by Gay Courter
“You could win this game,” Professor Dent said as he moved closer to me.
“The maharajah has been very generous to a novice.”
“Only until now.” Amar's eyes gleamed in the torchlight, and he rubbed his hands together. “Professor P., why don't you assist her? The professor is the one who taught me the game, and he has not lost his touch.”
“That would be very kind,” I said, hoping this would bring the evening to a swift conclusion.
When Amar pinned my knight on his next move, Professor P. said softly, “Do not fear, we have a plan of our own.”
I smiled playfully. “We do?”
The professor made the next move for me, checking Amar's king on the diagonal. There was only one move Amar could make. His eyes blazed. “You should have considered the pawn at white's queen-bishop two,” Percy Dent chastised with a smirk.
Assisted by the professor, three of my white pieces had maneuvered Amar into a checkmate. For a second the maharajah was confounded.
“At least the king is never physically taken,” he said in a jolly tone. He stood and stretched.
I took this as the cue that I might rise.
“Sleep as late as you wish. Our beaters will work through the night to bring the herd closer to us. There are three possible places we might corral them. This camp has been set nearest the most likely spot. If all goes well, we should have an easy ride late tomorrow, then a few exciting hours.”
“I'm looking forward to it,” I said, and retreated as swiftly as I could.
The next morning the valley filled with a thick fog. Bearers brought chota hazri to our tents. The thick, damp air made the world outside so uninviting, I lay on my charpoy and fell back to sleep. It was almost noon before I strolled through the encampment. After a few minutes of looking for someone I knew, a downpour began. I ran to the largest marquee, where I found Jemima having tea with several fashionably attired ladies and the few gentlemen—mostly older fellows like the professor, who remained in camp.
While the rain poured off the canvas in silvery sheets, we munched on freshly fried popadoms dipped in hot sauce, and drenched our throats with steaming cups of sweet tea. Aides ran about tightening ropes and resetting poles as pockets in the roof filled with water.
“The poor men will be soaked,” one of the ladies said, more out of politeness than concern.
“Men love that sort of thing,” another added. “They're like little boys when it comes to mucking about.”
“I hope they don't do the job without us. I have heard the final corral is quite exciting and rarely seen,” Jemima said, turning toward the professor. He had been standing by an open flap smoking his cheroot. “Isn't that right, Professor?”
“Yes, yes. I remember one in particular, Amar's first, when he was about twelve. You must ask him to tell you about it this evening.”
The rains diminished by late afternoon and we were treated to a radiant sunset over the river. The men had trekked into camp well-splattered, but pleased to have stirred the elephants in our direction, even though they had not gained as much ground as they would have if the weather had been clearer.
After the formal dinner, Dennis ushered us to cushions clustered around the maharajah's makeshift throne. Musicians played plaintive ragas in the background. Amar sat cross-legged at the throne's base, leaning his back against it. The men were smoking cheroots. A hookah was passed among some of the courtiers, and I recognized the perfume of opium. I tried not to react when I saw Amar take some puffs of the gilded pipe. Fortunately, it was not proffered to the ladies.
“An excellent smoke,” someone murmured.
Jemima remembered the professor's suggestion and asked the maharajah to tell about his first hunt. “Ah, yes, of course,” Amar said, launching into his tale with enthusiasm. “My great-uncle—this was the Rama Varma, who came before the late maharajah—had an elephant called Jummo that he claimed was more than a hundred years old. The beast had served three maharajahs before him and was always decked in gold, from the plugs in his tusks to the paint on his legs to the gold tassels that swung from the silk cloths that covered his flanks. Even his forehead was painted with golden sunflowers. On the occasion of my first hunt—and on that occasion only—I was invited to ride in the maharajah's howdah atop Jummo. That was when my two brothers preceded me in line for the throne, so nobody had paid much attention to me. Anyway, this elephant had a son, a huge tusker even bigger than himself known as Ganesha—after the god with the elephant head, Mrs. Clifford.” When she nodded in understanding, he went on, “Ganesha led us as we journeyed throughout the night. By then we had been on the road for over a week to cover the hundred miles to the hunting grounds on the eastern trail toward Madurai, and the maharajah was impatient to get there. Ganesha must have picked up the scent of a tiger, for he stopped with such a violent lurch that his mahout was shaken out of his perch and landed under the bull's feet. Unfortunately, he was crushed to death. Now, as most of you are aware, a bond between a mahout and his beast lasts a lifetime. My great-uncle warned the shikarris to expect the bull to act unpredictably until he had recovered from the loss. Ganesha was taken to the end of the line, where two dousing mahouts were employed to keep him cool in hopes that his mind would not wander to the loss of his friend.”
“Do elephants really have such deep feelings?” the Dutchman's daughter asked.
“Anyone who has worked with an elephant is captivated by their uncanny sensitivities,” Amar stated firmly, then continued. “While the maharajah and his party were scouting for the elephants, word came into the camp that the shikarris had sighted three tigers. An elephant had to be dispatched to find out if the maharajah wanted to turn back for some sport. Ganesha was one of the few remaining in camp, and the new mahout in charge assured everyone he was behaving quite normally. I suppose the lad was trying to distinguish himself as a man worthy of being assigned to this noble beast. To prove his point, he jabbed the elephant with his ankus. Ganesha tossed his trunk in the air, trumpeted a hideous bellow, and plowed into two shikarris. One was trampled under the massive feet, another ran to climb the nearest tree.
Other servants rushed in every direction. In the mayhem the rampaging beast seriously wounded two more.”
“How horrible!” Jemima cried. “What did they do?”
“He had to be put down, of course. My great-uncle himself pumped more than seventy bullets into his thick skull. I cannot remember ever weeping more in my life. Curiously, back in Trivandrum after the hunt, faithful old Jummo died in his sleep. Some say he died of a broken, heart, for he had been in perfect health.”
The mood at the table was somber. Determined not to let his party sour, Amar hastily added, “Nevertheless, that is not what I recall most from that hunt. You know my Shankara. She was the youngest of the animals rounded up that very week. When I saw her she looked at me with those wonderful warm eyes, and I will admit, she was the first female to steal my heart. 'Do you like her?' my great-uncle asked. I told him she was the most beautiful elephant I had ever seen. 'Then I shall give her to your eldest brother. It shall be his elephant.' You can imagine how disappointed I was, yet what could I say to him? My brother was thrilled, of course, and like most children with a special possession, he did not permit his next brother or me to touch her.” Amar looked at his guests with a downcast expression. “As much as it pains me to admit this, when my brothers died, I had little concern for what it might mean to someday assume the musnud. I thought only of Shankara and that now she would be mine.”
With shining eyes he stared at the far end of the tent, where his mother sat. The guests waited for her response.
“Amar is being a bit melodramatic. Too much water on the brain today, perhaps?” she said, arching her eyebrows. “All the children rode about on Shankara, and Amar took little interest in her until he was much older.”
Amar cocked his head in deference to his mother while everyone else sensed the time had come to chat among themselves.
Several ladies stood to leave, and each bid a good-night to the maharajah. He waved them off with a cordial word. Seizing the chance, I made my way to where he was lying with his head propped up by his hand. “Good night, dear Mrs. Salem.”
“Good evening, sir.”
“Why not stay for a while longer? I am in a philosophical mood tonight. We might share our views on marriage, for instance.”
“My views are that of my husband, and my husband is not here to share them,” I replied elliptically.
“What a profound statement you have made. Come and enlighten me some more.” He reached to pull me down beside him.
I resisted, pretending he had been trying to get to his feet. “No, don't bother to stand on my behalf, sir.”
He slumped down. “We are both alone. My wife is about to have her child. Your husband is off on an exciting mission.” He was slurring again. “I wonder which shall be delivered earliest—the boat or the baby?”
“Is your wife well?” I asked, hoping that a diversion to this subject would safeguard me.
He ignored the question and waved to the hookah. “Would you like some? A fine, light grade. It will help you sleep.”
“No, I never do.”
“Yes, yes, Winner told me that. Not good for ladies anyway. They sometimes become irrational. Nothing worse than an irrational woman . . .”
Unwilling to be drawn into a defense of my sex, I merely backed away.
I had almost reached the entrance to the marquee when he whined, “Sassy, please . . .”
Just then Dennis appeared from the shadows. “I'll escort Mrs. Salem back, sir. Don't worry about her.” He took my arm and I felt safe at last.
“You mustn't mind Amar when he gets like that.”
“What am I supposed to do?” I asked with a quaver in my voice.
“Exactly what you did. Be firm. Be polite. Be a lady.”
“Sometimes he frightens me.” I mulled over my next question, then dared, “Do you think his pipe influences him?”
“Except to make his speech impediment worse, I doubt it. Perhaps it might affect someone less accustomed, the way two toddies might affect a woman who rarely drinks.” He winked. “Not someone who takes a small amount on a regular basis. To me, the boy is a lamb who has suddenly been awarded giant horns. He hardly knows what to do with them, yet cannot resist taking a few stabs to see what sort of power he possesses.”
I could have taken the ram analogy further and asked what I should do if he directed those stabs at me, but held my tongue. “Thank you and good night,” I said as he delivered me to where Yali was holding a lamp.
“Good night, Mrs. Salem. Sleep well. Tomorrow is bound to be an exciting day.”
I was exhausted even though I had done nothing more strenuous than stroll around the encampment. Just being in the maharajah's presence was a strain. The more I was near him, the more I was reminded of Sadka's vile presence and saw myself in my mother's role. Yali unpinned my hair, helped me undress, then stepped outside to call for hot water. She gave a little cry. Thinking she had confronted a snake, I rushed to the tent flap.
“Amar! What are you doing here?”
“I like it when you call me 'Amar,' Sassy.”
“Pardon me, sir. I suppose the name came to mind because that is what Edwin uses when he speaks of you to me.”
“Don't worry, Mrs. Salem, we do not hand out fines here.” He stood inches from me. “As I said before, I would like to talk with you.”
Not expecting anyone, I had appeared in only my thin lawn chemise. I crossed my arms to cover my chest and shivered. “Please, not now and not here. Someone might see us.”
Ignoring my plea, he stared at me. My hair was cascading down my shoulders and blowing in the breeze. He touched the long tendrils and wound them around his hand, pulling me outside the tent. “Such beautiful hair, a shame to bind it. So soft, like silk strands. Our women's hair is thicker and coarser. But this, this is like threads of beaten gold.” He touched to his cheek the hand that bound my hair. “So soft . . . so soft . . . I have never met a woman like you: a woman of education, a woman of the city, a woman of wealth, a woman of virtue who has known more than one man.”
“But I haven't,” I protested.
“You said you were married before.”
“That was a mistake.”
“The marriage—or telling me?”
“Both, I suppose.”
“Does Winner know your little secret?”
“Of course! And it is not a secret. My parents arranged a match with another man about a year before I met Edwin. He turned out to be very unsuitable—he had an illness, something incurable he had not mentioned. This led to the dissolution of the marriage before it was consummated.”
Amar seemed disappointed by my explanation. “You intrigue me, Sassy. I cannot help myself. Even Winner would understand my fascination. Yes, Winner would.” He reflected glassily for a moment, then murmured, “Winner. Was there ever a more apt nickname? Didn't the poor fatherless boy win the prize?” With a swift gesture he wound another turn of my hair. My feet refused to budge, so my head strained toward him.
“Please, Sassy, I do not wish to harm you. Please, I only want to converse with you. I do enjoy our little chats. They stimulate me. Pray, think of me. Think of how alone I am. My wife gives birth any day now. I have not considered taking any more wives. I have no permanent mistresses. Now that I am maharajah, I suppose I should have some, but they do not amuse me.” He loosened my hair and stepped back. “I did not wish to be maharajah. Everyone knows that.” He gave a slight moan. “Now that I am, everybody wants something from me.
How shall I know my true friends? At least I thought I could trust Winner and his wife—and that they could trust me.”
“I would not be here if I were not your friend. I would not be here if I did not trust you.” I rubbed the spot where my hair had been tugged at its roots. “I shall forgive you because you were carried away by your inquisitiveness, but if you touch me again, I shall leave Travancore and never return, and neither will my husband.” I fought back fears.
“Now, now, Sassy. The hour is late. We are both tired.”
“Indeed.” The voice was that of Amar's mother. She appeared out of the blackness, her white gown a shimmering column in the moonlight. I could not make out much of her face beyond a reflection of her eyes and the flickering of some jewels that seemed suspended in midair as her dark arms blended into the obscurity. “Are you all right, Mrs. Salem?”
“Yes, thank you, your highness.”
“Good. I was afraid you might have caught a chill this morning. How kind of my son to check on you. He worries about his guests, especially ladies unaccustomed to this sort of hardship.”
“I am very comfortable.”
“I am glad for that. I think you will find tomorrow's events to be quite remarkable. Please join me on my howdah. We can share the adventure together.”
“I would be honored. Good night, madam. Good night, sir.”
“Good night, Mrs. Salem,” the maharajah said thickly. “I wish you a good rest.”
The maharajah had done me a favor. At last I knew that my concerns were not the idle speculations of a neglected bride. I fascinated Amar and he was used to having whatever he wanted. The British raj usually allowed native rulers a free hand with their states. If anything happened to me, it might be made to appear an accident, unless the Cliffords had some doubts. Amar was not stupid. Because of this, he could never force his hand with me. Nevertheless, terrible things could happen. He could pursue me to the point of scandal. There was little that went on in this camp that every servant, every guest would not soon know. If I were embarrassed, Edwin and I would have to leave Travancore. Our investment in the ship would be in jeopardy. And this might stir trouble between Edwin and me. I had no doubt that Edwin would come to believe my side, but I could not bear having to defend myself. I saw our marriage as being as perfect as an egg. The smooth white she
ll was the sturdy encasement of our love. If Amar managed to tap that shell, he might not break it, but he could inflict a hairline crack. Nothing would ooze out, yet the structure would be weakened. Forevermore, we would have to take care not to damage it further.
These thoughts prevented me from sleeping. As the night wore on, they became even more convoluted. Where was Edwin? What was he doing? When would I see him again? Every sound from the jungle, every footstep near the tent, every creaking of a rope or flapping of a canvas caused me to jump. Amar wouldn't dare come back, I consoled myself, but that did not calm my pulse. A pinkish light tinged the brass basin and lamp: dawn had come. I was safe. Only then could I fall asleep.
Yali wiped my face and hands and feet as though I were a baby. I looked like a mess, I knew. I could not have slept more than an hour. As she brought me tea in bed, a heaviness weighed me down. What was I doing here? How could I escape? And if I did, where would I go? Back to Trivandrum and the Orchid House? Back to our cottage in Cochin or to Mother Esther's claustrophobic room on Jew Street? Back to Calcutta and Theatre Road? That is exactly where I would have been, if not for Edwin. Or I might have made the choice to remain in Darjeeling with Silas. Yes, I could still be under the spell of the snows, with Euclid padding around morosely, Silas laid up with his headaches, and the eternal wind battering the exposed walls of Xanadu. I took a deep breath. The smell of oil frying popadoms filled the air. Sunlight streamed under the tent. Elephants trumpeted. I remembered my visit from Amar's mother and reminded myself I was not alone. The kindly Cliffords, the gentle professor, and the second-most-powerful person in the kingdom were on my side. As Yali slipped my gown over my outstretched arms and handed me my topee, I smiled.
With my head held high, I joined the party congregating outside the marquee. Everyone was munching crisp breads passed from silver trays and drinking cups of dark tea. The elephants were decked out in full regalia. A shikarri blew a brass horn, and the elephants trumpeted their reply. Amar was lifted into the royal howdah. Into the air the elephant-crested banner was lifted. The hunt was on.