The Satapur Moonstone

by Sujata Massey

  Perveen hesitated. “That sounds wonderful, but I’m probably heading out early in the morning.”

  “It’s a three-hour journey. You don’t need to leave so early.” Vandana sipped champagne and looked pensive.

  Perveen wondered about that comment. “So you don’t worry about the bandits who robbed Yazad?”

  “No, and I’m not the only lady who rides through the woods!” Vandana flashed a defiant look at her husband. “Bandits know better than to cross me. And there were never bandits in my day. Everyone wanted to visit the palace. It was quite a festive and lively household.”

  Feeling reassured, Perveen asked, “Can you tell me about the maharanis?”

  “Oh yes!” Vandana put down her knife and fork, as if glad for the chance to gossip. “The dowager maharani—everyone calls her the rajmata—was such a force. She instructed all of us on how to carry ourselves—even if we were to live out our lives secluded in the palace. Because of her, I learned the importance of what she called signature jewelry. She suggested I always wear diamonds as my signature. A grand idea!”

  “For both you and Monsieur Cartier,” Yazad commented, and laughed at his own joke. “Even the cigarette case must have diamonds.”

  Perveen had sold off most of the jewelry she’d received at her wedding five years earlier to fund her Oxford education. Smiling, she said, “I’m afraid I don’t have any signature jewelry outside of my wristwatch. I packed very lightly.”

  Vandana reached out to tap the face of Perveen’s watch. “Longines. Very nice.”

  Feeling slightly mortified, Perveen asked, “Can you tell me more about the dowager maharani’s personality?”

  “She’s terribly stern! She always complained when we children squealed and ran too fast through the zenana. But she is generous with gifts to everyone.” Leaning forward eagerly, Vandana asked, “What are you bringing for gifts?”

  Gifts? Nobody had told her. “I don’t have anything. I didn’t—”

  “You must bring gifts,” Vandana said, worry creasing her brow. “Tell her about what happened to you, Colin!”

  Colin expertly mixed dal into his rice before answering. “Last time I went, I carried a tin of Fortnum and Mason biscuits. But they went home along with me, rejected.”

  Dramatically, Vandana threw her napkin down on the table. “You weren’t admitted most likely because of that dreadful offering!”

  “Could that be true?” Colin looked thunderstruck.

  “Yes, indeed. That is why she asked you to repeat the story!” Yazad joked.

  But it wasn’t funny to Perveen, who had even less than a tin of British biscuits. “I suppose I could give them the cashew brittle I bought from the village?”

  “Not chikki. It sticks to the teeth!” Vandana said, shuddering.

  “What about Rama’s herbs?” Yazad said with a wink.

  Perveen was confused. “Do you mean a gift of herbs to cook with? I don’t expect that the maharanis cook.”

  “No, these herbs are medicine,” Yazad said. “There are plants that grow very well here during monsoon that Indian healers use. Rama is known to have that gift, and he is quite a collector of plants, isn’t he?”

  “He’s taught me how to recognize brahmi and ashwagandha,” Colin said. “There’s a very pretty shrub that grows wild everywhere, datura. The flowers are like trumpets, and they can mute the worst aches and pains. He’s made a tea for me with that a few times.”

  “I think I noticed that shrub growing close to the veranda when I was walking this morning.” Perveen looked down the length of the table toward Rama, who was standing in the shadow of the doorway. “Was that datura?”

  “Yes. But nobody should touch the plant who does not know.” Rama’s words came in a halting manner. “The seeds can kill.”

  “He is correct!” Vandana said, taking up a last forkful of potato curry. “But medicinal herbs are not the right thing to bring to a palace. Even if you brought good ones, they would suspect poison!”

  “I don’t think much of such plants as medicine.” Dr. Andrews’s face was disapproving. “Every plant grows differently. One cannot control for strength of dosage.”

  “We’ll save Yazad’s idea for someone else, then,” Colin said. His plate was empty, and there was a gleam in his eye. “I’ve thought of something. I have an unopened crate of books that was delivered before the monsoon. I believe it includes several books for children. You can choose some to take to the prince and princess.”

  “What’s your opinion, Vandana?” Perveen was feeling desperate to bring something.

  Vandana tilted her head to one side as she considered the idea. “That would be entirely acceptable, if the books are brand-new and from overseas. And as for the maharanis, I’ll be able to help you. I still have trunks from my last trip to Europe that are full of delightful trinkets.”

  “I couldn’t take things from you.” Perveen felt apprehensive, though she imagined whatever Vandana was offering would be just right.

  “I wouldn’t worry,” Colin said, giving Vandana a warm smile. “Thank you, Vandana.”

  “Done!” Vandana clapped. “Come for breakfast, and I’ll tell you more about the palace as well.”

  “What is your exact relationship to the palace?” Perveen asked. She didn’t want to mention Vandana at the palace if she was a controversial person, and judging from her made-up face and hair, she was likely just that.

  “She’s a royal cousin,” Yazad said, as if he couldn’t tolerate being left out of the conversation. “She visited often in childhood. But now my wife would sooner throw her jewels to our peacocks than go to that palace. I’ve told her to let bygones be bygones, but she wants nothing to do with them.”

  “Is it because your parents were upset about your not marrying the maharaja?” Perveen asked.

  Vandana gazed at the candelabra on the table as if searching the flames for the answer. At last she spoke. “They were. But I prefer this life. Who would be daft enough to wish to become an Indian queen? When you enter Satapur Palace, you’ll see what a closed life the late maharaja’s mother and widow must endure. They live in that zenana from the day they enter as brides until they die. Yes, a maharani is given jewels—but what’s the pleasure in wearing them if you’re always home? Meanwhile, a maharaja can travel everywhere he fancies.”

  “Some maharanis break purdah and travel,” Perveen said. “Consider Suniti, the maharani of Cooch Behar. She became a social fixture in London. And isn’t her daughter-in-law, Indira, a known party girl?”

  “I’ve met the Cooch Behar women during my time in Europe.” Vandana ran a hand through her glossy hair, which hardly moved. “That kind of free living only happens if the dowager maharani is not strong with the brides entering the household. This one is very powerful. She has kept the late maharaja’s widow, Mirabai, in check.”

  Perveen was fascinated by the story. “Do you think that Maharani Mirabai wants to live in purdah?”

  Vandana shrugged. “I never met her. But she’s from the state of Bhor, and her parents allowed her more freedom. Apparently, she was given her first hunting rifle at age five and rode horses every day. She was not in purdah until she came to Satapur.”

  “You speak as if being maharani of Satapur is like imprisonment,” Roderick said. “It’s actually a dream for most women to have everyone at your beck and call.”

  “Sounds like a dream for you, my dear!” Vandana said, and everyone laughed.

  Roderick flushed red.

  “Purdah is not a privilege but a life of restriction,” Vandana said in a sober tone. “The maharani has the responsibility to travel a few miles to worship at the family temple—but when she goes, her palanquin must be curtained. Nobody should see her face.”

  Colin leaned back in his chair and spoke quietly. “I understand that purdah is common for Mohammedans, but w
hy would Hindus do such a thing?”

  “We Hindus have deep-seated belief in the possibility of contamination by lower castes,” Vandana said, turning to him with a more serious expression than before. “That’s the reason untouchables aren’t allowed in Hindu temples—and many Brahmins become angry if even the shadow of a lower-caste person crosses their path. The second reason is that if the public doesn’t know the faces of the maharanis and princesses, they have a better chance of escaping harm if enemies ever enter the palace.”

  “Right now in Bombay, Gandhiji is speaking out in favor of untouchables,” Perveen pointed out. “And we no longer have a society where one king would try to steal another’s kingdom.”

  “Not kings—princes,” Roderick cut in. “The rulers of Indian princely states are referred to as such because they are subject to George V, our own King and emperor.”

  Perveen was irritated by his fawning correction. But his presence reminded her of the rashness of invoking the name of Mohandas Gandhi in a government house. She needed to change the conversation right away. She turned to look at the physician, who appeared on the verge of nodding off. If only she could ask him some direct questions about the deaths of Prince Pratap Rao and his father. However, that was too confidential to discuss in front of others. She spoke in her most respectful voice. “Dr. Andrews, I’m interested to hear how you manage to practice medicine in princely India. Who pays you, and where is your surgery?”

  Raising his head, Dr. Andrews said, “I’m employed by the Indian Medical Service and report to the Kolhapur Agency. I live and work in a small bungalow close to the village. Half the building’s taken up by a waiting room, surgery, and ward for those needing overnight care. There are two nurses and some other assistants. Having served in India since 1885, I have sometimes worked with no aides, so I feel quite fortunate the maharaja added funds to my operation.”

  “Are your staff Indian?” Perveen was intrigued by the possibility there were some local jobs that were better than peasant labor.

  “Yes—and they are always trying to suggest I use Rama’s herbs instead of proper medicine.” The doctor sighed. “We had an Irish nurse here for a while, but she couldn’t stand the isolation.”

  “Yazad and I invited her to the estate—but she never came. I guess she thought too highly of herself to become friends with Indians.” There was hurt in Vandana’s voice.

  “Could it have been that she was cowed by your social status?” Colin asked gently.

  “Oh, was that her secret confession to you? You did like her, Colin!” Vandana said sharply.

  Colin’s face flushed. “I am not in that game, Vandana.”

  Perveen was surprised to feel the same brief flash of pique that she had experienced earlier while pondering whether other women traveled alone to the circuit house. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought her reaction was jealousy.

  Dr. Andrews stood and pushed in his chair. “I’m not much for gossip. I’ll take my leave because I must start early tomorrow.”

  Perveen was alarmed. If the doctor left now, she’d have no chance to ask about the deaths. She folded her napkin and rose. “May I stroll with you, Dr. Andrews? It’s very dark.”

  “There is no need,” the doctor said brusquely. “I will carry this lamp to the stable.”

  “Oh, that’s a good idea! I’ll walk alongside and bring the lamp back with me.” Perveen was determined to get her conversation and followed the doctor out, ignoring the bemused expression on Vandana’s face.

  Perveen had thought it would be quiet outside, but there was a cacophony of sounds: chattering insects, and distant wailing—small cats, or great ones? The dog named Desi trotted close to Perveen as they proceeded down the moss-covered path.

  “What’s this nonsense?” Dr. Andrews sounded affronted. “Have you a worry about your health?”

  Hastily, Perveen said, “Not at all. I only wish to know more about the autopsies you performed on the late maharaja and his older son.”

  “A most unusual request. Why is that?” His voice hardened.

  Struggling not to sound defensive, she said, “I’m visiting the palace at the request of the Kolhapur Agency. I think the deaths of a ruler and his successor—less than a year apart—are unusual.”

  The doctor was a small man—maybe five feet six inches. But he managed to draw himself up and look down at her. “But that is confidential medical information.”

  His tone reminded her of a judge’s reprimand.

  “The government expects me to make a decision about the maharaja’s education,” she countered. “If there is a possibility someone murdered the older brother, it is an argument for having him go abroad.”

  “An animal killed Prince Pratap Rao, not a person. Didn’t Colin tell you?”

  “Yes, but what do you make of the fact that the maharaja and his son died just eleven months apart?” As if to punctuate her statement, Desi whined and looked up at the doctor.

  “A coincidence, pure and simple.” The doctor’s voice was mild. “The maharaja Mahendra Rao was fatally infected after inspecting a village where cholera was just starting to take hold. Two servants tending him died of the same contagion. Other servants and family members fell ill but recovered after taking medicine.”

  Perveen smashed a mosquito that had settled on her arm. “A tragedy, indeed. And what more can you tell me about the death of Prince Jiva Rao’s older brother? Mr. Sandringham was vague, and I saw few details in the papers he showed me.”

  The doctor pressed his lips together reprovingly. At last he said, “The prince was eaten by a tiger or leopard. Nothing a lady should hear about.”

  “If the prince was very badly mauled, how could you make an identification? Were you sure about it?” Perveen pressed.

  “Who else would it have been? The young maharaja and his uncle, Prince Swaroop, both wore boots with the royal insignia. Those boots were still on the corpse. The clothing was mostly gone, but the remnants were that of the riding costume the boy had donned earlier in the day. I knew his size and skin coloring—I was his doctor.”

  Perveen stared into the darkness thinking that the doctor had a good point. “I understand. But what about the circumstances leading to this killing? How could the leopard drag a child away without anyone intervening and shooting the animal?”

  “Because the maharaja liked to do exactly as he pleased. The men on the hunt told me the boy was anxious that his uncle, who is a skilled hunter, would get the killing shot instead of him. The maharaja had a tantrum and insisted on being the only one allowed to carry the gun. He’d had training, but how skilled can a thirteen-year-old be?” The doctor sighed, shifting the lantern he carried as if his right hand pained him. “The men around him knew they served at the boy’s pleasure. So they walked alongside him without any guns, although more weapons were in the carrier bags on the horses.”

  “Let me take the lantern,” Perveen said, reaching out for it, and he let her. “Leopards are shy creatures, aren’t they? Why would they venture into a clearing?”

  “I think the boy went ahead just a bit too far. The animal saw him and was emboldened.”

  “Who gave this report?” she asked, realizing the brass lantern’s handle was quite warm.

  “The same royal uncle I mentioned: Prince Swaroop, who searched for him in vain. I confirmed the story during a separate conversation with Mr. Basu, the tutor, and this fellow who serves as a kind of court jester.”

  The hot metal handle was becoming bothersome, but Perveen held fast, not wanting to distract the doctor. “How devastating for everyone to witness the boy being dragged off by the animal.”

  The doctor tilted his head, as if considering the question. “They didn’t witness that. They realized the boy had gone ahead and then couldn’t find him. The noblemen and grooms searched all night, with added reinforcements from the palace gua
rd, and into the next day. The next morning, Prince Swaroop came across the child’s remains. He was the one who brought the bad news back to the palace. I worry for Maharani Mirabai’s health since the death.”

  “Oh dear.” Perveen’s anxiety was rising like the heat in the lamp handle. “If Maharani Mirabai has a health problem, that may also be government business. She is a ward of the court, due to her husband’s passing.”

  “I have not seen her in two years, but from reports, she may be suffering from melancholia.”

  “In what way?” Perveen was somewhat skeptical. Melancholia was used to explain everything from alcoholism to social withdrawal—especially when it came to women.

  “In the years before her husband’s death, she would travel to visit other royals in a purdah car. She appeared at state events—veiled, of course. That is no longer the case. She is said to be overly protective of Prince Jiva Rao and Princess Padmabai. She doesn’t entertain visitors or even make prayers at the royal family’s temple. Her relationship with her mother-in-law is reported to be unpleasant.”

  “Who is providing you all this information?” Perveen spoke quickly because the lamp handle was becoming unbearably hot, and she could hear that someone else had exited the bungalow and was walking across the veranda.

  He coughed and said, “Owen McLaughlin, the last Satapur agent. He had strong relationships with a number of people at the palace, including the current prime minister, Prince Swaroop, whom he appointed.”

  Perveen had many other questions for the doctor but knew the time was limited. “Is there any modern medicine for melancholia? Perhaps I could bring it.”

  “If only that were the case!” he said. “There is no such medicine.”

  Perveen put the lamp down on the path, knowing he had no more need of her assistance. Her hand felt as if it was burned. “Maybe one day.”

  Looking from her to the lamp, the doctor shook his head. “You aren’t used to the hardships of mofussil life. I worry that you won’t be able to tolerate the trip.” He paused. “You need a cloth soaked with cold water for your hand.”