by M. M. Kaye
‘I will try, Rao-Sahib,’ promised Ash. ‘And now I must go. Will you give me your blessing?’
‘Assuredly; though I fear it is of little worth. Yet for what it is, you have it. I will also make prayers to the gods that they grant you a safe and swift journey to Karidkote, and a quiet heart and happiness in the years to come. I will not say goodbye for it is my hope that we will meet again: many times, I trust.’
‘I too,’ said Ash. ‘Will you come and visit me in Mardan, Rao-Sahib?’
‘No, no. I have had my fill of journeying, and once I win home I shall not leave it again. But Jhoti I know has taken a great liking to you, and now that he is Maharajah he will certainly wish you to visit him. We shall surely see you in Karidkote.’
Ash did not contradict this statement, though he knew in his heart that he had no desire to set foot there again, and that once he had escorted Jhoti safely back to Karidkote, he would never return. But that was not something that he could explain to Kaka-ji.
He was wearing full uniform in deference to the official leave-taking at the Rung Mahal, but he forgot this and stooped instead in the manner of the East to touch the old man's feet.
‘The gods go with you,’ said Kaka-ji; and added softly: ‘And rest assured that if at any time there should arise a… a need… I will send word to you.’
He did not have to add that the need would not be his own. That was understood. He embraced Ash, and there being no more to be said, dismissed him. They would see each other again that day, because Kaka-ji would be riding as far as the border with his nephew and the advance party, but there would be no further opportunity for private talk: or any necessity for it.
Two thirds of the returning party had left at dawn with the pack-horses, to set up camp some five miles on the far side of the border in readiness for the arrival of the more important members, whose departure was likely to be delayed by protocol and ceremony. In fact it had been delayed even longer than Ash had expected, for the sun had set by the time the motley cavalcade reached the frontier of Bhithor. As Ash turned in his saddle for a last look at Kaka-ji he saw by the flare of torchlight that there were tears on the old man's cheeks, and lifting a hand in salute, was astonished to find that his own eyes were wet.
‘Goodbye, uncle!’ shrilled Jhoti. ‘Goodbye!’
The horses broke into a canter and the chorus of farewells became lost in the thunder of hoof-beats. And presently the yellow glow of the torches faded and they were riding through grey moonlight and the black shadows of the hills. The heartbreak and treachery and the claustrophobia of Bhithor lay behind them, and once again they were riding for the north.
Book Five
Paradise of Fools
32
‘Two more days, if the gods are kind, and we shall be sleeping in our own beds again,’ said Mulraj.
‘Two more days. Two more days. Only two more days,’ chanted Jhoti. ‘In two days from now I shall be riding into the city – my own city – and entering my own palace, with all the people shouting and cheering as I pass. And after that I shall really be Maharajah.’
‘Your Highness has been that ever since your brother died,’ said Mulraj.
‘I know. Only I don't feel as if I was. But when I am back in my own state I will. I mean to be a great king. A much better one than Nandu.’
‘That last should not be too hard,’ observed Mulraj dryly.
‘Two more days…’ thought Ash, and wished that he could share Mulraj's relief and Jhoti's enthusiasm.
The long ride up from the south had been remarkably free from incident. Considering the relentless heat that had forced them to move only between sunset and sunrise and snatch what rest they could during the burning day, they had made better time than anyone had expected; though it had been a gruelling ordeal for all of them, not least for the horses but most of all for Mahdoo, who had flatly refused to be left behind despite the fact that besides being elderly, he was an indifferent horseman.
The one person who had enjoyed every moment of the journey had been Jhoti. They had all been anxious on his account and worried that the pace might be too much for him, but he seemed to thrive on heat and hard exercise – so much so that there were times when his high spirits made Ash feel at least a hundred years old, though on the whole he had enjoyed Jhoti's lively company and uninhibited conversation and endured the never-ending stream of questions with commendable patience. The boy had shed his fears along with his plumpness and his pasty complexion, and became a different person from the apprehensive run-away whom Biju Ram had so skilfully goaded into ‘escaping’ from Karidkote, and it occurred to Ash as he watched and listened to him that the denizens of Karidkote were likely to be very fortunate in their new ruler.
Jhoti talked continuously of their arrival and the state entry he meant to make into his capital (still apparently known as Gulkote) and was full of plans for the ceremonies that would attend his installation as Maharajah. But as they neared their journey's end Ash became increasingly aware that he himself had no desire to see Gulkote again, let alone enter the Hawa Mahal.
He had never felt any great urge to return there, for he had always known that it would be unwise to do so while the Nautch-girl lived; and in any case his memories of the place were far from pleasant. His first years in the city had, indeed, been happy ones; but they had been overshadowed by the misery, fear and humiliation of the later ones in the Hawa Mahal, and though there had been compensations even there, in the main he remembered the Palace of the Winds as a prison from which he had escaped only just in time to save his life, and Gulkote as a place that he and Sita had fled from by night in terror of capture and death.
There was no longer anything left to draw him back there – apart from a cluster of snow peaks that he used to say his prayers to and the memory of a little girl whose devotion had consoled him in some small degree for the los's of his pet mongoose – and the prospect of returning, now of all times, had begun to fill him with something like panic. But as there was no way by which he could avoid doing so, he would have had to set his teeth and go through with it; and if Kaka-ji was right about the past being the last refuge of the defeated, then the sooner he faced it and stared it down the better.
By now the fertile plains were behind them and they were among the bad-lands: a rough and desolate region of boulders, ridges and ravines where little grew except camel-thorn and rank grasses. But ahead of them lay the foothills and behind the foothills were the mountains, no longer a dimly seen barrier along the horizon but near and blue and solid, towering above them; and sometimes the scorching, dust-laden air carried a clean smell of pine-needles, and in the early dawn, or towards evening, Ash could see the snow peaks of the Dar Khaima.
This was the country through which Sita had brought him after their escape from Delhi in the Black Year of the Mutiny. But in those days there had been no road, and Deenagunj (it had been Deena then) had consisted of half-a-dozen mud huts, huddled together on the only level spot between the plains and the river that formed the southern boundary of Gulkote. Yet despite its inhospitable surroundings, Deenagunj was now a thriving town, for when the territories of Gulkote and Karidarra had been amalgamated under the rule of Laiji's father, the Government had sent a British Resident to advise His Highness on matters of finance and policy, and followed this up by building a road through the bad-lands and a bridge of boats across the river. The Government's road-building had brought prosperity to the twenty-odd villagers of Deena, who had seen their tiny hamlet grow into a town of no mean size, and Ash, looking about him, was no longer surprised that he had failed, in the previous autumn, to recognize the frontiers of Gulkote when he rode along that wide and well-trodden road on his way to take over command of a bridal camp from a state whose name was unfamiliar to him for the mountains had been hidden by heaped haze and clouds.
Today, for the first time since leaving Bhithor, they had broken camp at dawn instead of sundown, and were riding by daylight. The thermometer still regi
stered a temperature of 102° at noon, but the past night had been pleasantly cool, and now Deenagunj was almost within sight. They could have reached it before midnight, but by common consent they did not press on, but made camp as darkness fell, and slept for the first time in many days by starlight.
Rising with the dawn, rested and refreshed, they bathed and prayed and ate a frugal morning meal. After which they sent a messenger ahead to announce their arrival, and having dressed themselves in their best, as befitted the escort of a Maharajah, rode into Deenagunj at an easy pace, where they were met by the District Officer and a deputation of senior citizens, and what appeared to be the entire population of the town, eager to witness any form of tamarsha.
There were several familiar faces among the waiting deputation; men who had presented bills or brought complaints when Ash had last been in Deenagunj. But the District Officer's was not one of them: Mr Carter had apparently suffered yet another attack of malaria with the onset of the hot weather, and was on sick-leave in Murree. His replacement, a Mr Morecombe, informed Ash that the British Resident, together with the members of his staff and at least fifty nobles of Karidkote, were waiting to receive the new Maharajah in a camp that had been set up on the far side of the bridge of boats, where it had been arranged that His Highness would spend the night. The state entry into the capital would take place on the following day; but unfortunately Captain Pelham-Martyn would not be able to see it, for he was ordered to return immediately to Rawalpindi.
A letter confirming this was handed to him by the District Officer, who commiserated with him under the mistaken impression that it would be a disappointment. ‘Rotten bad luck,’ said the District Officer over a glass of country-brewed beer. ‘Seems a bit hard, bringing that boy all this way and then being done out of the show, and what's the betting that when you do get to 'Pindi, you'll find there was no need at all to go chasing back there in such a tearing hurry? But that's G.H.Q. all over.’
Ash thought it only too likely – and was deeply grateful to whoever was responsible for sending off the order for his return. Nevertheless, for politeness sake he did his best to appear disappointed, though not sufficiently so to encourage Jhoti to insist on his staying:
‘No. Your Highness cannot send a tar to the Jung-i-lat Sahib, demanding that I remain, said Ash firmly. ‘Or to the Viceroy or the Governor of the Punjab either. It would do me no good. I know that you are now a Maharajah, but I am still a soldier; and as Mulraj will tell you, a soldier must obey the orders of his senior officers. The General-Sahibs in Rawalpindi have commanded my return, and even for Your Highness I cannot disobey them. But I hope that you will write and tell me about the ceremonies and rejoicings, and I promise that I will write to you as often as I can.’
‘And visit me, too,’ insisted Jhoti.
‘And visit you too,’ agreed Ash, hoping that he might be forgiven the lie – if it was a lie. Perhaps it was not. Perhaps one day he would feel differently about returning to Gulkote and the Hawa Mahal, and if so…
He said his farewells, and realized as he did so how much he was going to miss them all: Mulraj and Jhoti, Kaka-ji and Gobind – and so many others… It was not only Juli whom he was going to miss and to think of in the years to come.
‘It is my hope that we shall meet again many times, said Muiraj. You will come here on chutti (leave) and we will take you out hawking on the flat lands and show you good sport among our mountains. And when I am an old man and you are a General-Sahib, we shall still meet and talk over old times together. Therefore I do not say “Good-bye”, but “Come again soon”.’
They had accompanied Ash for a mile and more down the road, and looking back to wave a last farewell, he knew a momentary regret that he was riding away instead of going on with them to Gulkote. If he could have changed his mind then, he might well have turned back. But it was too late for that now.
A turn of the road hid them from sight and he knew in his heart that in spite of Mulraj's confident prediction, he was unlikely to see them again, because his only hope lay in taking Kaka-ji's advice and turning his back on the past. The old man had been right: he must strive to put it all behind him and to forget; he must learn not to think of Juli at all, and as visiting Gulkote would only serve to bring back the past, he must not go there – not now, or for many years – if ever. Because were he to do so the sense of ease and comradeship that had existed between himself and those in whose company he had spent these last months could be destroyed.
In the camp he had been the only European, and because no one there spoke his language it had been possible for him to forget at times that he was a feringhi. But he would not be allowed to forget it in Karidkote; not now that there was a British Resident there, supported by a large staff of Europeans and possibly a guard of British troops. There would also be many old and orthodox Hindus who would strongly disapprove of his being treated with the casual familiarity that had been accorded to him on the march, and inevitably, his relations with Jhoti and Mulraj would suffer. The ease and camaraderie of the camp would be replaced by politeness, and there would, in all probability, be relief when he left – which was something he did not even like to think of.
No; much better to stay away and let them think of him with affection as someone they had known and liked, and hoped to see again some day. And then perhaps when he was old – when they were all old, and nothing mattered very much any longer because life was nearly over and the bad parts of it forgotten – he might go back for a short visit to talk over old days with any who might still remember him. And to make a last offering to the Dur Khaima.
Later, as the light began to fade and the dusk turn green about him, he reined in and turned to look back at the mountains that were already in shadow and sharply violet against the hyacinth of the darkening sky. One cluster of peaks still held a last gleam of the sunset: the crown of the Dur Khaima, rose-pink in the twilight… the far pavilions… The warm colour faded from them as he looked, and peak after peak turned from rose to lavender until at last only Tara Kilas, the ‘Star Tower’, held the light. Then suddenly that too had gone, and the whole long range lost its sharpness of outline and merged into a night that was brilliant with stars.
Memories crowded upon him, choking him; and almost without knowing it, he dismounted, and placing his palms together as he used to do long ago, he bowed his head and repeated the old prayer of the Queen's balcony that asks forgiveness for ‘three sins that are due to human limitations’.
‘… Thou art everywhere,’ murmured Ash, ‘but I worship thee here: Thou art without form, but I worship thee in these forms: Thou needest no praise, yet I offer thee these prayers and salutations…’
The first breath of the night wind sighed through the parched thorn bushes and brought him the scent of pine trees and wood-smoke, and mounting again, he turned his horse's head and rode slowly on to join Mahdoo and Gul Baz and Kulu Ram the syce, who had ridden on ahead and would by now have selected a camp site and set about preparing the evening meal.
Had they travelled as swiftly as they had done on the way up from Bhithor, they would have reached Rawalpindi in well under a week. But there was no longer, in Ash's opinion, any pressing need for haste; and as the temperature in the plains never fell below 110° in the daytime and 102° in the coolest part of the night, and Mahdoo was very tired and saddle-sore, they moved at a leisurely pace, rising at two o'clock in the morning to ride until just before the sun rose, when they would make camp and rest until the same hour on the following day.
In this way, averaging no more than twenty-five miles a day, they covered the last lap of their journey. And in the early dawn of the last day of May they came within sight of Rawalpindi, and found Wally waiting, as he had waited every morning for the past eight days, by the third mile-stone on the 'Pindi – Jhelum Road.
Ash had been away for eight months, during which time he had spoken English perhaps half-a-dozen times at most, and for the rest had talked, thought and dreamed in the langua
ge of his adoptive mother, Sita.
'Pindi in June is a place to be avoided. Heat and glare and dust combine to turn it into an inferno, and those whose duty keeps them tied to an office or to barracks and parade ground are liable to fall victim to a tedious variety of hot-weather ills ranging from heat-stroke to sandfly fever.
In the compound of Wally's bungalow the giant neem tree was grey with the dust of the scorching plain, and when the hot wind blew, its leaves did not rustle but clicked instead like dice in a leather shaker, or rattled like dry bones: nor could Ash any longer see the hills, for they were hidden by the dust-clouds and the heat haze.
‘How does it feel like to be a lowly Lieutenant again after eight months of peacocking about as a lordly Captain in command of countless thousands?’ asked Wally curiously.
‘Dull,’ said Ash. ‘Dull but peaceful. How many pairs of socks do you think I'd better take?’
The best part of a week had passed since Ash's return from his travels, and he was preparing to move again, but this time on leave. He had duly presented himself at Army Headquarters, where he had given a brief report of his mission and a detailed account of the Rana's misbehaviour to a Colonel Dorton, whose habit of falling asleep during office hours had earned him the nick-name of Dormouse. The Colonel had run true to form and sat through the interview with closed eyes, only opening them (after Ash had been silent for a full two minutes) to stare vaguely into the middle-distance and remark that Mr Pelham-er-Martyn had better report to the Adjutant General's Department, where Major Boyle would assign him to some new duty.
But the prediction made by the District Officer at Deenagunj proved correct. There had been no special reason for Ash's recall. Major Boyle had gone down with a severe attack of dysentery and no one else in the Adjutant General's department appeared to have heard of Lieutenant (lately Captain) Pelham-Martyn, let alone have any orders for him. On the face of it he might just as well have stayed away, for apart from demoting him from the honorary rank he had held for the past eight months (and sending an immediate memo to this effect to the Pay Department) no one seemed to know what to do with him. Ash had asked to be allowed to return to his Regiment, but had been told somewhat tartly that this was a matter for the Commandant of the Guides, who would send for him when he thought fit.