by Gay Courter
33
Trivandrum, the capital of Travancore, unfolded like a mysterious flower.
I was asleep when we docked, and moved in a daze to the litter that carried me through the silent nighttime streets. Without fully awakening, I passed through a lofty gate, up stone stairs, and into a gaslit chamber where the walls had a golden glow. Yali attended me and soon I was asleep in the arms of my husband.
In the morning, as we lay in bed sipping tea served by Hanif, I hardly knew where I was. “Could you open one of those compartments in your mind and tell me what you know about Trivandrum?” I asked Edwin.
“Well, its Indian name is Tiru-Ananta-puram, meaning the 'sacred city of the snake Ananta.' You know about the snake on which Vishnu—whom they call Padmanabha in Travancore—reclined. He's a very important deity here.”
I rolled out of bed. “I want to know more,” I said as I peered out the narrow windows.
“We'll spend the day looking around,” he said lazily.
Even before he was ready, I padded in my bare feet down the stone corridor to an arched doorway. Stepping outside, I saw our dwelling was one of many along a street bordered by twin stands of regal palms. Two women in flowing white gowns bent over the red soil paths, tracing patterns with white powder. Working rapidly, guided by almost invisible marks, they fashioned geometric arabesques that flowed from their fingers like ribbons. From a distance I admired the variations. Strolling closer, I admired the intricate workmanship. Just before I approached, a graceful lady had finished her design by adding a hibiscus blossom at the main intersection of her lines. As she stood up, turned, and smiled at me, I gasped. The gauzy drapery of her garment did not even attempt to cover her chest. Confused, I gave a jerky bow and rushed back to the Orchid House.
I bumped into Edwin at the doorway. “That woman—her breasts are completely exposed!”
He gave a wry smile. “That's how the Brahmin women dress here.”
I stiffened. “Is that the fashion for everyone at court?”
“Wish that it were,” he said with an admiring glance at the woman's back.
Just then a breeze whipped up, destroying the ephemeral patterns in the dirt. I shook my head. “What a waste.”
“Not at all,” Edwin countered. “The pleasure was in the preparation, not the glory.”
“Don't you believe they feel a pang of regret?”
“Perhaps those who live from moment to moment rest more easily.”
“That is merely the excuse that has kept Indians slaves to the caste in which they were born.”
Edwin shrugged. “While you may think an immutable caste restricts potential, others believe the system offers freedom. Look at our predicament: you and I have so many choices, we do not know what to do, not even where we should live. But if I had been born a sweeper in Trivandrum, I would die a sweeper in Trivandrum. I would not question my lot. I would make the most of every day.”
“Until you actually are a sweeper in Trivandrum, you cannot possibly know what they feel or think,” I replied with a sniff. “For instance, if I were the sweeper's wife, I might hope that my children might do better than their father. And if I knew this was impossible, I might despair.”
He gestured to the smudged remnants of the white patterns on the red earth. “Does that look like the work of despairing women?”
“Obviously they are not the wives of sweepers,” I replied.
“You are right. This is the royal garden area. However, that doesn't alter my argument.” Edwin led me inside, and I sensed the discussion was over.
“Will we see the prince today?”
“He will have been informed we are here. I expect he will greet us as soon as he is able.”
A cow-drawn cart driven by a syce in a black turban was waiting when we left the Orchid House, which I soon realized was the grandest dwelling in that walled section of the town.
“Who else lives here?” I asked.
“The extended family of the maharajah: children, sisters, and court favorites.”
Passing a street bordered by humbler clay houses, I asked, “And who lives in those?”
“Other high-caste Brahmins.”
We rolled along sandy avenues laid out in a regular fashion. The quantity of sturdy buildings surprised me. Edwin pointed out two hospitals, several banks, various ministries that one would expect in a capital, and dozens of schools.
“I have never seen so many schools so close together.”
“Remember what you said about the longings of a sweeper's wife to better her child? Travancore has the highest literacy rate in India, which is the result of having a woman sitting beside the throne.”
My resistance to Travancore began to melt. “I would like to meet the maharani.”
“There is none. Remember I said the maharajah's mother is dead. Amar's mother is the first princess. She will become queen when his uncle dies.”
“Will I meet her?”
“Certainly. She was very kind to me when I was last here.”
After passing churches and chapels for the Protestants, Catholics, and Syrian Christians, we came to the Street of Merchants, which was filling with men whose faces had high, noble brows and wide almond eyes.
“What do you think?” Edwin whispered as we passed a group of Brahmins.
“They are very handsome,” I replied.
“Indeed.” Edwin chuckled. “You can see so much of them!”
My gaze shifted from their honey-glazed faces to their clothing. “I would hate to be a tailor in Travancore.”
“Yes, the higher the caste, the less they wear. Do you see those men?” I glanced at a group who had ivory cloths around their loins and only a cord draped around their shoulders.
“Yes.”
“They are dignitaries.”
“Why do they have that cord?”
“It signifies rank. They get them from the priest at birth and wear them until they die. The cords are their sacred link between birth and death.”
The men wore their hair in long knotted tresses that hung over their shoulders, giving me the impression they were female, but when they turned, it was clear they were not. “Why are there no women anywhere around?”
“The wives and daughters of Brahmins don't walk about until after sunset.”
“And I know why.” I giggled as we moved on behind the bazaar, where copperware glinted in the sun among fruits, grains, and printed cottons that flapped in the breeze. Edwin held my hand discreetly. “Where is the palace?”
“We'll go by it before we head back to the Orchid House. I don't suppose we should be away too long, in case Amar summons us.”
The cart came to a stop after we rounded an archway guarded by armed soldiers on horseback. “Only the royal family may pass underneath,” Edwin explained. “We won't go any farther today.”
I looked over a low wall to see an immense tank in which hundreds of Brahmins had plunged to their waist in water and were making ablutions and praying. With their dripping hair and glistening chests, they looked like golden gods emerging from a sacred sea. “Why are they here?”
“Some sort of ritual or festival—I do not know.” Gesturing more than speaking, he conferred with the driver. Turning to me with a somber face, Edwin said, “They are praying for the health of the maharajah.”
“So, it is true,” I said softly. “Maybe that is why there has been no message from Amar.”
Edwin nodded. “We had better return to the Orchid House.”
During the morning we had seen clusters of soldiers wearing the large red turbans of the maharajah's guard. Now they were marching in formation toward the palace. The dust from their boots blew across the cart and covered us with a burnt-sienna mist. I gave Edwin a searching stare. He smiled slightly to console me, then gave clipped instructions to our driver.
The sky crowded with swift-moving clouds. More and more people milled about. Large droplets began to spatter the road intermittently. In the distance, we heard a ru
mble that I first thought was thunder, until I recognized the regular beat of drums and then the long wail of a fife. The driver halted the cart, and we strained to listen. Now a burst of booms drowned out the music. Another volley came in rapid succession, and many more followed.
“What—?” I asked Edwin.
“Rifles,” he replied as a lightning flash illuminated the taut cords of his long neck.
“Does that mean he is dead?”
“Yes, I think so.”
I looked down at my trembling hands. The rain had dissolved the red dust into scarlet streaks.
“Now I wish we had never come,” I moaned.
“Dinah, my darling, don't worry.”
“Why are so many soldiers on standby? Will someone contest Amar's succession? Why were they shooting?”
“It was a military salute. The old maharajah had been sick for a long while. His time had come. Amar's hour is here. Just think, we are about to witness something few people ever see. This should be wonderfully exciting.”
With renewed admiration I watched the raindrops running off my husband's chiseled chin. “Yes, Edwin,” I said, lifting myself to kiss his shining brow.
The wails of the women of Trivandrum and the piercing sound of the death horn echoed in the streets of the capital as everyone prepared for the cremation.
“When will it take place?”
“This afternoon, I believe.”
“We will remain in our quarters, won't we?” I asked in a thin voice.
“That would be a grave insult to our friend.”
“Thousands will gather here. He won't know where we are.”
“Eventually he would be told.”
“Edwin, I do not want to see it.”
“You don't have to watch. I doubt we shall get closer than a mile away.”
“Edwin . . .” I pleaded.
“Surely you could not have lived your life in India and avoided the sight of cremations.”
“I cannot . . .”
He saw my distress, but it puzzled him. “We shouldn't have walked so far in this heat. After you have a nice tiffin and—”
“No, Edwin, I shall not change my mind on this!” I snapped in a brittle voice.
He opened his mouth, then closed it without replying. I could not explain that every flaming pyre reminded me of the gruesome night my father burned my mother's possessions.
“I suppose you could be ill,” he said, backing down.
As we arrived at the red path to the Orchid House, we saw Hanif waiting at attention. When he caught sight of us, he waved wildly. Edwin hurried to see what the commotion was about.
“You just missed him,” Hanif said breathlessly.
“Who?”
“The sepoy sent by the British resident.” He handed Edwin an official envelope.
“Is that from the Cliffords?” I asked.
Edwin turned it over. “No, the resident in Trivandrum—the bloke Clifford told us about.”
“You did send word to Clifford, didn't you?”
“Yes, late last evening.”
“Do you think this man knows what you did?”
Edwin tore open the envelope and read it rapidly. “No, that is not the problem. This is an invitation to sit in the distinguished visitors' enclosure.” He stared at me.
There was no choice. Now I would have to attend the funeral.
If there was ever a man who could be described as “doddering,” it was Sir Mortimer Trevelyan, who had been resident to Travancore under three maharajahs.
“My last state funeral,” he said with misty eyes as he greeted each of his guests.
When I was introduced, he clasped my hand between both of his trembling ones and said, “Ah, the Sassoon girl. I knew your grandfather in Bombay. Quite a fellow! Quite a rich fellow.” He winked at Edwin.
“My wife is from Calcutta,” Edwin offered politely.
He cupped his ear. “What's that?”
Edwin dropped the point and steered me to a seat behind a velvet. rope as a noise rose from the crowd, signaling something was happening.
“Here comes the body,” exclaimed a voice from behind.
“Why is it being pushed through a hole in the wall?” I asked.
“Probably so as not to pollute the sacred gate,” Edwin replied. “Afterward they will rebuild the wall to prevent the departed spirit from returning to trouble the survivors.”
“Do you believe that spirits return?” I asked in a solemn whisper.
“Of course not.”
“I do.”
Edwin gave me a wondering glance, and, indeed, I was surprised at myself. I had not thought about my nightmares of my mother's ghost for years. It came back to me now: my mother lying in a section of the cemetery reserved for outcasts; my mother with a grave marker that denied her marriage and motherhood; my mother, who could not possibly be resting in peace. And all because of her murderer, Nissim Sadka. Why did the awful face in that courtroom suddenly flash before my eyes now?
“Dinah . . .” Edwin tugged at my sleeve. “Are you all right?”
Concentrating on the spectacle of the mortal remains covered with garlands of flowers in order to blot out the past, I, clasped his hand. Small guns that gave a “pop” rather than a “bang” were sounded for each year of the departed prince's life. By the time I counted to sixty-nine, the specter of my mother had faded into the waves of undulating dust that churned in the wake of the procession.
Bareheaded bodyguards marching on foot were followed by their riderless horses. Next came a band that played a muffled version of the Dead March on the drums. After them marched a brigade carrying their muskets reversed and flags furled, then British officers in full uniform with strips of black crepe attached to their shoulders. The officers of state filed in a double line. Then, walking entirely alone, Amar strode with long, purposeful steps, trailed by his tiny nephews, two of whom were but babes carried in their mothers' arms. Behind him came a tall woman swathed in a filmy fabric that billowed in the wind like a vertical cloud.
“That is Amar's mother, the new maharani. Do you know why she is covered up?” He did not wait for my response. “To hide her happiness.” As I shot him a warning glance, he lowered his voice and spoke into my ear. “At last she has her chance to rule. Nobody in Travancore will have more influence than she has.”
“Where is Amar's wife?”
“Somewhere in that crowd of women to the rear. The wife has no status at court, remember.”
The dignitaries were led under an inner canopy, while the body was borne around the pile three times before being placed on the pyre. Three last volleys of musketry were fired. Amar stepped forward as the smoke dispersed.
“What is he doing?” I asked my husband.
He shrugged. A gentleman behind us replied, “He is to put some rice and money in his uncle's mouth and break pots of water.”
“And who are they?” I indicated the noblemen who took over from Amar.
“The Brahmin priests.” I kept my eyes forward as our informant continued his explanation. “They are saying the mantras, prayers delivering the body to the five elements.”
As the first licks of flame from the torches ignited the wood, I turned away and looked into the kindly blue eyes of the gentleman.
“You do not have to watch, my dear. Even the relations turn away out of respect.” A piercing wail rose from the women, chilling me. “Now they are adding the ghee. Once the fires burn as high as the sheds, we may leave. The pyre will burn for at least two days.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, my gaze having discovered the face below the gentle eyes to have been ruined by smallpox depressions. Only one spot, the size of a child's palm, was an unblemished field upon his right cheek. This eerie smoothness seemed more of an anomaly than the disfigurement.
A tap from Edwin brought me around. “We can go now, but since we were his guests, we will have to make a brief appearance at the home of the British resident.”
I co
ughed as the wind blew some acrid smoke our way. Edwin hurried me in the opposite direction, but the crowd surging toward the flaming pyre cut us off.
“Oh, Edwin,” I choked, “I can't breathe!”
34
I had no quarrel with Edwin. I had no quarrel with Amar, the new Maharajah of Travancore, or even Travancore for that matter, and yet those first weeks were trying for me. Edwin may have found the rituals that surrounded the death of a ruler intriguing—and I might have thought them so for an hour—but over days and days they became tedious indeed.
One afternoon I sat reading The Moonstone in the pleasant nook that looked out on the bathing tank in the gardens, while Edwin stared at our Hindu neighbors taking their ablutions.
“Is that a good book?”
“Yes, you would like it.”
“I don't know how you can read when so much is going on. If you would only take more interest in what is around you—”
“There is quite some difference between seeing and being part of something,” I snapped.
“Unless one studies a situation, it is foolhardy to become involved in it. I can barely figure out the relationship between Dennis Clifford and Sir Mortimer, let alone whom Amar will appoint as his prime minister or how we might help Amar. At least I am keeping my eyes and ears open.”
“And I am not?”
“You rarely leave the residency.”
“What shall I do? Tell me and I shall do it.”
“Now is certainly not the time. I have been married long enough to know that,” he said as he stormed out of the room.
For a few minutes I brooded. What did he expect from me? With a sigh I opened my book, grateful that I had a good tale to engage me, and read: “ 'Cheer up, Rosanna!' I said. 'You mustn't fret over your own fancies. . . .' “ The irony pulled me away from myself and I felt silly for having upset Edwin. Just remember, you could be half a wife in Darjeeling listening to Euclid's jealous banter, or a spinster drifting about Theatre Road, or married to some old man that nobody else would have, I reminded myself. I resolved to be cheerier, and went to apologize.