He hit the right flank of the mare hard; harder, harder, harder, …; as if there was no hardest. But why was he whipping the mare?
He was born in India and was not much younger than Queen Victoria. He was born in a Hindu Brahmin family. And he was proud of the long thread that any ‘twice-born’ is wanted to wear. When required he would wound the thread round his ear and getting alarmed seeing the thread rise above his girdles, as if it has shortened, he would hurriedly finish relieving himself and begin to stretch the thread. He would glide his thumb along the length of the thread, straining it, as if the thread would increase its length thereby. But as time passed by the thread gradually became shorter and shorter until it was short enough so that people no longer acknowledged him as a child.
He was an adult – an adult with his ideals. All topsy-turvy ideals. He wanted to be a Hindu pandit and wanted to preach Hinduism. But Hinduism is an ancient religion and everyone in India knew or at least thought that they know everything about it. So his’ was a futile mission. And apart from that his irresistible love for English literature was another hindrance to his mission. So whenever he read the Vedas and the Epics, they were alongside Shakespeare and Milton. He had become a hybrid of sort – an Anglo-Indian, a number of whom he kept company with, though none of his parents were of English origin.
But an opportunity came and he volunteered. It was decided by all the existing heads of the Hindu religion in Benaras that he was to be exported to England – as a Hindu missionary. And his job was to do what so many English that is Christian missionaries were doing in India. Thus he arrived in London: to give them the warmth of Hinduism.
What happened after he was delivered in the London harbour, as a package from the Mystic East, is vague. Quite vague. And we find him a decade or so later, whipping a mare. Hard; harder, harder, harder, …: as if there was no hardest.
The mare was in pain and with each slashing it increased its speed a little; dragging the stallion beside her along with her. And the driver sitting above was also in pain – along with fury. This was the utmost ignominy. Enough.
He whipped again.
He had alighted on the driver’s seat only because his wife in her fullness had pleaded him to do so. He was shabbily dressed and his sacred thread was exposed over his breeches. So when he tried to climb up to the driver’s seat it got stuck in the hook and snapped. Snapped for the second time. He tied a knot just beside the first one and this knot started its naughtiness. As soon as he was on the driver’s seat he was furious.
So he whipped.
His wife was pregnant and she wanted to go for a ride in the coach. They came out and the three coachmen saluted the lady but overlooked him. They were not used to paying respect to coloured persons, so, even though he was no less than a squire, they might have forgotten. He dismissed them, then and there. And now his wife was angry. She had long given up counting the number of servants he dismissed and remained adamant to go for the ride. When nothing seemed feasible she pleaded him to take the job and as usual he obliged after some hesitation.
But who knew that he’d start whipping the mare madly when he gets on the driver’s seat.
Though it was unbecoming of a deemed squire to do such a job, Anne insisted. Anne, his wife, was the daughter of the squire of Anneville, an industrial town on the outskirts of Hertfordshire. He married her not more than five years ago, months after her father died. Though he converted to Christianity, Anne talked to the priests into letting him keep his sacred thread. And now for the second time the thread was torn.
So he whipped the mare harder.
Before he married he was a vagabond. He spent around five years working as a servant in numerous households in London; then unable to bear the bullying and contempt he became a thief. When he amassed enough wealth he left for the countryside, on foot. His journey ended when he found Anne of Anneville. By then he had done almost everything that was prohibited by his faith. He was too ashamed to call himself a Brahmin. So he seduced Anne and rocked England by marrying her. That was his revenge. But still there was a thorn in his heart.
And he slashed once more at the mare’s right flank.
Anne’s love for him was overwhelming but she cared the least for his dignity. That made him furious. And he whipped the right flank of the mare even harder. The mare unable to bear the pain was now limping and the stallion was keeping pace with her, unawares. Inside the carriage Anne was crying and crying aloud. But the coach was going at a whirlwind speed – jerking and jolting in the furrows and on the pebbles and still going on. His face was red. The wind back-brushed his hair. The cravat was blown away. The carriage now headed for the rough for no one knew not even the man with the whip, where the carriage was headed for. And after sometime it was on the newly laid railway tracks that was lead to Londonderry. Jumping, bumping the carriage went. And Anne was now in severe pain. Then unconscious.
He saw the right flank of the mare redden with blood clots and he whipped once again.
His sacred thread was now too short. The first day he set foot on this far-away island, he had a mission. That was also the last day of the mission. The miscreants not only robbed him of all his belongings they also robbed him of his mission. And they also tore his sacred thread that made him tie the first knot. Now there were two knots and enough. The thread was now too short.
So he raised the whip once more and blood oozed out from the right side of the mare. The carriage was trembling and shaking as it went jumpily over the tracks. And now with all his might he whipped once again. The mare fell down and the stallion reared up causing such a tumult that it seemed as if the whole world had fallen out of orbit into chaos. But even though the earth kept spinning, tilting, bulging, flattening and revolving the coach ceased from any such motion. The whip fell down and he also fell down. Fell down exhausted on the ground – exhausted of his life. The ‘twice-born’ died; died for good though he died only once.
It was then that Anne gave birth. And the child was born shaking.
The child, a boy, grew up under the guardianship of his mother. But he never ceased trembling. Anything he did he used to go tremble, tremble. He married and after fathering a child, who was also born shaking, he disappeared. No one knew where he went, how he went; he just disappeared. As if he ceased to exist. This went on for generations after generations. And all went tremble, tremble and disappeared.
It was heard that one of them when put behind bars for some undue reason held the iron rods and started shaking. Tremble, tremble. And he shook the grills apart. Another one of them won an Olympic gold in wrestling. He just used to hold his opponent tightly and go tremble, tremble. But all of them disappeared or rather ceased to exist after fathering a child, a boy. And the child grew up doing what he knew best – to go tremble, tremble.
So this is in concise, but comparatively a rather long background to our short story.
The one whom I knew was the sixth and the last generation of shaking child. And as usual he also went tremble, tremble. I first met him in London in the office of a marriage counselor, who was of my acquaintance. He had gone there to negotiate about the terms to divorce his second wife. He was very pleased to meet an Indian and told me that one of his forefathers was of Indian origin. Our friendship grew and often when I used to get a break from studies, I used to visit Anneville. His third wife also enjoyed my company. But as time passed by I felt the strain in their relationship and thought it better not to visit Anneville too often.
But he began to call me more often for now he had a passion. To know about Hinduism. And I was the oracle to him. He was impressed with my erudition. He was flabbergasted to know that Hinduism existed even before fifteenth century B.C. I provided him with books on Hinduism. He read them earnestly and told me that he was in a catharsis. It was only when my semesters were over and I was ready to leave England that I fully realised his problem. I suggested that even though he doesn’t have a child, he can always adopt. He replied, “It’s not that easy. It’s not that I just want a child; I want to procreate. I want to have sex – procreative sex.” His last words, before I left him, were, “I’ll be also coming, to India.” I had answered, “Do write.”
He never wrote. He didn’t send any letter to me so I also did not write. It was after a couple of years that I met him again, for the last time. I met him not in London or Anneville, but in India, in the mountains, in Uttarakhand. He was in a terrible state of inanition. I took him to the place where I was residing. After I had poured water down his throat and given him some warm milk he came into full consciousness and instantly recognised me and started telling me about the hazardous journey he took under the shade of the mighty Himalayas. About the great seers he met. About the naked sadhus, about the rugged terrain, about everything he saw and heard. And about his wives. And each time he said something his voice quivered as if along with his body his voice was also going tremble, tremble. He spoke without pause in his plangent voice, often adding a touch a sardonic humour here and there and giggling derisively. He even recited in Sanskrit. His last words were, “Human beings act wantonly.”
Since he was a Christian I decided to bury him. But there was no Christian burial place there, so I, along with a few friends of mine, took his body to a place where Muslims buried their dead. I could still feel the dead body going tremble, tremble in my hands. We buried him a little away from the main burial ground, behind the boundary wall of a house. Just as I finished my work I could feel the ground going a little tremble, tremble. I came back and went to sleep. I was awakened when the ground was shaking diabolically. It was an earthquake and in no time Uttarakhand was devastated. When it becalmed and I came out to inspect the damage I saw that the boundary wall of the house near the burial ground had fallen apart. I thought it fitting that the world would know that the man buried under the rubble died in a natural calamity.