Page 47 of A Shimla Affair
Afreen told them all we had heard and, in the act of narration, all the different pieces of the riddle fell into place. Noor stopped under a tree, exhausted.
‘The British will incite a civil war,’ Afreen whispered, yet we heard her perfectly. ‘A civil war between the Hindus and the Muslims, just like they managed to make the Hindus and Muslims fight each other in the recent riots. That was their experiment, and it worked beautifully and so now they hope to replicate it on a much larger scale. In several cities, at once. Once there is civil war, they will make the army move in and impose draconian control over the provinces.’
‘But …’ I tried to find a way out from this horror. ‘They would lose … the army, the offices will have to close, the country will shut down.’
‘Any short-term loss will be easily offset by their long-term gains,’ Begum Jaan said.
‘Besides,’ Afreen said, ‘You heard Beeson. The experiment in Shimla worked because he has an Indian agent who did all their dirty work. He already has some people on his side, who want this strife.’
I could barely believe it, who among us would pit his own brethren against one another?
‘So, the British masterminded the riots,’ Noor said with disgust. ‘Not only did they not stop it, they were also the reason it started!’
‘And the roses? What was all that about?’
Nobody said anything as we walked, until Noor grabbed my arm, stopping dead in her tracks. ‘Of course! The Roses! They mean The War of the Roses, the two great houses in England who fought a civil war for years, seeking control. Until the Tudors, who were not even the warring houses, ascended the throne. This confirms it, the British want the Hindus and Muslims to fight one another, for an easy rule, an easy seat on the throne.’
There was no time, however, to sit and discuss at length what we had just uncovered. Charles was already waiting for me outside the hotel.
17
Charles stood as stiff as a stone, glaring angrily into the distance, his arms behind his back, until I was close enough. Then, he turned his head and gave me a such a look of betrayal that I had to stare back defiantly.
What right did he have to act like I was betraying him? What did he know about me or my circumstances, the sacrifice that all of us were making in the quest for our freedom? How could he possibly understand the worth of this freedom, freedom that he never had to crave? By which prerogative was he looking at me with accusation, as if I was personally betraying him by standing up for my rights, for something that I should have had inherently?
He opened his mouth to say something as we approached the hotel, but the hurt of it all stopped him. He looked down, and my heart melted. Perhaps that was exactly the problem—he didn’t know what it was to be me, to be us, he didn’t know the sacrifice that it involved, the danger of it all.
I wondered what would happen. What if he arrests me on the spot and takes me to the police station, or worse, to the Viceroy himself?
My mind froze, not knowing what lies I could tell him, until Afreen and Begum Jaan caught hold of my arm, stopping me.
‘Say the truth,’ Afreen said with a meaningful nod, ‘As much as you need to. Trust me, it will work better than a lie.’
Begum Jaan grabbed my hand. ‘Ask him why Beeson is interested in a civil war, why does he care so much, of all people.’
‘Maybe we could all discuss this—’ Noor started to say.
‘No, Noor, let me go for a walk with Mr Nayler. Would you allow me to do that?’ Perhaps I would be able to appeal to Charles’ better nature.’
Noor nodded reluctantly, trusting me.
I walked to him in a daze.
His gaze was hard, cold and distant, and he looked everywhere except at me.
‘If you could let me explain—’ I started.
He finally let himself look into my eyes, and taking that as an encouraging sign, I convinced him to come for a walk.
Under the watchful eyes of my sisters, I led him away from the hotel. We walked in silence for a bit, and instead of taking the road down the hill towards the town, he walked towards the forest. I remembered how we had been there together all those weeks ago, when he had offered me his whiskey, and I had sipped it, telling him I was the daughter of an opium merchant.
As if he had read my mind, he spoke up. ‘I have that file you asked me for. The one about this ship. You can have a look at it.’
Was that an invitation for peace? The evening sun glided through the gaps of the branches of the trees as we walked through, and the light danced on his head. The buzz of resting insects played in the background. I wanted to reach out to him, keep my hand on his arm, look into his eyes with warmth and reassurance. Yet all my hopes were dashed when I dared to glimpse at him. When he turned to me, his face was glazed withan iciness so foreign that all my affection got caught in my throat and rendered me paralysed.
‘So, do I still have to ask what’s going on?’ his voice was devoid of emotion.
‘Charles—’
