The Ravi Lancers

by John Masters

  He fell to thinking of how he should approach the Rajah to get what he wanted. Grandfather was very old--seventy-eight--and very old-fashioned. He couldn’t speak a word of English and he could barely read or write Hindi. Sometimes he was cruel and sometimes he was kind. It was impossible to tell what he was going to do because he didn’t act according to a definite set of rules, like the English did. It was important not to let him make the wrong decision at first, because although it was not impossible to get him to change his mind, it was not easy. Krishna’s goal was difficult, but worthwhile. There was a great opportunity for the State. There was a chance for glory, and for his grandfather’s army to outstrip the armies of all other States in experience and efficiency. As for himself ... his thoughts wandered, to London, to tail-funnelled ships, to the ocean he had never seen, to Buckingham Palace and the King-Emperor, a cricket field intensely green, with huge gasometers at one end, just like Mr. Fleming had told him about, and men in Free Forester and I Zingari blazers, here and there a dark blue county cap. And the women, so pale, lovely, aloof ...

  Yellow lights began to prickle the dark, the hills fell back and the city spread out ahead, sharp-edged on the left by the black void of the river. He passed the maidan and the twinkling row of lights in the cavalry lines the far side. What excitement there would be over there if they could know what he was going to propose! For a moment he thought of driving across the maidan and telling the quarter-guard the news, whence it would spread in a flash all through the regiment; but Colonel Hanbury would be offended, and in any case it was not settled yet. He must get to his grandfather as soon as possible, for fear another State forestalled Ravi with the same offer.

  As he drove slowly into the heart of the city he heard the thud of drums and the wail of chanters and hillmen’s pipes. The clash and clink of leg ornaments grew louder under the music, and he remembered that it was the Feast of Vishnu, the ancestor of his race, and the creator of the river and the kingdom. As a child he had loved those feasts and festivals, with the steady shake of drums all through the night, and the flash of women’s bangles in the light of the oil lamps, and the red glow of fires reflected in the dancers’ faces; but since growing up he had come to think them a little barbarous, surely a waste of the people’s time and energy, as much as the fantastic sums a father had to spend on the marriage of a daughter--enough, often, to entail his land to the moneylenders for three generations. Surely his grandfather could do better things for the people than pay for all these musicians and tumblers and dancers and acrobats?

  He was about to drive the car round the edge of the square behind the mass of spectators, when he noticed that a great peacock feather fan was waving under the yellow awning that had been erected by the palace gates. That meant his grandfather was there, watching the dancing. He’d better not take the time to bath and change. He stopped the car and told Hanuman to take it into the palace courtyard and unload and unpack. Then he walked round behind the milling people and went in under the awning.

  The Rajah of Ravi squatted on a pile of huge cushions, two men slowly fanning him. He was wrinkled, pale skinned, a little stooped forward even in the squatting position, his knuckles swollen where his hands rested on his knees. The three vertical red stripes of a follower of Vishnu were painted up his forehead, and his mouth, lips, and tongue were stained dark red with betel juice. Even as Krishna came forward, passing among the courtiers and followers squatted on the carpet under the awning, and in front of the women in their separate section, the old man accurately spat a stream of betel juice into a brass pot beside him. Then he saw Krishna coming and cried, with a cracked smile, ‘Aha, here comes the Young Sahib.’

  Krishna knelt and touched his hand to his grandfather’s ankle, and then to his own forehead, in obeisance. He said eagerly, ‘Grandfather, there is ...’

  ‘Wait, boy, wait! Sit beside me here and watch the dancers. It is the Mahabharata.’

  Krishna knew then that he would have to contain himself for a time. The Mahabharata was his grandfather’s favourite story--as indeed it was of most Indians--and when the tale was being recited or danced he would always be present. In fact, Krishna could have guessed it was a performance of the Mahabharata as soon as he saw the peacock feather fans.

  He squatted down beside the rajah, glad that the British officers he had been playing cricket with in Lahore could not see him now. The ability to squat, they seemed to think, was something an Indian was born with, but no Englishman could ever achieve. He turned his attention to the packed earth of the square, surrounded by a white and brown and red wall of people, which swayed to show that it was human. Above the continuous light tap-pause-tap of the hand-held drums he distinctly heard a distant roll of thunder. ‘God be praised,’ his grandfather muttered. ‘We need the rain.’ They were dancing the long scene of the Bride’s Choice. He recognized one of the dancers, whose hands and face were dyed dark blue, and who wore an ornate crown on his head, as the demi-god Krishna, avatar of Vishnu, for whom he himself had been named. They were near the end of the scene, for Krishna appeared only at the end. Various suitors had failed to bend the great bow, and then Karna had succeeded, only to be refused permission to shoot because he was thought to be the son of a mere charioteer, not of royal blood; then kings and princes had tried to bend it and instead had been knocked over backwards by its recoil; and mighty Arjun, the Achilles of the epic, disguised as a Brahmin, had bent the bow and shot an arrow--and only then came dark blue Krishna, beloved of women, to swing around and around the beaten earth while the singers squatted in a row facing the awning and drummers pounded their drums with the fiat of their hands and the pipes droned and the dancers’ feet thudded.

  The singers chanted the tale in Sanskrit:

  Krishna knew the son of Pandu, though in robes of Brahmin dressed;

  To his elder Baladeva thus his inner thought expressed:

  ‘Mark that youth with bow and arrow and with lion’s lordly gait.

  He is helmet-wearing Arjun! Greatest warrior mid the great,

  Mark his mate, with tree uprooted, how he meets the suitor band

  Save the tiger-waisted Bhima none can claim such strength of hand!

  And the youth with eyes like lotus, he who left the court erewhile,

  He is pious-souled Yudisthir, man without a sin or guile

  And the others by Yudisthir, Pandu’s twin-born sons are they.

  With these sons the righteous Pritha escaped where death and danger lay.

  For the jealous fierce Duryodhan darkly schemed their death by fire

  But the virtuous sons of Pandu ‘scaped his unrelenting ire!’

  Krishna rose amidst the monarchs, strove the tumult to appease,

  And unto the angry suitors spake in words of righteous peace.

  Monarchs bowed to Krishna’s mandate, left Panchala’s festive land,

  Arjun took the beauteous princess, gently led her by the hand ...

  The dancers moved to the side, the music died. The crowd stretched and shuffled. The tale of the Bride’s Choice was over. Next would come the Imperial Sacrifice, but first there would be a pause--half an hour, perhaps more--while dancers and musicians refreshed themselves. The next spell would last two more hours. All around the square, men squatted against the walls of the houses, relieving themselves. The women were doing the same in the darkness under the palace wall, behind the awning. Krishna felt glad that Miss Bateman had not been able to accept his invitation to visit Basohli. She wouldn’t have said anything, of course, but he knew what she would have been thinking.

  ‘Grandfather,’ he said, ‘I have something important ...’

  ‘Tch, tch, boy, I don’t want to hear about it now. The Imperial Sacrifice is one of the best parts of the story. It’s a favourite with our people.’

  Krishna knew that, and knew why. The next part of the Mahabharata began with Arjun, who has won the beautiful Draupadi, returning to his mother, together with his four brothers. They tell the mother that t
hey have won a great prize; before they can tell her what it is or what they mean, she says, ‘Enjoy it in common’. The command of a mother must be obeyed, and so Draupadi becomes the wife of all five brothers, not merely of Arjun who won her. The reason it was popular in Ravi was that in the upper regions of the kingdom, where eternal snow swept down to rolling grassland 10,000 feet above sea level, all the brothers in each family did indeed share one wife in common. Looking across the square, Krishna saw a dozen of these Paharis (hillmen), easily recognizable by the homespun wool of their clothes, the rope wound around their waist, the red-bronze Mongolian tint of their skin and the high embroidered caps the women wore on top of their heavy tresses. That was another thing he was glad he didn’t have to explain to Miss Bateman--how five brothers could bow down before one woman, share her body, and obey her without degradation to their manhood; for among the Paharis, land and flocks passed only through the female line.

  His grandfather had been following his glance and now said, ‘Perhaps we should marry you to a Pahari, Krishna. They are good stock, strong and healthy. And beautiful. See that one there, staring at you so proud and haughty. Ai, if I were twenty years younger I’d have her brought to my couch. Why don’t you?’

  Krishna laughed uneasily. It was barbaric to treat women like cows to be brought to the bull. He said, ‘I don’t want to share my bride with Hari and Gopal,’ naming his younger brothers.

  ‘Of course, you wouldn’t have to,’ the rajah said, ‘we’d find a family where more than one girl had survived. There are some, if they’re born at the lucky season.’

  Krishna nodded. Among the Paharis girl children were put out naked on the ground for the first twenty-four hours of their life. Most died, leaving the few who survived to be the brides of the men. A girl born at this season, August, was more likely to live than one born in December, when a foot of snow covered the high pastures. More barbarism ... indeed the British treated it as murder, where it was practised in British Indian territory, such as Bashahr.

  The music began again, hesitant, gradually picking up volume and confidence. The crowd came back and squatted dense around the square. Thunder boomed louder to the north and lightning began to flicker along the mountain rim. Krishna settled down to watch the dance of Draupadi, won by Arjun but eventually becoming the chief wife of Yudisthir, the eldest son and heir to the kingdom. In spite of himself, he became absorbed ...

  His grandfather stirred, ‘Now, boy, what is it that you have to tell me?’

  Krishna realized with a start that the music had ended. Great drops of rain were falling on the square and the crowd was thinning. Thunder grumbled close around the city. He shook himself out of the glade, where Arjun was marrying Krishna’s sister, and the banished brothers were wandering through the forest, and said, ‘Can we talk in private, grandfather?’

  The rajah struggled to his feet, helped by his attendants. ‘An affair of state, is it?’

  Krishna nodded and the old man said, ‘We will go to the temple, then. The Rawal will be there and I won’t have to explain it all to him again, afterwards.’

  Krishna said, ‘Very well, grandfather.’ Inwardly, he groaned. Why did the old man have to consult the Brahmin on everything? What did Brahmins know more than anyone else, at least from the mere fact of being born to Brahmin parents? It wasn’t as though a man could make himself a Brahmin by educating himself. The rajah was old-fashioned, but there was no way of changing him now.

  Krishna followed him out into the rain, along the palace wall and into the shelter of the temple. The Rawal, the chief Brahmin of the temple, came forward to meet them, palms joined, under the whitewashed entrance. Inside, dim oil wicks burned in shallow earthenware dishes, casting a yellow light on the paintings of demons and the daubs of bright colour where offerings of spices lay in front of carved stone figures of gods and demi-gods. The shadows of many-headed, many-armed dancers flickered on the ceiling among the blackened patches made by centuries of smoke from lamps set in the niches among the heavy-lidded gods and the heavy-breasted Apsarases.

  The rajah led the way to a dim lit room, where a stone phallus of black stone rose out of a quoit of the same stone. Orange turmeric dusted the knob of the phallus and garlands of broken flowers lay on it and around its base. The three men squatted. There was no door to the low opening behind them, but Krishna knew that no one would come and no one would listen. His grandfather looked at him and he began to speak, using words he had carefully rehearsed on the long drive from Lahore.

  ‘Grandfather! Rawal! As you know, England declared war on Germany yesterday ...’

  ‘We know,’ the rajah said. ‘The Agent to the Governor General sent me a telegram.’

  Krishna said, ‘The Viceroy is declaring war on behalf of India. An Indian Expeditionary Force is to be sent to France. Part of that force is to be the Hindustan Division.’

  ‘They’ll leave enough troops in the country,’ the rajah said. ‘Or bring more in before anyone could organize properly.’

  Krishna shook his head, shaking off his grandfather’s ridiculous idea. He continued. ‘Every infantry division contains one regiment of cavalry. The divisional cavalry of the Hindustan Division is the 44th Bengal Lancers. Last night, I learned in Lahore that the 44th Lancers have discovered anthrax in two squadrons. They will not be able to go.’

  His grandfather said, ‘The better fortune for them. War in Europe is a cold, bloody, brutal business.’

  Krishna said, ‘I don’t know for certain, but the British officers I talked to seemed to think that there was no other regiment available. Every cavalry regiment in the country, British and Indian, is committed to some important role and cannot be taken off it.’ The Rawal, sitting tall and thin and dark, all dressed in white, said, ‘My lord Krishna, are you suggesting that . . . ?’

  ‘Yes! ‘ Krishna cut in. ‘Let us offer the King-Emperor our Lancers for imperial service! It is the best regiment in all the States Forces. The Military Adviser said so after last cold-weather inspection, didn’t he? He said it was better trained than some regiments of the Indian Army. He said to me, privately, that there were only three regiments among all the armies of all the princes of India fit to be ranked with the regulars, and our Lancers were the best of those three.’

  The rajah said gloomily, ‘When I employed that old English colonel, I thought I would just be convincing the British that we would do nothing against them ... You are mad, boy! Why should I send my people off to be killed in a British war thousands of miles away? I don’t even know or care where France is ... or Germany. Our problem is not the French or the Germans, but the British.’

  ‘Grandfather,’ Krishna said earnestly, leaning forward, and realizing suddenly how strange and out of place his trousers and tie and jacket looked against the Rawal’s dhoti and kurtha and the rajah’s white robes, with the grains of rice sticking to the painted stripes on both men’s foreheads, ‘we have trained our Lancers to be the equal of the Indian Army. India is threatened, and we ought to be fighting beside the British. We are soldiers, after all. How can we truly compare with the Indian Army if we sit at home, filling our bellies, while they are fighting a real war?’

  ‘You mean that afterwards we will be able to take on the British on level terms?’ the rajah said, ruminating. He shook his old head angrily. ‘You are being ridiculous, grandson! I have seen my father and my cousins bayoneted to death by British soldiers, on that square outside the palace! There is no more sense in fighting them than in fighting the smallpox. The way to survive is to stay away, keep quiet, out of sight. They will pass, like all plagues, in the wisdom of Brahma.’

  ‘I do not think we should ever fight the British,’ Krishna said. ‘I think we should learn from them. Why is it that they can rule India with 800 officials? And the British soldiers outnumbered two to one by Indian soldiers? It is because they have a superior civilization. We are backward and ignorant. We will always remain in subjection, and will deserve to, unless we learn from them, an
d improve ourselves. But if we don’t fight beside them, they will continue to look down on us. If we do, they cannot refuse to give us what we then will have earned--greater freedom to rule ourselves.’

  ‘One cries war, another peace,’ the Rawal said, ‘it is like the Mahabharata.’ He began to chant:

  Ponder well ye gracious monarchs, with a just and righteous mind,

  Help Yudisthir with your counsel, with your grace and blessings kind,

  Should the noble sons of Pandu seek his right by open war,

  Seek the aid of righteous monarchs and of chieftains near and far,

  Should he smite his ancient foemen, skilled in each deceitful art,