Padam Singh and Nanku Patel, in their British uniforms, were sharing a smoke, sitting at the entrance of a storage facility they had just docked at in the premises of the Victoria College in Roopganj. The silence of the night was enough to hear the water of the Chitra meandering in the distance. They were the guards for the night, alert with their nozzled rifles loaded and permission to fire at anything they found moving within a certain radius. Padam Singh glanced over his shoulder to find the British men in uniform, almost the same as theirs, sitting on logs around the fire pit, sharing cigars and talking in English. They spoke so fast that they could not be understood.
“They must be speaking about the mosquitoes and smell,” Nanku grunted under his teeth.
“How do you know?” Padam Singh asked.
“That is all they talk about.” Nanku joked. Padam Singh’s teeth shone in the dark.
“Did you notice something?” He whispered to his fellow countryman, lowering his voice and leaning in. “They stationed all our brothers inside, in charge of the goods while they sat out.”
“Is that unusual?” Nanku Patel frowned. He was new to goods duty. He had spent most of his short career on jailhouse duties.
“Very.” Padam Singh nodded. “They keep an eye and don’t trust us much…especially since rebels…” He stopped as Nanku was called for.
“Aye, Boy!” One of the senior officers, in charge of the project in his decorated uniform with stars, Daniel Smith, called out, putting the cigar in between his teeth. “Fetch me some water.” Nanku obliged. Not that he had an option not to. He took the empty water bottle from the master and rushed to the riverside.
“Be careful of the snakes.” Padam Singh reminded him. He had taken quite a liking to the boy. Padam Singh held the nozzle of his rifle up and alert as he stood up and straightened himself. He glanced at the warehouse again.
Something told him that there were hazardous goods in the cartons they loaded and unloaded. The smell was of gunpowder. Padam Singh had handled enough of that to know the smell. That was perhaps why his fellow countrymen were stationed inside the warehouse while the British folks stayed a safe distance away. Padam Singh was not sure if they were in any danger, but he was alarmed by the number of troops assigned to this goods delivery from Dhaka to Calcutta. He had a newspaper wrapped up in his bag, which he had bought on the railway journey to his reporting point. He took it out and tried to read it in the light of the flickering torches.
“19-Year-Old Man Hanged in Presidency Jail for Killing the Magistrate of Lakutiya.”
Padam Singh sighed. He was in the job as a tradition in his family. His father was in the job before him. His grandfather died in the Lucknow Residency attack. His brothers were on the job too. But every time he saw the news of young lives being sacrificed for the motherland, the weight of the uniform with the British emblem seemed a little heavier on his shoulders.
Nanku found the steps on the bank of the Chitra amidst the bushes and tall trees and made his way down carefully.
“Ram Ram Ram Ram.” He chanted as he felt eerie in the darkness and silence. Although he carried a torch from the camp and the nozzle of his gun peeked from his back, what good would either do to ghosts? He let the water fill the bottle with a gurgling noise.
Suddenly, he could sense he was being watched; the leaves rustled, and Nanku’s heart skipped a beat. He flung the bottle away and grabbed his rifle. Before he could turn around, his rifle was yanked away from his hand, and masked men, faces covered with Gamcha and clothes, pushed him down and held his neck close to the stone slabs of the step. He could not breathe.
A lit-up torch was thrown into the tent from the forest behind Padam Singh, or so he assumed. A loud explosion sent the British Soldiers scattering on the ground as he turned with his rifle up and alarmed. Padam Singh could hear screams of agony from the men who were trapped in the fire, perhaps half-baked by the explosion. He raised the nozzle and charged at the tents, followed by the soldiers who managed to pick themselves up.
“We are under attack!” Smith shouted. “Catch them, kill them!”
Padam Singh was already manoeuvring through the smoke, and he could see figures move in the darkness. Many of them. Some were taking out boxes, and others were killing off what remained of the soldiers, groaning. Padam Singh stepped on something soft. He grunted. It was a dead body. His anger flared. He started firing at the silhouettes of the men. He could see a few fall, the others running, some carrying the boxes. Suddenly, two bullets whisked past his beard and hit the British soldier behind him. He fired again and missed his shot as he ran towards the figure. One of the men lay groaning as the bullet hit his stomach.
“Take this one out, he needs to live to give us information,” Smith ordered two of his men as the cross-firing started again. Some of those men lay cold; others were already in the jungles.
“I hit some of them.” Padam Singh told his superior. The British officers ordered them to recover whatever was left of the goods and douse the flames. They needed to file a report and hope they were not transferred from their jobs to the deepest jungles of India. Others ran behind the attackers into the forest. Suddenly, the loud, deafening noise of a bomb echoed through the jungle as the birds started chirping and flying. Padam Singh knew the sound well. It was of handmade bombs.
“Vande Mataram.” An echo louder than the bomb was now heard. “Vande Mataram!”
“Inquilab Zindabad!”
Padam Singh could suddenly not feel his leg anymore. He looked down in the light and shadow to find that his left calf was hit and now soaking with blood. He collapsed.
When Padam Singh woke up in the nearest medical aid camp, he realised he was left behind along with other injured soldiers for treatment. The contingent had moved on with whatever was left of the goods. The doctor was a native. He informed Padam Singh that little was recovered from the scene, and many soldiers were among the casualties.
“How many of them did we kill?” Padam Singh asked. The doctor smiled wearily.
“I don’t know exactly,” he shook his head. “One with a bullet wound was brought to me, but he will not survive. Too much blood loss. No identification was made.”
Padam Singh sank back on the makeshift bed and sighed. “What about Nanku Patel?”
“Who?” The doctor frowned over his reading glasses.
“My junior… he… went to bring water…” The doctor turned the leaf of his report over, and his eyes were on the names of the casualties.
“There is nobody of that name here.” He shrugged.
“That bastard is being investigated for treason.” Someone from the bed beside him grunted. Padam Singh glanced over at the Britisher. “He was the one to lead the terrorists to our warehouse.”
“How is that possible?” Padam Singh inhaled.
“He went to the river in the middle of the night, didn’t he?” The man asked again.
“Yes, but sir ordered him to.” Padam Singh frowned. “I was there.”
“Then you are also an accessory that needs to be investigated. Hooliganism runs in your blood, you filthy…”
“Quiet now, don’t get agitated.” The doctor intervened.
“You will kill me too!” The man screamed at the doctor. “I want my doctor. Not a bloody illiterate native.”
“You are not fit to travel. Once you are, I will order your transfer.” The doctor said calmly. Padam Singh stared at him in awe. How was the man not angry? He was. He had served the masters with so much dedication; now, someone accused him of treason? He grunted inwardly and stared at his injured leg.
“When can I walk, doctor?” He asked.
“Oh, you can walk, with support.” The doctor smiled. “The bullet grazed through the skin.”
“But it pained so much.” Padam Singh frowned. He stared at the crutch at his bedside. He took it and struggled to stand up. A nurse came to help, but he stopped her. He stepped outside and could see that they were camped outside a village that was visible on the horizon. The river was in front of his eyes, sparkling in the midday heat.
“How far is Roopganj from here? And Narail?” He wondered aloud. He was going to go back and find Nanku. Perhaps he ran away hearing of the attack. He needed to clear his name.
“Upstream…” a fellow native soldier stationed there informed him as he chewed tobacco between his teeth. “A few miles.”
“I need to go back.” Padam Singh requested. “Please.”
“There is nobody there. Except for investigators.” The man shook his head.
“I need to find a missing fellow soldier.” Padam Singh shook his head.
“Oh, they will find him for you.” The man reassured him.
“You don’t understand.” Padam Singh shook his head tearily. “He needs to come back and clear his name.”
