The Far Pavilions

by M. M. Kaye

  This tale, unlike many others, was not based on hearsay, for a number of men in the camp had seen the cheetah burned alive. And though it had later been given out that its trainer had fled the state, few believed it. ‘They say that he too died that same night,’ said Mahdoo. ‘But as to that, there is no proof; and though it is certain that the man was never seen again, that is not to say he is dead. It may be that he feared for his life and ran away. Who knows?’

  ‘At a guess, the Maharajah,’ said Ash grimly.

  Mahdoo nodded in agreement. ‘So it is believed. The Maharajah is young, but already he is greatly feared by his people. Yet it would be unwise to suppose that he is hated by all, for the people of Karidkote have never cared for weaklings, and many are pleased that their new ruler has shown himself both cunning and ruthless; taking this to be an assurance that they will not lose their independence and be swallowed up by the British, as other princely states have been. There are also many who admire him for those very qualities that make him the evil youth he is.’

  ‘And many others, I suspect,’ said Ash, ‘who hate him enough to plot against him, and hope to pull him down so that they may set another in his place.’

  ‘You mean the young prince?’ Mahdoo pursed his lips and looked sceptical. ‘Well, maybe. Yet if so, it is something I have not heard spoken of among the tents; and for myself, I do not think that in these times even the worst of the grumblers would desire to be ruled by a child.’

  ‘Ah, but they would not be. That is the point. They would be ruled by that child's advisers, and it is certain that those advisers would be the ones who plotted to place him on the throne. It would be they and not the boy who would rule Karidkote.’

  ‘Biju Ram,’ murmured Mahdoo, as though considering the name.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ inquired Ash sharply. ‘What have you heard about him?’

  ‘Nothing good. He is not liked, and I have heard him called many evil names: scorpion, snake, jackal, spy and pander, and a dozen more. He is said to have been a creature of the late Maharani's and there is a tale… But that was many years ago and is of no consequence.’

  ‘What tale?’ demanded Ash.

  Mahdoo shrugged his shoulders by way of reply and sucked at his pipe, brooding like an elderly parrot while the hookah bubbled gently in the silence. He refused to say anything more on the subject. But when Gul Baz came in to settle Ash for the night and he rose to take his leave, he returned to it briefly:

  ‘Touching the matter we were discussing, I will make inquiry,’ said Mahdoo, and went away to gather his nightly quota of gossip from around the camp fires that flickered in the darkness.

  But the tittle-tattle of the camp produced nothing new, and Ash realized that if there was any more to be learned it must come from some other source, preferably from one of Nandu's immediate family – the Rajkumari Anjuli for choice. Juli was only a few months older than Nandu, and being the nearest to him in age must surely know more about him and be a better judge of his nature than anyone else in the camp. She had also known Biju Ram for many years, and she would not have forgotten Lalji…

  ‘If only I could talk to her,’ thought Ash for perhaps the twentieth time. ‘Juli will know. I must manage it somehow… it can't be impossible. As soon as I can get on my feet again –’

  But he did not have to wait as long as that.

  19

  ‘My sister Shushila,’ announced Jhoti, presenting himself at Captain Pelham-Martyn's tent some two days later, ‘says she wishes to see you.’

  ‘Does she?’ inquired Ash without much interest. ‘What about?’

  ‘Oh, just to talk, I think,’ said Jhoti airily. ‘She wanted to come with me to visit you, but my uncle said she must not: he does not think it would be proper. But he said that he would speak to Gobind, and if Gobind agreed, he did not see why you should not be carried across to the durbar tent this afternoon, where we can all eat and talk together.’

  Ash's gaze ceased to wander and he was suddenly alert. ‘Has Gobind agreed?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He said you could be carried across in a dhooli. I told my sister that I did not think you would wish to go, because girls only giggle and chatter like a lot of parrots and never seem to have anything sensible to talk about. But she says that it is your talk she wishes to hear. My uncle says that this is because she is bored and afraid, and the things you speak of, being strange to her, cheer her up and make her laugh, so that she forgets her fears. Shu-shu has no courage at all: not one grain. She is even frightened of mice.’

  ‘And your other sister?’

  ‘Oh, Kairi is different. But then she is quite old, you know; and besides, her mother was a feringhi. She is strong too, and taller than my brother Nandu – a whole two inches taller. Nandu says she should have been a man, and I wish she had been; then she would have been Maharajah instead of him. Kairi would never have tried to stop me going to the wedding like my brother did – fat, spiteful bully that he is.’

  Ash would have liked nothing better than to talk of Kairi-Bai, but he had no intention of allowing Jhoti to make uncomplimentary remarks about the Maharajah in his presence, particularly when there were at least two of the boy's attendants within call, not to mention several of his own. He therefore turned the conversation into less dangerous channels and spent the rest of the morning answering endless questions on the subject of cricket and football and similar pastimes of the Angrezi-log, until Biju Ram came to fetch Jhoti away for the mid-day meal.

  Biju Ram had not stayed long, but to Ash even those few minutes had seemed interminable. It was all very well to come under that sly, hostile scrutiny by lamplight and in a crowded tent – and when one was wearing mess dress and presumably looking very much a foreigner and a Sahib. But it was quite a different matter to endure it in broad daylight while lying propped up and helpless on a camp bed, and as he looked up into the familiar face of his old enemy and listened to the smooth tones of that well-remembered voice mouthing glib compliments and inquiring solicitously after his health, Ash found it difficult to believe that the man could fail to recognize him.

  Biju Ram himself had changed so little that seeing him again at close quarters the years dwindled away until the gap that separated the past from the present seemed negligible, and it was only the other day that a boy named Ashok had been the favourite butt of his malicious wit, and the victim of a hundred cruel and humiliating practical jokes that had made Lalji laugh and the courtiers snigger. Surely he could not have forgotten? But though Biju Ram's eyes were as crafty as ever, there was still no trace of recognition in them, and if his fulsome compliments were anything to go by, he seemed to be genuinely grateful for Ash's part in the rescue of Jhoti. This was not surprising if he were indeed out of favour with the Maharajah and hoping to lead a rival party, for Jhoti alive might one day prove to be a trump card, while Jhoti dead could only mean disaster for the handful of men who had accompanied him when he fled from Karidkote.

  It occurred to Ash that probably the strangest aspect of the whole situation was that he and Biju Ram should find themselves on the same side of the fence – any fence. But although he would have preferred to do without such an ally, there was no denying that Biju Ram's ambition, combined with fears for his own skin, might in the end be a better guarantee of Jhoti's safety than any protection that Mulraj or he himself could devise. All the same, the very sight of the man had been enough to tighten his nerves and send a shudder down his spine, and it was a relief to turn his thoughts to the prospects of seeing Juli again in a few hours' time.

  That she would do her best to avoid the meeting he was certain. But then he was equally certain that she would not succeed: Shushila would see to that, for the younger girl plainly leaned heavily on her half-sister for support and was unlikely to make any move without her. He was therefore not surprised to see her enter with her sister a few moments after he himself had been carried there, though what did surprise him was that she made no attempt to avoid his gaze, but looked
gravely back at him, and with an interest as great as his own.

  She had returned his greeting without a trace of embarrassment, and as she bowed to him in the graceful, conventional gesture of namaste, palm pressed to palm and lifted to touch her forehead, the slight sideways inclination of her head and the shape of her hands – those firm, square hands that were so different from the slender hands of most Indian women – were suddenly so familiar that he could not understand why he had not recognized her at sight.

  Anticipating this meeting, he had been afraid she would be cold to him, if not openly hostile, and he had wondered how he could deal with this and made various plans for doing so. But there was neither coldness nor animosity in the eyes that he had likened to the ‘fishpools of Heshbon’, and no fear, merely interest. Evidently Juli had accepted the fact that he was, or had been, Ashok, and was studying him closely in an effort to trace in the features of a strange Englishman the face of a little Hindu boy she had once known; and as the evening wore on he also discovered that she was listening not so much to what he said as to the sound of his voice: testing it, perhaps against her memory of that boy's voice talking to her in the Queen's balcony long ago.

  Ash had very little recollection of what he said during the earlier part of that evening, and he was uneasily conscious of talking at random. But with Juli sitting barely a yard away he found it almost impossible to concentrate. She had always been a rather solemn little girl, unassuming and old beyond her years, and it was clear that she still retained much of that early gravity. It did not take much discernment to see that here was a woman whose life was narrow and busy, and who had lost the habit (if she had ever possessed it) of attaching any importance to her own feelings and desires because the needs of others pressed upon her and absorbed her to the exclusion of all else. An unassertive young person, completely unaware of her own beauty and already, in her attitude towards Shushila, over-burdened with a responsibility that seemed more akin to that of a mother or a devoted nurse rather than an older sister.

  It did not surprise Ash that her unusual looks should be unappreciated by her people or herself, for they diverged too widely from the Indian ideal. But he was disturbed by her acceptance of Shushila's dependence on her and all that it implied, though he did not know why it should make him so uneasy. He could not possibly be afraid of Shushila? He dismissed that thought almost before it entered his mind, and decided that it was because it offended him to think of Juli taking second place to the Nautch-girl's daughter, and cherishing and worrying over a spoilt, pretty, highly strung child, who could force her to do things she did not want to do by the simple expedient of bursting into tears and resorting to moral blackmail of the ‘If you won't come with me, then I shan't go' variety. Yet there was nothing weak about Juli's firm chin or the line of her level brows. And that she was also quick-witted and courageous had been proved by the episode in the river.

  He found it difficult to keep his gaze off her, and did not try very hard to do so, for it was refreshment beyond words merely to look at her. It was only when Jhoti tugged at his sleeve and inquired in a penetrating whisper why he kept staring at Kairi that he awoke to the unwisdom of his behaviour; and after that he was more careful. The hour that Kaka-ji had permitted passed very pleasantly and was an agreeable break from lying on a camp bed with nothing to look at, day after day, but the stretch of barren plain and sun-dried kikar trees that was all Ash could see through the open flaps of his own tent, and of which he was by now heartily tired. ‘You will come again tomorrow,’ said Shushila, her tone making the words a command rather than a query as he prepared to leave. And somewhat to Ash's surprise, Kaka-ji had seconded the invitation; though in fact the old man's reasons for doing so had been simple enough.

  Kaka-ji was tired of listening to his youngest niece's woes. And tired, too, of attempting to soothe the nervous fears that had been temporarily forgotten in the novelty of meeting a foreigner, and the subsequent excitement of Jhoti's rescue and Pelham-Sahib's narrow escape from death, but that had now returned in force as a result of the boredom and inactivity of the past days.

  His niece Kairi was accustomed to work, and even here there were numerous tasks that she was expected to do, such as dealing with the servants, listening to complaints and doing what she could to set matters right, supervising the waiting-women, settling quarrels, ordering meals, cooking and sewing – there was no end to it. But with Shushila it was different, for having been waited on all her days, she found the present state of affairs intolerable. As long as the camp was on the march she could at least count on there being something of interest in each day, and at least they would be moving – even though it was towards a future she dreaded. But owing to Pelham-Sahib's injuries the camp had remained static for far too long, and there was little to occupy a spoilt princess who must stay cooped up in tents that were hot and airless by day and draughty by night.

  Anjuli had done her best to keep her little sister entertained, but such games as chaupur and pachesi soon began to pall, and Shushila complained that music made her head ache, and wept because she did not want to be married and because her cousin Umi, who was Kaka-ji's granddaughter, had died in childbirth, and she did not want to die in a strange country – or at all.

  Kaka-ji, like his brother the late Maharajah, was a peaceable man, but he was rapidly being driven to the limit of exasperation by the tears, fears and megrims of his brother's youngest daughter, and by now was prepared to clutch at any straw that might help to alleviate them. Under normal circumstances he would not have considered it at all proper for any man outside the immediate family circle to continue to meet and converse with his nieces in such a relaxed and friendly fashion, but then the present situation was far from normal. They were, in effect, in the wilderness where every-day rules need not apply; and the man in question being a foreigner to whom they were greatly indebted, if his talk of Belait and the ways of foreigners amused Shushila and served to distract her attention from such things as homesickness and a morbid terror of the future, what harm? In any case, it was not as though he was ever likely to be alone with her; there would always be at least half a dozen others present, and this (and the fact that he was at the moment incapable of moving out of a chair without assistance and therefore could hardly be regarded as a threat to any woman), decided Kaka-ji to second Shushila's command that the Sahib should repeat his visit on the following day.

  The Sahib had done so, and after that – though Kaka-ji was never quite sure how it had come about – it became an accepted thing that he should be carried to the durbar tent every evening, where he and Jhoti and Kaka-ji, and sometimes Muldeo Rai or Mulraj (who by virtue of his relationship and his office was permitted the entrée), would sit and talk with the brides and their women, or play foolish games and gamble for sweets or cowrie shells. It all helped to pass the time and ease Shushila's nervous tension, and she, like Jhoti, delighted in Ash's descriptions of life in Belait, many of which struck them as excruciatingly funny.

  The two would explode into giggles over such things as hunt balls and the absurdity of men and women prancing around in couples to music; of Londoners groping through a pea-soup fog and families bathing in the sea at Brighton; or descriptions of the ludicrously uncomfortable clothes that an Angrezi woman wore: her tight, high-heeled, buttoned boots and tighter corsets – armoured with steel and whalebone and laced to suffocation; the horse-hair bustles worn under innumerable petticoats, the pads of wire and wool over which her hair was rolled and pinned, and the hats that were skewered to this edifice with yet more pins, and decorated with flowers, feathers and fur; or even, on occasions, an entire stuffed bird.

  Of them all, only Anjuli-Bai seldom spoke. But she listened, and some-times laughed, and though ostensibly Ash talked to the company at large, his conversation was in fact almost entirely directed at Anjuli. It was Anjuli he exerted himself to please, and for her that he tried to describe something of his life in England, so that she might know what had happened
to him and how he had lived in the years since his escape from Gulkote.

  He found it astonishingly easy to say things he knew would have one meaning for the others but a different one for Juli, who because of her special knowledge would be able to interpret it in a way that no one else could have done; and often her smile or a faint movement of her head would tell him that she had understood an allusion that had passed the others by. It was as though the clock had turned back, and once again, as they had done in the presence of Lalji and his courtiers, they were speaking to each other in code and using a language that only the two of them understood, for in this respect, if in no other, the rapport that had existed between the children they had once been had survived the years.

  The last time they had played that game Juli had been little more than a baby, and until recently Ash himself had forgotten the way they used to speak to Lalji, or pretend to talk to a pet monkey or one of the macaws when they were in reality talking to each other – exchanging news or arranging where and when they would meet, and indicating times and other details by means of hand signals, coughs or the rearranging of a vase or a cushion. He could even remember their code word for the Queen's balcony: Zamurrad (emerald), which was also the name given to the pampered peacock that lived with his harem in the Yuveraj's garden. The connection, a reference to the Peacock Tower, was easy to follow, and there had been a hundred ways in which one or other of them could bring that word into a conversation.