Far Pavilions (19 page)

He had not realized before how frail she had become, and it worried him. However, they did not always have to go on foot, for with the money Hira Lal had given them, together with the price of the horse, they could afford to travel by tonga or bullock cart. But such journeys, in addition to being undertaken in the company of others, provided an ideal opportunity for questions and gossip, and after enduring a friendly catechism from their fellow-travellers during a long day spent in a bullock cart, and a similar experience from the driver of an
ekka
, they decided it was safer to go slowly on foot.

As the days went by without any sign of pursuit, Sita became less anxious and Ash began to think they had outwitted the Rani and could now relax and start planning for the future. It was obvious that they could not be continually on the move; their purse was not bottomless, and besides, Sita needed rest and quiet and a roof over her head – their own roof, not a different one every night, or the open sky when they failed to reach other shelter. He would have to find work and a hut for them to live in, and the sooner the better, for even at mid-day the air was sharp and chilly, and there was snow on the hills to the north. They had put enough distance between themselves and Gulkote to make it safe enough to stop running, and the Rani would realize that he could do little to harm her now, for even if he were to tell what he knew, who would be interested in the affairs of a small and far-away state, or place any credence in the tales of a vagabond boy?

But Ash had not only underestimated the Rani's agents, but failed to understand the real reason for her determination to destroy him. It was not so much fear of the Rajah, as fear of the British Raj…

In the old days of happy independence it would have been enough for Janoo-Rani to know that the boy Ashok had fled the state. But the old days were over and the
Angrezis
were all-powerful in the land, making and unmaking kings. Janoo-Rani still intended to set her son on a throne, and to do that she must first remove his half-brother. The fact that she had made several attempts to do so, and failed, did not worry her unduly; there were other methods and in the end she would find one that succeeded. But it was vital that none save her most trusted confederates should be aware of this, and she had been enraged to discover that one of Lalji's servants, a beggar-brat whom he had introduced into the palace – presumably as a spy – had somehow come to know of it. Well, there was nothing for it but to see that he died before he could carry tales to the Rajah, who had unfortunately taken a fancy to him and might even believe him. She had given the necessary orders, but before they could be carried out both the boy and his mother had fled; and now Janoo-Rani was not only angry but afraid.

Lalji too had been angry, and he had sent out search parties to arrest the boy and bring him back under guard. But when they failed to find any trace of the runaways he had lost interest, and said that they were well rid of Ashok – a view that the Rani might have endorsed had it not been for the British. But the Rani had not forgotten the unwelcome visit of Colonel Frederick Byng of the Political Department, whom her husband had been compelled to receive with honour, and she had also heard tales of ruling princes who had been deposed by the British Raj for murdering their relatives or rivals. If the boy Ashok were to hear one day that the heir of Gulkote had met with a fatal accident, he might carry tales to those in authority, and then perhaps there would be inquiries; and who knew what might not come to light as a result of officious questioning and inquisitiveness? The boy must not be allowed to live, because as long as he remained alive he was both a danger to her and a stumbling block in the way of her son's advancement. ‘At whatever cost, he must be found,’ ordered Janoo-Rani. ‘He and his mother both, for he will have told her all he knows, and until they are dead we dare not move against the Yuveraj…’

Ash obtained work with a blacksmith in a village near the Grand Trunk Road, and with it the use of a ramshackle
godown
(storeroom) behind the forge for himself and Sita. The work was arduous and poorly paid and the room small and windowless and devoid of any furniture. But it was a beginning, and they spent the last of Hira Lal's bounty on a second-hand string bed, a cheap quilt and a set of cooking pots. Sita hid what money remained from the sale of the horse in a hole under her bed, and when Ash was out, dug a second hole in the wall for the sealed packet and the wash-leather bags that she had brought away from her quarters in the Hawa Mahal. She made no attempt to find work for herself, which was unlike her, but seemed content to sit in the sun outside the door of their room, cook their scanty meals and listen of an evening to the tale of Ashok's doings. She had never asked much of life, and she did not regret the Hawa Mahal; she had seen too little of her boy there and knew that he had been unhappy.

Ash was certainly happier now than he had ever been in the service of the Yuveraj, and his meagre wages were at least put into his hand in solid coin; which was more than they had been in the Palace of the Winds. He felt that he was at last a man, and though he had not abandoned his grandiose plans for the future, he would have been content to remain in the village for a year or two. But early in the new year two men had arrived at the village inquiring for a hill-woman and a boy – a grey-eyed boy who, they said, might be disguised as a girl. The pair were wanted for the theft of certain jewellery, the property of the State of Gulkote, and there was a reward of five hundred rupees for their capture and fifty for information that would lead to their arrest…

The men had arrived late one evening, and fortunately for Ash had been given lodging for the night in the house of the
tehsildar
,
*
whose young son happened to be a friend of his. This boy had overheard their conversation with his father, and there being no other couple answering to that description in the village, he had crept out into the darkness and woken Ash, who slept on the ground outside Sita's door. Half an hour later the pair were hurrying down a field path in the uncertain starlight, making for the main road where Ash hoped to beg a lift from a passing bullock cart, as it was only too clear that Sita could not go far or fast on foot. They had been lucky, for a kindly tonga driver had taken them up and driven them five miles and more to the outskirts of a small town, where they had taken to the open country, doubling back slowly and painfully to the southward in the hope of throwing their pursuers off the trail.

For the next two months they lived from hand to mouth, continually haunted by the fear of pursuit and never daring to stop in any place where they might attract attention. The larger towns seemed safer than small villages where strangers aroused comment, but work was not easy to find and the living was expensive. Their small hoard of money dwindled, and the close air of the crowded cities did not agree with Sita, who longed for the hills. She had never liked the plains, and now she was afraid of them; and then one evening, gossiping with a group of coolies outside a timber yard, Ash heard again the tale of a rich reward being offered for the capture of two thieves who had stolen a Rajah's jewels, and began to lose heart. Were they never to escape?

‘Let us go north again, to the hills,’ begged Sita. ‘We shall be safe among the hills; there are few roads and many hiding places there. But where can one hide in these flat lands where there are a hundred paths leading to every town?’

So once again they turned northwards, but on foot and very slowly. There was no money now for tongas or bullock carts, and little enough for food, and as they could not afford to pay for lodgings they slept in the streets of towns under trees in the open country: until there came a day when Sita could go no further…

They had spent the previous night in the shelter of an outcrop of rock on the banks of the Jhelum River, within sight of the Kashmir snows; and when the dawn broke over the dew-wet plain the long rampart of the mountains lay high above the morning mists, rose-flushed with the first rays of the coming day. In the clear air of the early morning they seemed no more than a few miles away and as though they could be reached in a mere day's march; but Sita, raising herself on her elbow to gaze longingly at them, knew at last that she would never reach them.

There had been nothing to eat that morning save a handful of parched grain, carefully hoarded against an emergency. Ash ground it between two stones and mixed it to a paste with water, but Sita could not swallow it, and when he wished to move on – their present refuge being too precarious – she shook her head.

‘I cannot,
piara
,’ whispered Sita. ‘I am too tired – too tired.’

‘I know, mother darling. I too. But we cannot stay here. It is too dangerous. There is no other cover near by, and if anyone should come this way we should be caught like rats in a trap. And – and I think they may come soon. I…’ He hesitated, reluctant to add to her trouble, but forced to it because she must understand that they dare not delay. ‘I did not tell you before, but yesterday I saw someone I knew in that
serai
where we stopped for a while. A man from Gulkote. That is why I would not let you stay there. We must walk down-stream and see if we can find a ford, or a boatman who will take us across, and then we can rest for a little. You can lean on me. It will only be a short way, mother dear.’

‘I cannot, Heart's-dearest. You must go alone. You will make better speed without me, and be safer too. They are hunting a woman and a boy travelling together, and I know that I should have parted from you long ago except – except that I could not endure to.’

‘That's silly. You know I wouldn't have gone,’ said Ash indignantly. ‘Who would have looked after you if I had? Mother,
please
get up. Please! We'll walk very slowly’.

He knelt beside her pulling at her cold hands and coaxing her. ‘You want to get to the mountains, don't you? Well, there they are – look, you can see them plain. You'll be better once you reach them. Your cough will go in the hill air and you'll feel well again, and then we'll look for our valley. You haven't forgotten the valley and the goat and – and the almond tree and…’ His voice wavered suddenly and he tugged at her hands again, trying to lift her to her feet. ‘Only a little way more, I promise.’

But Sita knew that she had come to the end of the road. Her strength was almost spent, and what little she had left must be used for one last, bitter task that must be done quickly, before it was too late. She freed her hands from his grasp and fumbled among the folds of her sari for a sealed packet and four small, heavy, wash-leather bags that she had carried tied about her waist in a length of cloth, and looking at them the tears gathered in her eyes and rolled slowly down her wasted cheeks; the fact that Ashok believed himself to be her son had been so sweet to her that even now, when she knew that the truth might save him, she could not bear to tell him. Yet he must be told. There was no other way in which she could help him to escape; and even this might not serve….

‘I am not your mother. You are not my son,’ whispered Sita, forcing the words through trembling lips. ‘You are the son of an
Angrezi
… a Sahib…’

The words made no sense to Ash, but her tears frightened him more than anything that had ever happened to him during the years of servitude in the Hawa Mahal or the dreadful weeks since their escape: the death of Tuku, the poison and the cobra, the terror of pursuit – nothing had been as bad as this. He put his arms about her and clung to her, begging her not to cry and telling her that he would carry her if she could not walk: he was strong, and if she would hold about his neck he was sure that he could carry her. The things she said made no sense to him, and it was only the sight of the money that at last shocked him into attention. He had never seen so much money before in all his life, and at first it only meant one thing to him: they could afford to hire a cart – to buy one if necessary. His mother need not walk now, and they could out-distance their pursuers and pay for doctors and medicines to make her well. They were rich. ‘Why didn't you tell me before, mother?’

‘I did not want you to know that you were not my son – my own son,’ wept Sita. ‘I would have thrown it away had I dared, but – but I did not dare… for fear that one day you might have need of it. That day is here, for the Rani's men are close on your heels and if you are to escape them you must leave me and go on alone, and take refuge with your own people where even she will not dare to follow you. You will be safe with them. There is no other way…’

‘What people? You have always said we had no people. And of course I am your son. You mustn't say things like that. It's only because you are feeling ill and you've had nothing to eat, but now we can buy some food, and a horse and a cart and –’

‘Ashok! Listen to me.’ Fear and urgency sharpened Sita's voice and her thin hands clutched his wrists with unexpected strength. ‘You cannot go back to buy food, and if you show that money they will say you stole it, for it is too great a sum for a boy such as you to possess. You must hide it as I have done, and keep it until you reach your own people. There is much written stuff in the packet, and more on this paper here. You must find someone who can read
Angrezi
and they will tell you who to take it to. Your father wrote it before he died, and – and I would have obeyed his commands and taken you to his people but for the great rising and the slaughter of the Sahib-log in Delhi. But I kept the papers and the money for you, and I did as he asked: I took care of you. He said: ‘Look after the boy, Sita.’ And that I have done… But for love's sake; because alas, alas, I am not your mother. She too was
Angrezi
, but she died at your birth and it was I who took you from her arms and gave you the breast… I who cared for you from the first – the very first! But I can do so no longer. So now must I send you back to your own people, for with them you will be safe. And because I can go no further, you must go alone. Do you understand?’