I looked up at Rami. “If cinders were so fiercely hot, I thought, what must it be like for her?”
It was turning dark. How searing-bright the flames were, up close. Spicy acrid smoke battled the night air. Black clouds shifting, furling up to the moon, revealed…
I shuddered, swallowed hard, and went on.
“Hands prodded the poor soul back up. They thrust burning faggots and sticks at her as she tried to climb down, or—or to leap from the top.
“ ‘Stop!’ I yelled, but my voice was lost. I wondered if this was some hideous execution, because women shook their fists too, even as the poor thing looked for other ways. I saw the tail of her sari, pulled loose, catch and spark.”
“You do not need to speak of it more. A hideous practice!”
I stared at him, unrelenting. “But I have no choice, Rami. It is all a part!”
He tried to hold me then. I brushed him off.
“Her blazing sari looked like a comet. She jumped off the far side, away from grabbing hands and sticks…and she ran…she ran like the devil!” I recalled her shriek.
“I heard a scream. I screamed too. They prodded the woman back to the bonfire, their faces burning with excitement. The mob and even our elephant mahout cried, ‘Suttee! It is a suttee! We are most fortunate!’ I remember my mahout’s turban. A ridiculous thing, all gaudy, with big paste jewels, bobbing in pleasure. He had guided us to this by accident—even so; his face was filled with anticipation. He kept saying, ‘Tamasha.’ I watched the mob urging her to go higher. What is ‘tamasha.’?”
“It was,” the rajah murmured sadly, “tamasha. Their entertainment.” He snarled, “As I said, I do not approve!”
I ignored him.
“Our mahout argued. ‘Her husband is dead!’ he shouted. ‘She has no use. She has money shared by the family and priests. She is giving herself to join her husband in death. A good pious thing, memsahib!’ ”
The rajah nodded gravely.
“He went on and on about how this sainted woman would be a deity. ‘You have seen the many shrines along the roadside,’ he told me, ‘each devoted to a new saint.’
“I wanted to shove him off the elephant. ‘Difficult to enjoy being a saint, if one is dead,’ I yelled at him. Then I screamed above the crowd, ‘Save her—someone!’ It was a long way to the ground, and the elephant was pacing. Then I looked for Tommy, behind me somewhere in our train of cars—to see, I suppose, if he could help. All this time she was screaming atop the pyre. I couldn’t find him, so I climbed down the rigging and beat my way through the mob.
“ ‘Stop, memsahib!’ I heard the mahout. He shook his fist, with a face I had never before seen. ‘She was wishing this!’ he yelled. ‘She has fasted and cleansed! Look, even now, she goes willingly!’ He climbed down and followed me as I forced my way through.
“ ‘It looks as if she is forced into being willing!’ I yelled back.
“He held my wrist and snarled when he caught up, ‘A momentary thing, memsahib. She will not feel it…after a while.’
“I stared up then at the uncontrolled pyre, white as the sun at the center, with flickering orange tongues eating the velvety sky. I snapped, ‘Have you tried it?’
“His face turned dark. ‘It is not a man thing.’ Then I saw Tommy near us, weaving through the crowd. Our mahout, divining his intentions, grabbed him, saying, ‘Don’t! It is forbidden!’
“ ‘What? Come on, my good man! We can save her!’ But the mahout and the mob chanted, ‘She wants to be chaste. A sati!’ I can hear them now—‘Sati! Sati! Sati!’ Men tossed more coconuts on the fire. I watched the woman prodded, with long poles, farther up toward her husband, a white bundle with flowers on his chest, while our mahout wrestled Tommy. He kept repeating, ‘She will be esteemed. Worshipped. Shrines made to her. What life will she have otherwise? She is elevated, sahib—remote, untouchable. It is very popular here, a thing done in Rajasthan, and in all Bengal and India.’
“As if trying to make it right!” I glared at Rami. “He went on and on… ‘You see the stones and monuments to these chaste ones? Hundreds every day. Why should this woman be different?’ he said. ‘Besides, she will not be a burden to her family.’
“When I looked again, the widow, perched near the white bundle now circled by flames, beat at her hair and ripped off her veil.”
Rami interrupted. “Sarabande, my love. Please. No more. A hideous, odious practice I do not for one instant believe in. I abhor it. Abhor. Is that a word?”
I nodded absently.
“The custom is centuries old, true—fueled by greed, religion, part venerated tradition and part practical, as they see it, if one does not wish to support the widow. Very hard to wipe out, rich or poor. They do it secretly, but some, even royals, quite openly and proudly. Some women fight for the right to immolate themselves…”
“And that makes it convenient and right?”
“No! When I—if I am made maharajah, I will halt this barbaric practice. You have my vow.”
I closed my eyes. I knew if I wanted to find out about Tommy and my baby boy, I must follow this to the end.
“Tommy finally tore away,” I said. “I screamed, ‘Stop. Don’t do it!’ But he approached the pyre with his arm wrapped in rags before his face. He was like a mythic warrior—a Viking or a Roman soldier could have been no more brave. Even our roustabouts, who were not afraid of anything, held back.
“The crowd still pressed with threats and grabbing hands. I lost him. They swallowed me too—I can still smell garlic, spices, sweat, and oils. I can feel body heat, sweat, and throbbing excitement. I looked up where they pointed.
“At the top, the woman had managed to ease to the back side. I could see the flap of her white sari and just make out the top of Tommy’s head as he started to climb. It looked so rickety! Part of the pyre was crumbling to ash.
“ ‘Tommy!’ I screamed. I pushed my way closer. I overheard an angry man say, ‘Soower ki bachi!’ and he spat. ‘Son of a pig,’ my mahout translated right behind me.
“Then—the fire, the…the body, shifted. Some of the logs rolled, and Tommy leapt off. The crowd gasped and cheered. I heard a priest shouting as Tommy looked for another way around.
“ ‘Sati is the highest expression of wifely devotion to a dead husband!’ The crowd took up the chant.”
Rami spoke up then, smiling grimly. “I can imagine. It purges sins, releases her from birth and rebirth, and ensures salvation for her husband and seven generations to come.”
Rami appeared to half believe it. Venerated tradition died fighting, I saw.
I twisted my mouth, flashing an angry glance. “The priest kept ranting, ‘Do not deny her this honor!’ ‘Honor! I am denying her death from you murderous thugs,’ I heard Tommy say, and he punched him. He just hauled off and socked him. The mob was horrified. ‘Oh, Tommy,’ I thought. He plunged the rags into a water barrel, and my Tommy, my brave, foolhardy Tommy, neared the bonfire again. It was hellacious even from where I stood. It was suicide.”
Rami nodded assent. “Indeed.”
“She was in the heart of the fire, now. Her sari had caught, as if her husband reached out for her. A flicker of orange caught her hair. It was long and streaming. I heard her call out—something that sounded like, ‘Ram, Ram, sati, Ram, Ram, sati.’ Was that a call for help?” I finally looked at Rami.
“She was chanting, ‘God, God, I am chaste,’ ” Rami said. “She must have accepted her…fate. You have to understand. When a wife decides to become a Sati, a chaste one, she is untouchable. The alternative is not appealing, Sary. A widow lives the life of an ascetic.” He gestured helplessly. “Shaving her head, eating boiled rice, sleeping on the ground. To many, death may seem preferable…”
I looked at Rami with despair and shook my head.
“The woman was trying to regain the back side of the pyre again. It was the—the body that caught fire and blazed up so.” It had blossomed like a noxious flower, blooming blazing petals
with black curling leaves of smoke.
“Then there was Tommy, coaxing the woman down that way. The crowd for once became just onlookers, holding their breath. As if they too wanted to see what would happen next.”
Still in the hellacious scene, I looked through the rajah for a moment, but then I could wait no longer.
“Tommy—What happened to him? That is as far as I remember! And where is Jude?” I caught my breath until he answered.
“It is said—” The rajah spoke gently.
“No ‘it is said’! You know the truth. I want to know it now! No!” I dashed away a glass of offered tea.
“Sary!” He grabbed my hands. I calmed. “Sary, your brave Thomas did get to the pyre. He did try to talk the woman down. He attempted to meet her half the way…”
He hesitated.
“It is said, he saw a way around to where it hadn’t caught yet. That is true. The woman, changing her mind or only fooling them with her chant of willingness, was looking to leap, but there was a burst of flame as more husks were tossed. There are many stories, but it seems the fire circled, cutting him off. At that moment, the woman jumped. That was one version. She was—” He halted, his face anguished.
“No one really knows,” he said softly. “The mob scattered when the logs became unstable, no doubt partly from your Thomas climbing on them and the mob’s actions. Plus, a suttee, no matter what you might suppose, is at least frowned upon, if not semi-outlawed. They were afraid of being caught.” He thrust long fingers through his hair.
“Don’t stop there,” I threatened.
“The pyre collapsed, sending burning wood rolling down into the gathering and bits of cloth and flaming ashes flew to the winds. That is what my informers reported. The aftermath consumed many in the panic—the smoke, the heat, the mob all trampling each other, the flaming body rolling off—and when they tried to escape, part of the way was hampered by your own troupe.”
“And—and the widow?” I took time to wonder.
“Some say she escaped down a passageway. She was safe either way. When your husband touched her, she was made unclean.” He smiled ironically. “They would have had to begin the purification all over. Others say she went up like a flaming ghost in the center right before it collapsed.”
My face was stone. “And Tommy?”
“No one saw him. After the collapse, many sought him.” He placed his hand gently on my shoulder. “After the collapse, many sought him.”
“Oh. No…no! He did not die. Not Tommy. You do not know him. He is cleverer, quicker than that. Why, onstage, he could…”
“Perhaps the god Agni—the God of Fire, ordained it.”
“What drivel! Your gods…your gods!” I lashed out. “Tommy lives! He must. He was a hero! Not like your backward murderers!”
I paced, not sure what to do with feet that wanted to run, hands that yearned to flail. The rajah studied me, not without compassion—a kindness it was fortunate I did not see. “You must hear all this to heal.”
“Heal? I have no wish to heal! Not while my Tommy and Jude are out there.” My breath caught.
A shadow passed over the rajah’s face—a flash of annoyance. For a second his eyes turned to black ice.
“When the pyre collapsed, sending flames and burning logs into the crowd, they turned.”
“Turned?”
“On him. They took him away…” He gestured helplessly. “Or he ran. ’S’truth, I do not know. They were—stirred up. I heard many stories.” At my look, he added, “And yes, I have sent my enquirers. A hundred! The fire caught several buildings—a whole block went up.”
“No more. I will hear no more of your merciful country.”
At that kindle point, he made the mistake of touching my hair.
He remained solid as a tree, allowing me, still in wedding finery, to shove and push and beat at him until I sagged, my breathing hoarse and ragged. He clasped my wrists in two strong hands.
“Wearing yourself out. It is too soon.” He meant after my recovery, or maybe the shock of remembering. It hardly mattered. Fear and frustration, tamped down like gunpowder until then, exploded without my will. Still I struggled, kicked, cursed, and threw things until, exhausted and raw from weeping, I rasped, “You’ve kept me here all this time. While I could have been searching, asking!”
“I will send word once more to find him, this…this…not-husband.”
“And my boy?” Weariness dragged at me. I smelt cloves, perfumed oils, camphor, and sandalwood, and sensed his bare satiny smooth chest beneath his wedding tunic. I wanted nothing more than to rest, curl, nestle, and think of nothing.
Angrily, I shook him off, straining through mental fog, and paced the room.
Jude was missing from that last narrative.
As if he read my thoughts, he murmured, “This will gladden your heart, perhaps, beloved.” I faltered. Rami’s face shone with love. “Your theater troupe, my agents reported, did manage to back out of the area. This we heard months ago.”
I sucked in a gasp.
“The mob turned their fury into either feeding the fires, running from the collapse, or fighting amongst themselves in place of battering what amounted to an armored fleet, your caravan of doughty Rolls Royces, armed to the teeth. You were a juggernaut.”
“I don’t care about that. My boy! I don’t care a fig about the mob or—” It was on my tongue to say, “Or what happened to the troupe!” But that was not true.
“My little boy?” My heart lurched. “Six…almost seven…”
“Almost nine, mera pyara…now.”
“Jude…is—alive?” I searched his face.
“I—believe so.”
“You believe so!”
“There is reason. I have been searching. I had news very recently. I wanted to tell you, when I was sure…a wedding present, if you will.”
His face took on its usual hawkish attitude, belying his age. “A troupe—your troupe, it is believed—was sighted near the Chinese-Tibetan border…”
“Chinese border,” I repeated stupidly. “And Jude?”
“Several conveyances, your cars, were found abandoned and stripped. Props, costumes, and a foods truck…They were unmistakable.”
“The cook’s rig.”
“Yes.” He nodded gravely. “There were sightings of a battered caravan regrouped outside of Nepalganj Road on our northern border, heading presumably toward Kathmandu. In Nepal,” he explained.
“Yes, I know where Nepal is!” Tommy and I had studied world maps avidly. I laughed without humor. World travelers, we had been always eager for the next town, the next hill.
“What else?”
He waved. “Something, someone, overheard one of your troupe in a tea shop, near where roustabouts and performers congregate. China and Kathmandu were mentioned. There was a man—I believe one of your slaves. A short person—very short,” he emphasized, holding his hand three feet from the floor.
“We had no slaves! That was Malcolm!” I grinned as I hadn’t in days, recalling the man billed as Malcolm The Midget. “Tommy’s comic strong man in the old days, and a valuable player,” I protested.
“So be it. My scouts questioned all in the teashop, followed leads as thin as a cat’s whisker. After weeks, they heard they had indeed crossed the border. We questioned a temple priest in the last village, who avowed he saw a bright green truck with a faded banner with the words—let me see…Sir Thomas…or…The Amazing Sir Thomas. The actual words had been scraped off, possibly for safety.”
I could still see the panels in my mind’s eye announcing: Sir Thomas’ Traveling Troupe Of Thespians, Acrobats, Magicians And Feats Of Astounding Strength!
“Of course it was them.” I walked to the balcony as if I could see them far off. “They left without me. But where are they?” I keened to the wind.
“I wish”—he held out hands in supplication—“I could tell you. They saw no boy at the teashop.” He hesitated.
“Why was I not with
them?”
“Kind people of a religious order found you wandering half naked, parched and starving; you had suffered a concussion, our physician decided. Being a foreigner, these others took you to the British Consulate. They refused you entry, saying they had no records of you. You were not a British subject and, in their words, ‘it would be most inappropriate.’
“Our court physicians agreed that the head injury plus the repugnant suttee and the shock of your friend’s heroics must have erased your mind. I was frightened, not willing to goad you into recalling, at least not until I found the boy I saw on stage, until I had answers. They said you might go mad, be forever lost into another world. You had terrifying nightmares.”
“So you knew all along…”
“There were reasons…”
“So you say…”
“You wonder why I did not release you when you were also in danger, here? Where would you go? I could not identify your name. You were billed as ‘Madam Sarabande.’ Your troupe scattered. Apparently, you traveled extensively, but from whence you came, we did not know.”
He spread his hands, helpless. “How would we? Superficially, you were in India the better part of a year, judging from a few playbills we found. You spoke with a colonial or American accent, yet with British overtones, and also had picked up an overlay of Hindi. Where would I have taken you? Which embassy? Would they have released you back onto the streets? Placed you in an asylum? No.” He flipped his long hair. “It was better here, and selfishly, by that time”—he looked me full in the face—“I loved you.”
His youthful face took on a grave maturity. I saw the noble, fiercely loyal older man he would become.
I quirked a smile, comprehending how my escape attempts must have rankled. Rami had been patient, doing his best between the rock of his brother and the hard place of my oblivion…and falling in love along the way…as had I.
My eyes finally met his.
The rajah regarded me with such compassion I needed to look away. Then he had to continue.
“Your Tommy was a true hero. Is that not enough? He will go directly to Bhagavan now. As you say—Heaven.”
Sary and the Maharajah's Emeralds Page 20
