Three of the rioters carried Thompson’s table. This was the first time that the table was naked with nothing on it but sunshine. At the centre of the table a black, gold-rimmed horn had been carved. Four emblems were engraved into the corners—rye, a flame, a ram and a cross. They were connected to the black horn by vines that ran aimlessly. The black horn was, once upon a time, all golden. A raider, realizing the harm she was causing to the delicate etchings, did not scrape at the edges and sacrificed economy at the hands of aesthetics. Or it must have been the handicraft of some pesky kid who took to his heart the adage: ‘sceptre and crown must tumble down, and in the dust be equal made’. When grounded for his equalizing campaigns at school—for redistributing the sweets and toffees—the budding Robin Hood must have decided to take the table to task and gotten rid of the gold that thwarted his notions of parity. Whatever the reason, the horn was definitely not of the same class of wood as the table.

‘How much do you want for the table?’ a voice called out, seeing the three men-in-rags carrying the exquisite piece of carpentry. He figured that the table did not belong to them.

‘It’s not for sale.’

As they walked on, they realized that they were approaching the tenements of the mill workers. Some of the mill workers had supported their cause, but were they to be trusted? They had rescued the table. If it had been left to the mill workers, they would have definitely burnt it to cinders. Why involve the mill workers? Would they know how to use it? They would break it in a drunken brawl. They turned and knocked on the house from which the person had called out to them.

‘Who is it?’

‘How much will you give?’

‘Three rupees.’

‘It is definitely worth more—it’s English.’

‘How much is it worth?’

They didn’t know. ‘Can you hold it for us for a few days?’

‘Yes, if you want.’

‘What if you forget?’

‘Here, keep one rupee and I’ll leave you a note.’

‘A note?’

‘There’s no one within a hundred miles who won’t accept this note. Tell them it’s from the mahajan.’

They left the table at the moneylender’s house.

‘We’ll come for it later,’ they said.

32

The following week was ripe for theory.

‘The employees were prevented from forming a union,’ reported a newspaper. ‘Unions are the harbingers of industrialization. If only the British Chewing Gum Company had had a union, they would have survived.’

A competing newspaper, sympathetic to the modernist visions of the mill owners, brought out an editorial, ‘Unions are coming. Companies are burning!’