A frown puckered Pallavi’s brow. “You will see,” she said, then she asked, “When is Jai coming back?” Their argument was still unfinished, but they also knew that it would continue sometime in the future. Thus their conversations always went, disapproval on Pallavi’s side, stubbornness on Mila’s, and unended thoughts on both sides, persisting forever, almost as if they needed something to talk about.
“I don’t know,” Mila said. “Ask Papa.”
“Mila…” Pallavi’s voice stopped her at the door. “Be careful when you go out. I don’t like your being away from the house like this, without an escort, without your papa or one of your brothers. Be careful, don’t talk with strange men.”
Mila rubbed her face wearily with one hand. “I do not talk with strange men, Pallavi, only the ones we know.”
Pallavi sighed and gathered the tray from the bed. “Come back and make your bed.”
“You do it,” Mila said as she left the room.
The household was well astir when Mila went downstairs to the front door, but there was no sound from her brothers’ rooms. Ashok would wake later, in an hour. Kiran had rarely woken before noon since his return from England.
The waler, one of Jai’s early gifts to her, was standing at the front door, gently snorting at the delay and shaking his head at the syce’s attempts to hold him still. Sweat already glistened on his skin; later, when she had ridden him hard, they would both be drenched. He stood fourteen hands tall, terra-cotta brown with a well-tended gleaming coat, his mane and tail a shining black. The horse whinnied when he saw Mila and nudged at her closed fist. She opened her fingers and offered him the raw, in-shell peanuts and he swept them up with his rough tongue and then nuzzled in Mila’s neck and blew little puffs of breath into her hair.
Mila climbed into the saddle and dug her heels into the horse’s side.
“Let’s go, Ghatoth,” she said to the horse. The two syces mounted their own horses and followed her.
A long, unbroken tarred road linked two ends of Rudrakot’s habitations, well away from the reaches of the railway station, and it was here, ten minutes after Mila had left the house, that one of the wheels of Sam’s rickshaw deflated into a flat. The tire screamed over the heating tar and Sam tilted to one side along with the rickshaw.
The rickshaw puller jumped down from the cycle and, under the gaze of the wakening sun, pulled the conveyance to an edge of the dusty road.
“What now?” Sam asked tiredly, getting down also to view the damage. They were half a mile from one set of trees, and at least that distance from the shade at the other end, and there was nothing to be done but wait while the flat was repaired. Sam knew where he was headed, to the political agent’s home, but for him that was as yet simply a name and a place; he would not know how to find the right house even if he set out along the road. He moved toward the west side of the rickshaw, sat down under the meager shade of its awning, and lit a cigarette. The rickshaw puller removed the vehicle’s padded seat and reached in. Sam watched as he took out a tiffin carrier, a threadbare towel, a can of water, a collapsed pillow for afternoon naps, and a cloth pouch in which to keep his earnings. Below these treasures was the access to a wooden plank, which the man prized out, and underneath was a set of tools—an air pump, a large metal bowl, a bottle of filthy water, some lengths of thin rubber, a pair of scissors, and some glue.
The man deftly undid the tire from its rim and pulled out the rubber tube. He filled the tube with air from the pump and Sam could already hear the sibilant hissing of escaping air before the man poured water into a metal bowl and ran the length of the tube through it, piece by piece, until the water bubbled. Then, with his finger over the spot, he let the air out and with a rough stone began to shave at the rubber of the inner tube.
Sam leaned back against his holdall and contemplated his cigarette. It was quiet here this early in the morning, and deserted. The road ran through the middle of this relative wasteland with no trees to shade it, no mile markers to distinguish it, and yet it had to be the main artery that led from the station to the residential area. Sam had slept with his chin ensconced in his palm on the way here, and remembered little of what he had seen when he had been jolted awake every now and then. He threw his cigarette away, and it went spinning into the air and landed in the dirt. At that moment he heard the steady clip-clop of horses’ hooves. Sam rose from the side of the rickshaw and came out into the road to look toward the farther bank of trees. Three riders broke from the greenery and came riding down the path. As they neared, Sam could see that the one in front was a woman, an Indian woman, and he experienced a twinge of pleasant surprise. He had not seen too many upper-class Indian women out and about without an escort, or with only two syces as companions. He realized it was a strange observation to make in India of all places, of course, but all of Sam’s social encounters so far had been at the regimental messes, or at hotels in Calcutta—in other words, with the British constituents of the British Raj. There were plenty of Indians to be met in the cinema houses or in the bazaars, but they were not the type to be invited into the gymkhana clubs or the hotels, and of the few who could gain entry, Sam had not been introduced to any. He would have talked with Mr. Abdullah on the train, but Mrs. Stanton’s onerous presence had dampened those efforts.
The woman had come closer by now. She rode well, her back upright, her gloved hands holding the reins loosely. Sam put a hand up to shade his eyes and squinted to see her better. There was a loveliness about her, an elegance he could not describe even to himself. Her skin was a lush and creamy brown, her shirt collar a lustrous white against her neck; the khaki of her pants and the gleaming roan of her horse’s coat married into the background of the desert behind her. Even as she neared, Sam could not see much of her face, for it was shadowed by the wide brim of her sola topi. He wondered if she would talk with him; he wanted her to talk with him, so he raised his hand and said, “Good morning.”
Her eyes fell to the reins in her hands and then she touched the rim of her topi with her whip and said, “Good morning,” as she passed by. Sam listened to the lingering sound of her voice, low and sweet, and repeated her tone, with the emphasis on the first word, good morning. He had seen more of her by now, her eyes, her mouth, the slant of her chin, the muscles flexing her slender forearm. He moved to the middle of the road and watched her ride away in the direction he had come from and willed her to turn back, to turn around, to do something that would be more of an acknowledgment of him.
It was an interminably long time to Sam, but in actuality only a few seconds, before Mila reined in her horse and swung its head back toward Sam.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked.
“I’m headed to the Civil Lines,” Sam said, reaching out to grasp the horse’s bridle. “Is this”—he pointed toward the trees from which Mila had emerged—“the right way?”
“Yes.” She smiled then, for the first time, and a lone dimple deepened the skin of her cheek. Sam felt his heart stop and smiled back at her. He was no longer tired, his shoulder did not ache, he did not care that the temperature was steadily rising around them. He wanted to ask her if she lived within the Civil Lines and, if so, where, and if he could come to call on her.
She pointed to the rickshaw with her whip. “I see that the puncture is almost fixed. You should be within the trees and in the coolness soon. It isn’t always this hot here, you know.”
“You don’t seem to feel the heat.”
“Not very much,” she replied. “I’ve grown up here in Rudrakot. The desert lies in my skin; I don’t know that I could really live anywhere else.” Color rose on her face as she spoke and she looked away from Sam, offering him a glimpse of her ear and her hairline. “You should be all right now.”
“Is this all of Rudrakot?” Sam asked desperately, gesticulating around him to the trees and the desert.
She turned back. “What you see here, well, from the station to here, is merely the town of Rudrakot. Th
e entire princely state takes its name from the town, the two are indistinguishable, but the state goes beyond here, into the sands of the Sukh.” She pointed southeast, to the low-lying hills. “Those are the Panjari Mountains. Both the names are misnomers, optimistic misnomers.” Mila laughed. “As is Rudrakot’s own name.”
“Tell me,” Sam said.
Mila studied Sam’s face, as if to decipher whether he was serious about wanting to know all of this. She was not used to talking with strangers—particularly a man—and had already engaged in a far longer and, to her, more intimate conversation than with any other person she had just encountered. “My brother Ashok would be thrilled to give you the history of Rudrakot. This might seem like an odd thing to say, but he is fascinated by America, and so would demand an equal rendition of your country’s history from you in return.”
“I will be glad to talk with Ashok anytime, but he’s not here, you are,” Sam said, greatly daring, not knowing if she would think him rude.
She lifted the edge of her topi so that it sat back on her head and Sam could see her more clearly. “The panjari is the bird’s nest on a ship’s main mast. It is said that one of Rudrakot’s early kings trekked to the top of these hills, which only range about five thousand feet into the sky, and, overwhelmed by the cool, fresh air, named these the Panjari Mountains.”
The mountains had begun to glow now with the golden touch of the sun, and though Sam was used to the mightier Cascade Mountains back home, to him this chain of hills in the distance looked enormous compared to the flat of the desert around him.
“And Rudrakot?” he asked.
“Rudrakot was originally Rudraksha-kot, named for the rudraksha tree.”
“The seeds are used for rosaries,” Sam said. “I’ve seen the sadhus wear them.”
Mila looked fully upon Sam then. “You are unusual,” she said. “I don’t know many people visiting India who would have taken the trouble to be so observant.”
Sam felt a flush of happiness and said, “The rudraksha tree represents the tears of Lord Shiva, and ‘rudra’ is Shiva’s name, and ‘aksha’ means tears. Lord Shiva is said to have come out of a deep meditation, and upon opening his eyes, peace and happiness so overwhelmed him that tears ran down his face and fell upon the earth. At each place the tears drenched the ground, a rudraksha tree sprang up.”
He watched surprise flood her face and said, “I should confess; I teach South Asian languages back home…especially Sanskrit.”
“Are you visiting Rudrakot for long?” Mila asked. “My father would be absolutely delighted to meet you.”
“Not very long,” Sam said. “So why Rudrakot?”
“Many years ago, we claimed this as the origin of the kingdom—as the sacred ground upon which Lord Shiva had wept for joy. The name was then shortened to Rudrakot, now to mean the abode of Lord Shiva, not merely of his tears, even more ambitious than the original name, as you see. What had not mattered to the kings who named the land was that no rudraksha tree grew in or around Rudrakot. When we are questioned about the absence of the tree that gives the place its name, you will find us vacillating, with perhaps…at one time…maybe…or but, of course, there was a reason, now just lost in time and legend. The rudraksha tree grows only at the foothills of the Himalayas; the Sukh desert could never nurture it.” Mila began to laugh. “Perhaps that is why Rudrakot shortened its name—the nonexistence of the tree is obvious; Shiva’s presence at Rudrakot could not be suspect. For God only shows Himself to those who believe.”
“Sahib,” the rickshaw puller said behind them. “We can go.”
Mila’s laugh turned into a lower, more self-conscious sound. She bent down to pat her horse’s neck and soothe him. For the past five minutes, as Mila and Sam had talked, Ghatoth had fallen into a steady restlessness, his shoes clicking on the tar road as he shifted his feet about.
“Thank you,” Sam said. “I will remember this story forever.” And the voice and the face of the storyteller, he thought to himself. If only he had more time in Rudrakot, he could find out who this woman was, he could…
He stood back and raised his hand again. “Good-bye.”
She nodded and rode away.
Twenty minutes later, Sam reached the political agent’s house and paid off the rickshaw driver. When he looked down at the ground, he realized that he was standing on an elaborate design—flowers and squares and hexagons, drawn upon the dark earth in rice flour; this was a welcome kolam. He lifted a foot and saw that the lines of the design had dissolved under his weight. Sam stepped carefully around and climbed the steps without smudging the design. It seemed a shame to destroy it, yet he knew that a smudged kolam was the sign of a house well-visited, a house where people came to ask after the owners’ health, a house that was welcoming and open—it was almost obligatory for the visitor to step into the home with little grains of rice flour clinging to the soles of his feet, but Sam did not have the heart to disturb it so early in the morning.
At the top step, Sam was raising a hand to pound on the door when his shoulder began to throb. He dropped his holdall, letting it tumble down to settle in a fine mist of dust and rice flour, the kolam distorted beyond recognition, and leaned against the wood door, his eyes closed, his knock unfinished.
April 1942, a Month Earlier
Somewhere in Burma
There has been no rain for an hour, but the teak forest stubbling the lower hills holds moisture in its dogged embrace. It is not monsoon season yet, or so the meteorologists declared in the report that Sam read in Assam. The monsoon in Burma is southwesterly; rains blanket the country from May until October of every year. It sometimes rains every day, and every night, with no respite. September will bring relief—the rains shut down, like a faucet turned off. A little, oft-overlooked footnote, which Sam did not miss, added: A few showers are possible in April, but the months of December to April are definitely the dry season.
Sam sprawls against the base of a tree, where he has thrown himself when they stopped. Twenty minutes pass and the three of them do not speak, and in the silence they harness their fleeing energies. Sam slouches into his chest, his chin touching the front of his shirt. He inhales and exhales with an effort, as though teaching himself to breathe again. His lungs draw in the damp air of the forest, the putrid stench of his mildewed socks, the stink of unwashed perspiration. His breathing then falls into such a quietness that bluebottle flies buzz busily around his face and eyes, enticed by the rankness of his skin. If he stays still long enough, they will lay their eggs into his skin, uncaring that he might still be alive.
A sharp cry breaks through the silence. A monkey perches almost upside down on the lower branch of the tree that shelters Sam, gazing at him with hard, bright eyes. Sam moves his right hand to his side and lifts the Winchester up and at the monkey, the butt of the rifle against his stomach. They gaze at each other for a few long minutes, until Sam deliberately curls his index finger around the trigger.
The monkey protests, swings up on the branches, chatters madly, and pelts a hard berry in Sam’s direction before jumping onto another tree, then another, until he is gone.
“They are wicked,” Marianne Westwood says, fatigue smudging the normally sharp edges of her voice. “It would have clawed your eyes out while you slept. I have seen a man mauled by a gang of monkeys near the village. They even ate parts of him.”
“You’re awake?” Sam turns to the woman leaning against a teak trunk on the other side of the all but blurred trail. He smiles at her through the dull green light of the forest. Above them, the sun has come to ride the skies again, but here the trees cram themselves into any space possible, depositing tiny and tender green saplings with a ferocity fed by the nurturing damp and warmth. Their branches meet on top, linking arms with each other, battling for a glimpse of the sun, and so the bottom of the forest is in perpetual shade.
Marianne nods. “I can’t sleep.”
“I hoped to frighten it away without you noticing,” Sam
says. “You would have wanted to keep it as a pet. And,” he says, his tone lightening, “you’ve given me enough trouble already.”
Her eyes come alive through the grime on her face. They are bright, like the monkey’s, but hers are a blue washed into paleness by the hand of time. Marianne Westwood has labored under the Burmese sun for the last twenty-five years as a Baptist missionary in northeastern Burma where the Kachin live. She was married when she came here, but malarial fever took Joseph away during the first monsoon, and Marianne stayed on. She lived in a basha set atop teak posts at the edge of the Kachin village, made them construct a new basha for a church when the old one that Joseph had built disintegrated in the rains one year, learned their language, translated the word of God into their tongue. The Kachin children came to Marianne’s Sunday school, listened to her exhortations to think of her god as their own, and called her prettily, in their lilting voices, “Marie-annne.” The children, with their masses of glossy black hair chopped at their jawlines, their ready smiles, enchanted her. They also loved the chicken curry she made for them after Sunday school.
When Colonel Parsley sent word that the Japanese were in Burma, and that she should find her way to Myitkyina for a flight out to India, she decided to stay with her beloved Kachin.
“Just how many of them did you manage to convert?” Sam asks. He knows her history by now; they have been together for five days. He also knows of her stubbornness, her will—these he has read about in a report. When the Japanese came to Burma, Marianne Westwood, formerly of New Jersey, all but forgotten by any who knew her as a child, suddenly became a POI—a person of importance—for she was the only American missionary in Burma who would not leave. Her hair is cut short, shorter than Sam’s, close-cropped to her head. It is almost all white too, a blaze of noncolor against skin brushed with a palette of browns over the years. She wears, incongruously, diamond earrings in her little and perfectly shaped ears.
The Splendor of Silence Page 5