Tikkipala (11 page)

‘Who is Vikram?' Sangita asked.

She is doing it on purpose to torment me, the Raja thought. But all the same, keeping his tone calm, told her, ‘my new son.' He wanted to sit down, but there was no chair in the room and he did not have the energy to call a servant to bring one. He wondered if his wife had ordered the servants to remove the chairs, thinking that if he could not sit he would be unable to visit her. If he had not leant on the shoulder of his bearer he would never even have reached Sangita's apartment, it was so far from his
own. He wished now that he had not dismissed the bearer when he reached Sangita's door. ‘I will call you when I need you,' he had said. He wondered if he should call the man now.

When, because of his stroke, he was forced to abandon the search for his lost son and return to Bidwar, he found his wife had taken up residence in the eastern wing, which was the furthest part of the palace from his own apartments.

‘Vikram is not the baby's name,' Sangita said.

Trying to ignore this, the Raja persevered, ‘Now that I am back you must return to the south wing.'

‘Why?' she had asked.

‘What will people say, when the Ranee lives so far from her husband that it is as though she has taken up residence in another building.' he said.

‘What will they say?' Sangita had asked.

‘Let us have no more of this,' said the Raja. ‘I order you to return.'

‘Really?' She raised her eyebrows and let out a laugh that sounded scornful.

She had been heavily pregnant and because he had hopes that the child inside her might be an unblemished son and that after all, even though Anwar was probably gone forever, the Bidwar line would not come to an end, he had not wanted to upset her. He had merely said, as mildly as he could, ‘I shall insist on it after the child is born.'

In the months before the birth, in spite of his illness and exhaustion, he managed to instruct carpenters and tailors in how he wanted his new child's nursery to look. This boy, he had decided, must become manly as quickly as possible because he himself was so sick and old. The new little Raja must become a leader of men by the time he learnt to walk because by then his father might be dead. ‘Everything, even down to
the toys and decorations,' he told the workmen, ‘must be suitable for the next Raja of Bidwar. I want warlike pictures and military toys, for this boy must grow up to heroic and courageous more quickly than is usual.'

‘Suppose it is a girl?' asked the workmen. ‘Then what shall we do?'

The Raja became so angry that they feared he might be about to have another stroke. He shouted, spittle flying, ‘It will be a boy. I insist on it,' and stamped his stick violently on the marble floor.

The military nursery had been ready for two weeks. The Raja had inspected it and pronounced it a suitable environment in which to bring up his son. So when, that morning, the people had come running to him, shouting, ‘Raja Sahib, you have a son,' he had set off straight away to arrange for the child's removal to the apartment adjoining his own. ‘My wife,' he told the carpenters, ‘will have to come too, for as long as she is feeding the child, so you will have to make some sort of arrangement for her sleeping and such like. But you need not put too much effort into it, for her presence will be only a temporary affair.' He planned, as soon as the child was weaned, to hire a nurse of his own choosing, probably a male, for he had seen what happened when you left such important responsibilities in the care of women. Anwar would be alive now, he thought, if it had not been for the weak permissiveness of Sangita. This new child, he decided, would be brought up according to his own standards, and he was not going to risk its safety by leaving it in the care of its feckless mother.

It had taken the Raja an hour to reach Sangita's room and by the time he got there, in spite of the bearer's help, he was gasping and feeling dizzy. His leg ached so much that he could not stand without gripping his wife's bed end. He had come to arrange for the removal of the child, but now he was here, he hardly had the strength to do
anything more than balance his own body. He could not even move his body far enough to get a proper look at the new child, because he dared not let go of his grip on the bed knob, so all he had seen of the boy so far was the top of his head. The rest of its face was lost inside Sangita's bosom.

When he was told of the birth, he had questioned the doctor. ‘Is the baby healthy? Is he a good size? Has he got the necessary number of toes and fingers?' but though the doctor had said, ‘yes' to all these things, there was something about the man's reply that troubled the Raja.

‘There is something wrong, isn't there? Tell me what?'

‘No, Raja sahib, your son is perfect,' the Doctor assured him but still the Raja went on feeling worried.

He would have liked to ask his wife to reassure him that the child was perfect, but pride prevented him. He now said only, ‘Is there another name you would prefer to call the child? Is that the problem?' He tried not to sound furious in case Sangita's milk dried up, ‘Did you hear what I said?' Then, because he still got no response, he rattled the bed knob in an attempt to regain Sangita's attention.

The sound startled the child and the nipple slipped from its mouth. The little creature began to wail.

‘Go! You have frightened him,' Sangita commanded.

Hastily the Raja tried another tack. ‘Or perhaps you would like him to be named after your father.'

Sangita looked at the Raja, frowning. ‘What are you talking about?' she said. ‘He has a name already. Have you lost your memory as well?' Her tone was scornful.

The Raja clutched the bed knob more tightly, fearing he was going to fall. ‘What name?' he asked. The saliva in his mouth seemed to have become thick and he could hardly move his tongue at all.

‘I can't understand you,' said Sangita, directing the nipple back into her child's mouth.'

‘What name?' he tried to speak more clearly, though he feared he knew the answer.

‘Anwar. Don't you even remember that his name is Anwar?'

The Raja took a deep breath. ‘Sangita,' he said. She looked up sharply. He had not addressed her by her name for years. ‘This is not Anwar. This is a new child.'

Sangita laughed and ran her hand over the child's soft hair. ‘Are you saying that I cannot recognise my own child?' She bent her face over the baby and breathed deeply. ‘He even smells the same,' she said. ‘I would recognise the smell of Anwar anywhere.'

‘Anwar was four years old and this one is a new born baby. They are different people.' The Raja was starting to wonder why he bothered to say anything to her. She seemed to hardly listen to his words because all her attention was on the child. She was smiling into its face, making stupid sounds to it, ‘Baba baba ba. Lala lalala. Mama's little oozy woozy darling. Anoo wanoo. Mama's wawa…' He could see he would have to get this child away from the sentimental influence and into the military nursery as quickly as he could.

‘You just can't accept that it is possible for a child to be born twice,' said Sangita, not looking at the Raja at all, but still keeping her smiling eyes on the baby face. ‘Here we are, Hindus, who accept the principle of the twice born and yet when your own child gets born again, you can't believe it.'

‘Anwar is lost. He is probably dead. We will probably never see him again.' The Raja's voice had dropped to a whisper, not only because he was so tired, but because it was perfectly clear that even if Sangita heard him, she would pay no attention at all.

He left the room at last, saying, ‘Shall we at least give him some kind of nickname to keep him going? What do you say to that, Sangita?'

‘OK' she nodded indifferently. ‘If you like. Anoo?'

The Raja sighed.

Later that day, when people came to see the new little prince, and congratulate the Raja, the first thing they asked was, ‘What are you going to call him?'

‘My wife and I have not yet decided,' said the Raja. ‘So for the moment he has the nickname of ‘Anoo'.'

‘Anoo,' said the women visitors. ‘How very sweet. One little boy called Anwar.' Here they bowed their heads in compassion. ‘And the next called Anoo.'

‘For my sake,' pleaded the Raja to Sangita. ‘Only call him Anoo, and never Anwar.'

‘I can't see why not,' said Sangita. But because he had asked her nicely instead of ordering her, she did as he asked.

How long will this silly nickname keep them going, wondered the Raja, and he knew that there must come a day when the boy would need a proper name. Perhaps by then he would be strong enough to fight Sangita. He was not that now. He had no more fight left in him. He started trying to tell Sangita about the wonderful apartment that had been prepared for her child and to persuade her to move in. ‘And of course, for you as well,' he said. He did not add that he planned that she should leave as soon as the child was weaned. He would come to that later, he decided. At the moment she had that flashing look in her eyes which he had come to fear, and which he knew
meant he was sure to lose. Somehow, since the loss of Anwar, he seemed to have lost his dominance over her.

‘I do not like that part of the palace,' she said. ‘It is too noisy and too hot. Anoo and I are staying here.'

He stood staring at her, opening and shutting his mouth, and he tried to work out what to do. The idea came to him of once again banishing Sangita and hiring a wet nurse to care for the child. But then he sighed, and rejected the idea. He was no longer up to a struggle. She might refuse to go and he did not think he was strong enough, any longer, to force her. He did not even think he could tolerate the conflict that such a demand might bring on.

Even on the third day after the child's birth, the Raja still had not been able to have a proper look at it. Now he started suspecting that Sangita was purposely hiding the boy's face, always keeping it against her breast. A thought came to him which filled him with a sudden fury. This was not his child, but had been fathered by someone else. For had she not already once run away with another man. She was that kind of woman. She had no morals. She was hiding the child's face because it did not resemble the Raja, but looked like this other person. Filled with an angry determination that gave him extra strength, he returned to his wife's room.

‘I insist that you show me the face of this child,' he said with fury. ‘Because I think I know now why you are hiding him from me.' He wondered what he would do if, when she turned to child for him to see, he could recognise at once that it was not his. He was no longer strong enough to kill her and the baby. He would have to hire someone else to do it. When Sangita hesitated, his suspicions increased. ‘Show it to me,' he roared, making the windows rattle and the baby start to cry. This time Sangita
did not reprimand him for frightening the child. Reluctantly she lifted Anoo and held him out for the Raja to see.

‘Ah,' cried the Raja, taken aback by the ferocity of the scarlet birthmark across the child's upper lip. He kept staring for a long while, in silence.

Sangita said, ‘When he grows up and wears a moustache, you will not be able to see it.' Her voice shook a little.

He turned and left the room without saying anything. He did not attempt to force Sangita to bring the child into the military nursery after all, for the child was imperfect. There was no point in making efforts for this child, who bore the same unlucky mark that the Raja's uncles and his brother wore. This new son would be a failure too.

Over the following year, occasionally there came a man declaring himself to be the lost prince, the lost son of the Raja.

‘See him at least,' the servants would implore Sangita.

‘What are you talking about?' she would demand. ‘Your prince is here with us. He is lost no more. Send this swindling fellow away.'

It was a year before it was thought possible to put out the Coarseone for the Tikki. In that time the Coarsechild had become much subdued. It ate the things they gave it, submitted itself to all their groomings and massagings and even seemed eager to co-operate. It ceased to struggle against the ligament tether but stood meekly. The people were even able to take away the mouth gag without fear of the creature howling, or otherwise attracting attention to itself. They trained it to stay still and silent as they spat the necessary juices and pulps into its nose, ears, mouth and eyes. All the people agreed that, at last, they were succeeding in their efforts to purify the child. The child no longer flinched when they put stinging ants against its body. It did not scream when they slit its skin with thorns to prepare it for tattooing and now it even ate the live frogs and insects they gave it without a struggle, though this last success had been achieved by leaving the creature without food for three days. For a while, people passing the Coarsechild on the end of its tether would feel a touch of pity and offer it a sweet fruit or nut. But they quickly stopped this because of the hideous lip stretching grimace the Coarsechild made as it accepted their gifts. When very small babies were feeling happy they contorted their mouths like this but their mothers quickly smacked it out of them. The people felt repelled too at the way the Coarsechild held out its arms and kept up that cry of ‘please, please, please,' when they began to go away and leave it tied alone. The people of the tribe shuddered and reeled away at these ugly sounds and body gestures and grimaces and after that stopped giving anything to the Coarsechild.

At last, in spite of many doubts and considerations, the elders declared that the child had reached an acceptable state of purity and should be prepared as a Tikki offering.

The auspicious day arrived, the people of the tribe swept clean their place of sacrifice. They washed the ground with milk and blood and arranged flowers, jungle fruits and the fresh cut paws of monkeys.