The Splendor Of Silence (52 page)

Jai did not answer for a while, and when he did it was with an immovable expression. "I think you have been in India long enough to know that we are--and by this I mean all of us, the British of us, the Indians of us--an inflexible, rigid people, rife with prejudice." Sam opened his mouth to dissent, but Jai put up a hand. "I am not asking for an argument." His tone became gentle, rueful. "Forgive me, I am used to giving orders and at times I forget that I cannot order everyone around. What I mean to say is that I do not make this statement for us to contest the veracity of it, instead I mean it as a truth."

Sam bent his head to look down upon his hands linked in front of him. "I will agree with you then, but I fail to see how this has anything to do with me."

"Yes," Jai said. "Yes." His brows came together on his forehead and he rubbed one side of his face as though he was in pain. "Forgive me," he said again, "I am not quite sure why I said that, if only to assert that we--the British and the Indians--have never really cohered with each other. You see, the color of our skins is an insurmountable barrier to any sort of friendly intercourse."

Sam searched hard in Jai's face for the knowledge of Mila's love for him, or any slight suspicion, and saw nothing. Yet the prince was troubled, anxiety marring his eyes, his fingers interlocking with each other and then coming apart. He did suspect, Sam thought, but in some buried part of his brain, and he was not cognizant yet as to why he disliked Sam. Perhaps they could have been friends too, Sam thought, but not now, not anymore. He could not sit any longer and deceive Jai, and so, very firmly, he rose to leave. A man came in then, dressed in a black suit with a light blue tie--the color of Rudrakot, Sam realized, the regimental colors of the Lancers, the hues of last night's White Durbar, more blue than white, the tint in the upholstery, the paint on the Daimler. The man hesitated at the entrance to the room and coughed.

Jai beckoned with one hand and the man leaned to his prince's ear and talked for a very long while. Sam watched as pain and sorrow crushed Jai's face and his body shook with some emotion.

"What happened?" he asked, dread filling him.

Jai, white about his mouth, rose from his chair. "You should not hav
e t
aken Ashok to the political meeting at the Lal Bazaar last night, Captain Hawthorne. You have betrayed the hospitality of the man who extended the use of his house to you, who allowed his children to reach out in friendship to you."

"What happened?" Sam asked again.

"There has been a bomb blast at the residency and a boy was found on the ground near the car where the bomb was put, crying over the body of his cohort. The two boys went there together this afternoon, Ashok and Vimal." Jai's voice grew harsh. "You see, you see now why you should never have let them get close to each other? One of them is dead because the bomb blew up just as they were installing it in Pankhurst's Daimler."

"Which one?" Sam asked faintly, pain shredding his heart. Oh, my darling Mila, he thought, what have I done? How could he have even known that last night would lead to this?

"The nationalist boy, Vimal. Ashok has been arrested and is in jail now. I have to go and get him out." Jai rubbed his forehead. "Try to get him out, and this is not going to be easy. He will be tried and hanged."

The news of Ashok's arrest reached Jai first, barely twenty minutes after it had happened, for Rudrakot was Jai's realm and he knew of everything that happened within the boundaries of his kingdom, just as he had known that Sam had taken Ashok to the political meeting last night.

In her bedroom, Mila lay on her bed on her stomach, her face turned away from Pallavi, who was seated in a chair beside her. They had been talking too, for two hours now, since Mila had woken. She had not allowed Pallavi to corral her into an argument earlier, and, pleading fatigue instead, Mila had slept away the morning. She knew that all that had done was delay her talk with Pallavi.

Now she lay with a pillow smothering her face, hiding her from Pallavi's fiery gaze. Mila had been crying for such a long time that she felt empty and drained of anything, for everything Pallavi had said was true. She had seen Mila emerge from Sam's room earlier that morning, had seen upon her body the languor of a woman who had been loved by a man, and Pallavi had been horrified. How could you do such a thing, she had asked, repeatedly. And Mila had responded doggedly to that with, I love him, this is no bad thing, Pallavi, do not demean me or Sam with your prejudices.

"What do you know of love?" Pallavi had shouted.

More than you, Mila wanted to say, but knew she could not hurt Pallavi so, even now, when they were in strife, for she spoke not from jealousy or spite but from a real concern for her.

"You cannot betray Jai," Pallavi had said.

But Mila believed that Jai would not want her, like this, with her heart in another man's keeping. It was not a concept Pallavi was even willing to understand; to her, Mila had made a contract with Jai. What would her papa think, Pallavi asked next. To these last two arguments, Mila had no response, for they were the truth. She could not bear to think that Papa would hate her, or even that Jai would hate her. She knew they would both be shattered. Last night she had felt as though things would work out after all. Oh, Sam, she thought miserably, what have we brought on ourselves? At the thought of Sam, there came to Mila another moment of clarity and she returned to her belief that they were meant to be together, that no matter how much her relationship with Sam hurt people's sensibilities, those who loved her would understand, would be supportive. Much as she herself was of Ashok. Alone, she could never have come to such a decision, not because she was intrinsically timid, but because she could not have justified such happiness for herself at such a seeming cost to the others she loved. But Mila had Sam, and with him, anything was possible. She let Pallavi shout for as long as she liked, even let her own tears flow and sheltered her heart.

And then Pallavi said, somberly, "Where do you think you will live with this Captain Hawthorne, Mila? In India? In America? And where will you raise your children? Will they not be half of you and half of him? Who will accept this?"

Mila buried her head between two pillows. There would be difficulties, she knew that also, but did not want to think of them yet. Pallavi said softly, "Remember Grace, Mila."

And Mila did.

Six years ago, when Jai had gone to London for a visit, Raman had accompanied him, in the official capacity of an advisor, but really to keep Jai out of trouble and the titled British ladies from falling in love with him. Prince or not, it would have been bloody inconvenient and necessary to dissolve an unwanted alliance of this sort. Raman was to be away for more than half a year and so Kiran, Mila, Ashok, and Pallavi had traveled wit
h h
im, stayed at a hotel and taken their studies with privately hired tutors. At the home of her piano teacher, Mila had met Grace Leghorn, and had been charmed by her prettiness and her enthusiasm. They became friends with a speed that youth, indulgence, and a lack of common history grants to most friendships, took walks on Sunday afternoons, drank tea at each other's homes, read Jane Austen together, and promised to write letters if they were ever parted again, and write all their lives. Grace gave Mila a little photograph of herself in a locket, with a curl of lovely golden hair tucked under it. Mila pestered Raman to take her to the photo studio so that she could return the favor. And then, just as Raman was to leave England, Grace told Mila that she was to go with them to India; she had been invited to stay with her uncle and aunt in Bengal.

The affection died on the eastern side of the Suez Canal. It was a cruel lesson for Mila. Grace had been her very best friend in the whole world, had considered the British in India abominable, had read the papers with Mila about the nationalist struggle, and had claimed to admire Mr. Gandhi and Mr. Nehru. But somehow, in washing the blues of the Mediterranean from her pale hands, and dipping them in the darker hues of the Arabian Sea, Grace Leghorn became the Raj even before she set foot on Raj land.

The irony was that Grace's uncle was some minor official in the textile industry, in some forlorn village miles from Calcutta, and Raman was political agent of a princely state that quartered two slapdash regiments. It was no consolation for Mila though. She was fifteen, she mourned deeply the loss that this lesson brought, and in doing so, learned its value very well. She was only fifteen; she recovered from Grace Leghorn, but did not forget her.

"Sam is different," she said finally to Pallavi.

And for the first time Pallavi agreed, but she also said, "You will see, my dear, as you grow older, that you cannot change the way the world will view the two of you, no matter how much you try. Are you willing to fight for the rest of your life?"

The door to Mila's room opened and Raman came in, his shoulders bowed as though he carried a huge weight on himself, his feet dragging, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse with crying. "Mila," he said, "Ashok has been arrested for trying to place a bomb in Colonel Pankhurst's car." He ran a hand over his face, as though he could wipe away the pain from his skin with just that action. "How can this even be possible?"

April 1942, a Month Earlier

Somewhere in
Burma

K
en talks for an inordinately long time, most of it directionless and .1
. K
. rambling. Most of it self-serving. He speaks of a childhood in Colorado, within sight of the Rocky Mountains, of a paucity of food so dire at times during the cold winter months that his mother once boiled the flattened leather of an old pair of boots for a very long rime until the leather was soft and almost edible.

Sam and Marianne have both clearly heard him speak textbook Japanese with the young soldier as they came back into the bungalow. Sam sits against the wall, cradling his arm in his lap, and again, just as he had with the python under the water of the pool, he has now also forgotten the pain because there are more important matters to take care of. An immense stillness descends upon him as he searches the environs of the room without seeming to. Night has come upon them a few hours ago, but they do not notice it. Ken lights a little fire in the middle of the room's mosaic floor and the fire smokes damply as it struggles to take a bite out of mildewed and mossy twigs and logs. It is the only light by which they can see each other.

By Sam's side, Marianne sits with a stunned expression on her face that has not abated since Ken pointed the pistol at them a few hours ago. Mingled with that is shock and sorrow and pain, an almost palpable and physical pain--Sam can feel it reach out in waves toward him. He wants to say that she must not mind Ken's betrayal so much--for these are the casualties of war. Ken grew up in abject misery, poorer than he can ever imagine anyone to be, and in Calcutta Ken sees human beings so mutilated by poverty he can finally consider that his life has been better than at least someone else's life. There is a strange and pathetic consolation in this t
o h
im. His eyes glow with a disturbing glee when he says this to Sam and Marianne and they cannot even turn to each other and show their pity, for they know that any movement could send a bullet their way.

"When did you decide to"--Sam hesitates, picking his words carefully, not wanting Ken to rush into an untimely temper--"approach the Japanese?"

"They came to me," Ken says. "There is a club in Calcutta, the Cardamon Club, in a little alley behind the Grand Hotel. It is a well-hidden place, seems to be exclusive until your nose shrinks at the stink of piss on the walls of the houses nearby. It's a dance hall, really, plenty of half-caste women wanting to dance for a few annas; they even allow you to touch them here and there in the alley outside for a few more." Ken falls into a musing. "There was one girl though who was so pretty auburn hair, skin white and luscious, long limbs, a tiny waist." His expression hardens and he wipes the clammy hair from his forehead with his left hand. "I went to the club while on leave a year ago; it was just for fun, nothing more. I expected to throw down a few rupees for the women and the drinks and then come home again, but a man came to me with a proposition. He knew I flew for the AVG, well, he knew that I was a pilot." He falls silent, reflective. "The whole club, though I did not know it then, was for people like me, rich with money from the bloody Japs."

"What did he want?" Sam asks.

"Photographs of the Calcutta docks, as many as I could take while flying over them. I have them here." Ken pats his haversack and Sam and Marianne hear the crinkle of paper inside. Why, Sam thinks, has he not considered all this before? It was almost too easy, even their being here in this bungalow was too well planned, too well thought out in advance. For the nudge toward this part of the map has been Ken's idea, and this Sam remembers now. It had been a very strong suggestion, such as it was. The bungalow is a meeting place, a drop-off point for the photographs. Sam looks upon the young Japanese soldier with a stronger curiosity and a mild regret, thinking that he should have killed him when he first came rushing into the house. The boy had said to Sam in Japanese, I thought you were the enemy. He had thought Sam was Ken. The boy was partially right, Sam thinks. For he is the enemy, only Ken is not. Now the boy knows and he nods sleepily over his crippled feet, the pain sending him to unconsciousness.

"What did they pay you?" Sam asks.

Ken's eyes light up greedily, for it is more money than he has ever seen in his life, more money than he thinks he will ever see again. "Ten thousand dollars. Five before I even started. Five now, when I give them the photographs."