by M. M. Kaye
‘What do a few days matter?’ said Kaka-ji, fanning himself. ‘There is no great need for haste, and we shall all of us benefit from a short rest. Yes, even you, Sahib! For I fear your health is not good these days. You have become much thinner, and have lost your spirits and no longer laugh, or talk and ride with us as before. No, no…’ a raised hand checked Ash's apologies. ‘It is the heat. The heat and this hot wind. We all suffer from it. You and Mulraj who are strong and I who am old, and Jhoti who is young – and pretends that it is the heat and not too many sweetmeats that have turned his stomach. Shushila too, for she has always been sickly, though I think that with her it is partly fear. Shu-shu is afraid of the future, and now that we are so nearly at Bhithor she would delay her arrival, even if only for a day or two.’
‘You have only yourself to blame, Sahib,’ shrugged Mulraj. There was an unaccustomed edge to his voice and his tone was unsympathetic. ‘You know how it is with Shushila-Bai, and had she been kept amused and occupied she might have given less thought to the future – and found the heat easier to bear. But when first you and then Jhoti ceased to ride with us of an evening or join in the gatherings in the durbar tent, those things no longer amused her and she turned to fretting and complaining.’
‘I have been too busy,’ began Ash uncomfortably. ‘There have been so many –’ he broke off abruptly, and frowned: ‘What's all this about Jhoti? Why did he stop coming?’
‘To begin with, I suppose because you did. And when he was taken ill, he could not.’
‘Ill? Since when? Why was I not told?’
Mulraj's brows lifted and for a moment he stared in astonishment; then his eyes narrowed and he said slowly: ‘I see now: you were not even listening. I should have known as much when you did not ask after him or try to see him.’
His voice changed and was no longer unfriendly: ‘I told you myself four days ago, and spoke of it again on the following morning. When you said nothing, but only nodded your head, I thought that you no longer wished to be troubled with such things. I should have known better. What is the matter, Sahib? You have not been yourself of late. Not since that attack upon you. It is not pleasant to know that someone waits and watches for an opportunity to put a bullet through one's head or a knife in one's back; as I myself know only too well. Is it that, Sahib? Or is it something else that troubles you? If I can be of help, you have only to ask.’
Ash flushed and said hurriedly: ‘I know. But there is nothing, only the weather, and you cannot change that. Now tell me about Jhoti. Kaka-ji Rao said something about the heat being too much for him.’
‘Not the heat,’ said Mulraj dryly. ‘Datura – or so I think. Though one cannot be sure.’
Now datura is a plant that grows wild in many parts of India, though more especially in the south. Its white, lily-like flowers are sweetly scented and very beautiful. But its seed, which is round and green, is known as the ‘apple of death’, for it is exceedingly poisonous – and being easily obtained it has been used for centuries as a handy method of getting rid of unwanted husbands, wives or elderly relatives. It is one of the commonest of all poisons, and can be ground into a powder and mixed with almost any food (though bread is the usual choice) and death follows quickly or slowly, depending on the size of the dose or the amount that has been eaten. According to Mulraj, Jhoti must have eaten a good deal of it, but he had vomited most of it up and thereby saved himself. He had been moved to his sisters' tent, where he was making a rapid recovery under the care of the dai, Geeta…
‘But where did he get it from?’ demanded Ash. ‘What was it in? Have you questioned the khansamah and the rest of his servants? Surely all his people eat the same food, don't they? – he can't have been the only one made ill by it.
But it seemed that he was. The poison, said Mulraj, had apparently been in some jellabies, a form of fried sweetmeats that Jhoti was particularly fond of, and that he had found in his tent. Fortunately, he had gobbled the lot – more than enough to make any child sick without there being any sinister ingredients. And equally fortunately, one of his servants, alarmed by the excessive vomiting, had run at once for Gobind instead of losing his head like the rest of them.
‘Did Gobind say it was datura?’ asked Ash.
Mulraj made a gesture of negation with one hand. ‘No. Only that it might be. The boy, as I have said, had eaten them all, even to licking the honey from the leaves on which they had lain, so that nothing remained. His own people said that it was only the excessive number and greasiness of the sweetmeats that was causing him to vomit.’
Apparently Gobind had not been so sure of that; and though he said nothing then of his suspicions, he had treated the child as though for poison and made inquiries among the servants as to where the sweets had come from. But as he told Mulraj later, even if there had been nothing wrong with the jellabies and they had been placed there as a small surprise by someone who was fond of the child and only meant to please him, the very fact that they had made him sick would ensure that the giver would deny all knowledge of them. So he had not been surprised when no one would admit to knowing anything about them.
‘But someone must have seen the boy eating them. Did Gobind ask about that?’
‘Of course. But those who saw supposed – or said they did – that the Rajkumar had brought the jellabies himself. And I myself was only told that in his opinion the child had been poisoned, probably with datura, and that had he not been so greedy he would have died. But all that grease would have helped to coat his stomach and prevent the poison from being too quickly absorbed, and the grease and the sweetness together had made him feel sick, so that he had vomited everything up before it was too late; or that is what Gobind thinks, though he says that it would be difficult to prove. After I had spoken to him, I arranged for Jhoti to be nursed by his sisters. The elder is a woman of sense, and it gives Shushila-Bai something to think of other than the heat and her own troubles.’
Ash said: ‘But there is a guard on the boy's tent. How could anyone –’ and stopped, recalling that there had been a guard on his own tent, yet it had twice been entered without anyone having been seen. He pushed a hand through his hair, looking harassed and angry, and said: ‘I told you we should have spoken out about that first attempt to kill the boy, so that whoever was responsible for it would know that we knew and be afraid to try again. But you wouldn't have it, and now look what has happened. It's been tried again. This time you should have told everyone.’
‘I told you, Sahib,’ observed Mulraj dryly. ‘But it seems that you had other things on your mind, and did not hear.’
Ash said nothing, for he knew that there had been too many occasions of late when, drunk with tiredness, he had only made a pretence of listening without taking in a single world that was being said. He had not let this disturb him overmuch, because he had been sure that if anything of real importance had been mentioned he would certainly remember it, and if he did not, it would only mean that the subject had been of no interest; yet Mulraj had spoken to him about Jhoti and he had not listened to a word. How much more had he missed?… how many other people had told him things that he had not listened to as he went about his duties in a daze, attempting not to think of his own troubles and thinking of nothing at all, and imagining himself to be doing useful work?
Mulraj, watching him, noticed for the first time how much thinner he seemed to have become; not only thinner, but older – which was something that Kaka-ji had noticed even earlier, and remarked on. But then Mulraj, like Ash, had had other things on his mind.
‘I am sorry,’ said Mulraj contritely, regretting his last remark. ‘That was unkind.’
‘It was deserved!’ admitted Ash ruefully. ‘I am the one who should apologize. I have been behaving like… like George!’
‘George?’ Mulraj looked puzzled. ‘Who is George?’
‘Oh… just someone I once knew. He used to dramatize himself. It's a bad habit. Now, what are we going to do about Jhoti?’
2
3
There was, when they came to discuss it, very little they could do towards protecting Jhoti from assassination, beyond what they had done already; which was not much.
It was not possible to police the boy for every minute of every hour, unless he was to be followed everywhere by a guard of picked men from the State Forces, and though Mulraj would not have admitted it, he could not be wholly certain that even among his own best men there might not be one or two who were untrustworthy. Nandu was, after all, their hereditary overlord and ruler of their state and their destinies, and their duty was to obey his orders. Besides, there would also be large rewards, for he would not be niggardly when it came to paying for something he desired – such as the death of his heir-presumptive.
Mulraj was no cynic, but he had few illusions on the subject of human nature. He knew that most men can be bought if the price is high enough, and had therefore decided to say nothing about that first attempt to kill the little Rajkumar, but instead to pray to the gods and hope that vigilance and fore-knowledge would be able to foil a second one.
But it seemed that the gods had not listened to him, and as it was no thanks to him, or to Ash either, that the second attempt had failed, this time they would have to speak out. There was obviously nothing to be gained by keeping silence, and though they had little to offer in the way of proof, the boy would at least be warned of his danger and would never again be careless as to what he ate or drank. It was the course that Ash had originally favoured; yet now that it came to the point, he opposed it. Because once again he remembered a face from the past, not George's this time, but the face of the frightened boy who had been Jhoti's half-brother and Yuveraj of Gulkote…
Lalji too had been threatened with assassination, and had lived in terror of it – starting at shadows and never knowing who if anyone he could trust. And though he had been warned (his old nurse, Dunmaya, had never ceased warning him) it had not saved his life. All that it had done was to make a hell of his short life, and his rages and cruelty and vindictiveness were a not unnatural reaction to a burden of fear that was too great for a child to bear.
Jhoti too was no stranger to fear. He had been afraid on the night when Ash had first seen him and been struck by his resemblance to another plump and pallid little boy. He had good reason to shake in his shoes, for he had just defied Nandu and run away, and he knew enough of his brother to be frightened – though not, Ash thought, of being murdered; only of being punished. But if he knew…
‘It's no good. We can't do it,’ said Ash harshly. ‘It would be too cruel. He's only a child and it would scare him out of his wits to learn that there is someone here in this camp who means to kill him and who has not only nearly done so twice, but will certainly try again. He'll grow afraid of everything and everyone. Afraid of trusting anyone, or eating anything, or drinking or sleeping or riding. It's too much to expect any child to bear. But there's no reason why we shouldn't tell his sisters and Kaka-ji. They can see to it that his food is tasted by someone else before he touches it. And we'll get Gobind to tell him not to eat sweets, or anything else he finds lying around, because the ones that made him sick must have been stale, or fried in bad ghee or something like that. Gobind will know what to say, and he and the girls and Kaka-ji can all help to keep an eye on the boy. It's the best we can do.’
Mulraj frowned and pulled at his lip, and agreed that it would be kinder not to frighten the child, but that if they wished to keep him in ignorance they would not be able to tell either Kaka-ji or Shushila-Bai – particularly Shushila, who would never be able to keep it to herself. She would only work herself into a state of hysteria over it, and the tale would be all over the camp within a matter of hours. As for Kaka-ji, he was too old and frail to be worried by such violent matters, as well as being far too talkative – and too transparent. Which left only Anjuli-Bai…
‘Jhoti is fond of her, and she of him,’ said Mulraj. ‘Also I know her to be a sensible woman and one who does not lose her head and become distracted by danger. I have not forgotten her behaviour on the night that the ruth foundered in the river and the driver of the bullocks was drowned. She did not shriek or show fear, but saw to it that her sister was saved; and I am very sure that she would do no less for her brother. It is a heavy responsibility to lay on one woman's shoulders, but we need help, and Anjuli-Bai is perhaps the best person to give it. At least we know that we can trust her. Which is more,’ added Mulraj grimly, ‘than can be said of very few others in this camp.’
Yes, Juli could be trusted, thought Ash. She would do everything in her power to protect her little half-brother from harm, and she would neither panic nor talk unwisely – or lose her head in a crisis. She was the obvious person to turn to for help, and it had been a mistake not to tell her the truth about Jhoti long ago, after that near-fatal riding accident. He had fully intended to do so, yet somehow he had not. He could not remember why.
Another thought struck him, and he said abruptly: ‘But Anjuli-Bai is never alone, so how are you going to tell her?’
‘I?’ Mulraj sounded surprised. ‘Nahin, Sahib. It is you who will have to do that; if I did I would surely be overheard. But on our evening rides, which have lately ceased, it was your custom to gallop on ahead with the Rajkumari Anjuli, and if the rides are resumed you could do so again without occasioning any remark. It is the only way.’
Which is why Ash, despite all his good intentions, came to be riding beside Juli on the following evening…
He had, in point of fact, seen her on the previous day, as after speaking to Mulraj he had asked if he might see Jhoti, who was still convalescent and in his sister's care. The tent had been crowded with people, for the East has never believed in the theory that segregation and quiet are necessary to the sick, and in addition to the princesses and their women, both Kaka-ji and Muldeo Rai were present.
Jhoti was looking better than expected, and well on the way to recovery. But his greeting had contained a strong suggestion of reproach. He had obviously been hurt by Ash's failure to visit him earlier, and only forgave it when Ash cravenly put the blame on Gobind, who, he said, had forbidden him to do so until the patient was in better health. He had not stayed long, and there had been no opportunity to speak to Juli beyond the usual polite greetings. He thought she looked pale and tired, and when he met her gaze it was puzzled, and like Jhoti's, a little reproachful, and his heart contracted.
He did not look at her again, because he was afraid that if he did he would not be able to stop himself from reaching out in front of them all to smooth away that faint, bewildered frown, and tell her that he loved her and had only stayed away because he could not bear to endanger her. Turning away quickly he spoke instead to Shushila, and afterwards he could not remember who had brought up the subject of a riding party on the following evening, or what arrangements had been made. He remembered only that he had agreed to go. And as he walked back to his tent, he realized that he should not have done so.
‘But it is for Jhoti's sake,’ thought Ash, arguing with himself. There were so many ways in which Juli could help – she had to be told about Jhoti, and because he, Ash, was the only one who could do it, he had no choice in the matter.
But there was a flaw in that argument, and he knew it. It was not that Juli could not help, because she could and would do more than anyone else to protect her young brother from harm, and her help would be invaluable; but there was a time limit to any help she could give, and it was a very short one. In a few days they would reach Bhithor, and then there would be the wedding; and once that was over she would not be able to help Jhoti any more, so there was not much point in telling her anything for the sake of what little she could do in the few days that were left…
‘I should have told her long ago,’ thought Ash. But he had not, and it was no good telling her now. It was too late… He ought to send word that he could not join the riding party tomorrow. He ought not to see her again… it would only make matters worse. He would not go.
That night he fell asleep the moment his head touched the pillow and awoke next morning feeling enormously refreshed; and though the future, when analysed, remained as bleak as before, the fog of fatigue and despair that had enveloped him had lifted, and life did not seem so intolerable after all.
Even the weather had improved. As the sun moved up the sky and the temperature rose, the tents did not flap maddeningly or the trees and grass whine in the wind, and today there were no veils of sand hissing along the river-bed. For once, the louh was not blowing, and the relief of being free from its hot, fretting breath was as great as though a persistent drum had suddenly stopped beating. Men's nerves relaxed and the whole atmosphere of the camp changed and lightened, for the cessation of the wind was almost as great a boon as the prospect of a few days' rest in a spot where there was both shade and water. The camp settled down to enjoy both, and although by the afternoon the day had become airless and stifling and the hordes of flies that the wind had previously kept at bay were back in force, these were considered a small price to pay for rest and quiet.
The late afternoon continued breathlessly still, but as the shadows lengthened and the shimmering heat-haze that had danced all day above the sandbanks died away, a faint current of air stirred along the river and crept between the tents. ‘It will be cooler out on the plain,’ said Kaka-ji.