The Quellings: Ep. 2 - The Prequel

 By Abhiram Pittala

The Quellings: Chai

1860, Calcutta, British Raj

“Hear, hear!” the British soldier called while standing next to the British Raj flag on the podium. The crowd of forest dwellers rushed up to the podium with frightened faces and crossed arms. The radiant sun, armed with rays,  was just beginning to rise, and the day was already starting with disquieting news.

“Hear, hear!” the soldier called again, attracting more villagers like a moth to a flame. They gazed upon the soldier standing tall on the podium, his head concealing the yellow sun, making him appear like the village deity. The soldier would come at the event of discovering a member of the Vanguard of Calcutta.

The Vanguard of Calcutta was a Bengali freedom rebel outfit. The Britshers feared them, for they had killed hundreds of soldiers. The outfit not only used melee weapons such as clubs and axes, but also had access to firearms such as Muskets.

The blame of the death of the Britishers was pinned on the poor forest dwellers. They lived in the depths of the Calcutta forest, which was near the Calcutta sea. The vanguard would sometimes be misled and accidentally kill a Calcutta forest dweller.

The soldier yanked a chain he was holding in his left hand. The chain tugged and pulled on what seemed to be an Indian covered in blood. He was bare, and there were visible whip marks on his torn back. It looked like a wild animal had found him in the forest but cruelly tortured him. In this case, the wild animal was the soldier.

“Suri, a forest dweller, has proved to be a member of the Vanguard of Calcutta!” the tall soldier on the podium announced. A series of yearnful shouts and moans erupted from the crowd present.

Boom! The soldier's gun crackled, and the entire crowd fell silent. The lead ball bullet fell to the ground, clinking against a metal scrap also laying on the ground.

“Silence!” the soldier yelled, although the crowd was already completely hushed. He cleared his throat and yelled, “I will now demonstrate what will happen if we find out you are a part of that bloody rebel group!”

Just then, a horse’s neigh sounded from the side of the forest. Dressed in a checkered white shirt and classic black trousers, out came the detective. He was comfortably sitting on a black horse, casually trotting on the path. His Fears Watch exclusively found in London glistened in the dawn Sun.

“Morning, sir!” the soldier greeted in a happy tone.

“Morning to you too!” the Indian detective replied back. 

The soldier smiled before looking back at Suri with a disgusted expression. Still on his horse, the detective watched silently. He watched as the soldier lifted his musket and placed the muzzle in Suri’s mouth. Suri’s hands were tied, so he just closed his eyes. The soldier loaded a bullet into the gun and gripped the trigger.

“Glory to the crown!” the soldier shouted enthusiastically. The detective closed his eyes. The crackle of the gun echoed in the humid morning air. Suri’s dead body dropped to the ground.

The typical day of the detective includes riding around on his horse pointlessly, stopping by any street vendors, and drinking as much chai as possible. The British called it ‘tea’, but they forgot they were still in India. 

In retrospect, the detective did everything other than be a detective. He was rarely assigned work, so he had to keep on finding things to do to keep himself occupied.

“Hyah!” the detective yelled, and his horse began to ride. It trotted along the path, under the lush trees, the abode of the Shikra birds. The detective turned his head to look at a group of Indian boys kicking a torn ball around. They were poor, and had nothing to wear except torn pieces of cloth which they tied around their genitals. Despite this, the boys were happy.

The detective, still on his horse, looked to his right and gazed upon the farming fields where many poor farmers till the land until their backs break and their necks snap. They would work from dawn to dusk, trying to make at least a few rupees. Although it doesn’t sound like a lot, a few rupees could afford maybe a few grains of rice or even an apple.

As the detective rode further along the path, he passed by small huts made of mud and thatch, nestled among the trees. Smoke billowed from their chimneys, carrying the scent of cooking spices and the sound of laughter from families starting their day.

Beyond the huts, the path widened into a dusty road that wound its way through the forest, disappearing into the distance. Tall trees formed a canopy overhead, dappling the ground with patches of sunlight and shadow. Birds chirped and monkeys chattered, adding to the cacophony of sounds that filled the air.

The detective slowed his horse down until it came to a full stop. He closed his eyes, firmly gripping the reins. He exhaled slowly, his ears listening for a specific sound. Anyone who could listen carefully would hear this sound. Amidst the laughter of people and the chatter of monkeys, the sound of the boots of the  soldiers stomping against the ground could be heard. The sound of a musket taking someone’s life, or the sound of the soldiers firing a cannon can be heard. 

About a few hours after riding around, the detective settled by a small canopy tree located close to the fisherman’s shore. With a bit of strength and sweat, the detective pulled himself onto a branch and seated himself comfortably. He pulled out a small diary he kept in his shirt pocket, as well as a red pen. The detective opened the book and began to write about the day’s events and what he had seen. The smell of wild fish being caught filled his nose, while the excited bicker of the lads playing betting games filled his ears.

After about a few minutes, the detective jumped right off the tree branch and onto his tree. “Hyah!” he shouted with emphasis, and he was off again. This time, the detective took a path which led into the busy streets of Calcutta, on the border of the forest and the town.

The detective hopped off his horse and tied it to a fence-post placed right next to his favorite chai shop. His eyes darted, focusing on the vendor deftly creating a cup of chai for his customer.

“Kēmana āchēna syāra?” the chai vendor asked in Bengali.

Translate: “How are you doing today sir?”

“Āmi bhālō karachi, ēka kāpa cā āmākē bhālō karē tulabē,” the detective replied happily, which received a response of the vendor laughing before proceeding to make another cup of chai.

Translate: “I’m doing fine, but a cup of chai would make me better.”

The detective sat down on a bench. He patiently waited for his cup of chai. After about 3 minutes, the vendor shouted, “Syāra, āpanāra cā prastuta!”, to which the detective chuckled and enthusiastically grabbed his hot cup sitting on the stall.

Translate: “Sir, your chai is ready!”

The milky but balanced chai assuage the detective’s mouth as he carefully took a sip from the glass cup. After finishing the entire cup in a matter of seconds, the detective placed the glass down and sighed. He closed his eyes once again, listening to the sounds of the lively town. But he heard something unexpected.

The sound of a marching soldier seemed to be getting louder and louder. Like he had expected, when the detective looked up, there was a soldier standing in front of him, clutching a white envelope stamped with a blood-red seal.

“Sir!” the soldier yelled. “For you!” 

The soldier handed the detective the  white envelope. He thanked the soldier and placed his hand on the seal. It was freshly stamped. With a breath of readiness, the detective opened the envelope.

The soldier handed the detective the  white envelope. He thanked the soldier and placed his hand on the seal. It was freshly stamped. With a breath of readiness, the detective opened the envelope.

To be continued…

A story written by Abhiram Pittala