Heat and Dust
Page 10
Karim had curled up on a cushion at my feet. He looked up at me with his beautiful eyes and said “You must tell us about your research.” When I said that I was especially interested in his uncle, the previous Nawab, he said “Wasn’t he a naughty boy?” Everyone laughed; they said that there had been a lot of naughty boys in those days. They began to tell stories. They all seemed to have relatives who had been involved in scandals in London hotels, had been deposed for some frightful misdemeanour, had squandered away family fortunes, had died of drink, drugs, or poison administered by illegitimate brothers. They spoke of these matters with nostalgia: “Say what you like,” concluded one of them, “those days had their own charm.”
From there they passed on to a discussion of present days which had no charm at all. India was of course home but was becoming so impossible to live in that they had to stay mostly abroad. Yet all of them were eager to serve India and would have done so if it had not been for the intransigent attitude of the present government. They had many bad experiences to relate on this score. One girl told how her family had tried to turn their palace into a hotel. It was in a beautiful picturesque area with many items of tourist interest all around, and some foreign investors had been very interested in the venture. But the Government of India wanted licences for everything and then refused to issue the licences. For instance, the palace was old, it had been built in the nineteenth century and, naturally, to make it convenient for modern tourists all sorts of modern sanitary fittings would have had to be imported. You could hardly, she said, expect a modern tourist to sit on a thunderbox! But try and explain that simple point to a Secretary of the Government of India who knows only one word, which is no. In the end the foreign investors had got discouraged and had gone elsewhere. Now the palace was just lying there deserted with the roof caving in, so that the family had had no alternative but to get all their stuff out for auction abroad. There had been some priceless things – including a golden chariot in which the Lord Krishna was taken out in procession once a year – and they had fetched a good price: but of course, as everyone knew, there were so many middlemen to be paid off – the dealers and the auctioneers and the people who arranged for the things to go out of India.
Karim told me that he had also had to get rid of most of the treasures in the palace at Khatm. If they had been left there, they would have been ruined by white ants and fungus. There had been a large collection of miniature paintings, but no one had cared about it; it had never been catalogued and was kept wrapped in sheets in underground chambers. Now fortunately most of it had been sold to foreign buyers, though Karim had kept some pictures – not so much for their value as for family associations.
“Come, I will show you.” He jumped up, gracefully unwinding his long legs, and led me into another room. This one seemed like a charming, rather exotic sitting room, full of rugs and painted furniture, but Karim said it was just the filthy little old den where he and Kitty liked to come and relax. It was here – framed in gold on the red wallpaper of Kitty and Karim’s den – that I had my first sight of the palace at Khatm. It looked different from the way it does now, but this may have been due to the stylisation of the artist. Everything was jewelled: the flowers in the garden, the drops of water in the fountain.
The pictures showed princes and princesses engaged in various pleasurable pursuits. The princes looked like Karim, the princesses like Kitty. They all wore a great deal of jewellery. Karim told me that most of the family jewellery had disappeared long ago – as a matter of fact, he said, smiling, it was the Nawab I was interested in who had been largely responsible for its disappearance. He had always needed money and hadn’t cared how he laid his hands on it. He had led rather a riotous life – there had been all sorts of scandals – even, perhaps I had heard, with an Englishwoman in India, the wife of an I.C.S. officer.
“Yes,” I said and passed on to the next picture. This, Karim explained, was the founder of their line, Amanullah Khan (he who had taken refuge with Baba Firdaus). He looked respectable enough in the picture – in a flowered gown, a pink turban, a long moustache, and smoking a hookah: but, Karim said, it showed him at the end of his life when he had been confirmed in his conquests by treaty with the East India Company. Before that he had lived mostly in the saddle, with few possessions beyond his sword and a band of followers as rough as himself.
“Oh he was a character!” said Karim, speaking of Amanullah Khan with the same admiration as the Nawab had always done. “He was very short and squat and had bandy legs from always sitting on a horse. Everyone was terrified of him on account of his frightful temper. He got very quarrelsome while drinking and once, when one of his drinking companions contradicted something he’d said, he got so angry he took his sword and cut off the poor guy’s arm. Just like that, with one stroke. Wow. There are lots of stories about him and people still sing songs about him – folk songs and such. The family’s been there since 1817 which is when we became the Nawabs, and if I ever care to stand for Parliament, they’d return me like a shot. Sometimes I think I would like to – after all, one is Indian and wants to serve the country and all that – but you know, whenever we go to Khatm, Kitty gets a stomach upset due to the water. And of course there is no proper doctor there so what are we to do, we have to get back to the hotel in Bombay as quickly as possible. But now we’re thinking of buying an apartment in Bombay because of this business we are starting with Keith and Doreen. Kitty has done a lot of research on ancient Indian paintings from Ajanta and such places which are fabulous and her designs will be based on these so, you see, we will be serving our country, won’t we, through the export-import business?”
He looked at me with eyes which were deep and yearning (rather like Inder Lal’s, I was to discover later). I didn’t meet him again after that one visit, and though I sometimes think of him here, it is difficult to fit him and Kitty in either at Khatm or at Satipur; or even what I saw of Bombay.
1923
It was now no longer Harry who came to fetch Olivia but just the car and chauffeur. Harry was not keeping good health. He said he could not stand the heat nor the food from the Nawab’s kitchen. He always had some stomach complaint, even though the Nawab had undertaken the ordering of his meals himself and only the European-trained chef was allowed to prepare them. But none of it seemed to agree with Harry.
He stayed mostly in his own suite of rooms, and Olivia visited him there. But he was not in a good mood with her. Once he even said to her, quite abruptly, “Douglas doesn’t know you come to Khatm, does he”; and before she could recover herself, he said further “You shouldn’t keep coming. You shouldn’t be here.”
“That’s what Douglas says about you,” she replied. “But it seems to me you’re not so badly off here really.”
She cast a glance at his surroundings to show what she meant. The Nawab had given his best guest suite to Harry. It was a suite of marble rooms with latticed windows looking out over the fountains and rose gardens. It had been charmingly furnished for Harry with some very fine pieces of European furniture. Only the pictures on the walls were Indian. They came from the Nawab’s family collection of miniatures and were mostly of an erotic nature – princes sporting in bowers, princesses being prepared for nuptial delights.
Harry said “Have you noticed something? That you’re never taken to meet the Begum and her ladies?”
“I have met them, thank you.” She gave a forced laugh: “It was hard going.”
“Nevertheless,” said Harry, “it’s a discourtesy.”
“To whom?”
“To you, to you.”
They were both silent, then he said: “I’ve had a quarrel with him about it . . . about you. I asked him straight out –”
“What?”
“‘Why aren’t you taking Olivia – Mrs. Rivers – to meet the Begum?’ He–”
“What?” she asked again.
“Oh,” said Harry, “you know how he can be when he doesn’t want to answer something. He laughs
, and if you keep on he makes you feel a fool and prim and stupid for asking such questions. He’s very good at that.”
“I don’t want to meet the Begum,” she said, playing with her bracelet. She continued: “I come here to be with you – and him of course – I mean, as your friend. Both of you. I can’t be friends with them, can I. Not with someone who doesn’t speak the same language . . . I enjoy being here. I enjoy your company. We have a good time. Don’t look like that, Harry. You’re being like everyone else now: making me feel I don’t understand. That I don’t know India. It’s true I don’t, but what’s that got to do with it? People can still be friends, can’t they, even if it is India.” She said all this in a rush; she didn’t want to be answered, she was stating her position which she felt to be right. Next she asked: “What is all this about dacoits, Harry? . . . Tell me,” she said when he didn’t.
He sighed, and after a while he said “Honestly I don’t know, Olivia. A lot of things go on and I’d just as soon not know about them. Gosh but I feel ill. Awful.”
“Is it your stomach?”
“That too. And this dashed, dashed heat.”
“It’s cool in here. It’s lovely.”
“But outside, outside!” He shut his eyes.
She went to the window. The sun was beating down of course – the gold dome of the Nawab’s mosque gave out blinding beams – but the lawns were sparkling green and the fountains, refracting the sun’s rays, dazzled with light and water. In the distance, beyond the pearl-grey Palace walls, lay the town in a miserable stretch of broken roofs, and beyond that the barren land: but why look that far?
The Nawab came in – on tiptoe: “I’m not disturbing? Please say if I am and I shall run away at once.” He looked with searching concern at Harry, then turned to Olivia: “How do you find him? What do you think? I have called in doctors but he does not like our Indian doctors. He thinks they are – what do you think, Harry?”
“Quacks.”
“Ridiculous,” smiled the Nawab. “Dr. Puri from Chhatra Bazaar has a degree from Ludhiana College – he is a very highly qualified person –”
“He’s a witch doctor,” Harry said.
“Ridiculous,” smiled the Nawab again. He sat on the edge of the sofa on which Harry was resting. “We want you to get well again quickly, quickly. We miss you. It is very dull without you – isn’t it, Olivia?” And he turned right round now to look at her, as if to gather her up too within the shelter of his fondness and care.
“She’s been asking about the dacoits,” Harry said.
As the Nawab’s eyes were at that moment so fully looking into hers, she saw an expression in them which he might normally have taken care to hide. And for a few seconds longer he searched her face. Then he turned away.
He said in a mild voice: “I hope, Olivia, whenever you wish to know something – if something is strange to you – that at such times you will ask not Harry, nor some other person, but myself only.” He leaned forward: “Who has spoken to you? What have they said? No you must tell me. If you don’t tell me, how can I defend myself against the slanders people may bring against me. You must give me this chance.”
Harry said “What are you asking her to do – bring you reports from the Civil Lines at Satipur? Be your spy?”
The Nawab leaned back again. He lowered his eyes as if in shame. He said in a humble voice “I hope you don’t believe this of me, Olivia.”
She cried out at once “Of course not! How could you think it!” and looked reproachfully at Harry.
On Sunday evenings Douglas and Olivia usually took a stroll through the graveyard. They wandered arm in arm along the paths between the graves, stopping to read the inscriptions so that the names of the dead became familiar to them. Olivia called these Sunday excursions their visiting rounds, but Douglas was apologetic about them. He said it was a shame that all the entertainment he could offer her was a walk around a graveyard. “Think of Marcia,” he said ruefully, “in gay Paree.”
“Silly.” She pressed his arm. “Where do you think I’d rather be.”
They were standing by the grave of a young lieutenant – E. A. Edwards of the 54th who had fallen with five of his brother officers at the head of his regiment on 11 May 1857. Aged 29 years. He had become a particular friend because Olivia liked the inscription: As a soldier ever ready where Duty called him, a dutiful son, a kind and indulgent Father but most conspicuous in the endearing character of Husband . . .
“Just like you, darling,” she told Douglas, pressing his arm again. After a while she added “Except you’re not a kind and indulgent father yet.”
“But I will be,” he promised.
“Of course you will.”
The fact was, however, that she was not getting pregnant. She was beginning to be worried: was something wrong? She could not believe it; she was sure that a couple like herself and Douglas were meant to have children, to be the founders of a beautiful line. He too was sure of it. Sometimes she thought it might be due to psychological reasons – because she had been so frightened by all the little babies in the graveyard, dead of smallpox, dead of cholera, dead of enteric fever.
She had brought a few flowers for the Saunders’ baby. She knelt to place them at the feet of the Italian angel. When she got up, her face was radiant; she took Douglas’ arm and whispered into his ear “I made a wish . . . You know, the way they do at Baba Firdaus’ shrine on the Husband’s Wedding Day.” They both smiled, but then she became serious and asked “Douglas, what is this thing about dacoits?”
“There is a gang operating around Khatm. They’ve been terrorising the outlying villages – making raids and looting and some killings too.”
“How dreadful.” She added “But what’s he got to do with it?”
“Our Friend? That’s the point. He’s generally thought to be in cahoots with them, getting a rake-off in return for his protection.”
“It couldn’t be,” said Olivia.
Douglas laughed at her innocence. They walked on. He pointed out a few more Mutiny graves, but she was no longer interested.
She said “But he’s a ruler. He wouldn’t get himself mixed up with a robber gang like that. After all he is a prince.” When Douglas burst out laughing, she said in a rather offended voice “He even has some sort of English title.”
“Oh yes he’s got all sorts of things . . . Look, here’s another one killed on 11 May ’57: Lt. Peter John Lisle of Clifton, Bristol. He must have fallen in the same action as Lt. Edwards. There was an uprising in Satipur inspired by the then Raja of Satipur who had joined the mutineers: for which he paid very dearly afterwards. Unlike his neighbour at Khatm, our Friend’s great-grandfather, who remained ‘loyal’: after making sure which was the best side to remain loyal to. That’s how he got his English title and all his other perks. Clever chap.” He carefully picked a few weeds out of Lt. Lisle’s grave. There were not many – the graves were extremely well kept. A permanent watchman had been hired, and Mr. Crawford himself came regularly for inspection to make sure the English dead were paid the respect due to them.
“Quite apart from anything else,” Olivia said, watching Douglas pick weeds, “he wouldn’t need to, would he, join a gang of robbers. It’s ridiculous. I mean, after all, he must be a rich man . . . Do stop that.”
“But they’re weeds.”
“Oh goodness, let’s go. This place is getting me down.”
Douglas got up and dusted the knees of his trousers. Now he looked rather offended; he said “I thought you said you liked it here.”
“I like the trees.”
She turned and walked away from him down a path. She didn’t want him to see how irritated she was with both him and the dead heroes. But she had more to ask him, so she stopped still and waited for him to catch up. “What sort of dacoits?” she asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Douglas wore his stuffy look. He stared in front of him like a soldier on parade. He was making straight for the exit.
“Come along now,” Douglas called back to her in a testy voice. “It’s getting dark.”
She got up obediently but next moment – she didn’t know how this happened to her – she sank to her knees again and covered her face with her hands. The angel glimmered white above her. The last birds stirred in the tree before falling asleep; otherwise there was no sound. Olivia wept silently. Then she heard Douglas’ footsteps crunching along the path as he made his way back to her. But he too was silent as he stood above her, waiting.
“Sorry,” she said after a while. She blew her nose into her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. She got up, but he didn’t help her. She looked into his face – she could just make it out in the gathering darkness, glimmering above her like the angel. He stood there stiff and straight; he said “You should have gone to Simla. The heat’s getting you down.”
“Is that what it is,” she said, glad of the excuse.
15 June. One of the town’s beggars is a very old woman: at least she looks very old, but this may be due to her life of deprivation. She doesn’t ask for alms, but when she is hungry she stands there with her hand stretched out. I never see her talk to anyone. Although she stays in the town, she does not seem to have a permanent pitch anywhere. Sometimes I see her in the Civil Lines area, sometimes by the royal tombs, sometimes in the bazaar or the alleys around it. She shuffles about in her rags, and when she is tired she squats or lies wherever she happens to be and people passing have to walk around her.