Fire spreads quickly in an old wooden structure. I could hear it above us, cracking and popping like someone tearing paper, snapping twigs. The acrid smell grew stronger as smoke clouded the air and embers floated down like dying stars.
Were the upper floors already consumed? I rounded the corner to the forecourt at a run. Workmen clustered around the staircase from which others emerged coughing. Tansen stood in the courtyard, feet planted wide, shouting orders like a demented quartermaster.
Buckets were found, men hurrying to and from the well in the garden, yet the crowd blocked the stairs. Few ventured inside.
Some unwrapped turbans to soak and wind them about their faces. Following suit, I covered the lower part of my face, then grabbed a bucket of water from someone and pushed upstairs.
I passed along a murky corridor where women carried children past. The wet cloth over my nose allowed me to breathe, but my eyes stung as I entered an open door where the acrid fumes were thickest. A blast of heat singed the hair on my arms, so I tossed the contents of my bucket in a wide arc.
A hiss followed, oddly alive, like something sentient in the murky chamber. A cloud billowed over me.
“Soak towels, cloth, saris. Soak them!” I cried. Muffled by my wrappings, my voice was lost in the creaks and hiss, the stamp of feet, questions and shouts.
As I retreated, others passed bearing buckets, then I heard a cry. Holding a cloth to her face, a woman in the passage gestured frantically. Together, we dragged a charpoy away from the sparks at the window, then I flipped the string bed sideways and hoisted it onto my shoulder. Others joined me to carry out containers or drag them to safety.
In the courtyard below buckets of water were passed along a chain to avoid spillage. Someone said the fire had started in the larger workshops. Others carted out boxes.
When I tried to enter, Tansen blocked my way. “No, sahib!”
Ah! They crafted gold in that workshop. Even in an emergency, Tansen kept it secure. As I stepped back, a boy carrying a crate careened into me.
While Tansen yelped, “Pandu!” I caught myself against a wall and grabbed the teenager’s arm, but the carton tumbled, spilling its contents.
Circlets of gold shone like jewels on the stairs. Crying out, the thin lad scrambled to collect them. Tansen spread his arms to hold back the barrage of oncoming bodies as the youth and I scooped up the delicate bangles.
Never had I seen such craftsmanship. Each filigreed circlet was adorned in facets that fractured light into myriad sparks. Yet the intricate work was smooth to the touch, admitting no sharp edges. With my palms trayed like a devotee offering flowers, I returned the delicate ornaments.
Eventually the blaze was put out. Had it been an hour, or longer? Daylight had turned smoky grey while we moved furniture and bundles. Men slumped against the outer wall while the thin youth who’d crashed into me doled out water.
A piece of twine looped over one of the boy’s protruding shoulder blades and wound around his waist. I glanced at it, puzzled. What did it remind me of? Then I remembered—the prayer thread that Diana donned after morning ablutions. Curious, I thought—Persians and Hindus had similar religious symbols.
The lad dipped into an earthen pot and offered me the metal tumbler. Sweat beaded on his skin, but the growth on his upper lip and chest showed he was no child. My singed fingers tingled as I unwound the cloth over my face.
He pulled back in surprise, then offered his water again. I drank. As the cool liquid trickled down my chin and throat, I chuckled in relief. Others grinned. Some spoke of when and how they’d noticed the blaze.
I asked an old man slumped beside me, “The fire. Has it happened before?”
He wobbled his head, considering this. “Yes, but not so bad. Sparks fly from the forge—heating the metal, to pull the wire…” He launched into complex terms I did not understand.
Some were washing faces and hands by the well. I followed suit, earning smiles and puzzled looks. Someone passed me a wedge of lemon to use in lieu of soap.
Tansen arrived with women carrying bowls of food. In the forecourt, workers sat cross-legged in parallel rows. Tansen beckoned me, saying, “Agnihotri. He was known to Satya.”
As a woman laid metal plates before us, I asked, “Was Satya a craftsman?”
Tansen nodded. “From an early age. No one could match him at working gold thread. A genius.” He went on in a tone of pride, naming Satya’s talents.
Abruptly, the youth who’d brought water cried, “He chose working with silver! He stole our gold! And you would have made him karta?”
A piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Satya had stolen some of the precious element that was their lifeblood. As betrayals go, it took the cake. Was this why the clan threw him out?
The boy’s outrage drew stares. Others ducked their gaze. So, some members disliked Satya, others were disturbed by this. It was an opportunity, but a delicate one.
I broke the awkward silence. “What is—karta?”
Satya’s mother was serving a gruel of dal onto the plates. She blinked as though she’d forgotten who I was. With an impatient motion, she served me, saying, “Hindu joint families are very large. Many children, many generations. The karta makes decisions, assigns work.”
She gestured down the row with a spoon. “We live together, uncles and their families, brothers and their wives and children. Mistri is the karta.” She did not use her husband’s name, but his role. Curious, I thought. Did Hindu women not speak their husband’s given name?
The pause had eased some of the disgruntled looks. I counted more than twenty men, all related by blood. How did it feel to stand beside such an army?
“Ah … how is the karta chosen?” I asked.
Meera continued serving down the row. Since her husband Tansen sat across from me, he answered, “By tradition, it is the oldest son. When he cannot perform his duties, often his own son takes his place.”
Primogeniture, I thought, like English peers. A tradition that had no place for illegitimate offspring, oldest or otherwise.
“Satya would have been the new leader?”
No one answered. But in Meera’s eye I glimpsed an ache.
Taking charge, she said, “Do you know how our caste came to be? Each caste has its own story. We Daivadnyas are descended from Lord Vishwakarma, the craftsman who made the chariots and weapons of the gods!
“When Portuguese brought ships and guns and people to convert people to their religion, our ancestors left Konkan and spread far and wide. However, we knew each other, so our caste also became like a bank to help pilgrims. People going to Haridwar could not carry cash because of bandits. So, they would carry a special chitti from a Daivadnya family. With this they could visit other Daivadnya houses, as honored guests. Over the centuries we gained reputation, made temple ornaments and became goldsmiths.”
On previous visits to temples, I’d heard Sanskrit recitations of the scriptures, mythological stories with fantastic feats of magic and battle, intrigue and heroism. Buried in the stories were the origins of castes, their lineage. Devotees weren’t just enjoying a tale, they were hearing of their own origins. Perhaps man’s search for belonging transcended all cultures.
Turmoil forgotten, my companions discussed plans, tasks still undone. Some were washing their hands by the well, while others returned to the workshop. Absorbing what I’d learned, I scooped up spiced vegetables with pieces of fried puri and ate. Satya was to head the family but rejected his birthright by leaving. What wasn’t I seeing? I needed to speak with his mother again.
Sometime later, Tansen expressed his gratitude as I took my leave. I asked, “May I thank Meera-ji for the food?”
He asked someone to fetch her.
When Satya’s mother arrived, I praised her meal and hospitality, while assessing her carefully. Just then someone called from the floor above, and Tansen hurried away.
Using the formal form aap, I asked, “Meera-ji, have you lied to me?”
She waved off my question as though it were a curious fly. That flick of the wrist carried a world of meaning: who was I to demand her honesty?
I said, “Satya stole some gold. You should have told me.”
She inhaled, then faced me directly. “Why did he need it? What was he doing?”
“You didn’t ask him?”
She shook her head, worry lurking in her eyes.
“He plated silver statues and sold them as gold.”
“Apshagun!” An ill omen. She covered her mouth. Lowering trembling fingers, she asked, “Sold them? To whom?”
Her eyes were deep wells of terror, quickly hidden like a tarp pulled over an open pit. I tried to fathom her reaction, but it was gone. Could she have murdered Satya? I did not think so—but did she know who had?
Diana was not pleased to see the state of my clothes. My hands were already scabbed from my last mishap. At the sight of my reddened forearms, she cut off her rebuke to rush away for ointments.
Disregarding my assurances, she fussed over the bandages, her voice low. “You were questioning Satya’s mother when the place caught fire?”
The salve numbed my stinging palms. “I smelled smoke. Thought it was from the kitchen.”
She frowned, putting away bottles. “But why then? I don’t believe in coincidence.” She bit her lip. “Could someone see you with her?”
“Anyone. We were standing below the windows.”
She shook her head, misgivings writ large on her face.
I said, “Would someone set a fire to stop us speaking? Bit far-fetched, don’t you think? Cutting off one’s foot to cure a blister.”
Her eyes blazed. “Not if you got too close! It was a perfect diversion. You’re playing with fire!”
I held up my bandaged arms and attempted a grin. Did one of the cousins fear Meera might spill the beans? Perhaps their “little diversion” had got out of control.
Then Diana said, “Keep going, Jim. You will get to the bottom of this.”