by M. M. Kaye
By the day of the wedding the very alleyways of Bhithor smelled of marigolds and jasmine instead of the more familiar mixture of dust and refuse and boiling ghee, while the hum of the city was drowned by the din of fu-fu bands and the crackle of patarkars. In the Pearl Palace the centre portion of the durbar hall, normally open to the sky, had been roofed in by an awning, and below this four silver posts supported a canopy fashioned from thousands of marigold heads strung on gold wire, beneath which the sacred fire would be lighted and the officiating priests perform the shadi, the marriage ceremony.
The ground between the silver posts had been spread with fresh cow-dung that was patted and dried to form a smooth floor, eight foot square. On this a large circle and various good-luck signs were now drawn in a white paste made from rice flour… for at last the long awaited day was here.
In an inner room of the Pearl Palace the brides were being bathed and anointed with scented oil, the soles of their feet and the palms of their slender hands tinted with henna, their hair combed and braided by Unpora-Bai.
Their day had begun with a dawn-hour pujah, to pray for a hundred sons and a hundred daughters, and they had eaten nothing because they must fast until the marriage ceremony was over. Their women crowded about them, laughing and teasing and chattering like a flock of gaily coloured parakeets as they dressed the brides in the shimmering silks and gauzes of the wedding garments, painted their eyes with kohl, and hung them with jewels that were part of their dowries: diamonds, emeralds, pigeon's-blood rubies and ropes of pearls from the treasury of the Hawa Mahal.
The small room was dim and airless and heavy with the scent of sandalwood, jasmine and attar-of-roses, and Shushila's convulsive sobs were lost in the prevailing din of women's voices and went as unregarded as the dripping of a tap. Jhoti had been in to see his sisters and give them the benefit of his advice on what jewels they should wear, but as the mob of excited, shrill-voiced women who pressed about them had for once paid little attention to him, he had stayed only long enough to tell Shushila that if she didn't stop crying she would be the ugliest bride in all India – a brotherly piece of candour that only served to increase the flow of Shu-shu's tears and earned him an unexpectedly sharp slap from Unpora-Bai. Jhoti had withdrawn in some dudgeon, and run off to find Ash in order to show off his own wedding finery and complain of the silliness of women.
‘It's true what I said, Sahib. She's done nothing but snivel until her eyes are all swollen and puffy and her nose is as red as her sari. She looks a fright and I expect the Rana will think we have cheated him on purpose and be angry with all of us. Do you suppose he'll beat her? I would, if she were my wife and all she could do was cry! And I shall tell her so. Except that Kairi said…’
But the Sahib was no longer listening.
Ash had been living of late in a curious half world, refusing to think and deliberately driving himself to exhaustion by means of hard exercise; or when that failed, working at reports or playing interminable games of chess with Kaka-ji or Mulraj, or of patience with himself. He had eventually managed to persuade himself that he was over the worst and could face this day, when it came, without any emotion. And now Jhoti had spoken of her, and the mention of the old nick-name had broken through his defences as though they were so much tissue paper, and clawed at his heart with a pain that was as sudden and as savage as the impact of a bullet smashing into flesh and bone. For a moment the room about him had turned dark and the walls and floor seemed to sway, and when they steadied again he became aware that Jhoti was still talking, though at first the words were no more than a jumble of meaningless sounds.
‘Do you like my achkan?’ demanded Jhoti, revolving slowly to show it off. ‘I was going to wear a silver brocade one, but my uncle said he liked the gold one best. Do you think he was right, Sahib?’
Ash did not speak, and when Jhoti repeated the question, replied so much at random that it was clear that he had not been paying the least attention. ‘Are you not feeling well?’ inquired Jhoti solicitously. ‘Is it the heat?’
‘What…?’ Ash seemed to come back from a long way off. ‘I'm sorry, Prince. I was thinking of something else… What did you say?’
‘It is nothing,’ said Jhoti, politely dismissing it with a wave of his small. paw. He had seen men look and speak in a similar fashion after taking drugs, and presumed that the Sahib must have been dosing himself with opium against some sickness of the stomach. He had a fondness for Pelham-Sahib and was sorry that he should feel unwell, but there were so many exciting things to be seen and done that day that he did not waste time worrying over it, and ran off to show the gold brocade coat to Mulraj instead.
Ash was barely aware that he had gone; or that Gul Baz had entered the room and was saying something about it being time to go. Go where?
‘The Rao-Sahib sends word that the bridegroom's procession is said to have left the Rung Mahal,’ reported Gul Baz.
Ash nodded, and putting up an uncertain hand to wipe the sweat off his forehead, was startled to find his fingers shaking uncontrollably. He snatched them away and stared down at his hand, forcing it to steadiness with an effort of will, and when it was still again, reached for the elaborately braided and befrogged coat that Gul Baz was holding out to him, and that would today provide the only sober note among a rainbow of colours and the sheen of gold and silver thread.
Gul Baz had earlier helped him to pull on his boots and overalls and buckle on the webbed sword belt with its dangling straps about his waist; and now he shrugged himself reluctantly into the coat and adjusted the cross belt, feeling as stale and exhausted as though he had just returned from a route march instead of doing no more than rise from his bed and eat his breakfast. The high, tight collar of his uniform felt as though it would choke him, but though the day promised to be one of the longest and worst of his life, and was already abominably hot, as a Sahib and an officer he must sit through it sweltering in full-dress uniform, gloved, booted and spurred, and with a ceremonial sword clanking at his hip – which seemed, somehow, the last straw in the whole sorry business.
His hands were steady enough as he buckled on his sword, but when Gul Baz handed him the big white pith helmet that is worn with full dress, he took it and stood looking at it as he had looked at Jhoti, as though he did not see it.
Bands of blue and gold striped the pugaree-cloth about the crown, and the light glinted on the tall gilt spike that topped it and on the links of the chinstrap that custom decreed must be worn above and not below the chin. Gul Baz cleared his throat in a deprecatory cough that was a polite reminder that time was passing, and when that had no effect, said firmly: ‘Put it on, Sahib. The sun is hot.’
Ash obeyed mechanically, and having adjusted the chinstrap, drew on his gloves and hitched forward the hilt of his sword, and straightening his shoulders as though he were about to face a firing squad, went out to join Kaka-ji and others who were already waiting to welcome the bridegroom and his party in a covered courtyard by the main gate of the Pearl Palace.
The courtyard was a large one, but it was stiflingly hot, and also exceedingly noisy, for in addition to the many people waiting there, a three-man band sat playing in a small balcony above the arch that led into the main block of the palace.
Garlands of roses and jasmine buds hung down from the balcony's edge and were looped across the marble screens, and the close air reeked with the cloying sweetness of itr and incense and fading flowers, the sharp smell of pan and cardamom seeds, and the less pleasing odour of perspiration. Ash could feel the sweat running down between his shoulder blades, and he surreptitiously unhooked the high collar of his coat and wished that the dignity of a Sahib did not entail his having to accept a chair instead of squatting Indian fashion on the floor as his companions were doing: the marble would at least be cool, whereas the plush upholstery of the chair that had been provided for him felt as though it had just come out of an oven. He shifted restlessly and wondered how long he would be called upon to endure it, and wh
ether it was the heat or the lack of air or the intermittent bursts of ear-piercing music that was making his head ache so abominably.
In the event the wait turned out to be even longer than expected, for the report that the bridegroom and his barat had left the city palace and were on their way to the park had been over-optimistic. They had intended to leave a full two hours before noon, but Asia has little regard for Time and none at all for punctuality, and the afternoon was far advanced before the procession finally set out for the Ram Bagh; and when at last it reached the park the sun was well down in the sky and the worst of the heat was over.
They could hear it coming from a long way off. At first the tunk-a-tunk of drums and the joyous squeal of flutes, the braying of horns and the shouts of watching crowds were only a distant murmur barely louder than the cawing of crows and the crooning of doves and green pigeons among the trees of the Ram Bagh. But as the minutes slid past the sounds grew in volume, and at last Jhoti, who had scampered up to the roof from where he could catch a glimpse of the road across the intervening tree-tops, came pelting down to announce that the procession was entering the park gates, and where were the garlands? The assembled company rose to smooth down their achkans and straighten their turbans, and Ash refastened his collar, drew a deep breath, and setting his teeth, tried to think of nothing at all, and found himself thinking of Wally and Zarin, and the snow peaks of the Dur Khaima…
The bridegroom had not come on horseback from the city. He had been carried instead, seated on a platform that was draped and canopied with pearl-fringed cloth-of-gold and borne by twelve gorgeously liveried retainers. His dress too was gold, as on the occasion of that first durbar so many weeks ago, but today it was even more splendid, for the brocaded achkan was sewn with jewels. There were more jewels on his turban: a great crescent of diamonds and emeralds pinned an aigrette to the gold tissue, and ropes of pear-shaped diamonds looped about it in the manner of tinsel on a Christmas tree. Jewels flashed on his fingers and blazed on the solid gold of his sword belt, while the sword itself – the sword that a bridegroom wears to symbolize his readiness to defend his bride against all enemies – had a hilt encrusted with diamonds and topped by a single emerald the size of a rupee.
A stranger seeing that glittering figure seated on a golden platform and surrounded by liveried attendants and the gorgeously dressed members of the barat might well have taken it to be some Eastern idol being carried in procession by its worshippers, an impression heightened by the fact that its face was concealed by strings of marigold and jasmine buds that hung down from the turban, so that only the glint of eyes from behind the veil showed that the bedizened object was alive.
The music stopped on a long wailing note, and Kaka-ji's family priest went out to recite Vedic hymns and invoke the blessing of the gods, before calling the bride's uncle forward for the milni, officially the ceremony of the introduction between the fathers of the bride and groom, but today (both fathers being dead) between Kaka-ji and one of the Rana's maternal uncles. The two old gentlemen embraced, and Jhoti, as the brides' brother, assisted the bridegroom to alight and conducted him and his friends into the covered courtyard where the brides' party waited to garland the guests and present gifts to their opposite numbers in the barat.
Despite his dazzling dress the Rana appeared far less imposing on foot. Not even the over-large turban with its tall aigrette could disguise his lack of inches, and Kaka-ji Rao – no giant – topped him by half a head. Nevertheless the faceless figure still managed to convey a disquieting sense of power. ‘And danger,’ thought Ash.
It was as though a tiger, full-fed and therefore temporarily harmless, had come padding unconcernedly through a field full of sheep and cows, and the impression was so strong that Ash could almost have sworn that the man gave off a special smell: an animal smell, rank and menacing. He felt the hair at the base of his scalp prickle as though it were lifting, and recalled in a sudden flash of memory a long-forgotten scene: moonlight and the black shadows of trees and jungle grass, and a warning shiver that seemed to run through the silence like a cat's-paw of wind flitting across an expanse of still water, felt but not heard, and someone – was it Uncle Akbar? – saying in a whisper that was barely more than a breath of sound: ‘Shere ahraha hai!’ (the tiger is coming).
The sweat that had soaked through his uniform was suddenly cold, and Ash shivered and heard his teeth chatter. Then the bridegroom had moved past him and was being escorted towards the arch below the balcony for the jai-mala, the garlanding of the groom by the bride.
The arch gave onto a narrow tunnel-like entrance hall where Shushila and her sister waited with the garlands that a bride must place round the groom's neck in token of her acceptance of him. Even now, at this eleventh hour, a wedding will be cancelled should the bride refuse to do this; and when there followed an unexplained pause in which the Rana waited and those behind him jostled and peered, Ash had a desperate moment of hope, the frantic foolish and utterly ludicrous hope that Shushila had changed her mind and meant to reject the marriage. But though the pause seemed a long one to those who could not see into the hallway and did not know the cause of the delay, it could not have lasted more than a minute or so, and then the groom bowed low, and when he straightened up the bride's garland was about his neck.
A moment later he bent again – though this time so slightly that it was more a brief inclination of the head than a bow – and those behind him saw a woman's hands lift a second garland high in order to clear the osprey plume on his gold turban. The hands were decked with jewels and the palms and finger nails had been tinted with henna and touched with gold leaf. But they were still square and capable – still unmistakably the hands of a little unloved girl who had been known as Kairi-Bai – and glimpsing them, Ash knew that he would, after all, be able to watch her go though the marriage rites and see her leave for her husband's house without flinching, because nothing that was to come could possibly hurt worse than that brief sight of Juli's hands…
With the garlanding over, the band struck up once more and the groom and guests entered the Pearl Palace to be feasted, the barat being fed before the brides' party, while all those for whom there was no room indoors filed out to take their places in the gaily decorated shamianahs where more bands played and servants hurried to and fro laden with dishes.
By now the sun was low and presently the evening breeze arose and blew gently across the lake, its breath bringing a welcome coolness to the park, though inside the Pearl Palace the air remained stifling, and now that the rich odour of food mingled with the scent of flowers and perfume the atmosphere was rapidly becoming unbreathable. Ash, however, was not called upon to endure it, this being one part of the ceremonies that he asked to be excused from attending, in order to save Kaka-ji the embarrassment of having to tell him what he already knew: that the Rana's caste forbade him from sitting down to eat with a foreigner.
Leaving the palace by a side door he walked back to his own quarters in one of the guest-houses, to eat his evening meal alone and to watch the sun go down behind the hills beyond the city and the stars come out one by one in a sky that darkened swiftly from dusty green to midnight blue: and not only stars, for tonight as the dusk deepened a myriad pin-points of light flowered on the walls and rooftops and window-sills of Bhithor as the Rana's subjects lit thousands upon thousands of chirags – the little earthenware saucers filled with oil, in which a wisp of twisted cotton serves as a wick, that all over India are used for illuminations during times of festivity.
The park too was alive with lights that swayed and flickered or burned bright according to the whims of the breeze, and the Pearl Palace itself was outlined in twinkling gold, so that it shimmered against the night sky like some enchanted castle in a fairy tale. Even the forts had been decked with chirags, and presently the sky above the city began to blossom with showers of red and green and purple stars, as fireworks streaked upward to burst and blaze and fade slowly away on the darkness.
&nbs
p; Ash watched them from the verandah outside his room, and wished that the Rana's caste had also prevented him from permitting a foreigner to be present during the actual marriage ceremony. But it seemed this was not so: and in any case, it would have been impossible to avoid attending, as apart from the fact that Kaka-ji and Mulraj had been particularly insistent that the Sahib should be present at the ceremony, the instructions issued to him in Rawalpindi had expressly stated that Captain Pelham-Martyn was to see the two sisters of His Highness the Maharajah of Karidkote safely married.
The actual wording was, of course, open to different interpretations. But in the circumstances it would be as well to take it literally, in case at some future date there should be any arguments as to the validity of at least one of the marriages, which was a point that Kaka-ji and Mulraj might also have had in mind.
Over an hour had passed since Gul Baz had removed the coffee tray and gone off to join in the merry-making, but the feasting was still in progress; and remembering Lalji's wedding, Ash realized that he might well have to wait for another hour or two before being summoned to witness the shadi ceremony. In the park and the palace, bands played on with unabated vigour, vying with the bang and crackle of fireworks and the throb of tom-toms in the city to turn the night into pandemonium, and Ash retreated to his room, and closing the doors against the noise, sat down to pass the time by writing to Wally and Zarin to let them know that he would be delayed in Bhithor for at least another month – more, if the monsoon were late – and there was small hope of his seeing either of them before the end of the summer at best.