by M. M. Kaye
He had finished both letters and begun a third, this time to the Political Officer, when Mulraj arrived to fetch him to the Pearl Palace where the shadi was about to take place; and as they walked back through the park, he saw that the moon was down, and knew that it must be close on midnight.
The durbar hall was crowded to capacity, and coming in from the night air the heat and the overpowering odour of sandalwood and incense and dying flowers met him like a tangible wave. But at least the bands were no longer playing, and except for the murmur of voices the hall was reasonably quiet. It was also surprisingly dark, for the lamps were all of coloured glass, and by now the oil in them had burned low so that it took him a moment or two to accustom himself to the dim light and be able to pick out his friends from among the sea of faces.
A chair had been placed for him near the door and in the shadow of a pillar, far back enough to make his presence unobtrusive, while allowing him to see over the heads of the men who sat cross-legged on the ground in close-packed rows in front of him. From it he could see not only the four silver posts with their golden canopy of marigolds, but the ground below it, where the circle drawn in rice-flour showed startling white against the smooth square of dry cow-dung. A brass cauldron in which the sacrificial fire would be lit stood ready, and beside it the priests had set up an altar on which they were busy arranging pujah vessels and bowls of Ganges water, lamps, godlings and incense-burners. And on low stools to one side of the square, their faces veiled by flowers, sat the bridegroom and the brides, together with Kaka-ji and Maldeo Rai (who were jointly deputizing for the brides' late father) and the shrouded figure of cousin Unpora-Bai, representing their deceased mothers – which was surely enough, thought Captain Pelham-Martyn sardonically, to cause the ashes of both ladies to rise in fury from the dust.
The rustle of talk sank to a whisper, and presently that too was silenced as one of the priests under the canopied enclosure began the havan, the lighting of the sacred fire. The flames illuminated his calm, smooth-shaven face so that it seemed to glow like burnished metal as he leaned forward to feed the fire with chips of scented wood and grains of incense. When it was well alight, silver platters heaped with perfumed salts were passed round to those who sat within reach of the circle, each of whom took a pinch and threw it at the fire. The salts sizzled and sputtered, giving off a strong, aromatic odour that set off a muffled chorus of coughing from the unseen women in the purdah gallery overlooking the hall. And in obedience to a signal, the Rana and Shushila rose and were led into the rice-flour circle.
A priest began to intone the mantras, but Ash sat too far away to catch more than an occasional word, and later, when the priest paused now and again for the bride and her groom to repeat the vows after him, only the Rana's voice could be heard. Shushila's was inaudible, but the vows were familiar to everyone present. The pair were promising to live according to their creed, to be true to each other and share each other's burdens, to beget sons and to remain firm and faithful as a rock…
Even standing beside her wizened groom, Shushila looked incredibly small and slight, like a child who has dressed up in its mother's finery. She was wearing scarlet as a bride should – red being the colour of rejoicing – and out of compliment to the groom, the traditional full-skirted dress of Bhithor, and all Rajasthan. The pigeon's blood rubies that circled her neck and wrists and decked her fingers caught the light of the flames and shone as though they were on fire, and though she kept her head bent and spoke her vows in a whisper, she performed her part in the ceremony without faltering: to the surprise (and no small relief) of her relatives and women, all of whom had fully expected a flood of tears if not a hysterical scene.
Ash could not help wondering if she would have behaved as well if she had been able to catch a glimpse of her bridegroom's face, or had any inkling of what that curtain of flower-buds concealed. But as custom decreed that a bridal pair must not look at each other until the wedding ceremony was over, and Shushila too wore a similar veil of flowers, it was not possible for her to see anything very much. The ‘marriage ring’ – a bracelet of iron – was placed on her arm, and the thread of happiness hung round her neck; and presently a corner of her sari was knotted to the end of her bridegroom's sash, and thus tied together they took the ‘seven steps’ round the fire: the satapadi that is the essential part of the whole ceremony, as without this the marriage is still revocable in law, while once the last step is taken it is established, and there can be no going back.
Shushila was now a wife and Rani of Bhithor, and her husband was addressing her in the words of the ancient Vedic hymn: ‘Become thou my partner as thou hast paced all the seven steps with me. Apart from thee I cannot live. Apart from me do thou not live. We shall share alike all goods and power combined. Over my house thou shalt bear full sway…’
His voice ceased and the newly wedded pair returned to the sacred circle to receive the blessing of their older relatives, and that done, seated themselves once more. The fire was fed again with wood and incense, the mantras chanted and the silver trays passed round, and the whole ceremony repeated. But this time with more haste and with a different bride.
Anjuli had been seated on the far side of her half-sister and concealed from Ash's view by the stout shape of Unpora-Bai. But now she in her turn was led forward into the circle. The moment that he had dreaded for so long was upon him, and he must watch Juli being married.
Almost unconsciously he braced his body as though to face a physical assault. But there had, after all, been no need to do so. Perhaps it was the absence of hope that made it possible for him to relax his tense muscles and sit motionless and detached, feeling nothing – or almost nothing. For although he would have said that the ceremony of the garlanding had extinguished the last infinitesimal flicker of hope, a spark had survived: the chance that spoilt, highly strung Shu-shu, over-driven by the delays of the last weeks and her terror of marriage to a stranger in a strange land, might baulk at the last moment and refuse to go through with the ceremony.
It was unthinkable that a devout Hindu bride should refuse to take those final binding steps around the sacred fire, and such a thing could have happened only rarely – if at all. But then Shu-shu, by Western standards, was only a child: an over-emotional child whose reactions were often unpredictable, and who might well be capable of creating a scandalous precedent by refusing to perform the satapadi. But she had not done so; and as she took the seven steps, that last obstinate spark died, thereby releasing Ash from hope and enabling him to sit through that second ceremony with something approaching detachment.
He had been helped in this by the fact that there was nothing in the least familiar about the faceless and anonymous figure in the shimmering sari and the veil of flower buds. From where he sat it could have been any Indian woman; except that she was taller than most, and made her bridegroom appear wizened and stunted by comparison.
She was less splendidly dressed than her half-sister, which was understandable. But the choice of colour, jewels and material (for which Unpora-Bai had been responsible) was unfortunate, as the topaz and pearl ornaments did not show to advantage in the dim lighting, while the yellow and gold shot-silk that had seemed such an admirable foil for Shushila's scarlet paled into insignificance beside the brilliant gold of the bridegroom's coat. The material, too, was so stiff that it disguised the wearer's slenderness and grace and gave her an oddly clumsy appearance. There was nothing there of Juli: only a shapeless bundle of silk topped by a fringe of wilting marigold heads, repeating a series of actions that no longer seemed significant or charged with any emotion.
The priests hurried through the rites and the groom gabbled the final hymn, and it was all over. There followed a final ceremony in which the Rana led his wives out to introduce them to those members of the barat who had not been present at the wedding, in token that a bride is no longer a member of her own family but belongs from henceforth to her husband's. That being done, the two hungry and exhausted young
women were free at last to return to their own rooms and take off their finery, and to eat the first food they had tasted in more than twenty-four hours.
Kaka-ji and the other men carried off the groom to a feast in the largest of the shamianahs in the park, and Ash went to bed and – surprisingly – slept through the din of bands and fireworks and rejoicing crowds as soundly as though he had been drugged.
The first day of the three-day ceremony had ended, and the second was several hours old and close to dawn before the bands and fireworks and voices ceased and the park was silent at last.
31
By tradition the two days that followed were given over to feasting the barat. But on the morning after the wedding Ash had excused himself from the celebrations and gone off shooting, accompanied by his syce, Kalu Ram, and a local shikari.
Returning in the dusk as the chirags were beginning to twinkle once more on rooftops and walls and the cattle strayed homeward from the grazing grounds around the city, he was met by a messenger who had arrived earlier in the day and who had been squatting by the door of his room, waiting for his return.
The man had ridden many miles and slept little during the past few days; but though he had accepted food he had refused to rest until he had given the letter he carried into the Sahib's own hand, as it had been impressed upon him that the matter was one of the greatest urgency – he would, he explained, have delivered it sooner if anyone had been able to tell him in which direction the Sahib had gone.
The envelope he proffered was heavily sealed, and recognizing the writing, Ash's heart sank. He had a guilty conscience over the tone of his last letter to the Political Officer, and half expected a sharp reprimand. Even without that, any communication from Major Spiller was bound to be depressing, and he wondered what he was going to be advised to do, or told not to do, this time. Well, whatever it was it was too late, for the wedding was over and done with and the bride-price had been paid.
He dismissed the messenger, and having handed over his shot-gun to Gul Baz and a brace of black partridge to Mahdoo, carried the letter into the lamp-lit sitting room and broke the seals with his thumb-nail. The envelope contained a single sheet of paper and he took it out and glanced at it, feeling bored and irritable. The message had clearly been written in haste, for it differed from any previous one he had received from the Political Officer, in that it was short and to the point. Yet he had to read it twice before he took it in, and then his first thought was that it had come too late. A week ago – even two days ago – it might have changed everything, but now there could be no going back; the thing was done. A cold tide of bitterness swelled up in him and he smashed his clenched fist against the wall and was grateful for the savage pain and the smart of bruised knucles, because it served in some small way to counteract the less bearable pain in his heart.
He stood staring blindly before him for a long time, and it was only when Gul Baz came into the room and exclaimed at the sight of his injured hand that he roused himself and went off to wash it clean. The cold water seemed to clear his brain as well as the broken skin, and he realized that he was probably wrong in thinking that it would have made any difference if the news had arrived earlier, since after the expenditure of so much time and money and effort there would have been no question of turning back.
He allowed Gul Baz to bandage his knuckles, postponed his bath for half and hour, and having swallowed three fingers of brandy, retrieved the letter and went off to read it to Mulraj.
Mulraj had been dressing for that night's banquet when Ash walked in and demanded a few words with him in private, and he had taken one look at Ash's face and dismissed his servants. At first he too had been unable to credit the news that had first been sent, over a fortnight ago, to the Governor of the Punjab, passed on to the military authorities in Rawalpindi, from where it had been telegraphed to the Political Officer responsible for the affairs of Bhithor, who in turn forwarded it by the hand of a special messenger to Captain Pelham-Martyn, marked Urgent. For Immediate Attention.
Nandu, Maharajah of Karidkote, whose family had of late suffered more than their fair share of fatal accidents, had met with one himself: a genuine one, this time. He had been trying out some of the ancient muzzle-loading weapons in the old armoury of the Hawa Mahal, one of which had exploded in his face and killed him outright. As he had died childless, his younger brother, the Heir Apparent, was now Maharajah, and it was thought advisable that he should return immediately to take up his inheritance. Captain Pelham-Martyn was therefore instructed to escort His Highness back to Karidkote without delay. Speed being essential, they should travel light, taking with them only as many men as Captain Pelham-Martyn judged sufficient for the protection and comfort of his young charge, and it was left to his discretion to make what arrangements he considered necessary for the welfare of the remainder of the bridal camp, who would have to return in their own time and at their own pace…
‘So it has all been useless,’ said Ash bitterly.
‘How so?’ asked Mulraj, puzzled.
‘The marriages. They were arranged by Nandu because he was afraid that if he married his sisters nearer home, a day might come when he found himself with a brother-in-law who might conceivably have designs on his throne, so he took care to choose one who lived too far away to make that possible. And now he is dead, and those poor girls have been tied to that – that offal for nothing!’
‘That is not so,’ said Mulraj. ‘At least the boy is safe, and but for this journey to Bhithor he would not have been. If he had stayed in Karidkote his brother Nandu would have found a way to destroy him; and certainly the gods are on the boy's side, for while his brother lived he would not have been safe even here. There are always men who can be bribed to kill, provided the bribe is large enough.’
‘And you do not think Nandu would have quibbled in the matter of blood money,’ said Ash. ‘Neither do I. Well, we have no need to worry ourselves over such questions any longer, because this news has solved all Jhoti's problems.’
It had also solved one of his own, for it meant that he could leave Bhithor at once instead of being forced to remain there for an indefinite period, within sight of the Rana's palace and with nothing to do but wait on the weather and eat his heart out for a girl who would be living less than a mile away – one who was for ever out of reach, but whose husband he might have to meet frequently and be polite to. It meant also that he would be spared the long, slow torment of a return journey without Juli, camping in familiar places that would be full of memories, and passing once more through country that they had ridden across side by side on those evening rides… He had dreaded that; but a small party, unencumbered by women and children and minus baggage carts, camp-followers, livestock or elephants, would be able to cut corners and move with far greater speed, and need not be tied to a route that had been dictated by the needs of a camp of thousands.
His eagerness to leave was so great that had it been at all possible, he would have gone that same night. This being out of the question, he had suggested they start on the following afternoon, but Mulraj had set his face against it: ‘We cannot leave tomorrow,’ said Mulraj.
‘Why not? I know there will be much work to do, but if we set our minds to it we could be ready.’
‘Perhaps. But you forget that tomorrow is the last day of the wedding festivities, and that at nightfall the brides will leave for their husband's house.’
Ash had not forgotten it, but he could hardly explain that it was precisely because he hoped to avoid that particular sight that he was so anxious to set out on the following afternoon. However, Mulraj insisted that to leave before the celebrations had ended would cause great offence to the Rana and his people. It would be neither seemly nor necessary to disrupt the festivity of the final day with preparations for departure, and as Nandu had already been dead for over two weeks it could make little difference if Jhoti started back in two days' time, or three or four.
‘Also our preparations will be b
etter if we do not make them too hastily,’ said Mulraj. ‘For as you say, there is much to be done.’
Ash had not been able to deny that, and they had eventually agreed to say nothing about the letter for another day so that the merry-making should not be marred by news that coming at such a time was bound to be regarded as ill-omened, and that however welcome it might be to some, would certainly cause grief and distress to Shushila, if to no one else. Time enough, said Mulraj, to disclose it on the morning after the brides' departure, when they themselves would be free to make their own arrangements to leave.
The banquet that night was given by Kaka-ji, who had politely invited the Sahib to attend and received an equally polite acceptance. Honour being satisfied, Ash had later sent a message regretting that a sudden and severe headache prevented him from being present, and when Mulraj had gone he went back to his own quarters and having sent for the camp records, spent the greater part of the night poring over lists of men, animals and transport, and deciding how many or how few to take with him, which to leave, and what was to be done about a score of other matters. All of this would of course have to be discussed with Mulraj and the panchayat, but it was going to save a good deal of time if a detailed plan could be put forward for their approval as soon as the marriage festivities were over. His lamp was still burning when Kaka-ji's guests returned from the banquet, and the cocks were crowing before he turned it out and went to bed.
The third and last day of the ceremonies was again given over to feasting, but this time Ash did not leave the park to go off riding or shooting He walked instead; and when at nightfall a message from Kaka-ji summoned him to the Pearl Palace, he put on his full-dress uniform again and went over to watch the final act of the tragi-comedy that Nandu had planned in order to guard against something that could only have been visualized by a mind as riddled with suspicion and jealousy as his own.