Far Pavilions (55 page)

Anjuli had done her best to keep her little sister entertained, but such games as
chaupur
and
pachesi
soon began to pall, and Shushila complained that music made her head ache, and wept because she did not want to be married and because her cousin Umi, who was Kaka-ji's granddaughter, had died in childbirth, and she did not want to die in a strange country – or at all.

Kaka-ji, like his brother the late Maharajah, was a peaceable man, but he was rapidly being driven to the limit of exasperation by the tears, fears and megrims of his brother's youngest daughter, and by now was prepared to clutch at any straw that might help to alleviate them. Under normal circumstances he would not have considered it at all proper for any man outside the immediate family circle to continue to meet and converse with his nieces in such a relaxed and friendly fashion, but then the present situation was far from normal. They were, in effect, in the wilderness where every-day rules need not apply; and the man in question being a foreigner to whom they were greatly indebted, if his talk of
Belait
and the ways of foreigners amused Shushila and served to distract her attention from such things as homesickness and a morbid terror of the future, what harm? In any case, it was not as though he was ever likely to be alone with her; there would always be at least half a dozen others present, and this (and the fact that he was at the moment incapable of moving out of a chair without assistance and therefore could hardly be regarded as a threat to any woman), decided Kaka-ji to second Shushila's command that the Sahib should repeat his visit on the following day.

The Sahib had done so, and after that – though Kaka-ji was never quite sure how it had come about – it became an accepted thing that he should be carried to the durbar tent every evening, where he and Jhoti and Kaka-ji, and sometimes Muldeo Rai or Mulraj (who by virtue of his relationship and his office was permitted the entrée), would sit and talk with the brides and their women, or play foolish games and gamble for sweets or cowrie shells. It all helped to pass the time and ease Shushila's nervous tension, and she, like Jhoti, delighted in Ash's descriptions of life in
Belait,
many of which struck them as excruciatingly funny.

The two would explode into giggles over such things as hunt balls and the absurdity of men and women prancing around in couples to music; of Londoners groping through a pea-soup fog and families bathing in the sea at Brighton; or descriptions of the ludicrously uncomfortable clothes that an
Angrezi
woman wore: her tight, high-heeled, buttoned boots and tighter corsets – armoured with steel and whalebone and laced to suffocation; the horse-hair bustles worn under innumerable petticoats, the pads of wire and wool over which her hair was rolled and pinned, and the hats that were skewered to this edifice with yet more pins, and decorated with flowers, feathers and fur; or even, on occasions, an entire stuffed bird.

Of them all, only Anjuli-Bai seldom spoke. But she listened, and some-times laughed, and though ostensibly Ash talked to the company at large, his conversation was in fact almost entirely directed at Anjuli. It was Anjuli he exerted himself to please, and for her that he tried to describe something of his life in England, so that she might know what had happened to him and how he had lived in the years since his escape from Gulkote.

He found it astonishingly easy to say things he knew would have one meaning for the others but a different one for Juli, who because of her special knowledge would be able to interpret it in a way that no one else could have done; and often her smile or a faint movement of her head would tell him that she had understood an allusion that had passed the others by. It was as though the clock had turned back, and once again, as they had done in the presence of Lalji and his courtiers, they were speaking to each other in code and using a language that only the two of them understood, for in this respect, if in no other, the rapport that had existed between the children they had once been had survived the years.

The last time they had played that game Juli had been little more than a baby, and until recently Ash himself had forgotten the way they used to speak to Lalji, or pretend to talk to a pet monkey or one of the macaws when they were in reality talking to each other – exchanging news or arranging where and when they would meet, and indicating times and other details by means of hand signals, coughs or the rearranging of a vase or a cushion. He could even remember their code word for the Queen's balcony:
Zamurrad
(emerald), which was also the name given to the pampered peacock that lived with his harem in the Yuveraj's garden. The connection, a reference to the Peacock Tower, was easy to follow, and there had been a hundred ways in which one or other of them could bring that word into a conversation.

There had also been a word that stood for his mother's quarters, but he could not remember it: or their signals either, for though the outline of those remained, the details had been lost in the debris of the years and try as he would he could not recapture them. It was only when he had given up the attempt that suddenly, lying awake one night, the lost word slid unbidden into his mind: Hanuman. Of course: Hanuman the Monkey-God, whose legions had made a living bridge across the sea to Lanka, each holding his neighbour's tail so that Rama might cross in safety to rescue his wife Sita, kidnapped and held prisoner there by a Demon.

Did Juli remember that? Or had she been too young? Yet she had remembered so much – far more than he had done – and her response to his oblique conversation had made it clear that she had not forgotten their old method of communicating with each other when they were not alone. Perhaps he could make use of it again and press his advantage one step further. It was worth trying, thought Ash; and he had tried it on the following evening. But this time Juli had made no response, or given any sign that she understood him or remembered, and though she did not avoid his gaze, she could not have been said to return it.

Ash went back to his tent feeling tired and defeated, and was rude to Mahdoo and short with Gul Baz. And when later that night the
dai
scratched timidly on the canvas, he called out to her to go away, saying he was no longer in need of treatment and did not wish to see anyone. In proof of which he reached out and deliberately extinguished the lamp, knowing that she could not work in the dark and must accept the dismissal without argument – not that he imagined for a moment that she would think of arguing it. But apparently the
dai
possessed more obstinacy than he had credited her with, for the darkness thinned as the canvas was pushed aside and a bright bar of moonlight accompanied the familiar shrouded figure into the tent.

Ash raised himself on one elbow and repeated crossly that he did not need her that night and would she please go away and leave him in peace, and the woman said softly: ‘But you yourself told me to come.’

It seemed to Ash as though his heart tried to jump into his throat so that for a moment he could not breathe or speak, and the next instant it had jerked back again and was hammering so wildly that he thought she must hear it. ‘
Juli
–!’

There was a ghost of a laugh; a familiar laugh but with an odd catch in it, and his uninjured hand shot out to clutch a fold of coarse cotton and grip it as though he was afraid she would vanish as silently as she had come.

Anjuli said: ‘Did you not mean me to come? You spoke of Hanuman, and that was always our word for your courtyard.’

‘My mother's,’ corrected Ash involuntarily.

‘Yours too. And as she is gone it could now have only meant one place. Your tent. That is right is it not?’

‘Yes. But you were only a child – a baby. How could you possibly have remembered?’

‘It was not difficult. Once you and your mother had gone, there was nothing else for me to do but remember.’

She had spoken quite matter-of-factly, but that brief sentence brought home to him as never before how lonely those years must have been for her, and once again he found that there was a lump in his throat and he could not speak.

Anjuli could not have seen his face, but she seemed to have followed his thought, for she said gently: ‘Do not let it trouble you. I learned not to mind.’

Perhaps she had indeed done so. But he found that he minded – that he minded unbearably. It appalled him to think of the child Juli left cruelly alone and neglected, with nothing to live for but memories and the hope that he could keep his promise and return. How long had it been, he wondered, before she gave up hoping?

Anjuli said: ‘And you too remembered.’

But that was not entirely true. In fact had it not been for Biju Ram, he might still not have known who she was, let alone recalled the old game of double-talk and the code-words that he himself had invented. Ash cleared his throat and spoke with an effort: ‘Yes. But I did not know if you would remember… if you would understand.’ And then, suddenly, panic gripped him as he realized for the first time, the stupidity and selfishness of what he had done. ‘You shouldn't have come here. It's too dangerous.’

‘Then why did you ask me to?’

‘Because I didn't dream that you would. That you
could.
’

‘But it was very simple,’ explained Anjuli. ‘I had only to borrow one of old Geeta's bourkas and persuade her to let me come in her stead. She is fond of me because I once did her a favour. And I have come before, you know.’

‘Then it was you – on the first night after the accident. I was sure it was, but Mulraj said it was only the
dai
and I -’

‘He did not know,’ said Anjuli. ‘I came with Geeta because I had been angry with you for being – for behaving like a Sahib. And because you had not thought of me for years while I – I…’

‘I know. I'm sorry Juli. I thought you might never want to speak to me again.’

‘Perhaps I would not have done if you had not been injured. But I thought you might be dying, and so I made Geeta bring me with her. I came with her more than once, and sat outside in the darkness while she worked over you.’

‘Why, Juli?
Why
?’ Ash's grip tightened on the fold of cloth, jerking at it imperatively, and Anjuli said slowly: ‘I suppose – to hear your voice. So that I could be sure that you were really who you said you were.’

‘Ashok.’

‘Yes, my brother Ashok. My only brother.’

‘Your –?’

‘My bracelet-brother. Had you forgotten that? I had not. Ashok always seemed more my true brother than Lalji ever was – or Nandu or Jhoti. It was always as though he were my only brother.’

‘Was it?’ Ash sounded oddly disconcerted. ‘And are you now sure that I am that same Ashok?’

‘Of course. Would I be here if I were not?’

Ash pulled at the cotton bourka to draw her nearer, and said impatiently: ‘Take this thing off and light the lamp. I want to look at you.’

But Anjuli only laughed and shook her head. ‘No. That would indeed be dangerous; and very foolish too, for if someone were to surprise us they would only think that I was old Geeta, and as she seldom speaks, I would be safe. Loose me now, and I will sit here for a space and talk to you. It is easier to talk thus, in the dark; for while I cannot see your face, or you mine, we can make believe to be Ashok and Juli again, and not Pelham-Sahib, who is an
Angrezi,
or the Rajkumari Anjuli-Bai who is to be –’

She stopped a little abruptly, and leaving the sentence unfinished, subsided onto the carpet to sit cross-legged and comfortable beside the camp bed: a pale, shapeless form that might have been a ghost – or a bundle of washing.

Later on, trying to recall what they had talked of, it seemed to Ash that they had talked of everything. Yet no sooner had she gone than he remembered a hundred things he had meant to ask or forgotten to say, and he would have given anything to call her back. But he knew that he would see her again somehow, and there was enormous comfort in that. He had no idea how long she had stayed, for there had been so much to tell that they had lost count of time. But the bar of moonlight from the open tent-flap had crept upward until it showed him the small square of coarse mesh that concealed Juli's eyes, and he could catch a glint of them as she smiled or turned her head. A little later it lay in a pale lozenge on the roof above her head, and later still, as the moon reached its zenith, it vanished altogether, and left them in darkness with only the glimmer of stars showing in the segment of sky beyond the tent door.

They spoke in whispers for fear of arousing Ash's servants, and had it not been for the intervention of the
dai
, Geeta, who taking her courage in both hands had scuttled through the silent camp to find out why her mistress had not returned, it is possible that they might have talked on into the dawn and never noticed it. But Geeta's anxious voice had jerked them abruptly back from the past and to a realization of the lateness of the hour, and of the risk that they ran; for neither of them had heard her approach and it might well have been someone other than the old
dai
who tiptoed to the tent door while they talked.

Anjuli rose swiftly and moved to the doorway, blotting out the stars. ‘I'm coming, Geeta. Goodnight, my brother. Sleep well.’

‘But you will come again, won't you?’

‘If it is possible. But even if not, we shall see each other often in the durbar tent.’

‘What is the good of that? I can't talk to you there.’

‘Oh yes you can. As we used to do in the old days, and as you did tonight. It is late, brother. I must go.’

‘Juli, wait –’ His hand went out in the darkness, but she had moved out of reach, and a moment later he could see the stars again and though he had heard no sound he knew that she had gone.

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