Before the Rains

by Dinah Jefferies

Life hadn’t been easy, and then, after her husband Oliver died, Eliza had returned to live at home, where she’d found Anna constantly hiding secret gin bottles, usually under her bed or beneath the kitchen sink. Anna persistently denied her own behaviour and sometimes could not even recall her episodes of heavy drinking. In the end Eliza had given up hope. That they knew Clifford Salter had been a lucky twist of fate, and by coming to India Eliza had sought to move forward, yet here she was still looking back, and not just to thoughts of her mother.

  She glanced around her room. It was large and airy, the bed hidden behind a screen, and one corner had been set up as a little sitting room with a large armchair and a comfy-looking sofa, behind which an arch led to a small dining room. There was no sign of moths or ants. Another decorative archway in the wall opposite her four-poster bed led through to a lavish bathroom. The door to her darkroom was outside in the gloomy corridor and she was happy that it had been confirmed that only she would have the key.

  As she laid out her clothes she thought about her arrival the evening before, just as a brilliant sunset had reddened the sky. The temple bells had been ringing and two girls, zooming along on roller skates, had almost taken the legs from under her. They shrieked and giggled and apologized in Hindi, and Eliza, pleased she had more or less understood them, was grateful to the old Indian ayah who had taught her. The lessons she’d recently taken to bring the language back had helped too.

  Soon after that an immaculately gloved servant, wearing a white uniform and a red turban, had brought her bowls of dahl, rice and fruits on a silver tray and, after unpacking, she’d been grateful for an early night. Had it not been extraordinarily noisy she would have fallen asleep instantly, tired from the long journey from England, plus the ongoing trek to Delhi, and then another day’s journey to Juraipore. But noisy it had been. Music, laughter, birds calling, frogs belching and children up until all hours: all of it drifting through her window along with the shrieking of peacocks – a sound more like cats howling – and all of it punctuating her night.

  She had lain awake helpless beneath the intoxication of a Juraipore night: the drums, the reed pipes, the smoke in the air, but more than anything it was the ever-present sense of life being lived to the full in spite of poverty and the harsh desert world.

  Unable to stop her mind spinning, she thought of her father and her husband. Would she ever be ready to forgive herself for what had happened? She must if she was to make the most of this chance in a lifetime, and she could not risk having to crawl back to her mother with her tail between her legs. Eliza hardly dared admit that she had come to rediscover something within herself, something she’d lost the day they had left for England.

  2

  The day was blazingly hot and Eliza soon felt sticky and overdressed. This was a day for muslin summer dresses, not heavy linens, though Clifford wore a linen suit with collar and tie. It was a smaller affair than she’d been expecting, rather more like a garden party than anything else, but with a sprinkling of supporters already gathering on both sides – some sitting on chairs – there was a definite air of excitement. Eliza had never been to a polo match before and the ground, surrounded by trees and iron railings with a view of the hills in the background, was idyllic.

  ‘At least it’s dry here,’ Clifford said. ‘Unlike England, where muddy fields are a problem.’

  He told her the British team consisted of army officers from the 15th Lancers, and they appeared to have brought with them a crew of highly vocal supporters, many of whom seemed to have already been drinking. There were a few other military types too, complete with their servants, and also a couple of kitted-out additional players should the day’s play require them.

  Eliza waited beside Clifford and watched the small crowd. Just past the main group of British supporters, a man and a tall woman stood arm in arm. The woman glanced across and smiled. Clifford, noticing, whispered that she was Dottie Hopkins, the doctor’s wife. ‘You’ll meet them both later,’ he added. ‘Good people.’

  The woman looked friendly and Eliza was pleased at the thought of them being introduced. In the other direction a large noisy group of Indian supporters were gathering, again accompanied by a swarm of servants in formal dress, and now Eliza’s eyes were glued to them.

  ‘Although this is known as the game of kings, Anish, the ruler, rarely attends these days,’ Clifford was saying. ‘Prince Jayant is the one to watch. He has superb horsemanship skills and is a great team player. If he’s in the team today we’ll have a match on our hands.’

  ‘Do these games take place often?’

  ‘The big ones are part of a regular tournament, but this is just a small friendly for our own entertainment. Jaipore have the best reputation, you know. Won the Indian Championship this year, but Juraipore are coming up fast behind.’

  ‘That’s wonderful.’

  ‘And we still aim to triumph. Wave the flag and all that.’

  Soon after that the players arrived, looking smart and straight-backed as they walked on to the field. Then the proud-looking grooms led the ponies on, and the crowd began to clap, though Clifford was quick to explain that these were not really ponies but full-sized horses.

  ‘It’s a terribly expensive sport. The ponies are worth thousands.’

  Eliza watched the team members mount – they all looked incredibly powerful – and just as she spotted that Prince Jayant was among them, he began to seat himself on a magnificent black horse. Now a roar went up from the delighted crowd, followed by persistent cheering and whistles from the Indian supporters.

  Clifford drew closer to Eliza. ‘He always draws a crowd. And his pony has a brilliant temperament. You really have to rely on the animal not to become over-excited. Now see those two chaps?’

  Eliza looked in the direction he was pointing.

  ‘The umpires. There’s a referee too, in case of disagreement. Polo is all about fair play.’

  So far this was good fun, and Eliza was pleased to be out in the open air and enjoying the novelty, despite her earlier reservations. She watched as the two teams lined up facing each other, their polo sticks at the ready, and then, as soon as the ball was struck, the game began. An intense atmosphere developed as clouds of dust rose up from the hard ground and the horses thundered along, but among the swooping and dipping it soon became apparent that the Prince’s pony seemed to be pulling back.

  ‘Is that supposed to happen?’ she asked.

  Clifford frowned. ‘Does seem a bit frisky.’

  She continued to watch the men on their ponies and then, glancing at the Indian crowd, saw that a couple of men in formal dress and with curved swords at their waists had stepped forward as if in expectation of trouble. She held her breath, but after that nothing happened and the game went on. Eliza watched in fascination, barely listening as Clifford explained the rules of polo to her and the different terminology.

  It was only a few minutes later that something seemed to be really going wrong with the Prince’s horse.

  ‘My God!’ Clifford exclaimed as it began to trot back and forth in a prancing, out-of-control manner, and then to actually buck.

  Eliza noticed the mixed expression on Prince Jayant’s face – annoyance, though puzzlement had the upper hand. There were murmurings among the British and the Indians too and then loud shouting as Jayant’s saddle began to slide to one side and, within seconds, he was lying on his back on the ground, the horse running wild. The rest of the players stood completely still and everyone watched in horror as two grooms ran after the panicking horse. Eliza held her breath and clutched Clifford’s arm as it bolted into the crowd of Indian supporters, many of whom shouted and flapped their arms in shock, while others ran to escape. Suddenly there was a high-pitched scream and a woman fell backwards against the railings. As the horse kicked out again and again, Eliza could feel the fear; people were still running to get out of its path, but the woman, now lying on the ground silently, was not moving at all.

  Eliza saw the
doctor, whom Clifford had pointed out earlier, run to lean over the woman. Then he squatted by her side.

  While the grooms eventually caught and then quietened the panicking horse, two men arrived with a canvas stretcher and the woman was carried off, followed by the doctor. Meanwhile the Prince was scrambling to his feet and dusting himself down, apparently unhurt, but looking absolutely livid, and then he left the field with the horse in tow. The two men with curved swords at their waists went after him and Eliza realized they must be his bodyguards.

  The photographer in her was trained to see the details of a scene and she spotted an Indian man, probably a stable boy she thought, though he seemed to almost be sneaking from the stables and around the back of the Indian crowd and then over towards another man. The second man was tall, with a regal bearing. He clapped the stable man on the back and grinned broadly. It struck her as odd, considering their Prince had just been hurt. Despite the tense atmosphere, Eliza noticed two of the British supporters sniggering as they exchanged glances and winked at each other.

  ‘What idiots! There’s nothing amusing about this,’ she said. ‘For all we know that woman might be dead.’

  ‘I’ll hear soon enough from Julian Hopkins,’ Clifford said.

  Meanwhile the British were talking among themselves, untroubled, not seeming quite as shocked as they ought to have been, and without a hint of making a move to leave. But the Indian supporters were shaking their heads and muttering, several just turning their backs and walking away from the grounds.

  ‘So the game will have to stop now,’ Eliza said, sure that it must.

  ‘No,’ Clifford said. ‘Look. A substitute for the Prince is already coming on. It’s allowed in cases of injury.’

  ‘Really? Isn’t that rather callous?’

  ‘The show must go on, Eliza.’

  As she glanced around Eliza could feel the anxiety that had gripped the crowd begin to lessen, and she hoped the woman had survived.

  ‘But this is a rum thing,’ Clifford continued. ‘Very rum. I’ve never seen anything like it. Though with the Prince gone I expect we shall now win the day. So that’s something. I doubt he’ll ride a different pony after all this.’

  3

  The following day Eliza and Jayant Singh left the marble halls and walked out into carved pink sandstone courtyards, gleaming and glittering in the pale early morning light; then on through interconnecting pavilions to a place where cooler breezes blew through scented gardens. Although Eliza was still thinking about the polo match, something about the grandeur made her stand up straighter, elongate her neck and walk with pride, and as she threw her scarf over her head it billowed out. With just that simple feminine action she felt as if she had momentarily stepped into the embroidered shoes of an Indian queen.

  ‘This place almost looks as if it’s made from sandalwood and not sandstone,’ she said, as they reached a formal garden bordered by a wall where the culprits of last night’s racket were strutting. Peacocks! When one took off from the wall and flopped its way to the ground, she laughed. Who knew beauty could be so ungainly?

  ‘Planted in the eighteenth century,’ the Prince said, indicating the rose bushes, cypresses, palms and orange trees.

  They left the castle by way of a ramp that passed through seven arched gateways. On their way through one of the gates Eliza spotted five rows of hands sculpted on one of the side walls.

  ‘Made from the sati handprints,’ the Prince said, seeming utterly unconcerned. ‘On their way to the funeral pyre the women dipped their hands in red powder and pressed their hands against the walls to express their devotion. Then later the prints were sculpted.’

  Eliza gasped. ‘That’s horrible.’

  ‘We call the woman who dies a sati and you British call the actual act suttee. It has been illegal in British India since 1829 and here in the princely states after that, with a ban for the whole of India issued by Queen Victoria in 1861. But still …’

  She already knew about the ritual immolation of the widows of Rajput Princes, and the ordinary women too, but felt sick at the thought of it. Could they have truly believed widow-burning was an honourable way to die? It was almost impossible to comprehend how the women must have felt.

  She gazed at the sandy lanes of the medieval city, packed tightly with craftsmen of every kind, and thought of her first sight of the immense walls with all these bastions and towers. She glanced back at the fort. Rising impregnable from a rocky hill, it was clearly built from stone chiselled out of the rock on which it stood. Who knew how many women from within those walls must have died on the fire?

  They climbed into the car and after a while, as they left the city behind, Eliza gazed at the desert, where winds lifted the burning sands and thickened the air. For mile after mile of flat plains, the road ribboned through a sun-bleached landscape, with sparse acacias and thorn bushes only intermittently punctuated by patches of lush green. It was a lonely, empty place, and Jayant Singh was silent, clearly concentrating on driving along barely distinguishable roads. Eliza excused his silence; however, a man who took up so much mental and physical space was not somebody you could wholly ignore. She sensed a kind of wildness in him. It bothered her, and she felt tense and awkward, but tried to make conversation; only his taciturn responses meant she eventually gave up and sank back into reverie, allowing the assault on her senses to engulf her. Then, just as she was slipping into a daydream of palaces, gardens and swinging monkeys, and at the precise moment the face of her father was about to appear, Jayant began to talk.

  ‘My saddle had been tampered with,’ he said, and, at the sound of his warm smoky voice, she came to with a jolt. ‘I saw you at the polo yesterday. I’m sure you must be wondering.’

  ‘I was sorry to see what happened. How do you know? About the tampering, I mean?’

  ‘The billet strap had been split. I checked it the day before but arrived too late to check again yesterday. The billet is the most vulnerable part of the girthing mechanism. I should have checked again.’

  ‘And that caused the horse to buck?’

  ‘No, that was down to the prickly acacia hooks some idiot placed under the saddle.’

  ‘Oh God! You mean actual sabotage.’ She thought of the two Indian men who had looked so shifty. ‘You might have been killed.’

  He smiled. ‘Broken something more like, but as you can see I’m fine. However, my horse might have been killed. I can’t forgive that, and as for that poor woman …’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘She has concussion, I believe. Thankfully it wasn’t worse.’

  ‘That makes me so angry. It’s horrible to think it was done wilfully.’

  His voice deepened. ‘Childish is what it is. My horse is a beauty, with stamina, agility and speed. That’s what I care about, and God knows what more might have happened in the crowd. It gives polo a bad name.’

  ‘What can you do about it?’

  ‘I’ve complained to Clifford Salter and the polo authorities but we can’t prove who did it. I have my suspicions, but they were just a motley visiting team and have departed now.’

  Eliza kept her thoughts about seeing the two Indian men laughing to herself. Although the Prince had looked furious at the time, he seemed relatively philosophical about it now.

  ‘So what is your interest in us, Miss Fraser?’

  ‘You know what it is. I have a job to do.’

  ‘Strange that Mr Salter chose an unknown woman.’

  Eliza bristled. ‘I’m not entirely unknown.’

  A few moments of silence as she inwardly fumed.

  ‘This is a journey of several days,’ he continued, carelessly interrupting her thoughts.

  ‘Well, I wish you’d told me. I’ve only brought one change of clothes.’

  ‘As have I.’

  ‘Do you not wash?’

  He laughed out loud. ‘If I had a pound for every time I’ve been asked that by a European. Tonight we will camp and tomorrow too. So no.’
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br />   ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ She was sure he’d understood her perfectly but let it go. ‘So? Camp where?’

  ‘In the desert. But don’t worry, you won’t be alone, a servant girl will be with you. She and others are following.’

  ‘And the tents?’

  ‘Already organized. Some men have gone on ahead to set up. Every year, the Chandrabhaga fair of Jhalawar takes place in the Hindu month of Kartik. It is a state largely unexplored by the British, which is why my mother thought you might like to see it.’

  ‘What about fuel for the car?’

  He took one hand from the wheel and waved at the great outdoors. ‘Here and there. Stopping points. It is arranged.’

  ‘You normally come so far for your camels?’

  ‘Very perceptive. And no, we go to Pushkar or Nagaur.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Business to attend to. During the fair pilgrims gather on the banks of the sacred river Chandrabhaga. You will also see forts, palaces, wildlife, and a peaceful lake where we have a summer palace left to us by a cousin. It’s where we will eventually stay. You might also want to visit the ancient city of bells.’

  ‘I’m not a tourist, it’s people I want to photograph,’ she said, feeling irritated. ‘And anyway, that’s what the Viceroy has asked for. Not amateur snaps. We are setting up archives in New Delhi. Clifford says it’s about comparing life in the princely states with life in British India.’

  ‘To our detriment, no doubt.’

  She bristled. ‘Not at all. Anyway, I’m hoping to be able to mount a small exhibition of my own if I can find sponsorship.’

  ‘Well, be careful. Chatur will no doubt think you’re a spy.’ He laughed. ‘Are you?’

  Eliza felt her skin prickle with irritation. ‘Of course not. Anyway, who is Chatur?’

  ‘The dewan. He runs things.’

  She remained silent.

  ‘Traders from distant parts of Rajputana, Madhya Pradesh and Maharashtra meet at this fair. You will get your shots of people.’