The Far Pavilions

by M. M. Kaye

  ‘How soon are you proposing to leave us, Pandy?’ inquired the Adjutant as Ash came through the outer office after seeing the Colonel.

  ‘As soon as it's convenient,’ said Ash promptly.

  ‘Oh, I fancy it's convenient now. We haven't got much on at the moment, so it will be up to you to decide. And there's no need for you to look so damned pleased about it, either!’

  Ash laughed and said: ‘Was I looking pleased? I'm sorry. It's not that I'm glad to leave. I've had some good times here, but – Well, you might say I've been serving a sentence for the last four years: “doing a stretch”. Now it's over and I can go back to my own regiment and my old friends and to my own part of the world again, and I can't help feeling pleased about it. No reflection on Roper's Horse. They're a fine lot.’

  ‘Don't mention it,’ said the Adjutant graciously. ‘Though I take it we are not to be compared with the Guides. Ah well, I expect I should feel the same, in your shoes. Strange how absurdly attached one becomes to one's own particular crowd. I suppose you won't be selling that horse of yours?’

  ‘Dagobaz? Not likely!’

  ‘I was afraid not. Well, even if we don't exactly break our hearts over losing you, Pandy, we're going to miss that black devil. He'd have won every race you entered him for, next season; and we'd have cleaned out every bookmaker in the Province. How do you propose to get him to Mardan?’

  ‘Take him up by train. He won't like it, but I can always doss down with him if necessary. He'll have his own syce, anyway.’

  ‘If you'll take my advice,’ said the Adjutant, ‘you'll nip down and see the station-master this evening. It's not all that easy to reserve a truck, and if you plan to leave fairly soon, you'd better make sure that you can get one. Otherwise you may find yourself being held up for a good deal longer than you expect.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip,’ said Ash gratefully, and took himself off then and there to the railway station, where he discovered that the Adjutant had been right. If he meant to travel on the same train as Dagobaz, it did not look as though he would be able to leave Ahmadabad within the next ten or fifteen days. And even that would entail a judicious amount of bribery and corruption.

  ‘Arranging accommodation for quadruped is veree difficult affair and will occupy much time, for it will mean much booking ahead,’ explained the Eurasian station-master. ‘You see, Mr Martyn, there are too many trains, all of different gauges. Now if I obtain a horse-van for you on thee Bombay-and-Baroda line, this is veree fine. But then that is only small part of your journey, and what, I am asking, will occur when you arrive at Bombay Central and find that none is available on thee G.I.P. railway, to which you will there transfer yourself? Or when you must change again at Aligarh onto thee East Indian Railway Line, which is again different gauge, and there is likewise no van? I am fearing veree greatly, sir, that you will endure many vexatious delays if you leave hastily and before all these bookings are pukka.’

  Ash had hoped to leave within a day or two, but he accepted the station-master's verdict with good grace. There was, he decided, no tearing hurry. The delay would give him more time in which to dispose of the rest of his stable, and allow Wally more time to arrange matters at his end. There was no point in trying to rush things, and anyway, another week or so in Ahmadabad would be no great hardship.

  He returned to the bungalow in high spirits, and that night he wrote several letters before he went to bed. A long one to Wally, full of plans for their leave, a brief one to Zarin, sending messages to Koda Dad whom he said he hoped to see again before long, and another to Mahdoo, telling him the good news and urging him to stay where he was until further notice and to be prepared to come to Mardan in two to three months' time – Gul Baz, who would also be going on leave, would come and fetch him when the time was ripe.

  ‘The old one will be pleased,’ beamed Gul Baz, collecting the finished letters. ‘I will see that Gokal takes these at once to the dâk-khana (post office) so that they go out with the morning dâk and there is no delay.’

  Wally's telegraphed reply arrived a few days later. It read: Unable get

  leave before end May owing unforeseen circumstances can meet you Lahore thirtieth three rousing cheers writing.

  Coming on top of the station-master's gloomy assessment of the time needed to complete travelling arrangements for Dagobaz, this was not as disappointing as it might have been, for at most it meant delaying his departure for a few more weeks – unless he left as soon as possible and made straight for Mardan, from where he could reach Koda Dad's village in a day and put in the extra time there until Wally's leave was due.

  The prospect was an alluring one, but on consideration he discarded it – largely because it occurred to him that in view of the reason for his four-year exile from the North-West Frontier Province, it would hardly be diplomatic to celebrate the lifting of the ban by spending the first few days of his leave on the wrong side of the Border. Besides, it would also entail a lot of extra travelling, as Lahore was the obvious starting-point for the trek he had in mind.

  On both these counts his reasoning was sound; but the decision proved to be a vital one, though at the time he did not realize this. It was only long afterwards, on looking back, that he recognized how much had hung upon it. Had he chosen to leave for the Punjab at the first possible date, he would not have received Gobind's message, and if he had not had that… But in the event he elected to stay and having been given permission to take a month's local leave ‘pending departure' in addition to the three he had already put in for, he went off to shoot a lioness in the Gir Forest with Sarji and Sarji's wise, wizened, little shikari, Bukta, leaving Gul Baz to deal with packing up the bungalow.

  The lioness they were after was a notorious man-eater who for two years had terrorized an area larger than the Isle of Wight, and was reported to have killed more than fifty people. A price had been put on her head and a score of sportsmen and shikaris had gone after her, but the man-eater had grown too cunning, and so far the only hunter to lay eyes on her had not lived to tell the tale.

  That Ash succeeded where so many had failed was due in part to beginners' luck, but even more to the genius of Bukta, who – so Sarji averred – had more knowledge of shikar in his little finger than any other ten shikaris between the Gulfs of Kutch and Cambay. In recognition of this, and remembering his services to Gobind and Manilal, Ash had presented the little man with a Lee Enfield rifle, the first that Bukta had ever seen, and on which he had cast covetous eyes.

  Bukta's delight in the rifle and its performance more than equalled Ash's satisfaction in bringing down the man-eater, though his pleasure in this success would have been keener if it had not been that on the very day before they were to leave for the forest, one of the pigeons that Manilal had taken with him to Bhithor returned.

  Sarji had seen it come homing into the pigeon-loft above the stables, and had sent a servant to Ash's bungalow with a sealed packet containing the scrap of paper that had been fastened to its leg.

  The message was a short one: Shushila had given birth to a daughter and mother and child were both well. That was all. But reading it, Ash was conscious of a sudden sinking of his heart. A daughter… a daughter instead of the longed-for son… Would a girl succeed in filling Shu-shu's heart and mind to the extent that a boy would have done? – enough to make her lose her dependence on Juli and allow her to go?

  He tried to console himself with the reflection that, son or daughter, the baby was Shushila's first-born; and if it took after her it would be beautiful, so that once she got over the disappointment at its sex she was bound to love it dearly. Nevertheless a doubt remained: a small, lurking shadow in the back of his mind that spoilt some of his enjoyment in the tense, exciting, frightening days and nights in the Gir Forest that followed.

  Returning in triumph to Ahmadabad with the scraped and salted hide of the man-eater, he encountered an ekka being driven at a rattling pace in the opposite direction, and was almost past it when he recogn
ized one of the occupants and pulled up to hail him.

  ‘Red!’ yelled Ash. ‘Hi, Captain Red – belay there.’

  The ekka came to a stop and Ash ranged alongside, demanding to know what Captain Stiggins was about, where he was off to, and why hadn't he sent word that he would be visiting Ahmadabad?

  ‘Bin seeing an agent. I'm on me way back to Malia. Didn't know I'd be a comin' 'ere until the last minute,’ said Captain Stiggins, answering the questions in strict rotation. He added that he had called at Ash's bungalow on the previous day and been told by Gul Baz that the Sahib was away on leave in the Gir Forest, pending his return to the North-West Frontier.

  ‘Then why didn't you wait? He must have told you that I was expected back today, and you know very well that there's always a bed for you any time you want it,’ said Ash indignantly.

  ‘Couldn't, son. I gotter get back to the old Morala. We're shippin' a cargo o' cotton over to Kutch termorrer. But I was right sorry to 'ear that you were orf up ter the Frontier and that I'd missed seein' you ter say good-bye and good luck.’

  ‘Come on back with me, Red,’ urged Ash. ‘Surely the cotton can wait? After all, if there was gale or a fog or something like that it would have to, wouldn't it? Dammit, this may be the last time I'll see you!’

  ‘Wouldn't be serprised,’ nodded the Captain. ‘But that's life, that is. ‘Ere today and gorn tomorrer; “Man fleeth as a shadder an' never continu-eth in one stay”. No son; carn't be done, not no 'ow. But I gotter better idea. Seein' as you're on leaf, why don't yer come along o' me for the trip? Land yer back nex' Toosday, cross me 'eart.’

  Ash had accepted with alacrity and spent the next few days on board the Morala as the guest of the owner, lazing on deck in the shadow of the sails, fishing over the side for shark and barracuda, or listening to tales of the old East India Squadron in the days of John Company's greatness.

  It was a peaceful and relaxing interlude, and when the Captain disclosed that the Morala would be sailing in a few weeks for the coast of Baluchistan, and suggested that Ash and Gul Baz should come half-way and be put off at Kati on the Indus, from where they could go by river boat up to Attock, he was tempted to agree. But there was Wally to be thought of – and Dagobaz too. The Morala had no proper accommodation for a horse, and on the open deck Dagobaz would have had a bad time of it in anything more than a gentle swell. He was obliged to refuse the offer, though he did so with regret, the more so because he realized that he was unlikely to meet Red Stiggins again, and he had enjoyed knowing him.

  That was the worst of making friends like Red and Sarji: people who were not ‘members of the Club' – that closed society of Anglo-Indians who were moved across the vast map of India from this station to that and back again, on order from Simla or Calcutta or some other Seat of the Mighty, so that in time most of them came to know each other by repute even if they never actually met.

  There was always a chance that in the course of his military career he would meet Mrs Viccary or one or other of the officers of Roper's Horse once more. But the odds were against his ever seeing either Sarji or Red again, and the thought depressed him, for in their different ways both had helped to make his stay in Gujerat far more enjoyable than it might otherwise have been: Sarji more than Red, for while Captain Stiggins had been something of a shooting star, flashing briefly into view and disappearing again with equal abruptness, Sarji had been a frequent and valued companion. Gay and talkative or restfully silent to suit the ocasion, seldom if ever out of temper, he had been an invaluable ally in times of restlessness and despair, and had provided a means of escape from the restricted life of the cantonment.

  ‘I shall miss Sarji,’ thought Ash. ‘And Red too.’ But there would be Wally waiting for him at Lahore and Zarin in Mardan, with Koda Dad a mere afternoon's ride away across the plain. And old Mahdoo would be in his quarters at Mardan ahead of him, pleased to be on familiar territory once more and waiting to welcome him back. It was a pleasant prospect, and suddenly he could not wait to leave.

  But he was never to see Mahdoo again. The letter that he had written telling the old man of his recall to Mardan had arrived too late, for Mahdoo had died in his sleep less than twenty-four hours before it should have reached him, and by the time it was delivered he was already in his grave. His relations, who did not understand the workings of the telegraph, sent the news by dâk to young Kadera, his assistant, and Gul Baz was waiting with it when Ash returned to Ahmadabad.

  ‘It is a great loss to us all,’ said Gul Baz. ‘He was a good man. But he has fulfilled his years and his reward is sure, since it is written in the Sura of the Merciful “shall the reward of goodness be anything but good?” Therefore do not grieve for him, Sahib.’

  But Ash had grieved deeply for Mahdoo, mourning the loss of someone who had been part of his life ever since that far-off day when he had been handed over to the care of Colonel Anderson and sent off on the first stage of the long journey to Bombay and England, a journey that would have been a nightmare had it not been for the presence of Mahdoo and Ala Yar, who had talked to him in his own tongue; and on many occasions during the years that followed given him advice and comfort and support. When he returned to India they had come with him, and when Ala Yar died, Mahdoo had remained at his post. Now he too had gone, and Ash could not bear to think that he would never see that kindly wrinkled face again, or hear the bubble of his hookah in the twilight.

  The blow had been all the worse for coming at a time when the future had taken a rosier hue, and on the heels of those exhilarating days in the Gir Forest and that peaceful voyage on the Morala. Ash took it hard, and attempted to work off his grief by going for long, solitary rides across country, giving Dagobaz his head and taking banks, irrigation ditches, thorn hedges and sunken roads as they came, and at a reckless speed as though he were striving to out-distance his thoughts and memories. But both kept pace with him, and the restlessness and disquiet that had temporarily left him was back once more.

  However fast and far he rode, and however tired he was on his return, he could not sleep; and Gul Baz, coming to wake him with the morning mug of tea, would find him standing on the verandah, staring out across the acre of trees and dusty grass that passed for a garden. And would know from his haggard face and the lines about his eyes that the night had again been a white one.

  ‘It is not right that you should grieve in this manner,’ chided Gul Baz disapprovingly, ‘for it is written in the Book that “all who live on earth are doomed to die”. Therefore to mourn thus is to question the wisdom of God, who of His goodness permitted Mahdoo-ji to live to a peaceful and honourable old age, and decreed both the hour and the manner of his death. Put aside your sorrow and be thankful that so many good years upon this earth were granted to one who is now in Paradise. Moreover, very soon now you will be back in Mardan and among friends again, and all this will be behind you. I will go again to the railway station and inquire if the carriages have been arranged for yet. All is packed and ready here, and we can leave within a day.’

  ‘I'll go myself,’ said Ash. And he had ridden down to the station and received the welcome news that the reservations he had asked for had been made at last – but for the following Thursday, which meant that he would have to spend the best part of another week in Ahmadabad.

  The thought of sitting around among the packed and corded luggage that stood ready in the bungalow was dispiriting, and he decided that he would ride over to Sarji's house and ask if he could stay there for part of the time. But he was saved the trouble, for on returning to his bungalow he found Sarji himself waiting for him on the verandah, comfortably ensconced in one of the long wicker chairs.

  ‘I have something for you,’ said Sarji, lifting a languid hand. ‘The second pigeon came back this morning, and as I had business in the city I thought I would play chupprassi (peon) and bring you the message myself.’

  Ash snatched the small scrap of paper from him, and unrolling it, read the first lines with a sudden li
ft of the heart. ‘The Rana is ill of a fatal sickness and will not live for more than a handful of days’, wrote Gobind. ‘This has become clear to all…’

  ‘Dying!’ thought Ash, and smiled without knowing it a wide, grim, glittering smile that showed his clenched teeth – ‘he may be dead already. She will be a widow – she'll be free.’ He felt no sympathy for the Rana. Or for Shu-shu, who if gossip could be believed had fallen in love with the man, because he could only think of what this would mean for Juli and himself: Juli widowed, and free…

  He steadied himself and read on; and all at once the day was no longer hot or the sunlight bright, and there was a constriction about his heart.

  ‘… and I have now learned that when he dies his wives will become suttee, being burned with him according to the custom. This is already spoken of, for his people follow the old laws and pay no heed to those of the Raj, and unless you can prevent it, it will surely be done. I will strive to keep him alive for as long as possible. But it will not be long. Therefore warn those in authority that they must act swiftly. Manilal will leave for Ahmadabad within the hour. Send more pigeons and…’

  The lines of minute writing blurred and wavered before Ash's eyes and he could no longer focus them. He turned blindly away and groping for the back of the nearest chair, gripped it as though to steady himself and spoke in a breathless whisper: ‘No – it's not possible! They couldn't do it!’

  The words were barely audible, but the horror in them was unmistakable and it shocked Sarji out of his lounging attitude. He said sharply: ‘It is bad news, then? What is it? What is not possible?’