The Kashmir Shawl

by Rosie Thomas

  ‘Where shall I sit?’ she asked, over her shoulder.

  ‘Come.’

  He put his arm round her waist and guided her to the divan. It was big enough to allow two clear feet of space between them as they sat back among the cushions. Caroline drew her feet up beneath her and studied Ravi’s face. The extra flesh made him look older, but he was still extraordinarily handsome. She suppressed an inconvenient wish that he would kiss her, and more.

  ‘What would you like? Some tea? A cocktail? Iced lemonade?’

  ‘Perhaps some lemonade, thank you.’

  He clapped his hands and the servant reappeared. They were always there, invisible but within earshot, she remembered that. Seconds later a tray was brought with frosted glasses, a jug in a holder of silver filigree, a dish of sliced lemons and limes, starched white napkins and a basin of water with floating rose petals. Ravi dipped his fingers and dried them, Caroline followed suit. The lemonade was poured.

  ‘Leave us now,’ he said, and the servant bowed himself out. Ravi unhooked a silk hanging and let it fall over the doorway. They were alone, as far as they ever would be.

  ‘Do you know, it is more than a year since we have seen each other?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘In the Shalimar Garden. You were with Mrs McMinn and the missionary’s wife. And the orphan children, of course.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Your memory is good.’

  The lemonade was icily refreshing. Ravi’s dark eyes didn’t flicker. He knows, Caroline thought. Of course he knows. She smiled at him.

  ‘The missionaries do very good work,’ she said.

  Ravi circled her wrist with his thumb and forefinger, drew her hand closer. He studied the fine network of blue veins under the skin before touching the hot pulse that beat there. ‘You are nervous.’

  ‘No.’

  He smiled, mocking her with raised eyebrows. ‘What have you been doing for a whole year, little Caroline?’

  ‘I don’t know that an account of my time would interest you. I live a quiet life. There is a war on, and my husband has been a prisoner of the Japanese all this time. But I have recently heard that he has been found alive in Burma, and will be returning to Srinagar as soon as he is fit enough.’

  ‘I’m happy to hear that. Are you happy, Caroline?’

  ‘Thank you for asking. Yes, I am.’

  He’s playing with me, she thought. Like a cat with a mouse.

  Ravi nodded. He said, ‘I have some news too. I am to be married next month.’

  She paused. ‘How wonderful. Congratulations. Do I know her?’ Her mind was working at the possible significance. It would be safer for her, surely, if Ravi was a married man with a reputation to protect and his own intimate concerns to distract him.

  ‘I don’t think so. She is from Jammu. It is a very satisfactory match for both families, but the details have taken some time to finalise.’

  He gestured at the documents on his desk. Caroline understood that this would not just be a marriage between two individuals. How absurd that she had ever even dreamt of any different outcome.

  ‘Perhaps you can help me. I have a serious decision to make,’ he said. He crossed to the desk and picked up the pouches, then dropped them on the divan in front of Caroline. They were fastened with threads of woven silk. She untied one and tipped the contents into her lap, swallowing a gasp. They were rubies, cut and uncut, magnificent and blood-dark.

  ‘A bridal gift, a necklace. What do you think? Or these sapphires, perhaps?’

  Another cascade of stones, lake-blue to deepest ultramarine, spilt into her cupped hand. Ravi picked out one the size of a thumbnail, angled it towards a shaft of sunlight, then tossed it back into the heap. Some of the stones slipped between Caroline’s fingers and he scooped them up as casually as if they were pebbles.

  ‘Azmeena has pale skin. I think the sapphires will flatter her. Would you agree?’

  ‘I don’t know your fiancée, Ravi. I can’t possibly advise you as to what jewellery you should choose for her.’

  He smiled again, took the stones back to his desk and dropped them in a little heap on the blotter. He tossed the empty pouches after them and sat down again, much closer now. ‘Her skin isn’t as pale as yours. Yours is the whitest I have ever seen. Here.’ He leant closer still and touched her breast. ‘And here.’ His fingers brushed the folds of her skirt where they draped over her inner thigh.

  Caroline felt the blood swirl inside her head, leaving her lips as dry as sandpaper. She opened her mouth with difficulty. ‘Please. Don’t do that.’

  He raised an eyebrow, as if to ask, Why have you come here, if not for this? He put his head on one side, frankly examining her. ‘Circumstances are changing for us both,’ he said.

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘We have known each other well, darling Caroline …’ Now he lifted a strand of her hair and twisted it round his finger, stopping only just short of pulling it. He was close enough for her to feel his breath on her cheek.

  ‘… and we must be particularly careful of our shared history. In order to protect each other as well as ourselves, don’t you agree?’

  The words themselves were neutral but there was something so delicately insinuating in his tone, so implicitly threatening, that she shifted herself away from him.

  ‘I will never breathe a syllable about the way you seduced me, Ravi, if that’s what you fear. I’m not a tart, or a troublemaker, or even a chatterbox. You took advantage of me when I was much more innocent than I am now, but you can trust me to be discreet about it.’

  Caroline’s mouth was so dry that the inner folds stuck to her teeth. She worked her lips and tongue to make the saliva flow and he stared at her, his features crimping with faint distaste. ‘Seduction? Is that how you remember it? My recollection is that you needed very little persuasion.’

  Her head dully pounded as some of the scenes flashed past her, vivid as on a cinema screen. Rose petals, riding out on horseback in the flushed dawn, grass and perfume, Ravi’s lips and hands. She didn’t answer.

  ‘I suppose,’ Ravi said, ‘we should also note that at the time you were married to a serving British officer, and I was a mere bachelor, promised to no one at all.’

  She lifted her chin. ‘I have already said that you have nothing to fear about my discretion, and you are right that I have more to lose than you do. That’s how it usually is, isn’t it, between men and women in these matters?’

  ‘Men of one sort and women of another, yes.’

  She wouldn’t rise to that. She concentrated on swallowing, her throat working hard. He looked down his fine nose at her, as if he thought she might be slightly mad. In the silence she could just hear the pleasant trickling of water in the courtyard outside.

  ‘Is there anything else you would like to mention, dearest girl, while we are having this affectionate talk?’

  She didn’t hesitate even for a second. ‘No. Nothing whatsoever.’

  He waited, and she let him wait. The seconds ticked by. In the end he sighed and gently stroked her forearm.

  ‘So we have made a pact, Caroline, haven’t we? Trust in exchange for trust.’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘I do like,’ he breathed. ‘But if I find that my trust has been betrayed …’

  ‘It will not be. Tell me, Ravi, are you making a similar pact with every one of your mistresses? It must be very time-consuming for you, if you are.’

  He threw his head back and laughed, apparently delighted with this. ‘No, my dear, I’m not going to so much trouble. But you and I, we have something very particular between us, don’t we?’

  He knows, she thought again. He knows everything. ‘I am flattered that you think so.’

  He studied her again, still openly amused. ‘Very well. We’ll leave it there. And now that we have made our pact, don’t you think we should seal it?’

  His hand suddenly tightened on her arm. He pressed her back against the cushions and
shifted his weight so he rolled on top of her. He was heavy nowadays, and very strong. His smiling mouth came down on hers, and as Caroline wrenched her head to one side, her lip smashed against his teeth. Only an hour ago she had dreamt a girlish version of this. Was she mad, perhaps, or just stupid? She writhed beneath him, broke from under his shoulder and bit as hard as she could into the starched cotton of his kurta sleeve.

  ‘Little bitch,’ Ravi snarled, but her resistance only excited him. He tried to cover her mouth with his hand but she managed to fight free. She remembered the flocks of silent servants, out of sight but never out of earshot. ‘Help. Help me,’ she screamed.

  Ravi dropped her arm. He muttered under his breath and stood up, straightening his clothes. He walked to the nearest window slit and stood with his back to her, regaining control of himself. Caroline jumped off the divan and backed away as far as she could, coming hard up against the desk. He was between her and the door – otherwise she would have run for it. As the carved desk edge dug into her buttocks, the jewels flashed into her mind. Quicker than she could even think of it, one hand shot out, snatched a gem from the little heap and whisked back again. Praying that it wasn’t the biggest of the lot, she slid it into the seam pocket of her skirt. The tailor and dressmaker, introduced to her by Myrtle, had insisted on placing it there. ‘Memsahib always need pocket. Handkerchief, letter, some little thing.’

  When Ravi slowly turned back from the window, she was a yard away from the desk and staring at the door.

  ‘You are like a lioness,’ he said, almost tenderly. ‘And your lip is bleeding. Let me …’

  His handkerchief was starched and scented. He dipped one corner in the bowl of water, cupped her chin and gently dabbed her lip. Caroline closed her eyes, submitting to his care. She was breathless, her heart jumping.

  ‘There. That’s much better,’ he said.

  ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘Of course you shall go home. Are you ready?’

  He opened the door. Across the courtyard, Caroline just glimpsed the movement as one of the servants stepped out of sight. She would never know if anyone would have responded to another scream.

  Extravagantly, she had ordered her tonga man to wait for her. She hadn’t wanted to run the risk of finding herself stranded out here, on the rural far side of the lake, and she was thoroughly glad of the decision.

  ‘But I would have sent you home in the car,’ Ravi protested.

  ‘There is no need.’

  He folded down the rickety step himself, before the grovelling driver could reach it, and handed Caroline up into the seat.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said.

  Ravi told the driver to take her home, and handed him a note that made the man’s eyes revolve. ‘I hope not altogether goodbye.’ He smiled. ‘Please give my regards, won’t you, to your friends Mrs McMinn and the missionary’s little wife?’

  The tonga man whipped up his horse and Caroline sank back under the hood. Her hand was buried in her pocket. She sat shaking until Ravi’s house was a mile behind them, then leant forward and ordered the driver to take her to a different address.

  The dealer was in the old town, a street or two from the dressmaker’s shop, which was why she had noticed it in the first place. She stepped down at the junction of two roads and waited there until the tonga had jingled away, then hurried past a row of old brick houses. The stone slid between her sweaty fingers and the realisation of what she was doing made her head pound with fear. When she reached the doorway she was panting and her heartbeat drummed in her ears. The window was dusty and a ginger dog lay stretched over the hollow wooden step. The small sign read Dealer in Gemstones.

  The trader sat inside, reading a newspaper. He folded it away and slowly stood up. On his counter was a polished brass till, a glass case containing some shoddily ornate necklaces and rings, and a jeweller’s loupe.

  ‘Good afternoon, Memsahib.’

  To Caroline’s heightened awareness he seemed both suspicious and ingratiating. She placed her clenched fist on the counter and opened her palm. She saw that the stone was a cut ruby, a decent size but not so big as to be startling. She was in luck. So far. ‘I wish to sell this.’

  The man inclined his head, then took the jewel. He pinched it in a pair of metal tweezers and unfolded the magnifying glass in order to study it. What if, Caroline thought, this man was Ravi’s own dealer and he recognised the stone?

  No, this place was far too shabby. That was why she had thought of it.

  The man breathed harder and turned the ruby to inspect it from another angle. Caroline’s legs were trembling so much she was afraid they might give way beneath her. She gripped the edge of the counter for support and told herself that all this was for Zahra. The stifling feelings of longing and fear and inadequacy that she always felt in connection with her daughter – her daughter – instantly swept over her.

  The man put down his loupe. ‘Not a fine stone.’

  ‘How much?’

  He turned down his mouth, dismissive. ‘Two hundred rupees.’

  Too quick, much too little. Caroline’s sharpened senses told her that it was worth far more. She held out her hand for the ruby.

  ‘Three hundred,’ he snapped.

  She stared. ‘Three thousand.’

  ‘Five hundred. Last word.’

  After that it was only a matter of bargaining. Finally the man gave a surly nod. He went into the back of the shop and Caroline guessed that he was opening a safe. A moment later he was laying out a pair of thousand-rupee notes, pink and crisp instead of the ragged and filthy low-denomination notes in general circulation. Two little oval profiles of the king. Caroline tucked them away in her skirt pocket as the dealer dropped the ruby into a tiny bag.

  Outside the shop she took a deep gulp of air. The sky had turned the colour of lead and a sinister breeze blew up the alley, presaging a storm. Ten yards off a thin-legged beggar sat on a step, his head hanging. Caroline edged by him and followed the familiar route past the tailor’s shop.

  When she reached home she locked the bungalow doors. She hid the rupees in the camphor-scented drawer where she stored the folded items of her trousseau, including the nightgown she had worn on her wedding night. Just a glimpse of it was enough to make her slam the drawer shut. She crawled under the bedclothes and lay there, shuddering and listening to the roll of thunder. The thought of what she had just pulled off drew a gasp of wild laughter, but as soon as the laughter petered out she began to cry.

  Nerys was surprised and pleased when Caroline asked if she might come with her to visit the girls in Kanihama. They took the bus as far up the valley as it went, and from there one of Nerys’s friends from an outlying farm gave them a lift in his old van. The back was piled with sacks of rice, a chicken coop lashed on top. The two women squeezed into the passenger seat, gripping its sticky sides to keep their balance as the truck swayed through the slides of mud and rock created by the recent rain. Nerys chatted to the driver, laughing and resorting to sign language whenever her vocabulary failed her. Caroline sat and seemed to listen, but her body was tense.

  The square at Kanihama was decorated with fallen leaves, and clouds hid the brown folds of the mountains. The house where Nerys had lived and where Zahra had been born was occupied now by some of the dye-workers. Nearby a billy-goat tethered to a pole browsed a bare circle of earth.

  ‘Ness!’

  Farida and Zahra came running at her, followed by Faisal and the others. Caroline stood a little to one side, fixedly smiling as the children pulled at Nerys’s hands and searched her pockets for treats. Nerys hugged Farida, then swung Zahra off her feet. She kissed the child’s sweet-scented neck and tried to pass her straight to Caroline, but Zahra recoiled and hid her face against Nerys’s shoulder.

  ‘It’s all right. I don’t want to hold her,’ Caroline insisted.

  Most of the women were out in the fields, but a small deputation of men led by Farida’s grandfather, Zafir, came out of the prayer
room to receive the visitors. They were led into one of the houses and seated on the best rug while tea was prepared. Nerys and Zafir exchanged polite remarks about the approach of winter.

  ‘Do they remember me?’ Caroline whispered to Nerys, as the tea was poured.

  ‘Yes. But your relationship to Zahra is not discussed, even if they bring to mind the connection between you. That’s because they’re not very interested. These are simple people, and their immediate family structures are far looser than ours. The weather and the crops, tending the animals, enough money to feed themselves, that’s what concerns them.’

  At the word money Zafir pointed his black beard towards them.

  ‘The shawl,’ Caroline said distinctly. ‘The beautiful shawl, do you remember? I saw it being woven. It must be finished by now.’

  The word shawl provoked an instant response. Zafir gave an order and a man left the room. Nerys sipped her tea in the ensuing silence.

  Three minutes later the man came back, accompanied by the pale-faced weaver and two other young men. They brought a folded linen cloth, carried on the weaver’s outstretched forearms as if it were a religious relic. When he stooped at the women’s feet and began to unfold the cloth, Nerys shot a warning glance at Caroline.

  The last fold of linen was turned back.

  Even in the dimness of the room, the shawl shimmered like light on water. The weaver shook it out so the colours danced in the air. The other two young men caught the corners and brought the piece closer to show off the design. These were the embroiderers who had sat for a whole year, one end apiece, to work over the woven blossoms with their intricate stitches. The shawl wasn’t just their work, though. It also belonged to the spinners and dyers, and the talim man who had drawn up the intricate pattern for the weaver to follow. It was the prize possession of the entire village, their collective investment in the kani tradition that was steadily fading away. Nerys saw the weaver’s pitifully thin shoulders and his eager eyes, and she had to blink away the tears from her own.