The Far Pavilions by M. M. Kaye
Recognizing these, Gul Baz had allowed himself to hope that the Sahib was only going on another trip to the Gir Forest – though why he should take the revolver and need such a vast amount of ammunition…
The hope died as Ash went over to the dressing-table, and unlocking a drawer, took out and pocketed a small pistol and a handful of rounds (items that he could certainly have no use for on any shooting expedition) and a tin cash-box that he emptied onto the table, remarking that it was a stroke of luck that Haddon-Sahib should have decided to pay cash for the two polo-ponies, as it would save him a trip to the bank. He began to sort it into separate piles of gold, silver and notes, counting under his breath, and did not look up when Gul Baz said heavily, and not as a question: ‘The Sahib goes to Bhithor, then.’
‘Yes,’ said Ash ‘– though that is for your ear alone… three fifty, four hundred, four fifty-nine, five… six -’
‘I knew it,’ exclaimed Gul Baz bitterly. ‘This was what Mahdoo-ji was always afraid of; and on the day that I saw that hakim from Karidkote drive up to this bungalow I knew that the old one had been right to be afraid. Do not go, Sahib, I beg of you. No good can come of meddling in the affairs of that ill-omened place.’
Ash shrugged and went on counting, and presently Gul Baz said: ‘Then if you must, at least let me go with you. And Kulu Ram also.’
Ash looked up to smile and shake his head. ‘I would if I could. But it would not be safe – you might be recognized.’
‘And what of yourself?’ retorted Gul Baz angrily. ‘Do you suppose they will have forgotten you so soon, when you gave them such good cause to remember you?’
‘Ah, but this time I shall not be going to Bhithor as a Sahib. I shall go in the guise of a boxwallah; or a traveller on pilgrimage to the temples at Mount Abu. Or perhaps a hakim from Bombay… yes, I think a hakim might be best, as that will give me an excuse to meet a fellow doctor, Gobind Dass. And you can be sure that no one will know me – though some might know you, and more would know Kulu Ram, who often rode with me to the city. Besides, I shall not be going alone. I shall have Manilal with me.’
‘That fat fool!’ said Gul Baz with a scornful sniff.
Ash laughed and said: ‘Fat he may be, but fool he is not: of that I can assure you. If he chooses to let people think him one, it is for a good reason, and believe me, I shall be safe in his hands. Now let me see, where was I? – Seven hundred… seven eighty… eight… nine hundred… one sixty-two –’ He finished counting the money, and having stowed away a large part of it in the pockets of his riding coat, returned the rest to the cash-box and handed it to Gul Baz, who received it in grim silence.
‘Well, there you are, Gul Baz. That should be more than enough to cover the wages and expenses of the household until I return.’
‘And what if you do not?’ demanded Gul Baz stonily.
‘I have left two letters which you will find in the small top drawer of my desk. If after six weeks I have not returned and you have received no word from me, give them to Pettigrew-Sahib of the police. He will act upon them and see that you and the others do not suffer any hardship. But you need not worry: I shall come back. Now as to the Hakim's servant, when he wakes tell him that when he is ready to leave, to come to the Sirdar Sarjevan Desai's house near the village of Janapat, where I will meet him. Also to take the bay mare in place of his own horse that is lame. Tell Kulu Ram to see to it, and – no, I had better tell him myself.’
‘He will not be pleased,’ said Gul Baz.
‘Maybe not. But it is necessary. Do not let us quarrel, Gul Baz. This is something that I must do. It is laid upon me.’
Gul Baz sighed and said half to himself: ‘What is written, is written,’ and did not argue any more. He went off to tell Kulu Ram that the Sahib required saddle-bags, and to bring Dagobaz round to the porch in a quarter of an hour's time; and having done that, fetched fresh tea – the original mug by now being cold. But when he would have brought the sporting rifle, Ash shook his head and said that he did not need it – ‘For I do not think a hakim would own such a weapon.’
‘Then why take the bullets?’
‘Because these I shall need. They are of the same calibre as those that the pultons use; and over the years many Government rifles have found their way into other hands, so I can safely take the other.’ He had taken the cavalry carbine, and, as an after-thought, his shot-gun and fifty cartridges.
Gul Baz dismantled the shot-gun and stowed it in the bistra, and when all was ready, carried the heavy canvas roll out to the porch. And as he watched Ash mount Dagobaz and ride away in the crystal-clear light of dawn, he wondered what Mahdoo would have done if he had been there.
Would Mahdoo perhaps have been able to turn the Sahib from his course? Gul Baz thought it highly unlikely. Yet for the first time he was glad that the old man was no longer alive so that he, Gul Baz, was spared from having to explain how it had come about that he had stood by and seen Pelham-Sahib riding away to certain death: and been unable to do anything to prevent it.
39
Ash's first call had been at the house of the District Superintendent of Police, whom he had found lightly clad in a dressing-gown and slippers, eating chota-hazri on his verandah. The sun was still below the horizon, but Mr Pettigrew, a hospitable soul, did not seem to mind receiving a caller at such an early hour. He waved aside Ash's apologies and sent for another cup and plate and more coffee.
‘Nonsense, my dear chap. Of course you can stay for a few minutes. What's the hurry? Have a slice of papaya – or what about a mango? No, I'm afraid I still haven't had a word from old Tim. Can't think what he's playing at. I thought I was bound to get an answer to that telegram. But I expect he's too busy. However, you needn't worry, he's not the sort of chap who'd stick it in a drawer and forget it. In fact, he probably went off to Bhithor to see that there's no hanky-panky. Have some more coffee?’
‘No thanks,’ said Ash, rising. ‘I must go. There are one or two things I have to do.’ He hesitated for a moment, and then added: ‘I'm going off into the country for a few days' shooting.’
‘Lucky beggar,’ said Mr Pettigrew enviously. ‘Wish I was. But then I don't get my leave until August. Well, good hunting.’
Ash had no better luck at the Telegraph Office. The clerk on duty said that there were no telegrams for him, and assured him yet again that if any had been received they would have been sent immediately to his bungalow. ‘This I am telling you before, Mister Pelham. We are never losing or mislaying such things. That I can promise. If your correspondents have unfortunately not sent reply, can I help it? Should they do so you shall receive same within a flash.’
The clerk was obviously ruffled, and Ash apologized and left. He was not particularly worried by the absence of any replies. He realized that as there was not much that could be safely said, the most he could expect would be a bare acknowledgement. But he had hoped for that, if only because experience had taught him that even urgent messages can, on occasion, be pigeon-holed through error or idleness – it being a matter of history that the frantic telegram from Delhi, warning of the outbreak of the Great Mutiny, had been handed during a dinner-party to a high official who had put it in his pocket unread, and forgotten all about it until next day; by which time it was far too late for him to do anything about it.
In the present circumstances, Ash would have welcomed any form of acknowledgement, however curt, for the sake of his own peace of mind. But as Mr Pettigrew had pointed out, it did not follow that because he had received none, no action was being taken, but on the contrary probably showed that it was being taken, and that there was no time to spare for sending unnecessary messages.
Sarji's land lay some twenty-odd miles to the north of Ahmadabad, on the west bank of the Sabarmutti, and the morning was far advanced before Ash reached his friend's house. The servants, who knew him well, informed him that their master had been up since dawn overseeing the accouchement of a valuable brood mare, and had only recently returned.
He was not invited to share Sarji's meal, and did not expect to be. For though Sarji was broad-minded, and capable when in camp or away from his home of relaxing a great many rules, here on his own ground and under the eye of his family priest it was a different matter. Among his own people a greater strictness was expected, and as his caste forbade him from sitting down to eat with one who ranked as an outcaste, his Angrezi friend must eat alone – and from cups and dishes that were kept solely for his own use.
Sarji was a close friend, but the rules of caste were strict and not to be lightly broken, but Ash could never avoid a pang that was part hurt and part surprise whenever he encountered those rules in action. The fact that he understood them far better than the vast majority of his fellow feringhis never diminished that automatic sense of shock at being made to feel a pariah – someone with whom even a close friend could not sit down to eat and drink without risking ostracism, because that simple, human act defiled the doer, and until the defilement was cleansed no one would willingly associate with him.
Drinking iced sherbet and eating vegetable curry, kachoris and kela halwa in that cool, ground-floor room in Sarji's house, Ash wondered if the family priest was aware that Sarji had often broken this particular taboo when they were out together. Somehow, he doubted it. When the dishes had been removed and he was alone again, he lit a cigarette and sat blowing smoke-rings at the ceiling and thinking.
He was remembering something that Sarji's shikari Bukta, who had guided Gobind and Manilal to Bhithor, had told him one day when they were out shooting, when he, Ash, had been speaking of that journey. Bukta had mentioned the existence of another and shorter way into the valley of Bhithor: a secret way that avoided the forts and the frontier posts and came out a mere koss from the city itself, and that he had been shown many years ago by a friend, a Bhithori, who claimed to have discovered it and had used it for the purpose of smuggling stolen goods in and out of the Rana's territory.
‘Horses, mostly,’ Bukta had said with a reminiscent grin. ‘One could safely ask a good price in Gujerat or Baroda for a horse that had been stolen in Bhithor, as its owner would never think to look for it here because no one else (or so my friend said) knew of this path. In those days, being young, I had little respect for the law and would often help him – with much profit to myself. But he died, and I became respectable. Yet though it is now many years since I followed his secret path, it is still clear in my mind, and I know that I could find my way along it as easily as though I had only used it yesterday. I did not speak of it to the Hakim-Sahib, as it would have been neither wise nor fitting for him to arrive by such a road.’
Ten minutes later, when his host appeared in the doorway, Ash was so deep in thought that he did not even hear the clash of the bead curtain.
Sarji came in with apologies for keeping his guest waiting, but something in Ash's face checked the polite phrases that were on his tongue, and he said sharply: ‘Kia hogia, bhai?’
Ash looked up, startled, and coming to his feet said: ‘Nothing has happened – as yet. But it is necessary that I go to Bhithor, and I have come to ask for your help because I cannot go as I am. I must go in disguise – and as quickly as possible. I need a guide who knows the secret ways through the jungles and across the hills. Will you lend me your shikari, Bukta?’
‘Of course,’ Sarji said promptly. ‘When do we start?’
‘We? Oh no, Sarji! This is not a shooting trip. This is serious.’
‘I know that. The look on your face told me so as soon as I came in. Besides, if you cannot enter Bhithor except in disguise, then it can only mean that it is dangerous for you to go there at all. Very dangerous.’
Ash shrugged impatiently and did not answer, and Sarji said thoughtfully: ‘I never asked you any questions about Bhithor, because it seemed to me that you did not wish to speak of it. But ever since you asked me to send Bukta to guide some hakim who wished to go there – and later, over the matter of the pigeons – I admit I have often wondered. You do not have to tell me anything you do not wish, but if you go into danger, then I will go with you; two swords being better than one. Or do you perhaps not trust me to keep a still tongue?’
Ash said irritably: ‘Don't talk nonsense, Sarji. You know it is not that. It is only… well, this is something that concerns no one but myself and… and it is not a thing that I would wish to speak of to anyone. But you have already been of great help to me; and now again you are willing to help, and without question. I am more than grateful for that, and it is only fair that you should have some explanation of… of what is toward.’
‘Do not tell me anything you would rather not,’ said Sarji quickly. ‘It will make no difference.’
‘I wonder? Perhaps not. But then again it is just possible that it might, so I think it may be better for you to know what errand I go on before you decide whether to help me or not, since it touches upon a custom that your people have honoured for many centuries. Can anyone overhear us?’
Sarji's eyebrows lifted, but he said briefly: ‘Not if we walk outside among the trees.’ He led the way into a garden where roses, jasmine and canna lilies wilted in the heat, and here, safely out of earshot of any loitering servant, listened to the tale of the two princesses of Karidkote whom a young British officer had been detailed to escort to their wedding in Bhithor; of the tribulation and treachery they had encountered on arrival, and the terrible fate that threatened them now.
The story was incomplete and to some extent inaccurate. Ash saw no reason to mention his previous connection with the State of Karidkote, and as he had no intention of disclosing his own involvement with the elder princess, he could not give his main reason for returning to Bhithor, only the secondary one – his need to assure himself that steps were being taken to guard against the Rana's wives becoming suttees, if and when the Rana died; which was something that Sarji, as a Hindu, might feel disinclined to interfere with, for it was a custom hallowed by centuries of use, and one that even now would probably be regarded as a meritorious act by his priests and the great majority of his people.
Apart from these omissions the tale he told was accurate, and included an account of his abortive interviews with Colonel Pomfret, the Commissioner and the Superintendent of Police, and of the telegrams that had been sent and not answered:
‘So you see why I have to go myself,’ said Ash in conclusion. ‘I cannot just sit here and hope for the best when I know only too well how slowly and cautiously the Raj can act at times; and how reluctant it has become to interfere in the affairs of the princes. The officials of the Raj require proof and they will not move without it. But in a case like this the proof will be a handful of ashes and charred bones, and nothing they can do then will undo what has been done, for even they cannot bring the dead back to life… Once the pyre has been lit it will be too late to do anything, except gaol a handful of people and levy a fine upon the state – and make excuses for themselves for not acting sooner, which will not help those poor girls…
‘Sarji, I brought those two to Bhithor. You may say that I had no choice, but that doesn't make me feel any better about it, and if they are burned alive I shall have it on my conscience to the end of my life. That's no reason, though, why you should get involved in this, and if you feel you would rather have nothing to do with it – I mean… as a Hindu –’
‘Chut!’ said Sarji. ‘I am no bigot to desire the return of a cruel custom that was outlawed before I was born. Times change, my friend; and men change with them – even Hindus. Do your Christians in Belait still burn witches, or fellow-Christians who do not agree as to the manner in which they shall worship the same God? I have
‘Of course not. But –’
‘But you think we of this country are incapable of any similar progress? That is not so – though there are many things that we do not see in the same light as your people do. I myself would not have any widow burn herself unless she desired it above all things, loving her husband so greatly that she could not endure to live without him and so chose of her own free will to follow him. That, I confess, I would not prevent, since unlike your people, I do not consider that I have a right to decide that a man or a woman may not take their own life if they choose to do so. Perhaps this is because life is less important to us than it is to you, who being Christians have only the one life on this earth, whereas we have many. We die and are re-born again a hundred thousand or a thousand thousand times; or it may be many more. Who knows? Therefore what matter if we choose to shorten one of these lives by our own desire?’
Ash said: ‘But suicide is a crime.’
‘To your people. Not to mine. And this is still my country, and not yours. As my life is also mine. But to contrive the death of another is murder, which I do not condone; and because I have seen and spoken with the Hakim from Karidkote, I am ready to believe him if he says that the Ranis of Bhithor stand in danger of being forced to the pyre against their will, for I judged him to be a good man, and no liar. Therefore I will do all that I can to help you and him, and the Ranis also. You have only to tell me what you need.’
Manilal, arriving at mid-day, was met by the shikari Bukta, and taken into the presence of the master of the house and a man whom he did not immediately recognize: which was understandable. Sarji and Bukta had taken great pains with Ash's disguise, and walnut juice when properly applied is an admirable dye, though it does not last over-long. Ash had also shaved off his moustache, and it would never have occurred to anyone that this was not a compatriot of Sarjevar's. A sober, middle-class Indian, with a parent or ancestor who hailed from the hills where men are fairer of skin than in hotter parts of the country, and whose dress proclaimed him a professional man in good standing. A vakil (lawyer), perhaps, or a hakim, from somewhere like Baroda or Bombay.