by John Speed
"Well, yes," Slipper said, but it seemed clear the suggestion disappointed him. He reached along the roof of the howdah, lowering gauze screens for privacy before opening the side curtains. "I won't do the front," he said. "Who wants to see the mahout's old back anyway?"
Lucinda thought about insisting, but held her tongue. There was much to see.
Outside, the caravan was turning a corner, leaving behind the palmlined shore and the whitewashed houses of the farangs, heading for the eastern gate of the Goa walls.
The elephant was in the middle of the procession. Ahead of them, led by Pathan, rode four Muslim guards. Some bullock carts followed the howdah, then Da Gama and Geraldo riding side by side.
Somehow, Lucinda had imagined that the procession would be grander. But it was exciting even so, to ride on the back of a great elephant in a rich howdah, led by horsemen carrying long, bright spears.
Behind them, the tower of Santa Catarina faded into the sea mist. Ahead Lucinda saw the shambling huts of the Hindis that ringed the Portuguese cantonment. The road narrowed here, for the ramshackle buildings, many of them cobbled together from materials salvaged or stolen from the farangs, connected in a haphazard sprawl that paid little heed to traffic. The guards shouted for pedestrians to make way, and raised their spears toward any that hesitated. Amidst the shouts and taunts somehow the caravan muddled through.
"Let's see," Slipper said. "What shall we talk about?"
Lucinda paid him no attention, for slowly they approached the eastern gate. The howdah was nearly as high as the thick stone walls, where boredlooking soldados patrolled with flintlocks.
Since she'd been brought to Goa, barely older than an infant, she had not left the boundaries of the city. All her life she'd heard stories of outside, and from those tales had constructed an imaginary world, full of brave princes, and bandit kings, and glittering palaces; all the foolishness that might fill a young girl's fancy. After her parents' deaths, Tio Carlos had made her his ward and then installed her as the lady of his house, and she had forced herself to realize that those thoughts had been only the fancies of a girl. Even so, her heart pounded as she approached the gate, for beyond them lay a world of which she'd only dreamed.
The gatekeepers rang the big bronze bell and swung wide the elephant gate. Before passing through, the mahout made the beast slow almost to a stop; he then stood up on the elephant's head and measured the archway until he was sure the howdah would squeak through.
"Such a big elephant," said Slipper, looking at Lucinda with a sort of reverence. "You must be very important."
"I assure you I'm not," Lucinda answered.
Once through the gate, they moved slowly through a sort of tunnel. From platforms on the walls of the gateway, soldados leered, for from their high perches they could see the women clearly. Cannon barrels aimed straight at them.
"They use this turning place to prevent the ramming of the inner gate. It's such a nuisance. All this trouble, yet how often are they attacked?" Slipper sighed, as though he'd seen it all before. Lucinda tried to appear as though she too knew all about this.
The elephant moved slowly, reluctant despite the mahout's murmured words and the prodding of his ankus, for the beast had to negotiate a tricky bend around a narrow corner. And even when this was managed, they faced one last gate.
The soldados swung the heavy doors wide. Lucinda held her breath as the elephant lumbered through, but of course there was no magic world beyond the last gate, only a wide sward of yellowing grass where the trees had all been cleared for defense. A few hundred yards later, the road disappeared into the shadows of a forest, a tangled jungle of teak and mango and jackfruit and palms. Above their tall branches, she could see blue shadows of the distant hills.
"Ugh, what's that smell!" exclaimed Slipper. He crawled to the other side and leaned out to look.
Maya glanced outside, then returned her gaze to the bundle of palm leaves in her lap. "A nobody village," she said. It was the first time she'd looked up since they started moving.
Lucinda looked. She thought at first it was a field of grassy moundsthen she realized that she was looking at low huts roofed with mudgrass. The rotten smell was carrion: hides drying, bones boiling, the smell of old death.
"You call them nobodies?" asked Slipper, sounding irritated.
"It is their lot in this life to be unclean. No one may touch them. To touch a nobody is to be polluted."
"Why? What's so wrong with them?" the eunuch insisted.
"It is their karma to clean latrines and tan hides, to do all those things that must not be done and yet still must be done," Maya answered. Lucinda felt that she was humoring her like a child.
"They deserve better than to be stuck out here," Slipper scowled.
"Who would want this smell in the city? Besides, they have their own foods and their own wells, and they come and go as they please to do their work."
Slipper frowned at the mud-hut village. "They're so filthy. Almost like they're made from dirt." When he saw a pig drinking from a puddle where two babies played, he turned away, and his eyes glistened.
"What's wrong, Slipper?" Lucinda asked. "Surely this is the way of the things, even in Bijapur."
The eunuch looked back, serious for a change. "It's not the same. You'll see when you get there. I've seen Hindis run to get a bath if a nobody's shadow even touches them. In Islam, all living things have souls. We are made pure by the fire of the Lord's compassion."
He stared back at the village and spoke almost to himself. "I'm lucky I'm not a Hindi. This is where I'd be sent, don't you see? The Hindi law says that eunuchs must live among the nobodies. But even the nobodies won't have us. The eunuchs must live outside the nobody village. They must wear women's clothing, they must be called `she.' They must have no wells, but drink water from the gutters. Children throw rocks at them. If I were Hindi, this would be my village. These pitiful filthy souls? They would be my neighbors. It is they who would despise me. Don't you understand?"
He looked at Lucinda with searching eyes, and she turned with a sort of horror to gaze once more upon the nobody village. But by this time they were nearly past the place, the people, and the huts now nearly indistinguishable from the brown earth. And a breeze, sweet with forest dampness, blew the stench away.
"Well," said Slipper with a sigh. Then taking a custard apple, he looked up smiling. "So. Who's hungry?"
Upon entering the dense, overhanging trees, Lucinda at last felt as if she had entered a different world. Damp stagnant shadows replaced the hot sun. Even the caravan's clatter seemed muffled by the leaves.
Lucinda grew used to the rhythmic roll of the elephant's shoulders beneath the howdah floor. In all directions she saw nothing but dark leaves and branches. The patches of sky that peeked through the foliage looked white as linen. She heard the whispers of wind and the chatter of a thousand birds; she smelled the mold and dampness of the forest floor, and the warm, grassy smell of the elephant's body.
"Why do you keep looking out?" Slipper asked. "There's nothing to see.
Lucinda took a while to realize that Slipper was addressing her.
"Leave her alone, Slipper," Maya said. "Can't you see she's happy?" Lucinda nodded gratefully to the nautch girl, surprised that she of all people would understand her feelings. "Have you seen much of the world?" Maya asked. Lucinda shook her head. Maya's eyes drifted back to the stack of palm leaves on her lap. "Well, there we are similar, you and I."
Lucinda gave her a surprised glance, but did not contradict her. She leaned out over the edge of the howdah, though the forest here looked just the same as the forest a hundred yards back. "But aren't we going to talk?" Slipper sighed.
From the front of the line, Captain Pathan looked back and saw Lucinda peering out. Frowning, he peeled his mare to the side of the road, and waited there for the howdah to catch up. "Keep the curtains closed, madam," he told her, trotting along beside it, but Lucinda looked away and pretended not to hear. "Madam,
for your safety," he insisted. She ignored him.
Frustrated, Pathan rode back, and sent Da Gama to the howdah. "How are you all doing so far?" the soldado called.
Slipper crawled forward to answer, his pale jowls showing blotchy pink patches from the effort. "Hello, Captain," he said in Hindi. "Why do you wear so many guns?" For at each of Da Gama's hips hung apistola with its grip facing backward, and he wore two broad belts that crossed in an X over his chest, where he had tucked half a dozen more.
Da Gama laughed and answered in Hindi. "I have more in my bag, Senhor Eunuch. Better having too many guns and not needing them, eh?"
"Are you worried about wolves, Captain?" Slipper asked. His tiny eyes opened wide.
Da Gama lifted an eyebrow. "That is so," he said. "I'm worried about wolves." He nodded toward the curtains. "Keep the curtains closed, eh?" he said. Then in Portuguese, he added, glancing at Lucy, "Better for everyone that way, eh, Lucy?" With that he trotted back to the end of the line.
With unexpected agility, Slipper quickly started to pull the curtains, but Lucinda held out her hand to stop him. "He was only teasing you, you silly!" she said. "You don't really think that wolves will see us?"
"He wasn't speaking of wolves," said Maya.
Sensing danger without really understanding it, Lucinda removed her hand. Soon Slipper had closed them in.
The howdah was much darker now, and Maya took the palm leaves from her lap, touched them to her forehead, and placed them on a square of silk beside her.
"What are they?" Lucinda asked.
"Can you read?" Maya asked, handing them to her.
Of course, a book, Lucinda realized, as she glanced at the writing on the palm leaves. They'd been sewn together across the top. "I can't read this language," she answered as she handed it back.
"It's the Gita," Slipper said. "She reads it all the time."
"You know this book?" Maya asked. Lucinda shook her head. "Our most sacred text," Maya continued as she folded the thin volume in its silk cover. "Bhagavad Gita, the Song of the Adorable One."
"That means her god," Slipper put in, his lips pursed in disapproval.
"You think our god is different from yours?" Maya asked. Slipper seemed about to snap an answer, but Maya's eyes were so gentle that instead he merely blinked. "When Mohammed said there was but one god, did you think he meant one different from mine? Or from hers?"
"Whatever you say, mistress," Slipper replied, though to Lucinda the eunuch looked unconvinced, even angry.
Maya smiled. "In this book, the Lord says, `When the wick of righteousness burns low, I take on human form.' Isn't that what Christians believe as well?" She cocked her head at Lucinda, who at this moment was uncertain what she believed.
"That's not what we think," Slipper answered, as if for both of them, before Lucinda could say a word.
"Perhaps I misunderstood," Maya replied, her face now so still it looked like a mask.
"I thought only your priests could read," Lucinda said to Maya after an uncomfortable silence.
Maya turned her eyes from the eunuch. Lucinda could sense that it took her some effort to breathe calmly. "Yes that's true, for the most part. Some of the merchants read, of course, but not Sanskrit, not the language of the gods. But for some reason, reading is taught to us devadasis, to the dancing women of the temple." She laughed, but her eyes were serious. "You know it's funny-only the brahmins say these words aloud, but I never met a brahmin who has actually read these books. They learn reading, when they're boys, but they prefer to memorize the scriptures, by repeating the words their guru says. Sometimes those words they memorize are completely different from what's in their books."
"I'm glad I never learned to read," said Slipper.
"But if women are not to say the words aloud, why do they teach the dancing girls to read?" Lucinda asked.
"I've often wondered that myself. Maybe because the texts we devadasis must study are too boring for the brahmins to bother with: the Natya Sutra, the book of dance, for example, or the Kama Sutra, the book of love. Maybe because so many of us devadasis end up sold to the Muslims, where the brahmins know we'll have no access to the scriptures." She shook her head ruefully. "But of course that seems unlikely, doesn't it? If they really cared about our welfare, they'd not have sold us in the first place."
Now surely Lucinda had known before this that Maya was a slave, but for some reason the bayadere's words hit home with unexpected force.
"Please don't look shocked. It is your family that has bought me."
"What?" Lucinda stammered.
"It is nothing special," Slipper said, sensing her discomfort.
"What difference should it make to me-to any of us? It is but one more life: Now I'm a slave.... Have I not been a king? A tree? A dog? A nobody? I've taken birth a million times and will be reborn a million more."
Lucinda said nothing. She had often heard the local merchants blaspheme this way. But Maya was so pretty, with skin nearly as fair as hers, and so young, just her own age, and it disturbed Lucinda to realize that she was no more than some man's property.
"He's a slave as well, you know," Maya said, indicating Slipper with her eyes.
Slipper sat up as tall as he could. "There's no shame in being a slave, miss. It's not what you are, but how you act that makes the difference."
"Yes," agreed Maya. "That is what the Gita teaches us as well." Her eyes sparkled as though she found the eunuch's discomfort amusing. "Otherwise I should not have offered myself for sale."
"You offered to be a slave?" Lucinda gasped.
"Why not? As Slipper says, there is no shame. Our temple had been nearly destroyed by floods, and the shastri had hinted that he could get a good price for me. I'm sure it saved the temple."
"What about your family?"
"I've been an orphan for as long as I remember. And my guru died. She was all my family to me, and she disappeared in the floods. So why not? Why do you look so shocked?"
"I had no idea," Lucinda answered.
"You thought that I was born a slave, as you were?"
Lucinda's hand covered her mouth. "How dare you! I'm a free woman!"
"Are you?" Maya said softly. "Have you a house? A purse full of gold? Do you go where you please? Take a lover when you wish, or none at all?"
Lucinda answered with a frown.
"Please forgive me, then," Maya replied. "I thought you were like all the other farang women-some man's property with no freedom of her own: a virgin, maybe, offered to a rich man to unite two fortunes, or a wife whose only value is in manufacturing sons."
"I forgive you," Lucinda answered. In the silence that followed, she found herself becoming aware of the endless rocking of the dark, shadowed howdah, and wished that she could be once more on solid ground.
"I don't feel well," Lucinda said at last. "I have a headache." She leaned over onto one of the cushions, fluffed her hooped skirts over her ankles and squeezed her eyes tight. But she could feel the stares of the other two. The howdah rocked, creaking like a boat tossed by the waves. In a few minutes she was asleep.
When the endless sway of the howdah stopped, Lucinda woke. "Where are we?" she asked.
"We've come through Valpoi, and we've just stopped at someone's house," Slipper answered, looking perturbed. "And we passed right by a perfectly satisfactory inn, too."
Lucinda was the last one to inch down the silver ladder propped against the elephant's flanks. Slipper stood to the side, speaking seriously to Maya, who tried not to look too annoyed.
The wide, comfortable courtyard overlooked a deep valley. The sun was just setting, and its red rays colored the mountains to the east. Hindi servants hoisted luggage and hurried it inside. Da Gama came over to Lucinda. "Your uncle arranged that we should spend the night here. This is the house of Fernando Anala, one of your father's trading partners."
"I don't think I ever met him," Lucinda answered.
A tall Hindi wearing a shiny silk turban appeared at the
door of the house and came down the verandah. "My master wishes to greet you," he said in passable Portuguese. With that he gave a stiff but correct farang bow, even giving his fingers a little flourish as he spread his arms. Rising, he looked at Lucinda, Da Gama, and Geraldo, and with a sweep of his hand, motioned them toward the door. The others understood that they were not invited. Even so, Lucinda glanced at Maya, letting her embarrassment show. Maya nodded, unconcerned.
The servant led them down a dark corridor lit by high-flamed candles, to a great hall, nearly empty except for a thronelike chair at the far end. He bowed them through and latched the double doors behind them.
The clack of Da Gama's boots on the wooden floor echoed from the high ceiling. Beside the throne a half-dozen torches burned so bright that it was hard to see who sat there. A mastiff resting at the man's feet stood and growled as Da Gama approached, but the man clapped once and the dog sat.
When they reached the throne, Da Gama bowed, sweeping his broadbrimmed hat. "I am Jebtha Da Gama at your service, senhor. Here are Geraldo Silveira and Lucinda Dasana. Your friend Carlos Dasana sends his best wishes." Geraldo bowed as well, and Lucinda gave a curtsy.
The man rose in answer. He was much smaller than Lucinda expected. "In the name of the Blessed Virgin and of Jesus Christ our Savior I welcome you to my humble dwelling." He had a thin voice and an unrecognizable accent. When he came forward to greet them, leaving the harsh glare of the torches, it took Lucinda a moment to puzzle through what she was seeing.
Fernando Anala was a Hindi.
He wore the clothes of a Portuguese trader-the long coat, knee breeches, leather shoes-in fact he was dressed almost exactly like Geraldo, but with more gold braid. But he himself was tiny, dark, delicate-clearly a Hindi. She had seen Hindi women in European dress, but never a man. He reminded her of an organ-grinder's monkey.
"I am Fernando Anala at your service," he said, now returning Da Gama's bow. "I say that name with pride, for it was given to me when I became a Christian. But you must not call me senhor. ... as we share one Father; you must call me Brother Fernando." With that, Anala walked to Da Gama and put his tiny arms around the soldado's chest. "Brother," he said, embracing him. Da Gama looked too shocked to move. Anala then reached Geraldo. "Brother," he whispered. Geraldo had recovered sufficiently to embrace him back.
