“Goodbye, old girl,” said Spence. “And thanks for the ride.”
“I had forgotten that we would have to give her up,” said Adjani sadly. “I was growing fond of her.”
Spence sighed and nodded.
THE GOVERNOR, BY CONTRAST with his subjects, was a tall man of princely bearing. Spence found it easy to imagine that he had somehow been transported back in time and sat in the presence of Indian royalty in the time of the Moghuls.
White marble gleamed at every turn, some of it covered with rich oriental carpets; potted palms sat in great beaten brass jars, and the almond-colored walls were hung with animal skins and carvings of jade and alabaster, ivory and teak. The ceiling, also carved with the intricate stylized designs of elephants, lions, and dancing maidens, glittered with gilt and was supported with large serpentine columns of green marble.
In one of the palace’s many audience rooms they sat in an alcove formed by a screen that had been carved from thin slabs of yellow marble in the figure of thousands of intertwined roses. Red silk cushions on great rattan chairs made the travelers feel like members of nobility as they sat sipping tea and conversing with the governor. A hamal of the governor’s serving staff hovered nearby with silver plates of small nut cakes and sweetmeats.
“I am very distraught over the attack on my minister’s party. Nevertheless, I am pleased to have Ambooli, my elephant, returned and to learn of this outrage against my authority. I am grateful to you for this kindness. It shall be rewarded.
. “Is there anything else which I may do to show my gratitude? You have but to speak.”
“Thank you, Governor, but your hospitality has been proof enough,” replied Adjani.
“It is nothing. It would please me to know that while you remain in Darjeeling you will make my home your own. We seldom receive such auspicious guests, and I would enjoy the pleasure of your company.” A quick flick of his wrist with fingers extended sent the hamal scurrying away. “You see? It has already been arranged.”
“Governor—” began Spence.
“Please, enough of titles. To you I am simply Fazlul.” His smile was gracious, charming, and unaccountably reserved—as if he were playing a game which required him to smile, but obviously felt it an imposition upon his true feelings. Spence noticed that the governor’s eyes kept darting to the screens around them as if he expected at any moment to leap up and surprise an eavesdropping assassin. On the whole, Fazlul had about him an air of subtle, crafty meanness which he held in check by diplomacy and refined manners.
Their host looked every inch the ruler of old, capable of presenting his guests with a fair daughter’s hand, or sewing them up in goatskin bags with wildcats—whichever fancy happened to strike him at the moment.
“Yes, Fazlul,” repeated Spence. “We have heard that there are ruins of an old palace somewhere in the hills near here. Would there be someone who could direct us, do you think?”
“Oh, you are an archaeologist? I thought so the moment I laid eyes on you. Of course, you know that these hills hold many secrets. There are many such sites which might interest you: palaces, temples, cave tombs, shrines. This was once the center of the world, you know. And, I would like to believe, it will be again.
“However, I will assign our state historian to confer with you and advise you. He will provide you with a guide and I am sure will wish to accompany you himself. As you will see, you shall all become very popular visitors. I hope your stay is a long one, because I think you will not have time to accept every invitation which is sure to come your way.
“But tonight you will be my guests at a banquet which commemorates the celebration of Naag Brasputi. It is a local festival. Very colorful. I am sure you will find it amusing.”
The governor rose and placed his palms together and raised them to his chin. “Namastey, gentlemen. Until tonight.”
The three guests stood and bid the governor good day and watched him walk away—shoulders high, back straight, and hands held close to his sides as if wearing the crown and carrying the scepter of his office.
“I feel like I have just had an audience with the King of Siam,” said Spence.
“You are not far wrong,” said Adjani. “His is an imperial line that goes back centuries.”
“He is a proud and ruthless man,” remarked Gita. “Even in Calcutta we have heard stories about him. It would be better for us that he did not esteem our company so highly.”
17
IF THE GOVERNOR HAD contrived to impress his guests he could not have succeeded more completely. They were called from their rooms at dusk—after they had napped, bathed, and changed into new muslin clothes—and were conducted to a great banquet hall which opened at one end onto a vast lawn. People of all types—officials, servants, other guests, and dignitaries— were assembling in the hall, and on the lawn a circus appeared to be swinging into action.
Walking out onto the broad green lawn in the fiery violet-and-orange sunset which lit the mountain peaks around them with cool flame, the three saw jugglers, fire-eaters, snake charmers, and acrobats. A man hanging by his heels from a rope swung round and round on a long pole, whirling as he went. Other performers walked tightropes, and everywhere dancers displayed intricate and facile movements to groups of applauding onlookers. Laughing youngsters threw flower petals and splashed perfumed water on all the guests, and strains of exotic music filled the air
People from the city poured into other palace lawns and soon the noise and revel reached the threshold of chaos, though a gay sort of chaos.
Spence, Adjani, and Gita moved among the crowds and gawked first at one strange sight—a man who drew wide acclaim by swallowing live snakes and then drawing them back out an inch at a time—and then at another—a man who pushed long steel needles through his cheeks and eyelids and the skin of his throat.
Spence found the festive atmosphere exciting and repulsive at the same time. He felt like a country rube who had come to town to see the freak show; it fascinated and amazed, but left a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. All of it was utterly beyond his experience, foreign and inexplicably odd. Nothing in his world of books and instruments hinted at the existence of this world he was seeing. He had nothing to compare it to.
Adjani hovered at Spence’s shoulder, watching him with keen interest and explaining when he could what they were seeing and something of the significance behind it. Gita also supplied helpful explanations, but he was too caught up in the spectacle as a participant himself to count on as a guide. His round form could be seen darting here and there in the crush to join a dance or thrust into the forefront of an audience. He was soon decked in layers of flower garlands. His face shone with boyish enthusiasm; clearly, anyone would have thought that the entire show had been produced for his enjoyment alone.
As the first of the evening stars came out, adding their bright light to the color below, Spence and his companions were shepherded back into the banquet hall where they were seated at an enormous table at the open end overlooking the roistering scene of the celebration.
They and other dignitaries and ministers at the table were given bowls of rose water and hot, lemon-scented towels to freshen themselves from their exertion. Then hamals began circulating with trays of delicate iced cakes and other appetizers.
The governor appeared at a balcony just above the lawn in full view of his guests at the table and the festival crowd. A thunderous chorus of acclamation greeted his arrival. The guests at the table stood and were no less enthusiastic in their welcome than the populace on the lawn.
Fazlul, resplendent in gleaming white tunic and trousers, a long flowing white mantle edged in silver, and a white turban with a huge sparkling gemstone on his brow, raised his hands to the adoring revelers, and silence descended over them in a hush. He spoke a few words which Spence could not understand and then raised his hands once more and the celebration erupted into life. Spence guessed that their beloved leader had given his blessing to the occasion and comma
nded that the night be enjoyed to the full. Obviously, the order was immensely popular with all who heard it; they threw themselves into its execution in all haste.
The governor and his wife, a statuesque, dark-haired beauty clothed in shimmering pale green, descended the broad staircase that joined the balcony with the terrace and moved among their honored guests. They stopped at each place and spoke with each guest briefly before moving on. Soon they were standing before Spence, Adjani, and Gita.
The three stood uncertainly as the governor announced to his wife, “These are the men I told you about who saved Ambooli. Gentlemen, my wife, Sarala.”
With a smile of warmth and cheer the lovely lady raised her pressed palms together and inclined her head toward them. “Namastey, my friends. Thank you for saving Ambooli. She is, as you may have guessed, my husband’s favorite. It was a regrettable tragedy, but we are glad that you have come to us. Please enjoy yourselves. I hope that I will have the pleasure of an audience with you alone very soon. News of the world comes so seldom to the mountains.” She smiled again and Spence saw the hint of a wink. “And visitors even more rarely. We must sit down and have a long talk.”
“The pleasure would be ours,” replied Adjani smoothly. The governor nodded stiffly and moved away saying, “Enjoy the evening. It will be quite fantastic, I assure you.”
“He was certainly restrained,” whispered Spence to Adjani when Fazlul and Sarala had gone. “Did you notice he didn’t look at us all the time his wife was speaking?”
“Yes, strange.” Adjani shrugged. “Perhaps our stay here should be a short one. I would feel better if we weren’t imposing on one so powerful.”
“Is he so powerful, do you think? I don’t know what to make of him.”
Adjani shrugged again. “I’m sure we’re making more of this than we should. I can think of no reason why we should come under his suspicion.”
“Maybe not, but I have felt danger from him both times we met.”
ALL AT ONCE A rattle and a clatter broke out just in front of the terrace. Musicians in costume with drums and tambalas and native flutes struck up an eerie, otherworldly music and a score of dancing girls came running.
“The floor show,” said Spence.
“Dancing is a way of life in India. Everyone dances. And the various dances have special meanings. This is a festive dance, a dance of joy. The girls’ costumes are handed down from mother to daughter over many generations. To dance well is to please the gods.”
Though intricate, the steps and hand movements performed to the rhythm of the drums seemed to Spence to be more strutting and posing than dancing. But he drank in the sight of the lithe, supple bodies in their colorful red, green, and gold shifts with gold bodices and bare midriffs. Gold necklaces and earrings and noserings glittered in the light as the girls danced, slowly at first but with ever increasing tempo.
One dance was followed by another and another—sometimes with male dancers, sometimes with female, and sometimes mixed. Food on steaming platters arrived and Adjani supervised the filling of Spence’s plates, providing a running commentary on what each dish was and its relative spiciness. Toddy flowed freely, and Spence drank the sweet-tasting liquor in great gulps, chasing the food with little regard for its potency.
In a short while he was gazing on all around him with glittering eyes and a beaming, if hazy disposition.
A troupe of actors took the improvised stage as the dishes were cleared away. Spence watched the incomprehensible drama—which seemed to him to center on the discovery of ants in one of the character’s items of clothing—and slipped into melancholy. Perhaps it was a reaction to the strong drink or to the events of the past several days. At any rate he felt himself sliding deeper and deeper into a bleak and cheerless frame of mind, heightened by the noise and gaiety surging all around him.
Adjani noticed his friend’s pensive demeanor and regarded him carefully. He was not surprised when—during a parade of floats in honor of Brasputi—Spence rudely got up from his chair and walked out onto the lawn without saying a word to anyone.
The other guests at the long table were already mingling among the celebrants once more, so no one noticed Spence’s odd behavior. He moved into the throng dancing around a gigantic effigy of the green-skinned, six-armed Brasputi and was swept away in the flood of torchbearing dancers.
He was not actually aware of his depressed emotional outlook. To him it merely seemed that he lost interest in the revel around him and sought a quiet corner to himself. He brushed past leering papier-mache statues wearing garlands and grinning with lusty smirks on their green faces, and shook flower petals out of his hair as he moved through the jostling crowd.
He took no notice of these things, or of any of the other thousand sights before him. His eyes were turned inward, for he had begun to brood upon the object of his affection: Ari. She had not been entirely out of his mind for more than a minute at any time since they had parted company at the asylum near Boston. In all that had happened to him since, his uppermost thought had been of her.
That something very wrong was happening to her he felt in his heart. It seemed to come in waves, striking at odd moments— like the time on the road—as if he were being summoned. The feeling had come strong upon him as he sat over his dinner. He felt it like he felt an ache in his soul. She was in trouble and needed his help.
Now, as he moved across the lawn in blind retreat from the raucous festivities, he felt the pangs stronger than ever. He knew he was close to her—somewhere in these green hills she waited. He could feel her closeness as if she were beckoning to him across the distance in a silent call only his soul could hear.
He began to run, blindly, recklessly. He jogged across the lawn and found an open gate in the wall and ran out into the swarming streets of Darjeeling.
In his mind he heard a voice urging him on. Run, find her! She needs you! Hurry! Every second counts! Run!
And he obeyed.
The streets of the city were alive with the festival crowds moving their floats toward the Raj Bhavan. Later the images would be taken to the lake nearby and set ablaze and pushed out into the lake on their small barges while fireworks lit the night sky, symbolizing the victory of Naag Brasputi over his enemies. But now the parade was in full procession and the dancing, chanting townspeople vied for the favor of the governor in presenting the biggest or most richly adorned effigy.
Like a salmon running against the stream he fought the current of people moving toward the palace. One thought, and one thought only, drummed in his brain: Find Ari. Find her before it’s too late.
He dodged here and there among the mobs and at last came upon a dark and quiet side street. He stood for a moment looking down its steep decline. Go, the voice said. Hurry. He went.
When he reached the bottom of the street he found himself on another level of the city, this one somewhat poorer and less well kept than the government section. The streets were narrower and the houses thrust up against one another and towered overhead. They were, for the most part, vacant, their inhabitants having joined the main celebration elsewhere in the city.
Spence listened to the sound of his own footsteps as he ran alone, pausing only at intervals to find some new path. Without his knowing he was quickly moving out of Darjeeling proper toward Chaurastha, the city’s ancient nucleus.
He did not notice that he crossed several bridges, nor did he hear the swift splash of the icy water below. These bridges marked the boundaries of Darjeeling. When he crossed them he moved into old Chaurastha—City of Dreams.
The streets fell away steeply in terraced flights, and steps flashed darkly beneath his feet; but he continued, driven by the urging he heard within him. He seemed directed toward a place he did not know but believed he would recognize when he found it. He let his legs carry him where they would.
The moon gleamed full overhead. In the city above he could hear the merrymaking of the multitudes, but here in the old city silence remained undisturbed.
He could see the orange glow of thousands of torches in the sky, but here it was dark. He stopped to look around him and heard the rasp of his own breathing echoing among the dark walls and passages of the sacred city and the occasional bark of a dog.
He went more slowly, walking among the odd-shaped houses and shops in the deserted town, and came to a narrow old footbridge. He crossed it and found himself before a temple. The wide wooden gate was open, so he went in.
He moved like a shadow across the temple yard toward the small stupa in the center. The stupa was hive-shaped like all the others he had seen, but different. He entered the shrine and felt the cool breath of the evening on his face and neck as he slipped into the darkness.
The shrine was lit for the most part by moonlight falling through the hole in the center of the dome, but two torches burned before the deity’s stone altar. Spence moved toward the altar.
It was a plain stone slab with words carved in it which he could not read. He stood gazing at it for some time, blinking in the flickering torchlight.
The feeling of having been directed to this place ran strong in him. He looked around and shook his head as one coming out of a dream in which he finds that his dream has come true.
How had he come to be here? Where were Adjani and Gita? Why had he come?
Spence passed a hand before his eyes. Had he blacked out again? No, he did remember certain things: running down darkened streets, pushing through crowds, garish idols grinning at him. It was all there, and yet it must have happened to someone else.
Along with the feeling of waking from a dream, overlaying all other sensations, was the unaccountable certainty that he had been here before; he would have sworn his life on it.
The shape of the stupa, its interior, the design of the altar, and the words carved upon it—they all seemed very familiar, and yet very strange. If he had been here before, he told himself, it must have been in another life, or on some other planet.
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