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Authors: Tabish Khair
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my children. A guilty man will always find it impossible to chew — his gullet will be dry, his saliva meagre. God is not our servant: he does not run about and do our errands, but he gives us arms, and minds, with which to do them.
Yes, jaanam, now you know why I revere this man, this man of truth and vision who, finally, could not save himself or his family from destruction. For, my love, it is not only the greatest charms that reside in the human heart. So does the foulest evil. And when that heart belongs to the rich and powerful, like Mirza Habibullah, well then, jaanam, you should never cease to look over your shoulder. Never.
16
[WILLIAM T. MEADOWS, NOTES ON A THUG: CHARACTER AND CIRCUMSTANCES, 1840]
‘And thus, sahib, did my first year as a thug come to an end. How many did we kill that year? Close to seventy! And yet, I had no blood on my hands. Was it my reluctance or the vestiges of good sense in my father? Whatever the reason, for those five months, I was only trained to be a scout and camp follower. Even though some gang members criticized my father for it, and particularly so, the man who was next in command, Mirza Habibullah, my father never made me commit a murder. I returned to our village with my hands untainted by blood. But the second year, I knew, would be different. Alas, sahib, I had no idea just how different.
‘Strangely, I do not recall how the lota ceremony went that year: did my father spill a few drops, which went unnoticed? Or did the partridge, for us Thugs a bird of omen, call from the wrong side of the fields? Or was the sacred kudalee not properly consecrated? Something must have happened, sahib, for we all, not least my gentle if misguided father, paid for the oversight. Strange are the ways of providence!’
‘Surely, Amir Ali, said I, ‘surely providence cannot be blamed for meting out just deserts to such a horrible set of miscreants as you. What is the Thug’s life but a preying upon those weaker than him? Crueller than the tiger, craftier than the fox, with less scruples than a hyena is a Thug. It is a wonder that providence has allowed your ancient vocation to flourish for so long!’
‘I acknowledge, O Kaptaan Sahib, the justice of your criticism, for I have been exposed, however fleetingly, to the wondrous rays of your God of Reason, and I stand reformed of the evil ways of my ancestral order. But had you made this criticism to my father or his companions, they would have answered you thus: Are you English not passionately fond of sporting? A lion, a wolf, an elephant rouses your passion for destruction — in its pursuit you risk body and limb. How much higher game is a Thug’s, and how much more fair, for man is pitted against man, not against a dumb, bewildered beast. And are you not fond of the battles and wars by which you win a town here and a market there? How much less bloody is the occupation of a Thug!’
‘Enough, Amir Ali, evil thoughts are not meant to be repeated. Enough.’
‘Forgive me, sahib. You are right, as always. I was carried away by my recollection of what befell my father in my second year out with him. It happened not far from Patna, for that year too we took the same route as in the previous year. This time, we started our bloody business early into the trip. On the very night that we embarked, we fell in with a family — an elderly man, his wife and their ten-year-old son (you will recall the bodies, sahib) — who were also headed for Patna. Though my father was against it — for the man was obviously a mullah, bearded and holy in his demeanour and voice, the dark mark of regular prayer creased into the middle of his forehead, and we had not even left the region around our village — my father’s companions were impatient to begin and they garrotted all three and buried them in that place next to the neem tree from which your men later recovered the bodies. Then we set off, though not without an argument.
‘It is a practice
Yes, jaanam, now you know why I revere this man, this man of truth and vision who, finally, could not save himself or his family from destruction. For, my love, it is not only the greatest charms that reside in the human heart. So does the foulest evil. And when that heart belongs to the rich and powerful, like Mirza Habibullah, well then, jaanam, you should never cease to look over your shoulder. Never.
16
[WILLIAM T. MEADOWS, NOTES ON A THUG: CHARACTER AND CIRCUMSTANCES, 1840]
‘And thus, sahib, did my first year as a thug come to an end. How many did we kill that year? Close to seventy! And yet, I had no blood on my hands. Was it my reluctance or the vestiges of good sense in my father? Whatever the reason, for those five months, I was only trained to be a scout and camp follower. Even though some gang members criticized my father for it, and particularly so, the man who was next in command, Mirza Habibullah, my father never made me commit a murder. I returned to our village with my hands untainted by blood. But the second year, I knew, would be different. Alas, sahib, I had no idea just how different.
‘Strangely, I do not recall how the lota ceremony went that year: did my father spill a few drops, which went unnoticed? Or did the partridge, for us Thugs a bird of omen, call from the wrong side of the fields? Or was the sacred kudalee not properly consecrated? Something must have happened, sahib, for we all, not least my gentle if misguided father, paid for the oversight. Strange are the ways of providence!’
‘Surely, Amir Ali, said I, ‘surely providence cannot be blamed for meting out just deserts to such a horrible set of miscreants as you. What is the Thug’s life but a preying upon those weaker than him? Crueller than the tiger, craftier than the fox, with less scruples than a hyena is a Thug. It is a wonder that providence has allowed your ancient vocation to flourish for so long!’
‘I acknowledge, O Kaptaan Sahib, the justice of your criticism, for I have been exposed, however fleetingly, to the wondrous rays of your God of Reason, and I stand reformed of the evil ways of my ancestral order. But had you made this criticism to my father or his companions, they would have answered you thus: Are you English not passionately fond of sporting? A lion, a wolf, an elephant rouses your passion for destruction — in its pursuit you risk body and limb. How much higher game is a Thug’s, and how much more fair, for man is pitted against man, not against a dumb, bewildered beast. And are you not fond of the battles and wars by which you win a town here and a market there? How much less bloody is the occupation of a Thug!’
‘Enough, Amir Ali, evil thoughts are not meant to be repeated. Enough.’
‘Forgive me, sahib. You are right, as always. I was carried away by my recollection of what befell my father in my second year out with him. It happened not far from Patna, for that year too we took the same route as in the previous year. This time, we started our bloody business early into the trip. On the very night that we embarked, we fell in with a family — an elderly man, his wife and their ten-year-old son (you will recall the bodies, sahib) — who were also headed for Patna. Though my father was against it — for the man was obviously a mullah, bearded and holy in his demeanour and voice, the dark mark of regular prayer creased into the middle of his forehead, and we had not even left the region around our village — my father’s companions were impatient to begin and they garrotted all three and buried them in that place next to the neem tree from which your men later recovered the bodies. Then we set off, though not without an argument.
‘It is a practice
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