The Dancer and the Raja
Page 9
His Highness’s mother’s servant is an older woman, an aya as they are called in India. Dressed in white and with a very wrinkled face, she is an expert at getting ladies ready. She gradually wraps it twice round Anita, and the third time with her gnarled fingers she makes a lot of pleats that she places in the front, in the shape of a fan, so that she can walk without any difficulty. The leftover material she crosses over her back and, passing it under her arm, brings it back across her front, covering her head like a veil, in such a way that she can move without it falling off. Anita looks at herself in the mirror. The sari underlines her elegance and hides her incipient bulge. She likes to see herself like this, dressed as an Oriental princess.
The astrologer has set the date for the wedding on January 28, 1908. The Sikhs, like the Hindus, get married in the winter months, which are considered auspicious. It would seem that on the chosen day the happy conjunction of Jupiter and Sun augurs long-lasting happiness for the couple and the good fortune of producing at least three children. For a number of days now gifts have been arriving at the house, from cut-glass figurines, miniatures of Moghul art, a tiger skin and clocks, to jars of honey or bags of red lentils, the gifts of peasants who venerate His Highness. But the gift that thrills Anita the most is a fawn with the long eyelashes of a girl, a gift from the maharaja of Patiala, a state that is next to Kapurthala.
The first days at Villa Buona Vista are spent sleeping and adapting to her new life. However, she often wakes up with nightmares in which she is being torn to pieces by a panther or fighting a scorpion the size of a box of biscuits, armed only with embroidery needles. The hunting tales have impressed her greatly, but, in addition, Anita has arrived with the same baggage of false notions that inflames the imagination of the Europeans: that in India they cure illnesses with magic potions made from powdered unicorn, that there are plants with leaves so wide that they can shelter a whole family, that the diamonds are the size of quail’s eggs … What Anita discovers is a more attractive reality than those nonsensical beliefs: the luxury and refinement of the court in Kapurthala—with its spectacular palaces with gardens in which you hear water running all the time amid the cooing of doves and where the perfume of spikenard and carnations floats, the obsequiousness of the Punjabis, and the drives with Mme Dijon in the extravagant landau driven by a chauffeur and with two servants dressed as French lackeys, like those in Versailles, one of them carrying a sunshade to protect her from the sun and the other a big feather fan to drive away the flies … If that were not enough, they are escorted by two lancers on horseback, with the silver-and-blue uniform of Kapurthala. Anita finds it all very amusing, and so it is. Her only sorrow is that she cannot share her perpetual amazement with her family, or with her husband. The raja has said good-bye to her until the day of the wedding because it is considered to bring bad luck if the bridegroom visits the bride in the days before the celebration.
Anita lives surrounded by servants. Wherever she looks there is a servant, either crouched in a corner, or waiting for orders, or simply killing time. They are barefoot and glide over the marble floors so you cannot hear them. “They move about like ghosts,” Lola says. A growing number of sandals, slippers, and colored house-shoes fill the entrance to the rooms where they live and cook. The servants do not allow Anita to do anything, not even to pick up her scissors when they fall on the floor. Several times a day they bring her water in a silver basin with a filigree edge so it does not slop. While one holds it, and another pours water from a jug over her hands, a maid brings a dish with a bar of soap, another holds out a towel to her, and the last one rolls up her sleeves so they do not get wet. Anita has never has such clean hands. At bath time, an aya pours water over her body, water that other servants have previously warmed over burning coals and another maid soaps her skin. Lola does not know what to do; she no longer knows what her role is. She misses the intimacy she had with her mistress. Although for now, and while Anita is still wearing European clothes, she is the one to help her to dress.
The day before the wedding there is an incident that is a revealing insight into life in India. When she gets back from a walk along the riverside, Lola goes up to the bedroom while Anita remains downstairs, dealing with two tailors who have come to work on the veranda, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Stuck in their turbans they have needles threaded with different colored cottons, which they pull out as they need them. Suddenly, a heart-stopping cry, as Lola’s voice pierces the calm of the villa. The scream was terrible, as though someone were cutting her throat. Anita rushes upstairs, wondering if Lola has come face-to-face with a snake or has been the victim of some kind of attack. When she reaches the room, she finds her paralyzed in a corner, pointing at the bed, where there is a dead blackbird looking up at the ceiling. There are feathers everywhere and bird excrement staining the bedcover, furniture, and carpets. The bird had probably gotten into the room and could not find its way out. Exhausted and desperate, it ended up dead on the bed.
“What a fuss!”
“Oh, Señora, it turns my stomach!”
Anita orders the butler to clean the room, but he excuses himself: “Me can no touch dead animal,” he mutters in very basic English.
“What?” says Anita in surprise.
The butler goes out and calls the sweeper, the person who sweeps the floors, who “moves the dust from one place to another” as Anita says. On seeing the bird on the bed, the man shakes his head: “Sorry, Memsahib, me forbidden touch dead animals.” He in turn calls the person in charge of cleaning the latrines and toilets, but he will not move the bird’s corpse either. Each servant goes to find another who belongs to a lower caste. But everyone in the villa refuses.
“What shall we do then? Perhaps I’ll have to sleep with that damned bird on my bed!” she shouts at the butler.
“Memsahib, we’ll have to go the bazaar for a dom, a man from a very low caste …”
“Well, go and get him …”
“Memsahib, I can’t directly address a dom …”
“Well, send someone else then!”
“Sorry, Memsahib, we’ll have to pay the dom to perform this service.”
It is crazy. After a whole afternoon of arguments, Anita gives a few coins to another servant, who comes back at nightfall with a dom, an Indian belonging to the caste that handles corpses during cremations. As bony and thin as a reed, and with a really dark skin, as Anita says, he carries out his mission like a real professional. He places the dead bird in a bag and goes away.
The great number of servants is the reflection of the variety of castes in which the Indians live separated, protected by their group, but also subject to rules that they never break. And they are rules that go too far, as Anita will gradually discover. For example, the Purada Vannan are a caste whose members are not permitted to go out in the daytime because they are not considered “pure” enough to be seen by Brahmins of higher castes. They are condemned to living in the darkness of night. Or the women in Travancore, in the south, who are not permitted to cover their breasts in front of members of higher castes.
In that world, Anita has to get used to struggling with a swarm of servants, to learning that the person who serves her at table is not the same one who brings her tea in the morning; that the cook cooks, but does not wash the dishes; that there are two people responsible for sweeping the floor and they do nothing else; that the one in charge of feeding the horses is not the same as the one who gets them ready for riding; that a maid is in charge of gathering up the dirty clothes so that a dhobi, a washerman, can load them on his donkey and wash them in the nearest pool, and so on. She has to learn what the English officers’ wives and the wives of soldiers and shopkeepers have had to learn: you must not ask a servant to do something that is considered beneath his caste or that may be against his religion. It is a golden rule that, as long as it is followed to the letter, ensures peace and a satisfactory coexistence with the servants.
Anita’s mood swings between euphoria and melancholy at the importance of the preparations. Precisely the day before, and perhaps given the imminence of the celebrations, she has had an attack of homesickness. She cannot stop thinking about her parents and sister. What is ahead is her real wedding—the most transcendental event in her life—and she feels very sad that no member of her family and none of her friends will be present. What is the point of having all these wonderful experiences if she cannot share them with anyone? She thinks it is like eating food without salt: however tasty the dish is, it always seems insipid. The slowness of the post—letters take between four and six weeks to arrive—increases her feeling of isolation even more. And Lola is no good for sharing anything with. The Málaga girl complains about everything because she is afraid of everything. She is afraid to stay at home, although she is also afraid to go out; afraid to walk in the garden because she says there are snakes and spiders—although she has not yet seen one—she is afraid of the ayas dressed in white, and she hates the taste of curry and the smell of incense; in short, everything seems very strange to her and she cannot understand a thing. Thank goodness Mme Dijon always emphasizes the other side of the coin. The savoir faire and composure of her companion is the best therapy for her worry and anguish. But that night not even Mme Dijon can console her. Anita sobs, feeling infinitely sad, until she falls asleep, while Lola, lying on her bed in the same room, having caught her mistress’s mood, is also crying, and the sound she makes when she blows her nose is the only thing that disturbs the silence at the Villa Buona Vista.
January twenty-eighth. At three o’clock in the morning the ayas of His Highness’s mother come to wake her. Anita, with her eyes still shut, gets into the bath, which is not full of warm water, but of warm asses’ milk, just like the Moghul princesses of old. After soaking for a good while, the ayas ask her to lie on some cloth set out on the floor. This is the time for her massage. The skillful, careful hands of the women coat her in sesame oil from top to toe, urged on by a rhythm as discreet as it is inflexible. Like waves, they go from her sides, across her back, and up to her shoulders. Meanwhile, they sing a chant that tells of the love of Rama and his goddess Sita. They stretch out her arms, which they massage delicately, one after the other, and then they knead her hand to make the blood circulate from the palm toward the fingers. Her stomach, her legs, her heels, the soles of her feet, her head, neck, face, nostrils, and back are stroked in succession, toned up by the gentle, dexterous fingers of the ayas. It is part of her initiation into the India of the Kamasutra, and to the East of the Arabian Nights; and so the Spanish princess emerges from her lethargic sadness to bravely face the most important day of her short existence.
According to what Anita would say in her diary, they take over two hours to do her hair, put on her makeup, and dress her. They put her in a bright crimson, satin corset completely embroidered in gold with pearl buttons, which they place over the white silk corset that Indian women use instead of a brassiere. Then they wrap her in very fine white silk and then in the beautiful cloth of the sari. Scarlet slippers embroidered with gold thread, and pearl bracelets and necklaces, complete the bride’s outfit. Anita is worried that when she moves, the whole thing may come apart, but the ayas hold out their hands for her to stand in front of the mirror, and then she realizes that the sari is comfortable and easy to wear. The ayas smile, as proud as magicians at having achieved the transformation of the memsahib into an Indian princess.
“When I saw myself reflected in the mirror, I thought it was a dream, because I looked a picture!”
“You look like the Virgin!” her maid tells her.
Lola still feels homesick. In fact, her mistress’s wedding seems to affect her more than the bride herself. She keeps bursting into tears.
“If only Doña Candelaria could see you now … I hope you’ll be very happy and that the Lord above will protect you from all evil!”
Anita too is on edge. She only hopes she will not have to regret anything, but her maid’s crying upsets her and forces her to question what she is doing. Deep within she feels a tidal surge of different, contradictory emotions struggling with each other. To soothe her soul and fight her desire to cry she shuts herself in her room and kneels down to pray to the Virgin to which she is most devoted, the Virgin of La Victoria, the patroness of Málaga.
It is five in the morning when they knock on the door. There is no more time left. Anita crosses herself and comes out of the room, and the ayas guide her downstairs. In her way of walking there is a reminder of the horses sewn up and sent back into the bullring. But this time the ring is a splendidly lit hall full of people, mostly Indians, in gala dress. Even the servants are wearing magnificent uniforms. Downstairs the raja is waiting for her, having arrived in a golden carriage pulled by four white horses.
“You look like a goddess,” he says, at the same time as he covers her face with the veil of the sari, adding, “I mustn’t see your face until the ceremony is over.”
In her diary, Anita would write, “It was the first time I’d seen him dressed and armed as a Sikh. He was wearing a sapphire blue velvet tunic embroidered with silver, jodhpurs and a white collarless shirt fastened with beautiful sapphire studs. His turban was salmon-pink, the colour reserved for the royal family, with an enormous brooch of emeralds and diamonds. A magnificent curved, Sikh sword hung from his belt, with a handle of silver and precious stones.”
He was not supposed to see the bride, and they placed necklaces of tiny pearls across his forehead like a little, beaded curtain. This ritual, an inheritance from Islam, has its explanation in the popular custom of the young couple not knowing each other when they marry or not even having seen each other before, as the wedding is always decided and organized by the families. Traditionally in Islam, the first meeting face-to-face occurs at the end, once they are married. It can be a moment of pure magic, or quite the opposite: a rather unpleasant surprise. But this is not the case of the prince and princess of Kapurthala, who walk hand in hand toward the shamiana under the crossed sabers of the palace guard and to the sound of Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” played by the state orchestra. Inside the tent, on one side are the Indian aristocrats and ministers, wearing very elaborate clothes. On the other, the meager British colony in Kapurthala; that is, the English governor (the representative of the Crown in the Punjab, perhaps the only man to hold more power than the raja himself), with his chest covered in medals; and the doctor and the civil engineer, accompanied by their lavishly dressed wives, who look at Anita with a mixture of disdain and compassion. Mme Dijon, with an elegant green dress and hat to match, gets up to go over and kiss Anita.
“Quel beau destin le vôtre…” (“What a wonderful destiny you have”) she tells her, giving her a wide smile.
Her words touch Anita’s heart. Her eyes fill, but she does not want to wipe them in case she spoils her makeup.
Two elderly Sikhs, with mauve-colored turbans and long white beards, like mythical characters out of an
Oriental tale, accompany the couple to sit on luxurious, embroidered cushions, just behind some enormous scales. Anita thinks they are priests, but there are no clerics in the Sikh religion. They are members of the faithful who care for a book with thick parchment covers, the Granth Sahib, the Sikh Bible, a collection of the teachings of the great gurus—the great masters—of that religion born there in the Punjab, to fight against the castes and anachronisms of Hinduism and Islam. The book is the center of all the Sikhs’ religious activities: they baptize their children before it, they get married before it, and when they die, the members of the dead person’s family read whole chapters from it aloud.
Accept this book as your master
Recognize all humanity as one
There are no distinctions between men
They all come from the same clay
Men and women equal
Without women no one would exist
Except the eternal Lord,
The only one not to depend on them …
Anita’s diary would reflect her impressions: “As I understood nothing at all and my face was hidden by the veil covering it, I looked closely at everything to take it all in and tell those back in Spain all about it.”
The first rays of the sun turn the inside of the shamiana pink. When the prayers are over, one of the old Sikhs comes over to indicate to the couple that they can carry out the most important rite of all from the point of view of their religion. The couple stand and, with hands joined, go four times round the holy book. Then the old man invites the bride and groom to see each other “officially.” Slowly, each of them moves aside the other’s veil with their free hand. The raja’s happy face appears before Anita’s almond eyes, who feels her heart thumping. Then the music sounds and the guests burst into applause. Amid chanting and good wishes, the couple approach the sacred book again. The raja asks Anita to open it three times in a row, and he opens it the fourth time. The first letter of each page makes up the new name of the bride, a purely Sikh tradition according to which all married women are called Kaur—“princess”—and they add the result of the consultation of the book to this name. Anita gets the letters that make up the word Prem—“love.”