The Dancer and the Raja (17 page)

23

They decide to spend the whole first year in India at Villa Buona Vista. They do not even go to Mussoorie, the surest way of escaping the heat, for fear that the journey might affect the health of the baby or of Anita. Or perhaps there is another reason that the raja does not dare confess: Château Kapurthala in Mussoorie has been invaded by his Indian family. Seeing the situation as it is, he has preferred to stay on the burning plains of the Punjab. Now Anita understands why the English soldiers are punished with fourteen days in jail when they are caught without their famous
topi
, which covers their head and neck. Because the heat at the end of May and beginning of June is lethal. Every time she goes out of the house, at midday, the sun is so strong that she feels it like a blow. The temperature reaches forty-two degrees Celsius [107°F] at eleven o'clock in the morning. It is nothing like the heat in Málaga in August. The days are hellish, and in the afternoons the air is so dense that you could cut it with a knife. Let's hope the rains come on time! The fields are yellow, the ground cracked, and the animals exhausted. A dozen servants are told to water the paths, pull the
punkhas
, and dampen the blinds and mats. But Anita is exhausted and cannot seem to get over it. Right from the start she has insisted on breastfeeding the baby, and the nights spent without sleep—she feeds him every three hours and, besides, the howling of the jackals that cry like desperate children does not let her sleep—eventually weaken her even more. Lola helps her as best she can, but the heat affects her too. She finds it hard to wake up in the middle of the night to bring the baby to his mother, which forces Anita to get up. Anita is so badly affected by the heat and effort that she falls ill, with a fever that reaches thirty-nine [102°F].

“Mastitis,” says Dr. Warburton, who has come urgently at dawn.

“And what is that?” Anita asks.

“A breast infection. You must stop feeding the baby immediately, because you have an abscess too. And you must follow the treatment I'm going to give you.”

For Anita the diagnosis is like a blow from destiny. She falls into a deep fit of sobbing that no one can calm. The doctor's consolation does no good, as he assures her that hers is a very common ailment and is easy to cure and they will get a good wet nurse. Mme Dijon's explanations do no good either, setting herself as an example in an attempt to bring back the princess's love of life. Anita feels frustrated to the depths of her being. Marked as a mother unable to feed her own child. She is scared and worried by all she knows about illnesses that can take their toll on little Ajit, especially in the hot season. She spends a whole day in floods of tears, full of despair, while around her they move fast to find a wet nurse. In India, this is a choice of great importance because there is the belief that, through the milk, the wet nurse transmits some of her moral and spiritual qualities to the child. Therefore it is fundamental to find a woman who is honest, of good character and irreproachable reputation. There have been cases of wet nurses who give opium to the baby to make it stay asleep, or others who, as they are poor, gradually stop feeding the newborn baby in order to continue feeding their own child.

Paradoxically it is Ajit's crying that gives Anita back her strength. Cries that go straight to her soul as a mother and reignite her feeling of maternal responsibility. “Could he be afraid of being abandoned?” she wonders innocently. She realizes that she cannot permit herself to cry over the twists and turns of fate when the life of her son is at stake. That, together with the fact that she feels a little better after the medicines from Dr. Warburton, forces her to get over it, to stifle her sorrows and fears and face up to the task of being a mother at the age of eighteen in a country as remote, as ancient, and as complex as India.

Not until she is introduced to Dalima—a young Hindu woman with dark skin and big, dark eyes, as fragile and sweet as a gazelle, and the mother of a baby girl, who has been chosen from thirty aspirants to the role of wet nurse—does Anita shake off her sadness, or emerge from the abyss of despair. Dalima exudes calm, composure, and common sense. She is always smiling, and when she does she displays a line of very white teeth, and although she is from a very poor family, she has the manners of a princess. Her hair is jet black and shiny from using rapeseed oil, and she wears it held back in a ponytail. A red dot on her forehead—the
tilak
—invokes the “third eye,” which serves to see beyond appearances. Dalima speaks a few words of English and, unlike Lola, knows how to be there without being too intrusive. And above all, she knows how to take care of a baby. From the way she takes him in her arms, from her tender looks and the way she whispers in his ear, Anita immediately realizes that here she has the person she most needs at this time. Dalima is a blessing, another gift from her protectress, the Virgin of La Victoria, who has just solved a problem for her that had kept her in a state of anguish. She immediately thinks of thanking her, and when she remembers the promise she made when she was in labor, she asks Mme Dijon to help her.

“I want to send a letter to Paris, to Chez Paquin,” she tells the Frenchwoman. “I want to order something very special.”

“A new evening gown?”

“No, it isn't for me.”

“Can I ask who it is for?” Mme Dijon asks, with wide eyes, as though she thinks she may be the lucky recipient.

“I want them to make me a shawl embroidered with gold and precious stones for the Virgin of La Victoria, the patroness of my city. I've been told that Paquin make the ceremonial capes for the Shah of Persia.”

Mme Dijon stares at her. She cannot believe what she is hearing. Anita, as though excusing herself for having made a blunder, continues, “You know, Spanish things … and even that isn't much for my Virgin. I'd have her dressed in diamonds!”

Dalima rapidly becomes her favorite company, her shadow. All the qualities that the Spanish girl thought she saw in her are gradually confirmed. Of the vast retinue of ayas and servants, Dalima is the only one who deserves her full confidence. Much more even than Lola, whose has been pushed into second place. The girl from Málaga, who is jealous of the new favorite, eats all the time to compensate for the boredom caused by her lack of activity. Because she is a foreigner, she enjoys a high rank in the servant hierarchy, and they treat her with deference, as though she were another
memsahib
. She takes advantage of the situation and spends all day ordering food. She is so fat that when she goes upstairs, her panting sounds like that of the raja's dog.

The monotonous routine imposed by the heat weighs like a stone on everyone, although sometimes it is interrupted by an unexpected visit; India, with all its extremes, is permanently full of surprises. One morning, the racket being made in the garden attracts Anita's attention, and she goes out to see what is going on, accompanied by her inseparable Dalima. Practically all the servants in the house have gathered by the side fence of the servants' entrance, some laughing, others angry, and all of them very excited.

“Sister, give us your baby so we can bless him and wish him good fortune!”

The deep voice of the woman who is speaking to Anita over the heads of the group of servants who form a barrier contrasts with her looks. She is wearing cheap necklaces and a bright pink sari, her eyes are painted with
khol
, and she has an orange marigold in her black hair that is tied back in a plait. Around her there is a striking and very noisy group of women with extravagant makeup, shaking tambourines.

“Ma'am, don't take any notice of them. They are
hijras
,” says the butler.

“What did you say?”

The butler's face reflects his predicament.

“Neither men nor women … Do you see?”

Anita has heard about the eunuchs, the secret, mysterious caste, a leftover from the Moghul Empire, whose communities are scattered all over India. They are not transvestites, but
castrati
.

“What do they want?”

“To bless the baby.”

“Out of the question!”

“It's the fifth time they've been, you know, the custom …”

Over the butler's voice the eunuchs' chanting can be heard, “Bring us your son, sister, because we want to share your joy!”

The butler approaches Anita.

“Ma'am, I'm going to call the raja's guard to send them away.”

“No!” Dalima says timidly, embarrassed at having dared to join in the conversation. The butler glares at her, not because of what she said, but simply because she has opened her mouth.

“You don't have to tell them to go away …”

“But they're threatening us,” replies the butler.

“Threatening us?” asks Anita, very surprised. “How?”

“Like they always do …” mumbles the butler, again embarrassed at having to explain something so shameful. “They make their usual threat, and that's why the staff are so up in arms …”

“And what is their usual threat?”

Modesty makes him lower his voice.

“It's terrible, ma'am,” the butler goes on. “They threaten to lift up their saris and show their privates … well, what's left of them. That's what they always do when they are refused entry to a house or not given a tip. So everyone gives in just to avoid seeing something so dreadful …”

Anita laughs and can hardly keep back her tears of merriment. Dalima smiles gently and adds, “But they are good,
Memsahib
, all the children in India are blessed by them.”

“Are they?”

“They bring good luck for the children,” Dalima goes on. “They have the power to wash away the sins of their past lives.”

Anita stands there thinking and then turns to the butler.

“Have your children been blessed by them too?”

“Of course,
Memsahib
. No one wants to cross the
hijras
.”

Anita thinks again. What if they are right? For someone as superstitious as she is, the more blessings her son gets, the better.
Some of them may work,
she says to herself. Deep down she feels everything can help to protect little Ajit. No one can have too much protection in this land, and he even less, the son of a foreigner. Besides, she trusts Dalima, who talks straight from the heart.

“Let's bring him here right now,” she says, to the amazed look of the butler.

With the baby in her arms Anita makes her way through the servants, who look at her in silence; then she gives him to the eunuch dressed in pink. He takes him delicately and suddenly starts dancing and swaying to the tinkling of some little bells that are sewn on his skirts and on the tambourines of the others. “The baby is as strong as Shiva, and we beg the all-powerful god to give us the sins of his previous lives …” they all sing together while the others join in the dance. At the same time, the eunuch dressed in pink takes a little red paste from a small box and with his forefinger marks a dot on the baby's forehead. With this symbolic gesture, the previous sins of Anita's baby are absorbed by the eunuchs. And they are happy because they are fulfilling their mission in this way: the mission given them by the India of a thousand castes when it assigned them the role of social outcasts. They end up dancing in honor of the mother, and they throw grains of rice on Anita's head. The stifling temperature cannot spoil the atmosphere. It is a spontaneous celebration, improvised, gay, and lively. Anita, to whom these people seemed so strange, distant, and frightening barely a few minutes ago, now sees them as if they were her friends. After taking back the baby, the butler approaches her again timidly.

“
Memsahib
, the eunuchs usually charge for their services …”

Anita turns her head toward Dalima, as if for her to confirm the butler's words. Dalima nods.

“I'll give them five rupees,” says Anita.

“No,
Memsahib
. They charge a lot and no one dares to bargain with them for fear of falling victim to their curses.”

Anita goes over to the group of eunuchs, who stare avidly at her. They make comments about the dress she is wearing, her jewels, her makeup, and the beauty of her features. Their wide smiles allow her to glimpse a profusion of gold teeth, which stick out over their lips that are red with betel.

“How much do you want?” Anita asks the eunuch in the bright pink dress directly.

“
Memsahib
, I beg to answer you with another question, and then I will accept willingly whatever you give us after you have thought about your reply. What is it worth to you for us to have washed away the sins of all his past lives?”

Anita remains pensive, and then she turns to the butler, “Give him a hundred rupees; my son, as his mother's good son, will probably have sinned a lot.”

At the beginning of June something happens that seems impossible: the heat becomes even more intense, if that is possible. Everyone searches the sky in the hope of seeing the first monsoon clouds. The sound of the chanting of the peasants, who are praying to the goddess Lakshmi to fertilize the fields, reaches Anita lying on her terrace. She can also hear Lola's panting, and the frantic fluttering of her fan, like a huge moth around the fire. The best thing is to remain still in order not to sweat so much. The raja has given up his morning rides and takes refuge in reading.

“How long is this dreadful heat going to go on?” Anita asks Mme Dijon.

“If all goes well, if the rains come on time, until June tenth, more or less. The problem is that the last days seem to go on forever.”

There are times when Mme Dijon seems prophetic. On June 10 at about four in the afternoon, a deafening sound is suddenly heard; a whirlwind of burning hot air kicks up clouds of dust and tears the leaves off the trees and even some loose tiles that smash on the ground. It is as though the hurricane-like wind was going to swallow up the whole villa. It still does not rain, but the servants have a happy expression on their faces. The dry storm confirms the imminent arrival of the rains. Dalima, Anita's young servant girl, weeps with emotion. Her parents are poor peasants who depend on the water for their crops. All Indians share the same panic that the monsoon may not arrive, something that does happen sometimes, causing famines that decimate the population. The last time was in 1898, when the raja ordered the building of the new palace to be halted so that he could use the money to help his people. For this reason those days are crucial in the life of the subcontinent: the failure of the rice crop can mean the loss of a million lives.