Far Pavilions (110 page)

‘No thanks,’ said Ash, rising. ‘I must go. There are one or two things I have to do.’ He hesitated for a moment, and then added: ‘I'm going off into the country for a few days' shooting.’

‘Lucky beggar,’ said Mr Pettigrew enviously. ‘Wish I was. But then I don't get my leave until August. Well, good hunting.’

Ash had no better luck at the Telegraph Office. The clerk on duty said that there were no telegrams for him, and assured him yet again that if any had been received they would have been sent immediately to his bungalow. ‘This I am telling you before, Mister Pelham. We are never losing or mislaying such things. That I can promise. If your correspondents have unfortunately not sent reply, can I help it? Should they do so you shall receive same within a flash.’

The clerk was obviously ruffled, and Ash apologized and left. He was not particularly worried by the absence of any replies. He realized that as there was not much that could be safely said, the most he could expect would be a bare acknowledgement. But he had hoped for that, if only because experience had taught him that even urgent messages can, on occasion, be pigeon-holed through error or idleness – it being a matter of history that the frantic telegram from Delhi, warning of the outbreak of the Great Mutiny, had been handed during a dinner-party to a high official who had put it in his pocket unread, and forgotten all about it until next day; by which time it was far too late for him to do anything about it.

In the present circumstances, Ash would have welcomed any form of acknowledgement, however curt, for the sake of his own peace of mind. But as Mr Pettigrew had pointed out, it did not follow that because he had received none, no action was being taken, but on the contrary probably showed that it was being taken, and that there was no time to spare for sending unnecessary messages.

Sarji's land lay some twenty-odd miles to the north of Ahmadabad, on the west bank of the Sabarmutti, and the morning was far advanced before Ash reached his friend's house. The servants, who knew him well, informed him that their master had been up since dawn overseeing the accouchement of a valuable brood mare, and had only recently returned. The Sirdar was at the moment breaking his fast, but if the Sahib would have the goodness to wait? Dagobaz, whose black satin coat was now sandy-grey and rough with dust, allowed himself to be led away by one of Sarji's grooms while Ash, after being given water to wash with, was politely ushered through a swaying bead curtain into a side room, and served with food and drink.

He was not invited to share Sarji's meal, and did not expect to be. For though Sarji was broad-minded, and capable when in camp or away from his home of relaxing a great many rules, here on his own ground and under the eye of his family priest it was a different matter. Among his own people a greater strictness was expected, and as his caste forbade him from sitting down to eat with one who ranked as an outcaste, his
Angrezi
friend must eat alone – and from cups and dishes that were kept solely for his own use.

Sarji was a close friend, but the rules of caste were strict and not to be lightly broken, but Ash could never avoid a pang that was part hurt and part surprise whenever he encountered those rules in action. The fact that he understood them far better than the vast majority of his fellow
feringhis
never diminished that automatic sense of shock at being made to feel a pariah – someone with whom even a close friend could not sit down to eat and drink without risking ostracism, because that simple, human act defiled the doer, and until the defilement was cleansed no one would willingly associate with him.

Drinking iced sherbet and eating vegetable curry,
kachoris
and
kela halwa
in that cool, ground-floor room in Sarji's house, Ash wondered if the family priest was aware that Sarji had often broken this particular taboo when they were out together. Somehow, he doubted it. When the dishes had been removed and he was alone again, he lit a cigarette and sat blowing smoke-rings at the ceiling and thinking.

He was remembering something that Sarji's
shikari
Bukta, who had guided Gobind and Manilal to Bhithor, had told him one day when they were out shooting, when he, Ash, had been speaking of that journey. Bukta had mentioned the existence of another and shorter way into the valley of Bhithor: a secret way that avoided the forts and the frontier posts and came out a mere
koss
from the city itself, and that he had been shown many years ago by a friend, a Bhithori, who claimed to have discovered it and had used it for the purpose of smuggling stolen goods in and out of the Rana's territory.

‘Horses, mostly,’ Bukta had said with a reminiscent grin. ‘One could safely ask a good price in Gujerat or Baroda for a horse that had been stolen in Bhithor, as its owner would never think to look for it here because no one else (or so my friend said) knew of this path. In those days, being young, I had little respect for the law and would often help him – with much profit to myself. But he died, and I became respectable. Yet though it is now many years since I followed his secret path, it is still clear in my mind, and I know that I could find my way along it as easily as though I had only used it yesterday. I did not speak of it to the Hakim-Sahib, as it would have been neither wise nor fitting for him to arrive by such a road.’

Ten minutes later, when his host appeared in the doorway, Ash was so deep in thought that he did not even hear the clash of the bead curtain.

Sarji came in with apologies for keeping his guest waiting, but something in Ash's face checked the polite phrases that were on his tongue, and he said sharply:
‘Kia hogia, bhai?’

Ash looked up, startled, and coming to his feet said: ‘Nothing has happened – as yet. But it is necessary that I go to Bhithor, and I have come to ask for your help because I cannot go as I am. I must go in disguise – and as quickly as possible. I need a guide who knows the secret ways through the jungles and across the hills. Will you lend me your
shikari
, Bukta?’

‘Of course,’ Sarji said promptly. ‘When do we start?’

‘We? Oh no, Sarji! This is not a shooting trip. This is serious.’

‘I know that. The look on your face told me so as soon as I came in. Besides, if you cannot enter Bhithor except in disguise, then it can only mean that it is dangerous for you to go there at all. Very dangerous.’

Ash shrugged impatiently and did not answer, and Sarji said thoughtfully: ‘I never asked you any questions about Bhithor, because it seemed to me that you did not wish to speak of it. But ever since you asked me to send Bukta to guide some hakim who wished to go there – and later, over the matter of the pigeons – I admit I have often wondered. You do not have to tell me anything you do not wish, but if you go into danger, then I will go with you; two swords being better than one. Or do you perhaps not trust me to keep a still tongue?’

Ash said irritably: ‘Don't talk nonsense, Sarji. You know it is not that. It is only… well, this is something that concerns no one but myself and… and it is not a thing that I would wish to speak of to anyone. But you have already been of great help to me; and now again you are willing to help, and without question. I am more than grateful for that, and it is only fair that you should have some explanation of… of what is toward.’

‘Do not tell me anything you would rather not,’ said Sarji quickly. ‘It will make no difference.’

‘I wonder? Perhaps not. But then again it is just possible that it might, so I think it may be better for you to know what errand I go on before you decide whether to help me or not, since it touches upon a custom that your people have honoured for many centuries. Can anyone overhear us?’

Sarji's eyebrows lifted, but he said briefly: ‘Not if we walk outside among the trees.’ He led the way into a garden where roses, jasmine and canna lilies wilted in the heat, and here, safely out of earshot of any loitering servant, listened to the tale of the two princesses of Karidkote whom a young British officer had been detailed to escort to their wedding in Bhithor; of the tribulation and treachery they had encountered on arrival, and the terrible fate that threatened them now.

The story was incomplete and to some extent inaccurate. Ash saw no reason to mention his previous connection with the State of Karidkote, and as he had no intention of disclosing his own involvement with the elder princess, he could not give his main reason for returning to Bhithor, only the secondary one – his need to assure himself that steps were being taken to guard against the Rana's wives becoming suttees, if and when the Rana died; which was something that Sarji, as a Hindu, might feel disinclined to interfere with, for it was a custom hallowed by centuries of use, and one that even now would probably be regarded as a meritorious act by his priests and the great majority of his people.

Apart from these omissions the tale he told was accurate, and included an account of his abortive interviews with Colonel Pomfret, the Commissioner and the Superintendent of Police, and of the telegrams that had been sent and not answered:

‘So you see why I have to go myself,’ said Ash in conclusion. ‘I cannot just sit here and hope for the best when I know only too well how slowly and cautiously the Raj can act at times; and how reluctant it has become to interfere in the affairs of the princes. The officials of the Raj require proof and they will not move without it. But in a case like this the proof will be a handful of ashes and charred bones, and nothing they can do then will undo what has been done, for even they cannot bring the dead back to life… Once the pyre has been lit it will be too late to do anything, except gaol a handful of people and levy a fine upon the state – and make excuses for themselves for not acting sooner, which will not help those poor girls…

‘Sarji,
I
brought those two to Bhithor. You may say that I had no choice, but that doesn't make me feel any better about it, and if they are burned alive I shall have it on my conscience to the end of my life. That's no reason, though, why you should get involved in this, and if you feel you would rather have nothing to do with it – I mean… as a Hindu –’

‘Chut!’
said Sarji. ‘I am no bigot to desire the return of a cruel custom that was outlawed before I was born. Times change, my friend; and men change with them – even Hindus. Do your Christians in
Belait
still burn witches, or fellow-Christians who do not agree as to the manner in which they shall worship the same God? I have heard that this was once your custom, but not that it is still so.’

‘Of course not. But –’

‘But you think we of this country are incapable of any similar progress? That is not so – though there are many things that we do not see in the same light as your people do. I myself would not have any widow burn herself unless she desired it above all things, loving her husband so greatly that she could not endure to live without him and so chose of her own free will to follow him. That, I confess, I would not prevent, since unlike your people, I do not consider that I have a right to decide that a man or a woman may not take their own life if they choose to do so. Perhaps this is because life is less important to us than it is to you, who being Christians have only the one life on this earth, whereas we have many. We die and are re-born again a hundred thousand or a thousand thousand times; or it may be many more. Who knows? Therefore what matter if we choose to shorten one of these lives by our own desire?’

Ash said: ‘But suicide is a crime.’

‘To your people. Not to mine. And this is still my country, and not yours. As my life is also mine. But to contrive the death of another is murder, which I do not condone; and because I have seen and spoken with the Hakim from Karidkote, I am ready to believe him if he says that the Ranis of Bhithor stand in danger of being forced to the pyre against their will, for I judged him to be a good man, and no liar. Therefore I will do all that I can to help you and him, and the Ranis also. You have only to tell me what you need.’

Manilal, arriving at mid-day, was met by the
shikari
Bukta, and taken into the presence of the master of the house and a man whom he did not immediately recognize: which was understandable. Sarji and Bukta had taken great pains with Ash's disguise, and walnut juice when properly applied is an admirable dye, though it does not last over-long. Ash had also shaved off his moustache, and it would never have occurred to anyone that this was not a compatriot of Sarjevar's. A sober, middle-class Indian, with a parent or ancestor who hailed from the hills where men are fairer of skin than in hotter parts of the country, and whose dress proclaimed him a professional man in good standing. A vakil (lawyer), perhaps, or a hakim, from somewhere like Baroda or Bombay.

Manilal, that stolid and imperturbable person, was for once betrayed into a startled gasp, and stood open-mouthed, staring at Ash as though he could not believe his eyes. ‘
Ai-yah
!’ breathed Manilal, awed, ‘it is wonderful. And yet… yet it is only a matter of clothes and a razor. But what is the meaning of this, Sahib?’

‘Ashok,’ corrected Ash with a grin. ‘In this garb I have another name, and am no longer a Sahib.’

‘What does the – what does Ashok mean to do?’ inquired Manilal.

Ash told him, and Manilal listened, looking doubtful, and when he had finished, said cautiously that it might serve, but that the Sahib – Ashok – must take into account that the Bhithoris were a surly and suspicious folk, apt to suspect any stranger of being a spy. More especially in the present circumstances. ‘They have no liking for strangers at the best of times,’ said Manilal, ‘and should their Rana die, they would think nothing of slitting all our throats if they thought that we stood in the way of anything that they desired.’

‘Such as a
tamarsha,
’ said Ash, spitting out the word as though it were a bad taste in his mouth. ‘What you mean is that they are looking forward to the enjoyable spectacle of two high-born and beautiful young women walking unveiled to the burning ground, and being burned alive there before their eyes.’