‘The Maharaja’s bedroom,’ the colonel whispered.
‘Why are you whispering?’ Vidur asked.
‘So as not to wake up the Maharaja,’ the colonel whispered back.
‘We are here,’ Vidur pointed out, ‘to wake up the Maharaja.’
A gale of giggly laughter from inside suggested the deed did not need to be done. ‘Arrete.’ A girlish Gallic scream floated through the keyhole. ‘Mais non!’ came the high-pitched response of indeterminate provenance. ‘Continue!’
The colonel blanched. ‘His Highness is . . . er . . . entertaining an overseas guest,’ he whispered. ‘I really think we should come back later, Mr Principal Secretary.’
‘And risk him going to sleep? Look, I’m sorry to interrupt his little party, but at least we know he’s awake. And apparently in a good mood. I really have no time to waste, colonel. Shall I knock on the door or will you?’
The colonel suffered again the agony of irresolution, then lifted the brass knocker and dropped it gently on the door. A peal of laughter sounded from the room.
‘That is either the most sophisticated door-bell I have ever seen, or they haven’t heard you,’ Vidur said after a moment. ‘Allow me?’ And before the horrified colonel could prevent him Vidur had seized the brass knocker and swung it against the door with a crash.
There was a startled silence from the other side. Then a peremptory voice raged in a squeaky bellow: ‘Who the hell is that?’
The colonel’s corpulent features crumpled. ‘It’s . . . me, sir,’ he articulated through paralysed vocal chords.
‘Who? Speak up, son of a donkey.’
‘Me, sir. Colonel Bewakuf Jan. With the Pr -’
‘Bewakuf?’ The voice cracked in incredulity at its highest pitch. ‘Colonel Bewakuf? I thought I told you I was not to be disturbed, Major Bewakuf.’
Tears seemed to spring to the colonel’s porcine eyes. ‘Yes, sir, but . . .
‘There are no buts, offspring of a rancid pig!’ screamed the royal voice on the other side of the door. ‘How dare you disobey a direct order, Captain Be- wakuf?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but . . .’
‘You’re sorry? You’re sorry, licker of a eunuch’s behind? You try and break down my door when I am trying to sleep, Lieutenant Bewakuf, and you say you are sorry?’
‘Sir, it was not I, but he said . . .’
‘He? He said? You mean there is someone else with you, turd from a tenotomized transvestite? Are you having a party outside my bedroom door, Havildar Bewakuf, in the middle of the night? I shall have each of my guards horsewhipped tomorrow, Lance-Naik Bewakuf, and as for you, Bewakuf, I shall spend all night thinking up a suitable punishment. Now get out, do you hear? Get out, and if your shadow so much as falls on my door again, eater of a dog’s offal, I shall personally come out and wring your neck! Is that clear, Sepoy Bewakuf?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The ex-colonel was visibly in tears.
‘Just a minute, Your Highness.’ Vidur addressed a busty carving on the sandalwood door just above the brass knocker he had so improvidentially wielded. ‘I apologize for this intrusion, but it was not the colonel’s fault. I insisted he bring me here.’
The effrontery of the unfamiliar voice seemed to take away the Maharaja’s breath. At any rate his response was a somewhat more subdued scream. ‘And who, may I ask, are you?’
‘Vidur Hastinapuri, Principal Secretary for Integration of the Government of India, and special emissary of His Excellency, Prime Minister Dhritarashtra Vidur announced at his most official. ‘I must leave Devpur shortly, sir, and I have flown here from Delhi expressly to see you. I had understood such a visit would be welcome and I have very little time.’ He paused, then added firmly, ‘I must see you immediately, Your Highness.’
‘Oh you must, must you?’ Vidur might have preferred another choice of words, but the voice was decidedly less strident. ‘Do you realize what time it is?’
‘I had understood this was an emergency,’ Vidur replied drily.
There was a moment’s silence, then a slapping sound, like that of a palm against flesh. ‘Very well,’ the Maharaja said, amid the splutter of giggles being stifled, ‘if you insist, I shall receive you now. Just a minute.’ A rustle of sheets - or was it something else? - was briefly heard, and the murmur of low voices. ‘You may come in.’
The door was not locked. Vidur opened it and stepped in. The colonel seemed undecided as to whether he should enter or not, and stood on one foot on the threshold.
‘Wait outside, Bewakuf!’ the Maharaja barked. The colonel hopped backwards like an offended, if overweight, ostrich. The door swung shut behind him.
75
Vidur had expected to find Mr Z in his dressing-gown, entertaining a female friend (or friends - he had not been sure of the number of distaff voices). He was startled to see the Maharaja propped up in bed, covered by an enormous silk razai that reached up to the lowest of his several chins. Its nearer length rose as a large mound, almost as if the Maharaja had chosen to throw so many blankets on to his lower extremities that half his anatomy reposed under a small hill.
‘I’m sorry, Your Highness,’ Vidur apologized. ‘I didn’t realize you were in bed. The colonel and I heard voices and I . . . er . . . I thought you were still awake.’
‘I am awake.’ The Maharaja giggled. ‘My guests have . . . er . . . retired.’ This time the giggle seemed to emanate not from the Maharaja’s throat, but from lower down. ‘Please take a seat.’
Vidur turned to the nearest chair, a Louis-Quinze piece that might have been designed by the palace architect. A garment had been flung over its side. Vidur meticulously picked it up. It was a smooth satin lady’s slip. He gazed stupidly at it, nonplussed.
‘Put it anywhere,’ the Maharaja waved a pudgy hand.
Vidur looked around in increasing embarrassment, and found a heap of similar apparel on an identical chair. He walked to it and dropped the garment on to the pile as if it was burning his fingers. It slipped to the floor, bringing a lace brassiere down with it. Vidur flushed.
‘Never mind,’ the Maharaja said, gesturing him back to his chair. ‘What can I do for you?’ One of his hands suddenly disappeared under the razai.
Vidur sat down delicately. ‘With respect, Your Highness, I think it is more a question of what we can do for you,’ he said.
He was taken aback by another giggle; this time, he could have sworn, from the region of the Maharaja’s belly.
‘What exactly do you mean?’ the Maharaja asked, an expression of intense concentration on his face.
‘We have information that a large band of Pathan irregulars has streamed across your borders,’ Vidur replied. ‘They are encountering practically no resistance and are already making considerable inroads into Manimiri territory.’
‘I know all that,’ the Maharaja said impatiently. His other hand had now disappeared under the embroidered quilt. He seemed to be straining at something, with considerable effort. Vidur was reminded of his own bouts of constipation.
‘I realize Your Highness is aware of the problem,’ he said. ‘What Your Highness may not know, however, is that these tribesmen have raised the slogan of liberating Manimir from your . . . ah . . . oppressive rule. And that they are almost certainly armed, supplied and directed by the government of Mohammed Ali Karna, which intends to annex Manimir.’
The Maharaja gasped, and a gurgling noise sounded from beneath the mound of the razai. Vidur was gratified by the reaction, but could not escape the feeling that it was not his statement that had caused it.
‘But - that’s terrible!’ The Maharaja breathed heavily, squirming under his silken covering. He seemed to be sliding under the quilt as he spoke. ‘Why haven’t . . .’ his neck had almost disappeared from Vidur’s line of vision, ‘why haven’t my own people been telling me how serious this is?’ He sat up suddenly again with a jerk, a bare pale chest popping startlingly into view.
‘Perhaps because they can’t get in to s
ee you,’ Vidur couldn’t resist replying. He was tired of the odd behaviour of this peculiar little man, and conducting such a discussion in a bedroom removed certain constraints, as far as he was concerned. ‘The point is, Your Highness, that by this time tomorrow, and probably sooner, this palace will be in Karnistani hands.’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘Unless you act now.’
A short high-pitched giggle emerged in reply. Vidur had been looking directly into the Maharaja’s hooded eyes and could have sworn he hadn’t seen the lips move - but the sound was unmistakably oral.
‘I hardly think this is a laughing matter, Your Highness,’ he said sternly.
‘No - of course not,’ the Maharaja breathed, the words emerging in gasps. ‘I’m sorry.’ His hand, under the razai, slapped flesh. ‘Bugs,’ he explained, superfluously.
‘I understand,’ Vidur replied, far from certain he understood at all. ‘I assume you need help.’
The Maharaja twisted again under the covers, his eyes rolling. ‘No . . . thank you. I . . . simply must get this bed changed tomorrow,’ he said, breathing heavily.
‘I meant military help.’ Vidur was finding the conversation increasingly difficult to control. ‘That is why I am here, Your Highness.’
‘I am most grateful.’ An expression of rapture was beginning to suffuse the royal face. Vidur was amazed at how the Maharaja could alternate so easily between discomfort and bliss in response to a fairly consistent line of argument from himself. Decidedly a most peculiar character.
‘Can . . . you . . . send . . . us . . . Indian . . . troops?’ the Maharaja panted.
‘Certainly, Your Highness.’ Vidur began to feel alarmed by the Maharaja’s tone. ‘Are you quite sure you’re well, Your Highness?’
‘Yes,’ Vyabhichar Singh nodded vigorously, ‘yes - yes.’
The mound moved.
‘As I was saying,’ Vidur began, and then stopped, because he no longer recalled what he was saying and because the hillock on the lower half of the Maharaja’s bed was now moving up and down to a remarkably steady rhythm and . . .
‘Exercises,’ the Maharaja breathed. ‘Every day. Don’t pay ‘tention. Ah, yes. Yes.’ His eyes closed and his fleshy round head turned from side to side. ‘Troops. Yes. Please. As many. Ah! As you can. Yes! Yes! Troops.’ The razai was positively heaving now, and little beads of perspiration were appearing on the Maharaja’s forehead.
‘We’ll need a formal request from you, of course, Your Highness,’ Vidur said, shrinking into his chair.
‘Yes. No - problem. Formal request. Ah. Bring a paper. I’ll sign. Yes. Ah. Ah. Yes. Yes! Aaah!’
Vidur found himself speaking rapidly, as if to shut out of his mind the horrible supposition that had entered it and which he found too unthinkable to be allowed to linger there. ‘We believe the most appropriate course would be for you to sign an Instrument of Accession and then appeal formally for Delhi to intervene,’ he said, looking at the marble floor, the wool carpet, the velvet bedroom slippers, anything to avoid that quivering quilt. ‘That would, of course, legitimize the entry of Indian troops on to Manimiri soil and permit India to act officially without the slightest constraint against the bandits who have encroached upon our - I mean your - sovereignty. I shall . . .’ He stopped short, his eyes having travelled from the carpet to the foot of the armchair - and to the flimsy female undergarments he had knocked on to the floor.
‘No!’ The Maharaja cried, half-sitting up and then subsiding again on to his pillow. ‘Ah. Yes. No. No accession. Never! Yes. Ah. Why? Yes. Can’t you send? Ah. Indian troops? Ah. Yes! Friendly basis? Why accession? No! Yes! Yes!’
‘I beg your pardon, Your Highness?’ Vidur asked in some confusion.
‘Yes! Dammit, no! No! No, don’t stop - n’arrêtes pas - yes! Yes!’ The words were emerging in little grunts. ‘Send me. Troops. Aah. Save my state. Aah Then go away. Aah. No accession. Aaah. Understand?’
‘I don’t think you understand, Your Highness,’ Vidur stood up. ‘If what you are suggesting is that India should send you her armed forces as a gesture of friendship, defeat the invaders and then restore your kingdom to you, I am afraid you are . . . you are living, sir, in’ - he found himself looking at the mobile mound again, and his tongue switched on to automatic pilot - ‘a fool’s paradise.’ As soon as the words were out he regretted them; one simply did not speak to a Maharaja like that, not even to a colossal fool like Mr Z. ‘I . . . I’m sorry, Your Highness, I . . .’
But the Maharaja did not seem to have heard him; his ‘ahs’ had become too frequent and too loud now to permit conversation. The royal eyes were completely hooded, the hands were moving under the razai, and the discernible portion of the Maharaja’s trunk was arched in unabashed ecstasy.
‘Your Highness!’ Vidur expostulated.
‘Yes . . . yes . . . yes!’ screamed the Maharaja. The heaving mass of silk and embroidery gave one last convulsive jerk, and Vidur found himself staring as a bare white foot popped briefly into view and slipped back under the razai. It was a soft, delicate foot, with painted nails pointing downwards; but the Maharaja was still lying on his back . . .
Vidur closed his incredulous eyes, and tottered heavily on to his chair. ‘Aaaaaahh!’ he heard the Maharaja say, expelling air like a deflating brown balloon. When he opened his eyes again Vyabhichar Singh was sitting up against the pillows, his hands pudgily outside, holding the edge of the razai up to his uncollared collar-bone. ‘That feels much better,’ the Maharaja said cheerfully. ‘Nothing like a spot of exercise last thing at night. Does wonders for the constitution.’
Vidur nodded silently, his vocabulary defeated by the occasion.
‘Now you were saying, Mr Secretary . . .’
I was saying,’ said Vidur at last with uncharacteristic bluntness, ‘that the only basis on which India will send you troops, Your Highness, is if Manimir accedes to the Indian Union.’
You can’t be serious,’ the Maharaja said, bliss fading rapidly from his face.
‘I’m afraid I am.’
‘You mean you’ll let me down, expect me to cope with these marauding Muslim hordes all by myself, let Manimir fall into Karna’s hands, unless I sign my throne away?’
Vidur thought about the truckloads of troops even now rolling towards India’s border with Manimir, and decided that honesty was not, the Mahaguru’s teachings notwithstanding, the best policy. ‘Yes,’ he lied for the only time in his life. ‘The Prime Minister has no intention of sending Indian troops to fight for your throne, Your Highness. But we will fight - for Indian soil.’
‘It’s not much of a choice, is it?’ the Maharaja asked bitterly. ‘If I don’t get your help, I lose my throne; if I get your help, I still lose it. What difference will it make whether I sign or not? I’m finished as Maharaja either way.’
The mound stirred at these words.
‘It will make a world of difference, Your Highness,’ Vidur said. ‘If you sign the Instrument of Accession, I will fly you in my plane tonight to your winter palace in Marmu, a few hundred miles further from the. marauding hordes you refer to; Indian troops will move in, beat back the invaders and preserve your palace and your property; and the Cabinet in Delhi will undoubtedly express its gratitude to you in a . . . a tangible way.’
‘Ambassador to Outer Mongolia?’ Vyabhichar Singh’s lip curled.
‘On the other hand,’ Vidur went on, ‘if you prefer not to sign, the Pathans will push aside the opposition of your royal guard as if they were swatting flies, take over this palace and all within it, and conceivably string you up, Your Highness, from the nearest flagpole.’ A little shriek was stifled under the razai. Vidur found himself relishing every word. ‘Probably not before they have worked their gentle touch on you and any - companions and friends of yours they may find,’ he went on cruelly. ‘You know the reputation of our dear ex-countrymen from the North-West Frontier. They stay bottled up in those dry, drab hills for months on end, and then they have an opportunity to let off a littl
e steam when someone finances a jolly little expedition like this. The kind of steam, Your Highness, that scalds rather deeply. I wouldn’t say it is such a poor choice after all.’
The Maharaja swallowed. ‘I’ll need time to think about this,’ he said.
‘Time, I’m afraid, is one thing I haven’t got, Your Highness. Even as I speak to you, my plane is warming up to fly me back to Delhi - and, if you wish, to drop you at Marmu. I am carrying in my briefcase a typed draft of the Instrument of Accession. All you have to do is put your signature to it - I shall even provide the pen - and Indian troops will begin to advance into Manimir. Otherwise, it is best I take my leave now. I have no desire to be stuck in Devpur when the Pathans get here.’
‘I -’ The Maharaja had barely begun to speak when the mound rose abruptly and the razai was flung back off the foot of the bed, burying him under its heavy embroidered folds. A steatopygous blonde wearing nothing but a look of panic turned to the well-swathed Maharaja. ‘Mais c’ est affreux,’ she exclaimed as the Maharaja struggled to free himself from his silken encumbrances. ‘Qu’est-ce que tu attends? Que ces Pathans me violent ou quoi? Signe!’
She bent forward, presenting Vidur a perfectly proportioned behind, and proceeded to pummel her helpless helpmeet. Mr Z flailed his hands in a vain bid to escape from the all-embracing quilt and the relentless assault. ‘Signe!’ she screamed. ‘Sign!’ Vidur closed his eyes and tried to recall long-forgotten French lessons, but the words kept getting mixed up in his mind with his only previous recollection of a bare Caucasian behind, glimpsed during a Folies show at a daring private club in the country’s great eastern metropolis. ‘Oh, Calcutta!’ he breathed. (Now you know, Ganapathi, how old that malapropism is.)
Four hours later he walked into Dhritarashtra’s study - my blind son had been up all night waiting for him, but then night and day mattered little to our Prime Minister - and flapped a piece of paper under his half-brother’s sensitive nose.
‘Here it is,’ he declared in what were to become (thanks to a pair of indiscreet biographers) the most historic words ever spoken by an Indian civil servant. ‘We’ve got Manimir. Mr Z has signed the Instrument of Accession. And now that I’ve done my job, I hope the bloody army can do theirs.’
The Great Indian Novel Page 29