A passage to India
and tiger-hunts, trees cut down that impeded the view from the
Guest House, cows milked in his presence, and generally arrogating
the control of internal affairs. But there had been a change of
policy in high quarters. Local thunders were no longer endorsed,
and the group of little states that composed the agency discovered
this and began comparing notes with fruitful result. To see how
much, or how little, Colonel Maggs would stand, became an agreeable
game at Mau, which was played by all the departments of State. He
had to stand the appointment of Dr. Aziz. The Rajah did not take
the hint, but replied that Hindus were less exclusive than formerly,
thanks to the enlightened commands of the Viceroy, and he felt it
his duty to move with the times.
Yes, all had gone well hitherto, but now, when the rest of the
state was plunged in its festival, he had a crisis of a very
different sort. A note awaited him at his house. There was no doubt
that Fielding had arrived overnight, nor much doubt that Godbole
knew of his arrival, for the note was addressed to him, and he had
read it before sending it on to Aziz, and had written in the
margin, “Is not this delightful news, but unfortunately my religious
duties prevent me from taking any action.” Fielding announced that
he had inspected Mudkul (Miss Derek’s former preserve), that he
had nearly been drowned at Deora, that he had reached Mau according
to time-table, and hoped to remain there two days, studying the
various educational innovations of his old friend. Nor had he come
alone. His wife and her brother accompanied him. And then the note
turned into the sort of note that always did arrive from the State
Guest House. Wanting something. No eggs. Mosquito nets torn. When
would they pay their respects to His Highness? Was it correct that
a torchlight procession would take place? If so, might they view
it? They didn’t want to give trouble, but if they might stand in
a balcony, or if they might go out in a boat. . . . Aziz tore the
note up. He had had enough of showing Miss Quested native life.
Treacherous hideous harridan! Bad people altogether. He hoped to
avoid them, though this might be difficult, for they would certainly
be held up for several days at Mau. Down country, the floods were
even worse, and the pale grey faces of lakes had appeared in the
direction of the Asirgarh railway station.
CHAPTER XXXV
Long before he discovered Mau, another young Mohammedan had retired
there—a saint. His mother said to him, “Free prisoners.” So he took
a sword and went up to the fort. He unlocked a door, and the
prisoners streamed out and resumed their previous occupations, but
the police were too much annoyed and cut off the young man’s head.
Ignoring its absence, he made his way over the rocks that separate
the fort and the town, killing policemen as he went, and he fell
outside his mother’s house, having accomplished her orders.
Consequently there are two shrines to him to-day—that of the Head
above, and that of the Body below—and they are worshipped by the
few Mohammedans who live near, and by Hindus also. “There is no
God but God”; that symmetrical injunction melts in the mild airs
of Mau; it belongs to pilgrimages and universities, not to feudalism
and agriculture. When Aziz arrived, and found that even Islam was
idolatrous, he grew scornful, and longed to purify the place, like
Alamgir. But soon he didn’t mind, like Akbar. After all, this saint
had freed prisoners, and he himself had lain in prison. The Shrine
of the Body lay in his own garden and produced a weekly crop of
lamps and flowers, and when he saw them he recalled his sufferings.
The Shrine of the Head made a nice short walk for the children. He
was off duty the morning after the great pujah, and he told them
to come. Jemila held his hand. Ahmed and Karim ran in front,
arguing what the body looked like as it came staggering down, and
whether they would have been frightened if they met it. He didn’t
want them to grow up superstitious, so he rebuked them, and they
answered yes father, for they were well brought up, but, like
himself, they were impervious to argument, and after a polite pause
they continued saying what their natures compelled them to say.
A slim, tall eight-sided building stood at the top of the slope,
among some bushes. This was the Shrine of the Head. It had not been
roofed, and was indeed merely a screen. Inside it crouched a humble
dome, and inside that, visible through a grille, was a truncated
gravestone, swathed in calico. The inner angles of the screen were
cumbered with bees’ nests, and a gentle shower of broken wings and
other aerial oddments kept falling, and had strewn the damp pavement
with their flue. Ahmed, apprized by Mohammed Latif of the character
of the bee, said, “They will not hurt us, whose lives are chaste,”
and pushed boldly in; his sister was more cautious. From the shrine
they went to a mosque, which, in size and design, resembled a
fire-screen; the arcades of Chandrapore had shrunk to a flat piece
of ornamental stucco, with protuberances at either end to suggest
minarets. The funny little thing didn’t even stand straight, for
the rock on which it had been put was slipping down the hill. It,
and the shrine, were a strange outcome of the protests of Arabia.
They wandered over the old fort, now deserted, and admired the
various views. The scenery, according to their standards, was
delightful—the sky grey and black, bellyfuls of rain all over it,
the earth pocked with pools of water and slimy with mud. A
magnificent monsoon—the best for three years, the tanks already
full, bumper crops possible. Out towards the river (the route by
which the Fieldings had escaped from Deora) the downpour had been
enormous, the mails had to be pulled across by ropes. They could
just see the break in the forest trees where the gorge came through,
and the rocks above that marked the site of the diamond mine,
glistening with wet. Close beneath was the suburban residence of
the Junior Rani, isolated by floods, and Her Highness, lax about
purdah, to be seen paddling with her handmaidens in the garden and
waving her sari at the monkeys on the roof. But better not look
close beneath, perhaps—nor towards the European Guest House either.
Beyond the Guest House rose another grey-green gloom of hills,
covered with temples like little white flames. There were over two
hundred gods in that direction alone, who visited each other
constantly, and owned numerous cows, and all the betel-leaf
industry, besides having shares in the Asirgarh motor omnibus. Many
of them were in the palace at this moment, having the time of their
lives; others, too large or proud to travel, had sent symbols to
represent them. The air was thick with religion and rain.
Their white shirts fluttering, Ahmed and Karim ran about over the
fort, shrieking with joy. Presently they intersected a line of
prisoners, who were looking aimlessly at an old bronze gun. “Which
of you is to be pardoned?” they asked. For to-night was the
procession of the Chief God, when He would leave the palace,
escorted by the whole power of the State, and pass by the Jail,
which stood down in the town now. As He did so, troubling the
waters of our civilization, one prisoner would be released, and
then He would proceed to the great Mau tank that stretched as far
as the Guest House garden, where something else would happen, some
final or subsidiary apotheosis, after which He would submit to the
experience of sleep. The Aziz family did not grasp as much as this,
being Moslem, but the visit to the Jail was common knowledge.
Smiling, with downcast eyes, the prisoners discussed with the
gentry their chances of salvation. Except for the irons on their
legs, they resembled other men, nor did they feel different. Five
of them, who had not yet been brought to trial, could expect no
pardon, but all who had been convicted were full of hope. They did
not distinguish between the God and the Rajah in their minds, both
were too far above them; but the guard was better educated, and
ventured to enquire after His Highness’s health.
“It always improves,” replied the medicine man. As a matter of
fact, the Rajah was dead, the ceremony overnight had overtaxed his
strength. His death was being concealed lest the glory of the
festival were dimmed. The Hindu physician, the Private Secretary,
and a confidential servant remained with the corpse, while Aziz
had assumed the duty of being seen in public, and misleading
people. He had liked the ruler very much, and might not prosper
under his successor, yet he could not worry over such problems yet,
for he was involved in the illusion he helped to create. The
children continued to run about, hunting for a frog to put in
Mohammed Latif’s bed, the little fools. Hundreds of frogs lived in
their own garden, but they must needs catch one up on the fort.
They reported two topis below. Fielding and his brother-in-law,
instead of resting after their journey, were climbing the slope to
the saint’s tomb!
“Throw stones?” asked Karim.
“Put powdered glass in their pan?”
“Ahmed, come here for such wickedness.” He raised his hand to smite
his firstborn, but allowed it to be kissed instead. It was sweet
to have his sons with him at this moment, and to know they were
affectionate and brave. He pointed out that the Englishmen were
State guests, so must not be poisoned, and received, as always,
gentle yet enthusiastic assent to his words.
The two visitors entered the octagon, but rushed out at once
pursued by some bees. Hither and thither they ran, beating their
heads; the children shrieked with derision, and out of heaven, as
if a plug had been pulled, fell a jolly dollop of rain. Aziz had
not meant to greet his former friend, but the incident put him into
an excellent temper. He felt compact and strong. He shouted out,
“Hullo, gentlemen, are you in trouble?”
The brother-in-law exclaimed; a bee had got him.
“Lie down in a pool of water, my dear sir—here are plenty. Don’t
come near me. . . . I cannot control them, they are State bees;
complain to His Highness of their behaviour.” There was no real
danger, for the rain was increasing. The swarm retired to the
shrine. He went up to the stranger and pulled a couple of stings
out of his wrist, remarking, “Come, pull yourself together and be
a man.”
“How do you do, Aziz, after all this time? I heard you were settled
in here,” Fielding called to him, but not in friendly tones. “I
suppose a couple of stings don’t signify.”
“Not the least. I’ll send an embrocation over to the Guest House.
I heard you were settled in there.”
“Why have you not answered my letters?” he asked, going straight
for the point, but not reaching it, owing to buckets of rain. His
companion, new to the country, cried, as the drops drummed on his
topi, that the bees were renewing their attack. Fielding checked
his antics rather sharply, then said: “Is there a short cut down
to our carriage? We must give up our walk. The weather’s
pestilential.”
“Yes. That way.”
“Are you not coming down yourself?”
Aziz sketched a comic salaam; like all Indians, he was skilful in
the slighter impertinences. “I tremble, I obey,” the gesture said,
and it was not lost upon Fielding. They walked down a rough path
to the road—the two men first; the brother-in-law (boy rather than
man) next, in a state over his arm, which hurt; the three Indian
children last, noisy and impudent—all six wet through.
“How goes it, Aziz?”
“In my usual health.”
“Are you making anything out of your life here?”
“How much do you make out of yours?”
“Who is in charge of the Guest House?” he asked, giving up his
slight effort to recapture their intimacy, and growing more
official; he was older and sterner.