Tikkipala (17 page)

Sangita said, ‘You may go now, Anoo, but tell Devi to come and visit me before she leaves for Parwal.'

The only person in the world who was capable of making Devi Bidwar nervous was her grandmother, Sangita Thakuma. She approached the battered quarters cautiously, and had to dodge a rat in the corridor.

Sangita was seated before her desk. She had become so small that her feet no longer touched the ground, but dangled in the air as though she was a child.

‘Ah, there you are, Devi,' she said, looking at her granddaughter over the rimless glasses. ‘I have called you here because I want to give you instructions. Sit down.' Devi eased herself carefully into the crumbling, stained chair.

‘You are a qualified geologist, are you not?'

Devi nodded. ‘I got my degree six months ago.'

‘As well as bringing these following minerals…' Sangita wrote swiftly on a pad, and passed the list to Devi, ‘I want you to look out for the Ama stone. I told you about that, didn't I? Here, I will draw a sketch of the place where I think it is.' She did another quick scribble. ‘It was about fifty years ago that I threw it down but as no one had lived there since, it is probably still there. If you find it, do not touch it with naked hands, for it quickly heats us when it comes into contact with life.'

For some reason, although Devi joined the rest of the family in doubting that there ever was such a stone as the Ama, all the same felt her heart start to beat more quickly. Perhaps there was. Perhaps she would find it. Perhaps she would be the first person in the world to discover it. Perhaps it would go into the text books as ‘Devibidwartis.'

So, half a century after Anwar vanished, his niece, Devi Bidwar, travelled to the hill palace at Parwal.

She felt excited, during the journey, like someone visiting a new country for the first time for although she had heard about her family palace ever since she could remember, she had never been here before.

The family had stopped coming after Anwar vanished, though till then, according to Devi's father, the palace had been a place of cool beauty with pristine fountains and perfumed trees in the garden and inside made of shining marble.

Anoo Bidwar told Devi of how, when he was little, he used to beg his mother to take him to this marvellous palace, but Sangita always refused saying, ‘I love you too much to risk losing you again, for though it is possible for a person to be born twice, I think no one has ever yet been thrice born. You would not come back a third time.' Anoo, though used to his mother's peculiar way of putting things and unperturbed by it, stayed filled with an unsatisfied longing to see the fabulous hill palace of Parwal for the whole of his childhood. But by the time he was grown up, it had become too late. He had other things to do. The passion was gone.

He had almost forgotten about the palace in the hills till, years later his daughter, Devi, began to beg her father to take her there. ‘I want to find sparkling crystals like
my grandfather did. And Thakuma Sangeeta told me that there is a stone there called the Ama that no one in the whole world knows about except her.'

Anoo was several times on the verge of arranging a trip to the hill palace of Parwal, but then something or other would always seem to crop up that was more important and they never went. Either it was the wrong season, or there was no transport, or perhaps Anoo was reluctant because of what had happened to his elder brother. Whatever the reason, Devi was twenty three and coming to her ancestral home for the first time in her life.

As the car rose higher up into the hills the air grew steadily cooler, Devi leant from the open window, allowing it to bathe her skin. It smelled delicious but strange as though plants grew here that were not known in the plains. Even the earth, she thought, smelled strange. It did not look like the earth she was used to, either, for everywhere sparkled with volcanic crystals and coloured mineral stones.

Her grandfather's collection had come from these hills. There was a whole cabinet of them in the Bidwar palace. Shallow drawer upon drawer, in which, laid on ancient cotton wool and yellowing tissue paper and with a special smell, were crystal chunks, metallic lumps, spiral stones, sparkling splinters, scarlet pebbles and golden nuggets veined with green. Bursts of stone with flower-like petals, stones that shot out in thin fingers like fireworks exploding

One of Devi's greatest treats, when she was little, was to be allowed to look at the collection. Her father would open the drawers then turn each stone round so that Devi could see every aspect of their beauty. The first words Devi read were the stone's little yellowing labels. ‘Borax,' she would spell out carefully. ‘Sassolite,' she would cry with triumph. ‘The yellow waxy one is called ‘Sylvite-nitralite' this one ‘Stillbite.' She learnt them all by heart in the end. By the time she was six she didn't have to read
the labels any more. She knew what the fabulous amber muddle of bright worm shapes was called, and knew that the one like pink fingers clasping, was called ‘Glauberite.' There were many gaps in the collection though the names were still there. ‘Your grandmother keeps taking them for her potions,' Anoo told Devi. ‘It's a great shame but you can't stop her.'

As Devi grew older her father began to worry about her intense preoccupation with minerals. ‘I hope you will do something else with your life, apart from hunt the hills like my father did.'

‘Such as what?' she asked, laughing.

‘Getting married. Having children,' he told her.

‘Oh, Dad, you're so old fashioned. Women don't get married any more. They have careers.'

She must have been about twelve then and remembered how his face had fallen, how sad he had looked. ‘What about me? Don't you have a duty to give me grandchildren?'

‘No, Pops darling,' laughed Devi. ‘If you wanted grandchildren you should have thought of it before. You had lots of chances to get married again after my mother died. My sisters might not have been like me. They might have been people who wanted to shackle themselves to some boring fellow. They might have been women who were content with giving up their lives for their children. I want to do other things in my life.'

Her father had stopped trying to persuade her to marry now. But for a long time he kept saying things like, ‘If only your mother was still alive. It is only because you have never seen the happiness a woman gets from her children that you think like this.
When you get too old to have children and it is too late, you will regret it. I know you will.'

‘Oh, Pops, darling,' Devi threw her arms round her father's neck and hugged him. ‘I just know I will never want children. It would spoil everything. You just be content that you and I are so happy together, don't keep going on at me.'

He went to see his mother.

‘She has made the correct choice,' said Sangita sternly. ‘Marriage is a terrible thing for a woman and all females should avoid it if they possibly can.'

‘Have you been saying things like that to Devi? Is this why she is so set against marriage? And what about children? You may say things like this now, but if you had not got married I would not have existed.'

‘That is true, my son,' said Sangita. ‘And I would not be without you for anything, as you know. But this only means that our society should try to invent some way of having children which does not involve having to submit one's body to the revolting and undignified intrusions of a husband. Perhaps one day I will find a crystal way of making a woman pregnant. Now go, go. You are wasting my time with your nonsense.'

His sisters-in-law, Mala and Srila, were horrified. ‘Devi never getting married? Whoever heard of an Indian woman who chooses such a terrible fate for herself? Of course she must marry. You are the father, so you must make her.'

‘You don't know Devi,' sighed the Raja. All the same his sister-in-law's words worried him.

Devi learnt about this conversation when her father came to her saying, ‘I have found a wonderful match. The boy is clever and handsome, and also the second son of the Maharaja and his mother is coming to see you next week.'

Devi was furious. ‘How dare you. It's my life. I told you I don't want it. Now I feel like a cow in a cattle market.'

‘I will have the North wing turned into a residence for you, your husband and my grandchildren,' pleaded the Raja. ‘We will all live together as one happy family.'

‘No,' shouted Devi.

‘Just see the parents, I beg you darling. To please me.'

Even now, six years later, Devi's teeth started grinding themselves together, as she re-felt her fury of that moment.

Khan, the driver, heard the sound and asked anxiously, ‘Is Memsahib feeling nauseous in these winding roads? Shall I stop the car?'

‘No, no, drive on, Khan. I'm alright. I just remembered something that made me feel very, very cross.'

Her father had looked at her with such longing pleading eyes and begged so piteously that in the end and very reluctantly she agreed to be presented to the mother of the boy.

‘I would like you to wear your mother's jewels and sari,' said the Raja. ‘Will you do that for my sake?'

Grudgingly Devi said, ‘Yes, though it's all for nothing. I shan't marry him so you are all wasting your time.'

Devi's mother had died when she was three. Devi could not even remember her. The Ranee's clothes had been kept locked away in a wardrobe all these years, but now the Raja found the key and opened the door. There came a waft of ancient camphor, as the Devi's father began to take out the glittering saris, the silk blouses, the pointed-toed satin shoes. Her mother's whole essence had always seemed to be kept in this
cupboard, as though the dead Ranee's spirit consisted of creamy chiffon clothes wrapped up in tissue paper and the smell of moth balls mingled with ancient Chanel perfume. The interior of this cupboard was more about Devi's mother than the framed wedding photo and the large oil painting that was daily garlanded with jasmine flowers and hung in the great hall.

She felt afraid when her father asked her to wear her mother's clothes, in case it would diminish her mother's spirit, but when her father said gently, ‘For me. Your mother would have wanted it,' she could not refuse him.

Ayah helped Sangita to dress in the ancient clothes, unfolding them from tissue paper and laying them on the bed - sari, petticoat, blouse, bag and shoes, all matching, set upon set. ‘This one madam, dear. You will look as beautiful as your Mama when you are wearing this.' She had been Devi's mother's ayah too. ‘I am happy that you are going to consider marrying after all, for I dressed your lovely mother for her wedding day and want to do the same for you before I die.'

Sari after sari was put on. With each one, the ayah would spend an age on her knees before Devi, arranging the pleats, then another age getting the palu folded just right over Devi's shoulder before securing it with a golden brooch. Necklace, earrings and bangles would be chosen to match, rubies with the red, emerald with the green, heavy gold with the Benares. ‘No, not quite right. It is too old for you,' or ‘this would be perfect if it was another colour,' or ‘the sari is OK but the jewels do not go.' At last the decision was taken, and the final sari arranged.

‘Now you are looking like a bride of beauty,' the ayah said, leading Devi to the mirror. ‘There, look at you. You look exactly like your mother when she was your age.'

Devi stood before the glass and gazed at her reflection for so long that the ayah touched her on the arm at last. ‘What do you think? Isn't it beautiful.'

What Devi saw there was the mother from the oil painting come alive. To the old lady's horror, she burst into sudden tears and sobbing, flung herself face down onto the bed.

The ayah patted her comfortingly on the back for a while, saying over and over, ‘Don't cry, Missy, there is nothing to be sad about,' as though Devi was once again a toddler, but Devi's sobs did not diminish.

The Raja began rapping on the door. ‘Hurry, Devi, the Maharani is already here,' but Devi could not stop crying.

The ayah went and told him, whispering, ‘I do not know what the matter is, Raja Sahib.'

‘Devi, my darling, there is nothing to cry about,' said the Raja, coming in. ‘No one will make you marry if you don't want to.'

‘My mama has become me and does not exist anymore. She is dead again because of me,' wept Devi, her voice muffled.

‘Come on, get up, let me see what you look like.' He came round and taking her by the hands, helped her up. Then he gave a gasp. ‘Oh, my darling,' he said and, as though he had been seized with a sudden cold, grabbed his handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.

Eventually Devi came down wearing an old cotton sari of her own and no jewels at all.

The Maharani, very fat and wearing a large amount of heavy jewels, had a plate of milk sweets balanced on her lap. Her multitude of golden bangles tinkled together as
she popped a dudh pera into her mouth, and, with cheeks bulging, gave Devi a quick glance then pulled down the sides of her mouth in an expression of distaste.

The Raja's eyes were still red. ‘This is my daughter, Devi.' He blew his nose again and explained, ‘It's always so dusty in Bidwar at this time of the year. It makes me sneeze.' Then to Devi, ‘Come into the light, darling. Let the Maharani see what you are really like.' He smiled at her encouragingly and added, ‘Even in that old sari you look lovely.'

The Maharani rapped her nails against the peg table, returned the dudh pera plate to it and silently began to rise.

‘At least my daughter will not be an extravagant wife, as you can see from the moderation of her attire,' said the Raja, desperately. ‘Her husband will not be expected to spend large sums of money on clothes for her.'

‘Her attire is indeed moderate,' said the woman. ‘Please call my driver, I will let you know.'