The Palace Tiger

Chapter Thirteen

‘Now — I’m your maiden aunt, venturing on a motor car ride for the first time. Just bear that in mind, will you?’ said Joe, preparing to climb into the forward passenger seat.

Stuart affected astonishment. ‘Naw! Don’t tell me you’re a flying virgin?’

‘Not quite that. I’ve been up a few times,’ said Joe with a grin. ‘But I should warn you that I had kedgeree for breakfast. And — I don’t need to remind you — you’re downwind of me!’

After the heart-stopping moment when the light craft tore itself away from the earth they sailed easily upwards. Joe cleared the dust stirred up by their take-off out of his nose and mouth, getting used to the noise of the engine, and began to settle into the flight. Soon he felt bold enough to lean over and take a look at the country below him. They flew straight and level for a while, building Joe’s confidence, then circled lazily over the unnaturally silent town surrounding the palace. The only activity Joe could see was taking place on the riverbank and he guessed this to be the burning ghat where the funeral pyre was being prepared.

From this height he suddenly saw that there were two Ranipurs. The ancient city and a modern one. Around the Old and New Palaces clustered a labyrinth of crooked streets which terminated in a large market place. High walls surrounding the old buildings were a clear demarcation between the old and the new. The new city was spread with lavish disregard for space over the plain beyond the river. Built on a grid system with wide avenues, it sprawled towards the desert, its uniform dull red sandstone building blocks relieved by patches of green turf and parks boasting artificial lakes, now, at the height of summer, very depleted. What could be the function of these apparently deserted buildings? Joe saw no signs of life in or around what he took to be public buildings — a school, a hospital perhaps. To the north a road set out boldly towards the desert but stopped after two miles, heaps of building material abandoned on either side of the road.

Their circles grew wider and Joe noted that there were no camel trains, no traffic of any kind making its way across the desert. Everyone was apparently obeying the mourning custom of staying within the city limits but, of course, Ali, with his inside knowledge, would have left early the previous day and had had time to fetch up in Surigargh already.

It was a shock to Joe to see clearly from this height how slender and fragile was the fringe of green crop land surrounding the city. From up here it seemed that the desert was laying siege to Ranipur, and even allowing for the fact that this was the dry season and the yearly monsoon rains could not be expected for another month or two, the desert, he would have said, had won. It spread, rippling below them into the far distance, the khaki wastes criss-crossed by silvery animal-trodden tracks. The Aravalli hills to the west stood, a barrier to the encroaching miles of fluid sand, but even they were under pressure. Great seas of sand had flooded through every gap in the hills, blown through by the winds wherever they found no obstacle.

The rivers and streams which must have poured from the hills into the kingdom in the wet season were no more than dry trackways marked along their length by the occasional well and punctuated by small settlements of round straw-topped herdsmen’s huts.

After half an hour of straight flight, Joe began to notice camel trains making their way south towards Ranipur and calculated that they must be approaching their objective. A few minutes more and he had his first glimpse of Surigargh. The four white minarets of a well caught his eye, the polished lime announcing the presence of water from a great distance. Other evidences of precious water came into view, the dull gleam of a reservoir hidden beneath a magnificent stone structure ornamented with arches and domes, flights of steps leading down on four sides to the water far below.

To his surprise this was no collection of mud huts. It had all the appearance of a fortified town. Stuart poked him in the back and jabbed a finger down to starboard. Joe noted the stone wall snaking its way up a ridge to a small fort with gun emplacements. As they flew over the town Joe guessed that there must be over a thousand houses, and huddled in the centre were one or two large buildings whose purpose puzzled him. From overhead they looked as substantial and as ugly as the fortress at Verdun. One or two were built around a single square, the largest and most central had four squares. Again Stuart indicated that this was of interest and yelled something unintelligible in his ear.

They circled round and prepared for landing. The landing strip Stuart had chosen was a stretch of unfinished tarmacked road which set out hopefully from the town and then finished abruptly, swallowed up into the sand about ten miles off. As they touched down, the plane taxied to a juddering halt and was instantly surrounded by a crowd of young boys, laughing, shouting and jostling to get close. Stuart leaped out, scanning the crowd, and shouted something in Hindi. They retreated a few inches and one stepped forward. He seemed to be known to Stuart and, with much nodding of heads and a quick exchange of cash from hand to hand, it appeared that a protection squad was in operation to keep an eye on the plane. Joe guessed it was not the first time they had done this.

Joe climbed with all the dignity he could muster from the plane and joined Stuart on the short stroll up the dusty road into the town.

‘Well, you can’t sneak in unnoticed in a plane,’ said Stuart. ‘The whole town knows we’ve arrived.’

People called out greetings from all sides, bands of small boys followed, chirruping, at their heels. They had to move carefully to avoid the equally inquisitive cows which wandered along the street, protected by their sanctity and free to nibble, unchallenged, at whatever took their fancy: succulent green vegetables at a market stall or the pith helmet of a visiting ferenghi. Troops of dark grey bristling pigs rooted in the dry monsoon ditches on either side of the road, recycling the town’s refuse, Joe supposed. Children lined up on platforms jutting out over the ditches, small brown bodies glistening as their older sisters sparingly poured water over them from copper jugs. Old men squatted in the shade of trees drinking tea and gaming, shrewd eyes following the two strangers as they walked on and up into the centre of the town.

In a tree-lined square Joe and Stuart found themselves ambushed by a crowd of young boys anxious to direct their attention to one of their fellows who was preparing with the sole aid of a battered attaché case to put on a magic show for the strangers.

To Joe’s surprise, Stuart stopped and indicated that he was prepared to watch the show. ‘We artistes,’ he grinned, ‘have to stick together. They’re good, these kids. I’ve never managed to work out how they do what they do. Take a look.’

They watched in delighted astonishment as the ten-yearold prestidigitator performed trick after trick with a running commentary in a mixture of Hindi and English. Small brown hands flashed mesmerizingly, performing impossible feats with the simple props of a few polished stones, copper cups, two red-painted metal balls and a greasy pack of cards. At each magical disappearance of an object they had thought was clearly in their view the child would cry out in triumph, ‘Where’s it? Gone to Delhi!’

The culmination of his act came with the vanishing of the two red balls from an upturned cup and the subsequent mysterious reappearance of the balls from Joe’s crotch, tinkling into the cup the conjuror held up between his legs. Joe put on a show of horror followed by relief to find, on mimed investigation, that his own balls had not gone to Delhi. The audience were delighted and even more delighted when an over-large tip had them all shooting off to the nearest sweetmeat stall.

Still smiling with pleasure, Joe waited until they had run off before turning to Stuart. ‘Look, Stuart, I have to tell you, the last person I’m expecting to see here is Ali,’ he admitted. ‘I’m glad I came but in fact I’m not quite sure what brought us here. . Curiosity, I suppose. . It felt right to fill in a bit of background on the maharaja. . The whole problem seems to stem from the succession and this is where it all started.’

Stuart grinned. ‘Your instinct’s probably right. This whole nasty business is driven by one question — who succeeds? Did you see the large haveli I pointed out to you? That’s where Udai was born and where his cousin, the town headman, still lives. His name’s Shardul Singh. We’ll go and say hello.’

‘Haveli, did you say?’

‘Yes. Never heard of the havelis before?’ Stuart smiled smugly. ‘You’re in for a treat! They are rather special. Look, here’s a small one coming up on the right.’

The buildings which had appeared block-like and drab from the air were enchanting when seen at street level. Joe stopped and stared in wonder at his first sight of one of the decorated merchants’ houses that lined the main street of the town. They presented strong walls punctuated only by rows of small fretted windows and, Joe guessed, were aired and cooled by the internal courtyards he had spotted from the plane. But it was the wall decorations which stunned. As though to counteract the bleak surroundings, the painters had covered the walls with brilliantly coloured frescoes. Joe laughed to see caparisoned elephants in procession, rearing battle-ready horses, hunting scenes, prowling tigers, flowers and birds, even files of red-coated British soldiers and a childlike impression of a train.

Stuart pointed out the most interesting scenes as they walked up the crowded main street, the houses and the standard of painting growing ever more impressive. Joe paused in front of a spectacular display of artistry in a limited palette of red, brown and green, admiring the intricate floral arches outlining two Rajput warriors mounted on gaily decorated steeds. On either side of the main image were smaller pictures of Rajput women. One played with a yoyo, another held a musical instrument, a third, skirts aswirl, ran with bow and arrow and a determined expression, and a fourth, veiled this one, peered from behind her ghungat, fixing the observer with one bright dark eye, ankles and wrists heavy with jewels.

‘Here — what do you make of this?’ Joe asked, his attention caught by a linear pattern of red handprints running along the bottom of the wall. ‘It doesn’t seem to chime with the rest of the decoration?’

‘Thapas,’ said Stuart. ‘No, a false note if ever there was one.’ He shuffled his foot uncomfortably on the sandy road. ‘It’s symbolic of the practice of sati. All the widows of the head of the house used to go to the pyre with their dead lord. And his concubines as well. Most went willingly — it was a matter of pride and honour and an outward show of the love they bore for him. But I suppose you know all this? On their way to the fire they dip their right hand into red ochre and leave a print on the wall of the house.’

Joe looked in distress at the line of prints, some no more than child-sized, and stammered, ‘But there must be. .?’

‘Never tried to count them. They go all the way around.’

Joe looked more closely. The line of prints was fading progressively as it stretched away but the last two or three seemed to him suspiciously fresh. He shared his suspicions with Stuart.

‘It goes on,’ said Stuart wearily. ‘The British outlawed it a hundred years ago but you can’t be everywhere. The last of these prints was put there three years ago, I’m told. But come on, let’s go in, shall we? This is the headman’s house. The house where Udai was born. They’ll be expecting us.’

‘Amal khaya, sahib?’

‘What’s he saying?’ asked Joe.

‘He’s asking if you’ve had your opium today. He’ll provide if you haven’t had time for it yet this morning,’ said Stuart.

Joe managed to find the right words in Hindi to say thank you but refuse the traditional stimulant. His host, Shardul Singh, waved away the hookah, smiled and asked for tea and pastries to be brought instead. They were seated barefoot and cross-legged on white cotton-covered mattresses laid on the cool marble floor of a verandah overlooking a courtyard filled with flowers and fruit trees. Joe wondered briefly how many buckets of water had to be carried here each day to maintain this profusion. Shardul was simply dressed in white dhoti and kurta with a yellow turban and surrounded by similarly attired smiling men ranging from very old to young. One of the younger ones was brought forward with the explanation that his English was much better than Stuart’s Hindi and with great good humour the audience got under way.

The polite compliments flowed from both sides and it was some time before Stuart judged the moment right to introduce his business. Delicately he asked if he might speak with the chief ’s kinsman, Ali.

The enquiry was greeted with what Joe’s keen eye took to be genuine puzzlement. Heads were shaken, consultations took place and questions were asked. The conclusion was that Stuart must have been misinformed about the movements of his rigger. Ali had not returned to his home since he had left it over a year ago to work for Stuart at the palace. The men appeared politely concerned but not alarmed by the alleged disappearance of their kinsman. They were in fact more intrigued by Joe’s presence than by Ali’s absence and, it seemed to him, were impatiently waiting for some explanation of his arrival amongst them.

Stuart filled in the details of Joe’s visit to Ranipur, rather overdoing his importance, Joe thought. Friend of the Viceroy? Celebrated tiger hunter? Polo player extraordinaire? He hoped he would not be expected to demonstrate any of these alleged attributes. And now Stuart was telling them that Joe was also a scholar — a great Brahmin in his own land. He was involved in research for a study of the Shekhavati region. They had all heard of Colonel Tod who a hundred years earlier had written a history of Rajputana? Well, Joe was continuing the Colonel’s good work. Would they mind if he asked them a few questions on life amongst the Rajputs?

They didn’t mind. They were intrigued. They were voluble in their answers. Joe took out his Scotland Yard notebook and wrote down answers to questions Stuart told him he was asking. He even interposed a few of his own, and so entertained was he by the narrative energy and the delight the men took in their folk stories and the history of their tribe that he was almost caught out when Stuart slipped into the conversation a question about the Ranipur succession. He knew Joe would be very interested to hear the story of the accession of Udai Singh.

A favourite story, obviously, as everyone was eager to offer his own version or correct someone else’s. From the torrent of Hindi and English Joe teased out an intriguing tale. Udai, far from being a modest village boy, was the younger son of a well-to-do merchant but not of the royal blood. At his birth nearly half a century ago when the customary horoscope was prepared and read out, his family were stunned to hear that the baby would one day be ruler. The men remembered and recited the horoscope word for word and Stuart translated. ‘“The boy will one day be maharaja and the father of a maharaja who will see a new sun rise over Ranipur.”’

And all had gone as forecast. The old ruler had been childless and, with advancing age, and no doubt aware of the prophecy, had adopted the young Udai, taken him and his older brother to Ranipur and trained them both in the skills required to rule a kingdom. Udai had been a good ruler, they added, and had looked with favour on his native village, doing whatever he could to alleviate the tragedies that the years had brought.

Joe felt his new role of historian called on him to enquire further about the tragedies. Again the response was almost overwhelming. The seven-year drought at the turn of the century, the present drought which threatened to be just as catastrophic, the war in Europe which had killed so many of the young men who had gone off with the Ranipur Lancers, the influenza which had decimated the population, the failing of the trade routes, the unending taxes imposed by the British and the migration of the young to the cities. . The list was long and full of pain.

As he listened with half an ear to the heartfelt, keening liturgy of loss and devastation, a terrible thought came to Joe. A thought so terrible his mind recoiled from it and he thrust it away. It returned with double force and he knew suddenly why his instinct had led him to Surigargh.