We both knew what the problem was; even though she was the princess, I was blessed with certain natural talents and skills which she lacked. Even worse, despite the fact that I had no inclination for preening and pampering myself, everyone remarked on my slim figure and good bone structure. Whereas Jameera had been blessed with neither.
‘Maaji,’ I used to cry in my mother’s arms, as she wiped away my tears. ‘Jameera hates me!’
‘Indeed, she is a difficult girl. Here, pyari, there is nothing we can do, is there? We can hardly tell her mother, the Maharani herself, that you dislike her eldest daughter! You must do the best you can,’ my mother entreated me. ‘You are honoured to have been chosen by her, and I’m sure you will reap the benefits one day.’
As usual, my mother was right. In 1911, there was great excitement in India amongst all the princely states. Edward VII, Emperor of India, had died the previous year. His son, George V, had become king and his formal coronation was to take place in England in June. After that, in December, there was to be a great Coronation Durbar held in Delhi, to which all the princes of India were invited. And as Princess Jameera’s companion, I was included in the vast entourage that the Maharaja of Jaipur – her father – would take with him.
My mother was in a flurry of excitement. ‘Anni,’ she said as she took my face in her hands and looked down at me, ‘when you were born, as is the tradition, I consulted an astrologer to prepare your life chart. And do you know what it said?’
I shook my head. ‘No, Maaji, what did it say?’
‘It said that when you were eleven, something extraordinary would happen to you. You would meet someone who would alter the course of your life.’
‘That is indeed incredible,’ I replied respectfully. It is only now, as I write this, that I can look back and see how right the astrologer had been.
7
It would be simply impossible to describe in words the splendour and majesty of the Coronation Durbar. As we approached the plains on which Coronation Park – the tented city just outside Delhi – had been erected, it felt as though the whole of India was on its way to the same destination.
As Jameera, the younger princesses and I sat in our purdah howdah atop one of the great elephants in the Maharani’s train, we peered through the curtains to snatch a glimpse outside. The dusty highways were thronged with every conceivable form of transport: bicycles, carts loaded high with possessions and pulled by bullocks shining with sweat, automobiles and elephants all jostling for space on the road. Rich and poor alike were all headed to Coronation Park.
Each of the maharajas had his own tented camp, each one a village with water and electricity provided. When we arrived at our camp, I looked with awe at the richly furnished women’s quarters.
‘There’s even a bathtub,’ I called to Jameera, wondering at the modern miracles that could produce everything we might need to live here forever if we wished.
Jameera was less impressed. It had been a long journey and she had not taken well to travelling.
‘Where’s my puja box?’ she barked at the maids who were unpacking the endless trunks they had brought with them from the palace for the royal women. ‘These sheets are rough,’ she said sulkily as her fat little fingers felt the linen on her bed. ‘Change them for me!’
I was not to be cowed by Jameera’s ill temper. Once I had helped her maids unpack and Jameera was safely in the bathing room being tended to, I wandered off to explore. Outside, in the immaculate, beautiful gardens that surrounded our camp, the lights from the enormous park lit up the night sky. In the distance, I saw a sudden explosion of fireworks, whirling dervishes of colour – the acrid smoke mingling with the scent of incense that hung heavy in the air. I heard elephants trumpeting far away and the sweet sound of sitars playing.
I felt a moment of pure, unadulterated joy. Every princely state in India was gathered within these few square miles. Amongst the many thousands of people inhabiting the park were the most revered, powerful and learned in the land. And I, Anahita Chavan, was part of it.
I searched the heavens and spoke to my father.
‘I’m here, Father, I’m here,’ I told him with glee.
It goes without saying that a gathering of the grandest in the land in such close proximity will bring out a certain spirit of competition. Each maharaja aspired for his camp to be the most sumptuously furnished, or to have a larger retinue or a greater number of elephants than his neighbours. The parties and dinners each prince hosted strove to be more lavish than the last. The rubies, diamonds, emeralds and pearls that adorned the bodies of the great princes and their wives could surely have bought the rest of the world, I thought as I scurried to help Jameera dress for the first banquet her mother and father would hold in our camp. Everyone was in a state of high excitement.
‘Eighteen princes and their maharanis are attending tonight!’ Jameera commented as she endeavoured to force a gold bracelet over her plump knuckles and onto her wrist. ‘Maaji told me that the father of the prince I am betrothed to will be present. You must help me look my best.’
‘Of course,’ I agreed.
Finally, the Maharaja’s four wives and their senior ladies left to sit behind a purdah screen and observe their husbands and their male guests at the great reception before the banquet. The rest of us breathed a sigh of relief that everyone had departed in good spirits and made ready for the imminent arrival in our zenana quarters of the women and children who would dine with us, separate from the men.
Later that evening, the reception area of our tented quarters was swarming with female guests and their offspring. I watched in wonder as wives of the guest maharajas were greeted by our own maharanis. To an eleven-year-old child, these women were the stuff of fairytales; oiled, scented and delicately tattooed with henna, adorned with pearls the size of birds’ eggs around their necks, glittering headpieces encrusted with rubies and emeralds, and priceless diamond nose clips. Their children were just as magnificently attired – boys and girls as young as three wearing solid gold, bejewelled anklets and necklaces of intricate design and impeccable craftsmanship.
I remember these sights impressed me, but unsettled me too. I was struck by how all this wealth could be in one room, taken for granted by the wearers, when I had seen so much poverty and starvation in our country.
Yet I could not help but be awed by the spectacle.
And it was to be at this gathering that my birth astrologer’s prediction would come true. Perhaps one never sees an auspicious, pivotal moment when it occurs in one’s life. It happened, as these things usually do, without fanfare.
I was sitting quietly in a corner of the zenana reception area watching the splendour taking place all around me. By that time, I was bored and hot, so I stood up and walked surreptitiously towards an opening in the tent for some air. I drew back the flap and peered out, feeling a soft breeze brush my face. I remember gazing up to the heavens at the infinite stars, when I heard a voice beside me.
‘Are you bored?’
I turned round to see a young girl standing next to me. I knew from the strings of pearls wrapped in layers round her neck, the tiny glittering headpiece adorning her thick, wavy hair, that this was a child of wealth and influence.
‘No, of course not,’ I said hurriedly.
‘Yes you are! I can see it, because I am too.’
I shyly forced my gaze to meet her eyes. We stared at each other for a few seconds, as if we were processing each other’s inner blueprint.
‘Shall we go outside and explore?’ she asked me.
‘We can’t!’ I said in horror.
‘Why not? There are so many women in here, no one will notice we have even gone.’ Her extraordinary liquid-brown eyes, the irises flecked with amber, challenged me.
I took a deep breath, knowing the trouble that I would get into if someone discovered I was missing. Against my better judgement, I nodded in assent.
‘We must keep in the dark, or we will surely be spott
ed,’ she whispered. ‘Come on.’
And then she took my hand.
I still remember the way her long, slim fingers reached out for mine. I looked into her eyes and saw the glint of mischief that sparkled there. My fingers closed round hers and our palms joined.
Outside, my new friend pointed across the camp. ‘See? That’s where all the maharajas are having dinner.’
The surrounds of the central durbar tent were lit with a thousand candles in glass holders, illuminating the dark shapes of the trees and plants in the exotic gardens.
I found myself being pulled towards it, the soft grass tickling the soles of my bare feet. She seemed to know exactly where to go, and soon enough we’d arrived at the enormous tent. She darted along one side of it, back into the shadows where no one could see us. Then she knelt down on the ground and prised the heavy canvas upwards. She leaned forward and put her eye to the tiny gap.
‘Please, be careful, someone might see,’ I entreated her.
‘No one is going to be looking at the ground,’ giggled the girl as she pushed the canvas higher. ‘Come, I will show you my father. I think he’s the most handsome of all the maharajas.’
The girl made way for me to kneel down in the same spot and I took the thick canvas in my fingers and looked through the peephole.
Inside, I could see a lot of big, bejewelled male feet and nothing else. But I didn’t want to disappoint my new friend.
‘Yes!’ I said. ‘It is indeed an impressive spectacle.’
‘If you look just to the left, you’ll see my father.’
‘Yes, yes,’ I said, eyeing the row of ankles, ‘I can see him.’
‘I think he is better looking than your father!’ Her eyes twinkled at me.
I realised then that this girl thought I too was a princess, and that the Maharaja of Jaipur was my father. Sadly, I shook my head.
‘My father is dead, he is not here.’
A warm brown hand was again placed on mine. ‘I am sorry.’
‘Thank you.’
‘What is your name?’ she asked me.
‘My name is Anahita, but everyone calls me Anni.’
‘And mine is Indira, but my family calls me Indy.’ She smiled. At that point, Indira lay down full-length on her stomach and propped up her head with her hands. ‘Who are you, then?’ she asked. Her glittering eyes, like an inquisitive tigress’s, surveyed me carefully. ‘You’re far prettier than the other Jaipur princesses.’
‘Oh no, I’m not one of the princesses,’ I corrected her. ‘My mother is a second cousin to the Maharani of Jaipur. My father died two years ago, so we live at the Moon Palace in the zenana.’
‘Sadly for me –’ she raised her eyebrows – ‘I am a princess. The youngest daughter of the Maharaja of Cooch Behar.’
‘Don’t you like being a princess?’ I queried.
‘Not really, no.’ Suddenly Indira rolled gracefully onto her back, put her hands under her head and gazed up at the stars. ‘I’d prefer to be a tiger tamer in a circus, I think.’
I giggled.
‘Don’t laugh,’ she cautioned me, ‘I’m serious. Ma says that I’m a very bad princess. I’m always getting dirty and finding myself in trouble. She’s thinking of packing me off to an English boarding school to teach me some manners. I said that if she did, I’d run away.’
‘Why? I’d love to see England. I’ve never travelled anywhere,’ I said wistfully.
‘Lucky you. We’re always on the move. Ma is very sociable, you see, and she drags us all with her for the seasons here and in Europe. I wish I could stay at home in our lovely palace all the time and look after our animals. If I can’t become a tiger tamer, then I’d like to become a mahout and live with an elephant instead. Anyway, you’d hate England. It’s grey, cold and foggy and everyone in our family always ends up with terrible colds, especially Pa.’ Indira sighed. ‘I worry about his health, really I do. Do you speak English?’ she asked me.
I began to realise her brain continually flitted like a butterfly from one subject to the next. ‘Yes, I do.’
Indira immediately sat up on her knees and held out her hand to me. ‘How do you do?’ she said, in a perfect parody of a clipped English accent. ‘I’m awfully pleased to meet you.’
I reached out my hand to her and our palms joined again. ‘The pleasure is all mine,’ I replied as we looked into each other’s eyes, still shaking hands. Then we both lay down on the grass, convulsed in giggles. When we had calmed ourselves, I realised that we should get back to the zenana before someone missed us. I stood up.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked me.
‘Back to our tent. We’ll both be in trouble if they discover we’ve escaped.’
‘Oh,’ replied Indira airily, ‘I’m used to being in trouble. In fact, I think they expect it from me.’
I wanted to say that, since I was not a princess, but in fact earned my board and lodging being a companion to one, I was not likely to be forgiven as easily.
‘Just five more minutes?’ she begged. ‘It’s so hot and boring in the tent. So,’ she continued, ‘who are you to be married to?’
‘It’s not been arranged yet,’ I answered stoically.
‘Lucky you again. I met my future husband only a few days ago here and he’s old and ugly.’
‘Will you marry him? Even if he is old and ugly?’
‘Never! I want to find a handsome prince who will love me and will let me keep tigers,’ she said with a grin.
‘I, too, want to find my prince,’ I agreed softly.
So there we were, two little girls staring up at the stars, dreaming of our handsome princes. Some people say they wish they could see into their future. But thinking back to that moment of pure childish innocence, as Indira and I lay on the grass with our entire lives before us, I am glad we could not.
8
For the following three weeks, as the festivities at Coronation Park continued, leading up to the grand presentation of all the princes to King George, Indira and I became inseparable. How she managed to escape as often as she did, I’m not sure, but she would arrive at our prearranged meeting place on time and we would go off to explore. The camp became our playground, a garden of delights for two inquisitive little girls. Stalls sold a multitude of delicious-smelling foods such as panipuris and samosas stuffed with spicy vegetables and deep-fried to a golden brown. There were trinket shops containing all manner of clay and wooden figurines. Indira, who always seemed to have plenty of rupees, bought me a clay tiger I had particularly admired and gave it to me. ‘When we are not together,’ she said, ‘then you will just look into this tiger’s eyes and know I am thinking of you.’
Luckily enough, Princess Jameera was often otherwise engaged, usually on formal visits to the camps of the various maharajas with her parents, and my presence was not required in such cases. I asked Indira why she rarely seemed to be needed by her family at these functions.
‘Oh,’ she explained airily, ‘that is because I am the youngest child. No one is interested in me.’
I knew this wasn’t quite true, and there were some occasions when Indira was unable to meet me and complained afterwards about having had to sit around for hours in hot tents whilst her parents socialised. But, for the most part, we managed to see each other every day.
One morning, when our time together was drawing to a close and I was dreading returning to the restrictive environment of the Moon Palace in Jaipur, she arrived with her eyes alight.
‘Come on,’ she said, starting to pull me along, expertly weaving her way through the tents.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
‘You’ll see,’ she replied mysteriously.
A few minutes later, we arrived at what I knew was the Maharaja of Cooch Behar’s camp, as Indira had pointed it out to me before.
‘First and most importantly,’ Indira said, ‘I’m taking you to meet my favourite elephant. She’s only a baby, born two years ago. She shouldn’t be here at al
l, as she’s not yet trained to walk in the procession, but I insisted she came anyway. She would have pined away without me and her mother.’
As we entered the pilkhana, my nostrils stung from the noxious smell of dung. There must be at least forty elephants in the hall, I thought, as Indira led me along the stalls saying good morning to them all by name as she passed. We headed directly towards the end of the stalls and in the very last one was the baby elephant. As we approached, the young animal heard our footsteps and trumpeted at Indira in recognition.
‘How are you, my pretty Preema?’ Indira said as she nuzzled her face against the elephant. ‘I was there when you were born, wasn’t I, my darling?’ The elephant wound her trunk around my friend’s waist. Indira turned to me as she picked two bunches of bananas off a heap.
‘Ditti, your mahout, let me name you, didn’t he?’ she said as she fed the baby elephant. ‘I decided to call her Preema, which, of course, in Latin is spelt P-R-I-M-A, meaning “first”. Because she was the first elephant I’d ever seen being born.’ Indira’s eyes sparkled at me. ‘Now I just call her “Pretty”, because she is, don’t you think?’
I stared into the soft, trusting eyes of the elephant and felt a ridiculous pang of jealousy at how much Indira loved her.
‘Yes, she’s very beautiful,’ I replied.
A tiny, nut-brown Indian man appeared out of nowhere.
‘Ditti, is my Pretty behaving herself?’
‘Yes, Your Royal Highness, although I know she will be happy to return home.’
‘As will we all,’ agreed Indira.
The elderly mahout bowed his head in respect as we left the stall. I realised it was the first time I’d ever seen my friend treated like the princess she really was. A sudden wave of despair passed over me as I followed Indira out of the pilkhana. The girl I had laughed and played and talked with as though she was my sister belonged to a different world, somewhere far away across India. And soon she would be taken from me and returned to it.
The Midnight Rose Page 10