Flowers in the Blood (49 page)

“My last state funeral,” he said with misty eyes as he greeted each of his guests.

When I was introduced, he clasped my hand between both of his trembling ones and said, “Ah, the Sassoon girl. I knew your grandfather in Bombay. Quite a fellow! Quite a rich fellow.” He winked at Edwin.

“My wife is from Calcutta,” Edwin offered politely.

He cupped his ear. “What's that?”

Edwin dropped the point and steered me to a seat behind a velvet. rope as a noise rose from the crowd, signaling something was happening.

“Here comes the body,” exclaimed a voice from behind.

“Why is it being pushed through a hole in the wall?” I asked.

“Probably so as not to pollute the sacred gate,” Edwin replied. “Afterward they will rebuild the wall to prevent the departed spirit from returning to trouble the survivors.”

“Do you believe that spirits return?” I asked in a solemn whisper.

“Of course not.”

“I do.”

Edwin gave me a wondering glance, and, indeed, I was surprised at myself. I had not thought about my nightmares of my mother's ghost for years. It came back to me now: my mother lying in a section of the cemetery reserved for outcasts; my mother with a grave marker that denied her marriage and motherhood; my mother, who could not possibly be resting in peace. And all because of her murderer, Nissim Sadka. Why did the awful face in that courtroom suddenly flash before my eyes now?

“Dinah . . .” Edwin tugged at my sleeve. “Are you all right?”

Concentrating on the spectacle of the mortal remains covered with garlands of flowers in order to blot out the past, I, clasped his hand. Small guns that gave a “pop” rather than a “bang” were sounded for each year of the departed prince's life. By the time I counted to sixty-nine, the specter of my mother had faded into the waves of undulating dust that churned in the wake of the procession.

Bareheaded bodyguards marching on foot were followed by their riderless horses. Next came a band that played a muffled version of the Dead March on the drums. After them marched a brigade carrying their muskets reversed and flags furled, then British officers in full uniform with strips of black crepe attached to their shoulders. The officers of state filed in a double line. Then, walking entirely alone, Amar strode with long, purposeful steps, trailed by his tiny nephews, two of whom were but babes carried in their mothers' arms. Behind him came a tall woman swathed in a filmy fabric that billowed in the wind like a vertical cloud.

“That is Amar's mother, the new maharani. Do you know why she is covered up?” He did not wait for my response. “To hide her happiness.” As I shot him a warning glance, he lowered his voice and spoke into my ear. “At last she has her chance to rule. Nobody in Travancore will have more influence than she has.”

“Where is Amar's wife?”

“Somewhere in that crowd of women to the rear. The wife has no status at court, remember.”

The dignitaries were led under an inner canopy, while the body was borne around the pile three times before being placed on the pyre. Three last volleys of musketry were fired. Amar stepped forward as the smoke dispersed.

“What is he doing?” I asked my husband.

He shrugged. A gentleman behind us replied, “He is to put some rice and money in his uncle's mouth and break pots of water.”

“And who are they?” I indicated the noblemen who took over from Amar.

“The Brahmin priests.” I kept my eyes forward as our informant continued his explanation. “They are saying the
mantras
, prayers delivering the body to the five elements.”

As the first licks of flame from the torches ignited the wood, I turned away and looked into the kindly blue eyes of the gentleman.

“You do not have to watch, my dear. Even the relations turn away out of respect.” A piercing wail rose from the women, chilling me. “Now they are adding the ghee. Once the fires burn as high as the sheds, we may leave. The pyre will burn for at least two days.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, my gaze having discovered the face below the gentle eyes to have been ruined by smallpox depressions. Only one spot, the size of a child's palm, was an unblemished field upon his right cheek. This eerie smoothness seemed more of an anomaly than the disfigurement.

A tap from Edwin brought me around. “We can go now, but since we were his guests, we will have to make a brief appearance at the home of the British resident.”

I coughed as the wind blew some acrid smoke our way. Edwin hurried me in the opposite direction, but the crowd surging toward the flaming pyre cut us off.

“Oh, Edwin,” I choked, “I can't breathe!”

34

 

I
had no quarrel with Edwin. I had no quarrel with Amar, the new Maharajah of Travancore, or even Travancore for that matter, and yet those first weeks were trying for me. Edwin may have found the rituals that surrounded the death of a ruler intriguing—and I might have thought them so for an hour—but over days and days they became tedious indeed.

One afternoon I sat reading
The Moonstone
in the pleasant nook that looked out on the bathing tank in the gardens, while Edwin stared at our Hindu neighbors taking their ablutions.

“Is that a good book?”

“Yes, you would like it.”

“I don't know how you can read when so much is going on. If you would only take more interest in what is around you—”

“There is quite some difference between seeing and being part of something,” I snapped.

“Unless one studies a situation, it is foolhardy to become involved in it. I can barely figure out the relationship between Dennis Clifford and Sir Mortimer, let alone whom Amar will appoint as his prime minister or how we might help Amar. At least I am keeping my eyes and ears open.”

“And I am not?”

“You rarely leave the residency.”

“What shall I do? Tell me and I shall do it.”

“Now is certainly not the time. I have been married long enough to know that,” he said as he stormed out of the room.

For a few minutes I brooded. What did he expect from me? With a sigh I opened my book, grateful that I had a good tale to engage me, and read: “ 'Cheer up, Rosanna!' I said. 'You mustn't fret over your own fancies. . . .' “ The irony pulled me away from myself and I felt silly for having upset Edwin. Just remember, you could be half a wife in Darjeeling listening to Euclid's jealous banter, or a spinster drifting about Theatre Road, or married to some old man that nobody else would have, I reminded myself. I resolved to be cheerier, and went to apologize.

“Where is the sahib?” I asked Hanif.

“He has gone to the fort to see the last ashes removed.”

“And Yali?”

“She is in her room. Shall I summon her?”

“Yes.” I went back to my quarters with a sigh. I would bathe and dress in something fresh. When he returned, I would follow his lead and not turn his words into an argument.

Edwin appeared again before I had dressed completely. I dismissed Yali and put on my own shoes. His amiable expression made me feel reprieved.

“You went to the fort.”

“Yes, and the air is cool and breezy.” He tugged my hand. “Come for a walk with me. You need a change.”

“You're right,” I said as I allowed him to pull me from the seat. Arm in arm we strolled the red paths within the walled enclosure. “My problem is that I feel as though we are looking out the panes of a foggy window. Our view is always clouded and we are unable to wipe away the dew.”

“I am not certain I agree with your allusion, poetic though it may be, but if I go along with you, I would say the sun burns more brightly every day and soon the mist will lift and all will be revealed.”

“But when?”

“The official mourning period is almost over, after which Amar will liven up the court. You do not know him as I do. Yes, he has his serious, his academic side, but more than anything he likes to enjoy life. Why else would he have us here?”

“So we are to be court jesters?” I said with annoyance, then regretted I had gone back on my resolution.

Edwin's brow lowered. Even his scowl was endearing. “Now, Dinah—”

I cut him off. “This waiting is frustrating. We have both seen those Indian families waiting on railway platforms. They sleep there, cook meals. Sometimes I wonder whether they are ever going anyplace at all. Well, that is how I feel living here.”

“I realize these last weeks have been tedious for you, but I feel as if we have been granted the privilege of being witnesses to history.”

“You have misunderstood me,” I replied shakily. “Ever since we decided to come here, I have felt I was moving away from the center of my own life.”

“You have felt that way from the hour we left Calcutta.”

There was a scolding tone to his voice and I bowed my head. “Perhaps I have too much ambition for a woman.”

He threw an arm about my shoulders, and his fingers drummed a protective tattoo on my back. “Now, darling, that is what I adore about you. Only there is a difference between ambition and impatience. Hasty decisions cause expensive mistakes. You may think I have been wasting my time here. On the contrary, I have watched and listened and have decided the time may soon come when together we can profit handsomely from our sojourn here. I share the resident of Quilon's belief that it is more rewarding to be in an area poised for growth than reap the harvest of a place past its peak.”

“What are you planning?”

“I have several ideas.”

I tugged at his sleeve. “If you do not include me in your thoughts, I feel even more useless.”

“Well, then . . .” He cleared his throat. “From what I can tell, Travancore is married to the sea, yet Trivandrum does not have a decent harbor. The consequence has been the lack of progress in transportation. This fertile spice coast, which has been cut off from the rest of the subcontinent by the natural impediment of the Western Ghats, could increase its trade a hundredfold across the Indian Ocean.”

“What would you do?”

“I was thinking in terms of shipping.”

“What do you know about boats?”

“Not a great deal, but as one thought leads to another, experience builds upon experience. My uncle in Singapore may be a crass man and difficult to admire, but he is a smart businessman. He used to say that trading was like a tree. The root of his profession was buying and selling, and everything else branched from there. As long as you could follow an idea to the root, it was an acceptable investment, but he warned against making leaps into areas that did not come from the same source.” He gesticulated excitedly as he described his apprenticeship on the wharves of Cochin, his family's trade in spices, his work with the shipping agents of Singapore, and his dream of someday owning a fine vessel.

I could not follow everything he was saying, but was elated to have a light shed in the dark corner of our future. If he wanted a ship, I would do everything I could to help him.

 

By dawn the next day the populace of Trivandrum, who were to witness the ascension-to-the-
musnud
rites, crowded the courtyard of the pagoda of Patmanabhan. Brahmins filled the first ranks, while the others filed behind. The first members of the royal family to climb the temple steps were a retinue of women. “The ranis are the custodians of the keys of the temple while the god is absent from it,” Dennis Clifford explained. “This ceremony is the receiving of the subsistence allowance. It is the maharajah's way of showing that he is subservient to the god and his representatives, the priests.”

After Amar solemnly accepted sacks of rice and bolts of cloth, the priest gave him the first of his official titles.

The resident's wife nudged her husband. “What is happening?”

Dennis Clifford whispered, “With obedience he accepts the title of hereditary sweeper. In this way the highest ruler of the land takes on the mantle of the sweeper caste, the lowest in the Hindu world, and thus he also accepts the mantle of religious humility.”

The crowd surged in front of me. I was able to make out the stooped figure of the new maharajah sweeping the temple steps with a crude straw broom. From then on, the rites became more complex. One after another, Brahmins came forward and prostrated themselves on the steps, then circumambulated the pagoda. The sun rose to its apex, but no umbrellas were unfurled. Edwin discreetly fanned me while the maharajah was anointed with consecrated water. Finally the high priest handed the sword and belt of state to Amar.

The new maharajah then marched around the pagoda and returned to announce his first order. “I hereby grant an additional five thousand rupees per annum for the repair of the temples.”

A cheer rose from the citizens, who had wondered if Amar would retain the religious fervor of his uncle. “A clever boy,” Clifford murmured. “Now his people's suspicions will disappear and he will have more freedom.”

The sepoys escorted us to the old Audience Hall in the fort, where European officials and friends waited to welcome the maharajah. The room was a long, narrow upper chamber furnished with red carpets, velvet sofas, ten-foot mirrors, and lamps that hung from long brass chains. Paintings of former rulers lined the ocher walls. The colonnaded room opened onto a large open veranda that looked down at a vast square where troops were drawn up, richly caparisoned state elephants with bells about their necks carried bejeweled howdahs, and thousands of citizens waited expectantly.

We watched as a trembling Sir Mortimer Trevelyan, helped by two sepoys, made his way into the maharajah's presence and took a seat to his left. Next Dennis Clifford and his wife came forward.

“I suppose our friend will become the new resident to Trivandrum,” Edwin murmured.

“How can you tell?”

“Look where he has been placed, right beside Amar's mother.”

“Mr. Clifford said he did not want the position.”

“On the contrary, he covets it.”

“But—”

“ 'He doth protest too much, methinks.' “

I watched the expressions on both the Cliffords' faces and decided they were more confident about courtly duties than they had led me to believe. “Amar would get on with Dennis better,” I added in a whisper.

“Absolutely.”

Suddenly I noticed there were no other women on the podium. “Isn't Amar's wife here?”

Edwin discreetly pointed to the far right side of the gallery, about ten rows back from the front. “Over there.” I saw the profile of a plump girl who could not have been more than seventeen. She wore a simple white gown and a thick golden collar.

When the time came for us to approach the ivory throne, I began to quiver. Edwin took my arm and led me along. To calm myself, I kept my eye on the glittering canopy supported by pillars of silver. At the foot of the throne, I had no other choice but to look up. Amar was wearing an ornate turban adorned with an aigrette of diamonds, emeralds, and two pendant pearls that looked like enormous teardrops. Six bird-of-paradise feathers drooped across one eye in a sultry pose. As I curtsied, I lowered my gaze, but when Amar raised me up, his eyes locked with mine.

“My dear friends, may I welcome you to Travancore at last and beg your forgiveness for not being able to offer you the hospitality I would have under other circumstances.” He attempted to enunciate each word, and the effect was stilted.

“Sir, it is an honor to be here, and thank you for the graciousness you have already extended us,” Edwin said, his formal words lightened by a subtle glibness that echoed their friendship.

Amar's intense stare in my direction did not extend to include my husband, even as he replied, “Next week, when I can properly receive you, I shall compensate for the inconvenience.” He turned to the next guest, cutting off any possible reply, and we backed away.

We were not placed near the other foreign visitors on the left, but were given a prominent aisle position behind some royal children and ahead of Amar's wife. After I took my seat, I smiled to show my pleasure at the honor. Amar nodded regally. From the corner of my eye I saw my husband's chest swell as he accepted the silent appraisal of the dignitaries, who must have wondered who we were.

 

The following evening we were invited to the state dinner at the British residency. Edwin and I arrived early to watch the procession as the maharajah, this time atop the largest of the state elephants, followed native musicians whose strange flutes piped a high-pitched tune.

The maharajah was greeted first by Sir Mortimer Trevelyan, next by the Cliffords. After a nod to some minor British dignitaries, he clasped Edwin around the shoulders. “Winner! What do you think of your old Lover-boy now?” His pale face seemed to light from within. “My dear Mrs. Salem, I hope your new home pleases you.” He took my hand.