A Division Of The Spoils (Raj Quartet 4) (81 page)

‘We can watch from here,’ she said, getting out. From the dash-board she took a pair of binoculars and handed them to him. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Now you can see something of the old India.’

Even in close focus the horsemen seemed perfectly still. The lenses blurred the colours slightly, isolated purple refraction so that the profiles of the men’s faces seemed to be outlined by a dim reddish-blue glow. They were brown faces. What was so extraordinary was the lack of movement, the intensity of concentration. One of the men was turbanned, the other bare-headed. The turbanned man was dressed in what looked like a studded leather jerkin and tight dark pantaloons. The younger man with the bare head (Ahmed surely?) wore an ordinary pale blue shirt, corduroy breeches and riding boots. Around his raised left forearm was a leather
shield which ended in a glove. Upon the forearm sat a hawk. Perron fancied that he could see the feathered shift of its neck, the gleam of its fierce eye.

Then the vision in the binoculars suddenly blurred and Perron lowered them and just caught the end of the flighting movement of Ahmed Kasim’s arm, citing the hawk at its prey – a movement that produced in the bird apparent momentary lack of co-ordination, quickly righted, and developing into a powerful and breath-taking ascent, a great arc, the beginning of a spiral of such formal beauty that Perron caught his breath and held it until he discerned in the empty heavens, through the planned geometry of the hawk’s attack, the objective, the intended point of killing contact: a dark speck intent on escape.

He felt Sarah’s hand groping for his. But she only wanted the binoculars. He let them go and then gave all his attention back to the aerial hunt, one that left no vapour trails but reminded him of a summer that had mapped them. The hawk plummeted. Its shape merged with the speck. Sarah cried out, with pleasure and pain. He looked at her. All he could see was her hand gripping the binoculars, her slightly open mouth, the brave little thrust of chin and the tautened throat.

She gave the glasses back to him and said without looking at him, ‘You must watch this.’

He took the binoculars and readjusted the focus. The horsemen had put their mounts forward at a slow walk. He searched the lower sky in the direction they were heading and, almost too late, picked up the image of the hawk just descending. The prey was invisible. The hawk’s wings were still at stretch, but folding back in slow motion, in satisfaction. And then they were at stretch again, beating against gravity, intent on ascent. He followed its course, saw Ahmed throw something. It swooped down, clawed at ground level, attacking something with its beak. The older horseman was riding in the direction of the kill. Ahmed, motionless, watched the hawk swallow its gift – presumably an appetising and bloody piece of raw meat. Presently there came the far-off sound of Ahmed’s voice, a sound like Tek, Tek, Tek-Allahallahallah. The hawk was now beating at the air again, rising, circling once round Ahmed, flirting at the lure of his
leathered forearm, and then gently turning and coming in to alight. It ducked its head, arched its wings, then allowed itself to be brought near to Ahmed’s face: the likeness of a kiss.

Unexpectedly, Ahmed flighted the hawk again, but not at prey, unless he himself were the prey. He cantered to and fro, round and round, gradually descending the hill, spiralling at ground level as the hawk had spiralled the sky, while the bird flew to and fro as well, sometimes swooping in mock attack.

‘I wish he wouldn’t do this,’ Sarah said. ‘But he trusts her utterly.’

It was like a game of love. Sometimes Ahmed called out and when he did the hawk seemed to turn away, spurning him, only to meet him again at the end of another swerving course. About one hundred yards from the road, Ahmed reined in. The hawk planed above him for a while and then as if breathless too, ready to call it a day, came in and settled gently on his proffered arm. Perron saw that Ahmed was securing the jesses. Again he brought the bird close to his face, then he sat erect and came the rest of the way at a sedate walk. Some distance behind, the falconer was following slowly down. He had a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. The kill.

‘Hello,’ Ahmed called. He kicked his stirrups away, brought his right leg up and across the saddle and slid down. The bird stayed rock-still on his forearm. He tickled her stomach. She glared at him and then at the strangers. But what else, Perron wondered, could a hawk do but glare?

‘Her name’s Mumtaz,’ Sarah said. ‘Come and meet her. Incidentally, don’t offer to shake hands with Ahmed. She’s very jealous and protective. Aren’t you, Mumtaz? I’m not allowed to touch her at all, because she senses I’m female. But if Ahmed tells her it’s all right she’ll allow you to tickle her throat.’

Ahmed said, in Urdu:
Here is Perron Sahib, from across the black water. He is a friend. Say hello.
He stroked her breast feathers, then said in English, ‘You can touch her now, Mr Perron.’

Perron extended a finger. The head turned. A glaring eye observed the finger. Risking the loss, he placed the finger on her breast and smoothed downwards. When he withdrew the finger the hawk’s wing stirred slightly.

‘Ah,’ Sarah said. ‘She liked that. Ahmed, you’d better keep your eye on her. I think she’s a bit of a rover.’

Ahmed laughed, then, noticing her skirt said, ‘Aren’t you going to ride?’

‘No, I thought not today.’

‘What about you, Mr Perron? You can have Begum here. She’s still quite fresh.’

‘I’m more than content to watch you hawk.’

‘Oh, no more of that. I’m glad you were just in time. We can have a run after breakfast if you like. Come, Mumtaz. You can go to sleep now.’ The falconer had come up and dismounted. Rather tetchily Mumtaz hopped from Ahmed’s arm to the falconer’s. The falconer took her down to the truck and Perron now noticed that there was an awning attached to the truck’s side and, under the awning, a table laid for breakfast. Nearby, in the shade of a tree, a portable perch had been set up, with a silver chain attached to its cross-pole. The falconer transferred Mumtaz to this, secured her and clapped a little scarlet velvet hood on her head.

‘Come,’ Ahmed said. ‘I hope everybody is hungry.’

They went down to the table under the awning. Ahmed absented himself for a while. As Perron and Sarah sat she said, ‘Are you glad you came?’

‘Not glad. Enchanted.’

‘I meant back to India.’

‘The answer’s the same.’

She smiled.

*

The convoy home was headed by the army truck. The soldiers sat in the back of it, the falconer up front, with Mumtaz. Behind, Ahmed drove the jeep with Sarah next to him and Perron in the back seat. Bringing up the rear was the horse-box which gradually got left behind. Perron, shouting against the noise of the engine and the currents of air asked what the bird thought of mechanical transport. Sarah leaned back and said: ‘Ahmed thinks it’s her favourite part of the proceedings. But she’s very blasé. She goes to sleep.’

‘What do the soldiers make of it all?’

‘I think they get a bit of a kick out of it. It’s still quite new to them.’

No one had explained the presence of the soldiers. If the hawking was quite new to them then presumably a military escort was a recent innovation. But how recent? And why was it necessary? Sarah turned round again and shouted, ‘We’re going to the palace if that’s all right. I’ve got to visit Shiraz, but Ahmed will take you round and show you the interesting bits.’

Ahmed said something to her which he didn’t catch. She laughed.

‘Who is Shiraz?’ Perron shouted.

‘The Nawab’s daughter.’

Perron nodded. He did not know the Nawab had a daughter. But he thought that between Ahmed and Sarah there was a special kind of empathy, the kind that two people betray in small gestures and in the way they have of dealing with one another in public. Well, if that was how the land lay he could only wish her good luck, slightly deflating though it was to his own ego.

He looked at Ahmed’s back. He remembered him as a pleasant but rather unsociable young man, given apparently to whisky and women, a combination which might by now have begun to show signs of taking toll. Instead, young Kasim looked (as Uncle George would say) well set-up. Mounted, and flying his hawk, Perron appreciated that to Sarah he would even cut a heroic figure. And she was the kind of girl who would defy the convention that a white woman didn’t fall in love with an Indian.

When they came close to the end of the unmetalled road Sarah called out, ‘Go in through the guest house entrance, Ahmed, and drop me there. I’ve got a few things to do. I’ll join you at the palace later.’

Ahmed nodded and then hooted and drew ahead of the truck, paused at the T-junction and raised his arm to indicate that the truck should turn right. Turning left himself he came to a halt to make sure the driver had understood. Perron looked back. As the truck came into view he saw the falconer’s arm which was resting by the elbow on the open
window frame, and upon the arm, Mumtaz, hooded, head slightly inclined –

*

(Extract From Perron’s diaries)

(Tuesday August 5) – asleep, dreaming of what? The palace wall is backed by trees. You can see nothing from the road. We turned in at an unexpected culvert. Twin iron gates. Closed. A smart sepoy opened them at once and we went in, past two more who were armed and came to attention. The gates were closed again once we’d passed through. The path is bordered by rhododendron. Just where it forked (giving on the left a glimpse of the guest house) Sarah made Ahmed stop. She insisted on walking from there. We continued along the right-hand fork and came out after a hundred yards into a large formal park, with the extrordinary pink palace on the left. To the right, half-a-mile away, was the main entrance gate and frontage, facing on to the
maidan.
The park was laid out with avenues, terraces and fountains. As we got close to the palace you could see that parts of the pink stucco needed replastering. The palace bears some resemblance to the Wind Palace in Jaipur. We drove to a side entrance. Sentries again. Steps up. The smell of ancient damp masonry. A long terrace, a lot of servants and officials coming and going. Obviously the business side of the place. Then through a narrow Moghul arch into a dark stone corridor – the kind in which you feel the weight of India: a heavy darkness which is a protection from glare and heat but reminiscent of tombs and dungeons.

But the inner courtyard was beautiful. At the far end, facing the paths and fountains was the old Hall of Public Audience, a deep terrace with a high roof supported by convoluted pink columns; and, with a marble canopy and dais centrally placed, the stone seat on which in the old days the Nawab was enthroned on cushions: the
gaddi.
Behind the Hall of Public Audience (Ahmed said) was a smaller courtyard overlooked by the present Nawab’s private apartments. Avoiding this other courtyard we crossed and went out through another series of dark passages to the other side of the palace. Lawns swept down to the lake and the little white mosque which
was enclosed in its own railed courtyard. We went down to the lake shore. The glare was intense. Ahmed said they were fishing again this morning. Beyond the distant reeds you could just see a couple of boats and men casting large shimmering nets. Ahmed took me back inside the palace to see what he called the modern rooms. These were at the front. The old Moghul passages gave way to corridors, Victorian in style (dark lincrusta, hundreds of pictures cluttering the walls, as thick as postage stamps in an album) and then – fascinating! – a kind of salon which reminded you of the public lounge of a Ritzy Edwardian hotel, all gilt and plush and potted palms in gilt wicker baskets, ornate draught screens and a circular padded bench around a central marble column. Dmitri Bronowsky’s influence, one would imagine.

*

It was in this
fin-de-siècle
foyer that Ahmed left him, to change out of his riding gear. He promised to be back shortly. He said, ‘Would you like a swim later? There’s an outdoor pool. We can provide towels and costumes.’

‘Yes, I’d like that very much.’

‘It can’t be for about an hour, though. Sarah usually gives Shiraz her swimming lesson between eleven and twelve. I’ll tell them to send you coffee and the papers.’

The coffee and papers came. Today’s
Times of India
and
The Statesman
(which obviously reached the palace earlier than they reached the club), the
Mirat Courier
and
The Ranpur Gazette.
This morning in the national newspapers some play was being made with the latest difficulties Jinnah was said to be raising: questions about the precise status Mountbatten would have in Karachi when he made his last appearance there as Viceroy on August 13. Two days later Jinnah would become Governor-General of the new dominion of Pakistan (moth-eaten Pakistan as he had called it, when he found he wasn’t getting either the whole of the Punjab or the whole of Bengal – least of all Kashmir or a corridor connecting the west with the east).

It seemed that Jinnah had been gently reminded that the Viceroy would still be Viceroy on August 13 and he himself
only Governor-General designate, just as Mountbatten was also Governor-General designate of the new Dominion of India. There was no question of Jinnah taking precedence before the date of independence, and Mountbatten couldn’t be in both Karachi and Delhi on August Fifteen.

There were depressingly familiar reports from Lahore, Amritsar and Calcutta of troubles with the Sikhs and of murders and arson, and equally depressing commentaries on the harrowing experiences of some of the refugees already making their way from what would be Pakistan to what would be India, and vice versa. But the photographs in the papers were only of smiling statesmen’s faces.

The
Mirat Courier
, predictably, published similar photographs and gave up its front page to preliminary details of the official programme for independence day celebrations. A Muslim firm in the cantonment called Mir Khan Military Tailors and Outfitters had taken half a page to announce a grand cut-price sale of all items of uniform and sporting equipment. At the rear pages were brief details of a number of farewell parties held the previous week.