Ryman, Rebecca (20 page)

"Squareshooter?
You mean with a gun?"

"No,
I mean he believes in fair play." Olivia frowned and then laughed.
"Yes, I can see why my speech sometimes confuses people."

"No,
no, it is my understanding that is limited," the Maharani said modestly.
"But tell me, do you yourself not feel inspired to write in the manner of
your father? With so much inspiration, surely books interest you more than the
labour of farming."

Olivia
made a rueful face. "Well they do, and I do read a great deal, but I'm
honest enough to see that I lack my father's natural flair. When I return home
I want to start a small school in Sacramento. We have a couple but we could
certainly do with another. But until then, I indulge my passion for books by
helping Sally—Mrs. MacKendrick—our closest friend and neighbour, with her
lending-library in town."

At
that, more questions followed, all of which Olivia tried to answer as carefully
as she could. The Maharani's curiosity about her life, it seemed to Olivia, was
endless. Of course she was gratified since to talk of home to someone so deeply
interested was a pleasure, but at the same time she could not rid herself of a
strange feeling; it was almost as if, for some inexplicable reason,
the Maharani
was, well,
interviewing
her—which was, of course, absurd. With the
passing of the hours, that initial watchfulness in the Maharani's dark eyes had
subsided, but even though the formality and the shyness had lessened, there was
still about her inquiries a calculatedness that was puzzling. Somehow, with one
topic merging into another, they found themselves discussing politics, in which
the Maharani appeared as interested as her husband.

"Is
it only in America that you are curious about the running of government,"
she asked, "or does our Indian situation also intrigue you?"

For
a moment Olivia pondered. "Well, it certainly does intrigue me, but I have
to confess I know little apart from what I overhear others discussing. Your
system here is so different from ours at home. Not better or worse," she
added quickly, "just different. "But one thing certainly perplexes
me: Why are the English here in India so ... so vastly removed from those I
have met in America? They come from the same stock, yet their thinking and
attitudes vary so greatly from those at home."

The
Maharani considered her question with great seriousness. "Well, I presume
that in your country the English are like everyone else," she finally
replied, "social equals forced to struggle for survival. Here, they are
virtual rulers. Once their political power wanes in India, as it has done in
your country, I suppose they too will merge with the rest."

"Do
you really believe their power will ever wane in India?" Olivia asked
dubiously. "On the contrary, they seem to be becoming more strongly
entrenched with each passing year."

"That
is a phase. It will pass."

There
was such conviction in the Maharani's expression that Olivia was surprised.
"Are there many Indians who subscribe to that theory?"

"Perhaps
not at the moment but some day there will be. Or so," she suddenly smiled,
"we are constantly assured by a good friend to whom the theory is almost
sacrosanct."

The
Maharani had refrained from naming the "good friend," but then there
had been no need to. The fleeting, oblique glance she cast in Olivia's
direction was indication enough as to his identity. A small shiver climbed up
Olivia's spine and it was all she could do not to react visibly. Ever since she
had arrived in Kirtinagar, she had been wondering just how much of her
conversation with the Maharaja at Estelle's birthday ball he had shared with
his wife. Now she saw that there was not much about
it that the
Maharani did not know, including, no doubt, her own excessive interest in Jai
Raventhorne. In the sudden realisation that the Maharani was aware of far more
than their hitherto casual conversation had revealed, Olivia knew that she had
blushed. Desperate for a change of subject, she let fall the first remark that
occurred to her, a compliment to the Maharani on the gracefulness and colour of
her apparel. Perhaps for the same reason, the Maharani allowed the
conversational diversion with alacrity. An offer was made—and instantly
accepted—to show Olivia her wardrobe of traditional clothes.

What
the Maharani and the ladies of her household all wore were very full
ankle-length skirts edged with gold, long-sleeved blouses and billowing gauze
veils that covered their heads. The ensembles subsequently displayed to Olivia
in the royal dressing-room were even more breathtaking. Everything was
embellished with gold and silver thread embroidery, sequins and semiprecious
stones in colours that left Olivia gasping: peacock blue, scarlet, flaming
ochre, saffron, brilliant pinks, parrot green, imperial purple, oranges and
reds. During the display Olivia learned more about the royal couple's children,
a boy and a girl, both away at present with their maternal grandparents in the
north. It was also revealed that, like her husband, the Maharani held court but
only for the women.

This
surprised Olivia anew. She could not imagine this fragile woman brought up in
such luxury sitting and dispensing justice any more than she could see her
holding an invading army at bay. "And what is it that the women come to
complain to you about?"

The
charcoal eyes twinkled. "What women everywhere complain about—their
husbands mostly. One doesn't give his wife adequate household money, another
drinks and beats her and the children, a third is indolent and neglects his
crops. Criminal complaints, of course, go to my husband. I only try to
encourage the women to strengthen their inner resources and stand firm by their
legitimate rights."

Olivia
could not deny that the Maharani amazed her. To be so self-contained and so
decisive in such a heavily male dominated society could be no mean triumph.
Obviously, she received much support from her husband, himself a man of
enlightenment. Wryly, Olivia thought of her uncle's airy dismissal of Arvind
Singh as a man who could be beguiled through pleasure; the Maharaja had barely
glanced at those costly "baubles from Europe" that she had brought
with her as gifts from Sir Joshua
("bribes," according to Jai
Raventhorne!). If Sir Joshua truly believed that he could grease the Maharaja's
palm in order to get at that coal, then it was a tactic that so far showed
little indication of succeeding.

It
was much later that afternoon, after the frivolous matter of the Maharani's
wardrobe and the serious discussion on the low social status of women in India
had been set aside, that Olivia first started to sense a subtle change in the
Maharani's attitude. It was difficult for her to pin-point the change, but it
was as if some invisible barrier between them had gradually been lowered.
Afternoon tea, very English and picnic style, was being served by the lake
under a tree resplendent in small yellow blossoms. They sat on a cotton drugget
with arms resting on fat bolsters, nibbling at buttered scones, cup cakes and
wafer-thin chicken sandwiches. With no warning as she poured out cups of pale
gold tea from an egg-shell-fine teapot, the Maharani suddenly remarked,
"We belong to very different cultures, but even so we appear to agree on
so much. I feel we are destined to be friends. May I therefore call you
Olivia?"

Olivia
was surprised but pleased. She had the odd feeling that somehow she had passed
a test, but what that test could possibly be she could not fathom. "Oh, I
wish you would," she cried with great sincerity. "I am not at all
used to being called anything else and seldom am at home, where we tend to be
informal."

"In
that case, you must call me by my name, which is Kinjal." She went on to
explain that
Kinjal
was another word for lotus. As such it could not
have been more fitting. "After tea you must allow me to show off to you my
medicinal plants garden, of which I am immodestly proud, so that I can exhibit
my prowess as a gardener."

While
they strolled down smooth hedge-lined paths and the Maharani talked about the
arcane, ancient system of indigenous herbal medicine called Ayurveda, around
them peacocks strutted with sublime arrogance but with such beauty that one
could forgive them anything. There was, Olivia felt, a wonderful serenity about
the place, a harmony, that she could only describe as spontaneous. Everything
around them—the people, the plants, the very air and the manifestations of
nature—sprang from the same culture. Everything fitted, and everything seemed
relevant. How different was Kirtinagar from Calcutta, with its alien super-impositions!

Under
a spreading banyan tree dripping sinuous tendrils,
two women
crouched on their haunches beside a modest little whitewashed temple. With
dexterous fingers they wove garlands of orange marigolds, which they then
coiled like snakes inside the rim of a large brass tray. "They are
preparing offerings for my evening rituals," Kinjal explained, noticing
her interest. "I am a devotee of Ma Durga, whose festival we will shortly
be celebrating. Ma Durga is the consort of Lord Shiva."

Shiva!

Slowly
Olivia's glance crept upward to the pinnacle of the temple. Glinting gold and
fiery in the sunset was a trident. Its two outside prongs were curved slightly
inward. The third, straight as an arrow, was aimed at the centre of the sky.
Mesmerised, Olivia could not drag her eyes away from it. "That. . .
trident. Does it mean anything?"

"It
is the
trishul,
the weapon of Shiva. It is found wherever Shiva and his
consort are worshipped."

They
sat down again and Kinjal poured out fresh cups of tea. "Does that weapon
hold any special significance?" Olivia asked, eyes still transfixed.

"Everything
in our rituals holds special significance. In our belief, three forces compose
the cycle of life. The godly triumvirate consists of Lord Brahma the Creator,
Lord Vishnu the Preserver and . . ." She paused.

"And
Lord Shiva?"

"Yes.
The Lord Shiva is the Destroyer. The trident is known as his weapon of
destruction." Her hands stilled and her gaze locked with Olivia's.
"Yes," she said quietly. "That is why Jai Raventhorne has chosen
it for his emblem."

The
sense of shock that exploded in Olivia's mind was so violent that she almost
dropped the cup she held. Suddenly, in a flash, she knew that it was toward
this, Jai Raventhorne, that their conversation had been building up all day.
And now that the name had been said, it hung suspended between them like a fine
mist, unseen but chilly. This time she actually shivered. Raising her cup to
her lips, she drank deeply. "Whom or what does Jai Raventhorne wish to
destroy?" Her tone remained steady.

"Everyone.
Everything." Kinjal sounded sad. "Perhaps, in the end, even
himself."

"Why?"
A thin trail of ants skirted a corner of the drugget. Olivia kept her eyes
fixed on it.

"Jai
has within him an anger that will not be contained. It
forces him to
be forever apart from the world. He cannot, perhaps never will, be
otherwise."

The
curse of being different from the herd! Like her in India . . .? It was cool by
the lake but Olivia felt perspiration on her brow. "And the cause of that
anger—foreign presence in India?"

"Not
only that, although that too. There is a canker in Jai's soul. I wish it were
not so because it saps his reason and fills his blood with venom."
Noticing a ladybug on her skirt, Kinjal lifted it onto the tip of her
forefinger and gently blew it away. "Jai... interests you, Olivia?"

The
same question the Maharaja had framed! "I barely know Mr.
Raventhorne," she replied, unable to prevent a tempering of her voice.
"I have met him only very briefly."

"Had
you met him a hundred times," Kinjal exclaimed with a shrug almost of
exasperation, "you would know him no better. My husband says that Jai is
like an onion. Just when you think you have reached the core, another layer
appears unexpectedly." Her laugh defused the moment of its tension and,
relieved, Olivia laughed with her.

"In
that case I guess Mr. Raventhorne is right in his contention that nobody really
knows
anybody else!"

"Well,
Jai certainly is an example of his own theory: His inner self is a blank even
to us." Her expression changed to turn serious again. "By tying the
sacred red thread around Jai's wrist each year, I have accepted him as my
brother. But," she shook her head as if in sorrow, "sometimes he is
like a man possessed. He frightens me."

Olivia
was spellbound, and at the same time resentful. Why was the Maharani telling
all this to
her,
who knew Jai Raventhorne scarcely at all? Was her
interest in him that obvious, that demanding? And yet, Olivia could not help
feeling that there was a purpose in Kinjal's revelations. A thought suddenly
occurred to her that was so ridiculous, so wild, that she very nearly laughed
at the impossibility of it. Were Kinjal's words meant as some kind of
warning
to her? If so, for heaven's sake, why?

As
it happened, Olivia's agitated questions to herself were destined to remain
unasked and unanswered for the moment. A maidservant appeared to announce the
Maharaja's imminent arrival in the zenana. It was almost dusk, and evidently
court matters for the day were being adjourned. With an exclamation and a
hurried apology, Kinjal excused herself to go to the temple for the
forgotten
evening ritual. From a distance and in contemplative silence, Olivia sat and
watched the pretty ceremonies. The trident on top of the temple was now cloaked
in gloom. Despite the dark, however, its presence seemed to her as eloquent and
as pervasive as the brassy tinkle of temple bells that were part of the ritual.