little concerned: one god in the house is fine, I could see them
thinking, and two is better, but three in a room is a lot of divinity in a very small place, and what if this trend is to
continue? Can we expect to see the whole immeasurable pantheon in the near future, the shining hosts? Should we also prepare
for visitations from the big hitters themselves (Ashok’s phrase), the heavy dudes (Abhay, edgy) and the boss ladies (Mrinalini,
smiling) like Shiva and Parvati and Vishnu and Lakshmi and maybe even Brahma himself? That was a dizzying thought, and who
can predict the actions of the mighty (Hanuman shrugged, Yama and Ganesha looked inscrutable), so I made reassuring noises
and tried not to look nervous. The story-telling hour was drawing near.
Finally, the speaker was on the roof.
‘Let the child say something,’ Ganesha said.
‘Saira, say something.’
‘Say what?’ Saira said, and the words rang out clear as the chimes of a fine bell from the speaker above. Saira jumped, a
hand clapped overher mouth. ‘One, two, three,’ she said. ‘Testing, testing, one, two, three.’ Her voice went right to the edge of the maidan
and maybe a little beyond.
‘Obstacle removed,’ said Ganesha.
‘Don’t be smug, youngster,’ Yama said. ‘All right, Sanjay. Where were we?’
Where we were, god, was with Benoit de Boigne, in his journey across the seas, in his search for a dream.
So, I began to type, and Mrinalini read it all out.
Listen…
George Thomas Goes Overboard.
ON A MAIDAN , within sight of green mountains, Uday Singh and George Thomas exchanged cuts, the sound of their clashing swords echoing
among the banyan trees and the water-filled fields.
George Thomas watched Uday Singh’s sleepy eyes and relaxed stance, listening to the other’s easy breathing and waiting for
an opening. They circled each other, moving always to the right; Thomas felt the world recede, distanced by their revolutions,
and saw only Uday’s white beard, the shimmering edge of his blade, the place where his tunic curled back to reveal the ridge
of the collar-bone and the dimple at the base of the throat, and Thomas felt Uday’s presence, his spirit, his courage, his
old wounds, his loves, his disappointments, his fear, felt that old unspoken intimacy, that sometimes obscene knowledge between
adversaries, and waited for a secret wavering, an internal retreating that would reveal itself as an opening.
Thomas saw Uday’s eyes narrow, and suddenly saw a crack in his guard, felt Uday drop back, there it was; Thomas lunged forward,
but even as his thighs clenched and his point reached out he knew it had been a mistake, because Uday moved lazily, slowly
aside, avoiding the thrust easily and cutting from underneath in a scooping movement to tap Thomas gently on the stomach with
smooth steel.
Thomas straightened up, panting.
‘How do you do that?’ he said. ‘You knew I was coming before I did.’
‘I could see you making up your mind,’ Uday said. ‘It’s not so hard. It comes with age.’ He thumped Thomas on the back. ‘You’re
getting better. Your Urdu still needs work, though.’
As they walked back to the tents, they stripped off the heavy leather and chain mail armour that glinted in the late-afternoon
sun. The grass under foot was wet with the first rains of the monsoon; in a red tent, Thomas ate, sitting cross-legged on
the carpeted floor, and Uday watched.
‘Eat something,’ Thomas said. ‘Nobody’ll ever know’
‘The gods will know, and I will know,’ Uday said, smiling. ‘Eat, firangi.’
‘Firangi? Me? I’m no foreigner, I’m Jahaj Jung, old man, or haven’t you heard?’
‘Jahaj Jung, the warrior from the seas,’ Uday said, smiling. ‘That very man,’ Thomas said, ‘but here comes a firangi.’
The man who entered, stooping a little, was tall and thin, with long, lank dark hair and a large nose.
‘Reinhardt,’ Thomas said. ‘Sit.
thinking, and two is better, but three in a room is a lot of divinity in a very small place, and what if this trend is to
continue? Can we expect to see the whole immeasurable pantheon in the near future, the shining hosts? Should we also prepare
for visitations from the big hitters themselves (Ashok’s phrase), the heavy dudes (Abhay, edgy) and the boss ladies (Mrinalini,
smiling) like Shiva and Parvati and Vishnu and Lakshmi and maybe even Brahma himself? That was a dizzying thought, and who
can predict the actions of the mighty (Hanuman shrugged, Yama and Ganesha looked inscrutable), so I made reassuring noises
and tried not to look nervous. The story-telling hour was drawing near.
Finally, the speaker was on the roof.
‘Let the child say something,’ Ganesha said.
‘Saira, say something.’
‘Say what?’ Saira said, and the words rang out clear as the chimes of a fine bell from the speaker above. Saira jumped, a
hand clapped overher mouth. ‘One, two, three,’ she said. ‘Testing, testing, one, two, three.’ Her voice went right to the edge of the maidan
and maybe a little beyond.
‘Obstacle removed,’ said Ganesha.
‘Don’t be smug, youngster,’ Yama said. ‘All right, Sanjay. Where were we?’
Where we were, god, was with Benoit de Boigne, in his journey across the seas, in his search for a dream.
So, I began to type, and Mrinalini read it all out.
Listen…
George Thomas Goes Overboard.
ON A MAIDAN , within sight of green mountains, Uday Singh and George Thomas exchanged cuts, the sound of their clashing swords echoing
among the banyan trees and the water-filled fields.
George Thomas watched Uday Singh’s sleepy eyes and relaxed stance, listening to the other’s easy breathing and waiting for
an opening. They circled each other, moving always to the right; Thomas felt the world recede, distanced by their revolutions,
and saw only Uday’s white beard, the shimmering edge of his blade, the place where his tunic curled back to reveal the ridge
of the collar-bone and the dimple at the base of the throat, and Thomas felt Uday’s presence, his spirit, his courage, his
old wounds, his loves, his disappointments, his fear, felt that old unspoken intimacy, that sometimes obscene knowledge between
adversaries, and waited for a secret wavering, an internal retreating that would reveal itself as an opening.
Thomas saw Uday’s eyes narrow, and suddenly saw a crack in his guard, felt Uday drop back, there it was; Thomas lunged forward,
but even as his thighs clenched and his point reached out he knew it had been a mistake, because Uday moved lazily, slowly
aside, avoiding the thrust easily and cutting from underneath in a scooping movement to tap Thomas gently on the stomach with
smooth steel.
Thomas straightened up, panting.
‘How do you do that?’ he said. ‘You knew I was coming before I did.’
‘I could see you making up your mind,’ Uday said. ‘It’s not so hard. It comes with age.’ He thumped Thomas on the back. ‘You’re
getting better. Your Urdu still needs work, though.’
As they walked back to the tents, they stripped off the heavy leather and chain mail armour that glinted in the late-afternoon
sun. The grass under foot was wet with the first rains of the monsoon; in a red tent, Thomas ate, sitting cross-legged on
the carpeted floor, and Uday watched.
‘Eat something,’ Thomas said. ‘Nobody’ll ever know’
‘The gods will know, and I will know,’ Uday said, smiling. ‘Eat, firangi.’
‘Firangi? Me? I’m no foreigner, I’m Jahaj Jung, old man, or haven’t you heard?’
‘Jahaj Jung, the warrior from the seas,’ Uday said, smiling. ‘That very man,’ Thomas said, ‘but here comes a firangi.’
The man who entered, stooping a little, was tall and thin, with long, lank dark hair and a large nose.
‘Reinhardt,’ Thomas said. ‘Sit.
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