The Far Pavilions

by M. M. Kaye

  ‘You mean Govidan? Are you strangers that you do not know where the burning-ground of the Ranas lies?’ asked the boy, staring. ‘It is over there – where the chattris are. You can see them above the trees. The path is no more than a stone's throw ahead of you. Are you holy men, or do you go to make arrangements for the Rana's burning? Ah, that will be a great tamarsha. But he is not dead yet, for when he dies the gongs will beat, and my father says they can be heard as far as the Ram Bagh, so that all…’

  Ash thrust an anna into the boy's hand and left him, and a few minutes later they came to the spot where a side path led right-handed out of the main road towards the lake. The path, like the road, was deep in dust, but here there were no cartwheel tracks and few traces of cattle or goats. But a party of horsemen had obviously ridden down it and returned again fairly recently, for the least breath of wind would have smoothed away those hoof-prints.

  ‘They came to select a site for the funeral pyre,’ said Sarji.

  Ash nodded without speaking, his gaze on the dark patch of greenery ahead. Behind him the evening was full of sounds: the bleating of goats and the lowing of cattle, the shrill cries of herd-boys and the soft cooing of doves, the clamorous call of a partridge and from somewhere on the road the squeak and squeal of cart-wheels rumbling homeward to the city. Comfortable, every-day sounds; pleasantly familiar and very different from the deafening babble of the peering, jostling, wailing crowd that would gather here only too soon, jammed together shoulder to shoulder and pressing in on either side of this same dusty path that he was walking along now…

  If he rode here he would have to leave Dagobaz tethered somewhere well beyond the crowds, for apart from the multitudes who would flock here to watch the cremation, thousands more would accompany the bier and its escort, milling about it and moving slowly forward in a rolling tide of humanity, resistless and terrifying. Visualizing the scene, Ash realized that the only advantage to be gained from it would be anonymity. No one was going to pay the least attention to him if he joined that crowd. He would merely be one of them, another onlooker, unremarkable and unremarked provided he came on foot. A mounted man would be far too conspicuous; and in any case, Dagobaz was unused to such crowds and there was no knowing how he would react to one.

  ‘It would not be possible,’ muttered Sarji, whose mind had evidently been moving on similar lines. ‘Had this place only been on the other side of the city, there might have been a chance. But we could never get away from here even if we could cut our way through the crowd at our backs, since those hills there hem us in on one side and the lake on the other, while over there –’ he jerked his chin to the eastward ‘– there is no way out, so we should have to ride back towards the city and everyone here would know it.’

  ‘Yes, I realized that.’

  ‘Then why are we here?’ There was more than a trace of uneasiness in Sarji's voice.

  ‘Because I wanted to see the place for myself before I made up my mind. I thought perhaps that there might turn out to be some… some feature of it that could be turned to advantage, or that might suggest something to me. There may yet be. If there is not, we shall be no worse off.’

  The hoof-prints stopped within the fringe of a dense grove of trees, and it was easy to see where the riders had dismounted and left their horses before entering the grove on foot. Ash and Sarji, following the same path between avenues of tree-trunks and out into the open again, found themselves in a large clearing in the centre of what appeared to be a deserted city: a city of palaces or temples, set among the trees.

  There were buildings everywhere. Memorial chattris. Vast, empty, symbolic tombs, built of the local sandstone and intricately and beautifully carved, some of them three and four storeys high so that their airy, domed pavilions, screened in pierced stone and piled one upon the other in the manner of a fantastic house of cards, stood well above the tree-tops.

  Each chattri commemorated a Rana of Bhithor, and had been raised on the spot where his body had been burned. And each, in the manner of a temple, had been built to surround or face on to a large tank, so that any who came to pray could perform the proper ablutions. It did not appear that many did so, for the water in the tanks was, mostly green and stagnant and full of weeds and mud fish, and many of the chattris were half ruined. Pigeons, parrots and owls had built nests in crevices between the stones and among the weathered carvings that decorated pediments, archways and domes, a troop of monkeys pranced along the walls and the trees were full of birds quarrelling with each other as they came home to roost. But apart from the birds and monkeys and a solitary priest who was saying his prayers while standing waist-deep in one of the tanks, the place appeared to be deserted, and Ash surveyed it with the eye of a General planning a battle.

  That open space over there was the obvious site for a new pyre, and to judge from the many footprints that patterned the dust at that particular spot, it had been inspected during the past day by a large number of people who had walked all over and around it, stood talking together for a considerable time, and gone away without visiting any other part of the grove. These marks were proof that this was where the next Rana would be cremated and where in time his chattri would be built, and there was also enough space here for several thousand onlookers as well as the protagonists – and an excellent field of fire for anyone standing above the crowd, say on the terrace of a near-by chattri…

  Sarji touched his friend's arm and spoke in a whisper that had been forced on him by the brooding atmosphere of the place: ‘Look – they have hung chiks up there. What do you suppose that is for?’

  Ash's gaze followed the direction of Sarji's pointing hand, and saw that one storey of the nearest chattri had indeed been enclosed with split-cane chiks that hung between each pair of pillars, thus turning the top-but-one pavilion on the near side into a small room.

  ‘Probably for some of the purdah women who want to watch. The Diwan's wife and daughters – people like that. They'll get an excellent view from there,’ said Ash, and turned away quickly, nauseated by the thought that not only the ignorant and humbly-born women, but pampered, aristocratic ones would be equally eager to watch two members of their own sex burned alive – and think themselves blessed by being present.

  He made a circuit of the grove, walking between the crowded chattris and the silent tanks that mirrored walls and terraces and domes that had been built before the days of Clive and Warren Hastings; and by the time he returned to the central clearing it was deep in shadow.

  ‘Let us get away,’ urged Sarji with a shiver. ‘This is an ill-omened spot, and the sun is almost down. I would not be caught near this place when night falls for all the gold in the Rana's treasury. Have you seen all that you wish to see?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ash. ‘All and more. We can go now.’

  He did not speak again during the walk back to the Mori Gate, and for once Sarji too showed no desire to talk. The sight of that silent, tree-enclosed city of tombs had shaken him more than he cared to own, and once again he found himself wishing that he had never become involved in this affair. Admittedly, Ashok had acknowledged that any last-minute attempt at a rescue from the grove was out of the question, but Sarji had an uneasy conviction that he had something else in mind – some scheme that he intended to carry out alone and without asking advice or assistance from anyone. Well, if he must, he must. There was little one could do to prevent him. But it was bound to end in disaster, and as the Hakim had pointed out, failure would inevitably end in death for all of them. How long, wondered Sarji, would Bukta wait before realizing that his master and the Sahib would never return…?

  There were many more people than usual in the city that night, for by now the news that the Rana was dying had reached every village and hamlet in the state, and his subjects were flocking into the capital in order to witness his obsequies, and to look upon the suttees and acquire merit by being present at their sanctification. The talk in the streets was all of the approaching ceremonies, every temp
le was crowded, and by nightfall the square in front of the palace was overflowing with townsfolk and peasants who gaped at the main gate of the Rung Mahal while they waited for news.

  Even the charcoal-seller and his silent wife seemed to have caught some of the excitement, for they greeted the return of their lodgers with unexpected loquacity and a hail of questions. Where had they been and what had they seen and heard? Was it true that they had visited the Rana's foreign physician, a hakim from Karidkote, and if so had he told them anything new?

  Did they know that when a Rana of Bhithor died, the great bronze gongs that hung in a gate-tower on the walls of the Rung Mahal were beaten so that all might know of his passing? Should the gongs sound by night, the twin forts that guarded the city would light beacon fires on hearing them; thus signalling the news to every hamlet and village in Bhithor, while in the city itself the outer gates would instantly be thrown open so that the ruler's spirit might pass out – choosing by which it would leave, east or west, north or south.

  ‘And also in order that any who wish to take up positions on the road along which the bier will be carried can do so,’ said the charcoal-seller. Adding that it was a wise precaution, as otherwise people who wished to be in the forefront of the crowd would gather near the gates in great numbers before dawn, causing considerable confusion and probably trampling women and children and elderly persons to death in the rush to be first through the gates when the bars were lifted.

  ‘For myself,’ said the charcoal-seller, ‘I mean to go to the Suttee Gate and stand in the ditch below the wall. From there one should see well, and I would advise you to do the same, because you will be looking upwards instead of trying to peer over the heads of taller men who may block your view. Ah, it will be a sight worth seeing. It is not often that one has the chance to see a Rani unveiled, and this one is said to be a very queen of beauty. Though the other, her sister whom they call Kairi-Bai, is clumsy and ill-favoured; or so I have heard.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ said Ash, mechanically filling the pause but with his mind so clearly elsewhere that Sarji looked at him sharply and the charcoal-seller, taking offence, turned his back on him and began to shout angrily at the idiot boy. The noise served to rouse Ash from his abstraction, and he inquired abruptly if anyone had left a message for him. But no message had come from Gobind: nor was there any sign that the Government of India intended to exert its authority and enforce its laws.

  ‘There is still time,’ consoled Sarji as they left the yard after seeing to their horses and he preceded Ash up the narrow staircase, carrying a lighted lamp and the key. ‘The Rana is not dead yet, and for all we know, a pulton may arrive here this very night. And if that old fool speaks truth and the gongs have sounded, they will find the gates open.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ash thoughtfully. ‘That is going to make it a lot easier.’

  Sarji looked back at him with a grin, taking the remark for sarcasm, but Ash's face was serious and intent as though he were concentrating deeply, and there was a look in his eyes that Sarji did not like – an odd, fixed look that boded no good. What had he decided to do? wondered Sarji in sudden panic. Surely he did not still believe that the Sirkar would send a regiment to Bhithor? What had the gates got to do with it? What was going to be easier? – and for whom? Sarji stumbled on the top step and took an unconscionable time fitting the key into the clumsy iron padlock because his hands were shaking.

  The small room was stiflingly hot and reeking of charcoal fumes and the odours of cooking that had drifted up from below in the course of the day, and Ash unbarred the single window and flung it wide to let in the night air, and leaning out over the sill, sniffed the familiar smell of horses. The yard below was in darkness and he could not make out Dagobaz's black shape among the shadows, but Moti Raj's grey coat showed up as a pale blur, and he could hear Dagobaz stamp and snort, disturbed by a rat or the mosquitoes, and angry at being denied his evening exercise.

  ‘Those two will be as glad to get out of this place as I shall,’ observed Sarji, groping in a saddle-bag for matches. ‘Phew! it is as hot as a potter's kiln and it stinks of bad ghee and stale cabbage and worse things.’

  Ash turned away from the window and said: ‘Cheer up. If the Hakim-Sahib is right, this will be the last night you will have to spend here, and by this time tomorrow you will be twenty koss away and asleep under the stars, with old Bukta to keep watch.’

  ‘And you?’ said Sarji. He had found the matches and lit a second oil lamp, and now he held it up so that the light shone on Ash's face. ‘Where will you be?’

  ‘I? Oh, I shall be alseep too. What else?’ said Ash, and laughed. He had not laughed like that – or at all – for many days, and it took Sarji aback, for it appeared completely unforced. A gay, relaxed sound; and a reassuring one.

  ‘I'm glad you can still laugh,’ observed Sarji. ‘Though I do not know why you should do so. The gods know there is little enough to laugh at.’

  ‘If you really want to know,’ said Ash, ‘I laugh because I have given up. I have “thrown in the towel”, as my countrymen say. I admit myself defeated, and it's a relief to know where I stand and to see the future with a clear eye. They say drowning is quite pleasant once you stop struggling, and that is what I have done. To change the subject, have we anything to eat here? I'm starving.’

  ‘I too,’ laughed Sarji, his attention instantly diverted by the thought of food – they had not eaten since morning, and then only sparsely; anxiety is not conducive to good appetite and both men had passed a restless night. ‘There should be a chuppatti or two and some pekoras. That is, if the rats have not got them.’

  The rats had not, but the ants had shown more enterprise. What little was left went out of the window, and as Ash refused to patronize one of the eating-houses in the city on the grounds that all would be grossly overcrowded that night and he did not feel equal to waiting for hours on the chance of getting a vacant place, Sarji went off to buy what they needed from a food stall, leaving with a lighter heart and in better spirits than he would have thought possible half an hour ago.

  He was relieved beyond measure that his friend should at last come to his senses and see the futility of trying to battle against impossible odds. For to Sarji, Ash's sudden return to normality, and the fact that he could laugh again – and feel hungry – proved that he had indeed made up his mind and was no longer tortured by indecision or torn this way and that between fear and hope and doubts. Now they need not even stay until the Rana died, for as they could not prevent what would follow, there was no point in their remaining in Bhithor one moment longer than necessary.

  They would leave at dawn as soon as the gates were open, and Ashok would have no reason to blame himself. He had done all he could and it was not his fault that he could not achieve the impossible. If there was blame let it rest on the shoulders of the Government, who had been warned and refused to take action; and on the Diwan and his fellow-councillors, together with the priests and people of ‘Bhithor, who intended to turn the clock back and practise the old customs of an age that was already over. This time tomorrow he and Ashok and Bukta – and perhaps the Hakim and his servant too – would be safe among the hills. And if they made good time and moved by night (for now there would be a moon to help them) another two days should see them across the border and back once more in Gujerat.

  ‘I will make a thank-offering to my temple in gratitude for my safe return: the price, in silver, of the best horse in my stud,’ vowed Sarji. ‘And once I am free of this ill-omened place I will never again set foot in it – or in Rajasthan either if I can help it.’

  He brought hot food from a cook-shop. Steaming rice and fire-hot vegetable curry, dal, pekoras, and half-a-dozen freshly made chuppattis. And from a sweet-stall in another part of the bazaar, halwa-sharin made in the Persian manner with honey and nuts, and an anna's worth of crisp, sticky jellabies.

  It had been a slow business, for as Ash had predicted, the bazaars were crowded; and though many o
f the farmers and village-folk who had flocked to the city had thriftily brought their own provisions with them, others had not, and the food shops and stalls were besieged by hungry customers. But it was done at last, and Sarji extracted himself from the press and walked back heavily laden, nibbling jellabies and humming the refrain of a song composed by one of Ahmadabad's best-known courtesans.

  He was still singing as he mounted the rickety stairs and flung open the door of the rented room. But at the sight of Ash the song stopped short and the singer's eyebrows rose in surprise.

  Ash was sitting cross-legged in front of a make-shift desk formed by Dagobaz's saddle, and he was writing a letter – the last of several it seemed, for at least five neatly folded squares of paper lay on the floor beside him. He was using ink and a reed pen that he must have borrowed from the shop below, and writing on pages torn from a cheap loose-leaf notebook; and there would have been nothing surprising about it, except that he was writing in English.

  ‘Who is that for?’ demanded Sarji, coming to peer over Ash's shoulder. ‘If it is for some Sahib in Ajmer, you will not find a messenger to take it. Not at this hour, or for the next few days either. Have you forgotten that no one may leave the state?’

  ‘No,’ said Ash, continuing to write. He finished the letter, and having run his eye over it and made one or two minor corrections, signed his name at the bottom of the paper and handed the pen to Sarji. ‘Will you write your name there, below mine? Your full name. It is only to show that you are a witness that I myself wrote this letter, and that this is my signature.’