by Gay Courter
“Where is the sahib?” I asked Hanif.
“He has gone to the fort to see the last ashes removed.”
“And Yali?”
“She is in her room. Shall I summon her?”
“Yes.” I went back to my quarters with a sigh. I would bathe and dress in something fresh. When he returned, I would follow his lead and not turn his words into an argument.
Edwin appeared again before I had dressed completely. I dismissed Yali and put on my own shoes. His amiable expression made me feel reprieved.
“You went to the fort.”
“Yes, and the air is cool and breezy.” He tugged my hand. “Come for a walk with me. You need a change.”
“You're right,” I said as I allowed him to pull me from the seat. Arm in arm we strolled the red paths within the walled enclosure. “My problem is that I feel as though we are looking out the panes of a foggy window. Our view is always clouded and we are unable to wipe away the dew.”
“I am not certain I agree with your allusion, poetic though it may be, but if I go along with you, I would say the sun burns more brightly every day and soon the mist will lift and all will be revealed.”
“But when?”
“The official mourning period is almost over, after which Amar will liven up the court. You do not know him as I do. Yes, he has his serious, his academic side, but more than anything he likes to enjoy life. Why else would he have us here?”
“So we are to be court jesters?” I said with annoyance, then regretted I had gone back on my resolution.
Edwin's brow lowered. Even his scowl was endearing. “Now, Dinah—”
I cut him off. “This waiting is frustrating. We have both seen those Indian families waiting on railway platforms. They sleep there, cook meals. Sometimes I wonder whether they are ever going anyplace at all. Well, that is how I feel living here.”
“I realize these last weeks have been tedious for you, but I feel as if we have been granted the privilege of being witnesses to history.”
“You have misunderstood me,” I replied shakily. “Ever since we decided to come here, I have felt I was moving away from the center of my own life.”
“You have felt that way from the hour we left Calcutta.”
There was a scolding tone to his voice and I bowed my head. “Perhaps I have too much ambition for a woman.”
He threw an arm about my shoulders, and his fingers drummed a protective tattoo on my back. “Now, darling, that is what I adore about you. Only there is a difference between ambition and impatience. Hasty decisions cause expensive mistakes. You may think I have been wasting my time here. On the contrary, I have watched and listened and have decided the time may soon come when together we can profit handsomely from our sojourn here. I share the resident of Quilon's belief that it is more rewarding to be in an area poised for growth than reap the harvest of a place past its peak.”
“What are you planning?”
“I have several ideas.”
I tugged at his sleeve. “If you do not include me in your thoughts, I feel even more useless.”
“Well, then . . .” He cleared his throat. “From what I can tell, Travancore is married to the sea, yet Trivandrum does not have a decent harbor. The consequence has been the lack of progress in transportation. This fertile spice coast, which has been cut off from the rest of the subcontinent by the natural impediment of the Western Ghats, could increase its trade a hundredfold across the Indian Ocean.”
“What would you do?”
“I was thinking in terms of shipping.”
“What do you know about boats?”
“Not a great deal, but as one thought leads to another, experience builds upon experience. My uncle in Singapore may be a crass man and difficult to admire, but he is a smart businessman. He used to say that trading was like a tree. The root of his profession was buying and selling, and everything else branched from there. As long as you could follow an idea to the root, it was an acceptable investment, but he warned against making leaps into areas that did not come from the same source.” He gesticulated excitedly as he described his apprenticeship on the wharves of Cochin, his family's trade in spices, his work with the shipping agents of Singapore, and his dream of someday owning a fine vessel.
I could not follow everything he was saying, but was elated to have a light shed in the dark corner of our future. If he wanted a ship, I would do everything I could to help him.
By dawn the next day the populace of Trivandrum, who were to witness the ascension-to-the-musnud rites, crowded the courtyard of the pagoda of Patmanabhan. Brahmins filled the first ranks, while the others filed behind. The first members of the royal family to climb the temple steps were a retinue of women. “The ranis are the custodians of the keys of the temple while the god is absent from it,” Dennis Clifford explained. “This ceremony is the receiving of the subsistence allowance. It is the maharajah's way of showing that he is subservient to the god and his representatives, the priests.”
After Amar solemnly accepted sacks of rice and bolts of cloth, the priest gave him the first of his official titles.
The resident's wife nudged her husband. “What is happening?”
Dennis Clifford whispered, “With obedience he accepts the title of hereditary sweeper. In this way the highest ruler of the land takes on the mantle of the sweeper caste, the lowest in the Hindu world, and thus he also accepts the mantle of religious humility.”
The crowd surged in front of me. I was able to make out the stooped figure of the new maharajah sweeping the temple steps with a crude straw broom. From then on, the rites became more complex. One after another, Brahmins came forward and prostrated themselves on the steps, then circumambulated the pagoda. The sun rose to its apex, but no umbrellas were unfurled. Edwin discreetly fanned me while the maharajah was anointed with consecrated water. Finally the high priest handed the sword and belt of state to Amar.
The new maharajah then marched around the pagoda and returned to announce his first order. “I hereby grant an additional five thousand rupees per annum for the repair of the temples.”
A cheer rose from the citizens, who had wondered if Amar would retain the religious fervor of his uncle. “A clever boy,” Clifford murmured. “Now his people's suspicions will disappear and he will have more freedom.”
The sepoys escorted us to the old Audience Hall in the fort, where European officials and friends waited to welcome the maharajah. The room was a long, narrow upper chamber furnished with red carpets, velvet sofas, ten-foot mirrors, and lamps that hung from long brass chains. Paintings of former rulers lined the ocher walls. The colonnaded room opened onto a large open veranda that looked down at a vast square where troops were drawn up, richly caparisoned state elephants with bells about their necks carried bejeweled howdahs, and thousands of citizens waited expectantly.
We watched as a trembling Sir Mortimer Trevelyan, helped by two sepoys, made his way into the maharajah's presence and took a seat to his left. Next Dennis Clifford and his wife came forward.
“I suppose our friend will become the new resident to Trivandrum,” Edwin murmured.
“How can you tell?”
“Look where he has been placed, right beside Amar's mother.”
“Mr. Clifford said he did not want the position.”
“On the contrary, he covets it.”
“But—”
“ 'He doth protest too much, methinks.' “
I watched the expressions on both the Cliffords' faces and decided they were more confident about courtly duties than they had led me to believe. “Amar would get on with Dennis better,” I added in a whisper.
“Absolutely.”
Suddenly I noticed there were no other women on the podium. “Isn't Amar's wife here?”
Edwin discreetly pointed to the far right side of the gallery, about ten rows back from the front. “Over there.” I saw the profile of a plump girl who could not have been more than seventeen. She wore a simple white gow
n and a thick golden collar.
When the time came for us to approach the ivory throne, I began to quiver. Edwin took my arm and led me along. To calm myself, I kept my eye on the glittering canopy supported by pillars of silver. At the foot of the throne, I had no other choice but to look up. Amar was wearing an ornate turban adorned with an aigrette of diamonds, emeralds, and two pendant pearls that looked like enormous teardrops. Six bird-of-paradise feathers drooped across one eye in a sultry pose. As I curtsied, I lowered my gaze, but when Amar raised me up, his eyes locked with mine.
“My dear friends, may I welcome you to Travancore at last and beg your forgiveness for not being able to offer you the hospitality I would have under other circumstances.” He attempted to enunciate each word, and the effect was stilted.
“Sir, it is an honor to be here, and thank you for the graciousness you have already extended us,” Edwin said, his formal words lightened by a subtle glibness that echoed their friendship.
Amar's intense stare in my direction did not extend to include my husband, even as he replied, “Next week, when I can properly receive you, I shall compensate for the inconvenience.” He turned to the next guest, cutting off any possible reply, and we backed away.
We were not placed near the other foreign visitors on the left, but were given a prominent aisle position behind some royal children and ahead of Amar's wife. After I took my seat, I smiled to show my pleasure at the honor. Amar nodded regally. From the corner of my eye I saw my husband's chest swell as he accepted the silent appraisal of the dignitaries, who must have wondered who we were.
The following evening we were invited to the state dinner at the British residency. Edwin and I arrived early to watch the procession as the maharajah, this time atop the largest of the state elephants, followed native musicians whose strange flutes piped a high-pitched tune.
The maharajah was greeted first by Sir Mortimer Trevelyan, next by the Cliffords. After a nod to some minor British dignitaries, he clasped Edwin around the shoulders. “Winner! What do you think of your old Lover-boy now?” His pale face seemed to light from within. “My dear Mrs. Salem, I hope your new home pleases you.” He took my hand.
“Yes, thank you.”
“How might I make you more comfortable?”
“We lack nothing,” I replied nervously, for he continued to hold my fingers in a tight squeeze.
“I am certain you are being polite, for there must be some little amenity that would be a welcome addition.”
I shook my head, hoping he would move on.
“Now, Winner, your charming wife is too modest. She does not understand how much pleasure it would give a newly minted maharajah to snap his fingers and have her wishes gratified.” He gave a childish pout that again reminded me of someone else. “Give me a hint. Does she have a particular flower that is her favorite? A particular color? We could have the gardens replanted to suit her. Does she miss the foods of Calcutta? I could send for a Bengali chef. Does she find the climate too hot? I could install more punkahs. There must be something I can do to make up for my inability to welcome you properly.”
Edwin gave me an anxious glance. From Amar's behavior at our wedding party, I knew he was both flamboyant and determined. The maharajah would persist until we offered a suggestion.
“Read,” I mumbled. “I like to read . . . perhaps I could borrow some books.”
Amar pulled his hand away and thumped his chest. “Of course, the little scholar!” His lisp had returned. “I had forgotten.. Tomorrow morning you must visit my library and take whatever you want.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He stepped closer to Edwin. “She will come, won't she?” He spoke like a worried child. “If she doesn't,” he said, wagging his finger, “I will send my entire library to her.” Then he whispered something in Edwin's ear before moving on.
Edwin patted my back. “That wasn't so terrible.”
“What did he say to you?”
Edwin grinned sheepishly. “Nothing.”
“Something about me.”
“No.”
“Then tell me,” I coaxed.
Seeing my worried expression, he confessed, “What he said was: 'Now let us have some fun.' “
“Of course, your highness, but I am uncertain how to help.”
“A woman can temper his—shall we say—tendency to excess better than a man.”
“But—”
She held up that authoritative hand. The enormous diamonds set into her rings caught the light, blinding me momentarily. “Friendship is the only requirement. Everything else will come with time. Mothers, even wives, bring too many complications . . .” Her voice trailed off as she caught the eye of a man in a white uniform. “Ah, the dewan,” she said. The old maharajah's prime minister moved toward us, and I backed away.
Dennis Clifford waved me over. “You know how to impress the right people, Mrs. Salem.”
“She is a very lovely lady, isn't she?” I offered.
“As smooth as a tigress.”
Just then Amar's wife walked by slowly with her legs wide apart and a white drapery billowing ahead of her like a Genoa sail. I realized she was enormous with child.
“Have you been introduced to Rukmini?” Dennis asked.
“Not yet.” I looked at the girl's round face and ascertained it was also swollen due to her pregnancy. Even with those changes it was apparent she had never been an attractive girl.
“You are wondering why Amar would have chosen her,” Dennis said in an uncanny echo of my thoughts. “She is from the Kilimanoor family, which regularly infuses the royal house with their bloodlines. The point is that in Travancore, the woman selects her mate, even when she marries someone in line for the musnud.”
“Do you mean she was able to pick a future rajah and he had to accept her?”
“The process is more complicated than that. Family members do most of the choosing, although she decided on him many years ago, when his brothers were alive and she did not expect to become the wife of a maharajah.”
“Edwin attended their wedding only last year. By then she had to know Amar was next in line.”
“The point is that she hardly matters. She will never be maharani. Her sons will never rule. Her husband may consort with anyone he chooses. The poor girl is really a nonentity.”
“I would like to meet her. May I approach her? Or will she come up to us?”
“We can do nothing without an introduction from her husband, nor can she.”
“What if Amar does not choose to have us meet?”
“Then you shall not meet.” The sternness of his tone surprised me.
His eyes roamed the room before he continued, “May I speak frankly, Mrs. Salem?”
“Of course.”
“Nobody would have taken notice of your residence at the Orchid House if Amar had remained a prince. Now many suspicions have arisen. 'Who are these Jews from Cochin?' they ask. 'How will they influence the maharajah?' If your husband offers advice or opinions, they will affect Amar's appraisal of an issue. People who desire to predispose Amar will seek out Edwin and try to cultivate him as a way of getting to the maharajah.”
“What can we do about that?”
“Be cautious.” He gave me a penetrating stare. “When you were in Quilon, you made this seem to be a post-wedding journey of a temporary nature. Now I understand you may be settling in Trivandrum. Is that true?”
The change from pleasant advice-giving to direct interrogation put me on edge. I struggled to give a noncommittal reply. “My husband wants to extend his friendship in this difficult time.”
The resident did not press me. He slipped his right hand into his pocket and rested his weight on that foot. “The esteem the maharajah has bestowed upon Edwin impresses me. Others must have noticed as well. I have the sense that much of his generosity has been aimed in your direction.”
“I am very grateful for his favors.”
“And how will you express that gratitu
de?” he asked in a slippery voice that caused the skin on the back of my neck to crawl.
I glanced around, hoping someone would catch my eye and come over, but no savior appeared. “The maharajah is Edwin's friend. I shall follow my husband's lead.”
“Well said, my dear Mrs. Salem. You are a clever young woman. But remember this: cleverness is not needed if caution prevails.”
His words hit me with the force of a physical blow. My discomfort with Amar, which I had felt from the first moments of our meeting in Cochin, had been put into words by an unbiased party. More than ever I felt I had to arrange matters so that we would not dally in Travancore. How, though, could I convince Edwin to leave?
“My library contains over ten thousand volumes. Among them you might find something to suit your fancy,” the maharajah said. “During my reign I hope to triple the collection.”
We were standing in a rotunda lined with shelves from the floor to the top of its glass dome, which spilled a beam of light into the stone chamber. The atmosphere favored the maharajah, who seemed younger and more approachable—until he spoke again.
“Here is one place you can be Winner and I can be Lover-boy again.” Amar winked at me. “Don't you agree?”
“To be truthful, I can't imagine Edwin ever calling you that,” I said, forcing myself to underline the statement with a laugh. Instead of becoming more at ease in the maharajah's company, I was finding his mannerisms increasingly disconcerting.
“Now, why ever not?” He batted his thick lashes like a bashful boy. “Am I so ill-suited to my nickname?”
Edwin rescued me. “My wife has never seen you relaxing in your private quarters. Since our arrival we have attended more state occasions than most people do in a lifetime.”
Amar walked toward me, then halted a few inches shy of my folded arms. “I never dreamed of becoming a ruler,” he said, his words becoming more jumbled as he continued. “Yet here I am. The chosen one. I must accept my fate. I must meet every obligation.” His hands fell to his sides in a dramatic gesture. “Yet I must retain some of my own life—something purely personal—or I shall never be able to fulfill my duties with enthusiasm.” He gave us an imploring look, like that of an animal who wishes to be rescued from a trap. “Winner understands, don't you?”