by M. M. Kaye
‘Don't say that.’ Kairi's voice shook and her small face turned pale, for the Suttee Gate with its pathetic frieze of red hand-prints had always filled her with horror, and she could not bear to pass that tragic reminder of the scores of women who had made those marks – the wives and concubines who had been burned alive with the bodies of dead Rajahs of Gulkote, and who had dipped their palms in red dye and pressed them against the stone as they passed out through the Suttee Gate on their last short journey to the funeral pyre. Such slender, delicate little hands, some of them no bigger than her own. The British had forbidden the barbaric custom of suttee, but everyone knew that in remote and independent states, where white men were seldom seen, it was still practised; and half the population of Gulkote could remember seeing Kairi's grandmother, the old Rani, immolating herself in the flames that consumed the body of her husband, together with three lesser wives and seventeen women of the Zenana.
‘If I were you, Juli,’ said Ash thinking it over, ‘I wouldn't get married at all. It's too dangerous.’
Few Europeans had ever visited Gulkote, for although the state was now officially part of the territory that had come under the jurisdiction of the British Crown after the sepoy mutiny of 1857, its lack of roads and bridges continued to discourage travellers, and as it had given no trouble, the authorities were content to leave well alone until such time as they had settled the more pressing problems of the sub-continent. In the autumn of '59, the Rajah, with an eye to forestalling interference, had prudently sent his Prime Minister and a deputation of nobles to negotiate a treaty of alliance with the new rulers, but it was not until the spring of '63 that Colonel Frederick Byng of the Political Department paid a formal visit to His Highness of Gulkote, accompanied by several junior secretaries and an escort of Sikh Cavalry under the command of a British officer.
The occasion was one of considerable interest to His Highness's subjects, whose acquaintance with Europeans had so far been limited to that colourful Cossack adventurer, Sergei Vodvichenko, and his hapless, half-caste daughter, the Feringhi-Rani. They were curious to see what these Sahib-log looked like and how they would comport themselves. And more than ready to enjoy the festivities that would mark the occasion. It was to be a right royal tamarsha (show), and no one looked forward to it with keener anticipation than Ash, though Sita made it clear that she disapproved strongly of foreigners visiting the state, and did her best to dissuade him from attending any of the ceremonies, or even appearing at court during the time that the Englishmen would be present.
‘Why should they wish to come here and interfere with us?’ complained Sita. ‘We do not want feringhis here, telling us what we should or should not do and creating worry and trouble for everyone… asking questions. Promise me, Ashok, that you will have nothing to do with them.’
Her vehemence puzzled Ash, who had never quite forgotten a certain tall, grey-haired man who had lectured him repeatedly on the crime of being unfair… he could remember nothing else about this man except a curious and uncomfortable memory of his face seen fleetingly by lamplight, drained of life and colour; and afterwards the sound of jackals snarling and quarrelling in the moonlight, a sound that had, for some reason, left so strong an impression of fear that even now he could never hear the yelling of a jackal pack without shuddering. But he had early discovered that his mother disliked any mention of the past and could not be persuaded to talk of it. Perhaps the feringhi had been unkind to her, and that was why she was so anxious to prevent him from having any truck with the English visitors? It was, however, unreasonable of her to expect him to absent himself from duty for the duration of their stay; this would not be possible, as Lalji would need the services of all in his household during the visit.
But on the eve of Colonel Byng's arrival, Ash was unaccountably taken ill after a meal prepared by his mother, and for the next few days he remained prone on his bed in her quarters, unable to take any interest in anything but the acute discomfort in his head and stomach. Sita nursed him devotedly, accusing herself, with tears and lamentations, of giving him bad food, and while refusing to admit the hakim (doctor) who had been sent by Hira Lal to treat the sufferer, dosed Ash with herbal brews of her own concoction that had the effect of making him drowsy and heavy-headed. By the time he was on his feet again the visitors had gone, and he had to be content with a second-hand account of the junketings, relayed to him by Kairi, Koda Dad and Hira Lal.
‘You did not miss very much,’ said Hira Lal sardonically. ‘The Colonel was old and fat, and his secretaries young and foolish, and only the officer in command of their escort spoke our tongue with any fluency. His Sikhs said that he was a pukka devil – which they meant to be a compliment. Are you well now? Kairi-Bai said she was sure you had been given poison to keep you from seeing the tamarsha, but we told her not to be a little owl, for who would care whether you saw it or no? Not Lalji, whatever his foolish little sister may think. Our beloved Yuveraj is too full of his own importance these days to bother his head over such matters.’
This last was true enough, for as his father's heir, Lalji had played a prominent part in the various official functions in honour of Colonel Byng, and enjoyed the limelight. It had been more entertaining and far less tiring than the ceremonies that had attended his wedding, and as part of his father's design to dazzle the barbarians, the clothes and jewels he had been given to wear had been even more magnificent than his wedding finery. Lalji had a fondness for fine clothes and display, and few opportunities for indulging it, so he had thoroughly enjoyed peacocking it at his father's side, decked out in embroidered coats stiff with gold and silver thread, wearing brilliant gauze turbans, ropes of pearls and collars of glittering jewels, and carrying a diamond-hilted sword with velvet scabbard that was sewn with seed pearls.
The fat Englishman who spoke such execrable Hindustani had been most affable, and treated him as though he were already a man grown, and although his father had also presented the Nautch-girl's eldest son to the visitors, little Nandu had not created a good impression, for he was a spoilt child and had screamed and whined and been so naughty that the Rajah had lost all patience with him and had him removed half-way through the first reception. He had not been allowed to appear again, so it was Lalji, and Lalji alone, who had sat, stood or ridden by his father's side throughout the four days of festivity; and when it was all over the splendid robes and jewels had not been taken away from him, but left in his charge, and his father had continued to command his presence and treat him with unusual affection.
Lalji was happier than he had ever been before, and his happiness showed itself in a hundred ways. He ceased to tease his little sister or torment his pets, and was gracious and good tempered to all his household. It was a pleasant change from his former tantrums, and only Hira Lal predicted trouble in the future. But then Hira Lal was known to be a cynic. The other members of the Yuveraj's household basked in the relaxed atmosphere created by their young master's change of temper, and saw it as a sign that the boy was becoming a man and preparing at last to put aside childish things. They were also pleasantly surprised at the Rajah's continuous predilection for his son's society: they had not expected it to outlast the departure of the visitors, and were amazed to find that the young Yuveraj now spent a large part of each day in his father's company and was actually being instructed in affairs of state. All of which was deeply gratifying to the Nautch-girl's enemies – and they were many – who regarded the situation as á sign of the favourite's declining power (particularly as the child she had lately borne her lord was a small and sickly girl). But as subsequent events were to show they had once again underestimated her.
Janoo-Rani had been thrown into an imperial rage by the removal of her screaming son from the Durbar Hall, and the favourable impression created by his hated half-brother, the heir. She had raged for two days and sulked for a further seven. But, for once, without the anticipated effect. The Rajah had retaliated by avoiding her apartments and keeping to his own part of the palace until
such time as she should have recovered her temper, and this unexpected reaction had frightened her as much as it had delighted her enemies.
Janoo looked at herself in the glass and saw in it something that she had hitherto refused to recognize – that she had lost her figure and was becoming stout. Time, childbearing and soft living had taken their toll, and the seductive, golden-skinned girl of a few years ago had gone, leaving in her place a short, plump little woman whose complexion was already beginning to darken and who would soon be fat, but who had, as yet, lost none of her wit or her power to charm. Taking stock of the situation, Janoo had hastily stage-managed a reconciliation, and so successfully that she was soon firmly back in the saddle. But she did not forget that short-lived taste of terror, and now, to the surprise of the court, she set out to win the friendship of her step-son.
It had not been easy, for the boy's jealous hatred of the woman who had supplanted the Feringhi-Rani and enslaved his father was a strong growth whose roots went deep. But Lalji had always been fatally susceptible to flattery, and now the Nautch-girl fed his vanity with fulsome compliments and extravagant gifts. Reversing her previous policy, she encouraged the Rajah to make much of his eldest son, and in the end she achieved, if not friendship, at least a truce.
‘Someone,’ said Koda Dad, unimpressed by the Rani's apparent change of heart, ‘should remind that boy of the tiger of Teetagunje, who feigned to be a vegetarian and invited the buffalo's child to dine.’
The court too regarded this new situation with a sceptical eye and predicted that it would not last. But as the weeks went by and it was seen that the Rani continued to remain on good terms with her step-son, it lost its novelty and in time came to be accepted as a normal state of affairs; which delighted the Rajah and pleased the majority of the Yuveraj's household – with the exception of old Dunmaya, who could not be brought to trust the Nautch-girl, and Hira Lal, who for once found himself in agreement with her. ‘Never trust a snake or a harlot,’ quoted Hira Lal sardonically.
Ash too had benefited briefly from the changed atmosphere, for Lalji's happiness and high spirits made him wish to make amends for his former unkindness to the boy who had, after all, once saved his life; though Lalji no longer believed that his step-mother had been in any way involved in that incident. It must have been an accident, he felt certain of that now; and also that there had been no need for him to insist on Ashok's presence in the palace, or any valid reason why he should continue to restrict his liberty. The obvious thing to do now would be to permit him to come and go as he chose. But Lalji was nothing if not obstinate and his pride forbade him to go back on any orders he had once given. He resolved, however, to be kinder to Ashok in the future.
For a time it almost seemed that Ash had been reinstated in his original position of companion and confidant to the Yuveraj. But it did not last. He was not aware of having done anything to offend, and he could not understand the reason for his second fall from favour – any more than he had understood the previous, and equally sudden, reinstatement. But the fact remained that once again, and without warning, Lalji turned against him, and from then on treated him with unreasonable and increasing hostility. A trinket mislaid or an ornament broken, a curtain torn or a parrot ailing – these and a dozen other petty mishaps were laid at his door and he was duly punished for them.
‘But why me?’ demanded Ash, bewildered by Lalji's inexplicable change of heart and, as always, taking his troubles to Koda Dad. ‘What have I done? It's not fair! Why should he treat me like this? What has happened to him?’
‘Allah knows,’ shrugged Koda Dad. ‘It may be that one of his household became jealous of his renewed favour towards you, and has whispered falsehoods against you to bring you down. The favour of princes breeds envy and makes enemies; and there are some who have no love for you. He they call “Bichchhu” for one.’
‘Oh, him. Biju Ram has always hated me; though I do not know why he should, for I have done him no harm and I have never stood in his way.’
Of that I am not so sure,’ said Koda Dad.
Ash looked a question, and Koda Dad said dryly: ‘Has it never occurred to you that he might be in the pay of the Rani?’
‘Biju? But – but that cannot be so,’ stammered Ash, aghast. ‘He could not… not while Lalji holds him in such favour and gives him rich presents and… He would not –’
‘Why? Was it not the Yuveraj himself who dubbed him ‘Bichchhu’? – and with good reason? I tell you, Biju Ram's blood is as cold as that of his namesake. Moreover, we have a proverb in the country beyond the Khyber, that says “A snake, a scorpion and a Shinwari have no heart to tame” (which Allah knows is true of a Shinwari). Listen, my son; I have heard it whispered in certain quarters of the city, and here too in the Hawa Mahal, that this man is a creature of the Rani's and that she pays him well to do her work. Should this be true – and I think it is – then surely both he and the woman should have every reason to hate you?’
‘Yes.’ The boy's voice was almost inaudible and he shivered, feeling as though the very ground under his feet was no longer solid. ‘Poor Lalji…!’
‘Poor Lalji, indeed,’ agreed Koda Dad soberly. ‘Have I not told you many times that life is not always easy for those in high places?’
‘Yes; but he had been so much better of late. So much happier; and kinder, too. To everyone, not only me. Yet now all of a sudden I seem to be the only one he is unkind to, and always for things I have not done. It isn't fair, Koda Dad. It isn't fair.’
‘Bah! that is a child's saying,’ grunted Koda Dad. ‘Men are not fair – neither the young nor the old. You should have found that out by now, my son. What does Hira Lal say?’
But Hira Lal had only pulled at his earring and said: ‘I told you there would-be trouble.’ And as he refused to add anything to this comment, it could hardly be considered helpful.
A few days later Ash had been accused of damaging Lalji's favourite bow, which had snapped during target practice. He protested that he had not touched it, but was disbelieved and soundly beaten; and it was after this that he had begged permission to resign from the Yuveraj's service and quit the Hawa Mahal. It was not granted. Instead, he was informed that he would not only remain in the service of His Highness, but that in future he would not be permitted under any circumstances to leave the fortress, which meant that he was no longer allowed to accompany Lalji or the Rajah when they rode out to hunt or hawk on the plateau or among the hills; or go into the city with Koda Dad or anyone else. The Hawa Mahal had turned, at last, into the prison that he had visualized on the day that he first entered it: its gates had closed behind him and there was no way of escape.
With the advent of the cold weather Sita contracted a chill and a small dry cough. There was nothing new in this; she had suffered from such things before. But this time she did not seem to throw it off, though she refused to seek advice from the hakim, and assured Ash that it was nothing and would pass as soon as the clean winds of winter rid them of the lingering heat and dampness of the monsoon. Yet already the heat had gone from the plateau and the air that blew off the mountains carried the faint cool tang of pine-needles and snow.
News had come from Zarin in Mardan, but it was not good news. The Guides had been in action against one of the Border tribes, and in the fighting his brother Afzal, Koda Dad's second son, had been killed. ‘It is the will of Allah,’ said Koda Dad. ‘What is written is written. But he was his mother's favourite…’
It was a sad autumn for Ash, and would have been sadder but for the staunch support of that small but faithful ally, Kairi-Bai. Neither disapproval nor direct orders had the slightest effect on Kairi, who evaded her women with the ease of long practice and would slip away daily to meet Ash in the balcony on the Mor Minar, bringing with her, as often as not, an assortment of fruit or sweetmeats smuggled out from her own meals or stolen from Lalji's.
Lying there and looking out towards the white peaks of the Dur Khaima, the two children would devise en
dless schemes for Ashok's escape from the palace; or rather, Ash would propound while Kairi listened. But the schemes were not serious, for both knew that Ash would not leave his mother, who was getting daily frailer. She who had always been so hard working and energetic was now often to be found sitting tiredly in her courtyard, her back against the trunk of the pine tree and her hands lying idle in her lap, and by common consent the children were careful not to mention Ash's troubles to her; though there were many troubles, not least of them his knowledge that once again someone was actively attempting to murder the heir of Gulkote.
Three years are a long time in a child's life, and Ash had almost forgotten the poisoned cakes that had been left in Lalji's garden, until suddenly a similar incident recalled them vividly and unpleasantly to his mind.
A box of the special nut-sprinkled halwa that Lalji was particularly fond of was found lying on one of the marble seats in the pavilion near the lily pool, and the Yuveraj pounced upon them, supposing them to have been left there by one of his attendants. But even as he did so, Ash recalled in an ugly flash of memory a trio of fat carp floating belly upwards among the lily pads, and springing forward he snatched the box from the Yuveraj's hand.
The action had been purely instinctive, and faced with a furious demand for an explanation he found himself in a trap. Having never told anyone of those cakes, he could not speak of them now without being disbelieved, or accused of concealing an attempt on the Yuveraj's life: either way the truth would not serve him, so he took refuge in a lie and said that the sweets were his own, but were unfit to be eaten, having been handled in error by a sweeper – a man of the lowest caste – and that he had brought them here intending to feed them to the pigeons. Lalji had backed away in horror, and Ash had been punished for bringing them into the garden. Yet that three-year-old memory had not betrayed him, for later that evening he threw one of the sweets to a crow. And the crow had died. But because he had not spoken before, he dared not speak now.