Somebody screamed.
My second strike swung from its target in an avoidance manoeuvre of its own as I swivelled instantaneously towards Shanti, the bag of rice toppling in the swiftness of my act. I let it go, precious grains erupting from the bag as it split, rice flooding onto the dirt.
My only thought was Shanti. I shielded her from the crush as people put as much distance between themselves and the boy. Shanti had not seen what I had seen.
"The rice," she called.
"Leave it. Leper."
Yes, I knew there was a cure for leprosy, but it hadn't been around that long and the stigma of a curse such as this lingers for many decades in the psyche of a people. There is something at the edge of my memory that I still can't quite grasp - perhaps it is only a feeling - but whatever it is, it causes me to baulk, even now, at the thought of leprosy. Times are changing, but back then, leprosy was still a curse in rural India. I think it is still so. Lepers are not readily accepted back in their communities, if at all.
The boy who had fallen and who was hopelessly trying to cover the appalling lumps and lesions on his shoulder and neck, was cursed with this sickness that above all others separates one from society, makes one an outcast, and an out-caste.
And we were closer than I wanted to be, on the edge of the wide circle that had formed around the boy, who was alone now on the dusty ground, staring despairingly at the crowd, they making the sign against evil, some shouting curses at him, others shouting at those pushing to see from the back of the crowd.
It happened in the middle of this chaos.
The clamour decreased, the crowd calmed, almost hypnotized it seemed, as a white man, a European in his fifties I guessed, stepped from the crowd. He stood looking at the boy for a moment - it seemed longer. Nobody spoke. He could not see the leprous lesions from the angle he had approached. He started forward.
Of course it crossed my mind that this was the missionary - Staines was his name. An Australian. Apparently he had been in Baripada for over 30 years. He wasn't the fly in, fly out variety. He was more dangerous. You didn't stick with something that long unless you had carved out a very comfortable life, filled with servants and luxuries you could not enjoy in your home country, or you were of the really hazardous variety: a fanatic.
Nevertheless, the man was walking right up to a leper, a boy cursed with a terrible, contagious disease, the treatment of which was and is difficult and time consuming. I scanned the crowd - they seemed spellbound, fascinated, watching.
Shanti felt as I did; we didn't know, and Mishra had not mentioned this aspect of Staines, the missionary.
'Do something, Baba," she whispered.
I knew what she meant. I couldn't allow him, irrespective of who he was, to walk up to a leper unknowingly, even if everyone else was going to let him. It did make me wonder, fleetingly, if there was a suppressed animosity towards him amongst the people of this town.
I called out a warning, "Hey Mister, he's a leper."
He raised his hand in acknowledgement, but did not look my way, his eyes on the boy alone.
The boy turned at his approach, alerted by my call. His shirt fell open again and the full effect of the disease up his shoulder and across his chest was revealed. Shanti gasped. I quickly shielded her and tried to move her further away, but the crowd were not giving way at this climactic moment in the drama. I was angry with myself for not getting her away earlier. We were about to have a baby and proximity to a leper, looking at a leper, was asking for bad luck.
By this time Staines - yes, it was him, although I still wasn't certain at that point - had knelt down beside the boy and was talking to him. Then he did a thing that is still etched in my memory, something so foreign to my way of thinking that I could hardly grasp what my eyes were telling me. This man reached out both arms, took this boy in them and lifted him gently from the ground and held him close.
At that moment an experience from my youth on the streets of Kolkata flooded my memory in all its detailed and emotional clarity. We were walking on a busy street when my mother pulled me to the side, around a man lying in our way. He was moaning, trying to move, eyes glazed over from starvation and near death. My mother told me not to look, but it was a fascinating sight to a young boy. As I looked back at the man, I saw a small woman dressed in strange clothing kneel down next to him and begin to tend to him. Soon the sight was obscured by the throng of people, but the picture of humility kneeling next to pain, the depiction of compassion and hopelessness merging, that portrait was inexplicable, transcendent, 'other'. It was the only time I saw Mother Teresa.
The boy buried his head in the man's neck as he was carried from the scene. Then the crowd parted, and quickly too, clearing a wide pathway for this impossible sight to depart along. Had I just witnessed a phenomenal display of courage, or was the man simply insane? I asked who the man was, already knowing the answer.
"That was Graham Staines."
Yes, that was my first encounter, and it left me in no doubt that Staines was a missionary of the hazardous variety: a true fanatic.
But I had a job to do.
I should have done more research, been more cautious, but I didn't have the luxury of time. How is one to know that misfortune lurks just beyond the next bend in the river, ready to throw one in?
My investigations into Christian activity in the area had quickly borne fruit... although that is too generous a description. I had seeds that could be planted, an encouraging start en route to the garden of delights that I was anticipating: a baptism by Christians of a young woman was to take place at a nearby village and a number of the villagers were anxious and annoyed. The primary reason for the baptism appeared to be the promised marriage of the girl to a Christian boy. Why not convert the other way around? It did not take much on my part to fuel the villagers discontent into a commitment to action. The plan was for a group of men to ambush the baptism and prevent it from happening. I, of course, would be present, together with my impressive camera, to capture the evidence.
I had to leave the house well before dawn to reach the place. After a long walk I made my way through the riverside reeds to find a suitable hide, a spot with a view of what I hoped was the location where the baptism would take place.
At the time, I remember, I was excited. I expected a successful disruption of the baptism, good photos with the telephoto lens and an excellent article to hand in to Mishra. If luck was on my side, I thought, Staines would not only be present, but also conduct the baptism. I still had a lot to learn.
That early morning was filled with anticipation for me. Even the mosquitoes could not suck it from me as I huddled at the water's edge, the steam gently resting just above the surface of the water, beautiful lilies, kokaa, a scattering of pink along the banks, opening up as if offerings on my part to the Goddess of Wealth.
It was not long before the tell-tale put-put of a motorbike approaching interrupted my dreams of Mishra's pleasure and my inevitable success. I remained hidden, practising patience. I had the right place; all I had to do was wait for the action.
The small group of Christians gathered at the waterside exactly where I had expected, but there was no sign of Staines -disappointing, but not ruinous to my expedition.
I waited, camera ready, for the moment of disruption as a local pastor took the young woman into the water, snatches of his words reaching me across the water.
"...The way, the truth..."
"...Do you believe..."
I could not hear her replies.
"...Of your own free will..." (I remember being struck by that line).
But it was happening too fast.
I risked raising my