The horizon, p.28
The Horizon, page 28
She collapsed on her knees, wheezing. Somehow, she’d kept hold of her blade, but her lungs were on fire, and her stomach felt like every last bit of air had been pumped out of it. She doubled over, breathing hard.
A hand around her shoulder, pulling her up, not ungently. She sucked in air.
Maji murmured: ‘How many years did he teach you—banking fire?’
‘Since I was four,’ Mithila gasped, ‘all three of us. Every day, an hour. Never knew why … a sculptor was so into—duelling.’
‘It shows,’ said Maji.
Mithila straightened, still breathless. ‘Do I get my weapon now?’
‘No.’
‘What?’
‘You lost, Worldfarer. ‘
‘But—’
‘Come now,’ said Maji, her voice lowering again for just the two of them. ‘You’ve impressed them all. The stories of your skill with the blade are already going down the Mandalas. They will respect you. But I cannot—I will not have my Banner throw her life away playing the hero, when everything depends on her.’
‘But—’
‘If you argue with me anymore,’ said Maji, ‘I will tie you to a post made specially for you before battle. I am your Field Commander, Worldfarer. It’s my barricade.’
Mithila opened her mouth again, saw Maji’s eyes flash, but before she could speak—or not—another voice chopped the air.
‘Worldfarer! Council!’
Bhavi stood at the edge of the circle.
‘What?’ said Maji.
‘Council’s at the barricade.’
‘Council?’ Maji began to laugh. ‘What in Sumer—’
But a nameless dread had begun to creep up Mithila’s throat.
‘I know what this is,’ she said.
She climbed up the barricade, still feeling heady, with Maji and her fighters at her back. At the top, she peered out over the rim. The road was clear, but stained with blood.
She looked up, further, and then she saw her.
Upon the bridge, a single figure stood, looking up at them.
‘Greetings, Worldfarer,’ Rama said.
Fourteen
The President’s Proposal
Above the Wall, a garuda flew in the sky.
The world stopped to catch its breath.
The brilliant sun, the shadow of the barricade, the red stain upon the road, the needle-line of the river, and the two figures who faced each other, one upon the road and one upon the barricade. It could have been a painting by Synderesis.
Aeons passed them by.
‘The President is welcome,’ said Mithila at last.
‘You know, Mith,’ Rama said, ‘They liked me better before you showed up. No barricade then.’
‘Occupational hazard,’ said Mithila, trying to keep her voice airy.
‘Could’ve avoided it if you’d just let me know before leaving, again. Off to start a revolution, Rama, won’t be back for dinner, but anyway, blue I dream you blue. It would’ve been polite.’
‘Avoided?’ Mithila repeated. ‘Avoided?’
‘A world ago,’ said Rama, with that half-smile that Mithila knew so well, ‘I heard these words: something of equality is yet to come.’
The memory that pierced her was so sharp that Mithila’s knees trembled. She grabbed at the barricade to keep her balance. The air before her shimmered. She was in the Maliot House again, her hand in Rama’s, aware of her only good tunic, worn for the occasion, laughter in the room. And she heard once more the harper’s music, weaving the air into song.
The world split into two, blood upon the Maliot, the sweetness of khire, the barricade beneath her, Rama’s fingers in her hair, her own breath caught in her throat, tell me something, talk to me, what will you do when you’re in the Council, Rama’s voice, I know you’ll be telling me it’s not enough, that something of equality is yet to come, and Rama knew, Mithila thought savagely, she knew that one day it would come to this, but not so soon, not when she was so unprepared …
Mithila blinked that world away.
‘That,’ she said, ‘was a long time ago.’
Behind her, in the windows and along the rooftops, she sensed the people listening.
Rama looked at her with clear eyes. ‘What do you dream of now, Worldfarer?’
We’ll betray our dreams of each other, but I won’t have it any other way.
Her own eyes blurred. The world was out of place.
Just, don’t wake me up too soon, and I’ll live.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I woke up.’
Rama went rigid. A fist closed around Mithila’s heart, and squeezed.
‘I read your Charter,’ Rama said, ‘for a New Sumer. Do you know so little of me to think I would disagree?’
Mithila’s head hurt. She looked to her left, to the windows, to her Revolution, watching.
‘Rama would not,’ she said. ‘But I do not know the President.’
‘Then hear your President,’ Rama said. Her voice changed into something deeper, carrying across the barricade. ‘I stand here in the Council’s stead. I speak in the Council’s voice.’
Mithila kept her eyes up. ‘Go on.’
‘This is to you, Mithila Worldfarer, and to those who follow you. I speak to you, the women and men of the Eleventh, the Twelfth, the Thirteenth, the Fourteenth and the Fifteenth.
‘We are sorry.’
Whispers broke out, like gravel thrown into the lake, little ripples crossing into one another.
‘In the past, you asked us for what was rightly yours.’ Rama’s gaze travelled beyond Mithila, to the rooftops and balconies. ‘In our greed, we said no. For that I say to you, the Council says to you, we were wrong. We are sorry.
‘We know that you’ve taken up arms against us only because you had no choice. For that, the blame is ours. We broke the ties that bind. For that I say to you, the Council says to you: we are sorry.
‘But I also say: what is broken can be repaired.’
Rama knelt upon the road, heedless of the blood. On one knee, she looked up at them.
‘And here, now, I ask you to give me a chance to repair it.’
Below Mithila, Prana growled: ‘here we go again.’
The whispers had grown into mutterings, sharp and heated.
Rama went on: ‘As your President, I say: do not trust me. We have squandered any right to your trust. A Council that murdered Sanchika in cold blood—you should not trust. A Council that dismissed the meagre pleas in Malati’s Bill—you should not trust. My hands are empty of platitudes and promises. But I come with amends.’
She paused. And then again: ‘Will you hear me?’
‘We’re listening,’ said Mithila, her answer lost in the scatter of voices from above and below.
‘This morning, the Constitution of Sumer was changed,’ said Rama. ‘The old order is dead.’
‘We call it the New Settlement. These are our three changes. First,’ she said, raising her hand with a finger up, ‘we have abolished the Marriage License laws in this City. Forever.’
Somewhere in Sumer, Mithila thought, Lamon was smiling.
Rama raised her second finger.
‘Second: we accept Malati’s original Bill. Farmers will decide, with us, what becomes of farmland. But more importantly: the Eleventh and the Twelfth will receive a third share of all the income from the farmland produce, to do with as they see fit.’
A third share, a third share! The voices of the farmers echoed in Mithila’s mind, on the night she had seen them march to the Council Hall, when crossing the Wall had been no more than a dream. Mithila shot a glance below. Prana’s face was blank.
‘And third,’ said Rama, ‘the people of Sumer are no longer bound to live in the Circles defined by their work. From this day, you are free—free to love and to live, across the City.’
And the voices rose again, higher than before, cries of excitement, of jubilation.
‘This is not a promise. It is already done.’ Rama’s words ascended above the noise. She stood. ‘It is done, no matter what. Something of equality is yet to come—but something of it is here.’
Mithila looked at Rama, standing there alone upon the Maliot, in front of the barricade. She was gazing past her, as if following her words as they wound their way into the latter Circles.
‘Aren’t you forgetting something, my President?’ Mithila called out.
Rama went still.
‘The Wall,’ said Mithila.
Rama shifted. ‘I’m sorry, but the Wall is not part of the New Settlement. This—all of this, this blood beneath my feet—this is not about the Wall. It’s about us, our lives here, in Sumer.’
‘But not those who want to leave it.’ Mithila heard her voice shake. ‘You are taking the world away from us, and offering us a few bushels of rahi in its place. Is that the price you’ve put on the horizon? A house, a lover, a third of your money?’
I know you’ll be telling me, telling me always that it’s not enough, and sometimes you’ll make me angry because you’ll accuse me of compromising, and I’ll make you sad because I will really be compromising.
‘Your people cannot eat the horizon,’ said Rama, her voice trembling.
‘But they have tasted the world. You have the power to do this now. And you won’t—’
‘I can’t.’ The words stretched taut, a rope between them. ‘Don’t you see? I can’t. Not yet.’
‘Not yet? Or not ever?’
Rama flinched. ‘Did we not once promise that we would always be honest with each other?’
‘In another world, a long time ago,’ Mithila said. ‘But I no longer ask for honesty. Just tell me a lie that I can forgive.’
There was silence.
‘You called me Worldfarer,’ Mithila said, after a while. ‘Do you understand what that means?’
‘Yes—no—Worldfarer,’ said Rama. ‘The Wall has been there, two thousand years. It has waited. It can wait a little longer. Let there be peace first.’
‘There cannot be peace within the Wall.’
‘Mithila—listen to me. Please.’ Rama’s voice grew urgent. ‘A week ago, when we dreamed of the future in the Maliot House, this was unthinkable. Today it’s already here. And you cannot lose what you never had. It is only you who will know the loss of a world that only you have seen. But your people—their dreams are here. Will you trample on them for the sake of yours?’
We’ll betray our dreams of each other.
Mithila looked at her, aching. ‘They have heard the sound of the world,’ she said. ‘We are not going back to what we were, Rama. The lies that kept us chained for two thousand years—they’re broken. And that is something you’ll never repair.’
Rama smiled at her, a slow sad smile. It broke her heart.
Numbly, Mithila knelt and picked up the banner, from where it was folded up beside her, and unfurled it. It whipped over the side of the barricade, twisting in the wind.
‘Look, Rama,’ she said, and Rama looked.
‘This is the banner under which we’ve come together. Under this banner, and with a blade held to my palm, I have made my promise. It is the Wall—or it is nothing.’
There was a long silence.
The world shifted.
I’m sorry, Mithila said with her eyes. I’m so sorry. Rama was looking away from her, at the ground.
‘I will take your answer,’ Rama said finally. ‘If you change your mind, come and find me. These laws will stand for fifteen days. If we have not resolved this by then, they will be gone—and so will I. Think about that, Mith.’
‘I—alright,’ said Mithila.
‘Farewell,’ said Rama. She turned and walked away, over the bridge.
And I thought, when you left at last, in that morning, how unfinished words became themselves in you, how effortless you made everything seem, how the world was suddenly so much more.
The world grew smaller, and greyer.
Beyond the bridge, Rama turned back once. Mithila bit down on her tongue, and watched her in silence.
Rama nodded. And then she was gone on the Maliot, towards the Forum.
‘Well done,’ Bhavi whispered. Nilan was looking at Mithila, wide-eyed, as if he’d understood the entire conversation.
Mithila nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She climbed down from the barricade, feeling sick.
‘You heard that,’ Maji said behind her, loud enough for her voice to carry to the terraces. ‘Council’s scared. Council’s weak. Council thinks they can buy us.’ She laughed harshly. ‘As soon as we lay down our arms, they’ll take it all back. We’ve seen this game before, haven’t we?’
There were a few murmurs around her, which sounded like agreement. Mithila walked past her, into the Eleventh.
‘She lies as well as the last President,’ Prana muttered behind her.
‘Is there any chance,’ Mithila said, ‘that it might work?’
‘Not a chance,’ Prana replied. ‘You have the POUM, and you have the votes of the Eleventh and the Twelfth. We will not be swayed. We know better.’
When they reached Konar Hall again, Mithila found that it had been converted into Maji’s control room. Tables and chairs had been dragged in, scale maps of various parts of Sumer spread out, and the hall was full of little groups of people, many of them bearing weapons, who stood close together and talked in low voices.
She threw herself into a chair, put her face in her hands, and took a long breath.
‘Hey,’ Maji said, ‘there’s no need for that. You did well. They always do this. First the bribes. Then the violence. Always. Also, Worldfarer …’ She paused. ‘There’s someone here to see you.’
‘Please,’ Mithila said, her hands pressed to her eyes. ‘Can it wait?’
Unexpectedly, Maji knelt and put an arm around her shoulder. ‘I know. But trust me, this might make you feel better.’
Mithila gave her a wan smile, and got to her feet. ‘Well then. Where?’
Maji pointed to the wall. Mithila noticed for the first time, the outlines of a doorway. ‘Go on.’
Mithila walked to the door, and pushed it open.
She entered a circular chamber with a low roof, and sunlight streaming in through large, rectangular windows. A bench ran around the circumference of the room. In the centre, two chairs faced each other across a table. One of them was occupied.
He smiled. His eyes came to life.
‘My love,’ her father said.
Once again, time graciously slowed down the world for her.
Sunlight fell in gentle veils, bathing Ananta’s face in a glow that brought back the taste of hot bamboo soup, the scent of wood shavings, and the measure of the night to the rhythm of song in an old house in the Seventh.
She did not know when she stumbled across the distance between them, when she fell into his open arms, and when she let herself sob into his sleeve. Ananta said nothing, only held her, his touch as soft as she had always known, until the tears dried themselves.
She pulled back and looked at him.
He wore a tattered smock that hung loose from his body. His face had sunk in upon itself. The cheekbones stood out, the eyes deep-set, the mouth drawn.
‘Sorry I’ve been away for a bit, Ila,’ he murmured.
The name slid into her, the nickname she had not heard from him after she’d turned six and insisted that he only call her Mithila.
She lifted her head, sniffed hard, and dragged the back of her hand across her eyes. Since the day in the Maidan, when Ananta had become Savarian, she had covered up the hole in her heart with layers of forgetfulness, as though it was a wound that could be bandaged away. And now those bandages had been ripped off, but there was no scab, only an open wound. ‘The Rebel didn’t have a daughter either, Ba?’ she said, half laugh, half hiccup.
For a moment, he looked at her. Then, with a strength she did not recall, he pulled her back into a tight, familiar hug. ‘Forget that rebel nonsense,’ he said, his voice strangled. ‘If I could burn up those words I wrote, I would. I will always have a daughter. Won’t I?’
This time she didn’t cry, but let her head rest upon his shoulder, and allowed her eyes to close. He did not smell of fresh wood, sawdust, paper. He smelled tired.
‘So,’ said Ananta softly. ‘Worldfarer, I hear. You did take the moment.’
Mithila stepped back. She felt herself tremble. Carefully, she pulled up a chair and sat down. Ananta followed suit. For a moment, it felt faintly ridiculous, the two of them across each other. Mithila stood up and dragged her chair around, until she was next to Ananta, and they were both sitting together, facing the windows.
She dropped her head sideways, onto his shoulder, winding her arm through his to hold it to her.
‘Almost didn’t,’ she said. ‘Just as I was about to leave, Minakshi came and told me you’d been seen in the Dooma, that Rastogi would have you killed unless I stayed back. I didn’t know what to do, I—’
‘What? She said I’d been seen—when?’
‘The night of the Race.’
‘But I never left the underground until I fled to the Towers of Rebirth. Your sister lied to you.’
‘Ah.’ Mithila stared intently at the table. ‘That little shit.’
‘Don’t use that language about your sister, Mithila,’ Ananta said automatically. But then he caught himself, and his face split into a mischievous, familiar grin. ‘Though I will say: as someone who failed at revolution, you’ve done—you’ve been perfect. Mithila Maloran. Worldfarer. And I have never been prouder.’
She grinned and looked away, suddenly shy. ‘It just … took me up.’
Ananta laughed freely. ‘No no, I didn’t mean crossing over. You do that once, and it’s done. I mean this, all this. The barricade, the Banner. You have to do it once, and then all over again, and again—and each time could be your last, but never the last. Oh, Builders!’
‘You’d know.’ Mithila groaned, as she felt the day’s weariness finally seep into her. ‘But I … I don’t know how barricades work. I don’t know how anything works. I didn’t make this Revolution, Ba. The Revolution made me, and I know it will unmake me. The Union, the Dooma—they have their own desires. I’m their vessel. I am the Banner, only the Banner. They know it. I know it.’
