The Eye of the Horse - Jamila Gavin

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sense then so be it.’

      And so, once more, the Mahatma offered himself as a sacrifice.

      That evening, Bublu got the boys to make a bigger fire than usual. The sadhu’s talk of omens and retribution had made him feel uneasy. Even though he was on home ground; even though he had been born in the village, as had previous generations of his family, ever since the troubles had broken out, Bublu had become a stranger – an alien in his own land. No one looked him in the eye, not even those who had known him all his life. His family had all been killed right here among them, and now, it was as if they had never been.

      Somehow surviving, he slunk round the district with a raggle-taggle of other boys, who had also been orphaned or displaced. They stuck together in a band and set up camp in the ruined palace. No one else went there because of the ghosts and evil spirits that were reputed to haunt it.

      The boys all had nicknames too, so that they could not be easily identified by race or creed. Bublu was the eldest and a natural leader, after having fought it out with Sandeep, whom they called One Eye – though he still had to watch his old rival.

      They usually all straggled back to the ruined palace before sunset, bringing with them whatever gains they had collected through the day. It became the code of the group to pool everything – scraps of clothes, materials, objects – anything that might come in useful as a tool or a receptacle; and of course, each knew he must bring something back to contribute to a meal. The boys had agreed on a law: stealing vegetables and sugar cane from the fields was one thing – or scrumping mangoes, guavas and bananas, strictly for their own consumption – but there was to be no stealing from houses or persons. Any boy breaking the code would be punished by the group and if necessary, thrown out.

      They were never sure each evening what, if anything, they would eat. Someone usually managed to break off some sugar cane, scrounge discarded radish tops or old chapattis, and if they were lucky, one or two women in the village left out some rice or lentils which the boys cooked up in an old petrol can.

      Gradually, they became as tolerated in the district as the crows and stray dogs, which scavenged round the neighbourhood. But Bublu never dropped his guard – not with anyone.

      Tonight, Bublu was ever more alert. Kept awake, not by strange noises or the fretful moanings of his companions, but the feeling that, somewhere out in the darkness, the white horse still roamed like an unquiet spirit.

      However, his mind was made up. If he got the chance, he was going to catch it.

       The Sacrifice

      The clerk’s wife sighed. Her three fat sons clustered round her with pouting faces. Her husband had insisted that they too must fast. ‘It is our duty to support the Mahatma,’ explained the clerk.

      ‘Why, Pa?’ protested the eldest fat son. ‘How does it help the cause?’

      ‘After all, he won’t know,’ said the second fat son. ‘No one will know.’

      ‘Except us and our empty stomachs,’ moaned the third fat son.

      But the clerk mercilessly reduced his family’s diet to a handful of nuts and one piece of fruit per day, saying, ‘At least you won’t starve like Gandhiji. He’s taking nothing, only water.’

      It was too bad the way he carried his adoration of the Mahatma to such extreme limits and it wasn’t fair on the boys. The clerk’s wife gazed with anguished adoration at her three beautiful sons, as chubby as the god Ganesh and triumph of her womb.

      They were a good Hindu family belonging to the Shatryia caste, who had managed to survive the troubles. They had only left the district temporarily when first Muslim, then Sikh gangs rampaged through. But as things quietened down, they returned to rebuild their home, and re-establish their place in the community.

      Surely, they were entitled to some dignity? After all, they had to think of their reputation, and the future wives they would need to find for the boys. Yet since the clerk’s conversion to Gandhism he had stripped their modest home of everything that he called luxuries; their bedsteads, chairs, tables, ornaments, rugs – all had been given away or disposed of. He forbade his wife to wear jewellery and made her give away her best silk saris. From now on, they slept on thin mattresses on rickety charpoys, and all of them wore garments made from khadi, the raw rough cotton which had been spun by hand in the villages. She was sure the tailor had smirked when instructed to make their outfits.

      Their food too had to be the most humble; just dhal, yogurt, fruit and nuts. No spices, no flavourings and no sweets were allowed.

      His children were outraged. Three shiny plump boys, with cheeks like golden butter, who had been nourished and pampered from birth, with lashings of rich milk, cream, butter and cheese; who were used to curries cooked in the highest quality ghee, and ate only the freshest vegetables and fruit, and the finest white rice: whose mother adored making sweets and pastries and savoury samosas – they were to be denied all this – anything that smacked of pleasure or frivolity was banned. Food was for survival, because that was the lot of the poor, and it was with the poor that the clerk forced the whole family to identify.

      Whenever they travelled by train, he insisted they cram themselves into the overflowing third class, along with malodorous peasants with their bundles and baskets.

      But quite the worst indignity of all, was that the clerk made his wife clean out the latrines – the job of an Untouchable. She had begged and pleaded and screamed, and even threatened to leave home, but to no avail. The clerk told her that Gandhi had declared caste to be evil and must be done away with; that there was no longer any such thing as an ‘Untouchable’. People, who until now had been the lowest of the low – so low that they were outside caste itself, fit only to do the most menial of jobs, they were now to be called ‘Harijans’ – ‘children of God’. Everyone is equal in the eyes of God, Gandhi said, and he made his own wife clean out the latrines.

      ‘If Gandhi’s wife can clean out the latrines, then so can you,’ intoned the clerk without sympathy. ‘It is God’s work the same as everything else.’

      ‘Then why don’t you do it,’ hissed his wife under her breath.

      ‘What did you say?’ asked the clerk looking up from The Times of India he was reading.

      ‘I didn’t speak,’ murmured his wife, hurrying away with furious tears streaming down her face. What did he care that none of her women friends would come to take tea with her any more? And she was sure that her own children flinched from her when she kissed them.

      Luckily for the three fat boys, the fast only lasted five days, but they made up for it by secretly buying sweets and gelabees from the sweet-seller, whom they passed each day on their way to school. Their mother always made sure they had enough annas in their pockets for whatever extra food they wanted to buy in the bazaar.

      During that time, the horse was still to be seen in the district, though only fleetingly.

      Gandhi ended his fast on Sunday, 18 January 1948.

       The Gardens of Treachery

      At early evening, just before the chill of night, the schoolteacher had taken to walking in the neglected, overgrown gardens of the abandoned palace. He sometimes took a small volume of poetry to read, relishing the loneliness which enabled him to declame it out loud.

      ‘There is a looker-on who sits behind my eyes.

      It seems he has seen things in ages and worlds beyond memory’s shore,

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