Path of the Tiger, стр. 425
William could not go too long these days without chasing the dragon; he felt that he had to, to ease the torture of the memories, the terrifying, almost debilitating battle flashbacks, and the grief and the words and faces that haunted his dreams with relentless persistence. And then, of course, there was the guilt he carried that hung forever from his neck, slowly choking the life out of him, like a bulging sack full of rotting flesh and leaden bones. For these attacks and maladies – and for just a little extra money tacked on to his already billowing debt – it seemed that Kelly was always happy to provide a little relief.
‘I’ve never been this deep into the forest,’ a long-limbed teen porter was saying. ‘Are you sure these men know where we’re going?’
‘He knows,’ replied another porter, this one a wirily muscled youth with oily hair that hung lank around his shoulders. He pointed at Ajit, who was still gazing out into the labyrinth of trees in silence.
‘Shh!’ his friend hissed in a frightened tone. ‘Don’t point at that one! He’s dangerous!’
‘Relax, he can’t hear us over there.’
‘He can! He’s got the hearing of a tiger, and the strength and ferocity of one to match. I heard he killed two armed men in single combat once … both with his bare hands.’
‘Come on, do you really believe that?’
‘I heard him talking to that American hunter about killing British soldiers in battle. He said he’s taken off at least twelve of their heads with his talwar. And he’s been shot nine times before, but he’s still alive and walking. He can’t be killed!’
‘Any man can be killed,’ William interjected, speaking in shaky but reasonably comprehensible Bengali. ‘It’s just a matter of how.’
The long-haired porter scoffed as he took the smouldering chillum pipe that William passed to him.
‘What do you know about killing, Englishman? You look more like one of us than any kind of fighter. They say that you’re some sort of expert horseman, but I’m not sure I even believe that.’
‘I still remember the face of the first man I killed, clear as day,’ William said quietly. ‘Every soldier repeats that old cliché, but it’s repeated so often because it’s true.’
The youth still seemed sceptical of William’s claim, and he raised an eyebrow and sneered as he spoke.
‘And who did you kill then? Some other dirty thief in a back alley, fighting over your stolen plunder?’
‘A Russian artillery officer, at Balaclava,’ William said. ‘I drove my lance right through his throat while charging at full tilt. Ever heard of the “Battle of Balaclava”? Or “Russia”, even, for that matter?’
William had to speak half of these words in English, as he didn’t know how to say them in Bengali.
‘Ruh-shh-ya? Balla- … balla- what? I’ve never heard these English words. I think you’re making them up, and I think that you’ve never been in a battle.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know to say them in Bengali. But I do still carry the souvenirs of my time as a soldier, if that’s what you’re after.’
William pulled off his shirt to reveal his leanly muscled torso, crisscrossed all over with the scars of the sabre cuts and other wounds he had received at Balaclava. The porters stared with surprise at William’s scars, their eyes suddenly bright in the thickness of the forest night.
‘You drove a lance through a man’s throat?!’ the skinnier porter asked. ‘Ayi! Tell me more about this battle!’
‘You want to know about battle, little brother?’ William asked, stretching his arms and lacing his fingers behind his head. ‘You think it’s fun, it’s exciting, it’s an adventure?’
The teenager nodded enthusiastically, the sarcasm in William’s tone sailing over his head.
William sighed, shook his head and then took the chillum pipe from the other porter. He toked deeply on it, and the wide opening of the conical pipe glowed luminous orange in the darkness, a single comet in this tree-thick vertical sky. He held the hot smoke in his lungs for a while, savouring its strange aftertaste as he exhaled.
‘I was once a cavalry soldier in the British Army,’ he said as he passed the pipe on. ‘I only fought in one battle though, and that was enough for me.’
‘Ha. Some soldier you were,’ the cockier porter smirked.
‘You’re right,’ William said, causing the lad, who was expecting a more confrontational response, to look up in surprise. ‘I was not cut out for soldiering, as much as I’d hoped to make a career of it.’
‘Why did you do it then?’ the wiry youth asked, now adopting a more respectful tone.
‘You’ll understand, both of you. You see, here in India you have a “caste”, hmm, how do I say this? A “separation” system in your culture. Did I use the right word there?’
‘Oh, you mean “jātis”. That’s the word you mean. “Jātis”.’
‘Yes, it’s about how people, depending on the family they are born into, can or cannot interact with people born into higher or lower “jātis” positions. Do you know what I’m talking about?’
‘Yes, yes, everyone knows that.’
‘So imagine if one of you fell in love with a princess, the daughter of a king. Would either of you really have any chance, any hope at all with a girl like that?’
Both of the lads laughed at this and shook their heads.
‘Of course not,’ the wiry one said, grinning broadly, his teeth almost glowing in the gloom. ‘You’d do better to try and, and … and fly an elephant to the moon!’
All of them laughed uproariously at