*

Even as Mila and Raman waited outside the police station for news of Ashok, Kiran was at the Victoria Club that afternoon, not drinking for once, but seated on one of the bar stools and looking outside at the dulling light that heralded the setting of the sun.

He could not remember very much of the previous night; all he could recall was his head swimming in gin, a fight about something with Sims who was being arrogant and a bastard. He flexed his shoulder and felt the tightening of skin over his clavicle where the wound from Sims's bite was just beginning to heal. What had that been about? And why had he even fought with Sims, who had always been a good chap? Kiran blamed himself now that he was sober again and had come to the club to find Sims and apologize. What if Blakely and Sims found their amusements elsewhere, without him? What would he do then?

He watched the light slant in a golden arc over the lawns where the mela tents had been just a few days ago. Now, all that remained were the holes in the grass where the tent stakes had rested and a few paper flags torn from the strings of flags that had festooned the meta enclosure. For just a moment, all of his discontent came back to him and Kiran slouched on his stool, wondering where his life was headed and what he was going to do. It was all very fine for Sims and Blakely, they had jobs, after all, were officers with the Rifles. But he had nothing but Papa's disapproval.

Kiran saw Sims and Blakely cross the lawn in front of him, coming in from a cricket game, their clothes gleaming white, Blakely carrying the bat on his shoulder. As they approached the open verandah of the bar, a man cut across the grass in a steady trot, and, panting, came to stop beside them. Kiran squinted into the sunshine, shading his eyes with his hands. It was the horse dealer from the Lal Bazaar. What could Sims and Blakely have to do with him? Surely they already owned their horses?

He got down from his bar stool and went running down the steps onto the lawn. Sims and Blakely saw him, quite clearly, and just as clearly turned their backs and started to walk away. Kiran paused, struck by a sudden hurt, and then started to run again.

"I thought you meant to ignore me," he said as he came up on them. "We did," Blakely said deliberately, not looking at Kiran. "Bugger off." "What?" Kiran stopped where he was, stunned beyond speech.

"Your brother," Sims said, enunciating every word as though he was speaking to an uneducated idiot, "tried to kill Colonel Pankhurst today. You heard what Blakely said, bugger off."

Kiran's heart stopped. "What nonsense is this, Sims? Ashok would never--"

"He did," Sims said harshly, "and your sister is a whore."

Even before he realized what he was doing, Kiran pulled at Sims's shoulder to turn him around, drew his fist back, and bashed it into Sims's face. He felt the bones of Sims's nose pulverize under his hand, and blood and snot flew out to smack him in the face.

"How dare you!" he shouted. Sims toppled to the grass and Kiran had raised his foot to stomp on his chest when he was hit on the back with the cricket bat. He thought he could feel the middle vertebrae of his back crackle and crumble as the air was knocked out of his lungs and he fell, the world blacking out around him before he hit the ground.

Just as he began to lose consciousness, he heard Blakely say, "We saw your sister in the brothel yesterday. She is a whore; why else would she be there?"

Kiran came to ten minutes later and found himself being dragged by his collar to the front of the Victoria Club. A red haze swam before his eyes and the pain in his spine almost knocked him back into unconsciousness, but he kept himself awake with determination. He began clawing on the ground, digging his heels into the hard earth, scratching at the arms that had pulled his shirt tight against his neck until he was almost choking. Then, he felt them release him and he lay on the gravel driveway that led to the front porch of the Victoria Club.

Three bearers came into his view as he lay there, and they were carrying large, galvanized tin trays that looked familiar, but Kiran could not find the words in his brain that matched the function of those trays. He saw Sims, his entire face bloodied, take one tray and upend its putrid contents over his head. It was only when the first rush of excrement came cascading down into his open mouth that Kiran knew what they were doing--they were emptying the thunderboxes from the lavatories over him. He cringed and curled his legs and arms into his body, spitting out the taste of shit, rubbing his blinded eyes. But the stink was everywhere. Maggots crawled over his shirt and made their slimy, fetid way under the waistband of his pants.

Kiran began to cry then, knowing that his whole life in pursuit of these men--men like these--had been a huge, futile waste. He had not thought he fit in as Indian; he had thought he could be languidly English himself, become what he most admired. A small part of his brain told him that Blakely and Sims were not exactly upper drawer, either here or in England, but he had so much wanted to be them because there was no one else around in Rudrakot. If he had made friends with men from a better class of society, his class, the class they--Papa, Mila, Ashok, and he--belonged to, this would not be happening. Kiran tucked his head into his chest, the filth and feculence drenching him. Flies came to settle on him as though he were a living carcass. He scraped his tongue with his teeth so that he could dig out the shit and spit it out. He cried, his tears mixing with the slime, knowing that in the end.

In the end, he had climbed a steep nothing.

Chapter Thirty-Two.

Our mission is a high and holy mission. We are here to govern India as delegates of a Christian and civilised power. We are here as representatives of Christ and Caesar to maintain this land against Shiva and Khalif. In that task we shall not falter, we will oppose ideal to ideal, force to force, constancy to assassination ... If you agitate, you will be punished; if you poach sedition, you will be imprisoned; if you assassinate, you will be hanged; if you rise, you will be shot down."

--Al Carthill, The Lost Dominion, 1924