Ryman, Rebecca

by Olivia

  The apartment assigned to Olivia was on ground level, opening onto an enclosed patio filled with fragrant plants, and quite charming. Like the rest of the palace complex this too had white marble walls, carved ceilings and arched windows inset with filigreed marble screens. The red velvet drapes had gold tassels; burnished brass vases held sprays of blossoms—some recognisable, others strange. There were touches of thoughtfulness everywhere: a mosquito-net on the canopied four-poster made less ugly with silken embroidery, a pair of damask slippers by the bed, a selection of feminine house robes in a closet, thick Turkish towels and a range of English toiletries in the bath-room. In a crystal glass bowl by the bed was a heap of French bonbons.

  Olivia could not help being enchanted. Her clothes had already been unpacked and arranged neatly in a glass-fronted almirah. In a sunken bath enclosure of veined marble awaited warm water scented with sandalwood and rose petals. Sir Joshua had explained to her that the hospitality that Indian princes extended to their guests was generous. Her own welcome had been more than cordial and she was undoubtedly awed by it. But at the same time she could not help being puzzled: Was all this cordiality laid on for her personally, or because she was Sir Joshua's representative?

  Half an hour later, bathed and refreshed and changed from a linen travelling suit into a cool chartreuse muslin with white lace cuffs and collar, Olivia was escorted back to the Maharani's sitting-room. Appointed in Western style with French furniture, Belgian glass chandeliers and a rich plum-coloured Aubusson carpet, there was again a touch of formality in the air. Further refreshment came with lemonade in tall, frosted glasses that tinkled with the ice within.

  "Since this is your first journey outside Calcutta, I must apologise for the deplorable state of the roads, Miss O'Rourke," the Maharani said. "The rains have again created havoc, as they do each year."

  "Oh, we have far worse roads where I come from," Olivia assured her brightly. "Indeed, I felt quite at home on yours."

  She went on to inquire about some sights she had seen en route, and as the Maharani answered her questions, Olivia studied her with interest. The features on the smooth, café au lait face were clear-cut, almost Mogul in their classic sharpness of line. What gave the Maharani's face its striking quality, however, was not mere superficial appeal, Olivia felt; it was the animation in her eyes. From time to time they seemed to flicker with something deeper than intelligence—watchfulness? With a shade of unease Olivia recognized that if her observations of the Maharani were keen, the Maharani's assessment of her was no less. She appeared to be studying her with a concentration that was almost intense. Why?

  Then luncheon was announced.

  "Not knowing your tastes in food, Miss O'Rourke, I have ordered a wholly Indian meal." They had risen and walked into an adjoining room. "Will that suit you or would you prefer something more familiar to your palate? I assure you I will not be offended if you do."

  "An Indian meal would suit me fine!" Olivia exclaimed. "I have so far eaten only curries prepared in English homes." She thought involuntarily of that unexpected breakfast with Jai Raventhorne and half smiled.

  "In that case," the Maharani nodded, "I am pleased. Shall we commence to eat?" At the nod a dozen maidservants hurried off and presently reappeared carrying large circular trays bearing food in an astonishing variety.

  They ate in traditional style sitting cross-legged on plump cushions placed before low stools on a sparkling granite floor. On the silver plates in which the food was served was a series of individual bowls to segregate one course from the other so as not to mingle flavours, as Olivia had seen in Raventhorne's house. This time, however, with no hovering tensions, she could pay attention to the Maharani's careful descriptions of each dish and marvel with awareness at the ingenuity of Indian cuisine. Inevitably, there were comparisons as the Maharani questioned her about the kind of fare Americans put on their tables at home.

  "I presume Americans have to hunt frequently for their meats," the Maharani remarked when luncheon was over and they sat again in the balcony sipping rich, sweet Turkish coffee, "so you are well used to handling fire-arms?"

  "Well, we have to be in my country," Olivia replied, surprised once more at her hostess's observations about a region not many knew much about. "We use weapons not only for hunting. Few Americans would risk venturing forth unarmed on long journeys, and in new settlements such as mining towns, there is still a great deal of lawlessness. Many homesteads are isolated— ours happens to be, too—and cattle-rustlers are a perpetual menace."

  "Rustlers?"

  "Cattle thieves. If you don't keep watch you're likely to lose your herd overnight. My father insisted I learn how to use a gun when I was knee high to a tadpole. Very young," she added quickly at the Maharani's look of incomprehension.

  "Yes, I see. My father too gave me lessons in marksmanship when I was very young. We also have our share of lawlessness."

  "He did?" Olivia scanned the delicate, small-boned hands in amazement, unable to imagine them grappling with anything as unwieldy as a rifle, or indeed ever being required to. "But aren't hunting and shooting considered strictly male preserves in India?"

  "Not in families that rule." There was more than a hint of unconscious pride in the Maharani's regal response. "History records many cases of maharanis and princesses abandoning their veils to ride into battle against invaders who have killed their menfolk." She spoke casually, almost offhandedly, indicating an inner strength Olivia would not have expected in one so utterly feminine. "But now tell me about your home, Miss O'Rourke. I understand that you farm quite successfully."

  "Well, most everyone does own some land to work. On ours we raise horses. We also have about a hundred head of cattle under our own brand, Durhams mostly, although we have recently acquired longhorns too so as to breed a sturdier mixed stock."

  "But with so much work to do," the Maharani exclaimed, "surely you employ staff?"

  Olivia smiled. "Oh yes. We have a pretty good foreman and several cowhands. But because my father has to travel a lot the responsibility of seeing to things is mine."

  "My husband told me that your father is a writer. What does he usually write about?"

  "Whatever touches him deeply," Olivia shrugged. "Inequities in our society such as slavery, violation of citizens' rights, unhealthy conditions in sweat-shops—anything he considers worth exposing. At the moment, for instance, he is in the Pacific because of the wholesale slaughter of whales." In a gesture of pride, she straightened her back. "My father believes in justice for all. He's an absolute squareshooter."

  "Squareshooter? You mean with a gun?"

  "No, I mean he believes in fair play." Olivia frowned and then laughed. "Yes, I can see why my speech sometimes confuses people."

  "No, no, it is my understanding that is limited," the Maharani said modestly. "But tell me, do you yourself not feel inspired to write in the manner of your father? With so much inspiration, surely books interest you more than the labour of farming."

  Olivia made a rueful face. "Well they do, and I do read a great deal, but I'm honest enough to see that I lack my father's natural flair. When I return home I want to start a small school in Sacramento. We have a couple but we could certainly do with another. But until then, I indulge my passion for books by helping Sally—Mrs. MacKendrick—our closest friend and neighbour, with her lending-library in town."

  At that, more questions followed, all of which Olivia tried to answer as carefully as she could. The Maharani's curiosity about her life, it seemed to Olivia, was endless. Of course she was gratified since to talk of home to someone so deeply interested was a pleasure, but at the same time she could not rid herself of a strange feeling; it was almost as if, for some inexplicable reason, the Maharani was, well, interviewing her—which was, of course, absurd. With the passing of the hours, that initial watchfulness in the Maharani's dark eyes had subsided, but even though the formality and the shyness had lessened, there was still about her inquiries a calculatedness
that was puzzling. Somehow, with one topic merging into another, they found themselves discussing politics, in which the Maharani appeared as interested as her husband.

  "Is it only in America that you are curious about the running of government," she asked, "or does our Indian situation also intrigue you?"

  For a moment Olivia pondered. "Well, it certainly does intrigue me, but I have to confess I know little apart from what I overhear others discussing. Your system here is so different from ours at home. Not better or worse," she added quickly, "just different. "But one thing certainly perplexes me: Why are the English here in India so ... so vastly removed from those I have met in America? They come from the same stock, yet their thinking and attitudes vary so greatly from those at home."

  The Maharani considered her question with great seriousness. "Well, I presume that in your country the English are like everyone else," she finally replied, "social equals forced to struggle for survival. Here, they are virtual rulers. Once their political power wanes in India, as it has done in your country, I suppose they too will merge with the rest."

  "Do you really believe their power will ever wane in India?" Olivia asked dubiously. "On the contrary, they seem to be becoming more strongly entrenched with each passing year."

  "That is a phase. It will pass."

  There was such conviction in the Maharani's expression that Olivia was surprised. "Are there many Indians who subscribe to that theory?"

  "Perhaps not at the moment but some day there will be. Or so," she suddenly smiled, "we are constantly assured by a good friend to whom the theory is almost sacrosanct."

  The Maharani had refrained from naming the "good friend," but then there had been no need to. The fleeting, oblique glance she cast in Olivia's direction was indication enough as to his identity. A small shiver climbed up Olivia's spine and it was all she could do not to react visibly. Ever since she had arrived in Kirtinagar, she had been wondering just how much of her conversation with the Maharaja at Estelle's birthday ball he had shared with his wife. Now she saw that there was not much about it that the Maharani did not know, including, no doubt, her own excessive interest in Jai Raventhorne. In the sudden realisation that the Maharani was aware of far more than their hitherto casual conversation had revealed, Olivia knew that she had blushed. Desperate for a change of subject, she let fall the first remark that occurred to her, a compliment to the Maharani on the gracefulness and colour of her apparel. Perhaps for the same reason, the Maharani allowed the conversational diversion with alacrity. An offer was made—and instantly accepted—to show Olivia her wardrobe of traditional clothes.

  What the Maharani and the ladies of her household all wore were very full ankle-length skirts edged with gold, long-sleeved blouses and billowing gauze veils that covered their heads. The ensembles subsequently displayed to Olivia in the royal dressing-room were even more breathtaking. Everything was embellished with gold and silver thread embroidery, sequins and semiprecious stones in colours that left Olivia gasping: peacock blue, scarlet, flaming ochre, saffron, brilliant pinks, parrot green, imperial purple, oranges and reds. During the display Olivia learned more about the royal couple's children, a boy and a girl, both away at present with their maternal grandparents in the north. It was also revealed that, like her husband, the Maharani held court but only for the women.

  This surprised Olivia anew. She could not imagine this fragile woman brought up in such luxury sitting and dispensing justice any more than she could see her holding an invading army at bay. "And what is it that the women come to complain to you about?"

  The charcoal eyes twinkled. "What women everywhere complain about—their husbands mostly. One doesn't give his wife adequate household money, another drinks and beats her and the children, a third is indolent and neglects his crops. Criminal complaints, of course, go to my husband. I only try to encourage the women to strengthen their inner resources and stand firm by their legitimate rights."

  Olivia could not deny that the Maharani amazed her. To be so self-contained and so decisive in such a heavily male dominated society could be no mean triumph. Obviously, she received much support from her husband, himself a man of enlightenment. Wryly, Olivia thought of her uncle's airy dismissal of Arvind Singh as a man who could be beguiled through pleasure; the Maharaja had barely glanced at those costly "baubles from Europe" that she had brought with her as gifts from Sir Joshua ("bribes," according to Jai Raventhorne!). If Sir Joshua truly believed that he could grease the Maharaja's palm in order to get at that coal, then it was a tactic that so far showed little indication of succeeding.

  It was much later that afternoon, after the frivolous matter of the Maharani's wardrobe and the serious discussion on the low social status of women in India had been set aside, that Olivia first started to sense a subtle change in the Maharani's attitude. It was difficult for her to pin-point the change, but it was as if some invisible barrier between them had gradually been lowered. Afternoon tea, very English and picnic style, was being served by the lake under a tree resplendent in small yellow blossoms. They sat on a cotton drugget with arms resting on fat bolsters, nibbling at buttered scones, cup cakes and wafer-thin chicken sandwiches. With no warning as she poured out cups of pale gold tea from an egg-shell-fine teapot, the Maharani suddenly remarked, "We belong to very different cultures, but even so we appear to agree on so much. I feel we are destined to be friends. May I therefore call you Olivia?"

  Olivia was surprised but pleased. She had the odd feeling that somehow she had passed a test, but what that test could possibly be she could not fathom. "Oh, I wish you would," she cried with great sincerity. "I am not at all used to being called anything else and seldom am at home, where we tend to be informal."

  "In that case, you must call me by my name, which is Kinjal." She went on to explain that Kinjal was another word for lotus. As such it could not have been more fitting. "After tea you must allow me to show off to you my medicinal plants garden, of which I am immodestly proud, so that I can exhibit my prowess as a gardener."

  While they strolled down smooth hedge-lined paths and the Maharani talked about the arcane, ancient system of indigenous herbal medicine called Ayurveda, around them peacocks strutted with sublime arrogance but with such beauty that one could forgive them anything. There was, Olivia felt, a wonderful serenity about the place, a harmony, that she could only describe as spontaneous. Everything around them—the people, the plants, the very air and the manifestations of nature—sprang from the same culture. Everything fitted, and everything seemed relevant. How different was Kirtinagar from Calcutta, with its alien super-impositions!

  Under a spreading banyan tree dripping sinuous tendrils, two women crouched on their haunches beside a modest little whitewashed temple. With dexterous fingers they wove garlands of orange marigolds, which they then coiled like snakes inside the rim of a large brass tray. "They are preparing offerings for my evening rituals," Kinjal explained, noticing her interest. "I am a devotee of Ma Durga, whose festival we will shortly be celebrating. Ma Durga is the consort of Lord Shiva."

  Shiva!

  Slowly Olivia's glance crept upward to the pinnacle of the temple. Glinting gold and fiery in the sunset was a trident. Its two outside prongs were curved slightly inward. The third, straight as an arrow, was aimed at the centre of the sky. Mesmerised, Olivia could not drag her eyes away from it. "That. . . trident. Does it mean anything?"

  "It is the trishul, the weapon of Shiva. It is found wherever Shiva and his consort are worshipped."

  They sat down again and Kinjal poured out fresh cups of tea. "Does that weapon hold any special significance?" Olivia asked, eyes still transfixed.

  "Everything in our rituals holds special significance. In our belief, three forces compose the cycle of life. The godly triumvirate consists of Lord Brahma the Creator, Lord Vishnu the Preserver and . . ." She paused.

  "And Lord Shiva?"

  "Yes. The Lord Shiva is the Destroyer. The trident is known as his weapon of destruc
tion." Her hands stilled and her gaze locked with Olivia's. "Yes," she said quietly. "That is why Jai Raventhorne has chosen it for his emblem."

  The sense of shock that exploded in Olivia's mind was so violent that she almost dropped the cup she held. Suddenly, in a flash, she knew that it was toward this, Jai Raventhorne, that their conversation had been building up all day. And now that the name had been said, it hung suspended between them like a fine mist, unseen but chilly. This time she actually shivered. Raising her cup to her lips, she drank deeply. "Whom or what does Jai Raventhorne wish to destroy?" Her tone remained steady.

  "Everyone. Everything." Kinjal sounded sad. "Perhaps, in the end, even himself."

  "Why?" A thin trail of ants skirted a corner of the drugget. Olivia kept her eyes fixed on it.

  "Jai has within him an anger that will not be contained. It forces him to be forever apart from the world. He cannot, perhaps never will, be otherwise."

  The curse of being different from the herd! Like her in India . . .? It was cool by the lake but Olivia felt perspiration on her brow. "And the cause of that anger—foreign presence in India?"

  "Not only that, although that too. There is a canker in Jai's soul. I wish it were not so because it saps his reason and fills his blood with venom." Noticing a ladybug on her skirt, Kinjal lifted it onto the tip of her forefinger and gently blew it away. "Jai... interests you, Olivia?"

  The same question the Maharaja had framed! "I barely know Mr. Raventhorne," she replied, unable to prevent a tempering of her voice. "I have met him only very briefly."

  "Had you met him a hundred times," Kinjal exclaimed with a shrug almost of exasperation, "you would know him no better. My husband says that Jai is like an onion. Just when you think you have reached the core, another layer appears unexpectedly." Her laugh defused the moment of its tension and, relieved, Olivia laughed with her.