by John Burgess
‘The Lady has recovered then? Completely?’
‘I have, thank you. Your Majesty need feel no concern.’
‘No, I must worry if a subject is ill. It is a King’s duty.’
With this kind of talk, I might have thought simply that a third person was joining in the pretending. But through the tone of his voice, his choice of simple words, I was left with the sense that he indeed felt disquiet over my health. How was it possible that a man who had wielded the spear point that pierced the former lord’s heart could host this common kind of compassion as well?
I said: ‘But a King has so many subjects – he would be worrying all the time.’
‘There are many subjects, that is true. But most are far away, beyond sight. The number he can see with his own eyes is limited. In that regard, a King is like any other man.’
What a thing to say! Perhaps it was that the Brahmin’s teachings were having their effect. I wished I could look directly at him as he spoke, but of course I could not. Yet from the corner of my eye, I examined him, discerning the stout legs tucked beneath him, sunlight catching him full across the chest. A physically vital man, now at rest.
Just then I realized that in the short span of this conversation, I had completely forgotten that my husband was present. There can be no further delving into the personal, I told myself. So I said:
‘The people will praise Your Majesty for the new alms fund.’
‘I thank you, Lady Sray. It is a small thing. With so much given to me, there is a need that I act to repay Heaven’s favour. I need to do more. But choosing where and to whom to give can be difficult.’
Here was a safe subject, then. I knew exactly what he meant. Many times I had been interrupted by word that at the gate was a woman in need of help for a starving family, but in talking with her she would seem uncertain as to just how many members this starving family had or where it lived. Or a priest had come from a far province professing that his hermitage had burned to the ground, but had forgotten to bring the certificate of loss that he said the local magistrate had issued.
The King said: ‘Do I understand correctly that you have philanthropic activities of your own?’
‘I give a bit of silver to some people and places.’
‘Perhaps more than a bit, from what I am told. Now, may I ask something, how does the Lady decide these matters?’
Again, I sensed sincerity. I thought a moment. ‘One gives to places in need, of course, where the silver will ease suffering. One accepts that one cannot know at all times whether claims of need are genuine. Still, one gives freely, with faith that the conditions are as described, and if perchance they aren’t, that the good will shown toward the supplicant will result in contrition and a change in character.’
The King thought that over for a moment, and I continued.
‘Charity must be given with an open heart, free of any suspicion. It must be given without any expectation that benefit will reflect back to the giver.’
‘Do you mean benefit in this life, Lady, or in the next?’
‘Both, Majesty. It is best if one gives with the stipulation that any holy merit that the gift will engender will not accrue to oneself, but to a party in greater need. This party should be carefully selected, and formally named when the gift is made – the name can be stated in a stone inscription, perhaps. The purpose of giving can only be to advance Heaven’s cause, not one’s own.’
The King asked: ‘But is not a donor, by stipulating that the merit will go to another party – is not that in itself a selfless act that must by its nature cause at least some merit to accrue to the donor, regardless of the intentions of that donor?’
‘I have wondered about that, Majesty. But I have no answer.’
‘It is gratifying to learn that I am not alone in having no answer.’
There it was again, the personal finding its way into a subject that should have been safely devoid of it. I glanced toward my husband, who sat glumly. I felt suddenly ashamed at the thought that my comments were at least in part a rebuke of him. Nol, you see, felt that most everyone seeking charity told lies, and that in cases where giving charity could not be avoided, it should at least create some obligation for a favour in return.
Just then there was motion at our house’s gate – the Brahmin was stepping into our courtyard. He made his way to the base of our steps. There he stood like a stone image, saying nothing, but all the same, I was sure, conveying disapproval. Presently the King turned and saw him. I believe that whatever pleasure His Majesty was feeling in conversing with me vanished at that point. He had just told me that in some ways a King is like any other man, and here was another example. Priestly chastisement, even unvoiced, had the same effect on him as it would have on a village man who owned no more than a rooster and fish trap.
Within a few minutes, the King rose, gave a polite farewell and withdrew.
My husband and I sat together on the veranda after that, I drawing near to him.
I awoke the next morning concerned the King might call again. But he did not. Instead it was the Brahmin Subhadra who returned, to see Nol. I was not told of the visit but the priest’s voice carried to my room and, curious, I stole down the corridor far enough to hear the conversation.
‘I have told His Majesty that the idea is an affront to Heaven,’ Subhadra was saying.
‘So it is,’ replied Nol, in the weakest of voices.
‘I have told him, Parasol Master, that divine law requires that a King look on another man’s wife as a sister or as poison, that he can dally only with women chosen through the laws of Dharma, that the women must be fresh, unencumbered and younger than the monarch.’
Nol replied – it was almost a whimper: ‘Yes, yes, that’s how it’s always been.’
‘I can tell you that His Majesty says he wants only to continue the conversation on charity. I asked him outright, was this not really about interest in the Lady Sray entering the concubine pavilion? He denied it wholeheartedly. But…’ The Brahmin blew out a breath of exasperation. ‘Today he proposed another visit to this house. He asked that it be made to happen when you would not be present, Parasol Master. I, of course, instructed the relevant palace officials to hold off.’
‘Yes, yes of course you did that.’ Again, a whimper, barely audible, a kind of voice I had never heard from him.
‘I then spent two hours with the King, making arguments both direct and indirect and showing him the supporting scriptures. But our lord is an impetuous young man. He does not always see why he must follow custom – never mind that it is Heaven’s law. He is King, but in his heart he is still like a virile young man in a village, strolling a new year’s festival at the local shrine. There is a side of him that wants to stop and flirt with any woman who meets his fancy.’
‘You call my wife any woman?’
The Brahmin stumbled. ‘Pardon me, Parasol Master. I used the wrong words. The Lady Sray is not any woman and his interest in her is not to be compared to his interest in some pretty village girl. In fact, I have never seen him like he is when he speaks of the Lady Sray. His voice softens, he uses only the most delicate terms. It’s as if for a moment the fierceness is all drained out of him.’
There was silence for a while. Then Nol said. ‘What can I do? She is so precious to me. For so long, she was all I had and if I were to lose her....’ I began to hear a weeping sound. ‘But at least,’ he said, recovering, ‘there would have to be some compensation. Some land, perhaps.’
Had I heard correctly? I could not bear it. I took a breath and strode into the room.
‘It may interest you, husband,’ I declared, ‘to know that in an hour I am leaving for the provinces. I have work to see to involving the reconstruction of the guesthouses of the Temple of the Trinity.’
Nol came to life. ‘You can’t! The King has given no permission for you to leave.’
‘I am not a prisoner in this house, husband. I will go where I please, where Heaven directs me to go
.’
‘You cannot speak like that.’
‘I will talk however I choose, especially to a husband who is ready to barter me off for some patch of dried-up dirt! And if I have to apologize to you for preserving our marriage, I will take a stick and hit you over the head!’
I turned to Subhadra. ‘Sir, if anyone comes here from the palace to request a meeting, that person will be told that I have left and that it is not clear how long I will be away, that my trip is divine duty, set in motion by a dream I had last night, in which our Lord Vishnu appeared to me in the form of a talking deer and declared that I must proceed to the temple without delay and provide the money to begin the rebuilding of the guesthouses and then to stay and oversee the work and say prayers for many days, and that I must in no way be disturbed, because I am doing the bidding of the Lord Vishnu, on consecrated ground.’
The Brahmin saw the potential. ‘It’s a powerful dream, Lady Sray. I think....I think no one can contest it, not even His Majesty.’
‘Very good. And you, Nol, can drag yourself to the palace to apologize for my departure and, if you like, think about the land that you won’t be getting.’
In my room, I began gathering up things for the journey, hoping that making my hands busy would calm me. What a jumble of emotions I was feeling, anger for the most part – anger toward my husband, anger toward palace life, anger toward the King for plying me with all those questions about holy giving. And anger toward myself. Each time that I lowered something into my basket, my wrists brushing against its edges, my mind insisted on recalling the touch of His Majesty’s hands on that part of me as I lay on my mat that night.
Presently Nol entered the room and hovered behind me, silent. I said nothing either, continuing with my work. After a while, he spoke. ‘I want you to know how relieved I am that you’re going away. I take back what I said about having no permission. Leaving is the correct thing to do.’
That was all. I took it for what it was, and replied, not looking his way: ‘I am relieved too. But I hope that if ever again we are in such a crisis, you will not panic. That first moment we met, Nol, you showed such remarkable courage. You must find it again in your dealings with the King.’
‘Please, please understand – His Majesty has given us everything we have.’
‘He has given us things and money and rank, but he has not given us life on this earth or our marriage or our children. There are limits to what we owe him.’
I left the house by oxcart, just me and my basket, a driver and a box filled with silver ingots which would finance the work on the guesthouses. At the bridge that led out of the royal sector, there waited the armed escort that Nol had called. I didn’t want to think of whether it was out of concern for me or the silver. Sergeant Sen stepped forward and greeted me, showing no sign that it might have been inconvenient to be summoned on such short notice.
28: The bathing concubine
I settled in at the Temple of the Trinity, living alone in that sole guesthouse. I did my best to focus on prayer, on devotion to my far-away husband and to put aside thoughts of His Majesty’s touch. One week became two, two became three. I had no idea how long I would remain.
I would only learn of it only later, but back in the Capital things were happening that would have great effect on my family in later years. In some cases it would be a marvellous effect, in others rank trouble.
The things of trouble I will recount first. These involved Bopa, and that was my fault. I had foolishly left her alone in the Capital, rather than insisting that she come with me again to the hilltop retreat. Bopa was a good-hearted soul, you see, but there were times in which she was short on sharpness of mind to sense when people intended harm.
In the previous year, my girl and I had acquired an early-morning routine. I would wake her and bring her with me to bathe in a stone-edged pool for women that lay outside the palace compound. Usually we went before the sun had fully showed itself. This was early, but she always came with me. But after I left for the temple, she began sleeping late, inside the comfort of her mosquito net, sometimes until the sun was well up in the sky.
Thank goodness we had a new maid in the house, the third granddaughter of a man who painted fabric in the parasol-making village. This girl was eager to show she was up to the job. She was not wise in city ways, but she was entirely trustworthy and had a large store of common sense.
One morning, Bopa awoke – rather I think it was this maid, Yan, who woke her, knowing that mischief dogs people who sleep late. Bopa drank down some tea, and then the two of them set out for the bathing pond. They found it deserted save for another maid. This girl was squatting on her haunches, but rose and strode off on seeing the new arrivals.
My daughter took up her bathing bowl, then moved down the stone steps until she was in thigh-deep in water. She began to pour water over herself. At this time of day, the water isn’t cold like in the early morning; the sun has warmed it up pleasantly – I suppose I couldn’t blame her for preferring to go at this time.
After a while, a young woman in a green silk sampot walked through a gate across the pool. She was someone of unusual rank and beauty – she had large eyes, a confident bearing and not one, but three maids in tow. The woman called out greetings to my daughter and descended the pool’s steps, unwrapping her garment in an elegant motion as she immersed herself.
These three maids made their way too down into the pool and got to work on their mistress. You know how novice priests clean a bronze image, with each one worried about offending it by touching it familiarly? One of them wielding a brush, one holding a jar of polish, another a dust cloth? It was like this with the maids. Each seemed in quiet awe of the mistress. One gently sought permission, then poured water from a silver bowl over her shoulders, one applied ash for cleaning, one stood by to dab her dry with a clean krama. The lady’s eyes, large and lovely, closed gently as the water passed over her head.
Bopa stopped, looked at this, then looked to Yan. I can imagine that she was thinking it would be nice to be fussed over in such a way.
Yan sensed this. She dried my daughter and helped her into a fresh sampot, doing her country best to match the service that the other woman was receiving.
From across the pool, the woman called: ‘That’s such pretty material you’re wearing. May I know where it came from?’
‘From the market, Lady.’
‘I don’t know why my own people can’t find such nice things for me. Please, would you come over here and let me have a look?’
Yan’s good sense extended to judging character, and she had already formed a distrust of the woman in the green sampot. Come along, mistress Bopa, the maid whispered. They’re waiting for us back at the house – I’ll get some nice rice soup for you. Bopa seemed not to hear, though, and Yan did not dare press her.
The elegant woman was gliding up the pool’s stone steps now. One of her maids was holding over her arm another green sampot that had the richest weave and colours.
The woman ran a finger approvingly along the waist of my daughter’s garment. ‘It’s from China, clearly. I’ll have to have a word with the head of my wardrobe. She just isn’t trying hard enough. Would you consider coming over sometime and letting me show it to my people? This is really just what I want. It’s so richly woven, and so stylish.’
‘Why yes, of course, I could do that.’
‘Wonderful. Perhaps now? Just give me a few minutes to finish here and we’ll be off.’ She turned to the maids. ‘Hurry up, then. Get me dressed.’
‘Now, then,’ said the woman when the job was done. ‘We can go. But first you must tell me your name.’
‘I am Bopa, daughter of the royal parasol master.’
‘My goodness! They’re right. You are quite a beauty.’
My girl surely blushed.
‘Oh, I’ve embarrassed you. Well, Bopa, the first thing a woman of beauty must learn in this life is how to take a compliment.’
This woman spoke f
rom experience, of course. Her eyes were just one part of her beauty. She was, in fact, the closest thing in real life to the apsara nymphs who peer out from the stone reliefs at the temples. Her skin was ivory-smooth, her breasts perfect circles, her face and eyes alive with feminine allure.
Bopa ventured: ‘And may I know your name, Lady?’
‘Certainly. I am Rom.’
Now it was Bopa’s turn to be surprised.
‘I can tell,’ the lady teased, ‘that you’ve heard my name.’
‘Of course, Lady. Everyone has.’
‘Well, I won’t deny that I like knowing that.’
This Rom, she now turned toward the maid Yan and made a gesture with her head that signified that Bopa would come alone. Yan pretended not to see. That was her way – she would not leave her mistress alone.
They walked, the maids trailing behind with the wet clothing and bathing implements.
Bopa said: ‘Your maids really know how to do their job.’
‘Yes, they’re finally learning. These girls come in from the village and you can never be sure what you’re going to get. They know rice seedlings, they know sugar palms, but not much else. You know, the other day I caught a couple of them pulling up the flowers outside my pavilion. They thought I’d be happy, that the flowers were weeds!’
‘Mine once thought I should eat headache powder right out of the packet,’ ventured Bopa. ‘She’d never heard of mixing it with tea!’
They laughed together.
Bopa is not cruel by nature, but this was a cruel remark. And with the maid right behind her. But the city, life in court, can work unpleasant things on impressionable minds. My girl was so needful of this woman’s approval that she made a joke at the expense of a person who cared deeply for her and always did her best in service.
