‘What did you say? . . . Popatlal Shah?’ Gangi played upon the name with the naive amusement which a naughty child seeks by a play upon odd words and names.
Srijut Shah’s eyes spat fire at the insult, but he had long since disciplined himself into self-control, and the fire in his eyes soon turned into a mellow liquid, through which one could see the heights of condescension that he deliberately brought to the contemplation of this ignorant woman.
She winced under the effect of his gaze and looked up to Vicky, who, however, turned away and did not support her. At this she got into a panic and protested indignantly:
‘All day people are coming and going in this palace, and we are not left alone even for a second. Every time I come in here there is a conference going on. Now what is happening?’
‘Queen Bee, we are discussing some important state matters,’ Victor said, with a cautionary glance to silence her.
‘What are these important state matters?’ the Queen Bee whined. ‘You men consider yourself so self-important. Tell me, and I, a mere hill-woman, will settle the matter at once.’
The resentment in her voice compelled attention. That was what she had wanted. For, always she strained to be the centre of attention, the sun towards whom all the sunflowers must turn. Only, this egotism became ridiculous because of the gap between the ignorance and vulgarity in her nature and the seriousness of the occasions and issues into which she barged where the proverbial angels would have feared to tread.
Srijut Popatlal J. Shah could not bear it any longer. He heaved himself out of the armchair and, with his impassioned face set into a serious and grim mould, got up to go.
‘Sit down, Diwan Sahib, and have some sherbet or tea,’ Ganga Dasi said, exerting the light of her green eyes on him in that ogling manner of the harlot with which she was always able to win every argument. And she accompanied this seductive glance with a charming side movement of her head, an obviously coy gesture which was supposed to subdue the Diwan completely.
The surprising thing was that Srijut Popatlal J. Shah reacted with the tremor of a smile, yielding in one corner of his soul, so that his breathing became noticeably heavier. But the outer steel frame round his nature had been tempered in many a battle. And he said emphatically:
‘I don’t want to discuss anything with you.’
‘Vicky!’ she cried. ‘Do you hear this? Am I to be insulted in my own house!’
His Highness’s face quivered with contrary emotions. He was grateful at the joint front which Gangi had established with him against the Diwan, because it would heal the private quarrel between them. On the other hand, he noticed how she had exerted her charm on Srijut Shah and seemed to feel uneasy, as he had told me he always did, for fear that she may use her sex not only for the ends of power but for pleasure. He extended his hand towards her in a protective gesture.
Meanwhile, Srijut Popatlal J. Shah got up, joined hands in formal obeisance to His Highness and walked away with slow, measured steps. Munshi Mithan Lal and Captain Partap Singh walked out behind him.
The silence of doom spread on the drawing-room.
I got up to leave after the other members of the entourage had gone, but, curiously, Gangi asked me to stay for a while. The need to know more about what had really happened since our return from Simla persuaded me to accept the invitation.
I felt a little embarrassed and out of place as Gangi went up to where Vicky was standing and put her arms round his neck, because, in spite of the fact that in Europe I had got used to lovers and husbands and wives kissing and cuddling each other in public, a slight self-consciousness at open love-making lingered still in the demure Indian parts of my nature; and my awareness of the tension between this couple, underneath the surface reactions, made the outer display of tenderness seem sentimental.
Vicky readily accepted the affection Gangi offered him, because he had sensed the little flutter she had excited in Srijut Popatlal J. Shah. And though she was ostensibly using her sex for his benefit, this kind of histrionic display always made him jealous, because it made him uneasy about her. Now, the assurance which her embrace brought him, seemed to soothe him.
‘Let us have a drink,’ he said. And he called: ‘Koi hai? Whisky lao!’ Bhagirath, the bearer, came in, soft-footed, joined hands to do obeisance to Gangi, and went to the sideboard to get the drinks out.
‘I have some American friends,’ began Vicky. And then, with a flourish of his right hand, he continued, putting as much significance into his words as possible: ‘I shall call them here for shikar. . . . Actually, one of them sounded me about making a pact, for Sham Pur borders upon Tibet as well as Kashmir and India. I will show this Diwan a thing or two.’
‘Your Highness, the Diwan has been sent here by Sardar Patel and has to carry out his orders. And I feel that the Government of India wants a strong united India. And even Sir C.P.—’
‘Sham Pur is not Travancore,’ said Vicky impatiently. And by now he was striking postures which obviously belonged to the clever, clever part of his nature. ‘My forefathers maintained the freedom of Sham Pur for generations by keeping a well-trained army. We hillmen are still fit and in good condition. In our strength lies my hope of lasting out against Patel’s bullying. And I am more than a match for this Gujerati bania, Popatlal Shah.’
‘What a name—Popatlal Shah!’ mocked Gangi. ‘You were very rude!’ said Vicky in a tone of admonishment which showed that, for all his boasts of strength, he was frightened of Srijut Shah.
‘I can handle him!’ Gangi said. ‘You leave him to me. He will be eating out of my hands soon.’
This challenge, offered as a reassurance, did not settle Vicky’s mind, but, instead, started an awful panic in him. And he tried to work off his fears with a show of greater cleverness:
‘I can make Popat’s life difficult here. And I have a few friends among the princes of the Simla Hill states. So Vallabhbhai won’t find it all so easy in this area as he did in Gujerat!’
Against this kind of boasting my courage seemed to fail. I knew that if he really meant to carry out any part of this mad programme out of a self-will bolstered up by his lack of happiness in his home life, and the panic resulting from it, he was destined to end up in disaster.
‘I am afraid the situation in the state is very explosive. The Praja Mandal. . . .’
‘Don’t talk like a coward, Hari! Just because you are a hillman who has been educated, it should not mean that your ancestral pride and strength should have been weakened.’
‘It is the way with these babus,’ Gangi said. ‘They get frightened easily.’
‘I only want to tell you, Highness, that perhaps you don’t know how grave the situation in the state is. You see, no one dares tell you—’
‘And you dare to be impertinent!’
I felt a wave of anger go through me. I was itching to blow up the bubble of his complacency, but I controlled myself.
For a moment, the oppression of our opposite wills shimmered in the close atmosphere of the drawing-room. But Bhagirath was already serving drinks, and His Highness raised his glass and said, ‘Cheers.’
‘Doctor Sahib,’ Gangi said as she settled felinely into a corner of the settee, ‘Maharaja Sahib is tired, especially after the quarrel we had yesterday. So please don’t take his harsh words ill.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Vicky impetuously, ‘I am glad Gangi has told you of this quarrel, because I want you to help to settle it. She wants me to sell some state houses here because she needs money, and also settle one of the houses in Simla on her. Now, Hari, how can I do it? The Praja Mandal is already agitating against me for selling the houses in Haridwar and some of the state property here.’
‘But these houses belonged to your ancestors, Vicky, and are not public property,’ said Gangi.
‘To be sure, but I have no deeds to prove this,’ said Vicky. ‘Raj Mata has the documents and she won’t show them to me for fear she will never see them again.’
‘You are a weakling, Vicky, to let your mother dominate you like that,’ said Gangi. ‘I resent that deeply. . . . Don’t you think, Doctor, he is wrong to be influenced by the two women who have always intrigued against him? It was his mother who urged that awful Indira to send a petition against him to the Sarkar. And like a fool he can’t see through them!’
‘I have nothing to do with Indira, as you know,’ Vicky said.
‘But you are still subservient to the will of your mother!’ she said shrilly.
‘Oh, hell, everyone is against me,’ raved Vicky, striking his forehead. ‘The Sarkar, the Raj Mata, Indira, Gangi, the people, they are all against me—and now even Dr Hari Shankar is sulking.’
‘So you see for yourself, Vicky, that people are against you,’ I said. ‘I think you can get them on your side, if you give orders to stop the repression that the police are carrying out against the Praja Mandal. And if you release the political leaders, both Sardar Patel and Diwan Popatlal will become much nicer to you.’
‘You leave Popatlal to me,’ said Gangi, almost in a furtive whisper, as though she was listening to some inner voice which arose from a deep faith in her instincts.
‘What are the other grievances against me?’ Vicky asked.
In order not to upset His Highness with the truth, I too preferred to play the Machiavellian game.
‘You see, Vicky, one must keep some friends, who may stand by one in time of trouble. Now, even your cousins, the sardars, are up in arms against you, beginning with your half-brother, the Commander-in-Chief. And the jagirdars, whose lands have been confiscated, are intriguing against the gaddi. The people are still loyal, but there are interested parties who will exploit their grievances against you.’
‘Do you think the people are really loyal?’ Victor asked, partly because the traditional slogan of the ruling house was always in his mouth (that the Raja had the welfare of the Praja at heart), and partly because he wanted cleverly to use the people’s will as a bargaining counter in his quarrel with the States Department.
‘The people are born loyal and die loyal,’ I said, lending myself to cynicism in order not to give the straightforward, truthful answer: that they were not bearing their misery as silently now as they used to do in the past.
All this statecraft was boring Gangi.
‘Give me some more sherbet,’ she said, referring to the whisky.
‘Koi hai?’ Victor shouted.
Bhagirath came in and began to help us to some more whisky. He had been trained in the conventional etiquette of ladies first, so he bent over Gangi’s tumbler.
‘Bhagirath,’ His Highness shouted suddenly, ‘would you die for me if the need arose?’
Bhagirath nearly dropped the whisky as he shuffled on his feet automatically, put the whisky bottle aside, joined the palms of his hands and fell at His Highness’s feet.
‘Vicky!’ Gangi protested. ‘He nearly threw the whisky all over my clothes!’
‘Get up! Good slave!’ said Victor with an imperious grace.
And while the servant resumed his work, Victor orated:
‘I will form a solid alliance with the people against all my enemies. I will teach the sardars and the jagirdars the lesson of their lives. I will dismiss the officers who oppose me. And then I shall be strong enough to stand my ground against the States Department. I will offer the British and Americans the use of some strips of territory if need be. Later, I can turn them out.’
‘I could achieve all that you want without stirring out of this palace,’ boasted Gangi, half mockingly, half seriously. ‘And rather than give away territory to the monkey-faces, you need only give me two or three houses.’
‘Dr Sahib, we must organize a shikar and ask some of the Americans here,’ Victor said, ignoring Gangi’s remarks and putting on a patently clever diplomatic manner.
I wanted to tell him that another charge which was always being brought against him was that he was a spendthrift, extravagantly squandering his own privy purse, as well as state money, on any fancy that possessed him; that every hunt meant more expenditure on champagne as well as cigars; that it also meant employment of begar, forced labour. But my courage failed me. I only shifted responsibility from myself for the arrangements for the projected hunt by saying:
‘Highness, Captain Partap Singh is the man who always makes the arrangements for shikar. I shall call him.’
‘Han, Partap Singh,’ he agreed, and he shouted: ‘Koi hai—call Captain Partap Singh.’
‘You have just returned from Simla and you will be off again,’ Gangi complained with a genuine note of concern in her voice.
It seemed to me that though she was a harlot and wanted ever new sensations, exploiting each absence of His Highness to look for fresh prey for her vanity if not for her hunger, she was attached to him with the natural possessiveness of the chief, though unacknowledged, wife.
Vicky seemed to become impatient as she curled up into a sulk, and he raved:
‘Where is this Partap Singh? Koi hai?’
There were whispers and pat-pats of rushing feet in the hall from the veranda and utter silence in the room, for the shadow of that absolute power, which was enshrined in His Highness, spread out through the reverberations of his voice, pregnant with all the potential terror and force in which lay the ultimate sanctions of his position as hereditary master of all he surveyed. I sensed the reality of this power and felt that no human being could escape corruption if such unlimited rights were given to him or acquired by him, because the will to power entails a belief in the superman even in the weakest person; and the weaker the person, the more tyrannical and irresponsible he becomes. The glint in the eyes of His Highness, which usually made them sparkle, became murderous, and his face was livid with a rising fury, as though a madness was beginning to possess him.
As Partap Singh did not appear he took it out on Gangi. ‘I won’t have you sulking here, she-pig! If you are annoyed with me, go and hide your face in the “dark chamber”!’
‘Look, Doctor, he is being angry and nasty,’ Gangi appealed to me. ‘And I haven’t done anything.’
‘Go, get out!’ he shouted.
At this Gangi burst into tears and began to sob, wiping her eyes with the palla of her dupatta.
It was strange but her tears only seemed to harden his heart.
‘Get out! Get out!’ he shouted. ‘You only want something from me, either money or jewellery or houses! Everyone wants to exploit me, fleece me and rob me! Don’t think I don’t know you all! I haven’t a friend in the world!’
He was fuming with anger and bitterness and fear and frustration. He swallowed the whole tumbler of whisky-and-soda at one gulp and threw the glass aside bad-temperedly.
Once Gangi had started there was no stopping her, and her sobs became hysterical.
And Victor, in his isolation, shouted the more shrilly:
‘I will fix you all up properly. I will throw bones before all you dogs! I will appease the hunger of all my flatterers. Don’t think, any of you, that I don’t know what you really think of me! And what you want from me! Dogs and bitches! I can cope with you all!’
Over and above his stentorian accents, I could hear some gong-like notes beyond the outer courtyard of the palace, a kind of vague cloud of voices which seemed to approach nearer. I applied my ears, but the noise remained like a dense but resonant thunder without any strokes of lightning. I got up and rushed out into the hall.
‘Long live the Sham Pur Praja Mandal!’
‘Down with Maharaja Ashok Kumar!’
‘Long live Pandit Gobind Das!’
‘Long live Praja!. . .’
The slogans were clearly audible from beyond the outer deohri. And Captain Partap Singh was holding the crowd back from breaking into the garden by wielding a big stick.
‘I am afraid the Praja Mandal crowd is trying to break into the palace,’ I said, running back to the drawing-room.
‘Where are they? I am coming!’ Victor
said. And he ran.
But Gangi sprang at him and, arresting his feet, fell in a huddle as he had advanced half-way to the door. Victor kicked her and tried to get free of her. She clung to him and whined:
‘For my sake, Maharaj, for my sake, Vicky, please don’t run into danger like that. You are precious to me. You are—’
‘Yes, Victor, please don’t risk your life,’ I said.
‘I am not a coward,’ he shouted. And, with one terrific push, he thrust Gangi aside and ran.
On the way to the garden, he snatched a rifle from the sentry.
I followed, shouting:
‘Please don’t do anything rash.’
I thought he might kill someone and I was in a panic. I ran behind him, but he was more nimble on his feet. In despair, I could only shout and utter cautionary calls. Luckily, the words that came to my lips were:
‘Shoot in the air. Shoot in the air, if shoot you must.’
And, by a miracle, the suggestion affected him in a Couéstic manner.
He pointed the rifle to the sky and pressed the trigger.
All the pigeons and the doves in the niches of the palace gateway fluttered away.
The people began to fall back before Captain Partap Singh’s big stick. . . .
The ‘hoom’ of the hot, oppressive nights of Sham Pur in the late summer is certainly not conducive to sleep; and the violences of the previous afternoon, followed by the strain of calming His Highness down, had left a hangover of tension in my nerves, which overtired my body, so that I had rolled about in my bed, wrapped up in the coils of a prolonged insomnia, till the very early hours of the morning, when my eyes closed against my will. But it seemed to me that I had hardly yielded to this half-sleep when I noticed the pressure of a presence on a chair by my bed. At first I thought that it was my bearer, Francis, who had come with the morning cup of tea. Then the peculiar aura of a woman’s body made itself felt, accompanied by the exhalations of the Lanvin scent which Gangi preferred, and I woke up with a start.
‘I am sorry I have disturbed you so early in the morning,’ she said.
I could not see her clearly because of the blur created by the mosquito net, so I lifted the curtain to look at her.
Classic Mulk Raj Anand Page 59