The Splendor Of Silence (5 page)

Mila came from the balcony to stand at the doorway, one arm laid along the cool brick wall. She rested her head against the door frame and looked at Pallavi, half amused, half annoyed.

Pallavi held the tray well away from her waist, her nose slanted awa
y f
rom the aroma of the eggs. If Raman had allowed her to have her way, she would have had the cooks make dosas and chutney and sambar for breakfast, not eggs that could have been born into chicks and hens someday. But Raman had explained to Pallavi, many times and with a great deal of patience, that all of his children were to be fed as much eggs and meat as they wanted to eat, that it was healthy for them, that there was no room for argument here, that this was, in effect, an order. So Pallavi had rearranged the kitchens after Lakshmi died (this Raman allowed her, for she was family by then), banished the nonvegetarian cooks to another kitchen house that she inspected for grime every morning, bought special pots and kadais for their use, and tried to limit the plates and katoris into which the eggs and chicken curries were served. In this last she was not entirely successful, for the best china in the house was used at all the home parties, so she settled for scouring them herself, after they had already been washed by the servants. She put the tray down on the bed, beat the pillows, and set them up against the wall.

Mila plunged back into the bed, pulling up her sari around her thighs. The sheets were refreshing again, after having carried her warmth all night. It was finally and thankfully a little chill this morning. May in Rudrakot was the month of death by heat. Only the monsoons--if and when they came--would assuage Rudrakot's scorched heart. The Sukh desert was testament to the fact that the monsoon rains did not always bless Rudrakot--the ifs were as important to Rudrakot's residents as the whens of the temperamental rains. For there was no river that ran through the city, and the wells, tapped deep into the earth, were not always reliable, as the water table lay very low during the dry season. There was the lake, dug out of the clayey soil four centuries ago by a Rudrakot king, that served as a catchment for rainwater, which could sustain Rudrakot for perhaps three years of missed rains.

Pallavi placed the tray on Mila's knees and yanked at her sari to cover her legs. She then surveyed the clothes flung around the room and started a gentle, under-the-breath clucking. She kept her back toward Mila, firmly, but every now and then Mila saw her twist her mouth, or raise her eyebrows, or whistle busily through her teeth. All this as she picked up and folded Mila's chiffon sari, cast upon the chaise longue in undulating waves of sea green; shook out the crumpled petticoat; and stumbled over the heeled shoes lying upside down under the chaise. She shook her hea
d v
igorously at the shoes. Pallavi had her little superstitions and one of these was that shoes had to be stored upright or a scolding was in order from an elder. When she was a child, Mila had believed this superstition with all of her heart. One rare admonition from Raman, who never thought Mila could do wrong, sent her to her almirah in search of that errant shoe or slipper, sole side up, to be blamed for Papa's loss of temper and for her consequent tears.

Mila ignored Pallavi as she chopped her omelet into precise squares. But she was not oblivious to her morning mutterings, and an edgy skin of discontent descended upon Mila. She had been thus for two months now, easily irritated, not knowing why, not really wanting to be so. She burned her mouth when she sipped the coffee, and involuntary tears blurred her view of the tray with itssari-embroidered place mat and the gold-edged white porcelain plate.

"You are going riding this morning?" Pallavi asked, and Mila nodded in reply, not trusting her voice. They spoke to each other in a strange alloy of Hindi, Tamil, and English, strange only because there were no rules for such language. Over the years, Pallavi had picked up enough English to use it well, which did not mean that she always did. Pallavi could not read or write in any language, though she could now recognize some letters of the English alphabet and unerringly set out place cards at the home buffets. White soup. Oysters en brochette. Braised chicken stuffed in the Mogul manner. Mutton cutlets. Ginger souffle. She could match these words with the dishes.

When she was in one of her frequent tempers--Pallavi's tolerance lay tight beneath her skin--she lapsed into a torrent of Tamil, and all the family scattered to the corners of the house until she had subsided. It did not matter to any of them that Pallavi was a mere servant in the house--she had been for many years now in the place of their mother.

Pallavi had come as a servant to Mila's mother almost thirty years ago, when Pallavi was eight, as part of Lakshmi's dowry, and had stayed on, not even returning to her parents' village for a holiday as time went by.

There had been talk though when Pallavi turned sixteen--the year Mila was born--of an alliance with a farmer in the village. Raman had read out the letters that Pallavi's father had hired the village scribe to pen, but in the end, it all fell to nothing. The boy married elsewhere, and

Pallavi's father did not again incur the expense of having the scribe write a letter for him.

"Don't you want to marry, Pallavi?" Raman had asked her the year Ashok was born, four years after Mila. "Do you not want your own children?"

"What will you do without me?" Pallavi had said. "Who will look after these three children who are so like mine already?"

This conversation was a couple of months after Lakshmi's death, for she never really recovered from giving birth to Ashok, gave in to an infection from the childbirth, and nothing anyone could do saved her life. When Raman finally began to return to the world, take up his duties, think about his household, he also had thought of how to deal with Pallavi living with them. It was considered incorrect to have a young woman at home without the blessing of the lady of the house. The gossips chattered. Raman had dismissed all of their sewer talk until he could no longer. To him it was incredible that anyone would dare to think such thoughtsPallavi was so intrinsic to the fabric of his house, a little sister when she came to him, a friend to his wife, one who loved his children, now a mother, for they needed a mother. Raman would not marry again. He had no interest in a companion for himself, merely a mother for his children, and they had that in Pallavi. When he was very lonely, when he missed the smoothness of a woman's skin, when he yearned for a gentle touch, Sayyid brought him a woman from the neighboring village. She came in the dense of the night, stayed for a few hours, and left with some money. Raman knew her name, but not much else. He had a need; she fulfilled it. A name to call her by, when he wished to speak during such times, was enough. He did not think anyone else needed to know, so he told no one, and he made sure no one found out.

He did not encourage Pallavi, after that first tentative alliance, to think of a marriage; selfishly, yes, but also knowing that she was really happy with them. Now Kiran, Mila, and Ashok were all of an age to find their own homes, to make their own happiness in other places, and Pallavi would be equally welcome with any of them, or with him, Raman had thought when Lakshmi died. He had thought ahead to this time.

Pallavi knew all of this--in her there was no fear of being rendered useless by time or by circumstances. She did not have what were considered normal ambitions for a woman, if a woman could be said to harbor ambitions at all. She was content where she was.

"Eat your toast," she said to Mila, pointing to the edges scattered on the plate.

"I'm full," Mila said. "No more. You must think I'm a camel."

"You are too thin. What man would marry someone ?" Pallavi paused then said, "Never mind. Eat your toast. Get dressed." She shook Mila's white shirt and jodhpurs at her.

Mila clambered out of bed, and started to unravel her cotton sari. She smiled at Pallavi's frown. "I know it is crumpled, dear Pallavi," she said. "But I slept in this sari; it will crumple, you know."

"Mine does not."

"That is because you sleep like a statue; where you lay your head down, a pit forms, for you press down on the pillows all night."

"And a lady must sleep thus, Mila. How many times have I told you this? You must lie straight, you must not move when you sleep, or move but lightly. A disturbed sleep speaks of a disturbed mind."

Mila shook her head and refused to answer. She pulled her sari away from her, untied her petticoat, unhooked the buttons of her blouse, and then held out her arms for the sleeves of her white shirt. As she dressed, a peculiar mixture of pride and disapproval grew on Pallavi's round face. Mila could almost see her thoughts written in the air above her well-oile
d h
ead. So well these English clothes fit her. Makes her look almost like a boy. My Mila is daring and courageous, like a boy. Like a boy? Who wants to look like a boy? She should be wearing a sari. At least it is early, perhaps no one will see her. Raman should not let her go out like this, riding a horse.

"What is the necessity to ride a horse when it is not necessary to go anywhere on it?" she asked, letting her thoughts spill into words.

"Because, my dearest Pallavi," Mila said, "it is what elegant people do. I'm going out to eat the air, to refresh myself, to ride with grace and dignity, to kick my heels into the waler and allow it to race on the maidan. More important, to see and be seen."

"I hope no one sees you like this," Pallavi grumbled, tucking Mila's shirt into the waistband of the jodhpurs. "Like a boy."

Mila skipped around the room, evading Pallavi's hands. "I can do this."

"Okay, okay," Pallavi said. "When you come back, you must sit wit
h m
e while I go through the contents of the storeroom to see what we need from the mandi."

"Why?" This Mila asked merely for the sake of asking, for the sake of being contrary. Whether it was that she was tired from a lack of sleep, or just antagonized for no reason, she did not know. So she said again, "Why?"

"You have to learn, Mila. How can you be married without knowing how to run a house? If your mother were here, she would have taught you; now I will teach you." Pallavi's face grew heated.

"You know I will not need these skills," Mila said obstinately, lines gathering over her eyebrows. She wandered around the room picking up her gloves and her riding whip. "I will have plenty of servants."

"I know," Pallavi said somberly. "But you must know how to run a house, even if there will be others to take up your duties. The servants will cheat you, charge you more than the market price for the dais and the clew. What will you do then?"

Mila sat down in the chair by the door and pulled on her boots. "Do that outside," Pallavi said. "Too much dust here."

But Mila continued to tuck her feet into her boots and yanked at the zipper, which slid through their silence with a hiss. "I have to go," Mila said. "Before it gets too hot outside."

They heard a flapping of wings and a gray-and-black crow, its avaricious eyes glinting in its head, came to settle upon the balcony ledge. It peered at them through the door and opened its mouth in a mammoth caw. Once. Twice.

"Look," Mila said, "that means we will have a visitor."

Pallavi ran to the door and waved her arms at the crow. "Shoo. Shoo." The crow moved a few inches to its left, on its feet, and cawed again. "Shoo, "Pallavi shouted at the crow and it flew away, protesting all the while.

"Three times it cawed," she muttered as she came in again. "That's not a good omen. We will have a visitor, but this is not good, Mila."

Mila smiled. "Oh, Pallavi, that's just a superstition, you know that." A frown puckered Pallavi's brow. "You will see," she said, then she asked, "When is Jai coming back?" Their argument was still unfinished, but they also knew that it would continue sometime in the future. Thus their conversations always went, disapproval on Pallavi's side, stubbornness on Mila's, and unended thoughts on both sides, persisting forever, almost as if they needed something to talk about.

"I don't know," Mila said. "Ask Papa."

"Mila " Pallavi's voice stopped her at the door. "Be careful when you go out. I don't like your being away from the house like this, without an escort, without your papa or one of your brothers. Be careful, don't talk with strange men."

Mila rubbed her face wearily with one hand. "I do not talk with strange men, Pallavi, only the ones we know."

Pallavi sighed and gathered the tray from the bed. "Come back and make your bed."

"You do it," Mila said as she left the room.

The household was well astir when Mila went downstairs to the front door, but there was no sound from her brothers' rooms. Ashok would wake later, in an hour. Kiran had rarely woken before noon since his return from England.

The waler, one of Jai's early gifts to her, was standing at the front door, gently snorting at the delay and shaking his head at the syce's attempts to hold him still. Sweat already glistened on his skin; later, when she had ridden him hard, they would both be drenched. He stood fourteen hands tall, terra-cotta brown with a well-tended gleaming coat, his mane and tail a shining black. The horse whinnied when he saw Mila and nudged at her closed fist. She opened her fingers and offered him the raw, in-shell peanuts and he swept them up with his rough tongue and then nuzzled in Mila's neck and blew little puffs of breath into her hair.

Mila climbed into the saddle and dug her heels into the horse's side.