Short fiction: An elderly Vir runs into a rebel who fought against the East India Company in India

Vir has taken to walking the grounds of the bungalow every night since his return, though maybe stumbling is a better word, as he leans heavily on the sturdy mahogany cane yet still trips over every pebble, his own toes, even emptiness. Or perhaps “shuffling” is a better description for the slow, wavering, painful steps he is forced to take now.

He refuses to count the steps he must take until he is beyond the front door. Then there are eleven sliding paces across the shaded veranda; four agonising ones down the creaking wooden steps to the garden path. After the first three nights of struggling to grip the red-painted bannister and his unwieldy cane, of toppling over and rolling down to the pebbled path, he has developed a better system: he throws the cane down first and then grips the bannister with both hands, pushing and pulling his body sideways to make his way down. The manoeuvre still leaves him winded and his arms and shoulders burning, but at least he hasn’t fallen down since. Once he manages to pick up his cane and turn right, one hundred and three steps take him to the stone wall just high enough to...

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