We guided our horses towards the village square and I was assailed by the odours of dust and frying spices and cattle dung and all those other wonderful smells of India.
A small group of men awaited, their manner respectful. When we had dismounted, one of them came forward, making namaste. “At last, Rowan-Sahib, I am honoured to welcome you to Katachari. I am Gokul, the headman and landlord.”
I returned Gokul’s greetings and conveyed the good wishes of Barr-Taylor. I was quickly introduced to the others, a mixed group of men who comprised the village council. Within minutes all were seated and drinking hot, sweet tea as we discussed matters important to the village and the region. Three men sat slightly apart: two Brahmins whose caste disallowed close contact with non-Hindus, and Mushtaq Khan, guided more by his warrior alertness than by his distaste for infidels.
Then without warning, my hosts fell silent and slowly the councilmen rose to their feet, bowing their heads as they did so. Behind me, I heard an old and dry voice saying, “Enough of such mundane matters, Gokul, I am sure Rowan-sahib hears them daily and to whom is farming of any interest save another farmer? Anyway, I believe the sahib was advised to make this journey to meet me.”
I, too, rose and turned to face the speaker. When I looked at him, I felt a breathless shock as if I had suddenly been plunged into an ice-cold bath. Aditya was small in stature and, in common with most holy men, very thin. He was clad in a white robe, and long white hair and beard cascaded down his body. But it was the deeply-shadowed, hypnotic eyes and the sense of sheer power emanating in waves from the man which held and enthralled.
Instinctively, I lowered my head, placing my palms together and making namaste to the holy man. I surprised myself in doing this, for protocol was that I should have been greeted first. Even greater was my surprise when I saw, from the corner of my eye, Mushtaq Khan also bowing and making salaam.
The rishi placed his hands over mine. “Come, my son, we will go to my home and talk.” He turned and I followed without further bidding. Again I was astounded at the reaction of Mushtaq Khan who, instead of following at his usual discreet distance, resumed his seat and took up his tea.
The rishi’s home was small and simple, as would have been expected. I had to stoop to pass through the low portal into the single room, poorly illuminated by lighted wicks floating in dishes of oil. The air was thick with the sweetness of the many smouldering incense sticks balanced in ornate brass holders which were scattered about the floor. And there was another underlying odour that I could not identify. Perhaps it was the smell of old age.
I could see at a glance that the place was sparsely furnished. Two single charpoys were positioned at opposite sides of the room, each furnished with a light blanket. There was a low table and several stools, while at the rear was a small stove and a number of clay cooking pots. There were niches in the mud walls which held statuettes of deities.
As we entered, a woman came silently to her feet and stood with her eyes cast down. Like Aditya, she was clothed entirely in white, but her garb was not the usual sari. Instead, she wore a burkha, the all-enveloping garb worn by most Moslem women. A veil was drawn across her face. Only her eyes, hands and feet were visible.
“Welcome to my home, Rowan-sahib,” said the rishi, “this is Chandira, my wife.” Turning to the woman, he added, “Bring chai for our guest, Chandira.”
As the woman moved to the stove to make her preparations, the rishi gestured me to a stool before taking up the lotus position on one of the charpoys. He closed his eyes, apparently as a signal that until the niceties were observed we should refrain from conversation.
I took the opportunity to study the man. He was certainly unlike other holy men I had experienced. Not counting the Brahmin priests, there are two kinds of Hindu holy men: the rishis, who may marry if they wish, and the saddhus, the celibates.
If most people have a mental picture of Hindu holy men, it will probably be of the saddhus. They are the itinerants, the ones who travel naked or near naked, their bodies covered in ashes and dust. Many of them mortify the flesh as an offering to their pantheon of gods. But even the rishis will often maltreat themselves to demonstrate spirituality.
Aditya was clean, and to the casual glance seemed quite normal other than for his ascetic spareness. He was old, but more than two hundred? I doubted it.
I was startled from reverie by the woman’s sudden appearance at my side as she set down tea and a dish of fruit slices. My senses were overwhelmed by the richly musky perfume with which she seemed to have dowsed heself. While not in itself unpleasant, the scent was cloying. I did not look at her too closely as I thanked her, being sensible of how easily I could give offence. I did notice rather beautiful eyes and elegant hands. Then she moved back to a corner and squatted mute on the earthen floor.
Aditya’s eyes snapped open and seemed to penetrate my own. Then it was as if they filmed over and he gestured an invitation to the refreshments.
I sipped at the tea, which relaxed me a little and could not restrain my curiosity. “Your wife, Aditya-Sahib, is she a Moslem?” Such mixed marriages were not common, but neither were they unknown.
“A Moslem?” He glanced over at the woman. “No, she is not a Moslem.” He smiled. “You have no wife, Rowan-sahib.” It was not a question.
“No, sir.” The rishi continued to stare at me and I felt somehow that I had to explain. “It’s not our custom for a young man making his way in the world to marry. We believe that his career comes first.”
“How very strange.” Aditya selected a slice of orange and nibbled on it. “Young men of your race are placed in positions of great importance, of great responsibility, so that you may satisfy the urges of the mind, and yet at this time of your possibly greatest potency, you are expected to ignore the more natural urges of flesh. Tell me, Rowan-sahib, do you not find yourself frustrated by the unanswered cry of your loins? Do you not find yourself longing for the soft, naked body of a loving and compliant woman to comfort you in the long hours of the night?”
I thought again of those erotic carvings on the Prithivi temple in the forest and felt my face grow hot. I was thankful for the poor light in the rishi’s home, thankful that my embarrassment was not visible to him. “Excuse me, Rishi-sahib, it is not our way to discuss such matters,” I prevaricated, wishing that he would let the matter drop.
The holy man laughed, a crackling, raspy noise which was not too pleasant. “Such a young race, such children,” he mused. “Now I have been married very many times, for is it not the natural way of life? Certain of my wives were more precious to me than others. Let me tell you of my favourites, let me tell you of the erotic pleasure that each one had to offer a man.”
He raised his cup, slurping noisily at his tea. “Kumud had fair looks, great beauty. Her face was a perfect oval, with flesh like that of a fresh peach bearing traces of morning dew. Her eyes held the promise of heaven and her yoni fulfilled that promise.
“Radhika was the daughter of a Kashmiri Brahmin, with light skin, little darker than that of a sahib. Hers was the body which most delighted my senses. From neck to upper thighs she was perfect, with breasts . . . I think your own holy book is most eloquent when it likens the loved one’s breasts to young roes feeding among the lilies. Her body hair was plucked, in the fashion of the ancient nobility, so that but a slim arrow showed the way to paradise and such a paradise, sahib, such a paradise.”
Quite frankly, I didn’t know where to put myself, hearing this talk which seemed to me to be so appallingly candid. I glanced frantically towards the woman, Chandira. The rishi correctly interpreted my hint, but his only reaction was to repeat that arid laugh. “Do not fret that my wife is shocked, Rowan-sahib. Is she not an Indian woman? Talk of sensual pleasures is not anathema to us.
“Now, where was I? Ah, my favourite wives. The loveliest, longest limbs were those of Shamin and Phoolan. Shamin’s arms could draw a man close so it was as if being was melting into being. And Phoolan’s
legs were strong, like pythons, clasping a man to her as he entered, relaxing not until the course was run for both.”
The rishi’s eyes held me, and his smile seemed to mock my innocence. Selecting another piece of fruit, he continued, “Harpal was blind, and from an early age she had been trained in the art of massage. Her hands and feet were beautiful, well-cared for, strong and delicate. They could coax from a man’s well more than he believed himself to contain, so that his essence was as a perpetual fountain.
“These, then, Rowan-sahib, were the most-favoured of my many wives.” He thrust his head forward, one eyebrow raised sardonically, as if to ask my opinion of his marital history.
Compelled to say something, if only as a necessity to disguise my discomfiture, I asked, “How can a man have had so many wives in one lifetime?”
Yet again, the laugh, which was beginning to make me shiver. “One lifetime? How old do you think I am, young man?”
I hesitated, and Aditya snapped, “The Barr-Taylor has already told you, and yet neither of you believe.”
“How did you know what Barr-Taylor-Sahib told me?” I demanded.
“I have powers beyond the extent of your reasoning. As you sat on your verandah, smoking and drinking, he told you that I am more than two hundred years old. This is true, sahib. Indeed, I am very much more than that. I was blessed with an inexorable will, a gift from the gods which has enabled me to defy death.”
Aditya changed tack suddenly, his tone becoming less intense, more gentle. “Rowan-sahib, for me the two most powerful forces are those of sex and death, and thus far I have been in total control of both. Despite my great age, I am proud that Chandira and myself still enjoy frequent and vigorous couplings.”
He gestured around the room. “Look about you, young sahib, look at the gods I keep in my dwelling. There is Prithivi, and yonder sits Yama, King of the dead. Here is Kama, controller of our desires, and there and there, Shiva and Kali, the Destroyers.
“But even I cannot defer death forever.” The rishi smiled ruefully, “Which is why I have settled in this village, for it is my fate to end my days here.”
Aditya stood abruptly. “Come with me, Rowan-sahib. I will give you a demonstration of my power over death.” He had exited before I realized it.
At the doorway, I turned to thank the rishi’s wife for her hospitality. My words were awkward for I was still shaken by Aditya’s frankness in front of the woman.
After the inner gloom, the sunlight dazzled and the rishi took my arm to guide me. As we walked, he murmured, “There will be a service you can perform for me, sahib.”
“Of course, if I can What is it?”
“You will know when the time comes,” he replied, “Ah, I think this will do.”
He had led me to the far edge of the village and I became aware of a disgusting stink nearby.
Stepping a few yards into the fringes of the jungle, Aditya kicked aside some heavy grasses to reveal the rotting corpse of a pi-dog. A great cloud of flies arose and with them the smothering stench of death and corruption. The body had an oddly collapsed look about it and I noticed a long trail of ants coming and going from the anal region. Ribs were laid bare and shreds of ripped innards exposed where some small scavenger had been burrowing. The sockets were empty, the eyes no doubt pecked away by crows.
“I think you will agree that this dog is dead, Rowan-sahib?”
“Disgustingly so,” I said, holding my handkerchief to my nose and mouth, trying to refrain from gagging.
“Then please, stand back a few yards and observe what happens.”
I moved back as requested and carefully watched the rishi. He became motionless and his eyes rolled back until only the whites showed. It was hideously still, for even the normal forest cacophony had quieted. Then I heard a curious grunting noise and my attention was drawn towards the pi-dog.
The dead creature was lurching to its feet, its movements stiff and feeble, like those of a badly-strung puppet. Having gained a precarious standing position, it turned and began to stagger towards me, remnant of tail wagging half-heartedly. A swollen, blackened tongue, partly gnawed by something, lolled from the side of its mouth, and the blind holes gazed into my face. Deep in the sockets, I could see writhing nests of maggots and . . .
. . . And I think it was then that I yelled like a banshee and ran. I was in a blue funk and I’m not ashamed to admit to it.
I ran back through the village square, where Mushtaq Khan still sat with the leaders, dashed to my horse and galloped away. I was to find later that the poor creature was badly marked where I had spurred it so savagely, something I had never done to a horse before.
The Pathan caught up with me about a mile or so down the road, catching at my reins and pulling my horse to a halt. “What is it, sahib, what ails you?”
“The holy man . . . he . . .” I shook my head. “I cannot tell you, Mushtaq Khan. He . . . showed me something. It’s enough of a burden for me. I just want to forget, and I never want to see the rishi again.”
“Come, sahib, come with me. Let us go to a place of peace.” And probably against all of his instincts, the old Pathan led me to that temple in the jungle where I stayed for a long time, staring at the welcoming goddess and trying to find some mental peace.
Life went on. I wrote Barr-Taylor a brief report of my visit to Katachari, mentioning that Aditya had welcomed me into his home. I omitted all reference to the rishi’s conversation and nothing would have compelled me to mention the dead dog.
I immersed myself in work, went up country to visit other places, did anything I could to forget that dreadful experience. For a few weeks I had intermittent nightmares, usually involving dead animals, then they faded away. Gradually, as I overcame my horror, I persuaded myself of something that I should have thought of in the first instance. I became convinced that the rishi had somehow drugged or hypnotised me.
I was in my office one evening, smoking a cigar and sipping at a glass of lime juice as I struggled to balance my monthly accounts. It was stiflingly hot and the lazy flapping of the punkah did little to stir the air. I could not be bothered to urge greater efforts from the young lad paid a few annas to perform this menial task. He was probably as jaded by the heat as I was.
I stood up to stretch and to ease the aching muscles around my neck and shoulders, when I became aware of something out of the corner of my eye. I turned and found myself staring at the rishi, although how he had entered the room so quietly I have no notion. His palms were together in namaste, his eyes were closed, and there was a slight smile on his face. Then as I was about to greet him, somewhat irascibly, he faded from sight and I was faced by nothing more than a cornerful of shadows.
“Sweet Jesus!” The sweat on my body turned to ice as I lurched across the room to the drinks cabinet. Then came my next shock. As I fumbled with the top of the whisky bottle, I heard a scratching noise outside, on the other side from the verandah. Almost without thinking, I snatched my Webley pistol from the drawer where I kept it and threw back the shutters.
Staring in at me was the startled face of Yasim, an elderly harijan employed to tend the grounds around my bungalow. I snatched breath in sheer relief.
“Yasim! What are you doing out there? Why lurk about like a sneak thief? You must know that if you wish to see me you need only knock at the door. What is it you want, man?”
My visitor shook his head urgently and raised a finger to his lips. “I should not be here, Rowan-sahib, for there is great danger for me. I am come to tell you of a rumour that is rife in the district. They say that the rishi, Aditya, is very near to death. It may even be that he is gone now.”
I cannot say that I was greatly disturbed by this news. The mention of the holy man’s name brought back that scene of horror at the forest’s edge, and my instinct was that the sooner he died the better.
Then I remembered the rishi’s words. “There will be a service you can perform for me . . . you will know what it is when the time comes.�
� The apparition, vision, hallucination, whatever it was that I had just experienced. Had this been some kind of telepathy? Had this been the rishi’s way of calling on my services?
“I must go to Katachari, then,” I said, “Aditya-sahib will wish me to attend the funeral rites, to represent the Raj.”
There was a frightened look in the gardener’s eyes. “Sahib, if ever asked, I will deny having told you this, such is the peril. I have to tell you the same rumours whisper that the holy man’s wife intends to become suttee.”
Suttee. The word chilled me. I knew of it – who born and raised in India did not? Which well-read person or seasoned traveller did not shudder at the hideous and alien concept? Which district officer in the land did not pray that he would never encounter it?
Suttee. A Sanskrit word. Literally, it means a virtuous woman. In practice, it means the self-immolation of a Hindu widow on her husband’s funeral pyre for, it is held, why would a virtuous woman wish to survive her husband? And it need not always be self-immolation, for it had been known for reluctant widows to be bound and cast into the flames.
The practice had been outlawed some sixty or seventy years previously, but it was tacitly accepted that it continued in remoter places. Now it was to happen in Katachari and it was my duty to stop it.
Early in the morning I arose before anyone else and sneaked out of the bungalow. I saddled my horse and led the beast a good distance away before I mounted and began to ride.
I reached Katachari as the villagers were stirring. Plumes of smoke from early morning fires formed thin columns in the air and I could smell naan-bread baking and tea brewing. I had heard the sounds of chatter among families and neighbours but these fell silent as I rode into the square. I saw a boy running to Gokul’s home and moments later the zamindar was scurrying towards me, a small crowd at his heels.
The Mammoth Book of Frankenstein (Mammoth Books) Page 57
