Shere returned and they drove toward the palace. He swung the car off the main highway onto a back road, between tall dusty trees whose branches bent into arches from the weight of their own high leaves. A flock of green parrots blasted screeching into the air above them. Then there was only heat and silence.
She looked for a sign or a ticket booth, but there was nothing to mark the entrance to the palace. A single kitchen chair stood by a gap in the wall, where a guard usually sat. Drawn by the sound of the car, a few tiny children appeared, scampering toward her as they drew to a stop. Shere turned off the engine, then took a call on his mobile.
One small boy remained against the wall, holding back from the group. He watched Marion with the kind of sad resignation one usually only saw in disappointed old men. When the boy realised that he had gained her attention, he pushed away from the wall and bunched his fingertips, gesturing to his mouth. Ignoring the others, she beckoned him over.
Her belongings were grouped around her on the back seat. She found the brown paper bag of candies and waited. His shyness surprised her. He seemed to be waiting for some kind of a sign. She realised she was frowning, and smiled instead.
He came a little nearer, then stopped. She held the sweets up against the window, remaining motionless. The other children saw that she was not looking at them, and gradually dispersed. I choose you, she thought, because you are trying hard not to look as if you care.
Shere finished his phone call and turned to see what was happening.
The boy remained with his hands by his sides, studying her, as if trying to see a friendly spirit within. He cautiously approached, but two little girls remained at the window with their hands outstretched, blocking his way.
Marion handed them each a silver-wrapped sweet, then passed the bag through the window to the boy. Clutching it to his chest, his serious eyes briefly locked with hers, and he ran away. She watched him go with a vague sense of dissatisfaction. What did you expect, that he would show gratitude?
‘You are ready to visit?’
‘I’m ready,’ she sighed, feeling suddenly empty. ‘You don’t have to come with me, I can find it.’
‘I can come with you.’ He didn’t sound keen.
‘It’s fine, I have this. It’s all I need.’ She held up the guide and tapped the cover, then slipped out of the car.
‘I’ll be here.’ Shere got out, opened her door, then took the opportunity to light a cigarette.
‘I know you will. I won’t be long.’
Slipping the guide into her back pocket, she followed the overgrown path into the complex. Ahead, a family of white-haired monkeys with triangular black faces scattered at her approach. Everyone’s a part of something here, she thought, even the monkeys. I’d like to be part of something. Would Ted even notice if I didn’t come back? The incline to the palace was low but steady, and the heat was dense, tangible. Sweat formed on her face, in the small of her back. Something must break soon, she thought, this is unbearable.
The first building she reached was a pillared pavilion containing a bull shrine. The carved black bull was life-sized and kneeling, garlanded with artificial jasmine flowers, so perhaps the villagers were still worshipping here. Beyond this, though, came disappointment. The lake had dried out, and appeared as a shallow rubble-strewn cavity in the ground, littered with plastic bottles. Due to global warming, she had read, the shrinking monsoon season means that lakes and rivers all over India are drying up, many to vanish forever.
The shattered remains of a pair of marble lions guarded the arched entrance to a platformed complex, and a tall Mughal swing had been placed by rooms that she knew would have once have housed a harem. But the swing itself had fallen into disrepair, and the semi-precious gems that should have been inset in the arch had long ago been prised out by robbers. The main pavilion was complete, but in a sorry state. Instead of the smooth amber and ochre walls in the photographs, she found herself looking at colours that had faded and died to streaked greys and dirty browns. The inset mirrors and plaster carvings of the interior walls were ruined, and the ornate jaali screens were nowhere to be seen. Nothing was as it appeared in the guide-book. Next time buy a recent edition, she reminded herself. Like there’ll be a next time. Ted wouldn’t allow it again.
Set at right-angles to the pavilion was a structure raised on four great fluted plinths, each beset by a pair of squat lotus urns, but the building did not look safe enough to enter. In the quadrangle formed by the buildings, bathing tanks and a complex network of stone gullies must once have been filled with water, but were now dried out and dead. She cupped her hands to shield out the sunlight, and looked to the roof, which was lined with terracotta pitchers. Somewhere in the woods beyond, a bird thrashed and screamed.
There were other buildings to explore, a small mosque with dried-out marigold garlands on its steps, a partially ruined tomb, but she did not have the energy to investigate them all. Outside the royal apartments, peacocks pecked at the sunbleached ground. Clearly the villagers had been here, for the birds’ tail-feathers had been plucked, presumably to sell at the market.
In the shadows of the tomb’s canopy she saw a small seated figure, and immediately recognised the boy. He’s different to the others, she thought, quiet and more thoughtful. Through the trees she could make out the far edge of the village. After studying the scene for a few more moments, she turned to make her way back. If I had seen this ten days ago I’d have been more impressed, but I’ve walked through too many of them now. They’re all the same. They lack life.
She tore open a moist tissue and wiped her forehead. She found Shere leaning beside the car, smoking. Surprised by her fast return, he went to grind out the cigarette. ‘It’s okay,’ she told him, ‘take your time.’
She opened the passenger door and slid onto the back seat. The sun was still high. They had stopped early for lunch. Surely it could only be about two o’clock. She fished on the floor for the sweet bag containing her watch, then remembered that she had given the bag to the boy.
How could she have been so stupid? What had she been thinking? The watch had been a gift from Ted, solemnly presented in order to make amends for his behaviour. The damned thing was encrusted with diamonds and worth around fourteen thousand dollars, even now. She had never really liked it, but that was less to do with its appearance and more because it represented an expensive apology. Over the years she had grown so blasé about wearing it that she had become careless.
The boy had been sitting in one of the temples in the palace. She had to go back and find him.
Shere caught her alarm. ‘Where are you going?’
‘My watch. The boy.’ It was not an explanation, but all that she could manage right now. The monkeys scattered as she strode back up the path thinking Insurance, sales receipt, Ted, how will he ever be persuaded to give it back—
As she approached the palace’s large central pavilion, she became aware of the change in light all around her. The gardens had lost the little colour they possessed, darkening to olive, the walls deepening to camelskin.
She crossed a cracked courtyard and climbed the palace platforms, peering through the stone latticework in search of the child. She had her purse; she would offer him rupees and have him return the watch. After all, what would he want with such a thing?
She became aware of a presence behind her, a tall figure bisected by shadows. She turned, startled, and found herself facing a huge stone statue of a god wearing a strange cloud-crown. He was holding an eight-petalled plant in each hand. On the floor was a wooden plaque written in English. It read;
PARJANYA is the Old God of The Heavens. He rules lightning, thunder and rain. He controls the procreation of plants and animals, but can also punish sinners. His powers are a mighty wonder to behold.
She studied his wind-damaged face. A faint but defiant smile played on his lips, as if he wished to play a game, or be challenged. As if he was waiting to show his strength. She shivered. A wind had risen. D
ry leaves scuttled across the terrazzo floor. In the last few minutes a wall of rolling cloud had appeared on the horizon and was sliding across the sky like a steel shutter.
Stepping back from the statue, which seemed to be smiling at her in the half-light, she headed from one building to the next until she reached the sunken groves of the charbargh, the walled paradise garden divided in four quarters to represent the four parts of life, but the boy was nowhere to be found.
The only thing she could do now was persuade Shere to take her to the village and ask the shopkeepers if they had seen him, but already she sensed that they would unite behind the child and her mission would fail.
The first fat drop stained the dust at her feet like ink falling from a pen nib. It made an audible ploc as it landed. A second, tac, hit the steps. Looking up, she saw that the clouds entirely covered the sky. Moments later the droplets multiplied by tens, hundreds, thousands, millions, from a shower to a roaring downpour, to a thunderous cascade, to a sound like the end of the world. Visibility dropped to zero and she stumbled up the steps into the open-sided pavilion, watching in wonder as rain unlike any she had ever seen deluged the palace.
At his car, Shere swore and threw down his cigarette as the first drops fell. He heard raised voices; a massive cheer of excitement filtered through the trees from the village. His client would already be soaked unless she had managed to take shelter. If she complained to the tour company, they would dock his pay or worse, place him on a circuit where he could make no money from the shops and restaurants he recommended.
There was no point in looking for her; the uphill path was already turning into a mudslide. She would have to wait for a break and return as best she could.
A change was sweeping over the monsoon palace. The dried out walls had blossomed into bright ambers, ochres and fiery reds. Tiles were washed of their dust to reveal a fierce blue glaze beneath. Mosaic panels covered with geometric lapis motifs sprouted and bloomed like orchids, glistening ornamental patterns emerging on the chhatris of the pavilions. Grey walls revealed hidden blues, yellows and greens. Earth was washed from the courtyard to reveal a polished marble floor inlaid with designs; floral bouquets, fruit trees and wine decanters. The gutters filled with rivulets that became gurgling streams, then pounding torrents, water shooting out of stonework spouts as the fountains sputtered into life. Marion grabbed the wet pages of the guidebook and searched for the pictures of the palace.
But it is the magic of the monsoon that restores the Palace, she read, for this forgotten complex of sandstone buildings and gardens was created to activate special effects during the rainy season that would delight the Bharatpur kings. The palace’s reservoirs are designed to fill instantly, fed by water-steps which pump streams through pipes to the peacock fountains.
Following the guide’s floor plan, she looked straight ahead and saw that what she had mistaken for piles of pale stones were in fact great marble peacocks. Rain was rushing down the steep gullies to be forced into the narrow stone pipes surrounding the birds. Water gushed from behind their long necks in shimmering rainbow fans, perfectly replicating the bird’s plumage. Marion was stunned. All about her, pipes and pillars were spouting water shapes, birds, animals, flowers. The pavilion’s overhanging balconies and kiosks channelled rain into intricate patterns that held formation for a moment before breaking apart and falling to earth.
The palace had been built to provide royal delight during the monsoon. It needed heavy rain to come alive. Water swelled and saturated the parched earth and the arched halls around her, filling them with colour and vigour. She walked, then ran through the white cascades between the inundated pools and reservoirs.
A long low belch of thunder sounded from somewhere between the ground and the clouds. Looking to the roof of the opposite pavilion, she saw a series of heavy lithic balls forced by sprays and jets of water to roll slowly across the concave roof, then back from the far side, artificially producing the sounds of a storm. The ditches around her were filling fast. Shielded from the downpour, they formed graceful mirror geometries that reflected the falling rain. She looked to where she had last seen the boy sitting. The curiously curved roof of the tomb now made sense; its upturned reflection was that of a boat, ferrying its precious cargo to safety.
She was crying uncontrollably now, tears pouring down her cheeks in an unstoppable flow. Her white shirt was stuck to her shoulders, her breasts. She fought the urge to tear the transparent material from her body and wade into the lake. A sense of understanding flooded through her, filling her with compassion. She no longer cared about her watch, her luggage, her husband, her home. The trappings of her life had vanished in the revelation of the tempest. Unashamed of crying or calling to the gods, her voice joined the thousands of others who celebrated the coming of the monsoon.
The boy splashed through the streets with the paper bag clutched in his fist, and found his uncle closing because of the rains. Uncle Javed’s decision to delay the repairs to his roof would cost him dearly. Later on this very night, part of the shop’s ceiling would fall in and ruin his new stock of winter jackets and saris.
The boy showed his uncle the watch, and received a clip across the ear for his trouble. ‘Oh Karan, you will cause your mother to die of despair,’ he scolded, ‘for producing another little thief like your brother. Hasn’t the poor woman had enough trouble in her miserable life? Why do you want to see her suffer further?’
‘I didn’t steal it,’ Karan insisted. ‘A rich American lady opened the window of her car and handed it to me.’
‘Such a little liar!’ Uncle Javed cried, trying to seize the boy’s thin neck. ‘What kind of monster have we raised that he should steal from the very people who come here in trust? Was she very rich?’
‘You steal from them all the time,’ said Karan, stepping back from his uncle’s grabbing hands, ‘every time you sell them a shawl and tell them it was sewn by a lady who took twenty months to make it all by hand.’
‘That is the art of business, you rude child. Every woman wants to be told the story behind her purchase, in order to make it more of a bargain.’
‘But your stories aren’t true.’
‘They are exactly what people wish to believe. Price has nothing to do with value. And this—’ he held the glittering watch aloft, ‘—must go back to the tourist you stole it from.’
‘But I’m sure she has gone.’
‘Did you look for her?’
‘No.’
‘Well, that is a blessing. My heart aches to think of the trouble you would have caused by making her think you were a thief. Come on, we have to visit old Mister Chauhan. He will be able to tell us how much the watch is worth. We must know how big a thief you have become, in order to find the right penance for your sin.’
Karan reluctantly agreed to go along, but first he made sure that Uncle Javed returned the bag to him.
The boys in the village said that Mister Chauhan was about five hundred years old, and had once been introduced to Queen Victoria in Old Bombay. His skin was so wrinkled, it looked to Karan as if someone had magically transferred his features to a brown paper bag, then screwed the bag up and flattened it out imperfectly. Mister Chauhan owned a brass-rimmed magnifying glass the size of a hotel dinner plate. He raised it by a pair of horn handles and held it over the watch on his cluttered desk. For several minutes there was complete silence in the cramped antique shop. Finally he set down the glass and turned to the boy.
‘There are thirty-six diamonds of extremely high quality inside this watch-casing, but there is also something missing.’
‘Missing?’ Uncle Javed looked at his nephew in puzzlement.
‘No serial number,’ said Mister Chauhan. ‘On Cartier watches of this type there are two types of authentication. On the downward stroke of the Roman numeral seven one can see, with the aid of a strong magnifier, the word ‘Cartier’ written in script. That is one sign. The other is the serial number on the back of the casing, but there
is none.’
‘So typical that my thieving nephew should choose to steal a worthless fake,’ Uncle Javed complained, giving the boy another clip around the ear.
‘I did not say it was a fake,’ Mister Chauhan continued. ‘This watch is very genuine indeed. It is extremely rare, so rare that someone has erased the number to prevent it from being traced. Every Cartier can be traced by its number.’
‘Why would somebody remove it?’ asked Uncle Javed.
Uncle Chauhan sucked his teeth and thought for a moment. “I can think of two very good reasons. Either the person who bought it did not wish it to be found, because he made the purchase with bad money.’
‘He avoids his taxes. He is a crook.’
‘Something like that.’
‘What is the other reason?’
‘A man might make such a purchase for his mistress, whose name he does not wish to be recorded on papers as the watch’s owner.’
‘The lady was not a mistress,’ said Karan, ‘she was a wife.’
‘Then perhaps her husband repents and gives the watch he buys his mistress to his wife, after first taking the precautionary measure of removing the serial number.’
Uncle Javed looked as if he had just seen a fortune fly out of the window.
‘Mister Chauhan, you make a fine storyteller,’ laughed Karan. ‘If I did not know you better, I might be tempted to think that you were inventing such a marvellous story so that I might agree to sell it for a small amount.’
‘The watch cannot be repaired or serviced by Cartier,’ Mister Chauhan explained. ‘And this is the very thing that any prospective buyer would want.’
But even as he looked into the boy’s unblinking brown eyes, Mister Chauhan knew he had lost. For this was India, where the past was not important, and anything could be repaired. He sighed and ordered the chai to be brewed, knowing that it would be a long evening. The bargaining began in earnest. Karan had seen the greedy fire in Mister Chauhan’s eyes, and knew that the process of negotiation would be lengthy and arduous.
Dark World Page 4
