Peter Reed

The Bright Flash of Vengeance

The British nurses, accustomed as they were to peculiar patients among the native troops, couldn’t quite get used to Sar Bahadur. Even among the Gurkhas, who are a small, stocky race, Sar Bahadur was small He stood five feet tall and weighed, at the most, eight stone, before he lost his arm.

Only a handful of patients were left in the little hospital beside the Bailu River in Burma. They were the seriously wounded, who had received their wounds during the mopping up after the Japanese surrender. Sar Bahadur had been expected to die. In the manner of his being wounded he had assured for himself immortality in the legends of his native village in the Nepalese Hills. For generations the wild and frenzied feat of Sar Bahadur would be told in hushed voices. He had sprung out of the brush at a Japanese officer, a tall and heavy man. The flashing swing of the kukhri had been blocked by the officer. They had grappled in the middle of a jungle trail, rolling and straining in the mud. Slowly the officer had begun to exert his superior weight and strength. Somehow, Sar Bahadur had snatched a grenade from the officer’s belt, pulled the pin, and held the grenade tightly against the small of the officer’s back until it had exploded. Sar Bahadur’s right arm was gone below the elbow. The pure ferocity of his deed and the pride on his face as he was carried for long miles back to the forward aid station, attested to the proud heritage of the Gurkhas. It was a foolish and glorious fragment of warfare.

Sar Bahadur had remained silent and smiling in his hospital bed for a week. At the end of that week, another wounded Gurkha had been placed in the next bed. His first conversation with that new Gurkha kept resounding faintly in Sar Bahadur’s ears.

He had looked over at the new patient, and, seeing a man who looked faintly familiar, had said, “I am Sar Bahadur of Bhatgaon. Who are you, cousin?”

The man had answered, “I am Jung Rana, also of Bhatgaon. Is not your home close to the Kathmandu gate?”

“It is! Do you know my family? It has been five long years of fighting with no word of them. I am eager to return.” Jung Rana kept silent for so long that the little Gurkha grew impatient, and worried. “Speak, cousin!” he demanded.

“It is a story hard to tell, for you may not be of the family of which I speak. There was a Gurkha who deserted from the army, a thing of much shame to do. His name is Sehni Bahadur. He is a large man. One year ago he returned at night to Bhatgaon and hid by day. Your father, if it is indeed your family, died three years ago. Only your mother and your two young sisters were left. A young brother went into the army after your father died. When the family of Sehni Bahadur refused to hide him any longer because of the shame to their name, he forced his way into the house of your family. He remained there for a month, because three women could not oppose his will. It is said that screams were heard at night. Then, he departed in the night as silently as he had come. No one had seen him leave. In two days the stench of death came from your house and neighbors went in and found that your mother and your two sisters had died by the kukhri. The family of Sehni Bahadur no longer believe their life to be worth living, but they continue to live in order to be the slaves of the two sons when they return.”

For long minutes Sar Bahadur had stared at the cajan ceiling, afraid to ask the details of ages and appearances which would remove the last doubts that it was indeed his own family.

It was then that the health of Sar Bahadur grew worse, that they began to fear that he would die of his wound. For hour upon hour he stared into space, no expression in his narrowed eyes, refusing to eat. The yellowish skin grew taut across his wide cheekbones. He thought of the stories of strange lands which he had intended to tell to the women of his family. The world seemed an empty thing, and he could not track Sehni Bahadur and kill him slowly with the kukhri. How could the long curved blade of the heavy knife be used when arm for the knife was gone? Why should he continue to exist in a world of shame which he could not avenge? What kind of Gurkha would draw the kukhri to slash at women? His thoughts went around and around in the same pattern throughout the long hot days and nights. But he didn’t die. Some will to exist in his stringy body defied the death of his spirit, and he ate again and grew stronger, though his eyes never seemed to focus. It was the blank look about his eyes that alarmed the nurses, and yet hr was docile.

One of the things the nurses spoke to the doctor about was the strange and monotonous exercise taken by the little Gurkha. He had gone into the brush and found a heavy club, curved and gnarled, about four feet long. When his strength began to return he would stand for hours in the hot sun in the clearing beside the hospital, and swing the heavy club with his left hand. First a hundred low sweeping strokes, and next a hundred backhand strokes, and next a hundred downward, chopping strokes. The sweat streamed down his face, the stump of his right arm swung out to balance the lurchings of his strengthening body.

After weary weeks of the heavy monotonous work, he was ready for the next phase. He found a long heavy limb, grasped it by the small end and struggled to lift the heavy end free of the ground with the muscles of his wrist and forearm. After a week he could lift it easily, and he began to tie stones to it to make it more difficult. When he returned to the shorter club it seemed far lighter. He began to hack at targets, small knots and blemishes on the trunks of trees. Soon he could deliver a heavy blow from any angle on the precise spot at which he aimed. He got another patient to toss pebbles into the air. The heavy club would swish and the pebble would go flying off into the brush.

At last he felt that he was prepared. All of his body was part of a weapon, a lean hardened weapon, with knots and ridges of flowing muscle along his left arm and shoulder and across his hack. The ways of compensation are mysterious. Without his realizing the fact, his left arm had become stronger, quicker and more accurate than his right arm had ever been. He requested, and received, his kukhri from the hospital storage. It was rusty and dull. He worked over it for hours with the sharpening tool on the back of the scabbard until the blade glistened. The edge was keen enough to slash through a wisp of cloth floating in the air. It was so tempered that he could cut completely through a copper coin without making the slightest nick in the sharp edge. He slung it on his right side, the heavy handle protruding where he could grasp it quickly. After one day of practice he could whisk it out and slash as fast as the flicker of a dancing flame.

It was the intention of the authorities to send Sar Bahadur to Calcutta to receive his honorable discharge, at which time he would be free to return to his native village. He didn’t understand the ways of authority, and when he had received his pay at the hospital, he parked his small shoulder bag, strapped on his knife, jammed his wide brimmed hat on his small head and walked away.

He knew, with the instinct of an animal, the general direction in which he wished to go. He followed the banks of the Bailu for a time, then grew weary of forcing and cutting his way through the brush. He motioned at one of the long, flat river canoes drifting by, and the white-turbanned boatman skimmed it over to the bank. Sar Bahadur held up a silver rupee and motioned down the river. The boatman grinned and shoved the boat near to the bank. Sar Bahadur climbed gingerly into the fragile thing, and in a few seconds they were gliding down the river. The boatman stood on his right leg on the stem of the boat. With his left leg wrapped around and over the long oar, and his two hands on the haft, he swirled the oar back and forth in the water with a sculling motion, his weight balanced against the resistance of the flat blade of the oar against the water.

During the morning they moved quickly. Sar Bahadur sat in the sun in the bottom of the boat, the gentle breeze of their passage making him sleepy, wondering idly how far the rupee would take him. There were sacks of rice in the boat, so obviously the boatman was heading for a definite destination.

At noon the boatman headed over toward a small sheltered bay at the side of the river. He ran the boat against the shore and squatted in the bottom of the boat next to Sar Bahadur. He glanced around and then reached inside his shirt. Sar Bahadur imagined the man was reaching for a packet of food. Instead, the man’s brown hand flashed out and up, the sun catching on the blade of a short knife when he paused before striking at the sitting form of the Gurkha. The boatman had no doubts of his ability to stab the little one-armed Gurkha, remove his money and roll the body into the river.

Sar Bahadur wrenched his body convulsively to one side, and the little knife sunk into one of the rice sacks. The man lifted the blade again, but the Gurkha already had his hand on the hilt of the kukhri. As the little knife started the second stroke there was a wide silver flash through the air, and the little knife, with the boatman’s hand still clenching it, tumbled into the muddy river. Sar Bahadur scrambled back away from the gush of blood, scrambled over the sacks and jumped out onto the bank. He stood for a second looking down at the squatting figure of the boatman, who had his fingers clenched around the severed forearm, who stared with unbelieving eyes at the quick and deadly catastrophe that had befallen him. Sar Bahadur turned and started to walk once more down the bank of the river. Before he got out of earshot he heard the boatman begin to scream with dim hoarse regularity.

Without proper knowledge of the languages of Burma, and with a shy reluctance to speak to any white men with his few words of English, Sar Bahadur wandered with apparent aimlessness, always getting closer to the border of India. At last he came to Chittagong, a place he remembered. From there he worked his way slowly west and south. Many persons looked with contempt and amusement at the tiny one-handed Gurkha, and many thought of robbing him. But there was something about the look in his eyes, and the small muscular hand which could reach so quickly over to the grip of the heavy knife that deterred them. He spent his money carefully, buying small amounts of food when he began to weaken from hunger, knowing all the time that his search for Sehni Bahadur might be long, and that he could not work or rest until the man had been found and punished.

At last he entered the sultry swarming city of Calcutta, a lonely plodding figure, carrying in his heart a hundred imagined ways of slow and painful death. On the outskirts a few stared curiously at the little man in the soiled, torn uniform of the Gurkha troops. In the city he was unnoticed in the broiling clots of people and confusion of the big city. He started his search. He based his reasoning on the fact that if he, Sar Bahadur, were in great trouble, he would lose himself in the city. He sensed that Sehni Bahadur would have also sought sanctuary in Calcutta.

An unnoticed grim little man searched the city. He walked at night through the filthy winding alleys off Chitpore Road. He stood for hours watching customers leaving the chandoo-cellars where Gurkhas sometimes found the Nibhan of opium. He walked in the Gurkha bazaar in Colootollah. He frequented all tea houses where Gurkhas might conceivably go. Many a Gurkha was surprised by a little man with one arm who would walk up to him and ask the whereabouts of a large Gurkha called Sehni Bahadur. None could give the little man any satisfaction. He found a few who had heard of the man, and one who knew him. But he found no one who had seen the large man within the year. Gradually, as his store of rupees decreased, he began to have doubts, began to think that maybe he would be unable to find the man. But each time the thought came upon him that he would fail, he felt such a sinking feeling in his heart that he was forced to redouble his efforts. He walked countless miles in Calcutta, sleeping in alleys and doorways and under bridges... eating sparingly and seldom. He lost weight and his eyes shone with the violence of his determination.

At last he had only five rupees left. If he stretched his search to the limit of his endurance and money, he estimated that he could last for fifteen days, but at the end of that time he would be jobless and weak with hunger. He squatted at the comer of a busy street and stared up into the faces of the passersby, wondering whether he should return to Bhatgaon. It was then that he saw the face of a Gurkha, a man dressed in white, striding boldly along the crowded sidewalk. Sar Bahadur sprang to his feet and hurried until he was walking beside the larger man.

The stranger looked down and said, “Is there something you wish, wounded cousin?”

“I try to find a Gurkha named Sehni Bahadur. I have searched for him for long weary weeks. There is a matter of importance of which I must speak to him. Do you know him?”

“It is possible. What is this matter of importance?”

“That is between the two of us. Where can I find him?”

“He works, as I do, as the bearer and body servant of a powerful white man. I am bound by him not to disclose his location or his new name, as there are matters of the past which trouble him.”

The little Gurkha walked silently, wondering how he could force this haughty man to give him the information he needed. He said, “I am a comrade who borrowed a small amount of money several years ago. It is a matter of honor that I find him and pay my debt. But, without washing to quarrel with you, it seems strange to me for Gurkhas to become servants. It is not an occupation in which one can take pride.”

“Foolish little cousin, many of our brothers have become servants. It is difficult to live on the land, and many of us are weary of the army. It has become a matter of pride for the white men to have warlike Gurkhas as servants. The pay is good. The work is not difficult. There is a chance to travel widely. You should consider it.”

“Never! I will keep to the ways of my fathers. But where can I find Sehni Bahadur?”

“You can pay the money to me and you have my word that he will receive it.”

“I would trust you to do that were it not for the fact that there are other things I must discuss with Sehni Bahadur. Things of profit to both of us.”

For many minutes they walked silently together, the face of the bigger man misted with thought. At last he looked down again and said, “Come with me while I make certain purchases, and then you can return with me to a hotel where I will show you where you can find Sehni Bahadur.”

Sar Bahadur thanked him and continued at his side. They went to a bazaar while the big man, who disclosed that his name was Joodha Bahadur, made certain purchases. Then they walked a long distance back to a large hotel. The big man walked around and through a small foul alley to a rear door. At the top of a flight of narrow stairs he instructed Sar Bahadur to wait. The little man squatted in silent patience for nearly an hour until Joodha Bahadur returned.

He looked up expectantly, and the man said, “The one who was called Sehni Bahadur is not here. Maybe he will return by evening. Can you wait?”

“Yes, but must I stay here? Is there not a better place?” The big man stood in thought, and then beckoned to him and went back into the hotel. He motioned the little man to hurry. They went quickly along a wide clean corridor; the big man stopped at a door and unlocked it and they went quickly in. It was a large, light room with slowly revolving fans and a huge bed with white mosquito netting.

“This is the room of my sahib, who will not return until late. You can wait here and we will talk while I do my work.”

The little man perched gingerly on the edge of a straight chair while the big man cleaned and dusted. He watched the activity with an expression of faint disgust Also he felt troubled. Now that the end of the search was near he felt weary and thought without pleasure of the task ahead. It was something which had to be done. Joodha Bahadur bustled around, pointing with pride at the costly possessions of his sahib. When his work was done the afternoon was half over. Then he opened a large box and took out a dark square bottle. He held it up and said, “Have you ever tasted this, cousin? It is called scotch, and is frequently drunk by the sahibs.”

Sar Bahadur looked with faint interest at the bottle. “No, I have not tasted it. It is something forbidden, is it not?”

“This is a modern day. You should forget many of the old rules. I have tasted it and found it good. I will give you some if you wish.”

The little man made a shrug of unconcern, and soon had a glass in his hand with an inch of the clear brown fluid in the bottom of it. He sipped it cautiously, tasted the sharp bite of the liquor and coughed. The big man laughed and drank down a much larger potion without coughing. Sar Bahadur felt the warmth of the liquor in his stomach, and dutifully sipped again...

An hour later the two Gurkhas were sitting on the floor, the half-empty bottle standing on the rug between them. The big man had finished the major part of it, and, with the slighting reference to his occupation still in his mind, he was trying to convince the little man that he, Joodha Bahadur, was in truth an enviable man. Sar Bahadur felt faintly ill, but he had a sense of mental well being, a sort of clarity that he enjoyed. He decided to pry more information about Sehni Bahadur out of this man whose lips could not properly form his words.

He interrupted the self-adulation of Joodha Bahadur by saying, “How large a man is this Sehni Bahadur?”

The big man’s face took on an expression of ponderous slyness, and he mumbled, “You said you knew him. You said be loaned you money. Have you forgotten his appearance?”

“Yes. It has been many years.”

“He is a man as big as myself. He is a brave and bold man, with many deeds of prowess.” Sar Bahadur thought of the bravery involved in using the knife on women, and he grunted. The big man was stung by the tone of the grunt. “You question it?” he demanded. “How can a yellow insect like yourself question the deeds of a great man? I will show you the power of Sehni Bahadur.” He reached out a muscular hand, clutched the front of Sar Bahadur’s tattered tunic, and with a convulsive wrench rolled the little man across the floor. Even as Sar Bahadur rolled, the words of Joodha Bahadur cleared the numbness of the alcohol from his body.

He jumped to his feet at the same moment as the big man lurched up. “Yes, you little yellow bug, I am Sehni Bahadur! You have puzzled me. What do you want?”

Sar Bahadur stood motionless and a red glow seemed to creep in from the corners of his eyes until the room looked as though it were bathed in the light of a distant fire. The form of the big man grew misty as it stood swaying in front of him. The little man leaped forward, the silver lightning of the kukhri flashing through the air. At the instant of contact he turned the edge and dropped his arm. The blow from the flat blade struck the big man just below the shoulder and knocked him howling to the floor. Sar Bahadur stood over him, the mist gradually clearing. The big man rolled up onto his knees, grasping at his broken arm, a look of terror in his eyes. The face of the little man was the taut mask of death.

“What do I want? I want to pay my respects to the slayer of women. I want to see the color of the insides of a man who knifes women.”

“But they tried to poison me!”

“And for a reason. Prepare yourself.”

Sar Bahadur lifted the shining blade while the big man bellowed and screamed. There was not much time. Someone would come when they heard the great noises the big man was making. He paused, wondering which of the hundred slow deaths he would give to Sehni Bahadur. Then, with a shiver of disgust, he felt the joys of vengeance grow flat and stale in his mouth. It would soil his hands to give a slow death. The blade flashed and the screams stopped with abrupt suddenness. The body slumped heavily forward onto the rug. The wide glazing eyes stared up from the head which lay a few feet from the body. The blood soaked into the rug in a widening pool.

The door burst open and a tall tanned white man with grey hair rushed into the room. Sar Bahadur spun around, the blade half lifted. He was prepared to cut and slash his way out the door and out into the street, swinging and chopping with the razor edge until he was overcome and killed. The man stopped short and barked a command in Nepalese. Sar Bahadur stood at attention, the stained blade at his side. The man looked into the small grim face with curiosity and a certain compassion. He reached behind him and swung the door shut in the faces of many curious ones who cluttered up the corridor.

“What is this about? Why have you killed my servant, an unarmed man?”

In short quiet sentences, like a soldier giving a military report, Sar Bahadur told of all that had happened. He made no mention of the hunger and burning determination of his long search, but the white man looked at his lean form and the hollows under the heavy cheekbones and understood. When he was through he continued to stand at attention. The white man had spent many years in the East. He was wise and kind, and understood the questions of honor and pride involved. He knew that it was his responsibility to turn the little man over to the police for quick trial and execution. And yet he knew that there are things in the world which cannot be settled by judges and courts. The fans swirled the warm air down at the body on the floor. Unseeing eyes watched the slow deciding of the fate of the executioner.

Finally the white man spoke. He spoke slowly and thoughtfully, in the native tongue of Sar Bahadur. “I hired you because I suspected my servant of petty theft I set you to watch him. I opened the door in time to see my servant attack you. His death was the unfortunate result of your efforts to defend yourself. He was a much bigger man than you. I will tell all of this to the police and you will say nothing except to agree. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sahib. But why?”

“It is a matter which was finished when the blow was struck. Another death will not help matters.”

“I am grateful, sahib.”

“Will you become my servant?”

“A worthless man with but one arm?”

“A man with pride and determination.”

“If it is your desire, sahib. I will serve you faithfully with the life which you save.”

“It is my desire.” The white man walked to the telephone. He lifted it, and as he waited for an answer he looked into the eyes of the small Gurkha. Sar Bahadur smiled timidly, and sheathed the kukhri with the air of a man who has finished an unpleasant but a necessary duty.

Content

Peter Reed
The Bright Flash of Vengeance