July 3, 1897, Poona, Bombay Presidency
Walter C. Rand put on his top hat, as his wife shaved the burrs off his crisp black frock coat.
“Someone’s looking dashing,” she said, and kissed him.
He did look so dashing in that high collar, she thought. Completely worth making the Tarabai starch it thrice to perfection.
Mrs. Rand tried on her feather hats again, though she knew she would pick the blue one, of course. She had waited all year for an occasion to wear the hat. She had on her specially tailored yellow silk dress with the latest leg-of-mutton sleeve, and back frills that sat so nicely on her hips. She knew this celebration was only a small one so far away from England, and the only people who would marvel at her dress were the handful of Englishwomen whose husbands also worked in the civil administration of Poona. But the Golden Jubilee of Queen Victoria’s coronation was just the kind of event where she could quickly ingratiate herself and Walter with the higher-ups. God, she would lord it over the other Class 2 Administrator wives.
Everyone would want to talk to Walter today. They would want his reassurance on the Plague, and how they were going to be fine. He would assure them of course. Couldn’t they see how well he was managing the district? No stone was left unturned in keeping the people safe. His officers ensured even a whiff of plague in a household was enough to quarantine the entire family.
There would be that annoying Mrs. Wilder, of course, who would bring up all the natives’ talking points, about how the native women were being violated, and how their religious shrines were being desecrated. What did she know, sneered Mrs. Rand, didn’t plague spread from walking barefoot? And where did the Hindoos walk barefoot the most, and gathered in large numbers? Their ghastly temples, of course. Of course you had to dig the ground up to inspect them! That’s where the plague germs lived. In any case, a little pain was okay for the common good. She knew she didn’t have the natives’ natural immunity, and if she caught the plague, she would die. Shouldn’t they be more careful so people like her could be safe?
The natives were mad, certainly. Once when she had surprised Walter at work, there had been a man outside Government House who had spat at them and called them “destroyer of families” in disgust. Walter had him taken away and arrested right away, of course, but it had ruined the mood. But it was so easy to just comply with the rules. Why couldn’t they register funerals before they conducted them? Why did they have to gather in large numbers for everything? Didn’t they know they made everything worse?
Vasudev Chapekar moved along the crowds by Ganeshkhind Road. He stood taller than most of the crowd and hunched to blend in. People had gathered by the street to watch the parade of motor-cars carrying British officials to Government House, where the large Golden Jubilee celebration was taking place. Every European in the Poona area was heading there. Torches were lit on poles every few furlongs as dusk fell. The festoons and banners hung between the telegraph poles were all celebrating Queen Victoria. Her likeness on the banner declaring the 60th anniversary of her reign triggered a memory.
Ten years ago, there had been a statue of her inaugurated, not far from here. When they had unveiled the statue, it had been vandalized with ink and cow dung. No one had found out who had done it. But even in his village, they seemed to think that the plague was a punishment for that desecration.
His brother Damodar poked him, and he began moving again.
“Thinking of what we did to the statue?” Damodar chuckled, “Me too. Good times.”
Vasudev frowned and nodded.
“Keep moving, and don’t bump into anyone. Be aware of your body.” Damodar said, annoying Vasudev. Older brothers were so controlling.
Damodar didn’t hunch over, though he was even taller, which irked Vasudev. He didn’t need to, Vasudev noticed. He kept moving at a constant pace, and no one noticed him, while Vasudev kept bumping into people. They couldn’t afford mistakes today. Vasudev imitated Damodar’s stride. It certainly made it easier to walk with the homemade rifle tucked into his waistband.
Being around Damodar made him think like a little boy. Not a great idea today.
“Bhau,” he said to Damodar, “Let’s try the plan where we both are on opposite sides of the street so we don’t miss. The street is wider than we realized, isn’t it?”
“Okay,” Damodar agreed, “Call out when you’re ready.”
It was almost dark when the Rands’ carriage rolled towards Government House through Ganeshkhind Road. They could see bonfires light up the hills, as people lined the streets waving at them. She wanted to undo the flap of the carriage and take it all in better, but Lieutenant Ayerst had said not to. “You’re big targets, Mrs. Rand,” he had explained in a serious tone, “You need to play it safe.”
He was traveling in the carriage behind them and had Lieutenant Bennet in front of them. Couldn’t be too careful these days, he had said.
Suddenly the flap of their carriage opened, startling her.
There was an almighty whoosh, and someone called out, “Gondya Ala Re!” He has arrived!
A shot rang out, deafening Mrs. Rand, and she dove under the seat.
When she came to, she saw her husband leaning slightly back in the seat, his eyes startled open, rivulets of blood flowing down from the bullet hole in his forehead.
“Walter!” She cried out. She felt faint. Lieutenant Ayerst! He would know what to do!
She ran out of the now-halted carriage, and towards the one behind her.
When she parted the flap, Lieutenant Ayerst lay slumped down, in a pool of his own blood. A bullet was firmly lodged in his temple, too.
The crowd was running hither and thither. She couldn’t process any of it. The world spun. Mrs. Rand felt her legs give way under her and sank to the floor, the yellow silk of her dress crumpling into the dirt.
Before she passed out, a man caught her eye, running away from the street and into the hills, instead of along the street like everyone else.
“Gondya Ala Re!” The cry rang in her ears. She knew it was somehow responsible for her husband’s death. Her world went black.