But an old liveried chaprasi, apparently the caretaker of the lodge, showed up and began to do obeisance to us with joined hands as though worshipping his gods.
Vicky shut off the engine and steered the launch towards the small wooden pier which had been built specially for the Maharaja and was profusely covered with barnacles and moss.
We all alighted and were soon surrounded by a crowd of supplicating men and boys.
‘Get away, get away!’ shouted Munshi Mithan Lal. ‘Where is the palanquin for the Maharani Sahiba? And where are the horses?’
The greeting population scattered with abject smiles and the palanquin and the horses became visible.
We male folk walked away behind Vicky towards the horses, while the palanquin was taken up to the launch under the charge of Munshi Mithan Lal. A cursory glance revealed the miserable condition of humanity in the narrow, confined little thatched cottages, as skeleton after skeleton showed up and salaamed. We ascended our horses and made off towards the bridle-path behind the red-liveried watchman.
The bridle-path was the roughest track, and in order to afford easier passage for our entourage, the forced labourers from the village had cleared the undergrowth for two or three yards on either side by burning the bush. The acrid reek of the still smouldering shrubs made for a certain amount of haste in our climb, and this haste was made dangerous by the high-spiritedness of the Maharaja, who touched off the black horse on which I was riding, and the white mare on which sat Srijut Popatlal Shah, with his cane. Both the beasts bolted with a suddenness that was nearly fatal for me, though the Diwan’s weight saved him. My head whirled as the straps fell out of my hands and the coolies on the track scattered hither and thither, and I thought I was done for. Fortunately, a daring villager ran up alongside my horse and, trampling barefoot through the burning bushes, brought my mount to a standstill.
I was dishevelled and indignant. And as I looked back I saw that Popatlal was red in the face.
But just at that moment Victor had set off the pony on which Munshi Mithan Lal was riding with the same trick with which he had started us off, and as poor Mian Mithu swayed and struggled to control his pony, he looked so ridiculous a sight with his heavy torso that everyone laughed. Fortunately, the pony was not mischievous and Munshiji could control it.
The hunting lodge stood on the promontory of a hill in the foreground of higher mountains. Our eyes were refreshed when we ascended the track high enough to see the beautiful contours of the lodge in front of us and the silver-grey lake below us, with patches of rice fields on the wooded plateau on the sides, over which vapours of mist and smoke seemed to hang like pendants in fantastic shapes. In the far distance, the long-drawn cry of a peasant could be heard, frightening the birds over his field, but for the rest the landscape was empty save for the cattle which browsed in the swamps in the valley.
Victor cantered up the drive to the Dharam Pur Lodge like an eager boy and we entered behind him into the compound, from where arose a loud ‘hurray’ from the American guests, under the charge of our stalwart Captain Partap Singh.
‘I am Peter Watkins from the American Embassy, your Highness,’ said a stocky man of about forty-five with a Charlie Chaplin moustache and pop-eyes, dressed in jodhpurs.
And he came forward and shook hands with Victor most cordially, with American informality. Then he proceeded to introduce his compatriots.
‘This is Mr Homer Lane of our Embassy, and Mrs Lane, a Norwegian, as you can see from her blonde hair. And Mr Kurt Landauer, journalist. You know Major Bell from the British High Commissioner’s office and Mrs Bell. . . .’
His Highness bowed to each of the guests with truly regal grace. And then he began to introduce us all: ‘Mr Popatlal Shah, the respected Prime Minister’, as he put it; ‘Mr Bool Chand, who snorts like a horse’, ‘Munshi Mithan Lal, alias Mian Mithu, who repeats everything you say’; ‘Dr Shankar, the brown-skinned Englishman’; ‘my ADC, Captain Partap Singh, the Herculean giant, who often wrestles with Choudhri Chottu Ram, here, the chamberlain of the palace’.
The slight touch of humour was appreciated and there was exaggeratedly servile laughter on the part of the American democrats, who felt flattered to be talked to so informally by royalty. But amusement gave place to a certain amount of confusion when the palanquin, in which Gangi was being borne, showed up and His Highness, pointing towards it, said, ‘Her Highness the Maharani Sahiba!’ The two white ladies fluttered visibly and the gentlemen wondered whether to bow to the shroud-like phenomenon, join hands à la indienne, or shake hands if the Maharani should emerge. However, they were spared the embarrassment, because the palanquin was borne straight into the lodge. And Victor led the way towards the veranda, saying to his guests: ‘You must be longing for a drink! I know I am.’
Mr Watkins advanced jauntily abreast of His Highness. Mr and Mrs Homer Lane followed, Mr Lane limping with a slight Goebbels-like club foot. Mr Kurt Landauer, a bright moon-faced young man with auburn hair, palled up with me. And Mr Bool Chand made a trio with the short-statured but very cocksure Major Bell and the tall, flat-chested Mrs Bell, while Munshi Mithan Lal brought up the train with Captain Partap Singh and Choudhri Chottu Ram.
By the time we got to the veranda, Gangi had alighted from her palanquin and stood with inimitable grace and charm in the Punjabi kurta and salwar in which she had travelled, the dupatta drawn with a peculiar twist over her head, so that she seemed a demure young woman, the very opposite of the harlot that she really was.
The Americans were all taken in by this vision of loveliness and joined hands, even as she lifted her hands to greet them.
An extra hustle became noticeable at the appearance of the lady. And Captain Partap Singh, Choudhri Chottu Ram and Munshi Mithan Lal nearly knocked into each other as they raced towards the veranda to hurry Bhagirath, the bearer, with the champagne. This worthy was, however, already agog as he wiped the tumblers clean and placed them in order on the large table in the veranda.
The impact of the mysterious East, in the form of Gangi, on the inquisitive West was soon drowned in the froth of the lovely French champagne of 1905. And the address ‘Dear Maharaja Sahib’ and ‘Dear Maharani Sahiba’ punctuated the bonhomie that was sought to be worked up for the occasion.
After drinks the guests wandered on to the lawns of the lodge in twos and threes, while the villagers, particularly the shrivelled-up old men, the large-stomached, naked little children and the wiry shikaris, gathered together on the fringes of the garden, admiring the exalted guests and nursing various hopes in their hearts for bounteous gifts of bakhshish.
But the art of getting bakhshish is not known to the hillmen of Sham Pur. They only know the art of doing forced labour, whether this is in their own fields, for the benefit of the local landlord, or for His Highness the Maharaja Sahib when he comes to hunt or when any of his minions are passing their way. This art of extorting money from the rich is an accomplishment which people only learn in the towns. And, lo and behold, I saw one of the jugglers of Sham Pur arriving at the gate, revolving his hand drum in his hand, and dragging a couple of bears and a couple of monkeys on the leads held in his left hand, with his son, the apprentice to madarihood, following close behind. The juggler had a shrewd instinct. He knew that the local population, who had seen the show often, were not interested in his antics, apart, of course, from the fact that children are perennially fascinated by all jugglers. But the white sahibs are a race apart, because they are always looking for the real India. And the madari, with all his mysterious mumbo-jumbo and tricks, somehow conduces to the feeling in the foreign spectators that they are, indeed, in touch with the very essence of the mysterious East when they see his tricks.
So the sahibs and memsahibs gathered round in the waning light and His Highness rudely ordered the madari to do a few tricks, ‘but only a few tricks!’ The servants brought chairs for the exalted. And, with the low hedge bordering the lawn to separate the exalted audience from the lowly performers, and t
he lowlier villagers and shikaris, the show began.
Girding his loins, rolling up his sleeves, and with a terrific aplomb, the madari began, to the tune of his hand drum, to celebrate first the wedding of the he-bear and the she-bear. The animals were both made to sit respectably on two small drums away from each other. The bride was shy and covered her face with her paw, according to the musical instructions of the madari.
‘Come come,’ he intoned, ‘come and accept your mate according to the Hindu rites. Come and meet your lord and remain for ever his wife. Do not go away. Pass your lives together happy in your home and children! . . . The God Indra is pleased to bestow you on this stalwart man! May you have twenty children!’
The bride got up and shyly went towards the bridegroom, and there were wild guffaws of laughter, distinguished by a gurgle in the throat of Gangi, which showed her extraordinary interest in the formula.
‘And now,’ continued the madari, ‘come come, ohe ladhia, ohe ladhia! Come, take the right hand of your bride and give her a pledge for your happiness together!’
The bear advanced gallantly and took the hand of his bride.
‘Tell her,’ goaded the madari, ‘tell her, tell her, “I wish you to become my wife and to grow old with me.” Tell her, tell her, “The God Indra has given thee to me to rule over our house together.” Tell her, “May the lord of creation, Brahma, give us many children!”’
The bear grunted and growled to order, causing considerable mirth among the village children.
‘Tell her, then, ohe ladhia, ask her, “Come, my desired one, beautiful one, with the tender heart and charming looks, come to your husband and bring forth heroes.”’
The bear grunted and growled more loudly and, holding her hand, stood looking at the she-bear tenderly.
‘Now then show us how you dance, ohe ladhia!’ the madari directed. ‘Show the sahibs your skill as the favourite son of God Indra.’
At this the bear led the she-bear into an ecstatic dance, a kind of jumping movement, in which the newly wedded couple thumped the earth and swirled clumsily around in no rhythm at all, the very caricature of this graceful art.
The guests were highly amused, the ladies shrieking, especially when at the suggestion of the madari that he should ‘play the part of Gary Cooper against Greta Garbo’, the bear embraced the she-bear and kissed her snout.
‘Is that really how Hindu weddings are performed, Maharaja Sahib?’ asked Mr Peter Watkins.
‘Actually,’ said Diwan Popatlal J. Shah, ‘the juggler was pronouncing the exact ancient vedic invocations which are uttered at the celebration of the marriage.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said His Highness. ‘This juggler is a badmash. He knows a thing or two.’
‘Now, Maharaj,’ said the juggler, ‘shall I celebrate the wedding of the monkeys?’
‘No, no,’ ordered Captain Partap Singh, ‘one wedding is enough for an evening. Do something else!’
Reciting some more mumbo-jumbo, spitting on his hands and rubbing his palms, the madari called his son and got ready to do the basket trick.
The boy was put into the basket and the lid was put on top and daggers thrust into the basket from all sides and right through the lid. But when the lid was lifted and the basket tilted there was nothing in it. With a big dramatized howl of surprise, the juggler invoked the spirit of the boy to emerge from paradise. And lo! the body which incarnated that extraordinary spirit was discovered among the village children, unscathed and complete and without any wounds.
The white sahibs, who had been dazed with horror at the dagger thrusts, and the memsahibs who had shrieked, were relieved that the murder proved to be no murder! And they were all willing to pay handsome bakhshish to the juggler.
But it was against the laws of hospitality that the guests should have to pay for anything. So His Highness ordered Captain Partap Singh to tell the juggler to stay on in the village and be in attendance throughout the hunt, and assure him that he would be suitably rewarded.
When the show ended quite a little of the ice which stood between the exalted and the lowly had melted, if not quite broken. And the shikaris shifted on their haunches, near enough to the hedges to be within speaking distance of the sahibs.
The chief shikari, a middle-aged man, named Buta, came up to where I was standing, by His Highness and Mr Peter Watkins, and whispered furtively:
‘Huzoor, there is a panther in these parts. It has been causing terror to the cultivators in the village. It takes away cattle in broad daylight.’
‘And you pretend to be a shikari!’ Vicky mocked at him. ‘Why haven’t you killed it already?’
‘Maharaj, it is a difficult prey,’ the man answered, ‘one of the most difficult beasts I have heard of in my whole life as a shikari!’
Apparently, Buta was putting up his price for negotiating the hunt.
‘The Tehsildar Sahib organized a big hunting party,’ continued Buta. ‘Only he did not ask me to accompany him. And when the Tehsildar Sahib and the men approached the garden, armed with guns, lathis and daggers, the ferocious panther fell upon one of the beaters, who insulted it by pointing his finger at it. So the panther almost mauled him to death. The Tehsildar Sahib and his men fled, leaving the beater there, and I had to go and rescue him, though I only succeeded in dragging his dead body back.’
‘You are a very brave man!’ said Vicky half ironically.
‘But listen, Maharaj, the exploits of this panther did not end with killing his beater. It chased another man who was working in his paddy field. And it inflicted serious injuries on him and then fled to the hills, because the two villagers raised an alarm! On hearing all this, I decided to do something. I strolled up to the bluff of that hill there, with my “muzz gun”, as you Sahibs call it. After a little prowl, I got to the spot where the villager had been attacked. The beast came to the scene of its triumph of the evening. I met it face to face. I stared at it and it seemed to bend its eyes down with shame at its follies. Then it growled defiantly at me. I said to it, “Now you have met your uncle!” The panther seemed confused and did not know what to do. Like a bad nephew, who protests when he is reprimanded for being mischievous, it rushed towards me. I fired the only shot that was in my gun. The bullet was true. It passed through its neck and entered its back and finished it for ever. I will present the Amrikan Sahib with the head and the skin, and he can take it home and say he shot it. I don’t mind, Huzoor. To me a little cash is more valuable than a lot of prestige!’
Victor and I burst out laughing at the extraordinary cynicism of Buta, while Peter Watkins, not knowing that the joke was on him, asked us what the shikari had said, which made us laugh the more, until I concocted an explanation:
‘He says he will do anything for money.’
‘Now,’ said Buta, ‘there is another panther, the father of this beast I shot, which wants to revenge itself on me for killing its son. I think it lives in a cave in the hill above this palace. Tell the Amrikan Sahib that I will help him to collect another head and skin which he can claim more genuinely to be his kill than the previous one I was talking about. In fact, every Amrikan Sahib can have a beast.’
‘At a price!’ I said.
‘How wise you are, Dakdar Sahib,’ answered Buta. ‘To be sure, in famine times even brackish water is sweet. And, nowadays, with rising prices, there is, indeed, a price for everything.’
Mr Peter Watkins, who had heard two or three references to the Amrikan Sahibs, was naturally curious.
‘He is a bounder,’ Victor said. ‘An amusing rogue! But he knows his job.’
‘He says,’ I interpreted, ‘that there is a panther on the prowl just above this lodge.’
‘What are we waiting for then?’ said Mr Watkins impetuously.
‘There is a little intricate ritual which has to be gone through before a hunt,’ I said. ‘This gentleman here will insist upon it.’
‘Maharaj, if it is your will,’ said Buta, ‘then I can get a goat tied to the post by th
e machan.’
‘Apparently, great minds tally,’ I said.
The American looked incomprehensibly at me.
‘Of course,’ said His Highness. ‘What is the use of a vagabond like you? Go and get all the bandobast done.’
‘I am for the hunt immediately,’ said Peter Watkins, offering further proof of the fact that great minds tally. ‘I know,’ he continued, ‘the boys are itching to get at this panther.’
‘Won’t the ladies be tired after the journey?’ I asked.
‘This is a man’s sport,’ said Peter Watkins with the bravado that oozed from his pugilistic frame. ‘They can come and look at the moon for a while and then go to sleep.’
‘The moon can do things to people,’ I said.
‘Oh, well, we are here for a good time,’ said Mr Watkins. ‘Aren’t we?’
‘Well then, it will be done exactly as you wish,’ said His Highness. And he turned to Buta in the colloquial hillman’s speech in which each sentence seems to become more intimate if accompanied by a little spicy abuse. ‘Rape-mother, get along and see that the Amrikan Sahib bags the panther tonight.’
‘Maharaj,’ said Buta, falling with joined hands at His Highness’s feet. ‘Not only the white-leather ones but Huzoor and Huzoor’s servants will have something to take home as a souvenir of this shikar.’
‘Never mind us, you look after this Sahib,’ His Highness repeated, and turning aside to me remarked: ‘I want him to believe that he has a strong arm. His arm is going to be useful to me.’
‘To be sure, I understand,’ Buta said. And he ran fleet-footedly on his wiry legs towards the machan in the jungle.
As we turned towards the lawn, the guests were strolling about and already the disposition of forces was fairly obvious: Mr and Mrs Bell were walking up and down, arm in arm, as only an English couple can do with their tremendous athletic energy. Mr Homer Lane had settled down to a whisky-and-soda and was holding Mrs Lane’s hand almost as though he was frightened to lose her. Srijut Popatlal J. Shah and Mr Landauer were walking up and down with Gangi between them, both trying to talk cleverly in order to hold her attention, forgetting that she only understood basic English. This was a game in which, I knew, the Diwan would be the loser, because he was essentially a bore and would take conversation towards metaphysics and big words, whereas Kurt’s young, sleek presence in itself fascinated Gangi, particularly because she was a brunette and he was a blonde and the polarity of opposites presented a challenge. Mr Bool Chand seemed rather tense as he watched this trio from where he sat with Mian Mithu waiting for His Highness’s orders.
Classic Mulk Raj Anand Page 68