by James C. Clar
The moment Paul Blaine boarded the train in Delhi, he felt an enormous sense of relief. No, relief was not quite the right word. As the train pulled away from the station, it was closer to elation. Fifteen years in India as a colonial bureaucrat and he was finally going home. In Blaine’s opinion, the Empire had five years left here, and that was it. Independence would come, followed by chaos. Anyone who imagined otherwise was a bloody fool. The Jewel in the Crown. What nonsense! Not even the prospect of the forty-eight-hour journey to Bombay, or the long sea voyage home, could dampen his spirits.
That evening when he entered the dining car, he was pleased by the familiar spectacle of imperial comfort. Here was the white linen, the polished silver, the crystal glasses and the liveried waiters moving with military efficiency. The sun might be setting on the Empire but, by God, it could still run a railway.
A man with a flaming red mustache waved him to an empty seat. “Join me, if you please. I’m Baldwin. I managed a tea plantation in Assam.
“Blaine,” Paul replied. “Civil Service.”
“Heading home?”
“At long last.” Blaine spoke as one who had been released from prison.
Baldwin laughed. “So am I. Thirty years among tea bushes. I scarcely remember what England looks like.”
They ordered dinner. Both men chose the beef curry and a bottle of claret.
“Funny thing,” Baldwin offered. “After decades in India, curry’s one of the few things I’ve come to appreciate.”
“The subcontinent’s only contribution to civilization, in my view.”
Baldwin raised an eyebrow but smiled diplomatically. Plantation life had apparently taught him tolerance.
The two men spoke of monsoons, railway strikes and the peculiar melancholy of leaving a place with which one has become, however reluctantly, accustomed. Baldwin described the rolling green hills of Assam and confessed that he would probably miss them terribly.
When the curry arrived, both men dug in enthusiastically. After several mouthfuls, however, Blaine frowned.
“Something wrong?” Baldwin inquired.
“Beef tastes a bit dicky.”
Baldwin took another bite of his own. “Perhaps a touch … but hardly the worst thing I’ve eaten over here.”
They finished their meals along with the wine, coffee and dessert. The rest of the evening passed in the smoking car amid week-old newspapers, whiskey, soda and cigars. By bedtime, Blaine felt vaguely unwell. He blamed the alcohol.
During the night he was awakened by violent cramps. He was not alone. By dawn, much of the train seemed afflicted. Everyone, in fact, who had ordered the beef curry was miserably ill. Several passengers, including Baldwin, required hospitalization when the train reached Bombay.
Blaine, fortunately, recovered quickly. By the time his ship sailed, he felt almost himself again. The investigation that followed was perfunctory. Spoiled meat in a tropical climate seemed the most likely culprit.
On the train’s return journey to Delhi, the supply steward locked himself inside his quarters. From deep within a drawer, he retrieved an envelope stuffed with banknotes. Smiling, he counted. No one had ever become ill before. There had been complaints, but complaints were common. Still, caution was now required. Another incident too soon might attract greater scrutiny.
The steward put the envelope away and reflected on the wonder of India. Here, with the right partners, even death was profitable. From now on, though, they’d stick with their usual suppliers, underpaid hospital workers and unscrupulous hostel managers. No more securing product right off the streets.
Blaine, for his part, arrived home safely. It was a long time, however, before he fancied another curry.
James C. Clar is a writer and retired teacher. Most recently, his work may be found in Bright Flash Literary Review, Flash Digest, 10x10 Stories, Freedom Fiction Journal, Topiary Stories, Antipodean SF and The Magazine of Literary Fantasy. More of his writing is also available at A Condor’s Quill.
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