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Authors: Indu Sundaresan
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and shattered ankles. But she does not complain, and Sam is grateful for that little consideration because he has been given the responsibility of bringing her out of Burma, according to his orders, in merely a bodily whole. He does not have charge of her emotions, which, in any case, will take years to heal if they do heal at all.
At least, Sam thinks, he is not injured. Yet. Toughened by his training, toughened even by his own self, Sam never lets himself think that India is a distant and unattainable possibility. They will survive. They will reach safety. For a reason more important than merely his own survival.
Sam watches Marianne coo over Ken, who is enjoying the attention. He shifts against the tree trunk and bangs his hand over his shirt pocket to swat a whining mosquito that is trying to burrow through the plastic and cloth to his skin. He reaches into the pocket and draws out a bundle of papers, enclosed carefully in the clear plastic wrapping of his cigarettes. The handwriting is familiar, still as unformed as a child's hand. Here are
Mike's tales of this distant desert kingdom called Rudrakot in northwestern India. Here in these other letters, also written by a familiar hand, are his mother's fears that Mike might be ... Sam leans back against the tree, his heart exploding. He was given his orders to rescue Marianne and the news that Mike was missing on the same day and with no time to even turn his head away from Burma and absorb the news. Missing, he thinks of Mike as missing, does not dare to even think of that other word.
"What is it?" Marianne says softly at his shoulder. And it is then Sam realizes that his fingers scrabble over the cellophane covering the letters. He stops.
"Nothing," he replies. "Nothing."
Ken lifts his eyelids with an effort; he is tired. "Is it a love letter?"
Sam smiles, thinking how much easier it is to let them think this. "Of sorts."
"Have you ever been in love, Sam?" Ken asks.
Chapter Three.
Declaring himself Indian first and a Brahman afterward, he told the conference he would not follow any custom of the Brahmans, however sanctified by age and authority, if it came in the way of his duties as a true Indian in independent India, there continue to be few Indians but many members of the various carte groups--a sad commentary on our national life.
--Vijaya Lakshmi Pandit, The Scope of Happiness, 1979
*
The political agent's house at Rudrakot was built in the style of a British back-home house, with only some allowances made for
India. It was a long, serene, whitewashed building in two stories. Three low stone steps led up to the front door, and the style here was so much home and so little India that the door stood naked, embedded into the wall--no portico, no cool, slender-pillared porch sheltered the front entrance to the house. Carriages, phaetons, rickshaws, and cars stopped in the blasting heat of the desert sun; the door itself, painted a warm red, swallowed the westerly heat and spat it out in the evenings in the faces of callers. An architectural mistake, of course, one that was much lamented but little addressed over the seventy-odd years of the house's existence. A compound wall encircled the front of the house with wrought-iron gates on two corners. A half-moon driveway started at one gate and, swinging near the house, ended at the other. There was a fountain in the center of this semicircle, resplendent with plaster cupids who spoute d w ater out of their pursed mouths when the rains came. During the dry season, they were frozen in disgusted pouts, feeling perhaps quite as silly as they looked.
The front door led to an entrance porch. To the right was the dining room, with windows along the width of the eastern and western walls. To the left were the political agent's offices--a room that was an actual office, light and airy; a small washroom for the most important visitors; and an antechamber for those who had to wait for the agent.
All the actual living
At least, Sam thinks, he is not injured. Yet. Toughened by his training, toughened even by his own self, Sam never lets himself think that India is a distant and unattainable possibility. They will survive. They will reach safety. For a reason more important than merely his own survival.
Sam watches Marianne coo over Ken, who is enjoying the attention. He shifts against the tree trunk and bangs his hand over his shirt pocket to swat a whining mosquito that is trying to burrow through the plastic and cloth to his skin. He reaches into the pocket and draws out a bundle of papers, enclosed carefully in the clear plastic wrapping of his cigarettes. The handwriting is familiar, still as unformed as a child's hand. Here are
Mike's tales of this distant desert kingdom called Rudrakot in northwestern India. Here in these other letters, also written by a familiar hand, are his mother's fears that Mike might be ... Sam leans back against the tree, his heart exploding. He was given his orders to rescue Marianne and the news that Mike was missing on the same day and with no time to even turn his head away from Burma and absorb the news. Missing, he thinks of Mike as missing, does not dare to even think of that other word.
"What is it?" Marianne says softly at his shoulder. And it is then Sam realizes that his fingers scrabble over the cellophane covering the letters. He stops.
"Nothing," he replies. "Nothing."
Ken lifts his eyelids with an effort; he is tired. "Is it a love letter?"
Sam smiles, thinking how much easier it is to let them think this. "Of sorts."
"Have you ever been in love, Sam?" Ken asks.
Chapter Three.
Declaring himself Indian first and a Brahman afterward, he told the conference he would not follow any custom of the Brahmans, however sanctified by age and authority, if it came in the way of his duties as a true Indian in independent India, there continue to be few Indians but many members of the various carte groups--a sad commentary on our national life.
--Vijaya Lakshmi Pandit, The Scope of Happiness, 1979
*
The political agent's house at Rudrakot was built in the style of a British back-home house, with only some allowances made for
India. It was a long, serene, whitewashed building in two stories. Three low stone steps led up to the front door, and the style here was so much home and so little India that the door stood naked, embedded into the wall--no portico, no cool, slender-pillared porch sheltered the front entrance to the house. Carriages, phaetons, rickshaws, and cars stopped in the blasting heat of the desert sun; the door itself, painted a warm red, swallowed the westerly heat and spat it out in the evenings in the faces of callers. An architectural mistake, of course, one that was much lamented but little addressed over the seventy-odd years of the house's existence. A compound wall encircled the front of the house with wrought-iron gates on two corners. A half-moon driveway started at one gate and, swinging near the house, ended at the other. There was a fountain in the center of this semicircle, resplendent with plaster cupids who spoute d w ater out of their pursed mouths when the rains came. During the dry season, they were frozen in disgusted pouts, feeling perhaps quite as silly as they looked.
The front door led to an entrance porch. To the right was the dining room, with windows along the width of the eastern and western walls. To the left were the political agent's offices--a room that was an actual office, light and airy; a small washroom for the most important visitors; and an antechamber for those who had to wait for the agent.
All the actual living
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