The Splendor Of Silence (6 page)

"Let's go, Ghatoth," she said to the horse. The two syces mounted their own horses and followed her.

A long, unbroken tarred road linked two ends of Rudrakot's habitations, well away from the reaches of the railway station, and it was here, ten minutes after Mila had left the house, that one of the wheels of Sam's rickshaw deflated into a flat. The tire screamed over the heating tar and Sam tilted to one side along with the rickshaw.

The rickshaw puller jumped down from the cycle and, under the gaze of the wakening sun, pulled the conveyance to an edge of the dusty road.

"What now?" Sam asked tiredly, getting down also to view the damage. They were half a mile from one set of trees, and at least that distance from the shade at the other end, and there was nothing to be done but wait while the flat was repaired. Sam knew where he was headed, to the political agent's home, but for him that was as yet simply a name and a place; he would not know how to find the right house even if he set out along the road. He moved toward the west side of the rickshaw, sat down under the meager shade of its awning, and lit a cigarette. The rickshaw puller removed the vehicle's padded seat and reached in. Sam watched as he took out a tiffin carrier, a threadbare towel, a can of water, a collapsed pillow for afternoon naps, and a cloth pouch in which to keep his earnings. Below these treasures was the access to a wooden plank, which the man prized out, and underneath was a set of tools--an air pump, a large metal bowl, a bottle of filthy water, some lengths of thin rubber, a pair of scissors, and some glue.

The man deftly undid the tire from its rim and pulled out the rubber tube. He filled the tube with air from the pump and Sam could already hear the sibilant hissing of escaping air before the man poured water into a metal bowl and ran the length of the tube through it, piece by piece, until the water bubbled. Then, with his finger over the spot, he let the air out and with a rough stone began to shave at the rubber of the inner tube. Sam leaned back against his holdall and contemplated his cigarette. It was quiet here this early in the morning, and deserted. The road ran through the middle of this relative wasteland with no trees to shade it, no mile markers to distinguish it, and yet it had to be the main artery that led from the station to the residential area. Sam had slept with his chin ensconced in his palm on the way here, and remembered little of what he had seen when he had been jolted awake every now and then. He threw his cigarette away, and it went spinning into the air and landed in the dirt. At that moment he heard the steady clip-clop of horses' hooves. Sam rose from the side of the rickshaw and came out into the road to look toward the farther bank of trees. Three riders broke from the greenery and came riding down the path. As they neared, Sam could see that the one in front was a woman, an Indian woman, and he experienced a twinge of pleasant surprise. He had not seen too many upper-class Indian women out and about without an escort, or with only two syces as companions. He realized it was a strange observation to make in India of all places, of course
,
ness 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.

"Let's go, Ghatoth," she said to the horse. The two syces mounted their own horses and followed her.

A long, unbroken tarred road linked two ends of Rudrakot's habitations, well away from the reaches of the railway station, and it was here, ten minutes after Mila had left the house, that one of the wheels of Sam's rickshaw deflated into a flat. The tire screamed over the heating tar and Sam tilted to one side along with the rickshaw.

The rickshaw puller jumped down from the cycle and, under the gaze of the wakening sun, pulled the conveyance to an edge of the dusty road.

"What now?" Sam asked tiredly, getting down also to view the damage. They were half a mile from one set of trees, and at least that distance from the shade at the other end, and there was nothing to be done but wait while the flat was repaired. Sam knew where he was headed, to the political agent's home, but for him that was as yet simply a name and a place; he would not know how to find the right house even if he set out along the road. He moved toward the west side of the rickshaw, sat down under the meager shade of its awning, and lit a cigarette. The rickshaw puller removed the vehicle's padded seat and reached in. Sam watched as he took out a tiffin carrier, a threadbare towel, a can of water, a collapsed pillow for afternoon naps, and a cloth pouch in which to keep his earnings. Below these treasures was the access to a wooden plank, which the man prized out, and underneath was a set of tools--an air pump, a large metal bowl, a bottle of filthy water, some lengths of thin rubber, a pair of scissors, and some glue.

The man deftly undid the tire from its rim and pulled out the rubber tube. He filled the tube with air from the pump and Sam could already hear the sibilant hissing of escaping air before the man poured water into a metal bowl and ran the length of the tube through it, piece by piece, until the water bubbled. Then, with his finger over the spot, he let the air out and with a rough stone began to shave at the rubber of the inner tube.

Sam leaned back against his holdall and contemplated his cigarette. It was quiet here this early in the morning, and deserted. The road ran through the middle of this relative wasteland with no trees to shade it, no mile markers to distinguish it, and yet it had to be the main artery that led from the station to the residential area. Sam had slept with his chin ensconced in his palm on the way here, and remembered little of what he had seen when he had been jolted awake every now and then. He threw his cigarette away, and it went spinning into the air and landed in the dirt. At that moment he heard the steady dip-clop of horses' hooves. Sam rose from the side of the rickshaw and came out into the road to look toward the farther bank of trees. Three riders broke from the greenery and came riding down the path. As they neared, Sam could see that the one in front was a woman, an Indian woman, and he experienced a twinge of pleasant surprise. He had not seen too many upper-class Indian women out and about without an escort, or with only two syces as companions. He realized it was a strange observation to make in India of all places, of course
,
but all of Sam's social encounters so far had been at the regimental messes, or at hotels in Calcutta--in other words, with the British constituents of the British Raj. There were plenty of Indians to be met in the cinema houses or in the bazaars, but they were not the type to be invited into the gymkhana clubs or the hotels, and of the few who could gain entry, Sam had not been introduced to any. He would have talked with Mr. Abdullah on the train, but Mrs. Stanton's onerous presence had dampened those efforts.

The woman had come closer by now. She rode well, her back upright, her gloved hands holding the reins loosely. Sam put a hand up to shade his eyes and squinted to see her better. There was a loveliness about her, an elegance he could not describe even to himself. Her skin was a lush and creamy brown, her shirt collar a lustrous white against her neck; the khaki of her pants and the gleaming roan of her horse's coat married into the background of the desert behind her. Even as she neared, Sam could not see much of her face, for it was shadowed by the wide brim of her sola topi. He wondered if she would talk with him; he wanted her to talk with him, so he raised his hand and said, "Good morning."

Her eyes fell to the reins in her hands and then she touched the rim of her topi with her whip and said, "Good morning," as she passed by. Sam listened to the lingering sound of her voice, low and sweet, and repeated her tone, with the emphasis on the first word, good morning. He had seen more of her by now, her eyes, her mouth, the slant of her chin, the muscles flexing her slender forearm. He moved to the middle of the road and watched her ride away in the direction he had come from and willed her to turn back, to turn around, to do something that would be more of an acknowledgment of him.

It was an interminably long time to Sam, but in actuality only a few seconds, before Mila reined in her horse and swung its head back toward Sam.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked.

"I'm headed to the Civil Lines," Sam said, reaching out to grasp the horse's bridle. "Is this"--he pointed toward the trees from which Mila had emerged--"the right way?"

"Yes." She smiled then, for the first time, and a lone dimple deepened the skin of her cheek. Sam felt his heart stop and smiled back at her. He was no longer tired, his shoulder did not ache, he did not care that th
e t
emperature was steadily rising around them. He wanted to ask her if she lived within the Civil Lines and, if so, where, and if he could come to call on her.

She pointed to the rickshaw with her whip. "I see that the puncture is almost fixed. You should be within the trees and in the coolness soon. It isn't always this hot here, you know."

"You don't seem to feel the heat."

"Not very much," she replied. "I've grown up here in Rudrakot. The desert lies in my skin; I don't know that I could really live anywhere else." Color rose on her face as she spoke and she looked away from Sam, offering him a glimpse of her ear and her hairline. "You should be all right now."

"Is this all of Rudrakot?" Sam asked desperately, gesticulating around him to the trees and the desert.

She turned back. "What you see here, well, from the station to here, is merely the town of Rudrakot. The entire princely state takes its name from the town, the two are indistinguishable, but the state goes beyond here, into the sands of the Sukh." She pointed southeast, to the low-lying hills. "Those are the Panjari Mountains. Both the names are misnomers, optimistic misnomers." Mila laughed. "As is Rudrakot's own name."

"Tell me," Sam said.

Mila studied Sam's face, as if to decipher whether he was serious about wanting to know all of this. She was not used to talking with strangers--particularly a man--and had already engaged in a far longer and, to her, more intimate conversation than with any other person she had just encountered. "My brother Ashok would be thrilled to give you the history of Rudrakot. This might seem like an odd thing to say, but he is fascinated by America, and so would demand an equal rendition of your country's history from you in return."

"I will be glad to talk with Ashok anytime, but he's not here, you are," Sam said, greatly daring, not knowing if she would think him rude.

She lifted the edge of her topi so that it sat back on her head and Sam could see her more clearly. "The panjari is the bird's nest on a ship's main mast. It is said that one of Rudrakot's early kings trekked to the top of these hills, which only range about five thousand feet into the sky, and, overwhelmed by the cool, fresh air, named these the Panjari Mountains."

The mountains had begun to glow now with the golden touch of th
e s
un, and though Sam was used to the mightier Cascade Mountains back home, to him this chain of hills in the distance looked enormous compared to the flat of the desert around him.

"And Rudrakot?" he asked.

"Rudrakot was originally Rudraksha-kot, named for the rudraksha tree."

"The seeds are used for rosaries," Sam said. "I've seen the sadhus wear them."

Mila looked fully upon Sam then. "You are unusual," she said. "I don't know many people visiting India who would have taken the trouble to be so observant."

Sam felt a flush of happiness and said, "The rudraksha tree represents the tears of Lord Shiva, and 'rudra' is Shiva's name, and 'aksha' means tears. Lord Shiva is said to have come out of a deep meditation, and upon opening his eyes, peace and happiness so overwhelmed him that tears ran down his face and fell upon the earth. At each place the tears drenched the ground, a rudraksha tree sprang up."

He watched surprise flood her face and said, "I should confess; I teach South Asian languages back home especially Sanskrit."

"Are you visiting Rudrakot for long?" Mila asked. "My father would be absolutely delighted to meet you."