Free Revolutionary Hearts by Pema Donyo

readjusted the pallu of her sari, shifting the cloth to further cover her bare midriff. “How fast were you planning to go? Kill us by crashing into a wall before the soldiers get to us first?”
    “We’re here, aren’t we?” Even as he spoke, she could hear the uncertainty in his tone.
    “Ha! And what do you propose will happen to us when the soldiers report back to the lieutenant colonel?” Did this man never think of consequences?
    “So says the revolutionary. And what do you have planned?” He flattened out the edges of his collared shirt.
    “Explain to Aunt Ankita that I need a place to stay for the night.” Parineeta peered around the corner. The houses were starting to look more familiar. She hadn’t been back to the town in years, but her aunt had always welcomed her whenever she’d visited.
    A tap on her shoulder brought her attention back to Warren. “You mean
we
need a place to stay for the night. I will speak with your aunt.”
    “You?” She arched an eyebrow at him. He stood there in the remnants of his uniform regalia: beige pants ripped at the bottom of his thighs, a once-white shirt covered in splotches of dust, a leather belt with a brass buckle as wide as his neck, and long black boots that were faded brown at the toes and extended up to his knees. If her aunt didn’t think he had been robbed, she would assume he was a mad beggar. “Not in this state, you aren’t.”
    • • •
    He was definitely imagining things. He had to be. There was absolutely no way on earth the man he saw before him was … well, him.
    Parineeta had swept his unruly dark hair into a turban, placed him in a tan kameez shirt and added some white shalvar pants.
    If she hadn’t insisted on dressing him in traditional garb, he would have stayed in his button-up and khaki pants. But the disguising effect had worked. The past few days of walking under the hot sun’s rays had tanned his skin darker than it had ever been back in Hathras. He stared at himself through alternating sides of the mirror, examining his reflection from different angles.
    “No one will recognize you as a British general now,” she said from behind him. She’d read his mind. “Or an American spy.”
    “What did you say?” The voice of an older woman speaking in Hindi drifted through the fabric curtain.
    “Nothing!” Parineeta replied. “Don’t worry, aunt.”
    He raised an eyebrow at her through the mirror. “And does your brother know we’re coming with his men?”
    She brushed off the top of his seamless kameez. “No, Raj does not.” She didn’t meet his gaze in the mirror. Her eyes remained fixed on the cloth instead; she was clearly admiring her handiwork. “I know where he will be hiding, though. And I sincerely doubt he will turn away his sister and the man who saved his life.”
    The sizzle of the frying pan from the kitchen caught Warren’s attention. His stomach growled as the scent of fresh eggs and fried naan and creamy butter chicken filled the air.
    Parineeta smiled at the sound. “Come, eat with us.”
    He didn’t need to be commanded twice.
    His guide led the way, and he followed, brushing aside the thin cloth sheet that acted as a door between the main room and the kitchen. The lack of ventilation in the kitchen caused the hot air from cooking to remain trapped in the room. Tiny wooden stools were perched against the table, and the bowls ranged from battered tin to chipped marbled clay. No silverware lay spread on the table, yet the sight before him seemed grander than any five-course feast he’d ever attended in the queen’s honor.
    Warren sat down and began eating. His stomach yearned for more food after each bite. He reached for the fried naan, swirled it around in the butter chicken, and polished off all the pieces of paneer in his bowl.
    “Your husband is quite hungry!” Parineeta’s Aunt Ankita exclaimed.
    She gasped. “Oh, he’s not my…”
    “Thank you. This woman does not feed me enough at