The Moghul Part 49

_Dharma_ defines who we are and what we must do if we are to maintain our caste. Warfare is the _dharma_ of the Kshatriya, the warrior caste."

"And I say a pox on caste. What's so honorable about Rajputs slaughtering each other?"

"Warriors are bound by their _dharma_ to join in battle against other warriors. A warrior who fails in his duty sins against the _dharma_ of his caste." Vasant Rao paused. "But why am I bothering to tell you this? I sound like Krishna, lecturing Arjuna on his duty as a warrior."

"Who's Krishna? Another Rajput?"

"He's a G.o.d, Captain Hawksworth, sacred to all Rajputs. He teaches us that a warrior must always honor his _dharma_."

Vasant Rao's eyes seemed to burn through the shadows of the cell. From outside Hawksworth heard the distant chantings of some village ceremony.

"If you'll listen, _feringhi_ captain, I'll tell you something about a warrior's _dharma_. There's a legend, many thousands of years old, of a great battle joined between two branches of a powerful dynasty in ancient India. Two kings were brothers, and they shared a kingdom, but their sons could not live in peace. One branch wished to destroy the other. Eventually a battle was joined, a battle to the death. As they waited on the field for the sound of the conch sh.e.l.l, to summon the forces, the leader of those sons who had been wronged suddenly declared that he could not bring himself to kill his own kinsmen. But the G.o.d Krishna, who was charioteer for this son, reminded him he must follow his _dharma_. That there is no greater good for a warrior than to join battle for what is right. It's wrong only if he is attached to the fruits of battle, if he does it for gain. It's told in the Bhagavad- Gita, a Sanskrit scripture sacred to all warriors. I was reciting a verse from Chapter Twelve when you woke."

"What did this G.o.d Krishna say?"

"He declared that all who live must die, and all who die will be reborn. The spirit within us all, the _atman_, cannot be destroyed. It travels through us on its journey from birth to rebirth. But it's not correct to say merely that it exists. It is existence. It is the only reality. It is present in everything because it is everything.

Therefore there's no need to mourn for death. There is no death. The body is merely an appearance, by which the _atman_ reveals itself. The body is only its guardian. But a warrior who turns away from the duty of his caste sins against his honor and his _dharma_. Krishna warned that this loss of honor could one day lead to the mixture of castes, and then the dharma of the universe, its necessary order, would be destroyed. It's not wrong for a Rajput to kill a worthy foe, Captain Hawksworth, it's his duty. Just as it's also his duty to die a worthy death."

"Why all this killing in the name of 'honor' and 'duty"?"

"Non-Hindus always want to know 'why.' To 'understand.' You always seem to believe that words somehow contain all truth. But dharma simply is.

It is the air we breathe, the changeless order around us. We're part of it. Does the earth ask why the monsoons come? Does the seed ask why the sun s.h.i.+nes each day? No. It's _dharma_. The dharma of the seed is to bear fruit. The dharma of the warrior caste is to do battle. Only _feringhi_, who live outside our dharma, ask 'why.' Truth is not something you 'understand.' It's something you're part of. It's something you feel with your being. And when you try to catch it with words, it's gone. Can the eagle tell you how he flies, Captain Hawksworth, or 'why"? If he could, he would no longer be an eagle. This is the great wisdom of India. We've learned it's wasted on _feringhi_, Captain, as I fear it's now wasted on you."

The talk left Hawksworth feeling strangely insecure, his mind wrestling with ideas that defied rationality.

"I know there are things you understand with your gut, not with your head."

"Then there may be hope for you, Captain Hawksworth. Now we will see if you can die like a Rajput. If you can, perhaps you will be reborn one of us."

"Then I might even learn to be a bandit."

"All Rajputs are not the same, Captain. There are many tribes, descended from different dynasties. Each has its own tradition and genealogy. I'm from the north. From the races descended from the moon.

This tribe claims descent from the solar dynasty, which also began in the north. I think their genealogy goes back to the G.o.d Indra, who they claim brought them into being with the aid of the sun."

Vasant Rao turned and continued reciting in Sanskrit. His face again became a mask.

Hawksworth rubbed his head in confusion and suddenly felt a hard lump where the club had dropped. The fear began to well up in his stomach as he remembered the stony-faced riders who had surrounded him in the river. But he pushed aside thoughts of death.

_Dharma_ be d.a.m.ned. What did he mean, they're members of a clan descended from the "solar dynasty"? They're killers, looking for an excuse to plunder.

I'm not planning to die like a Rajput just yet. Or be reborn as one.

Life is too sweet just as it is. I'm beginning to feel alive here, for the first time ever. s.h.i.+rin is free. I've got a feeling I'll be seeing her again. Whatever happens, I don't care to die in this p.i.s.s hole, with empty talk about honor. Think.

He remembered the river again, and quickly felt in his boot. The other pistol was still there.

We'll find a way to get out. Somehow. We may just lose a few days'

time, that's all. We made good time so far. Six days. We left on Sunday, and we've been here two days. So today is probably Monday.

He suddenly froze.

"Where are the carts?"

"At the south end of the village. Where they have the _chans_, the cattle sheds. The drivers are there too."

"Is my chest there?"

"No. It's right there. Behind you." Vasant Rao pointed into the dark.

"I told them it belonged to the Moghul, and they brought it here. I guess the Moghul still counts for something here. Maybe they're superst.i.tious about him."

Hawksworth pulled himself up and reached behind him. The chest was there. He fingered the cool metal of the lock and his mind began to clear even more. Quickly he began to search his jerkin for the key. Its pockets were empty.

Of course. If I was tied over a horse it.. .

Then he remembered. For safety he had transferred it to the pocket of his breeches the second day out. He felt down his leg, fighting the ache in his arm.

Miraculously the key was still there.

He tried to hold his excitement as he twisted it into the lock on the chest. Once, twice, and it clicked.

He quickly checked the contents. Lute on top. Letter, still wrapped.

Clothes. Then he felt deeper and touched the metal. Slowly he drew it out, holding his breath. It was still intact.

The light from the lamp glanced off the burnished bra.s.s of the Persian astrolabe from the observatory. It had been Mukarrab Khan's parting gift.

He carried it to the slatted window and carefully twisted each slat until the sun began to stream through.

Thank G.o.d it's late in the year, when the sun's already lower at midday.

He took a quick reading of the sun's elevation. It had not yet reached its zenith. He made a mental note of the reading and began to wait.

Five minutes pa.s.sed--they seemed hours--and he checked the elevation again. The sun was still climbing, but he knew it would soon reach its highest point.

Vasant Rao continued to chant verses from the Bhagavad- Gita in terse, toneless Sanskrit.

He probably thinks I'm praying too, Hawksworth smiled to himself.

The reading increased, then stayed the same, then began to decrease.

The sun had pa.s.sed its zenith, and he had the exact reading of its elevation.

He mentally recorded the reading, then began to rummage in the bottom of the chest for the seaman's book he always carried with him.

We left Surat on October twenty-fourth. So October twenty-fifth was Karod, the twenty-sixth was Viara, the twenty-seventh was Corka, the twenty-eighth was Narayanpur, the twenty-ninth was the river. Today has to be October thirty-first.

The book was there, its pages still musty from the moist air at sea. He reached the page he wanted and ran his finger down a column of figures until he reached the one he had read off the astrolabe.

From the reading the lat.i.tude here is 21 degrees and 20

minutes north.

Then he began to search the chest for a sheaf of papers and finally his fingers closed around them, buried beneath his spare jerkin. He squinted in the half light as he went through the pages, the handwriting hurried from hasty work in the observatory. Finally he found what he wanted. He had copied it directly from the old Samarkand astronomer's calculations. The numerals were as bold as the day he had written them. The lat.i.tude was there, and the date.