Long after the revolution, when rust had tinted the faces of drowned statues, songs corroded into symbols and memory congealed into memorials, there were some who still came to ask Milana Maran about the day it all began.
Years had passed and the world changed, but they still came: from all over Peruma City, trudging through the rubble of the Bulwark Zone, to the last house on Vashi Street.
They came from the Right Bank, still called High Town, to ask about the chronicle of mistakes that had, on the Day of the Barricades, brought insurrection to their city and left it rent in two.
They came from the Commune, once called Low Town, to understand the facts unvarnished by song, to learn the story of their birth, and to know what really happened the day their revolution triumphed.
Sometimes they even came from elsewhere: from the country, or from the other cities of the subcontinent, where they had had (or hoped to have) their own Days of the Barricades, to ask about beginnings.
Whatever her audience, Milana’s telling of it never changed, or so she believed.
It began on the morning that had dawned like any other: a mild sun straggling into the ashen autumn sky; grey clouds impaling themselves upon the tips of High Town’s towers; weak rivulets of light streaming onto the manicured lawn centred within the many-pillared courtyard of the director’s compound.
Amidst a row of parked skimmers, Milana Maran, secretary to the director, stood waiting. On either side, the Directorate’s white sea-stone buildings rose into turrets that curved inwards, shredding the sky. Beneath her feet, the grass was springy. Autumn dew seeped into her sandals.
She heard his steps before she saw him emerge into the courtyard, dressed for the occasion: black achkan embellished with gold foil, complete with the gold tiger brooch of his office neatly affixed to his chest.
“You’re alone,” she said.
Director Purul approached her, running his right hand through his jet-black hair, messing up the careful parting; a darting, scratchy movement she’d come to know well over the past two years. “As we decided.” He gave her the ghost of a smile. “How do I look?”
She glanced at him, mock-appraising. “Imperial.”
“Not the style we should be invoking today, don’t you think?”
“Just teasing,” she grinned. “No, Director – you look ready.”
Purul nodded. ‘Shall we?’
“Before that – there’s something you need to know,” she said, sobering.
“I received a report from the switchback half an hour ago. One of the mandalium mines was flooded overnight.”
“Which one?”
“A-241.”
“Bloody – how bad is it?”
“They’re pumping out the water, but ... it’s bad, Director. By the time it’s functional again –”
“Commission a report on the revenue loss, and – accident or sabotage?”
“The miners working the night shift just happened to be absent when the water came in. Wildcat strike, they claimed.”
Director Purul closed his eyes. When he opened them again, she saw his gaze turn to the transparent binder clutched in his left hand. Two pages lay within, filled with dense, hurried handwriting, words crossed out and rewritten – red-inked editorial corrections – and marked all over with smudgy fingerprints.
“We’re still doing this?” Milana said.
After a moment, Purul nodded.
“The Council will accuse you of weakness, especially now.”
“They will do that anyway,” he said. “Probably moving a resolution as we speak.”
But his eyes were unfocused, staring at something far away, beyond the courtyard, beyond the northern periphery of Peruma – at the slopes of the switchback, where the beating heart of the city’s economy now lay submerged beneath brackish water and flotsam.
“Director, you haven’t had breakfast, no? You –”
“I can’t eat till this is done. You know that, Milana. Let’s go.”
“Very well.” She gestured to the skimmers. “Which one?”
“Anything. Just keep the top open.”
Milana caught his eye. “You sure? There are whispers in the city – maybe a closed top with just the windows –?”
“No. Not today, Milana. Not today.”
She stared at the ground, biting her lip.
“I trust you.” Purul’s eyes glinted. ‘Come on. Let’s mess with the Council a bit.’
In her telling of the story, Milana left out those last words.
She tapped her wristheld. A silver-grey, pearl-shaped skimmer detached itself from the parking row and floated up to them. She got in.
Purul climbed in beside her, the fluttering rhythm of his heartbeat like a hummingbird in a cage.
“Slowly,” said the director.
Milana guided the skimmer through the compound gates. As they passed into High Town, the director straightened beside her. He tucked the binder carefully under his arm.
Before them, the ground sloped gently towards the river. Clean-cut boulevards separated the skyscrapers of High Town into symmetrical blocks. The early morning sounds of the Tower City were muffled and distant, as though wrapped in gauze. Milana’s gaze darted above, around, to the side. Victory Road was cordoned off, just as she’d arranged with the Intelligence Bureau the night before.
Excerpted with permission from The Sentence, Gautam Bhatia, If/Westland.
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