India in Mind Read online

  A little later, forgetting the valet's fear, I asked his friend, who had access to the storeroom, if he would get me some more cigarettes, for I had run out of them; but the moment he moved the valet caught hold of his hand, and, even when the mission was explained, would not let him go.

  The drawing was indeed not good, and Narayan did not scruple to say so. Narayan is the name of the clerk; his friend, the valet, being called Sharma.

  January 8th

  Tom-tom Hill is my favorite walk because of the view. There is a ruined shrine with a fallen idol on its summit, and it is called Tom-tom Hill because a drum used to be beaten there years ago to assemble the people or to notify them of certain times and events. From the backyard of my house the stony slope climbs steadily up to a pretty white temple in its cluster of cypresses. The temple is dedicated to Hanuman, the Monkey-headed God of Physical Power, and the worshippers are often to be seen and heard on its terrace; but I have not yet found courage to enter it, being still ignorant of customs and observances, and afraid of making mistakes. Indeed I have never even ventured close to it, but, at a discreet distance, have always dropped down the western slope of the ridge, and clambered round through the brambles beneath its walls and up again on the other side.

  As a matter of fact, this also is the only way of getting on, for the temple occupies the whole breadth of the ridge's back and cannot be otherwise passed.

  It overlooks the town and is reached from that side by means of a long straight staircase of wooden steps which runs steeply up the eastern slope from the Rajgarh-Deori road.

  Having skirted the temple in this way, walking becomes more difficult, for the ridge continues in a long narrow arête, scattered with huge boulders, many of which have to be clambered over; but beyond this it widens and rises gently to the foot of Tomtom Hill, and the walk up to the ruined shrine is easy, though the gradient is rather steep. Usually I sit there and rest on one of the stones of the shrine, looking down upon the white town, thickly planted with trees; the Palace, imposing at this distance, in its center, the Sirdar tank immediately below. But today I saw smoke rising again from among the trees and bushes at the base of the hill on the far side, and descended to verify His Highness's information that this was a crematorium. This slope of the hill had an even steeper gradient, and as I zigzagged down I was able to keep the fires in sight, and took no precautions against observation, believing myself to be the only person about. But soon I perceived two Indians squatting on their heels by the nearer fire, apparently extinguishing the last embers and collecting some of the grey ashes in a metal pot. Realizing now that the King had probably been right, and fearing that I might be intruding upon sacred ground, I took cover behind a large boulder and watched them for a little from this shelter. Then I noticed that the other fire, which was a little further down, seemed unattended, so, as quietly as I could, I made a detour and approached it.

  It was clearly a funeral pyre. The charred skull of the corpse, which was toward me, was split open, for it is customary, I believe, to break the skull of the dead when the body is being consumed, so that the soul may have its exit; and curving out of the center of the pile, like wings, were the blackened ribs which, released by the heat, had sprung away from the vertebrae. In all directions I noticed the remains of earlier cremations. As I returned home I passed the other fire and saw that the two Indians had just finished and were disappearing among the bushes; but their place had already been taken by two evil-looking vultures with yellow beaks which were picking scraps from among the extinct and smokeless ashes.

  His Highness sent the carriage for me again this evening to bring me to the Palace. He was extremely interested in my meeting with his valet, Sharma, the barber's son, and put me through such a cross-examination about him that I began to feel rather uncomfortable. I had been quite expecting such questions as to how I had liked him, and what had occurred, and how long he had stayed, but could not understand why he should require such accuracy as to the time of the boy's arrival and the manner of his dress, or why, when I replied to this last question that Sharma had worn a very becoming long-skirted blue serge coat with velveteen cuffs and collar, he should have said “Ah!” with an appearance of such immense satisfaction.

  I had brought my drawing with me, but he did not look at it. He was untouchable again, and bade me leave it on the table by my chair. Narayan's name was apparently known to him, and evoked another volley of questions the significance of which I was unable to understand; but, remembering Narayan's request a few days previously not to repeat something he had said, I answered with cautious vagueness, in case I should unintentionally get either of the two young men into trouble, and, as soon as I could, diverted his attention a little by remarking on Sharma's timidity.

  “Yes, he spoke to me,” said His Highness. “He told me he was frightened. He saw you closing the doors and thought you were going to confine him.”

  “But frightened of what?” I asked.

  “That you would beat him.”

  “Beat him!” Nothing had been further from my thoughts, and it took me some moments to get hold of this.

  “Do you beat him much?” I asked.

  “Oh yes! I have to. I beat him very much!”

  “But, Maharajah Sahib, didn't you explain to him that, apart from anything else, your guests were hardly in a position to beat your servants?”

  “Yes, I did, I did, and he said, of his own accord, that he would come and see you tomorrow.”

  He went on to speak of some friend of his, the wife of an English officer, who had told him that she was convinced, after long experience of India, that no servant could be expected to be faithful to his employers until he had cuts on his back two fingers deep; and, from her, passed on to another English friend of his—this time a man. I do not now remember the connection between the two friends, but cannot refrain from expressing a hope that it was matrimonial.

  “He was a very strange man,” said he. “He used to say to me, ‘Maharajah! do you see those clouds together up there?’ ‘Yes, I see those clouds.’ ‘Do you see my dead wife's face looking down from them?’ ‘No, I don't.’ ‘Damn!’

  “Then again, when we were sitting together here, he said to me, ‘Maharajah, do you see this wall over here by me?’ ‘Yes, I see that wall.’ ‘Well, it is talking to me. All the stones are talking. They are telling me everything that has passed in this room. Put your ear here. Do you hear them?’ ‘No, I don't hear them.’ ‘Damn!’ ”

  For a few moments His Highness was shaken with laughter, then—“He suicided himself,” he concluded.

  January 9th

  “And how are the Gods this morning, Maharajah Sahib?”

  “They are very well.”

  “Where did you get them all from?”

  “Mostly from Chhokrapur.”

  “And where did the others come from?”

  “My dear sir, there are only five, and three are from Chhokrapur.”

  “Then where did the other two come from?” I persisted. “Did they fall off Olympus, or were they a Christmas present?”

  “No, no, no,” he spluttered, shaking with laughter; “I bought them. They were not very expensive.”

  He then embarked upon a long story about a twelve-year-old boy he had seen dancing in some traveling company of players which had visited Chhokrapur.

  “He is very beautiful—like Napoleon the Third.”

  “Napoleon the Third?” I asked, mystified. “Do you mean Napoleon the Second?”

  “No, no; Napoleon the Third; I have a picture of him in a history book in my library. I will show you.”

  He had been so taken with this boy's appearance that he had wanted to buy him, and had asked how much he was. But the manager of the company, who was the boy's uncle, had demanded too much—fifty rupees a month for the boy's life, for he was irreplaceable.

  “I said it was too much,” concluded His Highness; then, after a pause—“But I want him. Should I pay it? Please advise me.
”

  “What about the boy's parents?” I asked.

  “Both dead,” said His Highness promptly.

  “Well, if you want him so much and can afford him, you'd better buy him.”

  “What would a European do? An Englishman?”

  “The same thing, no doubt.”

  “And an ancient Greek?”

  “I believe they sternly discountenanced such transactions,” I said.

  His Highness seemed to ponder this for a moment, then, “He's black, not fair,” he observed. “Do you like black?”

  “I prefer fair.”

  “Ah!” he breathed, nodding his head in agreement.

  The sun was setting in front of us in a blaze of pink and golden light. His Highness waved a regretful hand toward it.

  “I want a friend like that,” he said.

  January 10th

  Perhaps His Highness was not pleased with the answer I returned him by his icemaker and assistant librarian; at any rate neither of them came back to me, and he never alluded to it, but placed the matter in the hands of Babaji Rao, who sent me a very alarming young man, the son of a pundit, who seemed to think the letter of introduction he bore was a letter of engagement, for almost before I had finished reading it he had begun to teach me Hindi, shouting pronunciations at me in an abrupt metallic voice that was actually hurtful, and jumping and gesticulating about the room as though he were composed of steel springs.

  He was clearly bent upon making an impression on me (which indeed he did), and tried very hard to conceal the fact that he didn't in the least understand me; for whatever I said struck him at once, in the middle of some gesture, into a state of marionettelike immobility, an injured expression on his face. He would then complete his gesture and make a little rush at me with another staccato sentence, as though no interruption worthy of notice had occurred.

  As is always the case when I have a visitor, he had been conducted into my room by curious sightseers—the waiter Hashim and two small boys, all Mohammedans. Hashim is easy to dismiss; one can do it with a nod, for he is accustomed to Europeans; though he would prefer to stay.

  But the boys are very difficult and very exasperating. They stand about, quite quiet and expressionless, their wide gaze fixed upon me. A nod or gesture is quite useless. “Jao!” (Go!) moves them slightly, and may drive the older of the two out on to the verandah, where he will linger, rather bewildered, looking back; but the younger and smaller, whose name is Habib (Lover), might almost be under some hypnotic influence; he moves his thick lips a little… and remains. The other day, all else having failed, I made a threatening advance toward him, and then he went, but slowly, reluctantly, rearranging the door curtains as he left, and staring at me all the time with large astonished eyes as though to say “This Sahib is certainly peculiar.” But to return.

  When the son of the pundit had given me a headache I managed to convey to him that I had had enough instruction in Hindi for one day and would call him if I wanted more, intending to do so if I could not find someone more efficient and less mercurial; but this morning I received another candidate. My new visitor was a grave, tall, thin-featured Mohammedan, not unhandsome, with a long aquiline nose and a slight black moustache.

  His dress was that odd mixture of European and Indian garments which all the educated men here affect. A red tarbush was set squarely on his close-cropped skull, and from beneath an Army drill tunic, stained green, the tails of an ordinary European shirt hung down over narrow white cotton trousers. He wore no collar. Socks, patent leather slippers, and a long gold watch chain round his neck completed his attire. He carried an umbrella.

  Holding himself very erect, he said that his name was Abul Haq, and that he had heard I was looking for a tutor, and had come to present himself. I began to explain that I already had a tutor, but he interrupted me, almost apologetically, to say that he had heard that also, but that—although he did not wish to speak ill of any man—the pundit's son was not nearly as well qualified to be my tutor as he himself was, and would not give such satisfaction.

  This I felt might be true, and such self-assurance was disarming.

  “I am very interested in you, gentleman, and will teach you well.”

  He smiled at me, compressing his lips, his head on one side, his chin drawn in, very persuasive, very smooth, very confident, his umbrella beneath his arm, his toes turned out, and one foot a little in advance of the other as though he were about to begin a prim, decorous dance.

  I engaged him, and he said, “Thank you, Mr. Ackerley” three times and thrust out a clawlike hand; but I felt, while I grasped it, that he was really shaking hands with himself. He went, and rather dubiously I watched him down the drive, a thin, stiff figure with toes turned out, twitching back his shoulders, his left arm stiff down his body, his right sweeping the handle of the umbrella in expansive circles. Every now and then he jerked a swift, rather haughty, glance from side to side, so that the tassel on his cap leapt and swung.

  It appears that Napoleon the Third is once more in the vicinity of Chhokrapur. The traveling players have returned, His Highness said, but he said it with so little emotion that I cannot help wondering whether they ever really left. At any rate they have not lowered the price of Napoleon, though they now make an alternative offer for a lump sum of two thousand rupees, which is about one hundred and fifty pounds. This is absurd. His Highness has never before paid more than about five shillings for any God. Moreover, for performing in Chhokrapur they now want fifty rupees a night, instead of fifty for the whole visit. They are robbers…wolves…

  “What must I do?” he asked. “Should I buy him? Thirty years I have dreamed of that face, it is entangled in my heart, and then (he clapped his hands together) suddenly I see it! Why did I see it? How do these things happen? Did God put it before me? Is it God's wish that I should buy? If it is not God's wish, then He is a very wicked man! What must I do?”

  “Do you suppose his mind, too, is like Napoleon the Third's?” I asked.

  “No, like a donkey's!” he retorted emphatically, and then began to laugh silently, shielding his face with a letter he had just received from the Acting Governor-General of the Province. For some time, it appears, he has been angling for a decoration. All the neighboring potentates have, at one time or another, been honored with the K.C.S.I. or K.C.I.E. on the King Emperor's birthday, but so far His Highness of Chhokrapur has been passed over, which is a source of continual irritation to him. He said he could not explain the reason for this neglect, but went on at once to tell me that, at the time of his son's birth, one of his enemies had written an anonymous letter to the Political Agent, stating that the child was illegitimate and not his son at all, and further hinting that an investigation of His Highness's private amusements would prove instructive.

  Apparently some sort of investigation had been made, but nothing had been discovered—nothing, that is to say, except the “Gods,” whose number had been forthwith curtailed. This His Highness called “political interference with my luxuries.” No doubt it is this suspicion that is operating still against his chances of a decoration; but he does not admit it, nor abate his efforts on his own behalf. The A.G.G. himself has recently been knighted, and His Highness, while congratulating him, had not scrupled to inquire again in the same letter when he himself was to be remembered. The letter that he had brought out today to show me was the answer to this, in which the A.G.G. assured His Highness that he would do his best to settle favorably the matter of which His Highness had spoken. The letter seemed sincere and cordial, so he was in a good humor—or would have been if it weren't for Napoleon the Third.

  “I cannot afford two thousand rupees,” he repeated. “It is the boy's uncle who makes the demand. I should like to poison him.”

  January 14th

  For some time past His Highness has been cherishing a desire to erect a “Greek Villa” where, wrapped in a toga, he may hold symposia with his European friends and his Indian Gods; and today a Mr. Bramble,
an English architect, friend to the A.G.G., arrived in Chhokrapur to stay for a few days in the Guest House. There are some other guests here as well, two women and their children; and we were all present when His Highness drove up this afternoon. A chair and cigarettes were put ready for him in front of the fire, and as soon as he was seated he addressed himself at once to Mr. Bramble.

  “How old are you, Mr. Bramble?”

  “Well, Maharajah Sahib,” said the architect good-humoredly, His Highness's peculiarities having already been explained to him by the women, “I tell my bearer that I'm a hundred, and he believes me.”

  This caused general amusement, in which the King joined; but he obviously did not quite understand the joke, for did not Mr. Bramble, with his silver hair, look very old indeed? So as soon as the laughter had ceased, he asked politely:

  “Are you seventy-six?”

  “Well—er—no,” said Mr. Bramble, rather taken aback. “Let me think… when was I born? In sixty-six. That makes me sixty-four.”

  “And where is your wife?” asked His Highness, without the slightest pause—and also without the slightest knowledge of Mr. Bramble's domestic affairs; but then surely he must have a wife. There was an awkward silence.

  “I'm very sorry to say that…Mrs. Bramble is…no more…no more.”

  He was clearly distressed; but His Highness did not appear to notice it.

  “Dead?” he asked briefly.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Bramble sadly.

  “And have you children?” continued His Highness, without pause.

  “One boy.”

  There was a silence after this, and I awaited, with considerable apprehension, the King's next association of thought. But it was quite harmless.

  “And where is he?”

  “Well—at the moment he's in Portsmouth, I believe.”

  “Ah, yes—Portsmouth. Where is Portsmouth?”

  Mr. Bramble was by now so confused and intimidated that he was quite unable to remember where Portsmouth was; so I came to his rescue.

  “It's in the south of England, Maharajah Sahib.”