by M. M. Kaye
Sarji stared at him for a moment under frowning brows, and then squatted down and added his name to the paper, the neat, stylized script in strange contrast to the careless Western scrawl above it. He blew on the wet ink to dry it, and returning the letter said: ‘Now tell me what all this is about?’
‘Later. Let us eat first and talk afterwards. What kept you? You must have been away for hours, and my stomach is as empty as a dry gourd.’
They ate in companionable silence, and when they had finished, Ash strewed the remains of his meal on the window-sill for the crows and sparrows to dispose of in the morning; but when Sarji would have followed suit, he said quickly: ‘No, don't do that. No need to waste good food. Wrap it up and put it away in one of the saddle-bags. You may have need of it, for if the crowds are as thick tomorrow as they were tonight, you may find it difficult to buy more before you leave, and it is certain that Bukta will have none to spare by now.’
Sarji stood rigid, his hand still outstretched and his startled gaze asking the question that he could not force his tongue to utter. But Ash answered it as though it had been spoken aloud: ‘No, I shall not be coming with you. There is something I have to do here.’
‘But – but you said…’
‘That I had given up. So I have. I have had to give up all hope of rescuing her. It cannot be done. I can see that now. But I can at least save her from being burned alive.’
‘Her?’ repeated Sarji, as he had done earlier that day in Gobind's house when Ash had unconsciously used the singular instead of the plural. But he had not used it so now: he had used it deliberately, because there was no longer any point in concealment. The time for that had gone – together with the need to keep silent.
‘Her,’ said Ash softly. ‘Anjuli-Bai, the Junior Rani.’
‘No,’ breathed Sarji, the barely audible syllable as eloquent of horror as though he had screamed it.
Ash did not misunderstand him, and his smile was rueful and a little bitter. ‘That shocks you, doesn't it? But they have a saying in Belait that “a cat may look at a king”; and even a casteless Angrezi can lose his head and his heart to a princess of Hind, and be unable to regain them. I'm sorry, Sarji. If I had known that it would end like this I would have told you before. But then I never dreamed that it would or could end like this, and so I only told you part of the truth. What I did not tell you, or anyone, was that I had come to love one of the brides whom I had been charged to bring to Bhithor… to love her beyond reason. There is no blame on her, for she could not have prevented it. I saw her married to the Rana… and came away, leaving my heart in her keeping. That was more than two years ago; but it is hers still – and always will be. Now you know why I had to come here: and also why I cannot leave.’
Sarji released his breath in a long sigh and put a hand on Ash's arm, gripping it. ‘Forgive me, my friend. I did not mean to insult you. Or her. I know well that hearts are not like hired servants who can be bidden to do what we desire of them. They stay or go as they will, and we can neither hold nor prevent them. The gods know that I have lost and regained mine a dozen times. For which I have cause to be grateful, for my father lost his once only: to my mother. After she died he was never more than the shell of a man. He would have felt for you. But he could no more prevent my mother's death than you can prevent the Rani's.’
‘I know that. But I can and will save her from death by fire,’ said Ash with shut teeth.
‘How?’ Sarji's fingers tightened on his arm and shook it angrily. ‘It is not possible, and you know it. If you mean to break into the palace -’
‘I don't. I mean to reach the burning-ground ahead of the crowd and take up a position on the terrace of that chattri: the one overlooking the spot where they will build the pyre. From there I shall be able to see over the heads of the crowd below, and if by the time the women reach the clearing there has been no intervention by the Sirkar, and I know that the end is near, I shall do the only thing I can for her… put a bullet through her heart. I am too good a shot to miss at that range, and it will be a quick death and far more merciful than the fire. She will not even know that she has been hit.’
‘You are mad!’ whispered Sarji, his face grey with shock. ‘Mad.’ He snatched his hand away and his voice rose: ‘Do you think that those nearest you will not know who has fired the shot? They will tear you in pieces.’
‘My body, perhaps. But what will that matter? There are six bullets in a revolver, of which I shall only need two: the second will be for myself. Once I have fired it I shall neither know nor care what the mob does to me, and if, as you say, they tear me to pieces, it will be the best thing that could possibly happen, because then no one will ever be able to say who I was or where I came from – or even if I was a man. So we must hope that they will do so. All the same, you would be advised to leave as early as you can: you and the Hakim-Sahib and Manilal…
‘I have written to the Hakim, telling him that you will meet them at the spot where the road crosses the stream and there are two palm trees and a wayside shrine. Manilal will know it well. They must leave the city by the Mori Gate, to make it appear that they mean to attend the cremation; and once in the open country they should be able to separate themselves from the crowd without being observed, and make their way to the valley. I'll deliver that letter myself before I leave. There will be too many people in the square for the watchers to keep tally of everyone who passes the Hakim-Sahib's door.’
‘And the other letters?’ asked Sarji slowly, glancing at the pile on the floor.
‘Those I hope you will take back with-you and post at the dâk-khana in Ahmadabad.’ Ash picked them up and handed them over one by one: ‘This is the one that you put your name to: it is my Will and I have addressed it to a lawyer in Belait. And this, which is also in Angrezi, is for a Captain-Sahib in my Regiment in Mardan. These two are for an old man, a Pathan, who has been as a father to me, and for his son who has been my friend for many years. And this – No, this one too I will deliver myself to the Hakim-Sahib to take to Karidkote, as it is for the Ranis' uncle. This last is for my bearer, Gul Baz. Will you see that he gets it? And that he and the other servants get back safely to their homes?’
Sarji nodded wordlessly, and having scanned the letters carefully, stowed them away under his shirt without making any further effort to argue or plead.
Ash said: ‘There is one other thing you can do for me – as a great favour. I would give much not to ask it of you, for it will mean delaying your departure, and delay could be dangerous. But can't see any other way, because unless I am to risk getting caught up in the crowds and finding myself in the thick of the press from where I may not even be able to see her, I must reach the burning-ground ahead of the rest, which means that I cannot go on foot. But if it's true that the city gates will be thrown open if the gongs sound tonight to signal the Rana's death, when we hear them I have only to saddle Dagobaz and ride for the nearest gate, and from there in my own time to the chattris. The sooner go the less likely am to be stopped by the crowds, but it would be wiser for you to come later and with less haste, and… if you will give me an hour's start I will leave Dagobaz at the edge of the grove, on the side furthest from the city and behind the ruined chattri with the triple dome the crowds will not reach as far back as that, and you should find him easily enough. Will you take him with you Sarji, for my sake? I would not ask it of you except that I could not bear to abandon him in such a place as this. Will you do that for me?’
‘You do not need to ask,’ said Sarji brusquely.
‘Thank you. You are a true friend. And now, as there may be much to do tomorrow, let us take the Hakim-Sahib's advice, and sleep.’
‘Can you do so?’ asked Sarji curiously.
‘Why not? I have not slept well for many nights because my mind would not let me rest. But now that all the problems are settled and the way ahead is clear, there is nothing to keep me awake. Besides, if Gobind is right about the Rana, I shall need a clear eye and a
steady hand tomorrow.’
He rose to his feet, yawned and stretched, and crossing to the window looked out at the night sky and wondered what Juli was doing, and if she was thinking of him. Probably not, since by now Shushila must be half mad with terror, and Juli would have no thought to spare for anyone or anything else. Not for her lover or her old uncle, or for the mountains and deodar forests of Gulkote. Least of all for herself, even though she faced the same fate as Shu-shu. It had always been this way, and would be to the last. Dear Juli… dear, loving, faithful Kairi-Bai. He found it difficult to realize that tomorrow or the next day he would actually see her again. Only very briefly, and then –
Would the crash of his revolver herald darkness and nothingness? Or afterwards would they meet again, and be together for ever and ever? Was there a life after death? He had never been sure, though all his close friends seemed to be certain enough. Their faith was firm, and he envied them that. Wally, Zarin, Mahdoo and Koda Dad, Kaka-ji and Sarjevar might differ as to what form it would take, but they did not doubt that there was one. Well, he would soon know if they were right…
Wally was a believer. He believed in God and in the immortality of the soul, ‘the resurrection of the body, and life in the world to come’. And also in such old-fashioned deities as duty and courage, loyalty, patriotism and ‘the Regiment’; for which reason – quite apart from the fact that there was no time now to write a lengthy letter – it had been impossible to tell him the truth.
To have written to him at all was probably a mistake, thought Ash. It might have been kinder, in the long run, if he had merely dropped out of Wally's life without a word or a sign, and let him think what he liked. But the thought of Wally waiting and wondering, hoping against hope that one day his friend and hero would return, was not to be borne; and besides, there was another consideration – the fact that Wally (and only Wally) could be counted upon to do everything in his power to have his friend's disappearance investigated, which would ensure that the burning of the Rana's widows would not be kept secret, as Bhithor would wish…
True, Gobind would know what had happened; and so would Kaka-ji and Jhoti and some others. But Ash did not believe that Karidkote would take the matter up officially once the thing was done. The Ranis' family were, after all, devout Hindus, and it was difficult to expect them to regard a suttee in the same light as it appeared to foreigners. They would certainly have done what they could to prevent it, but having failed, they would see no profit in raising a scandal, particularly when in their heart of hearts they – and the majority of their co-religionists – must still regard the act in question as a meritorious one.
As for Koda Dad and Zarin, they too would keep silent, on the grounds that what Ashok chose to do was his own affair. And though the Guides and the military authorities in Peshawar and Rawalpindi would of course make inquiries, his past history would tell against him, since it would be argued that he had done this sort of thing before – disappeared for the best part of two years and been presumed dead – so that when he failed to report back to his Regiment he would once again be listed as ‘Absent Without Leave’, and after a time his name would be struck from the records and he would be written off as ‘Missing, believed dead.’
But Wally could be trusted to go on hoping and to badger senior army officers, importune officials of the Government, and write letters to The Times of India and The Pioneer, until someone would eventually have to take notice of the affair. And though it was unlikely that the true facts of Lieutenant Pelham-Martyn's disappearance would ever emerge, at least there would be no more suttees in Bhithor.
Ash watched the moonlight creep up the side of a house that backed on to the yard, and remembered a night among the ruins of Taxila, when he had talked for hours, telling Wally the incredible tale of his childhood, as he never been able to tell it to anyone else except Mrs Viccary. It was strange to think that of all his friends, Wally should be the only one who could not be told the truth now. With the others, it was different: for one thing, they had no built-in prejudice against a man taking his own life. They did not regard that as a sin, as Christians were taught to do. Nor did they hold that a man was master of his fate.
But to Wally – a practising Christian, and a dedicated soldier in love with his regiment – suicide would seem unforgivable: a sin not only against God, but the Guides, because at this particular time, when ‘wars and rumours of wars' were the talk of the North-West Frontier, it would be regarded as a form of cowardice comparable with ‘Desertion in the face of the enemy’. For if hostilities on a scale of the first conflict with Afghanistan broke out the Guides were going to need the services of every officer and every man, and since cowardice and ‘letting the side down’ were the two cardinal sins in Wally's lexicon, he would undoubtedly think that the needs of Queen and Country should take precedence over any purely personal attachment, however deep, and that if Ash was set on dying, then the proper and honourable course would have been for him to hurry back to Mardan and take up his duties, and hope to be killed in battle, leading his men.
But then Wally had never known Anjuli-Bai, Princess of Karidkote and Rani of Bhithor, so the letter addressed to him was, in consequence, a very brief one and would allow him to suppose (if or when he should hear that Ash was dead) that he had died at the hands of a mob, following an unsuccessful attempt to prevent the burning of a widow. That way he would still be able to think of his friend as a hero – and keep his illusions.
‘He'll grow out of them one day,’ thought Ash. ‘And no one else will talk: certainly not the Bhithoris. The Bhithoris will lie and evade and pervert the truth until even those who were there and saw it all won't be quite sure what happened – if anything. In the end it will probably be given out that the Ranis died of typhoid fever, and the authorities may even pretend to believe it in order to save their faces and avoid having to take any action.’
As for him, no one but a handful of his friends would ever know or care what had become of him… ‘This time tomorrow, it may all be over,’ thought Ash; and was surprised to find that he could face the prospect with so little emotion. He had always imagined that the phrase about the ‘condemned man eating a hearty breakfast’ had been meant as a grim joke, but now he realized that it was probably true, for once one gave up all hope, a curious peace took its place. One accepted the inevitable, and ceased struggling. He had been hag-ridden for days by fear and hope and the need to make plans that had invariably proved impossible to carry out, and now that all that was ended he could only feel a sense of exhausted relief, as though he had been freed from a burden that had become too heavy to carry.
The stars were growing pale as the moonlight brightened, and now the line of hills beyond the city was no longer a vague shadow against the indigo of the night sky, but sharp-edged with silver as though they were covered in snow; and for a magical moment it seemed to Ash as though he saw the Dur Khaima itself, transported to this hot and arid corner of Rajputana to bestow a last blessing on a some-time worshipper. He picked up a handful of the crumbs that he had strewn on the window-sill, and let them fall again, murmuring the old prayer… O, Lord, forgive… Thou art everywhere, but I worship thee here…
The years had gone so fast… so fast. But it had been a good life, and he had much to be thankful for; and so many memories to take with him – wherever it was that one went. If it were true, as some said, that when men died their spirits returned to the place that they had loved best during their lifetime, then he, Ash, would awake to find himself among the mountains, perhaps at long last in that very valley that Sita had described so often that he could almost believe that he had seen it. The valley in which they would build themselves a but out of deodar logs, and where they would plant cherry trees and grow corn and chillies and lemons, and keep a goat. And allow Kairi-Bai to come with them…
The thought brought him the first comfort he had found that day, and when he turned from the window and lay down, fully dressed on the string bed, he was s
miling.
41
Gobind had been right: the Rana did not live through the night. He died in the dark hour before dawn, and not long afterwards the stillness was shattered by the boom of the great bronze gongs that have announced the death of every ruler of Bhithor since Bika Rae, the first Rana, founded the city.
The sound shuddered through the hot darkness and reverberated among the surrounding hills like a roll of thunder, the echoes passing it on and on down the valley and out across the quiet lake. It woke the sleeping city and sent flocks of roosting crows wheeling and cawing above the rooftops, and brought Ash from his bed, instantly awake and alert.
The little room was still breathlessly hot, for the night wind had died. The moon too had gone, hidden by the hills and leaving the room in such darkness that it took Ash a minute or two to find and light the lamp. But once that was done the rest was easy, and five minutes later he was down in the yard with Sarji and saddling Dagobaz.
There had been no need for silence or caution. The night was filled with the deep-throated booming of the gongs, and by now lamps were being relit in every house and the crowds who had slept in the open were awake and vocal.
Dagobaz did not care for the gongs. His ears were laid flat back and his nostrils flared as though, like the horses in the Old Testament who cried ‘Ha Ha!’ among the trumpets, he could smell ‘the battle afar off, the thunder of the Captains, and the shouting’. He had flung up his head and whinnied when he heard Ash's step, and for once stood quietly without backing or sidling, or playing any of his usual tricks.
‘This is the first time I have known him behave so well,’ said Sarji. ‘He is one who likes to show that he has a will of his own and does not wear a saddle from meekness – or choice. You would almost think that he knows there is serious work afoot.’
‘Of course he does. He knows everything, don't you, my son?’