Flood of Fire by Amitav Ghosh

well-acquainted with the Company’s army, having fought against it at the Battle of Assaye. The Berar forces had entered that battlefield in alliance with the army of Gwalior, and they had come painfully close to giving the British the greatest defeat they had ever suffered. Ram Singh never ceased to relive that battle, and he often said that the British victory was due solely to the cunning of their general, Arthur Wellesley, who had succeeded in sowing treachery in the opposing ranks, through bribery and deceit.
    If there was one thing that Ram Singh was sure of it was that the East India Company’s army was no place for any of his sons. In the English way of fighting, he liked to say, there was nothing to stir the blood, nothing heroic. No Company soldier ever stepped forward to offer single combat; none of their jawans sought glory by breaking from their ranks and taking the enemy unawares. Their way of fighting was like that of an army of ants, always lined up shoulder to shoulder, each man sheltering behind another, every soldier doing exactly the same thing at the same time, everyone making the same, drilled movements. There was something ant-like even about their appearance, with all of them in identical livery, no one daring to identify himself with his own insignia or his own unmistakable turban. As for the caravans that followed them, they were shabby and nondescript affairs, at least in comparison with the vast baggage-trains that accompanied the armies of Gwalior, Jaipur and Indore, with all their dancing girls and bazars.
    What was the point of a soldiering life if it offered no pleasure or colour? Why would a man throw himself into a battle if he did not know that at the end of the fighting he would be able to take his ease amongst the camp-followers, seeking out his favourite girls, and being plied with rich food and heady drink? Better bea cowherd, pasturing livestock, than live like that. There was no honour in it, no izzat: it was contrary to the ways of their caste, and against the customs of Hindustan.
    It dismayed Ram Singh that many Indian kingdoms and principalities had begun to imitate the English armies. But fortunately there still remained a few that were wedded to the old ways of war – Awadh, Jaipur, Jodhpur and Jhansi for instance. And then there was the Mughal army, which still remained a powerful draw: such was its centuries-old prestige that even now, when the old empire’s territory was shrinking fast, a man who served in its legions could be sure of commanding the respect of his village.
    For all these armies, the region around Nayanpur was a proven and preferred recruiting ground so Ram Singh knew that his son Bhim would not lack for options. And sure enough other recruiters soon began to arrive at their door. Some were professional ‘gatherers’ of jawans – jamadars and dafadars – with links to several kingdoms and principalities. The jamadars were usually senior men and some were known to Ram Singh from his own soldiering days. When they came to visit, charpoys would be placed under the shade of the mango tree outside and hookahs, food and water would be sent for.
    Often it was Kesri who was called on to serve the visitors and light their hookahs. No one minded if he loitered, listening to what was being said: since he wasn’t available for recruitment, his presence made no difference. Bhim, on the other hand, was not allowed anywhere near the recruiters. That would have been as improper and unwise as for a girl to step out brazenly in front of a set of prospective in-laws.
    Ram Singh would start by questioning the recruiters minutely about such matters as the salary that was being offered and how regularly it was paid; how booty was divided and what sorts of battas – or allowances – were provided. Was there a batta for clothing? Was there a marching-batta? Or a bonus for campaigns away from the home station? Who provided the food when in