Maharani

by Ruskin Bond

  ‘Cut!’ called the director. ‘Take a break!’

  As though on cue, half a dozen small dogs appeared from various directions, snapping, barking, hysterical in their determination to oust the intruders from H.H.’s premises. I didn’t know there were so many; H.H. had been breeding both pekes and Poms.

  Nasha Naveen hadn’t gone far when an outraged Pom flew at his legs, ripping his trousers. He took refuge in the nearest make-up van. The camera crew scattered, while others took refuge in the makeshift canteen and the outhouses that had been placed at their disposal. Shooting was over for the day.

  When the commotion had subsided and Hans had taken the dogs away, the producer joined H.H. and me for a quiet gin and tonic. Another gentleman was hovering around, waiting to be introduced, but nobody seemed to know him.

  ‘Is he one of your people?’ asked the producer.

  ‘No,’ said Neena. ‘I thought he was with you.’

  ‘I’m Koshi,’ said the intruder. ‘Just stopped by on a little business.’

  ‘With me or with him?’ asked H.H.

  ‘With both of you, actually. How is the film going?’

  ‘We’re about halfway through. Next week we’ll be shooting in Simla.’

  ‘Excellent! Then perhaps there will be a small role for my daughter?’

  ‘Your daughter! Who is she? Or rather, who are you?’

  ‘I’m Koshi. Income tax inspector. You must be having to spend a lot of money locally—especially at this beautiful location. A real palace! All accounted for, I’m sure.’

  ‘Sit down and have a drink,’ said Neena cordially.

  ‘Just nimbu-pani,’ said the tax inspector, and sat down. ‘My daughter’s very talented, you know.’

  ‘Give her a role,’ said Neena. ‘And see that she’s well paid.’

  ‘I’m sure we can find a small part for her,’ said the producer. ‘Can she dance?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can she sing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has she done any acting?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Perfect! We are looking for someone just like that.’

  ‘Someone without any talent,’ added H.H. ‘How refreshing! She can start from scratch.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s good-looking,’ said the producer anxiously.

  ‘Looks a bit like me,’ said Mr Koshi, smiling and exposing his gingivitis. ‘I’ll bring her along tomorrow.’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ said the producer. ‘Have another nimbu-pani.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Mr Koshi. ‘And keep those accounts ready. No hurry, of course. But just in case …’

  Mr Koshi made his departure, and for Neena’s sake I was glad the dogs had been locked up. A wounded income tax inspector would have been hard to mollify.

  ‘Be careful,’ was Neena’s warning to the producer. ‘A man who drinks nothing but nimbu-pani can be very dangerous.’

  18

  Houses, like human beings, ultimately look dejected or cheerful according to their experience. Hollow Oak had been a lively, if not always a happy, sort of place during the Montalban era. I hadn’t seen it during the Brigadier’s brief tenure. During the filming of Patloon it still had a look of optimism, as though good things might yet be in store for its occupants. But after the film people had gone, the palace seemed to suffer from the depression that now took hold of Neena.

  But it was not something that happened overnight; nor was it caused by any particular event or person. It was just that Neena had nothing to look forward to—apart from the whisky or vodka bottle.

  But I am anticipating events. The producer did manage to complete his film, but Patloon flopped at the box office. After two more flops, the producer committed suicide; the director went on to win awards, but then fell foul of the Bollywood mafia. He was shot dead outside his Byculla house.

  The tax inspector’s daughter did quite well for herself in Mumbai—not as an actress, but as a fashion designer. Although not in the same class as one or two others, her costumes were in great demand, especially in monster movies. My old friend Pablo would have approved.

  H.H. would not have approved of this diversion in my tale, as she always liked to be the centre of attention. A tragedy queen, if ever there was one. At times, she reminded me of Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard.

  I continued to see her, of course. Should old acquaintance be forgot and all that, and besides, I still felt a certain affection for her, a residue of loss from earlier times.

  My phone rang and I heard her familiar cackle at the other end. ‘Come and see me, Ruskin, I’m dying.’

  ‘You’re dying for a drink, old girl.’

  ‘Don’t call me old girl. I’m still the Maharani of Mastipur.’

  And so, feeling in need of a drink and her company, I’d go along to see her.

  She was living alone, with Hans, the dogs and a couple of old retainers. Seema had long since returned to her home in Ranchi. The palace was beginning to crumble a little, like Miss Havisham’s uncut wedding cake in Great Expectations. And on every visit, there seemed to be more dogs in the grounds.

  The canine population had certainly multiplied. Poms had crossed with pekes, Samoyeds with dachshunds, and their progeny displayed the most amazing variety of shapes and sizes. One wing of the estate had been given up for them. They slept on old sofas, copulated on expensive rugs, defecated wherever it was convenient. Once a week Hans cleared their rooms out; no one else would undertake the task. Out of curiosity I once opened the door to one of these chambers and nearly passed out, the stink was so awful.

  During the day the dogs had the run of the grounds. Although not fearsome to look at, they were aggressive and made a lot of noise, like street children from a slum. Prince Kartik sulked outside the gate, demanding money and making empty threats. Prince Karan drove by in his sports car; his curses and threats were more menacing, drug induced. Hans kept them at bay, but they were in no hurry—they knew that H.H. was not the terror of old.

  Had there ever been much love between Neena and her boys? None of them seemed capable of it. They say blood is thicker than water, but I think there was more strontium than blood in their veins. Neena’s early married years had been full of revelry, carefree abandon, self-gratification. The boys had been free to do as they pleased. Neither finished school, so confident were they of a future as wealthy young princes, even though they had long since been deprived of their titles. One day, Mummy’s jewels would be theirs, Mummy’s palace would be theirs, Mummy’s bank accounts would be at their disposal. While she lived, she kept them on short rations, fixed allowances. They were always running into debt, then running to Mummy for help. She made them wait, watched them being humiliated. Prince Kartik, now in his late forties, was almost permanently intoxicated, and it was doubtful if he would outlive his mother. Stumbling home at night, he would often be waylaid by ruffians, robbed of the little money he carried. If he’d bought a bottle of rum in town, it would be taken from him. So he paid the taxi drivers to drop off his evening quota or quotas, and sometimes they would join him in a night’s orgy of drinking. They would break up at dawn, and Kartik would sleep till noon, too comatose to get up to go to the bathroom, his mattress and bed sheets soaked in urine.

  The younger brother stayed away most of the time, indulging in orgies of a different kind in the Mastipur palace. Women were brought to him; he played the prince, and spoke of great days to come. Like his father, he was fond of guns, although hunting was now prohibited. He always kept a revolver beside him, took potshots at domestic hens and inoffensive dogs and cats.

  Neena blamed Sister Clarissa for their poor upbringing.

  ‘Why Sister Clarissa?’ I asked, on one of my visits, which were becoming increasingly rare.

  She was propped up in bed, a glass of whisky on the bedside table, her favourite peke occupying the only chair. I sat at the foot of the bed—as far as I could get from the peke, who was rolling one eye at me in a sinister manner. It is said tha
t after some time the owner of a pet dog begins to resemble the dog. In this case, I think the dog was beginning to resemble its owner. The peke was behaving like Neena—neurotic, selfish, arrogant.

  ‘Does he drink too?’ I asked.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The peke?’

  ‘He gets a teaspoon of brandy every night.’

  ‘Lucky dog. But to return to Sister Clarissa: she wasn’t a real nun, was she? And Dr Bisht wasn’t even sure of her sex.’

  ‘She wasn’t a real nun, that’s true. We kept her identity a secret. It was my husband’s father, the great Maharaja, who brought her to India towards the end of the First World War. She was very young then, some say beautiful—but she was wanted by the French, by the British—you see, she’d been a German spy! So he smuggled her out of Europe dressed as a nun.’

  ‘It sounds fantastic.’

  ‘Those were fantastic times. And do you know who she was?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mata Hari.’

  ‘Mata Hari! Not the Mata Hari. But she was executed—shot by a French firing squad.’

  ‘That’s what the history books say. But she escaped. The great Maharaja was one of her lovers, and in those days the Maharajas were powerful people. They had immense wealth, they ruled over millions—he had a lot of influence everywhere. He brought Mata Hari to India. But India was British India then, and Britain was at war with Germany. Had she been caught here, she might well have been shot.

  ‘So she kept her disguise—remained at the Maharaja’s court, looked after his affairs, helped in bringing up my husband. And before the great Maharaja died, he made my husband promise to take care of her. Which he did, of course. After all, she’d been his nanny.’

  ‘So much for the history books,’ I said, and helped myself to more whisky. It seemed an incredible story, and yet it could have been true. Even during World War II, German citizens living in India had been rounded up and kept in detention camps. The largest of these camps was in Dehra Dun. Many of those detained were Nazis, among them Heinrich Harrer, who managed to escape to Tibet. All this had happened while I was a boy in Dehra.

  ‘If Mata Hari was a German, how did she get such a name?’

  ‘It wasn’t her real name, silly. Her father was Dutch, her mother Javanese. She became famous as a dancer all over Europe, and her stage name was Mata Hari. In Javanese that means Eye of the Morning.’

  ‘And was she still beautiful when you first saw her?’

  ‘She was well over forty when I married the young Maharaja. Remember, the first Rani committed suicide.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard about that.’ And I remembered my mother and her friend Doreen talking about the mysterious circumstances surrounding the first Maharani’s death, and their belief that it had been murder and that the nun had something to do with it.

  ‘She was very loyal to your family, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Oh, she’d have done anything for them.’

  ‘And she must have been very old when she died—when she fell down those stairs.’

  ‘Must have been nearing ninety. Never told us her age.’

  ‘Some say she wasn’t a woman at all. That she was half a man—a hermaphrodite.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I always thought of her as a woman. Well, nuns usually are, aren’t they? But then, the great Maharaja had strange tastes.’

  ‘So did Count Dracula. It was normal to be abnormal. And your husband. All those rats.’

  ‘Rats! Don’t talk about rats. I hate them. They’re all over the place!’

  Her mood had changed. She’d enjoyed telling me about Sister Clarissa who was really Mata Hari; but her husband’s hobby was anathema to her, which was natural enough, if indeed he had been consumed, literally, by his hobby.

  ‘You can go now,’ she said, bringing my visit to an abrupt end. ‘I’m tired. We’ll talk another day. And on your way out, tell Hans to bring me a hot-water bottle. It’s cold in here. And don’t kick the dogs.’

  ‘Even if they bite me?’

  ‘I hope they bite you. Now go. I want to be alone.’

  ‘Garbo in Grand Hotel,’ I said, by way of a parting shot.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Greta Garbo. Her famous line: I want to be alone.’

  ‘Not Greta Garbo, Mata Hari,’ she murmured, and fell asleep.

  19

  On a frosty December morning the phone rang, getting me out of a warm bed. Most days the phone was out of order; but sometimes it would come to life in the middle of the night, and then it would be a wrong number. On one occasion a ghostly voice said, ‘There’s a bomb in the dicky of your car.’ This didn’t worry me, as I don’t have a car. Just a prankster, assuming everyone has a car.

  It was Hans on the line. ‘Maharani Sahiba wants to see you. She isn’t too well.’

  ‘I’ll come over in the evening.’

  ‘She says it’s urgent. Wants you to witness her will.’

  ‘I’ve already witnessed several wills. In the last one she left everything to some godman in Mauritius.’

  ‘Well, she’s changed her mind again, it seems. Maybe it’s you, sir.’

  ‘In that case I wouldn’t be a witness. I’ll be there in an hour or two. Hope you’re the lucky one.’

  I found Neena in bed, a place where she’d spent a lot of time, for one reason or another. Usually it was for pleasure; now it was pain.

  ‘I think my kidneys have gone,’ she said. ‘I’m passing blood with my urine.’

  ‘Have you seen Dr Bisht?’

  ‘He came over yesterday. Said I should get admitted to the hospital. But I don’t want to die in hospital.’

  ‘You don’t want to die at all,’ I said. ‘And you’re looking fine.’ This wasn’t true. She was looking haggard. Her cheeks had fallen in, there were dark circles under her eyes, and her lips were dry and colourless. I was no doctor, but I could see that she was really ill.

  ‘Kings and queens should die in their palaces,’ she said. ‘But this one is full of rats.’

  ‘Rats? I haven’t seen any rats. Not with so many dogs about the place.’

  ‘They’re not afraid of the dogs. They’re big rats. And some are white. And some are black and white.’

  ‘I haven’t seen any.’ I thought perhaps she was imagining things, hallucinating.

  ‘They’re the descendants of my husband’s rats. Must have been lurking and breeding here for years … And now they are coming for me. I want you to get rid of them. That’s why I sent for you.’

  ‘Hans would do a better job of killing rats. But I haven’t seen any.’

  ‘You have to chase them away. You’re Peter Pan, remember.’

  ‘No, the Pied Piper. And he had a flute.’

  ‘He played on his flute, and the rats ran after him.’

  ‘Well, they’re not running after me. You go to sleep and I’ll look around and see if I can find any rats.’

  But she had no intention of sleeping. For a while she forgot about rats. Something else was on her mind.

  ‘Bring me my jewel case.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Bottom drawer of my dresser. The key’s in that flowerpot.’

  ‘There are three flowerpots. One has a geranium growing in it. The other contains a croton. I don’t know what’s in the third.’

  ‘It’s a Christmas cactus, stupid. The key is in the cactus.’

  ‘And Christmas is coming,’ I said, getting my finger and thumb scratched as I found the key. I opened the bottom drawer of the dresser and found a walnut-wood case, about the size of a shoebox.

  ‘You should have kept this in a bank locker,’ I said.

  ‘I like to look at my jewels. I can’t go to the bank every day in order to gloat over them.’

  ‘Well then, gloat,’ I said, handing her the box. ‘It might help you to get better. When I was a small boy I used to feel good looking at my marbles. I had a biscuit tin full of marbles. Very pretty marbles too. But it’s a l
ong time since I saw kids playing marbles.’

  ‘They don’t play with marbles any more. They play video games. Loss of innocence.’

  ‘I don’t think we were ever innocent.’

  She took the jewel case from me. ‘Now where’s the key to the box?’

  ‘In the Christmas cactus?’

  ‘No, the other one, under the croton leaf.’

  ‘If I were the geranium, I’d feel left out.’

  ‘Don’t be facetious. Give me the key.’

  She opened the box, tilted it, and out tumbled a shower of gemstones. Just like marbles, only prettier. There were rubies and pearls, garnets and opals, an emerald set in a ring, a diamond bracelet, and a few other gems which I couldn’t recognize.

  ‘The emerald ring was my husband’s,’ said Neena. ‘It was his birthstone. He was born in May.’

  ‘So was I,’ I said.

  ‘Well, you can’t have it.’

  ‘I’m a staunch Taurean.’

  ‘Then get your own emerald.’

  ‘I’ll settle for a couple of pearls.’

  ‘Stop joking, and help me count. I have to make an inventory.’

  ‘An inventory? What on earth for? You’re not giving them away. I’ve never known you to give anything away, although you did once offer me your late husband’s dress coat.’

  ‘You can still have it.’

  ‘No thanks. Give it to Hans. It will fit him better.’

  ‘I’m giving him the house. And the dogs.’

  ‘He has to feed the dogs.’

  ‘He’ll get some money. I have to decide about the jewels. There are those useless sons of mine. And there are cousins and aunts and nephews. Now help me count.’

  Twenty minutes later we had made a list of the contents of the jewel box. It then went back into the bottom drawer of the dresser. One key went into the Christmas cactus, and just for fun I gave the second key to the geranium. Neena didn’t notice. She was staring at something that was moving about in a dark corner of the bedroom, not far from the door.