The Mountain of Light

by Indu Sundaresan

  “It must mean that the Maharani is in residence,” Fanny said at Emily’s elbow.

  They dismounted and waited as the barge was readied with a barrage of shouting and cursing. The women went down the rocks carefully and were hauled aboard.

  “The roses didn’t come today,” Fanny said.

  Emily turned, and for a moment her face crumpled with distress, an emotion she had never shown before to Fanny. “No.” She could barely say the word.

  They had neither of them really known George until their mother died and they moved in with him. He had already left for school when she was born. And yet, even growing up together, Fanny and Emily had kept apart—they were so dissimilar, just how much they’d realized only when they went to George. Because Emily and George always had something to talk about; when Emily had fallen ill ten years ago, it was George, not Fanny, who had come home from work every day, fed her beef broth, wiped her brow, read to her at night until the candle guttered in the saucer.

  At Government House in Calcutta, Fanny and Emily had chosen rooms in opposite wings—Emily’s room was next door to George’s; Fanny’s was down the corridor, some twenty yards away. They met at the table; they went together to visit the ladies of the cantonment sometimes, and to church. That was all. And, for the first time—with that brief conversation about Lord Melbourne, six years after the event—Emily had let Fanny see what was in her heart.

  “Tell him to come and see you, Em,” Fanny said, reaching out and touching her sister’s thick-gloved hand. “And take that off, it’s too hot here.”

  “It would not be proper,” Emily mumbled.

  Mr. Taft gestured to them from the barge and they picked their way over, holding up the hems of their dresses so that their boots and ankles showed. Emily realized with a mild shock that Fanny was not wearing her stockings. The Company clerk averted his head, although he held out his hand, and the boatmen stared, stony-faced. The boat was nothing but a flat piece of wood, with no seating, water lapping over the edges. They stood clustered around the middle. Half-naked boatmen, clad only in loincloths, their feet bare, rain streaming over their muscular bodies, ran up and down the length of long poles that they used to propel the flat over the Sutlej.

  Maharani Jindan Kaur met them under a gold awning, her back straight, her hands clasped in front. Of her face, they could see little; a veil swung over her head and fell almost to her feet in a swathe of shimmering white seed pearls.

  They bowed to each other. A man standing near her, Fakir Azizuddin, murmured greetings on behalf of his queen, Mr. Taft translated for them, and then they went inside.

  Within, Azizuddin and Taft were banished to the far corner, behind a chintz screen, both scrunched uncomfortably into a small space. Of Mr. Taft, Emily could see nothing—the screen swallowed his figure, but the heron feather on Fakir Azizuddin’s turban bobbed above as he shifted around.

  They all sat in a tight circle. It was close inside the tent, even though the cloth was rolled up over the white mesh screens; the mesh itself was clogged with drops of rainwater. Servant girls brought goblets of pomegranate sherbet, palely pink, shards of ice clinking against the glass. There were trays of sweet burfis sprinkled with shavings of coconut, made of wheat flour, glistening with ghee. Fanny took off her gloves and ate everything; Emily sat on her divan, her knees drawn up to her chest, and took small sips of only the sherbet.

  The Maharani could not speak English, so whatever she said, Fakir Azizuddin translated from behind the screen, his voice booming over the confines of the tent, his language ungrammatical, incorrect, but still comprehensible.

  They talked thus, complimenting each other, welcoming each other, and saying nothing much. Then, Jindan leaned back and whispered something into the ear of one of her ladies-in-waiting, who rose and went to a small table in the corner and brought back a tray covered with a white cloth.

  “The Maharani is pleased to welcome her British sisters to the Punjab,” Fakir Azizuddin said, “and she begs that you will consider these paltry gifts and wear them with joy.”

  Jindan whisked away the cloth, and revealed two perfect diamond and emerald necklaces lying shimmering on the dark wood.

  McNaghten’s wife sucked in a breath, and they all leaned forward.

  One of the Company’s clerks had gone on the East India Company’s business to . . . somewhere, some native raja’s kingdom, to talk about water rights of a river that flowed through the Company’s lands, which were downstream from the raja’s. Emily couldn’t remember much about the actual business, but the clerk’s wife had come back to Calcutta with stories of entertainments at the raja’s harem, and boasted of a shawl, a gold necklace, earrings, and bangles that the principal queen had given her. When she had displayed them at the next ball at Government House, Emily had pitied the poor woman. The gold was real, all right, but so chunky, so unimaginatively constructed, good enough only to be smelted into something new. Even Mr. Taft—or rather his counterpart in the Company—had disdained to snatch the jewelry from the clerk’s wife.

  “One for each of you,” Aziz said. “Miss Eden and Miss Fanny Eden.”

  These pieces were impeccable, rose-cut diamonds, embedded in shining gold, emeralds with the heart of a forest in the rain, luminously green and radiating a wet light.

  Fanny nudged Emily. “Taft is probably hopping around behind there.” She took out her handkerchief from her right sleeve, wiped her hands on it, and laid a gentle finger on the stones. She laughed with pure wonder, and they heard Mr. Taft clear his throat many times, meaningfully.

  A little girl had been standing beside the Queen, her arm around Jindan’s shoulder, half-leaning on the older woman. She was a pretty little thing, with solemn, light-colored eyes and a stoic face. Now, a smile curved her mouth upward, and she bent to Jindan and whispered something in her ear.

  Jindan held her hand out to Fanny, and when Fanny reciprocated, she shook her head.

  “Her Majesty would like to see your handkerchief, Miss Fanny.”

  “This?” Fanny asked in surprise, and then she knelt on the carpet and smoothed out the piece of fabric, with its lace edging.

  “Does anyone else have one?” Fakir Azizuddin asked.

  “We all do,” Fanny said. She reached into Emily’s dress and took out her handkerchief, then signaled to the other women to give her theirs. Each square she laid carefully on the carpet, and they all watched as the Maharani and her ladies crowded over, exclaiming about the lace, dabbing reverently at the cloth. The girl moved the handkerchiefs around, gazing at the Maharani with delight.

  “Could we leave these with you, your Majesty?” Fanny asked.

  Jindan Kaur nodded, and Aziz said, “It would give my Queen a great deal of pleasure; she thanks you very much.”

  A baby cried from somewhere at the back of the tent, and Maharani Jindan Kaur rose hurriedly, as though that wail had coiled outward and tethered onto her. The little girl had already run out to the back, and Emily saw her standing there, almost bowed under by the weight of the child in her thin arms. The baby was the Maharajah’s son, so much McNaghten, or perhaps Bill, had mentioned to her. But who was this little girl in the lushly embroidered ghagara and choli, her hair plaited behind her back, almost down to her knees, the medallion of solid gold around her neck. Who was she?

  Another figure blotted out the child’s at the back flap of the tent, and Emily realized that Jindan Kaur was leaving.

  “Thank you,” Azizuddin said. The audience was over.

  Mr. Taft was led out from a side entrance and came loping over the soggy ground to grab the tray with the diamond necklaces, which he wrapped in soft muslin and put into his dispatch case. Then, holding the case snug under his arm, the tray itself in his other hand, he followed them to the riverbank.

  On the way back, Fanny was grim. The rain had let up almost completely, although thin, gray clouds still tarried in the sky, and the sun shed its light upon them as though through a veil—translucent and golden.<
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  Halfway through the guava grove, Emily’s horse refused to budge. They tried cajoling it, kicking it, feeding it lumps of brown and raw jaggery, but nothing would work. So Fanny dismounted from her horse and said, “Let’s walk back.”

  They did, Emily hesitant at first, following her sister’s example of tucking the hem of her gown into her waistband—only long after the others had disappeared toward the British encampment.

  Fanny said suddenly, “Did you see the Kohinoor?”

  “The Maharani was wearing it?”

  “On her arm. He must really love her, that Runjeet.”

  Emily was disdainful. “It cannot have been that big after all. Even though”—here a doubt crept into her voice—“Bill said it was.” Then she remembered the joyful face of Runjeet’s young bride. Emily sucked on her tongue. “He’s so old, Fanny. I cannot . . . think of them together. And that child who cried, it was their son. He won’t ever become Maharajah of the Punjab, will he? There are other, older sons.”

  “And us,” Fanny said. The grimness had come back to her expression now.

  Emily knew what she meant, but she didn’t respond. What was there to say? Fanny and she saw things differently, just as they had when they were younger. What was there to say?

  “Why does George want to invade Afghanistan, Em?”

  She shrugged and waved her hand in a vague motion. “I think . . . the Russians. Shuja’s there to be put on the throne; we could do with a friend in Afghanistan. George doesn’t think . . . that Dost Mohammad is . . . er . . . friendly toward the British Empire.”

  Fanny slashed at the nearest tree with her whip, and the parrots rose in a mass of green and red, scolded her, and vanished into the sky. “We’re not a very friendly people, are we? Look at what we did to the King of Oude; we annexed his kingdom. And if Runjeet’s heirs are not careful, we’ll do that to the Punjab also.”

  At another time, before their talk of this morning, Emily would have shouted at Fanny. Something short, something biting, and ended the conversation. But now, as their boots were sucked into the mud, as they walked together, alone, for almost the first time in their lives, she put a warning hand on her sister’s arm.

  “Don’t say this in public, Fanny. Not even to George—it makes a mockery of why we are here in India. It’s preposterous, this kind of talking. The East India Company has a right . . . we have a right—”

  Fanny’s eyebrows arched until they were lost in her dark hair. “A divine right, Em?”

  “Why not?” This, doggedly.

  “I wonder,” Fanny said slowly, “if we consulted the Indians at all in this matter. The East India Company has eaten up great big chunks of India; you’re right, we will not spit it out without a fight.”

  Emily laughed, and Fanny looked at her in surprise. “Perhaps you’re not so different from George and me after all, Fan. You take advantage of George’s position as Governor-General of India, of the money he makes, and then you complain about it.”

  A voice came to them through the forest. George, squelching in the mud, his shirt sticking to his chest and back, brown riding up his trousers. How was the visit? What did the Maharani say? Anything about the meeting with Runjeet? And so, they walked back together, each of them hanging off one of their brother’s arms, thankful for the support after the long, damp day. When they parted within their tents, it was as though the day had not happened, they had not talked, not delved into their hearts and held out secrets to each other. It was as though that twenty yards of corridor had come to stretch between them again.

  But Emily forgot all of that, for when she stepped into her tent, there, on the little footstool by the bed, was a wicker basket crammed with white roses. And a letter, on custard-thick paper, filled with elegant, sloping writing.

  • • •

  On the day they were to meet Maharajah Ranjit Singh, the comings and goings between the two camps began well before the break of dawn.

  At five o’clock, a British emissary went across the Sutlej, on a raft, alone, rowing himself blindly in the heavy, cotton-like mist that skimmed the river’s waters. He had been expected, of course, but that didn’t stop the Maharajah’s men from sending a few harmless rifle shots zinging through the fog around him. So he arrived sweating and shaking, the air still redolent with the stench of gunpowder. The Maharajah’s emissary met him at the banks. They bowed to each other, drank a few cups of steaming chai, and the British man ate two or three gluey sweets he could not give name to and did not want in his mouth.

  “His Excellency, Lord Auckland of the British Empire wishes to visit the great Maharajah Runjeet Singh and present his compliments in person,” he said, wiping his teeth with his tongue and worrying bits of stickiness from them.

  The Maharajah’s man nodded. “The great and glorious Maharajah Ranjit Singh, Lion of the Punjab, Maharajah of Lahore, Head of State, and Lord of the Five Rivers, will be happy to receive the Lord Auckland.”

  A line of the Maharajah’s soldiers, dressed in white and gold, with flimsy gold gauze scarves wrapped around their long beards, came smartly to attention behind. Auckland’s emissary bowed again, and again, until he could get on the raft and row himself back to the British encampment. The mist had lifted in all of the talking as the sun sliced over the horizon, and if the Maharajah’s men had wanted to practice their shooting, he would have been an open, and standing target. But he arrived back south safely.

  An hour later, another emissary rowed from the Maharajah’s side to the British side to thank the first one for his visit and to assure the British of Ranjit Singh’s acute keenness in meeting Lord Auckland and how much he was looking forward to it. This went on, back and forth, a few times in the morning, and the Sutlej was muddied with all the traffic.

  Finally, around ten o’clock, Mr. McNaghten himself went over to the Punjab side, and he was met halfway on the river by Sher Singh, Maharajah Ranjit Singh’s adopted son. The two men conversed in the middle, standing upright on their rafts, maintaining their balance precariously while the rowers struggled to keep them afloat. It was agreed by all that the time had finally come for Lord Auckland to make his way to the Sikh encampment.

  So at eleven o’clock, Emily and Fanny came out into the warm morning air. George was standing by William McNaghten; Bill, their nephew; and the ADCs. The Queen’s Buff regiment stretched out to the riverbank in two solid and parallel lines, rifles held up above their heads and slanted inward, forming a tent of armament.

  George stepped forward and put out his arm for Emily, who slipped her small hand through it, and they went down the line of soldiers. Emily could feel the stiffness in George’s movements, his sudden intake of breath when he saw the row of caparisoned elephants lined up on the other bank, and the lone, white horse prancing in front. The figure atop the horse was small, hunched, and yet he rode as though born on that elegant horse.

  “That is the Maharajah?” Emily asked, patting her brother’s arm.

  “Must be,” he muttered. “Must say he makes a finer figure than I expected. Oh, Emily”—he stumbled, and she held him tight until he had regained his stride—“two months of this to get through.”

  She glanced at her brother. His black velvet tailcoat fitted about his shoulders, emblazoned with ribbons and decorations, the epaulets rimmed in gold braid. His linen, high-waisted trousers had been dusted off just five minutes before by his jemadar in his tent, but they had already become sullied with dirt; his knee-length boots were dull. George wore a white shirt with a short collar, and a red velvet vest. Above his collar, his thin face was taut and shiny with sweat, his hair lying flat against his skull.

  Behind them, Fanny murmured something in a low voice into Bill’s ear, and his muted laughter followed them all the way.

  Emily and George climbed into a sumptuously decorated howdah on an elephant’s back—after two years on the move, she could do this without much effort. George, who had never become used to anything in India, tripped and finally heaved him
self over to fall onto the cushions. When they had settled themselves, Emily turned to watch the rest of their party climb onto the backs of other elephants.

  The mahout, a slim, dark man clad in only a dhoti covering him from the waist down, knocked with his ankh on the elephant’s head and it rose laboriously. First on its hind legs, tipping them forward, and then on its forelegs. Emily held on to her hat with one hand and the pillars of the howdah with the other. They could not have rowed over the Sutlej, or ridden on horses, or even walked on foot. Nothing less than an elephant and a howdah would do for the Governor-General of India to meet the Maharajah of the Punjab Empire.

  The elephant trudged slowly into the Sutlej, drops of water splashing upward. Emily and George ducked and shielded their faces. She took out her handkerchief and wiped the mud from George’s cravat as best she could.

  And then, the elephant halted in the middle of the river, its trunk punching through the air, its huge ears fluttering at the edges. The mahout banged on its head, prodded the heavy, gray skin with his ankh, spoke into its ear. But it stood there, obstinate. And then, its trunk sneaked downward, they heard an intake of harsh breath, and before Emily or George could react, the elephant had raised its trunk over its head and bathed them with a rush of warm water.

  The mahout turned, took off his turban, and wiped his forehead with the cloth. His voice was filled with a hidden laughter. “I’m sorry, Lord Sahib, he will not move.”

  The other elephants and camels trudged through the Sutlej, passing them by, uncontrolled for the most part by their mahouts and drivers. Fanny waved. “We’re going to get there first, George!”

  George sank back and hid his face in Emily’s lap. “We should have taken a damn boat. It was McNaghten who insisted upon these animals. He knew, from Fakir Azizuddin, that Runjeet meant to meet us with his entire stable of elephants, so we could do no less, McNaghten said.”