had heard rumours that the sarkar
intended to move the capital from Calcutta to Delhi.
Lord Curzon had already approved plans for the building
of a new Delhi some distance from this old one. Kim
was certain that this new city would outshine the glory
of the previous empire and last for a thousand years
of British rule. It was to be a milestone in the continuity
of Delhi. But he also remembered the legend of Delhi—or
was it a curse?—every ‘new’ Delhi
marked the end of a dynasty. He wondered whether an
Indian curse would work with the Angrezi.
The entrance to the railway
station was crowded with rickshaws and tongas. The building
was also of red sandstone, with a great clock tower
in the centre. Kim pushed his way through the crowds
and queued up at the third-class ticket window. The
waiting hail was cavernous and cool. High on one wall
a blackboard showed the train schedules. The Frontier
Mail was due to arrive from ‘Pindi on its way
to Bombay at eight o’clock.
He bought a modest meal
from one of the station vendors, and wandered curiously
about the platforms. Blue-shirted coolies with red turbans
carried trunks, holdalls, baskets of fruit. Monkeys
scavenged the platforms, pi-dogs the tracks. Kim enjoyed
the expectancy and chaos of the station and squatted
against a wall to wait. The whole country was distilled
here, unlike Simla railway station. Pathans, Sikhs,
Jats, British soldiers, Indian jawans, Tamils, Europeans,
Gujaratis, all swirled together like dyes in a cauldron.
He heard strange tongues and gazed at outlandish costumes,
but saw them all as one people. They had an indefinable
harmony, a strange composition beneath which ran a familiar
chord. If a mirror had been shattered, each fragment
was separate, yet it still belonged to the whole.
Suddenly, through the
ebb and flow of people, he caught a glimpse of furtive
movement. A youth moved, crouching behind a mail trolley
to hide beneath the stairs. He wore baggy pyjamas and
a kurta, and his turban was badly tied. It looked too
large for his head.
Kim stood up, and a moment
later the head poked out to watch the platform hastily
before ducking back down. Kim too now gazed over the
platform, looking for anyone else doing the same. The
youth’s furtiveness had not been criminal. Kim
sensed the fear, he’d seen it in the jungle as
a sambar picked its way through the undergrowth, all
eyes, ears and nose. Km saw no searchers in the cheerful
chaos.
A few minutes after eight
o’clock a ripple ran over the platform and the
Frontier Mail, a drab red train pulled by a gleaming
black engine, came round the curve. The great engine
bathed people in steam as it passed and exhaustedly
came to halt, belching and wheezing. Coolies leapt into
the carriages, soliciting the travellers, and before
anyone could even disembark the waiting passengers were
pushing themselves in. Kim was convinced that Indians
were the most impatient travellers in the world. They
seemed to think the train would fly away without them.
Many doors were jammed with this impatience except,
of course, for the first class, which was reserved for
Europeans. They were orderly in their coming and going,
aloof from the frenzy.
Kim strolled by the stairwell
and peeped in. There was no sign of the youth now. In
the distraction he had probably slipped into a carriage.
Kim pushed his way into a third-class compartment and
found a window seat. A fat Marwari and his thin writer
squeezed in beside him. Their girths reflected their
positions.
The Marwari opened the
Statesman, spreading it right across Kim’s face.
It was a sign of importance to read in English, and
the Marwari wanted his fellow-passengers to know that
he was no ordinary man.
‘Disgraceful,’
he said in English, and then continued in Hindustani,
‘the British murdered Subhash Ray in Simla. A
fine man, a gentleman. Very learned and an excellent
cricketer. They have imprisoned his nephew, Anil Ray.
A terrorist, they say.’ In English he added, ‘Nonsense.’
The writer, crushed against
his employer, crushed too with worry, murmured assent.
He would have agreed if the Marwari had said the opposite.
His sole intent was to echo his employer. The Marwari
looked at Kim for agreement as well.
‘Sahib, they could
have been. The Bengalis are a very excitable people.’
‘Some, but not
Subhash. I saw him playing once in Calcutta. An excellent
batsman. Beautiful strokes. A man like that would not
turn to violence.’
‘Then the British
have made a terrible mistake.’
Kim looked closely at
the Marwari. His cheeks wore the sheen of rich food
and shone with a fresh shave. His moustache was oiled
and curled. He smelled of talcum powder.
‘Yes, they have
gone too far. This DI Goode will no doubt be promoted.
He should be tried or murder, but because he’s
British he will get away scot-free. W should demand
an enquiry.’
‘I believe you
should, sahib. You must call for one immediately, start
a petition.’
‘I was speaking
figuratively. I’m a businessman and cannot be
involved in politics. If they had passed the Ilbert
Bill, why, this Goode would have been tried by one of
us.’
The Ilbert Bill had been
an attempt by a past Viceroy, Lord Ripon, to allow Indian
judges to try Europeans. The bill had caused such an
uproar in the European community that it had been abandoned.
Europeans could still only be tried by Europeans, whatever
the offence.
The train’s whistle
interrupted the discourse. Kim looked out and saw the
youth dart through the crowd as the train began to move.
Far behind he saw his pursuers. The two in front looked
like chaprassis, dressed in grubby clothing and brandishing
lathis. The third man moved sedately, confident that
his men would catch the youth. He seemed to be their
employer, for he was dressed in an elegant cream suit
and carried a malacca cane.
The train gathered speed
and the youth ran faster, stumbling with panic. Kim
had never before seen such fear in so young a face.
Behind, the two men were gaining on him. Kim pushed
his way quickly to the open carriage door.
‘Hai ladkha, give
me your hand. Quickly.’
The youth stretched out
his hand and Kim caught hold of it grimly, swung the
youth off his feet and into the carriage. He wrenched
himself free of Kim’s grip, scurried into the
latrine, and locked himself in. Kim looked back at the
receding platform and saw the three men, together now,
staring intently at him. He was glad of the distance,
for they couldn’t distinguish his features. |