Willie, thinking hard, as though there were still any number of traps he had to avoid with Ramachandra, said, "He is where he wants to be. You are where you want to be."

Ramachandra said, "It was only when I went to the town, to go to a college, that I understood how poor we were. You are used to seeing me in uniform. But when I first went to the town I used to wear a long shirt and pyjama. Our politicians make a point of wearing country clothes, to show how much they care for the common man, but for true country people those clothes can be a cause for shame. When I first went to the town I was ashamed of my clothes all the time. My college friends noticed. They were richer than me. Or let's say they had a little more money than me. They took me to a tailor and had a suit st.i.tched for me. Two or three days later we went to the shop and they helped me put the suit on. I could hardly believe it when I looked down at myself. All that fine cloth. I wondered whether I would ever have the courage to go out into the street wearing all that cloth. It's not so easy now to remember those first few moments of wearing a suit-I've got so used to it. Then the tailor asked me to look at myself in the long mirror. That was another shock. The country boy had vanished. A city man was looking at me. But then something unexpected happened. I became full of s.e.xual rage. I was a city man. I had a city man's needs. I wanted a girl. But no girl would look at me."

Willie considered the pale, pared-down, handsome face set on the thin, small body, still not much more than the body of the small boy grazing cattle in the village. The body seemed to mock the beauty of the face, to render it null; the eyes that could appear so hard were really also full of pain.

Willie said, "All of us from the subcontinent have trouble with s.e.x. We are too used to our parents and families arranging it for us. We can't do it for ourselves. If I didn't have that trouble I wouldn't have married the girl I did. I wouldn't have gone to Africa and wasted eighteen years of her life and mine. If I had been easier about s.e.x, if I had known how to go out and get it, I would have been another kind of man. My possibilities would have been endless. I can't even begin to work them out. But without that talent I was doomed. I could get only what I got." Ramachandra said, "It was better than what I got." Willie, picking up just a hint of jealousy in Ramachandra's eyes, thought it better to let the subject drop.

And it was Ramachandra who, in a roundabout way, returned to the topic many days later, when they were on the march.

He said, "What books did you read when you were young?" Willie said, "I had a lot of trouble with the books we were told to read. I tried reading The Vicar of Wakefield The Vicar of Wakefield. I didn't understand it. I didn't know who those people were, or why I was reading about them. I couldn't relate it to anything I knew. Hemingway, d.i.c.kens, Marie Corelli, The Sorrows of Satan The Sorrows of Satan-I had the same trouble with them and all the others. In the end I had the courage to stop reading them. The only things I understood and liked were fairy stories. Grimm, Hans Andersen. But I didn't have the courage to tell my teachers or my friends."

Ramachandra said, "My college teacher asked me one day-I was already a trousers-man, I should tell you-'Haven't you read The Three Musketeers?' The Three Musketeers?' When I said no, he said, 'You've missed half your life.' I looked hard for that book. It wasn't an easy book to find in our small town. What a let-down it was! I didn't know where I was or who those people in costume were. And you know what I thought? I thought my teacher-he was an Anglo-Indian-had said that thing about missing half my life because his teacher had said the same thing to him. I felt that thing about the When I said no, he said, 'You've missed half your life.' I looked hard for that book. It wasn't an easy book to find in our small town. What a let-down it was! I didn't know where I was or who those people in costume were. And you know what I thought? I thought my teacher-he was an Anglo-Indian-had said that thing about missing half my life because his teacher had said the same thing to him. I felt that thing about the Musketeers Musketeers had come down the generations, from schoolteacher to schoolteacher, and n.o.body had told them to stop. Do you know what was easy for me, what I could understand right away and relate to my needs? Lenin, Marx, Trotsky, Mao. I had no trouble with them at all. I didn't find them abstract. I gobbled them up. The only thing I could read apart from that were the Mills and Boon books." had come down the generations, from schoolteacher to schoolteacher, and n.o.body had told them to stop. Do you know what was easy for me, what I could understand right away and relate to my needs? Lenin, Marx, Trotsky, Mao. I had no trouble with them at all. I didn't find them abstract. I gobbled them up. The only thing I could read apart from that were the Mills and Boon books."

Willie said, "Love stories for girls."

"That's why I read them. I read them for the language, the conversation. I thought they would teach me how to approach girls at the college. I felt that because of my background I didn't have the correct language. I couldn't talk about films and music. A certain kind of language leads to a certain kind of talk and then s.e.xual experience-that was what I thought. So after cla.s.ses I would go home and read my Mills and Boon and learn pa.s.sages by heart. I would practise this language on the girls in the cafeteria at the college. They would laugh. One girl didn't laugh. But after a while she got up and went off with the boy she was waiting for. She had been using me as a convenience. I hated that girl especially. I became full of s.e.xual rage, as I told you. I wished I had stayed in my country clothes and never left my village. I wished I had never allowed my friends to put me in a suit. That rage grew and grew. I began to feel I was sitting on a spring. It was that rage that led me to the movement. Somebody from the movement at the college preached hatred of girls. He preached it as a kind of new moralism. He used to say, 'The first sacrifice is your s.e.xuality, comrade.' Others said the same thing. I heard them say that the revolutionary was really an ascetic and a saint. The ascetic is very much in our tradition, and I was attracted to it. It is something I preach myself to our squad. I have killed two people who went against the teaching. I killed a man who raped a tribal girl, and I killed a man whom I saw fondling a village boy. I didn't ask him for any explanations. I stripped that second fellow of all identification and left his body for the villagers to dispose of as they wished."

Willie noticed how unwilling Ramachandra was in any account of his s.e.xual unhappiness to acknowledge his small size. He talked of everything else: his background, his clothes, his language, the village culture; but he left out what was obvious and most important. It was like the self-criticism sessions they had at formal meetings, where truth was often what was evaded, as Willie himself had evaded the truth when talking about the arrest of Bhoj Narayan and the loss of his squad. Willie admired Ramachandra for not complaining of his size, for the pretence that as a man he was like others, able to talk of more general issues. But no amount of concealment, no amount of sympathy, could do away with Ramachandra's grief and incompleteness. And often, when he saw the fine-featured man asleep, Willie was full of affection for him.

Willie thought, "When I first saw Bhoj Narayan I saw him as a thug. But then I became friendly with him and lost that vision. When I first saw Ramachandra, handling his gun with his small bony hands, I saw him as a killer and a fanatic. Now already I am losing that vision of him. In this effort of understanding I am losing touch with myself."

On another day Ramachandra asked Willie, "Why did you leave your wife?"

Willie said, "I was in Africa. A Portuguese colony on its last legs. I had been there for eighteen years. My wife was from that colony. I was living in her big house and on her land, twenty times more land than anyone here has. I had no job. I was just her husband. For many years I thought of myself as lucky. Living where I did-very far from home: India was the last place I wanted to be-and in that high colonial style. Because you must understand I was poor, literally without money, and when I met my wife in London, at the end of my useless college course, I had no idea at all what I might do or where I might go. After fifteen or sixteen years in Africa I began to change. I began to feel that I had thrown away my life, that what I had thought of as my luck was no such thing. I began to feel that all I was doing was living my wife's life. Her house, her land, her friends, nothing that was my own. I began to feel that because of my insecurity-the insecurity I had been born into, like you-I had yielded too often to accidents, and that these accidents had taken me further and further away from myself. When I told my wife I was leaving her because I was tired of living her life, she said something very strange. She said it wasn't really her life. I have been thinking of that in the past two years, and I believe now that what my wife was saying was that her life was as much a series of accidents as I thought mine was. Africa, the Portuguese colony, her grandfather, her father. At the time I saw it only as a rebuke, and I was in no mood to accept it. I thought she was saying that my life with her had given me strength and spirit and knowledge of the world: these were her gifts to me, and I was now using them to spoil her life. If I had thought she meant what I now believe she did, I would have been very moved, and I might never have left her. That would have been wrong. I had to leave her, to face myself."

Ramachandra said, "I feel that everything about my birth and life was an accident."

Willie thought, "That is how it is with all of us. Perhaps men can live more planned lives where they are more masters of their destiny. Perhaps it is like that in the simplified world outside."

THEY CAME TO a village which was unlike the villages or forest settlements they had been marching through for the past year. This village would have been the seat of a small feudal lord in the old days. A tax-farmer, Ramachandra said: the collector of the forty or fifty kinds of tax these wretched villagers had had to pay in the old days: the virtual owner of twenty or thirty or more villages. The big house, too grand for the setting, was still there on the outskirts of the village. It was empty now, but (out of old respect, perhaps, or fear of malign spirits) no squatters had moved in, and all over the whole spreading complex-the front vestibule, the brick-paved courtyards, the suites of now doorless rooms-there was the damp, dead, tainted smell of the rotting masonry of a long-abandoned mansion. This smell came from bats and their acc.u.mulated, cushiony droppings, and from colonising pigeons and wilder birds who had left a crust of white, gritty splashes on the walls, splash upon splash upon splash. It would have been a distasteful labour to clear the house of what bats and birds had left behind, but even then it would have taken a long time, if the house were repeopled, to give it the smell of human life again. a village which was unlike the villages or forest settlements they had been marching through for the past year. This village would have been the seat of a small feudal lord in the old days. A tax-farmer, Ramachandra said: the collector of the forty or fifty kinds of tax these wretched villagers had had to pay in the old days: the virtual owner of twenty or thirty or more villages. The big house, too grand for the setting, was still there on the outskirts of the village. It was empty now, but (out of old respect, perhaps, or fear of malign spirits) no squatters had moved in, and all over the whole spreading complex-the front vestibule, the brick-paved courtyards, the suites of now doorless rooms-there was the damp, dead, tainted smell of the rotting masonry of a long-abandoned mansion. This smell came from bats and their acc.u.mulated, cushiony droppings, and from colonising pigeons and wilder birds who had left a crust of white, gritty splashes on the walls, splash upon splash upon splash. It would have been a distasteful labour to clear the house of what bats and birds had left behind, but even then it would have taken a long time, if the house were repeopled, to give it the smell of human life again.

For a long way outside the village the lord's lands could still be seen: overgrown fields, unirrigated and dried up, untended orchards of lemons and sweet limes with long, straggly branches, acacia and neem growing everywhere.

Ramachandra said, "These villagers can make you want to cry. Most of them don't have land, and for three years at least we've been trying to get them to take over these six hundred acres. We've held any number of meetings with them. We've told them about the wickedness of the rule of the old days. They agree with all of that, but when we tell them that it is up to them now to take over and plough these acres, they say, 'It's not our land.' We will talk for two hours and they will appear to agree with you, but then at the end they will say again, 'It's not our land.' You can get them to clean out water tanks. You can get them to build roads. But you can't get them to take over land. I begin to see why revolutions have to turn b.l.o.o.d.y. These people will begin to understand the revolution only when we start killing people. They will have no trouble understanding that. We have started at least three revolutionary committees in this village and in many of the others. They have all faded away. The young men who join us want blood. They have been to high school. Some even have degrees. They want blood, action. They want the world to change. All we give them is talk. That is Kandapalli's legacy. They see nothing happening and they drop out. If we were ruling the liberated areas with an iron hand, as we should, we would have all those six hundred acres cleared and ploughed in a month. And people would have had some idea of what the revolution means. We have to do something this time. We've heard that the family of the old tax-collector is trying to sell this land. They ran away at the time of the first rebellion and they have been living in some city or other ever since. Living in the old parasitic way, doing nothing. Now they are poor. They want to sell this land in some shady deal to a rich local farmer, a kind of Shivdas figure. He lives about twenty miles away. We are determined to prevent this deal. We want the land to be occupied by the villagers, and it looks as though this time we will have to kill some people. I think we will have to leave some people behind here to enforce our will. This is where Kandapalli has been undermining us. Crying for the poor, hardly able to finish a sentence, impressing everybody, and doing nothing."

They came to the lord's house. It was two storeys high and the outer wall was blank. The vestibule went through the lower floor of the house. On either side of the vestibule was a high platform two or three feet wide set into an alcove in the thick wall. Here, in the old days, the doormen would have watched or slept or smoked water pipes and simpler visitors would have waited. This style of house-courtyards alternating with suites of rooms with a central pa.s.sageway, so that it was possible from the front to see down a tunnel of light and shade right through to the back-this style of house would have been an ancient way of building here. Many farmers had simpler versions of the big house. It spoke of a culture that, in this respect at least, was still itself; and Willie, in the foul smell of the half-rotten big house, found himself moved by this unexpected little vision that had been granted him of his country. The past was terrible; it had to be done away with. But the past also had a kind of wholeness that people like Ramachandra couldn't begin to care about and couldn't replace.

It was as Ramachandra had prophesied at the village meeting the next evening. They came respectfully in their short turbans and in their loincloths long or short and in their long shirts, and they listened and looked wise. The uniformed men of the movement let their guns be seen, as Ramachandra had ordered. Ramachandra himself looked impatient and hard and tapped his bony fingers on his AK-47.

"There are five hundred or six hundred acres here. A hundred of you could take over five acres each and start ploughing, start bringing it back to fertility."

They made a kind of collective sigh, as though that was something they longed for. And yet, when Ramachandra questioned people individually, the reply was only, "The land is not ours."

He said to Willie afterwards, "You see how fine old manners and fine old ways equip people for slavery. It's the ancient culture our politicians talk about. But there is something else. I understand these people because I am one of them. I just have to pull a little switch in my head and I know exactly what they are feeling. They accept that some people are rich. They don't mind that at all. Because these rich people are not like them. The people like them are poor, and they are determined that the poor shall remain poor. When I tell them to take ten acres each, do you know what they are thinking? They are thinking, 'I don't want Srinivas to get ten acres of land. It will make him intolerable. Better if I don't get ten acres if it prevents Srinivas and Raghava from getting ten more acres.' Only the gun can bring revolution. I am thinking that this time we will have to leave half a squad here to bring them to their senses."

That evening he said to Willie, "I feel we are always taking one step forward and then two steps back, and the government is always there waiting for us to fail. There are some people in the movement who have been in all the rebellions and have spent thirty years doing what we do. They are people who really don't want anything to happen now. For them revolution and hiding and knocking on villagers' doors and asking for food and shelter for the night has become a way of life. We have always had our hermits wandering about the forest. It's in our blood. People applaud us for it, but it's got us nowhere."

He was becoming wild, pa.s.sion overcoming the regard he had for Willie, and Willie was glad when they separated for the night.

Willie thought, "They all want the old ways to go. But the old ways are part of people's being. If the old ways go people will not know who they are, and these villages, which have their own beauty, will become a jungle."

They left behind three men of the squad, to talk about the need to plough the lord's land.

Ramachandra, more philosophical this morning, like a cat that has abruptly forgotten its rage, said, "They won't do anything."

A mile out of the village young men began to come out of the forest. They walked in step with the squad. There was no mockery in them.

"Our recruits," Ramachandra said. "You see. High school boys. As I told you. For them we are a vision of the life they once had. But they didn't have the money to stay on in the small town they went to for their education. We are for them what the London-returned and America-returned boys were for you. We will let them down, and I feel it is better to let them go at this stage."

At noon they rested.

Ramachandra said, "I haven't told you why I joined the movement. The reason is actually very simple. You know about the college boys who befriended me in the town and bought a suit for me. There was a teacher at that college who for some reason was very nice to me. When I got my diploma I thought I should do something in return for him. You know what I thought? Please don't laugh. I thought I should ask him to dinner. It was something that was always happening in the Mills and Boon books. I asked him whether he would like to have dinner with me. He said yes, and we fixed a date. I didn't know what to do about that dinner. It tormented me. I had never given anyone dinner. A crazy idea came to me. There was a rich family in the town. They were small industrialists, making pumps and things like that. Dazzling to me. I didn't know these people, but I took my courage in both hands and went to their big house. I put on my suit, the one that had given me so much joy and pain. You can imagine the cars in the drive, the lights, the big verandah. People were coming and going, and no one noticed me at the beginning. Halfway down the drawing room there was the kind of bar that people in these modern houses have. No one was paying me too much attention, with all the crush, and I felt that I could even sit at the bar and ask the bow-tied servant for a drink. He was the only one I felt I could talk to. I didn't ask him for a drink. I asked him who the owner of the house was. He pointed him out to me, sitting on an open side verandah with other people. Sitting out in the cool night air. A st.u.r.dy rather than plump middle-aged man with thin hair smoothed back. With my heart in my boots, as the saying is, I went to the verandah and said to the great man, in the presence of all the people there, 'Good evening, sir. I am a student at the college. Professor Coomaraswamy is my teacher, and he has sent me to you with a request. He very much would like to have dinner with you on-I gave the date-if you are free.' The great man stood up and said, 'Professor Coomaraswamy is greatly admired in this town, and it would be an honour to have dinner with him.' I said, 'Professor Coomaraswamy particularly wants you to host the dinner, sir.' The Mills and Boon books had given me this language. Without Mills and Boon I couldn't have done any of it. The great industrialist looked surprised but then said, 'That would be an even greater honour.' I said, 'Thank you, sir,' and almost ran out of the big house. On the day I put on my suit of pain and joy and took a taxi to my professor's house. He said, 'Ramachandra, this really gives me great pleasure. But why have you come in a taxi? Are we going far?' I didn't say anything, and we drove to the industrialist's. My professor said, 'This is a very grand house, Ramachandra.' I said, 'For you, sir, I want nothing but the best.' I led him to the open verandah, where the industrialist and his wife and some other people were sitting, and then again I almost ran out of the house. The next day in the college my professor said, 'Why did you kidnap me last night and take me to those people, Ramachandra? I didn't know who they were, and they didn't know anything about me.' I said, 'I am a poor man, sir. I can't give someone like you dinner, and I wanted only the best for you.' He said, 'But, Ramachandra, my background is like yours. My family were just as poor as you.' I said, 'I made a mistake, sir.' But I was full of shame. That was where that suit and Mills and Boon had taken me. I hated myself. I wanted to wipe out everyone who had witnessed my shame. I imagined the laughter of all those people in the verandah. I felt I couldn't live in the world unless those people were dead. Unless my professor was dead. I have almost forgotten what they looked like, but that shame and anger is still with me."

I said, "Little things drive people more than we sometimes imagine. I have so many causes of shame. In India, London and Africa. They are fresh after twenty years. I don't think they will ever die. They will die only with me."

Ramachandra said, "That is what I feel too."

LATER THAT AFTERNOON a group of young men came out of the forest as the squad marched by. They had been waiting for the squad perhaps all day; time here was almost without value. And it was possible to tell from their bright faces and eager manner that these young men were potential recruits, young men imprisoned in their village and dreaming of breaking out: dreaming of the town and modern dress and modern amus.e.m.e.nts, dreaming of a world where time would have more meaning, dreaming perhaps also, the more spirited among them, of upheaval and power. Such groups had been attaching themselves to the squad at various stages of the march; their names and parentage and villages had been noted down. But this group of young men was different from others. These young men had news; their news made them frantic. a group of young men came out of the forest as the squad marched by. They had been waiting for the squad perhaps all day; time here was almost without value. And it was possible to tell from their bright faces and eager manner that these young men were potential recruits, young men imprisoned in their village and dreaming of breaking out: dreaming of the town and modern dress and modern amus.e.m.e.nts, dreaming of a world where time would have more meaning, dreaming perhaps also, the more spirited among them, of upheaval and power. Such groups had been attaching themselves to the squad at various stages of the march; their names and parentage and villages had been noted down. But this group of young men was different from others. These young men had news; their news made them frantic.

They sought out the man with the important gun, recognising him as the commander. Ramachandra and they talked. After a while Ramachandra signalled to the column to halt.

Ramachandra said, "They say there's an ambush prepared for us higher up."

Willie said, "Who?"

"It could be anybody. If it's true. It could be the police. It could be Kandapalli's supporters. It could be men hired by that big farmer who wants to buy the land from the old feudal. They would regard us as enemies. It could even be villagers who have become tired of having us in their villages and want now to get rid of us. They know we don't mean business. It is part of the mess we are in here. Everybody feels the old world is changing and n.o.body can see a clear way ahead. We have thrown away our chance and now there are hundreds of causes. If we had proper military training we would know how to deal with an ambush. But we didn't want to use guns. We just did the boy-scout and cadet stuff. Shouldering arms and presenting arms and standing at ease. That is all right if you are the only one with a gun. But now there is someone else with a gun, and I don't know what to do. All I feel is that I should go forward and try to kill him. I can't ask you to follow me since I don't know what to do. If there is an ambush and something happens to me, you should go back on your tracks. Now make yourselves scarce."

Willie said, "Ramachandra."

"I have a good gun."

They waited in that part of the forest until it was dark. Then one of the young men who had brought the news of the ambush called to them from the forest path.

"They killed him."

"Who was it?"

"The police. He crept right up to them and sprayed them with his gun. He killed three. That gave him away, and they killed him. This will get into the papers, I tell you."

Willie said, "He killed three?"

"Yes, sir."

It was like good news, after all. Willie thought, "He honoured his name in the end. In the Indian epic, Ramachandra is the highest kind of man. He is much more than a religious man. You can depend on him in all circ.u.mstances to behave well, to do the right thing."

The young man who had brought the news said, "Terrible for you, to lose a gun."

Some time later-when (according to Ramachandra's last order) they were going back on their tracks, staying off the main forest path, moving slowly in the darkness, determined to march all night if they had to, to get away from the police party, if the police were following-when they had been some time on this silent, half-blind march, Willie thought, "I didn't think of the dead policemen. I've forgotten myself. Now I'm truly lost. In every way. I don't know what lies ahead or behind. My only cause now is to survive, to get out of this."

SIX.

The End of Kandapalli

AFTER TWO ANXIOUS days they came again to the village with the lord's abandoned mansion, the lord's abandoned straw-coloured fields (with the vivid green of fast-growing parasitic vines), and the orchards where branches had outgrown their strength, where starved-looking leaves, not the right colour, were few on spindly crusted twigs, and fruit was scattered and deceptive, with wasps making nests within the rotted, grey-white skins of sweet limes and lemons. days they came again to the village with the lord's abandoned mansion, the lord's abandoned straw-coloured fields (with the vivid green of fast-growing parasitic vines), and the orchards where branches had outgrown their strength, where starved-looking leaves, not the right colour, were few on spindly crusted twigs, and fruit was scattered and deceptive, with wasps making nests within the rotted, grey-white skins of sweet limes and lemons.

It was a different village for them. They had been stars for the two weeks they had been there. They had had guns and uniforms and peaked caps with the star the colour of blood, and their words had mattered (even if no one had really believed in them). Now that had changed; all the village knew about the police ambush and the death of the menacing squad commander. With no particular aggression, merely going about the small details of day-to-day village life with the self-righteous intensity of men who knew what was what, the villagers seemed to see through the returning men in uniform.

They looked for the three men they had left behind to organise the takeover of the lord's land. It seemed staggering now, that they should have thought of attempting such a thing. It must have been awful for the three men. No one in the village knew where they were. No one even seemed to remember them. And it soon became clear to the remnant of Willie's squad and Keso, the fat, dark stand-in commander, a failed medical student, that these men had deserted. Keso knew about desertions.

They had been given the use of huts when they had occupied and liberated the village. Now Keso thought it would have been wrong to ask and perhaps even dangerous to spend the night in the village. He ordered that they should continue on their march, doing what Ramachandra had said, going back the way they had come, stage by stage, to base.

Keso said, "You can't help feeling that Ramachandra was right. We would have achieved a lot more if we had killed a few of these people whenever we liberated a village. We would also have been safer now."

They didn't know the forest well enough to stay away from the paths and avoid the villages. They began to think of the villagers as enemies, though they depended on them for water and food. Every night they camped half a mile or so outside a village; every night (with a remnant of their very rough military training) they posted an armed member of the squad as a sentry. That fact became known about them; it saved them from being looted by certain village people.

On the way out, Willie now realised, and during all his time with the movement, he had lived with the pastoral vision of the countryside and forest that was the basis of the movement's thinking. He had persuaded himself that that was the countryside he saw; he had never questioned it. He had persuaded himself that outside the noise and rush and awfulness of cities was this quite different world where things followed an antique course, which it was the business of the revolution to destroy. This pastoral vision contained the idea that the peasant laboured and was oppressed. What this pastoral vision didn't contain was the idea that the village-like those they had liberated on the march (and then let go of) and might one day with luck liberate again-was full of criminals, as limited and vicious and brutal as the setting, whose existence had nothing to do with the idea of labour and oppression.

Willie wondered how on the way out he had failed to see these village criminals. Perhaps Ramachandra, with his bony nervous fingers on his AK-47, had caused them to lie low. Now in every village the depleted squad was beset and provoked by criminals. In one village there was a pale-complexioned man on a horse and with a gun-how could they have ever missed him?-who came to their evening camp and shouted, "You are CIA, CIA. You should be shot." Keso decided that they shouldn't respond. It was the best thing to do, but it wasn't easy. The man on horseback was a village thug, acting up for the village, making a show of the fearlessness which a while before he had preferred to hide.

In some villages there were people who had got it into their heads that the squad were travelling gunmen who could be hired to kill an enemy. The people who wanted someone killed usually didn't have money, but they thought they could nag or cajole the men into doing what they wanted. Perhaps this was how they lived, begging for favours in everything. This way of life showed in their wild eyes and wasted bodies.

Willie remembered one of the things Ramachandra used to say: "We must give up the idea of remaking everybody. Too many people are too far gone for that. We have to wait for this generation to die out. This generation and the next. We must plan for the generation after that."

So stage by stage they went back, for Willie the vision of pastoral undoing itself, as if by a kind of magic. Roads that had been made by the squad with the help of villagers had disappeared; water tanks that had been cleared of mud had become clogged again. Family disputes, infinitely petty, about land or bore-wells or inheritances, that had been brought to Ramachandra as squad leader for his adjudication, and appeared to have been set right by him, raged again; at least one murder had occurred.

One day, outside a village, a dark middle-aged man came up to the marching squad. He said to Keso, "How long have you been in the movement?" And it was as if he had spoken merely to let them hear his beautiful educated voice and understand that, in spite of his peasant clothes and the thin towel-scarf over his shoulders, he was a townsman.

Keso said, "Eight years."

The stranger said, "When I meet people like you-and I do meet people like you from time to time-I can't help thinking that you are only captains and majors. Beginners, on the first rung of ascension. Don't mind it. I have been in the movement, in all the movements if you prefer, for thirty years, and I see no reason why I can't go on for another thirty. If you are on your toes all the time you can't be caught. That's why I think of myself as a general. Or, if you think that is too boastful, a brigadier."

Willie said, "How do you spend your time?"

"Avoiding capture, of course. Apart from that I am intensely bored. But in the middle of this boredom the soul never fails to sit in judgement on the world and never fails to find it worthless. It is not an easy thing to explain to outsiders. But it keeps me going."

Willie said, "How did you start?"

"In the cla.s.sical way. I was at the university. I wished to see how the poor lived. There was a certain amount of excited talk about them among the students. A scout for the movement-there were dozens of them around-arranged for me to see the poor. We met at a railway station and travelled through the night in a third-cla.s.s coach on a very slow train. I was like a tourist, and my guide was like a travel courier. We came at last to our poor village. It was very poor. It never occurred to me to ask why my guide had chosen this particular village or how the movement had found it. There was no sanitation, of course. That seemed a big thing then. And there was very little food. My guide put questions to people and translated their replies for me. One woman said, 'There has been no fire in my house for three days.' She meant she hadn't cooked for three days and she and her family hadn't eaten for three days. I was immensely excited. At the end of that first evening the villagers sat around a fire in the open and sang songs. Whether they were doing that for us or for themselves, whether they did it every evening, I never thought to ask. All I knew was that I pa.s.sionately wished to join the movement. The movement of the time, the movement of thirty years ago. That was arranged for me by my guide. It took time. I left the university and went to a small town. I was met by contacts. They said they were posting me to a particular village. It was a long walk from the small town. The main road became a dirt road, and then night came. It was March, so it was quite pleasant, not hot. I was not frightened. And then I came to the village. It was not too late. As soon as I saw the village I saw the house of the big landlord. It was a big house with a neat thatched roof. The poor people didn't have neat thatched roofs. Their eaves were untrimmed. That big landlord was the man I had to kill. It was quite remarkable, on my very first day seeing the house of the man I had to kill. Seeing it just like that. If I was another kind of person I would have thought it was the hand of G.o.d. Setting me on my path. Those were my instructions, to get the big landlord killed. I wasn't to kill him myself. I was to get some peasant to do it. That was the ideology of the time, to turn the peasants into rebels, and through them to start the revolution. And, would you believe, just after seeing the house, in the darkness, I saw a peasant coming back from his work, late for some reason. Again, the hand of G.o.d. I introduced myself to the peasant. I said straight out, 'Good evening, brother. I am a revolutionary. I need shelter for the night.' He called me sir and invited me to his hut. When we got there he offered me his cowshed. It is the cla.s.sic story of the revolution. It was a terrible cowshed, though now I have seen many much worse. We had some dreadful rice. The water came from a little stream. Not some storybook purling English stream, clear as crystal. This is India, my masters, and this was a dreadful muddy runnel. You had to boil whatever you could wring out of the smelly mess. I talked to my host about his poverty and his debt and the hardness of his life. He seemed surprised. I then invited him to kill his landlord. I was pushing it, don't you think? My first night and everything. My peasant simply said no. I actually was quite relieved. I wasn't hardened enough. I would have wanted to run away if the man had said, 'What a good idea, sir. It's been on my mind for some time. Come and watch me knife the b.a.s.t.a.r.d.' What my peasant said was that he depended on his landlord for food and money for three months. To kill the landlord, he said, giving me some of his own wisdom in exchange for my theories, would be like killing the goose that laid the golden egg. His speech was full of sayings like that. I ran away as soon as I could the next morning. It's a cla.s.sic revolutionary story. Most people would have gone back to the town and taken a bus or train home, and gone back to their studies and to s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the servant girls. But I persevered. And here you see me, thirty years later. Still going among the peasants with that philosophy of murder."

Willie said, "How do you spend the day?"

Keso said, "It was what I was going to ask him."

"I am in somebody's hut. I have spent the night there. No worries about rent and insurance and utilities. I get up early and go to the fields to do my stuff. I have got used to it now. I doubt whether I could go back to sitting in a little room with four walls. I go back to the hut, have a little of the peasant's food. I read for a while. The cla.s.sics: Marx, Trotsky, Mao, Lenin. Afterwards I visit various people in the village, arranging a meeting for some future date. I return. My host comes from the fields. We chat. Actually, we don't. It's hard to talk. We don't have anything to say to one another. You can't make yourself part of the life of the village. After another day or two I am off. I don't want my host to get tired of me and tip off the police. In this way every day flows past, and every day is like every other day. I feel the life I am describing is similar to that of a high-powered executive."

Willie said, "I don't understand that."

Keso said, "I don't understand it either."

The stranger said, "I mean the boredom. Everything is laid out for them. Once you get into those outfits you are all right for life. British American Tobacco, Imperial Tobacco, Unilever, Metal Box. They tell me that at Imperial the big boys just have lunch and go around checking the dates on cigarette packs in the shops."

He had become agitated at the hint of distrust, and he spoke defensively. A little of his rhetorical style had gone. He didn't wish now to stay with the squad, and as soon as he could-at the sight of a cl.u.s.ter of huts where he might go and rest-he excused himself.

Keso said, "Do you think he ever worked in one of those big companies?"

Willie said, "I feel he might have applied and failed. Probably if they had taken him at Metal Box or one of the others he would never have come out to the countryside and started asking peasants to kill people. That thing he said about captains and majors and being himself a general, that probably tells us that he tried for the army and the army didn't want him. I'm a little angry with him."

"That's extreme."

"I am angry with him because at first I thought that in spite of his clowning manner there was some wisdom in him, something I could use. I was listening very carefully, thinking that later on I would work out everything he was saying."

Keso said, "He's mad. I think he's never been arrested because the police don't think it is worth their while. The peasants probably think he is a joke."

Willie thought, "But probably we are all like that to the villagers. Probably without knowing it we've all become a little mad or unbalanced. Keso would have liked to be a doctor. Now he lives this life and tries to tell himself it is real. It's always easy to see the other man's strangeness. We can see the madness of those villagers who wanted us to kill people for them. Those men with the badly made, twisted faces, as though they had literally had a terrible time being born. We can't see our own strangeness. Though I have begun to feel my own."

THEY CAME AT LAST to the base, where Willie had a room of his own. The wish of the high command to extend the liberated areas had failed; everyone knew that. But in spite of the general gloom Willie was happy to be in a place where he had already been. He felt he had ceased to be flung into s.p.a.ce; he felt he might once again come to possess himself. He liked the low clean thatched roof-so protecting, especially when he was on his string bed-where he could store small things between the thatch and the rafters; he liked the plastered beaten-earth floor, hollow-sounding below his feet. to the base, where Willie had a room of his own. The wish of the high command to extend the liberated areas had failed; everyone knew that. But in spite of the general gloom Willie was happy to be in a place where he had already been. He felt he had ceased to be flung into s.p.a.ce; he felt he might once again come to possess himself. He liked the low clean thatched roof-so protecting, especially when he was on his string bed-where he could store small things between the thatch and the rafters; he liked the plastered beaten-earth floor, hollow-sounding below his feet.

Willie was hoping to see the section leader again, the man with the soft, educated manner. But he was not around. The news was that he had deserted, had surrendered to the police after elaborate negotiations. He had claimed the bounty that had been offered for his arrest; guerrillas who surrendered could claim this bounty. Then he had made his way back to the big city from which he had come. There, for some days, he had stalked his estranged wife before shooting her dead. No one knew where he was now. Perhaps he had killed himself; more likely, with the freedom of movement his bounty would have given him, he was at large in the immense country, using all his guerrilla's skill for disguise and concealment, and was perhaps even now shedding his old personality and the pain he had carried for years.

The news would have made a greater stir if at about the same time the police hadn't arrested Kandapalli. That was by far the bigger event, though Kandapalli had now lost most of his following and was so little a security risk that the police took no special precautions when they arrested him or when they took him to court. What was most notable about him was the clippings book he carried with him all the time. In this book he had pasted newspaper photographs of children. There was some profound cause for emotion there, in the photographs of children, but Kandapalli couldn't say; his mind had gone; all that was left him was this great emotion. Willie was profoundly moved, more moved than he had been in Berlin when he had first heard of Kandapalli from Sarojini: his pa.s.sion for humanity, his closeness to tears. There was no means of being in touch with her now, and for some days, in a helpless kind of grief, which held grief for himself and the world, and every person and every animal who had been wounded, Willie tried to enter the mind of the deranged man. He tried to imagine the small old schoolteacher choosing pictures from the newspapers and pasting them in his book. What pictures would have attracted him, and why? But the man eluded him, remained a prisoner of his mind, forever in solitary confinement. The thought of the derangement of the mind, where no one could now reach him, the unimaginable twists and turns from present to past, was more affecting than news of the death of the man would have been.

Even enemies of the man were moved. Einstein thought that the movement should make some gesture, to show solidarity with the old revolutionary. He brought the matter up at the formal meeting of the section.

He said, "His disgrace disgraces us all. We have quarrelled with him, but we owe it to him to do something. We owe it to him for reviving the movement at a bad time, when it had been crushed and was all but dead. I propose that we kidnap a minister of the central government or, if that is beyond us, a minister of the local state. We will make it clear that we are doing it as a gesture in support of Kandapalli. I volunteer myself for the action. I have done some research. I have a certain man in mind, and I know when it can be done. All I need are three men and three pistols and a car. I will need another man to stand at the traffic lights near the minister's house and to stop the cross-traffic for three or four seconds while we are making our getaway. This man will make believe he is doing it for the minister. The action itself should take no more than two minutes. I have actually done a dry run, and that took one minute and fifty seconds."

An important squad leader said, "We shouldn't do anything more at the present time to encourage the police to come down harder on us. But please outline your plan."

"The minister's house is at Aziznagar. We need to be there a week in advance, or four days at least, to get used to the layout of the streets. We will need a car. We will hire it from somewhere else. Three of us will sit in the car in the morning just outside the gates. The minister's house is hidden from the street by a high wall. Perfect for us. A guard will come and ask us what we are doing. We will mark this guard down as the man to deal with when the time comes. We will say we are students from college-I will find out which one to say-and we want to ask the minister to come and talk to us or something like that. I will judge when the crowd is thinning and the time is ripe. I will get out of the car and walk past the guard to the minister's front door. As I walk one of the men with me will shoot the guard in the hand or the foot. I will now be in the minister's house. I will shoot anyone who is in my way. I will burst into the minister's office or greeting room with a great deal of noise and shouting. I will shoot at his hand, rapid fire, shouting all the time. He will be very frightened. As soon as he is wounded I will hustle him out of the front door to the car blocking the gate. I have studied his physique. I can do it. I can hustle him out. All this has to be done with coolness and precision and determination. There will be no hesitation at any stage. We drive past the traffic lights, which will be fixed for us. Two minutes. Two bold, cool minutes. The action will be good for us. It will tell people we are still around."

The squad leader said, "It's nice and simple. Perhaps too simple."

Einstein said, "The most effective things are simple and direct."

Keso said, "I am worried about the traffic lights. Wouldn't it be better to put them out of action?"

Einstein said, "Too early, and they'll fix them. Too late, and there'll be a jam at the intersection. Better someone walking to the intersection, if the lights are against us when we appear, and this person, very cool, pulling on official-looking white gloves and stopping the cross-traffic. If the lights are with us we have to do nothing at all."

The squad leader said, "Is there a policeman or a police box at the intersection?"

Einstein said, "I wouldn't have wanted to do it if there was a police box. When we have pa.s.sed, this person will walk calmly to the other side of the road, taking off his gloves, and will get into a car or a taxi, which will then leave the scene. So perhaps we will need a second car. If anyone at all notices they will think it's another Indian street joker. Four men, two cars, three pistols."