7.2 Viveka
Rikit Raushan's sword was at my throat.
I could see the naked hatred in his eyes and feel the pinprick of the sword bite into my flesh. He had placed it at a point just beside my artery. I could feel it pulsing against the cold steel of the blade. One flick of his wrist and I would be as good as dead--I doubted there were any hospitals in this world, or doctors on call. The image of the poor peace-rider's life-blood pumping out from his severed stump flashed in my mind, and I swallowed involuntarily. The sword bit deeper into my skin.
"Please," I said softly, because even speaking made the swordpoint seem closer. "You have to believe me. I'm not from this place at all. I'm from another world altogether."
I said it in Hindi. Not the 'tapori' he spoke but decent North Indian Hindi like my father and mother spoke. The word 'world' came out as 'desh', which was close enough.
"So," he said with a tone of bitter triumph. "You admit you're a pardesi, Northern spy!"
"No!" I said. As loudly as I could manage with a sword pressed to my throat. "I'm not from the North. I'm from right here." I tried to gesture with my hand. "This was my house. I mean, the place where my house used to stand."
He grimaced disbelievingly. "You're a poor liar, spy. The only house that stood here was a lookout point for our fauj. That's why the Northerners blasted it with their cannons before this invasion. And your own lying tongue betrays you. Only a Northerner would speak your bastardised version of shudh Tapori."
"It's your 'tapori' bhaasha that's bastardized," I said angrily. "I'm speaking shudh Hindi."
He laughed and shifted the sword from left hand to right in one smooth motion. The man was obviously an expert warrior and horseman, besides his uncanny resemblance to the hottest superstar in Hindi films. But right now, he viewed me only as a vamp.
"Enough banter," he said. "I am needed back at my camp to report on the positions of your Northern army. I have no time to waste on your foolish lies."
"So you're the spy," I told him. "And the coward who's so eager to murder an unarmed woman."
That shook him. I saw his eyes grow wider and angrier. The swordpoint pressed harder against me, piercing my skin. I felt blood trickling down the front of my tee shirt and shut my own eyes instinctively.
Instead of the stabbing pain I expected, I felt the sword withdrawing. When I opened my eyes again, I saw him sheathing it and turning toward the horse. He pulled a coiled rope off the saddle and came back.
"Come on," he said brusquely. "We'll see if you talk as boldly when you're being questioned by my lieutenants."
He briskly tied my hands behind my back and pushed me toward the horse. Putting my foot into the stirrup, he shoved me up. Then he got on behind me, clutching the reins with one hand and pressing me forward with the other hand. His hand brushing my bare thigh made me feel naked and vulnerable, but there was little point in complaining. I was lucky to be alive.
He urged the horse forward and we began to ride, steadily increasing speed.
We rode a path down the side of Pali Hill, heading toward what would have been Carter Road in my world. Behind and to our left, the sound of the battle rose as the two warring armies clashed with a terrible roar of voices and weapons.
I could see the naked hatred in his eyes and feel the pinprick of the sword bite into my flesh. He had placed it at a point just beside my artery. I could feel it pulsing against the cold steel of the blade. One flick of his wrist and I would be as good as dead--I doubted there were any hospitals in this world, or doctors on call. The image of the poor peace-rider's life-blood pumping out from his severed stump flashed in my mind, and I swallowed involuntarily. The sword bit deeper into my skin.
"Please," I said softly, because even speaking made the swordpoint seem closer. "You have to believe me. I'm not from this place at all. I'm from another world altogether."
I said it in Hindi. Not the 'tapori' he spoke but decent North Indian Hindi like my father and mother spoke. The word 'world' came out as 'desh', which was close enough.
"So," he said with a tone of bitter triumph. "You admit you're a pardesi, Northern spy!"
"No!" I said. As loudly as I could manage with a sword pressed to my throat. "I'm not from the North. I'm from right here." I tried to gesture with my hand. "This was my house. I mean, the place where my house used to stand."
He grimaced disbelievingly. "You're a poor liar, spy. The only house that stood here was a lookout point for our fauj. That's why the Northerners blasted it with their cannons before this invasion. And your own lying tongue betrays you. Only a Northerner would speak your bastardised version of shudh Tapori."
"It's your 'tapori' bhaasha that's bastardized," I said angrily. "I'm speaking shudh Hindi."
He laughed and shifted the sword from left hand to right in one smooth motion. The man was obviously an expert warrior and horseman, besides his uncanny resemblance to the hottest superstar in Hindi films. But right now, he viewed me only as a vamp.
"Enough banter," he said. "I am needed back at my camp to report on the positions of your Northern army. I have no time to waste on your foolish lies."
"So you're the spy," I told him. "And the coward who's so eager to murder an unarmed woman."
That shook him. I saw his eyes grow wider and angrier. The swordpoint pressed harder against me, piercing my skin. I felt blood trickling down the front of my tee shirt and shut my own eyes instinctively.
Instead of the stabbing pain I expected, I felt the sword withdrawing. When I opened my eyes again, I saw him sheathing it and turning toward the horse. He pulled a coiled rope off the saddle and came back.
"Come on," he said brusquely. "We'll see if you talk as boldly when you're being questioned by my lieutenants."
He briskly tied my hands behind my back and pushed me toward the horse. Putting my foot into the stirrup, he shoved me up. Then he got on behind me, clutching the reins with one hand and pressing me forward with the other hand. His hand brushing my bare thigh made me feel naked and vulnerable, but there was little point in complaining. I was lucky to be alive.
He urged the horse forward and we began to ride, steadily increasing speed.
We rode a path down the side of Pali Hill, heading toward what would have been Carter Road in my world. Behind and to our left, the sound of the battle rose as the two warring armies clashed with a terrible roar of voices and weapons.
posted by Ashok K. Banker at 12.10.05
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