had been sliced open and his heart removed. Pumper stared at the corpse for an eternity. ‘And this was necessary?’ he finally asked.
Professor Jyoti, who was standing on the far side of the room, bobbed his head fractionally. ‘I am sorry,’ he whispered.
Pumper nodded. He stared into Timothy’s face, which did not seem a little boy’s at all; it was still pinched and white, and sharp with cruelty. ‘Do not,’ said Pumper, ‘let my wife see this thing.’ Then he turned and left the room, and went back to Mrs Paxton. The body he ordered to be removed to the morgue. And this was the true ending of our mission to Kalikshutra.
The next day, my orders at last came through. As I travelled back down towards the plains, I did my best to put the whole ghastly business of the past month from my mind. Ahead of me was my regiment, and I would soon have little time for dwelling on it anyhow. New adventures awaited me, and fresh challenges.
Letter, Dr John Eliot to Professor Huree Jyoti Navalkar.
Simla,
l July 1887
Huree-
What have we done? What have I done?
I am a doctor. A preserver of human life. You have persuaded me to become a killer.
Yes – I shall return to England. Your talk of vampires – of cruel demons, and bloodthirsty gods – how could I ever have listened to you? ‘Such things exist,’ you said. No! And again, I say, no!
In India, perhaps, one can believe in such things – but then, as you have often reminded me, I am not an Indian. So I shall go – as no doubt all we British should – back to my own world, where I can be certain of what is, and what is not. Where I can practise according to my own dictates. Above all, Huree, where I can expiate my fault – where I can save, and not destroy, human lives.
I leave for Bombay tomorrow. My passage on the London steamer is booked. I doubt we shall ever meet again.
I am sorry, Huree, we part in this way.
I remain, though,
Your unwilling friend,
JACK.
WHAT HAVE WE DONE?
Letter, Dr John Eliot to Professor Huree Jyoti Navalkar.
Surgeon’s Court,
Hanbury Street,
Whitechapel,
London.
5 January 1888.
My dear Huree,
You will see that I am now securely established in London. I trust you will note the address and perhaps, despite the nature of our parting, take advantage of it to write to me. I do not have much opportunity now for the type of arguments we used to enjoy. I have never been of a particularly convivial nature; and yet sometimes I find myself lonelier in this mighty city of six millions than I ever was amongst the Himalayan heights. Of my two oldest friends, one, Arthur Ruthven, is dead – the victim, it would seem, of a cruel and pointless murder – certainly a tragic waste, however he was killed. I miss him deeply, for he was a brilliant man. The other friend, Sir George Mowberley, you may have read of in the newspapers, for he is now a Minister in the Government – almost, as far as I am concerned, as upsetting a fate as poor Ruthven’s. I mourn them both.
I cannot regret my isolation too greatly, though. I have little enough time on my hands as it is. My practice is exceedingly vast; so vast, indeed, and overwhelming, that I find myself almost numbed by it. My rooms, you must understand, are situated in the most outcast comer of this great city of outcasts. There is no form of wretchedness or horror that its streets do not breed, and I have been able to feel nothing for a month now but anger and despair. I was arrogant in my motive for journeying abroad – why did I feel I had to travel to the East to relieve the burden of human suffering when here, in the richest city in the world, there is misery on a scale so terrible?
To you, I can confess my response to this place. With others, however – yes, and with myself as well – I am as cold as ice. There can be no other way. How else shall I survive what I see on my rounds? A man dying of smallpox in a cellar, his wife eight months pregnant, their children creeping naked
Professor Jyoti, who was standing on the far side of the room, bobbed his head fractionally. ‘I am sorry,’ he whispered.
Pumper nodded. He stared into Timothy’s face, which did not seem a little boy’s at all; it was still pinched and white, and sharp with cruelty. ‘Do not,’ said Pumper, ‘let my wife see this thing.’ Then he turned and left the room, and went back to Mrs Paxton. The body he ordered to be removed to the morgue. And this was the true ending of our mission to Kalikshutra.
The next day, my orders at last came through. As I travelled back down towards the plains, I did my best to put the whole ghastly business of the past month from my mind. Ahead of me was my regiment, and I would soon have little time for dwelling on it anyhow. New adventures awaited me, and fresh challenges.
Letter, Dr John Eliot to Professor Huree Jyoti Navalkar.
Simla,
l July 1887
Huree-
What have we done? What have I done?
I am a doctor. A preserver of human life. You have persuaded me to become a killer.
Yes – I shall return to England. Your talk of vampires – of cruel demons, and bloodthirsty gods – how could I ever have listened to you? ‘Such things exist,’ you said. No! And again, I say, no!
In India, perhaps, one can believe in such things – but then, as you have often reminded me, I am not an Indian. So I shall go – as no doubt all we British should – back to my own world, where I can be certain of what is, and what is not. Where I can practise according to my own dictates. Above all, Huree, where I can expiate my fault – where I can save, and not destroy, human lives.
I leave for Bombay tomorrow. My passage on the London steamer is booked. I doubt we shall ever meet again.
I am sorry, Huree, we part in this way.
I remain, though,
Your unwilling friend,
JACK.
WHAT HAVE WE DONE?
Letter, Dr John Eliot to Professor Huree Jyoti Navalkar.
Surgeon’s Court,
Hanbury Street,
Whitechapel,
London.
5 January 1888.
My dear Huree,
You will see that I am now securely established in London. I trust you will note the address and perhaps, despite the nature of our parting, take advantage of it to write to me. I do not have much opportunity now for the type of arguments we used to enjoy. I have never been of a particularly convivial nature; and yet sometimes I find myself lonelier in this mighty city of six millions than I ever was amongst the Himalayan heights. Of my two oldest friends, one, Arthur Ruthven, is dead – the victim, it would seem, of a cruel and pointless murder – certainly a tragic waste, however he was killed. I miss him deeply, for he was a brilliant man. The other friend, Sir George Mowberley, you may have read of in the newspapers, for he is now a Minister in the Government – almost, as far as I am concerned, as upsetting a fate as poor Ruthven’s. I mourn them both.
I cannot regret my isolation too greatly, though. I have little enough time on my hands as it is. My practice is exceedingly vast; so vast, indeed, and overwhelming, that I find myself almost numbed by it. My rooms, you must understand, are situated in the most outcast comer of this great city of outcasts. There is no form of wretchedness or horror that its streets do not breed, and I have been able to feel nothing for a month now but anger and despair. I was arrogant in my motive for journeying abroad – why did I feel I had to travel to the East to relieve the burden of human suffering when here, in the richest city in the world, there is misery on a scale so terrible?
To you, I can confess my response to this place. With others, however – yes, and with myself as well – I am as cold as ice. There can be no other way. How else shall I survive what I see on my rounds? A man dying of smallpox in a cellar, his wife eight months pregnant, their children creeping naked
Similar Books
