The Far Pavilions

by M. M. Kaye

  Certainly Jhoti would never have thought of it, and it occurred to Ash that if, as Mulraj seemed to think, the gods were on the boy's side, it was a pity that they had remained uninterested in the fate of his sisters, for had they removed Nandu a year earlier none of this would have happened. True, he himself would not have met Anjuli again – though in the circumstances, that would surely have been far better for both of them. But at least Shushila would have been happier and Biju Ram would still be alive; and as Jhoti took after his father's side of the family, he would not have worried his head over imaginary rivals or wasted the revenues of his state in showing off to his fellow princes – as Nandu had done when he sent that preposterously large bridal camp traipsing across half India.

  Yet even now, waiting to see Anjuli leave for her husband's house, he could not feel sorry that he had met her again, and known her and loved her. The pain of loss and the prospect of the long, empty years ahead could not outweigh that, or make it less wonderful to him; and he knew that if he had been able to foresee the future when he first discovered the Rajkumari Anjuli of Karidkote, whom he was escorting to her wedding in Bhithor, was none other than little Kairi-Bai of the Queen's balcony, it would have made no difference at all. He would still have handed her his half of the luck-charm – and accepted the consequences with gladness and gratitude.

  Wally, who was always falling in and out of love, had been fond of quoting lines that some poet or other had written, to the effect that it was ‘better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all’. Well, Wally – and Tennyson, or whoever it was – had been right. It was better, infinitely better, to have loved Juli and lost her than not to have loved her at all. And if he did nothing worthwhile in the years ahead, life would still have been worth living because he had once loved and been loved by her…

  It had taken him long enough to realize that, and it struck him as curious that he should not have done so until now, of all times, when he was waiting to catch a last glimpse of her. But it was enough that he had done so; and the knowledge brought him the same kind of relief that an exhausted swimmer feels when he reaches shallow water, and knows that he is not going to drown after all.

  The departure of the brides and the groom had been a magnificent affair, and one that would surely have gratified the vanity of the late Maharajah of Karidkote if he could have seen it. His state elephants, gorgeously caparisoned, stood in the blaze of torchlight before the main entrance of the Pearl Palace, rocking gently from one foot to another as they waited for the procession to start. Their trunks and foreheads, their fringed ears and massive legs had been decorated with painted designs in brilliant colours, and their tusks ringed with bands of gold. The shimmering fringes of their velvet housings reached almost to the ground, and the embossed gold and silver-gilt of the howdahs gathered light from the bright flame of torches and the twinkling of innumerable chirags.

  The start had already been held up by over an hour by the time Kaka-ji's message was delivered to Ash, and another hour went by without any sign of a move. Servants handed round pan and itr, and later, trays of little cakes to the patiently waiting crowd, and the guests munched and yawned and passed the time in desultory small-talk, until at last the groom's closest friends appeared on the steps of the palace. After that, things moved swiftly: a band struck up to signal the start, and as the elephants sank ponderously to their knees, an advance guard of gaily dressed horsemen set off with a clatter of hooves into the night. The Rana, ablaze with jewels and attended by a file of courtiers and uniformed servants, came through the gateway, closely followed by a small group of women – the Ranis of Bhithor and their ladies.

  Tonight Shushila's sari was of flame-coloured gauze spangled and embroidered with gold, and though she wore it pulled far forward and held close to shield her face, the gems beneath it seemed to burn through it like fire. She walked without grace, supported by two attendants and almost tottering under the sheer weight of the jewels that decked every available inch of her slight body, and at each step the rakhri on her forehead trembled and its central stone, an enormous spinel ruby, glinted blood-red through the gauze.

  Two paces behind her came Anjuli, tall and slender in green. Her sari was bordered with silver and seed pearls, but once again she was overshadowed by Shushila's splendour. There was an emerald on her forehead, faintly visible through the woven silk that was fine enough to betray the hint of copper in her dark hair and the thin red line that coloured her parting-the streak of kunkum that only a wife may wear. Her hair had been threaded with pearls and braided into a thick plait that swung down almost to her knee, and as she passed him Ash caught the scent of dried rose-petals that he would always associate with her.

  She must have known that he would be there among the other spectators, but she kept her head bent and did not glance to left or right. The Rana mounted a silver ladder held against the leading elephant by two scarlet-turbaned servants, and settled himself in the howdah. Shu-shu went next, half-pushed, half-carried by her women, and took her place at his side. And then Anjuli was mounting the steps, slim, straight and royal, a flash of green and silver and the end of a swinging plait of dark hair; narrow feet the colour of carved ivory and a glimpse of slender ankles circled with jewels.

  The mahout shouted a word of command and the elephant lurched to its feet: and as it moved off, Anjuli looked down from her seat in the gilded howdah. Her eyes, dark-rimmed with kohl, appeared enormous above the close-held edge of her sari, and they did not search among the sea of faces below her, but went directly to Ash, as though the compulsion of his own intent gaze had been strong enough to tell her exactly where he stood.

  For a long, long moment they looked at each other, straight and steadily. Looked with love and longing, and without grief, trying to say with their eyes all those things that did not need saying because they knew them already: ‘I love you… I will always love you… Do not forget me.’ And in Juli's wide eyes the words she had spoken long ago on a moonlit night, looking down on him as she was looking now – Khuda hafiz – God be with you. Then the attendants and the torch-bearers closed up on either side, another band struck up and the howdah swayed as the elephant swung slowly away, taking Juli and Shu-shu and the Rana down the avenue of shade trees towards the gates of the park and the mile-long road that led to the city and the Rung Mahal.

  Ash remembered very little of what happened after that. He retained a confused impression of other elephants plodding majestically past him carrying the senior members of the barat, and had a vague recollection of helping Kaka-ji, Jhoti and Maldeo Rai into a gilded howdah, and seeing Mulraj and others of the Karidkote party climb into another and be borne away in their turn. After that it was a discordant blur of drums and flutes and horsemen, and of endless numbers of gaudily dressed men marching off into the night accompanied by files of linkmen bearing torches. The head of that long procession must have reached the Rung Mahal before the last of those who marched in it passed under the flower-decked arch leading out of the park, and Ash supposed that he must have stayed among the spectators outside the Pearl Palace and made polite conversation to the end, for it was long past midnight by the time he walked back through the hot night to his rooms in the airless guest-house.

  The punkah-coolie who squatted in the verandah outside his bedroom, and whose task it was to pull the rope that set the heavy punkah swinging to and fro to create an artificial draught, was asleep at his post. So too was the chowkidar who lay, sheeted like a corpse, on a string bed that he had placed in the shelter of the porch. Ash did not wake them. He turned and trod softly away to where a flight of stone steps led upwards, and climbing them came out on the flat roof and went to lean on the parapet and look out at the lake and the city.

  He had fought hard against thinking of Juli during the past weeks, and though he had not always been successful he had done his best, closing his mind against her with a deliberate effort of will whenever the thought of her slipped past his defences. But it had be
en a constant battle, and one that he knew he would have to continue fighting until time and old age came to his rescue, for he could not spend his days listening to echoes and living on memories. Life had to be lived, and he could not share his with Juli: he would have to come to terms with that – they both would. But tonight he could afford to devote a few hours to her, and who knew but that his thoughts might not be able to reach her across the scant mile that separated them, so that she would know that he was thinking of her, and be comforted.

  The park below him was gradually sinking into silence. Dawn came early in these latitudes, and those who had not followed the procession were settling down to get what sleep they could before the birds awoke and another burning day was upon them. But torches still laid a jiggling ribbon of light along the road leading to the city, and Bhithor itself was ablaze with illuminations and noisy with bands and patarkars. High above the crowded houses, the sandstone roofs and cupolas of the Rung Mahal stood out against the night sky, glowing like burnished copper in the light of thousands of chirags, and Ash could picture the scene in the outer courtyard as one by one the elephants came in under the arch of the great gateway, and knelt to let their riders dismount. By now Juli would be in the Zenana Quarters and seeing for the first time the rooms in which she would spend the rest of her days: her women would be removing her jewels and laying away her gala dress, and very soon –

  His imagination checked abruptly, but even as his mind winced from the thought, he realized that it would not be Juli but Shushila who would have to share the Rana's bed tonight. The Rana had never wanted Juli and perhaps he never would, and if so she might be left in peace and allowed to live out her life, busy and unregarded, taking care of Shu-shu and of Shu-shu's children; though it was a poor enough outlook for a girl like Juli, who was young and beautiful and formed for love…

  To deprive her of motherhood and shut her away from life and happiness in the narrow world of the Zenana was as great a crime against heaven as the caging of a lark; but perhaps Shu-shu would come to realize the extent of that sacrifice, and repay it in the only possible way – with love. Ash could only hope so, though without much confidence, for Shu-shu had depended on her half-sister for so long that by now she took her devotion for granted – and it is only the thirsty or starving who are grateful for bread and water.

  Juli was bread and water. But when there was rich food and wine and juicy fruits for the taking, Shu-shu might well lose her taste for plain fare and end by thinking it dull and unnecessary, and turn from it. One could not trust Shu-shu, that was the rub. She might mean well, but she had always been ruled by her emotions, and no one could tell in which direction they would drive her. And after all, she was still only a child and like most children, susceptible to flattery. Among these strangers there would be many who would spare no pains to ingratiate themselves with the new First Lady of the Palace – and several who would do their best to wean her away from her dependence on her half-sister and supplant Juli in her affections.

  ‘Oh, my darling,’ thought Ash, ‘my dear, sweet, foolhardy love – what will become of you? What is to become of me?’

  Once again the future yawned before him as lonely and dark and cold as outer space, and as endless as eternity, and there seemed no point in living if he must live without Juli. Bitterness and self-pity welled up in him, bringing its own weakness and making him less a man, so that glancing down at the drop below the parapet it occurred to him for the first time how easy it would be to put an end to it all.

  The morbidness of the last thought suddenly struck him, and he grimaced at the picture of himself that it presented: a spineless coward, wallowing in self-pity. How Juli would despise him if she knew. And she would be right to do so, for one thing was certain: living was going to be a lot easier for him than it would be for her. He was not condemned to stay in Bhithor, and there were many ways in which he could fill his life. The North-West Frontier was seldom quiet for long, and the Guides were more familiar with war than peace. There would be campaigns among the Border hills, and battles to be planned and fought and won; horses to ride and strange, wild places to explore; mountains to climb… and friends to talk and drink and laugh with – Zarin and Wally and Koda Dad, Mahdoo and Mulraj and Kaka-ji and many others. But for Juli there was only Shushila, and if Shu-shu were to fail her or turn against her, or fall ill and die, she would have nothing left…

  The sky that had been dark when Ash came up onto the roof was beginning to pale, and there were no longer lights in the city, for the chirags had burned out or been extinguished by the dawn wind. The night was over and morning only a step away, and soon the cocks would begin to crow and a new day begin. It was time to go down to his room and try to snatch an hour's rest while the air was still faintly cool, because once the sun rose the heat would be too gruelling for sleep, and there was so much to be done and decided on in the coming day that it would be as well to avoid trying to deal with it while sodden with fatigue.

  Ash straightened up tiredly and thrust his hands into his pockets, and as he did so his fingers encountered something round and rough. It was one of the small cakes that had been passed round among the guests on the steps of the Pearl Palace, and that he had accepted out of politeness and put in his pocket, meaning to throw it away later. He took it out, and looking at it was reminded of other days. A smile softened the grim weariness of his mouth and he crumbled it up and strewed it on the rim of the parapet; and when he had done that, he looked for the last time at the distant silhouette of the Rung Mahal and spoke very softly into the stillness.

  It was not the prayer that he had been used to say when he made offerings to the Dur Khaima but it was, in its way, a prayer. A prayer and a vow. ‘Don't worry, my dear darling,’ said Ash. ‘I promise I won't forget you. I shall love you always and for ever. Goodbye, Juli. Goodbye, my dear and only love. Khuda hafiz!…’

  He turned and walked back across the roof, and was asleep by the time the dawn broke in a wash of lemon yellow behind the dark line of the hills.

  Two days later – which was one more than Ash had hoped for and several less than Mulraj had expected – the new Maharajah of Karidkote set out for home with a party of seventy men; twenty-four of them soldiers, a dozen officials, and the remainder syces and servants. They had received a royal send-off, being accompanied as far as the frontier of Bhithor by what appeared to be fully half the population of the state, headed by the Rana himself. And as they rode down the valley the guns of the three forts had thundered in salute.

  Their departure had been preceded by three farewell interviews: an official one in the Diwan-i-Khas, another between Jhoti and his sisters, and a third, and private one, between Ash and Kaka-ji.

  The official farewell had consisted largely of speeches and garlands, and Jhoti's had been a taxing experience. Shushila had genuinely admired her elder brother and already wept herself into a state of exhaustion on hearing of his death. Faced now with parting from the younger one, she had given way to hysteria and behaved in such a frenzied manner that Jhoti had finally been driven to slapping her. The blow having shocked her into silence he had seized the opportunity to deliver a brotherly lecture on the advantages of self-control, and made his escape before she could recover her powers of speech.

  Ash's interview with Kaka-ji had been a much quieter affair. The old man had originally declared that he would of course accompany his nephew back to Karidkote, but Mulraj had managed to persuade him that his nieces must now be in sore need of his comfort and support, owing to the news of their elder brother's death, and when Ash, more bluntly, pointed out that his presence could only serve to slow down the speed of the return journey, Kaka-ji had given way and agreed (not without relief) to remain in Bhithor with the rest of the bridal camp until the monsoon broke. Later the two had spoken together alone when Ash came to say farewell before the advance party left.

  ‘I have to thank you for many things, Rao-Sahib,’ said Ash. ‘For your friendship and understanding, bu
t most of all for your great generosity. I know very well that you could have destroyed me with a word; and… and her also. Yet you did not, and for that I shall always be in your debt. If there should ever be anything that I can do to repay you, I will do it.’

  Kaka-ji made a small deprecating gesture, and Ash laughed and said: ‘That must sound like an empty boast, since at the moment I am not in a position to help anyone; as no one knows better than yourself, Rao-Sahib. Even my rank is only lent me because while I am here I represent the Raj, and as soon as my mission is completed I shall become a junior officer again, and of no importance to anyone. But I hope one day to be in a position to help my friends and repay my debts, and when that day comes –’

  ‘Mother Gunga will long since have had my ashes,’ finished Kaka-ji, smiling. ‘You owe me nothing, my son. You have been courteous to an old man and I have taken pleasure in your company. Also it is we who are doubly in your debt: for saving my nieces from the river and also for saving their marriages; together with our honour which would have been lost had we been forced to return with them, empty-handed, to Karidkote. As for that other matter, I have put it out of my mind: and you, my son, would be well advised to do likewise.’

  Ash's mouth quivered and the look on his face said all that he did not put into words. Kaka-ji replied to it as though he had spoken:

  ‘I know. I know,’ sighed Kaka-ji. ‘Who should know better than I? But it is because I speak with a knowledge that was gained by my own mistakes that I can say to you now, ‘Do not look back.’ The past is the last refuge of the defeated – or the aged – and there is as yet no need for you to number yourself among either. Tell yourself that what is done is done, and put it away and forget it. Do not let yourself remember and try to live on memories. That is well enough for old men who have had their day, but it is bitter fare for the young. So be advised by me, my son, and look forward and not back, remembering always that life is a gift from the gods and therefore not a thing to be despised or wasted. Live it to the full: that is the best advice that I, who did not do so, can give you.’