The Traveller

I was setting off at a brisk canter; dressed as usual, as a man; hoping to reach Jaisalmer by night fall; Chandini's midnight black Marwari nose pointing westward and southward; as the sun gained height and heat over the orange sands and vague dusty attempts at vegetation.

A cloud of dust rose in the distance, but I could make nothing of it, as the desert, like the sea, has a treacherous way of deluding the eye as to make distinction between near and far nigh impossible on the unmarked plain.
I rode on, not yet uneasy, but keeping a sharp eye to the northern horizon. There trouble would come, if there was any to be had.

It was noon before I halted at an oasis, frequented by merchants from Delhi and from as far south as the Deccan states, where I would not be noticed. I did not talk to anyone and did not remove the cloth that covered my head and face, as is normal to wear in these arid lands, not yet for fear of recognition but simply because it was too hot and dry to suffer exposure. I had enough food for the day but replenished the supply of water, not before giving Chandini a long, well deserved drink.

As I rode on into the late afternoon, clouds appeared in the sky, meagre wasted cotton that I knew, as did anyone who lived there, was too high and too cruel to stop by with rain. I was stopping for dates and water when I saw a disturbance in the east, whence I had been riding all afternoon. A sudden unreasonable apprehension took hold of me. I cut short my break and resumed the journey at once.
Could I have been recognised? Not impossible, but highly improbable.

Half a dozen grey horses were now distinguishable from the sand they were kicking up, by which I could tell that they were moving incredibly fast. To flee now would be as foolish as futile, so slowing Chandini to a comfortable, convincing canter, I prepared myself for a confrontation, my long knife concealed just out of sight.
It was not long before the mysterious men, who were all as carefully protected from the elements as me, rode up in haste, and the rider who appeared to be their leader drew abreast, his weapon in plain sight, its jeweled scabbard betraying the status his shabby garments vainly obscured.
Before I was convinced that his piercing black eyes saw through my pretence, he brought his mount directly in front, cutting me off, the other riders forming a tight trap. As they drew there knives, and I mine, I realized that these were no fellow travellers hoping to swap stories - they had come for me.

Despite the agony over my fate, I was obliged to stop there. The oppressive summer heat had induced me to get up for the fan. I stretched my sore neck and stiff fingers, and laying down the pen and notebook, I proceeded to make myself some well-deserved sweet lassi.

March 10 2008