by John Masters
. . . But this is only the surface of the problem, and of the possibilities. In the Vedas the Aryans describe themselves as they are just after they have arrived from Central Asia. They are meat-eaters and herdsmen. They drive, breed, slaughter, and eat cattle. A thousand years later, by 500 B.C., the cow and the bull have become sacred; the caste system has been established; the higher castes are vegetarian; and no one at all eats beef. In the Vedas there is no female god - the gods are masculine, very much the hunter-warrior type; by 500 B.C. some of the principal attributes of godship are worshipped under the form of goddesses, and those are all aspects of the female principle of energy, called ‘sakti’. In the Vedas, there is little or no mention of the worship of the reproductive process; by 500 B.C. the phallus is erected in the deepest sanctuary of the temples, and the sexual act is worshipped as a symbol of the necessary union of two of God’s powers - the passive ability to be fertile, and the active power to fertilize. Obviously, neither is of use without the other. The Hindu symbol for it happens to be sexual but the principle is universal. A man cannot think of a mathematical equation, for example, unless he has both a receptive capacity able to take the idea of an equation, and an active capacity to fertilize that receptivity by speculation, for instance - and out of the union grows the equation itself...
The vegetarianism, the female god, the sacredness of cows, the worship of the lingam-yoni symbol, the organisation of the caste system, all these are parts of Brahminical Hinduism. Where did those ideas come from? The old Vedic religion is not unique. Its relatives can be recognised in ancient Greece, in Rome, and in many other societies, even in modern Western European. India is unmistakably the same portent as Zeus and Jupiter. Brahmmical Hinduism is unique. It belongs to India only. If its ideas came from outside India, as the Vedic ideas did, we ought to see its relatives elsewhere, for they too would have spread in other directions. But we do not. Therefore, it must have come from inside India. How?
The Brahmins have an explanation, of course. They say that certain holy men, Aryans, devoting their lives century after century to the philosophical contemplation of God, after the conquest of India, discovered the principles of creation. They themselves became the Brahmins, and the religion which they expounded is Brahminical Hinduism.
But there is another possible explanation, far more subtle and more interesting - that these beliefs came from the conquered Dravidians: not caste, certainty, but everything else. A discovery which proved that would cause a revolution in Indian thought. The discoverer would be world-famous . . .
Smith stopped his measured pacing and looked at the broad, yellow face of the gibbous moon. ‘No’, he said aloud, in a low voice. ‘Not fame, for me. But the truth, yes, give me the truth.’ He smiled and raised both arms. ‘And give Rukmini her queen, if that is the truth.’
Chapter 7
Foster and Smith came to Cheltondale at ten. When Smith had explained what excavation might uncover, Mohan knew he must put the proposal to Mr Kendrick, and must seem to be backing it. In one way he was: it had a hint of digging for buried treasure, which was exciting; and, of course, Rukmini wanted it But it meant that Smith would stay. Both Foster and Rukmini insisted on that. The man made him feel small and young, while Rukmini looked at him as though they had already slept together. Foster was going to pay the expenses of the excavating out of his own pocket
At eleven Mohan sent a brief note over to Mr Kendrick at Southdown, asking if he and Foster and Smith could come in the evening to discuss an archaeological problem. As soon as he had sent it off he left the bungalow and walked aimlessly down the Dobehari Ridge. For the first time since the coming of Rukmini he wanted to be alone.
When he returned in time for a late lunch, he asked whether any answer had yet come from Mr Kendrick. Rukmini, reading in the window seat, said, ‘Yes.’ She handed him an envelope. He tore it open and read:
Dear Mohan:
Please come to Southdown at nine p.m. to talk about the archaeological problem. Afterwards I wish to discuss other matters with you, in private.
Yours,
C. Kendrick
Mohan folded it carefully, but Rukmini said, ‘May I see it, please?’ He gave it to her. She read it in silence and returned it to him. She said, ‘I also had a caller.’
They were walking through to the dining-room. The major-domo stood behind Rukmini’s chair. She sat down gracefully. Where, how, could she have learned these European customs? Had she been the mistress of some Englishman?
‘I had a caller,’ Rukmini repeated.
‘Who?’
‘Mrs Kendrick.’
‘Looking for me? ‘
Rukmini did not speak. He glanced up quickly and began to explain, ‘I broke an appointment, for a portrait sitting, after you came, and . . .’
Rukmini smiled slightly. ‘She was certainly hoping to see you. But she was calling on me. That is very brave of her.’
Mohan bent over his soup. Brave? Or inquisitive? And what exactly did Rukmini understand by ‘calling’? Rukmini said, ‘She has invited me to come over to Southdown when you go there this evening.’
Mohan put down his spoon. ‘Impossible! It’s you Mr Kendrick is going to talk about afterwards.’
‘Of course.’
‘You can’t come,’ Mohan cried. ‘Not even an Englishwoman would have the . . . the nerve to come at a time like that!’
Rukmini said calmly, ‘Mrs Kendrick needs my help just as much as she needs yours, my lord. Mr Kendrick too, perhaps ... That unhappy woman has had no experience of a man.’
Mohan stared at her, feeling a little cold and frightened. ‘What do you mean?’
‘She is a virgin.’
‘But they’ve been married eight, nine years! You’re saying that Mr Kendrick is... How can you know? Do you mean she told you?’
‘No,’ Rukmini said. ‘But I know. Poor, unhappy people! The fact is bad enough, but when you think what can have caused it, and still is ...’ She spread her hands, and Mohan saw that she was crying.
He jumped up to go round the table towards her, as the major-domo came in with a note. ‘From Kendrick Sahib?’ Mohan asked automatically, as he held out his hand.
‘From the City Warden,’ the major-domo said. The messenger is at the front.’
Mohan looked at the envelope. It was addressed to
C. Kendrick, Esq., ICS.
‘This is for the Resident Sahib,’ he exclaimed. He hurried along the passage. The messenger stood at the foot of the front steps, holding his horse’s, reins. He had ridden hard. Long splashes of greenish foam from the horse’s mouth were not dry on his tunic, and he was soaked with sweat. As soon as Mohan approached he said, ‘The Resident Sahib is not at his bungalow. They told me he had gone out with a gun.’
Mohan opened the envelope. After the usual flowery Hindi greetings, it began:
In the past two hours many persons have been garnering in the Batala quarter of the city. They sing patriotic songs and prevent all movement on streets in that area. The police have arrested five men, who claim they only went to that place to find the cause of the commotion. Several attempts to disperse the crowd have failed, since the people melt away and gather at once in another place near by. One sweet vendor’s shop has been burned down in the block called Rajgarh. I hesitate to disturb your honour with this trifling matter, but in obedience to your command to be kept informed I send you these few details, assuring you that the matter is well in hand, and no further trouble is expected.
Then the signature of the City Warden; and then a postscript:
I have just ordered the army to stand to arms in the palace courtyard, to be ready for any eventuality.
Mohan began to reread the note. It was vaguely mysterious.
Why all the fuss about people singing patriotic songs, songs of the past glory of Deori?
Damn it, he was an Indian, a prince, and a Suvala. He had read the letter as a straight-riding Gentleman Cadet of the Royal Military College, but
it had been addressed to Mr Kendrick, an officer of the Indian Civil Service, who could read Hindi as well as English, both on and between the lines.
Now it became clear. The key was the reference to the burning of the sweetmeat seller’s hut. All the buildings in the Rajgarh block belonged to the City Warden, the writer of the note. And he supported Mohan for the gaddi against the claims of his uncle Prithwi The City Warden was saying that the gathering - one could hardly call it a riot - had been fomented by Prithwi. He put it in an oblique way in case the message fell into the wrong hands; and in case Prithwi did succeed to the gaddi.
Mr Kendrick was out in the jungles. The City Warden had not been to Sandhurst and therefore had not put a time on his message; but the messenger had ridden hard, and it was ten miles and a fraction from Deori, say an hour. The time now was two in the afternoon.
Rukmini’s voice close behind him made him start ‘What are you going to do?’
He hesitated. ‘I suppose I should send the messenger back to the City Warden with a note to say that Mr Kendrick will see the letter as soon as he gets home.’
She said, ‘Why don’t you go to Deori yourself?’
The idea had crossed his mind. Any of his fellow cadets at Sandhurst would not have hesitated; but then, they were not princes waiting for their principality. ‘What good will that do?’ he asked. ‘I have no more authority to issue orders than the City Warden. Less.’
He admitted to himself that he was afraid; not much, a little. A mass of men acting, however indirectly, at the behest of his uncle would not be a pleasant crowd to be caught in. The Batala quarter lay on the opposite side of the city, so that he should be able to reach the palace without passing through it, but all the same...
He noticed that Rukmini was very pale, and her hand rested on his arm with an almost painful pressure. ‘Oh, why can I not ride in by your side, and show them!’ she cried.
‘Of course you can’t,’ he said. ‘There might be trouble.’
‘It is about me,’ she said. That is why I want to be at your aide - and that is why I must not be.’
‘About you...?‘
‘You will see,’ she said. ‘Are you going to take a pistol?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘If my own people are going to shoot me, let them.’ He turned to the waiting major-domo. ‘Tell the syce to saddle Leander for me, and the waler for himself.’
‘And while they’re doing that, you must have some more to eat,’ Rukmini said, pulling him into the bungalow.
The tunnel of trees ended and Mohan reined in from a gallop to a canter to a walk, and stopped. On this western side of Deori the jungles reached almost to the houses. The backs of the hovels, the thorn zarebas that guarded the chickens and the rooting pigs, faced him like a wall, pierced by the entrance of the narrow road. Straight ahead, half a mile farther into the city, the red battlements of the castle and palace rose high above the other houses and to the left of them he could see the tower of the temple, listening carefully he heard no sound of shouting. If any buildings had been set on fire, the flames had been extinguished. The small, ancient city dozed, shimmering, under the wavering pall of the heat
Mohan rode forward, at a walk, followed by the syce and messenger Hurry to the scene of actions then move slowly and keep calm, Mr Kendrick had told him a hundred times.
Between the houses a pair of vultures were ravishing the entrails of a dead dog. The stench of ordure rose in the filth-laden dust and caught in his nostrils. The street ran nearly straight for a hundred yards. In that distance it was quite deserted. Mohan rode on with a slight slackening of inner tension. Not many people would be about at this time, even normally; now, everyone must be over in the Batala quarter. The street turned a corner. He quailed at the sight before him, and his knees began instinctively to tighten on Leander’s flanks, his hand to pull on the rein to turn the horse. Controlling the movement, he rode on at a steady walk. The street was full of people. Remember, Mohan, never cause a panic by your own actions. A crowd is like a barrel of gunpowder. The results of a senseless panic, an explosion, are usually worse than the results of deliberately rebellious rioting.
He was among them now. The first glance showed him that they were all men. Many carried staves but he saw no swords or daggers, The faces - there was something strange, something astonished about them. He had expected anger, determination, exaltation: these men were surprised.
Banners rose, haltingly, first here, then there, as though the banner-bearers were doubtful whether the signal to raise them had been correctly given, DOWN WITH THE WHORE, Mohan read, SAVE US FROM THE WHORE. He rode on, anger reaching down from the surface, first reddening and prickling the skin on his face and neck, then forcing down to his chest, his belly. A familiar slurring rasp of metal close behind told him that the messenger had drawn his big cavalry sabre.
BANISH THE GODLESS WHORE, a sign read.
Of course, they were expecting Mr Kendrick! The banners informed the British, through the Resident, that the people would not tolerate Rukmini. But why? Some of his ancestors. had kept a hundred dancing girls for their pleasure.
The movements of the crowd began to take on shape. Voices rose, the murmurous awkward silence changed to a hubbub of shouts and cries, mostly meaningless, none informed with real anger. Among them he heard the lower, urgent voices of the organisers. ‘Move closer.’ ‘This way.’ ‘Down the street.’ ‘Block them off’
At his left side the syce gibbered in terror. At his right the messenger said, ‘There’s a side street just ahead, .lord. I can clear the way into it’ He pushed the big sabre more prominently into view. These scum won’t stop us.’
‘No.’ Mohan said. ‘We will go on to the palace.’
The next moment the crowd surged close and packed in and seemed to double, treble, quadruple in numbers. The horses could not move. Even if the messenger had used his sabre it would have been to no avail, for the crowd was pressed tight and far. Mohan waited for the hands to reach up and drag him out of the saddle. He felt strangely unafraid, and found himself looking down into a thin, dark, peasant face, the man pressed against his horse, his eyes wide in terror of the big thoroughbred’s hoofs, unable to move either forward or backward. ‘Do not be afraid, my friend,’ Mohan said. The horse will not kick unless you hurt him.’
Voices from the back of the crowd took on a rhythmic chant: ‘Down with the whore. Banish the godless whore.’ The pushing increased, the crowd swaying and bending like windblown wheat The horses began to panic and twice Mohan had to fight to control Leander from rearing up on his hind quarters.
The noise and the heat grew. The dust rose in the narrow street until he could hardly see ten yards. The city dissolved into a brown, choking fog full of high-pitched screams. Banners waved half-seen, swirling and dipping in the dust He heard the sharp crack of a stick against bone, and again. The syce had disappeared. A moment later the messenger faded back into the pall, the weary horse trying to buck and the sabre gone from the man’s hand, knocked away by a long staff, but no other hurt done to him.
A small knot of men fought their way to Leander’s head and a voice yelled up to him, ‘Dismount, lord!’ He looked down and recognised one of his supporters, a heavy-set young man who was a relative of the City Warden’s wife. He dismounted quickly, and at once felt the unity and purpose of the group immediately surrounding him. Leander went forward, plunging and kicking now, two men at his head; but the phalanx round Mohan turned left and forced through the crowd, shoulders butting and sticks stabbing down on bare feet, yells of pain and anger falling back in the dust pall.
A door opened and he was inside a house, the others behind him. The door slammed. Bolts and bars ground into place. ‘Upstairs, lord,’ an urgent voice commanded. He stumbled up steep, narrow steps into a small room. The roar of the crowd was close still, but muffled by the thick walls. Outside there, a single voice screamed above all other sounds. ‘He’s in here, this one!’
‘They know you’re here,�
�� the chief of his rescuers said. ‘I don’t think they mean serious damage. They were expecting the Resident. So were we. We, too, have men with banners out there. Long live Mohan Singh Suvala our rightful Rajah,’ He moved to the small back window, the only source of light for the bare, whitewashed room. He said, ‘Some of Prithwi’s men are coming round the back already.’
Mohan felt the first attack of fear since meeting the crowd. He was trapped in a house in a back street They could set fire to it. His hands began to shake and he fought to control them, pushing them deep into the pockets of his breeches. Never show fear, Mohan.
There were five men in the room, one of them an older man who had been here when-they arrived, and whom Mohan now recognised as a priest of the Shivaite temple. Another was an important landowner from the lower valley. The other two he did not recognise.
The priest said, ‘We are your friends, Lord Mohan - have no fear.’
‘I’m not afraid,’ he said curtly.
The man at the window said, ‘They’re prying a big beam loose from the cowshed to use as a battering ram. I don’t think they’re under control any more,’
The priest said, ‘Lord Mohan, we are your friends. We and many others are risking much by organising support for you -and now by rescuing you from Prithwi’s mobs. We will lose our property certainly, and perhaps our lives, if Prithwi does eventually succeed to the gaddi. A week ago there seemed no chance that he would do so. Now, through your attachment to the dancing girl called Rukmini...’
‘What has she got to do with it?’ Mohan snapped.
‘It is said that you intend to marry her.’
‘It’s not true!’ Mohan said.
