The Strangler Vine (16 page)

‘Mr Crouch-Symington, as I said before, this is a confidential mission arranged in short order. It was of the essence that we travel speedily. Luxury and scale were neither appropriate nor possible.’ Blake had put his Company manner back on, but there was something very slightly off – insolent even – in his manner towards the Resident. He stared him full in the face and the man wriggled with discomfort.

‘Perhaps you might read my letter of introduction from Government House.’ Blake brought out an unimpressively bent, yellowed envelope.

The Resident rubbed his eyes and looked at it as if it were giving off an unpleasant odour. He drew out a pair of pince-nez which he squashed on to his soft little nose, and set to studying it.

‘Very brief,’ he said. ‘Very uninformative.’ He looked Blake over again. ‘I will see what I can do. But I cannot promise that you will have any joy of him. You must understand Vishwanath Singh is a very difficult person.’ He lowered his voice at this, turning to look surreptitiously at the five or six bearers who busied themselves in various corners of the room. ‘He is slippery. One never knows what is really happening at court. The Dowager-
Begum
has far too much influence. And he is an out-and-out heathen, with all the debauched habits that implies. I have had to have words with him about his zenana, and the number of his wives and
bibis
.’

‘I had no idea that the Company was concerning itself with such matters,’ Blake said, and scratched his ear. ‘Been in Doora long?’ I knew the tone. He considered the Resident an idiot.

The Resident glared at him. ‘I regard it as my Christian duty to speak to him on the subject. I have been here nine months, since you ask. I must say, I find it hard to believe that your suit is worthy of such secrecy. Frankly, it is most important that relations with the Rao improve. My Company guests are coming with the express intention of pouring oil on the waters. I need your assurance at least that you will not cause any further decline.’

‘I will certainly do my best, but I can give no guarantee as to how the Rao will take my request.’

The Resident looked most put out. ‘Well, if the Company letter to the Rao is anything like this one here, I hardly think it will persuade him to receive you.’

‘I had thought that was your job,’ Blake said.

The Resident’s face creased and folded into such a scowl that I wondered if it would ever regain its former shape.

‘I should have been informed weeks ago that you were coming, sir,’ he grumbled. ‘It is customary for formal missions to be met at the state’s boundary and escorted by the Rao’s troop to the palace. But perhaps you did not know that.’

‘As I said, Mr Crouch-Symington, we are not that kind of mission and we have travelled faster than a formal welcome could have been negotiated. May I assure you that I have travelled all over the north and into the Punjab in similar circumstances and never encountered any trouble in gaining audience with a native ruler.’

The Resident looked unconvinced. ‘Well, I can offer you accommodation at the Residency for two nights. After that you will have to move elsewhere. We will be full for the celebrations. Now, I am exceedingly busy, and I am afraid I have no more time to give you. I will let you know the outcome of your request. The
khansaman
will show you to your rooms. Your sowars can sleep in the stables. Good day.’ He turned, barked at one of the servants, gave a short, derisory wave, and walked out. I waited as long as I could bear.

‘And you told me to be courteous!’ I burst out. ‘Why did you not tell him we are here looking for Mountstuart?’

‘It wouldn’t have made any difference.’

Though Blake had hardly been polite, I was surprised and downcast that a Company Resident could prove so unwelcoming to emissaries from Government House. Blake, however, seemed quite unsurprised. Naturally he would not tell me why. But I suspected he was a little pleased. I even wondered if he was somehow responsible for the Resident’s rudeness – perhaps he had deliberately held back some crucial paper. Late in the afternoon, however, we received a message summoning us for an audience the next day. I cast my suspicions aside and gave myself over to thoughts of my first visit to an Indian prince’s court.

Rao Vishwanath Singh’s palace buildings were a long white fort with a line of elegant arched porticos along its second floor. It seemed to me to resemble nothing so much as a long white ship; a long white ship encrusted with a series of little white rotundas and domed buildings, a classical balustrade, several miniature Hindoo temples, and a lush garden full of exotic palms and fronds. These gave it a somewhat jumbled but energetic aspect.

The palace entrance was a vast imposing gateway of two massive red sandstone pillars. Around their circumference were carved dancing nautch girls, two-humped camels and scaly serpents, and along the lintel two whiskered fish eyed each other. The doors themselves were huge battered slabs of oak held together by thick iron braces, coated in peeling green paint. Before them stood four of the Rao’s guard in his personal livery: pink silk robes and green silk
churidars
, chainmail waistcoats and shining pointed helmets. They might have come straight from a poem by Mountstuart.

Mir Aziz dismounted and spoke quietly to the guards. Today he looked every inch an eastern emissary, his beard oiled and teased, his white kurti immaculate, an embroidered waistcoat, and on his feet gold embroidered slippers with curled toes. Manifesting barely a flicker of interest, the solidiers looked us over and slowly opened the gate. One of them called into the courtyard, another beckoned us in. On the other side we found ourselves in an enormous yard. At its centre stood a vast and grand old banyan tree, its runners creating a curtain of brown tails down to the dirt under its crown of
leaves. Hundreds of men in the Rao’s various liveries wandered about. Close to, the walls of the fort had the same mildewed look as the buildings of Calcutta.

A groom had us hand our horses over to a gang of stable boys and then we were claimed by two natives, both in long white robes tied at the waist by red and gold sashes. We followed them through a smaller white gate before which two more heavily armed soldiers stood, through a small courtyard lined with carefully pruned trees, into a high-ceilinged anteroom painted green. There we were passed into the hands of a pair of rather more grandly dressed native officials, in long pink-embroidered jackets – jamas, which were fitted tight to the chest and arms and fell into a long pleated skirt. They in turn led us into a perfect cloistered garden. Four shaded arcades, supported by elaborately carved pillars on each side, enclosed a series of small square hedges, four small pools each in the shape of a tear drop, rows of orange marigold-like flowers, shrubs and small trees and fat-leafed palms in pots, and in the centre a circular pond on which deep-pink cupped lotuses floated.

Stalking the paths were four splendid peacocks. In the trees there were small green parakeets. Once again I had the sense of stepping into one of Mountstuart’s poems. At the garden’s far end was a high doorway and through this was another anteroom, this time dark-shadowed and dominated by tall black wooden doors beyond which one could hear the murmur of a crowd. Following Blake’s example I removed my boots, whereupon a servant poured perfumed water over our hands.

‘Remember,’ Blake muttered. ‘Do what I do. When the natives prostrate themselves, we go down on one knee and bow our heads. It’s the Company’s protocol. And whatever happens, don’t show any irritation.’

Before I could press him for further explanation, the tall doors were opened and we walked into a large hall in which brightly dressed natives, all barefoot, were pressed around the walls. We took up position just inside the doors, with a dais and low throne opposite us. Blake and I were the only Europeans, and some of
the natives stared openly at us. Most, however, took no interest. The room was like nothing I had ever seen. The lower walls were painted in bands of mustard yellow and a deep forest green. Above this was a cornice of scalloped arches picked out in gold, under which the plaster was painted with twisting stalks, tendrils and blossoms. Massive studded and embossed wooden pillars supported two sides of the hall, and from the high ceiling were hung two enormous elaborate glinting chandeliers. The throne, one of those low chairs that are called
gaddi
, which more resemble beds, was made of embossed silver, and the seat was a plump blue silk cushion. Before it on either side were a large pair of silver lions, embossed with patterns and bearing impossibly curling tails, each holding in one paw what looked like a mace. Between them was a red velvet carpet.

‘Why are the lions there?’ I whispered to Blake.

‘The Indian princes do not prize originality. They all call themselves “Singh”, which means lion.’

After some minutes a procession of sorts began. From a curved archway to one side of the throne, two natives appeared, each beating a drum. They were followed by a portly gentleman in a large orange silk turban, processing very slowly; then by a troop of bearers holding long pikes and giant feathered fans; and then by a cluster of bejewelled native gentlemen in embroidered jamas, carrying curved tulwars in ornamented scabbards. More finely dressed men emerged slowly, these carrying long staffs, followed by more servants holding fans and giant fly-swatters. And finally, in a tableau of silk-covered soldiers, servants and officials, a slender, finely made man who sparkled and wore pointed gold slippers – the only shoes in the room – padded slowly towards the throne, making no attempt to acknowledge his audience. He did not sit on the throne, however, but on the carpet before it, between the lions. The plump native in the orange turban approached the dais, with some difficulty went on to one knee and then flattened himself on the floor. The rest of the company followed. Blake knelt and bowed his head, and I did likewise, while straining to gain a glimpse of the Rao. After a pause, he stretched out his hand and,
with an air almost of exasperation, gestured for the multitude to rise.

Orange Turban got awkwardly to his feet and the audience followed. He began to address the assembly in a deep, sonorous voice. It was clear that he knew the words well and that the audience had heard them before, for no one was very attentive. The speech went on for some time, and I took to studying our circumstances. Orange Turban I guessed must be the Grand Vizier or some such. He wore a heavy gold necklace over his thickly embroidered robe. He spoke with great earnestness, and made large emphatic gestures. Rao Vishwanath Singh, meanwhile, was much younger and had a small, very neat upturned moustache and a short, tightly clipped beard. He wore a wide turban of a deep burgundy silk, a gold and white embroidered robe and burgundy silk pyjamas. But the jewels were the thing: he glittered from his head to his gold slippers. On his turban was a jewel shaped like a curved flame and studded with diamonds and emeralds, with a spray of pearls dangling from it. Around his neck he wore string upon string of pearls – so many one could hardly see the tiny embroidered designs of his coat. Jewels sparkled in his ears, there were rings set with rubies on his fingers, and his robe was fastened by a belt of emeralds. The body beneath all this finery was rather thin and pale, and when I took a fleeting glance at his face he appeared to be suffering the event with ill-concealed irritation.

The Grand Vizier ceased speaking, and another, taller man, with a long face and deep-set eyes ringed with grey, came forward holding a scroll and feather quill. A tall, pulpit-like table was brought for him. He began to speak. I had assumed this would be our moment, and looked to Blake attentively for a sign. Instead a burly man accompanied by a boy of perhaps eleven or twelve came and knelt before the Rao, and began to speak in an urgent manner, pointing every so often at the boy. It was clear he was gripped by a sense of grievance and expected redress. The talk went back and forth between him and the scribe for what seemed an eternity. Eventually the Grand Vizier spoke, the Rao nodded, the man withdrew, evidently disappointed but apparently not
surprised, and the scribe scribbled something on his paper. Once again I prepared myself for our summons. But now another native came forward and made his obeisances. Then another, and another. As suit followed suit, I fancied the native audience was whispering about the evident affront being done to us. I glanced at Blake. He did not move; his expression was almost serene. Mir Aziz, to one side of us, remained ramrod-straight; Sameer, behind me, was, I was sure, struggling to restrain himself. I felt myself begin to simmer.

It seemed to go on for hours. The Rao never spoke, but nodded occasionally with an air of great boredom. Finally the scribe beckoned Mir Aziz, and they conferred. The Rao stared at us coldly. Blake knelt, and I knelt. There was a silence. The Rao did not invite us to rise. Blake turned to the Grand Vizier, who looked nervously at the Rao and gestured for us to rise. Blake began to speak in a melodious, rhythmic tongue which I assumed must be Persian. The Grand Vizier nodded loftily.

From his breast pocket, Blake extracted a white envelope with dark seals and held it out. Mir Aziz took it and gave it to the scribe. After conferring with the Grand Vizier, the scribe began a great dramatic dumb show of opening the envelope with a great flourish, then plucking the letter from its envelope, unfolding and beginning to peruse it. He whispered urgently to the Grand Vizier. Blake cast his eyes down and began to speak clearly and quietly, but the Grand Vizier raised his hand to stop him and took the letter from the scribe. Blake fell silent. At that moment the Rao moved suddenly from his reclining position into a cross-legged one, and made it clear he wished to see the letter. The room was at once utterly still. Producing a silk square which had been tucked into his cummerbund, the Grand Vizier wrapped it around his hand – he had, I saw, grotesquely long thumbnails – took the letter and presented it to the Rao. The Rao looked over the letter. He scratched his nose delicately and then looked at us as if he would very much have enjoyed watching us being exquisitely tortured. The Grand Vizier’s expression had shifted from diplomatic to insulted. He frowned with evident displeasure. Blake spoke again. We stood in awkward silence for what seemed
like many minutes. The Rao spoke two words. The room stirred, uneasily. The Vizier smiled, but his smile did not reach his eyes, and he replied to Blake. Even I could tell the words were curt. Blake bowed again and withdrew to our former position. The Rao, meanwhile, stood up and swept out, followed by his entourage. The rest of audience left through another anteroom to the side in an orderly column of twos and threes, all studiously ignoring us.