Far Pavilions (48 page)

The moth had fallen down the chimney of the oil lamp and set the wick flaring, and another clumsy night-flying insect was battering itself against the glass, making a monotonous sound that now Anjuli was no longer speaking seemed as loud as the beat of a drum in the silence. Ash rose abruptly and went over to trim the wick, standing with his back to her and apparently giving his whole attention to the task. He had not made any comment, and as the silence lengthened and he still did not speak, she said with a catch in her voice:

‘Are they dead, then?’

Ash spoke without turning: ‘His mother died many years ago. Not long after they left Gulkote.’

‘And Ashok?’ She had to repeat the question.

‘He is here,’ said Ash at last; and turned towards her, the light at his back falling full on her face and leaving his own in shadow.

‘You mean – here in the camp?’ Anjuli's voice was a startled whisper. ‘Then why did he not… Where is he? What is he doing? Tell him –’

Ash said: ‘Don't you know me, Juli?’

‘Know you?’ repeated Juli bewildered. ‘Ah, do not make game of me, Sahib. It is not kind.’

She wrung her hands together in a gesture of despair and Ash said: ‘I am not making game of you. Look at me, Juli –’ he reached for the lamp and lifting it, held it so that the light fell on his face. ‘Look carefully. Have I changed so much? Do you really not know me?’

Anjuli backed away from him, staring and whispering, ‘No! no, no, no –’ under her breath.

‘Yes, you do. I can't have changed as much as all that: I was eleven. It was different with you. You were only a baby of six, or was it seven? I would never have recognized you if I hadn't known. But you still have the scar where the monkey bit you. Do you remember how my mother washed the bite and tied it up for you, and told you the story of Rama and Sita and how Hanuman and his monkeys helped them? And afterwards I took you to Hanuman's temple near the elephant lines? Have you forgotten the day that Lalji's marmoset ran away and we followed it into the
Mor Minar
, and found the Queen's balcony?’

‘No,’ breathed Anjuli, her eyes wide and enormous. ‘No, it cannot be true. I do not believe it. It is a trick.’

‘Why should I trick you? Ask me anything; something that only Ashok could know. And if I cannot answer –’

‘He could have told you,’ interrupted Anjuli breathlessly. ‘You could be repeating things that you learned from him. Yes, that is it!’

‘Is it? But why? There is nothing to be gained. Why should I trouble to tell you this if it were not true?’

‘But – but you are a Sahib. An
Angrezi
Sahib. How can you be Ashok? I knew his mother. He was the son of my waiting-woman, Sita.’

Ash put the lamp back on the table and sat down again on the camp bed. He said slowly: ‘So he always thought. But it was not so. And when she came to die, she told him that the woman who bore him was an
Angrezi
and the wife of an
Angrezi
, and that she, Sita, whose husband was his father's head syce, had been his foster-mother – his own having died at his birth. It was something that he – that I – did not wish to learn, for she had been, in every way but one, my real mother. But that did not make it any the less true, and truth is truth. I was, I am, Ashok. If you do not believe me you have only to send word to Koda Dad Khan, who lives now in his own village in the country of the Yusufzais, and whom you must surely remember. Or to his son, Zarin, who is a Jemadar of the Guides, in Mardan. They will tell you that what I say is true.’

‘Oh, no!’ whispered Anjuli. Her voice failed, and turning from him she leaned her head against the tent pole and wept as though her heart would break.

It was, perhaps, the one reaction he was not prepared for, and it not only disconcerted him but left him feeling embarrassed and helpless, and more than a little indignant.

What on earth had she to cry about?
Girls!
thought Ash – not for the first time – and began to wish that he had kept his mouth shut. He had meant to do so; though admittedly only after it had occurred to him that others besides Anjuli-Bai might be interested in the fate of Ashok, and that it had probably been a grave mistake to resurrect the memory of that long-forgotten little boy. But the fact that Juli had remembered him and his mother with so much affection for so many years had melted his resolution, and it had suddenly seemed cruel not to tell her the truth, and allow her to believe, if it was any comfort to her, that he had kept a promise that, to be honest, he had forgotten all about until now. He had presumed that she would be pleased. Or at least excited. Not appalled and tearful.

What did she expect? thought Ash resentfully. What else could he have done? Fobbed her off with some cock-and-bull story of a stranger who had given him that piece of pearl-shell? Or refused to tell her anything and sent her away with a flea in her ear – which is what she deserved for behaving in this embarrassing manner. He scowled at the haze of insects that by now were circling the lamp and tried to shut his ears to the sound of that stifled sobbing.

The clock on the table by his bed struck three, and the small, brisk chimes made him start violently, not because they reminded him of the lateness of the hour, but because, subconsciously, his nerves were on the stretch. He had not realized until then just how apprehensive he was, but that involuntary spasm of alarm was a reminder of the dangers of the present situation and the horrifying risk that Juli had taken in coming to see him. She had brushed it away lightly enough, but that did not make it any the less real; if she were missed, and found here, the consequences for them both did not bear thinking of.

For the second time that night Ash found himself thinking how easily he could be murdered (and Juli too, for that matter!) without anyone ever knowing, and his exasperation mounted. How like a woman to compromise them both and then, having landed them in this dangerous and ridiculous position, make matters worse by collapsing into floods of tears. He would like to shake her. Didn't she realize –?

He turned his head to look at her, still scowling, and his mood changed abruptly; for she was crying very quietly and there was something in her pose that reminded him vividly of the last time he had seen her cry. Even then it had been on his account – because he was in danger and was going away – and not because she herself would be left alone and friendless. And now once again he had made her cry. Poor Juli – poor little Kairi-Bai! He stood up and came to stand beside her, and after a moment or two said awkwardly: ‘Don't cry, Juli. There isn't anything to cry about.’

She did not reply, but she shook her head in a helpless gesture that might have been either agreement or dissent, and for some reason that small, despairing gesture cut him to the heart and he put his arms about her and held her close, whispering foolish words of comfort and saying over and over again: ‘Don't cry, Juli. Please don't cry. It's all right now. I'm here. I've come back. There isn't anything to cry about:…’

For a minute or so the slender, shuddering body made no resistance. Her head lay passively against his shoulder and he could feel her tears soaking through the thin silk of his dressing-gown. Then all at once she stiffened in his arms and tore herself free. Her face was no longer beautiful: the lamplight showed it blurred and distorted with grief, and her lovely eyes were red and swollen. She did not speak; she merely looked at him. It was a chill and contemptuous look, as wounding as the lash of the whip, and turning from him, she ripped back the tent-flap and ran out into the night, and was swallowed up by the moonlight and the chequered shadows.

There was no point in following her, and Ash made no attempt to do so. He listened for a while, but hearing no sound of voices or any challenge from the direction of the camp, he went back into the tent and sat down again, feeling dazed and curiously breathless.

‘No,’ whispered Ash, arguing with himself in the silence. ‘No of course not. It's ridiculous. It couldn't possibly happen like that… not in just one minute, between one breath and the next. It
couldn't
…’

But he knew that it could. Because it had just happened to him.

16

In obedience to the younger bride's wishes, the tents had not been struck on the following morning and word had gone out that there would be no further move for at least three days – a respite that was welcomed by all, for apart from a rest from marching it provided an opportunity for clothes to be washed and food to be cooked in a more leisurely manner, and a thousand repairs and re-adjustments made to tents, trappings and saddlery.

The banks of the river were soon lined with
dhobis
busied with piles of washing, mahouts bathing their elephants, and hordes of children splashing and playing in the shallows. Grass-cutters scattered in search of fodder and hunting parties rode out after game; and Jhoti and Shushila wheedled their uncle into arranging a day's hawking that the girls could attend without the necessity of keeping strict purdah.

Kaka-ji had needed a lot of persuading, but he had eventually given way on condition that they kept well out of sight of the camp, and a party had been made up that included Ash and Mulraj, half-a-dozen falconers, three of the brides' women and a small escort of palace guards and servants. It also included Biju Ram (who would be in attendance upon Jhoti) and Kaka-ji Rao, who announced that he himself would be accompanying them solely in order to keep an avuncular eye upon his nieces – which had deceived no one, for the old gentleman had a passion for falconry and they were all aware that he would not have missed it for anything; and also that he would have preferred to go without either of his nieces.

‘It is not that they cannot ride well enough,’ he explained to Ash in a burst of confidence, ‘but they know little of falconry, which is a man's sport. A woman's wrist is not strong enough to support a hawk. Or at least, Shushila's is not, though with her half-sister it is different. But then Anjuli-Bai has no liking for the sport and Shushila tires too easily. I cannot think why they should wish to come with us.’

‘Kairi did not wish to,’ volunteered Jhoti, who had been listening to the conversation of his elders. ‘She wanted to stay behind. But Shu-Shu said that if Kairi wouldn't go she would not go either, and she began to cry and say that she was so tired of the noise and the smells of the camp, and of being shut up in a
ruth
or a tent, and that if she didn't get away from it and out into the open air for a while she would die.
You
know what she is like. So of course Kairi had to agree to come. Oh, here they are at last – Good. Now perhaps we can start.’

They rode away across the plain, holding their horses to a sedate trot in order not to out-distance the cart containing the waiting women, who could not ride, or the Rajkumari Shushila, who in spite of what Kaka-ji had said was an indifferent horsewoman and rode on a lead-rein held by an elderly retainer.

Both girls wore light head scarves that concealed their faces and left only their eyes uncovered, but once clear of the camp and in open country they allowed the flimsy material to blow free. But Ash noted with interest that except for Jhoti and Kaka-ji, none of the men-folk – not even Mulraj, who was related to the royal family – ever looked directly at them even when replying to a question: an exhibition of good manners that impressed him, though he did not emulate it. Having been told to consider himself one of the family, he saw no reason why he should not claim an honorary brother's privilege and look as long and as openly as he pleased, and he had done so. But at Anjuli rather than at her younger sister; though little Shushila, laughing and excited by the sport and the heady taste of freedom, was well worth looking at: a princess from a fairy-tale, all gold and rose and ebony, and sparkling with gaiety.

‘She will be ill tonight. You'll see,’ said Jhoti cheerfully. ‘She is always ill after she gets excited. Just like a see-saw, up in the air or down in the mud –
bump
! I think girls are silly, don't you? Fancy having to marry one.’

‘Hmm?’ said Ash, who was not listening.

‘My mother,’ confided Jhoti, ‘had arranged a marriage for me, but when she died my brother Nandu broke it off, which was a good thing, for I did not wish to get married. He only did it to spite me – that I know well. He meant to do me an ill turn, and did me a good one by mistake, the silly owl. But I suppose I shall have to marry some day. One has to have a wife in order to get sons, does one not? Has yours given you any sons yet?’

Ash made another indeterminate noise and Mulraj, who was riding on the other side of him, answered on his behalf: ‘The Sahib has no wife, Prince. His people do not marry young. They wait until they are old and wise. Is that not so, Sahib?’

‘Umm?’ said Ash. ‘I'm sorry – I didn't hear what you said.’

Mulraj laughed and threw up a protesting hand. ‘You see, my Prince? – he has heard nothing. His thoughts are far away today. What is it, Sahib? Is there something that troubles you?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Ash hastily. ‘I was only thinking about something else.’