by M. M. Kaye
‘What news?’ demanded Ash, running down the steps as the tired man dismounted under the shadow of the porch. Ash had ridden out three days running in the hope of intercepting Manila!, and had become increasingly anxious when there had been no sign of him, or any reply from the District Superintendent of Police's friend in Ajmer (he had not been so sanguine as to imagine that his own telegrams would be answered). To tempt Fate, he had stayed indoors that morning, and towards noon Fate had rewarded him by sending Gobind's servant to the bungalow.
‘Very little,’ croaked Manilal, whose throat was dry with dust: ‘except that he was still alive when I left. But who knows what may have happened since? Has the Sahib warned the Government and Karidkote of what is toward?’
‘Assuredly, within a few hours of that pigeon reaching home. I have done all I could.’
‘That is good news,’ said Manilal hoarsely. ‘Have I your leave, Sahib, to eat and drink and perhaps rest a little before I talk further? I have not slept since the horse injured himself shying in terror at a tiger that crossed our path.’
He slept for the rest of the day and reappeared after sundown, still heavy-eyed, to squat on the verandah and tell Ash all that Gobind had not been able to send by pigeon-post. Apparently the palace physicians still said that the Rana would recover, insisting that he was only suffering an unusually severe attack of malarial fever to which he had been subject for many years. But in Gobind's view this was no mere fever, but a sickness of the body for which there was no cure, and the most that could be done was to administer drugs to relieve the pain – and hope to delay the end until the Government sent someone in authority to see to it that when he died it would mean one death only, and not three.
Gobind had apparently managed, by devious means, to establish contact with the Junior Rani through a serving-woman whose relatives were susceptible to bribery, and who was herself said to be much attached to Kairi-Bai. In this way several messages had been smuggled into the Zenana Quarters, and one or two had even been answered, though the replies had been short and uncommunicative, and told Gobind nothing beyond the fact that the Junior Rani and her sister were well which should have satisfied him, but failed to do so because there was something about those letters that made him uneasy perhaps the very fact that they were too cautious. Was Nimi, the serving-woman, not to be trusted, and did Kairi-Bai know or suspect this? But if that were so it could only mean that there was something that must be concealed… unless he was being needlessly suspicious.
Then the baby had been born, and on the following morning Gobind had received a letter from Kairi-Bai that was not in answer to one of his own. It had been a frantic plea for help, not for herself, but for Shushila-Rani, who was in a serious condition and must have attention at once – if possible, a European nurse from the nearest Angrezi hospital. It was a matter of the utmost urgency and Gobind must send for one immediately and in secret, before it was too late.
There had been a withered dakh flower enclosed in the letter, which is the sign for danger; and seeing it Gobind had been seized with the terrifying suspicion that the Senior Rani, having failed to produce an heir, was perhaps being poisioned – as rumour said the previous one had been –
‘Yet what could the Hakim-Sahib do?’ asked Manilal with a shrug. ‘It was not possible for him to do as Kairi-Bai desired. And even if he had been able to send such a message out of Bhithor, the Rana would never have permitted any foreign woman, doctor or not, to force her way into the Zenana and examine his wife. Not unless such a one came with a strong escort of soldiers, guns and police-Sahibs, or unless he himself could be persuaded to send for one.’
Gobind had courageously tried the latter course, but the Rana would not hear of it and was angered that such a suggestion should even have been put to him. He despised all foreigners as barbarians and would, if he had his way, have refused to allow any of them to set foot in his state, let alone have any personal contact with him. Had not he, alone among all his neighbouring princes, refused to appear at any of the durbars arranged by the Raj to announce that the Queen of England had been declared Kaiser-i-Hind (Empress of India), excusing himself on the grounds that he had fallen ill and was unfortunately unable to travel?
The suggestion that he of all people should now invite an Angrezi woman to come and poke her nose in his wife's affairs was offensive. Besides, what could a foreign woman possibly know of Hindu medicine and the arts of healing? There was nothing wrong with the Rani that rest and proper care would not put right, and if the Hakim doubted it he was at liberty to question the dai who had presided at the birth.
Gobind had taken advantage of this unexpected offer, and been favourably impressed by the midwife; though she had been strangely uncommunicative on the subject of her predecessor, old Geeta from Karidkote, and when questioned about the dead woman had muttered that she knew nothing – nothing at all – and hastily changed the subject. Apart from that, she struck him as a sensible woman with a sound knowledge of midwifery.
The dai had assured him that contrary to all expectations, the birth had proved an easy one. There had been no complications and the Rani was in good health. Her disappointment at the infant's sex had affected her spirits, but that was understandable as she had set her heart on having a son, and the astrologers and soothsayers, not to mention her own women, had foolishly bolstered her hopes by assuring her that the coming child would be a boy. However, she would get over that before long, and if the gods were kind the next one, or the one after that, would be a son. There was plenty of time for she was young – and also far stronger than her frail appearance suggested.
The dai had given Gobind a good deal of technical information on the subject of the Rani's physical condition following her delivery, and left him feeling reassured as to her health and no longer so uneasy as to her safety, since he did not believe that the woman was lying. He came to the conclusion that Kairi-Bai must have heard those ugly whispers about the death of the Rana's previous wife, and was in consequence afraid that now her sister too had borne a daughter she might be removed in the same way. This was highly unlikely, if only for the reason that Shushila-Bai was an exceptionally beautiful woman whom the Rana loved, while her predecessor, from all reports, had been plain, fat and stupid, and wholly lacking in charm.
Gobind had sent a reassuring note to the Junior Rani, but had received no answer; and a week later the baby had died.
There had been a rumour in the palace that the dai too was dead, though some said that she had only been dismissed following a dispute with the Rani's half-sister, who had accused her of failing to take proper care of the child. It was also said that the Rana, angered by the Junior Rani's interference, had given orders that she was to keep to her own rooms and neither see nor speak to her sister until further notice: an edict that Gobind feared would cause even more distress to the Senior Rani than the Junior one… if it were true.
But then a great many of the palace rumours were not. The Rung Mahal, said Manilal, stank of evil and bred rumours as a midden breeds flies, being crammed with idle courtiers, place-seekers and hangers-on, in addition to hordes of servants, none of whom had enough to do and therefore relieved their boredom by engaging in feuds and generally making mischief. ‘They sit about and chew pan and talk scandal – when they are not asleep,’ said Manilal scornfully. ‘And most of their talk is lies, for each one wishes to make out that he is privy to more than the others, and invents a tale to draw attention to himself and gain importance; and if the tale is a scandalous one, so much the better, virtue being too often very dull.’
Nevertheless the rumours had disturbed Gobind and he had done his best to discover if there was any truth in them, but however much the Rana's people might gossip among themselves about the affairs of the Zenana, they were at pains to avoid that subject when talking to the men from Karidkote, and the most that Gobind learned was that no one could be blamed for the baby's death. It had been an undersized and sickly little creature whose hold on life
had been precarious from the start, and the Senior Rani was prostrated with grief at its loss, having become very fond of it once she recovered from her disappointment that it was a daughter instead of a son.
About the Junior Rani and the dai there had been no further information, and Gobind could only hope that if it were true that Kairi-Bai had again been parted from her sister, the Rana would soon rescind the order for the sake of the bereaved mother – unless of course, he had lost interest in her and was using this method of punishing both women: the one for interfering and the other for having failed to give him a son. That was more than possible.
‘But surely this serving-woman or her family could have given you or your master news of the Junior Rani? And of the dai too?’ said Ash.
Manilal shook his head and explained that although the woman Nimi had acted as a go-between in the matter of the letters, it had at no time been possible to have any speech with her, the Hakim-Sahib's only contact with her being through her parents who accepted payment on her behalf, and to whom he gave his letters and received the occasional reply. But either they knew nothing of what went on in the Zenana, or considered it safer to pretend that they did not.
‘They profess to being ignorant,’ said Manilal, ‘and we have learned nothing from them beyond that they have this daughter Nimi, who they say is devoted to her mistress the Junior Rani, but who is certainly rapacious, for she demands more and more money for each letter that she takes in or out of the Women's Quarters.’
Ash said: ‘If you have only their word for that, it may be that she does what she does for love, and knows nothing of the sums they extort in her name.’
‘Let us hope so,’ said Manilal earnestly, ‘for many risks are cheerfully undertaken for love. But those who take them only for payment may turn traitor if another is willing to pay more, and if it becomes known that the Hakim-Sahib is corresponding in secret with the Junior Rani, then I think all our lives will be endangered: not only his, but hers too – and mine also, together with the woman's relatives. As for the woman herself, her life would not be worth so much as a grain of corn.’
Manilal shivered involuntarily and his teeth made a little chattering sound. They had, he told Ash, learned nothing more when the Rana fell seriously ill, and before very long it became plain to all that the illness could be mortal.
‘Only then did we learn by a chance whisper overheard in the palace – and later through the open talk in the city and certain unseemly jests in the bazaars – that if he died his wives would burn with him; for save for his father, the old Rana, who died of the cholera, no ruler of Bhithor has ever gone to the pyre alone – and for him it was only because there had been no wives to become suttee as they too, and his favourite concubine also, had already taken the disease and died of it. But it seems that when his predecessor died, in the year that Mahadaji Sindia retook Delhi, fourteen women – wives and concubines – followed him into the flames; and before that never less than three or four and often more than a score. Now the wits say that this time there will be only two, there being no concubines but only catamites.’
Ash's mouth twisted in a tight-lipped grimace of disgust, and Manilal said: ‘Yes, it is an ugly jest. Though well deserved. But what matters is that even the jesters take for granted that the Ranis will become suttee, as do all in Bhithor. It is, they say, the custom; though the common folk no longer observe it, and only a very few of the noble families have done so during the life-time of the present Rana. Yet the people still consider it incumbent upon the royal house to respect the old laws, for the honour of Bhithor and all who dwell there – particularly those who do not keep them. For when the Rana's wives become suttees they will stand, as it were, as a symbol and a substitute for all those widows who have shrunk from doing so, or been prevented from it by their relatives.’
‘In fact,’ said Ash savagely, and in English, ‘it is still expedient that one man should die for the people. In this case, two women.’ He saw that Manilal was looking startled, and reverted to the vernacular: ‘Well, they are not going to die, so Bhithor will just have to do without its scapegoats and burnt offerings. When do you return?’
‘As soon as I can procure more pigeons and another six bottles of useless medicines from the dewai dukan. Also a fresh horse, for my own will not be fit to ride for some days yet and I dare not delay my return. I have lost too much time already. Can the Sahib perhaps help in the matter of a horse?’
‘Surely. You may leave that to me. The pigeons and medicines also. What you need is rest, and you had best get as much of that as you can while you have the chance. Give me the empty bottles. Gul Baz shall fetch what you require as soon as the shop opens tomorrow morning.’
Manilal handed them over, retired to his charpoy and was asleep again within minutes: a deep, refreshing sleep from which he did not awake until the sun was up and the crows, doves and parrots were quarrelling over the spilt grain by the stables, while the well-wheel squeaked in descant to the clatter of cooking pots and all the familiar sounds of an Indian morning. But by that time Ash had already been gone two hours, leaving a message telling Manilal to procure such things as he needed and meet him at Sarji's house.
The message had been delivered by Gul Baz, in a voice laden with disapproval, together with half-a-dozen bottles of patent medicines from Jobbling & Sons, the Chemists. Manilal made his way to the bazaar, where he bought a large wicker basket, a quantity of food and fresh fruit, and three chickens. The basket, like the one he had previously taken into Bhithor, had a false bottom. But this time it had not been used, for Ash had made other plans: ones that did not include carrier-pigeons.
Unlike Manilal, Ash had stayed awake for most of the night. There had been a great many things to think about, but his mind had discarded the larger issues and fastened instead on a comparatively trivial one: Manila's curious use of an old and unkind nickname, Kairi. Who could have been unkind enough to see that even someone like Manilal, mixing with the other servants in the Rung Mahal and listening to their gossip, and to the talk in the bazaars, could use it automatically when speaking of her? It was a small thing. But as a straw in the wind shows the direction in which the wind is blowing, it was a clear indication of the contempt in which Juli was held by her husband's people, and – more disturbingly – that only someone from Karidkote could have been responsible for repeating that cruel nickname and encouraging its use in the Zenana, from where it would have spread to the rest of the palace.
Half-a-dozen of their own women had remained with Juli and Shu-shu, and Ash could only hope that the one responsible was among the three who were now dead (though he could not believe it was Geeta), because if not, there was a traitor among those closest to the Ranis: a female counterpart to Nandu's spy, Biju Ram, unsuspected by her young mistresses because she came from Karidkote, and currying favour with the Rana by denigrating the wife he so despised. It was an unpleasant thought, and also a frightening one because it meant that even if the Rana lived or the Raj sent troops to enforce the law against widow-burning, Juli and her sister might still be exposed to more dangers than Gobind suspected.
Ash did not doubt that the Government of India would see to it that if the Rana died there would be no suttee. But if the Rana lived they might not be able to protect Juli from punishment (or Gobind and Manilal either, should he find out about those smuggled letters) for that would be a purely domestic matter. Even if all three were to die or simply disappear, it was doubtful if the authorities would ever hear about it. And if they did, and asked questions, they would not ask soon enough; for in a country of vast distances and poor communications these things took time, and once the trail was cold, any explanation, such as a sudden fever, or the bland statement that the Hakim and his servant had left the state and were presumably on their way back to Karidkote, would have to be accepted, for there would be no evidence. And no way of proving anything…
Ash shivered involuntarily, as Manilal had done, and thought in panic: ‘I must go myself
. I can't sit here and do nothing while Juli… Manilal was right: the Rung Mahal stinks of evil and anything could happen there. Besides if Gobind can get letters to her, so can I… not from here, but I could from there… I could warn her to be on her guard because one of the Karidkote women may be disloyal, and ask about the dai and what really is happening. She wouldn't run away with me before, but she may feel differently now, and if so I'll find a way of getting her out – and if she still won't, at least I can satisfy myself that the police and the Political Department are taking steps to see that if that animal dies, no one is going to try to force his widows onto to the pyre.’
It would have to be force with Shu-shu. They'd have to drag her to the burning ground, or tie her up and carry her, and Ash imagined that she would probably die of fright long before they got her there. Juli had told him once that Shu-shu had always been terrified at the very idea of suttee, and that it was for this reason she had not wanted to get married, because her mother… ‘I hope,’ thought Ash viciously, ‘that there is a special hell for people like Janoo-Rani.’
When Gul Baz brought in the tea at dawn, he found the Sahib already up and dressed, and engaged in packing the small bistra – a leather-bound strip of canvas that he took with him on night exercises rolled up and strapped to the back of the saddle. Yet a glance was enough to show that he was not planning on being away for a mere night and a day. On the contrary he was, he said, going on a journey that might keep him away for anything up to a month, though on the other hand he could be back again in a matter of eight or ten days – his plans were uncertain.
There was nothing unusual about this, except that always before any packing that had to be done was left to Gul Baz, and there was generally far more of it than could be contained in that small roll of canvas: several changes of clothing, for a start. But this time Gul Baz saw that the Sahib meant to travel light, and was taking only a cake of soap, a razor and a single country-made blanket in addition to his service revolver and fifty rounds. There were also four small and disproportionately heavy cardboard boxes, each containing fifty rounds of rifle ammunition.