The Far Pavilions (49 page)

Kairi, who had watched her grow up, was aware of this, and perceptive enough to divine the reason for it, though Shushila herself would never have been able to put it into words, even supposing she had recognized the forces that drove her, which she did not. She was not given to analysing her emotions, any more than the women who pandered to them and by doing so encouraged her to be hysterical and selfish. It was only Kairi-Bai, made wise by harsh experience, who came to realize that her little sister's headaches and the attacks of nervous hysteria that caused so much anxiety in the Zenana were largely imaginary and always self-induced; and that these, together with her fear of the unfamiliar and her high-handed treatment of servants and the humbler members of the Zenana who were incapable of retaliation, were a form of revenge for the lack of interest that her fascinating and imperious mother showed towards her.

Nevertheless it seemed quite natural to Kairi, who was devoid of vanity, that Shu-shu's love for her mother should be immeasurably greater than her love for so unspectacular a person as herself – even though Janoo-Rani, apart from giving birth to her, had done nothing to earn it, while she herself had watched over her and waited on her with tireless devotion, played with her, comforted her and encouraged her, understood her and loved her. Yet with all her understanding, Kairi had never fully realized the depth of Shu-shu's idolatry until Janoo-Rani died.

Shushila's behaviour on that occasion had been so frenzied that the Zenana had confidently predicted that she would die of grief. She had wept and shrieked and tried to throw herself from one of the windows, and when Kairi had prevented this, turned on her half-sister like a wild cat, clawing at her face until the blood ran. Shut into a room with barred windows she had refused all food, and the fact that she had held out for five days proved-conclusively that she possessed more stamina than her frail appearance and frequent illness had led anyone to suppose. To all Kairi's coaxing and efforts to console her she had turned a deaf ear, and in the end it had been Nandu who put a stop to the whole nerve-wracking business by storming in and berating his little sister in terms that only an angry and exasperated brother would have thought of using.

Astonishingly, it had worked, partly because as Maharajah of Karidkote as well as her elder brother he was doubly in authority over her, but mostly because he was a man, and as such, a magnificent and all-powerful being whose wishes must be regarded as law by any mere woman. Every Indian woman was taught that her first duty was obedience; and there was no woman, and no Zenana in all the land, that was not under the unquestioned control of some man. Shushila had meekly submitted to her brother's commands, his wrath having succeeded where Kairi-Bai's loving patience had failed, and peace had returned to the Zenana.

But as a result of Nandu's high-handed treatment of her, Shushila had somewhat unexpectedly transferred to him all the obsessive admiration she had felt for her mother; and the Zenana women, who had expected to see her half-sister's influence over her become greatly increased as a result of the Rani's death, were surprised (and in some cases relieved) to find that this was not so. Kairi-Bai's position in this respect remained unaltered, though in other ways it had changed a good deal; and for the better because Nandu had a keen sense of his own position and regarded any lack of respect shown to a member of his immediate family as a slight to his own dignity, and Kairi-Bai was a princess of the royal house and his own half-sister.

She did not look ahead, for she had learned long ago that it was better to live for the present and let the future rest in the lap of the gods, though she took it for granted that she would be married one day – marriage, after all, being the fate of every girl. But her father had been too indolent to bestir himself in the matter, and her step-mother too jealous to arrange a good match for her – yet too afraid of the Rajah to try marrying his eldest daughter to a nobody. The question of a husband for Kairi-Bai had therefore been shelved, and in time it began to seem unlikely that one would ever be found for her. After all, she was getting old: far too old for a bride.

When her father died, and later her step-mother, the old stumbling-block still remained; only now it was Nandu's pride that would not permit him to entertain the idea of giving his half-sister in marriage to anyone of inferior rank. Nor did he intend to let her take precedence over his full-sister even in such a matter as this: Shushila must be married first – and to a ruling prince. When that was done he would dispose of Kairi to some less important personage; though he realized that this might not be too easy, for as well as getting on in years she was no beauty: a tall, gawky woman with high cheek bones, a big mouth and the hands of a working woman – or a European. But his own father's daughter, nevertheless.

Little Shushila, on the other hand, gave promise of exceptional beauty, and already a number of offers had been made for her hand, though none so far had met with her brother's approval. Either their rank or their riches were not sufficiently impressive, or, in two cases where this was not an obstacle, the suitors' own lands lay too near to Karidkote.

Nandu had not forgotten how his father had acquired the disputed State of Karidarra, and he had no intention of providing any loophole that might one day allow some descendant of his sister Shushila's to lay claim to his own territories. He was nothing if not thorough. When, eventually, an offer had come from the Rana of Bhithor, he had accepted it, though the match could hardly be termed a splendid one, Bhithor being a small and backward state with an unspectacular revenue, and its Rana a middle-aged man who had already been married and widowed twice over, and fathered no less than seven children – all of them girls. Both his previous wives had died in child-bed, the last one only a year ago (assisted, according to rumour, by poison), and of his seven daughters, the five who had survived their infancy were all considerably older than Shushila. But his lineage was superior to Nandu's and the gifts he had sent were impressively rich. Best of all, his state lay more than five hundred miles to the southward, which was much too far away from Karidkote to allow any future Rana to dream of annexing it. In Nandu's opinion it was a sensible and satisfactory match. But his little sister had been appalled.

Shushila had always know that she must marry one day, but now that the day was actually in sight she was overwhelmed by panic. The thought of leaving her home and all the safe, familiar people and surroundings that she had grown up amongst terrified her, while the prospect of travelling hundreds of miles across India to a strange place and a strange man – an old, middle-aged widower – was unendurable. She could not face it. She would not - she
would
not. She would rather die…

Once again hysterical shrieks and lamentations rang through the Zenana Quarters, and this time even Nandu at his angriest could not move her, though he had threatened to have her beaten within an inch of her life if she did not obey him. But then Nandu did not understand, as Anjuli did, that at the heart of her terror and resistance lay the dread of a far worse death. Death by fire. Against that, a beating seemed a trivial thing…

‘It was the
Nautch
-girl's doing,’ Anjuli had explained during one of those visits to Ash's tent. ‘Janoo-Rani Janoo-Rani gave orders that her daughter should be strictly instructed in all those things that a well-born woman should know. Not only in religious observances and the proper ritual of
pujah
, but in all matters of ceremony and etiquette, and the duty of a wife towards her husband. This Shushila was taught almost from the time she could first speak, and she was only five when she was taken to see the hand-prints on the Suttee Gate – you remember it? – and told that if she herself were ever widowed, she must burn herself alive on her husband's pyre. Thereafter she was made to stir boiling rice with her little finger, in order to teach her to bear fire without flinching.’

Ash's comment had been savage and unprintable, and though he had spoken in English, Anjuli had not needed a translation; his tone had been enough and she had nodded agreement and said thoughtfully: ‘Yes, it was cruel, and it did not serve its purpose, for it only succeeded in making Shu-shu more afraid. She became terrified of pain. She cannot endure it.’

Ash observed caustically that Janoo-Rani obviously could not endure it either, because she had certainly not practised what she preached when her own husband died, and he, for one, did not believe for a moment that anyone could have locked her in a room against her wishes. Or prevented her from doing anything else she wanted to do.

‘That is true,’ agreed Anjuli. ‘I think she would not go to the pyre because she was very angry with my father for taking another wife, and she hated the woman so much that she would not even burn with her, for then their ashes would have mingled.’

Ash made a rude noise and said it was a good story, but it was obvious that she never had any intention of burning herself. As for Shushila, there was no need for her to worry, since suttee was now forbidden by law.

‘An English law,’ scoffed Anjuli. ‘Have you really become so much an
Angrezi
that you believe your people have only to say “It is forbidden”, for such old customs as this to cease immediately? Bah! – widows have burned themselves with their husbands for centuries, and the tradition will not die in a day – or a year or a score of years – at the bidding of
feringhis
. In places where there are large numbers of
Angrezis
and police and
pultons
to enforce the law, there will be those who will obey. But many others will not, and your Raj will never even know of it; for this is too vast a land for a handful of
feringhis
to keep watch over. Only when women themselves refuse to submit to this custom will it cease.’

Yet Anjuli knew that Shushila, for one, would never refuse. That early teaching had made too deep an impression on her, and though the very thought of such a death terrified her beyond words, it would not occur to her to avoid it, for she knew that not one of her father's predecessors had burned alone (those tragic prints on the Suttee Gate bore witness to that) and her father himself had been accompanied through the flames by his latest wife, the scheming little interloper, Lakshmi-Bai. It was the inescapable duty of a royal widow.

Had her prospective bridegroom been a boy of her own age, or even a youth in his teens, Shushila's reaction to the news of her betrothal might have been very different. But the Rana was almost forty and might die at any moment, and then her worst nightmare would come true and she would be burned alive. The finger with which she had been forced to stir that boiling rice had shrivelled to the bone, and she had learned to hide it very cleverly, looping the edge of her sari over it so that no one would ever have noticed it. But though it had become numb and nerveless long ago, she had never forgotten the agony of those early days; and if one small finger could cause such excruciating pain, what must it be like to have one's whole body thrust into a fire? It was this thought that now drove her to a hysterical frenzy and made her declare wildly that she would not marry the Rana – or anyone else.

Perhaps if she had explained this to Nandu he might have had some sympathy for her, though he would certainly not have changed his plans. But she could not bring herself to admit to anyone that it was not marriage that she was afraid of but widowhood, because that would mean that she, a Rajkumari and the daughter of a royal line, shrank from accepting a fate that millions of humbler women had accepted without question, and she would never disgrace herself by such an admission of cowardice. If Anjuli knew, it was not because Shushila had confided in her, but because she loved her, and therefore did not need words to explain the real cause of this stubborn and hysterical refusal to marry the husband that Nandu had chosen for her.

It had proved a trying time for almost everyone in the palace, not least for Anjuli. Patience and sympathy for the sufferer had very soon run out, and as the hysterical scenes continued, tempers had worn thin. Intimidation, bribery and entreaty had been tried in turn, but all to no effect, and eventually Nandu had carried out his threat and had his sister soundly beaten. Physical violence had won the day, for Shushila, as Anjuli had said, could not bear pain; and though there could be no comparison between a beating and being burned alive, the latter calamity was, after all, in the future (and might conceivably be avoided), whereas this – the cruel, cutting strokes of a bamboo cane that raised great weals on her tender flesh – was happening now, and she could not endure it. She had capitulated almost immediately. But not unconditionally. She would obey her dear brother and marry the Rana – but only if Kairi could go with her and remain with her. Were this granted, she promised to make no more trouble and to be a dutiful wife and do everything in her power to please her husband and her brother. But if it were not –

The prospect of more scenes was not to be borne, and Nandu was perceptive enough to recognize that despite her fragile appearance, beauty was not the only legacy that Shushila had inherited from their mother: somewhere inside that spoilt, highly strung and over-imaginative little girl there lurked a thin core of Janoo's own steel, and if driven too hard, she might well kill herself: not by poison or a knife, or anything that would involve too much pain, but by leaping from a window or into a well, which she would imagine to be quick and easy – or even by starving herself to death. She could be surprisingly obstinate when she chose, and once she had left Karidkote and was no longer under his eye there was no knowing what she might do, if she had left unwillingly. Obviously, then, it was better that she should go willingly; and if the Rana could be persuaded to take two brides instead of one, it would provide a neat solution to yet another problem: the question of a husband for Kairi-Bai.

The Rana's emissaries had been agreeable and Nandu had experienced the satifaction of one who brings down two birds with one shot; though admittedly the dowry demanded for Kairi-Bai was greatly in excess of the sum he had had in mind, and there had been considerable argument on the subject, some of it verging on the acrimonious. The matter had eventually been settled to the advantage of the Rana, for as Nandu's current favourite had pointed out, it was only fair that Kairi-Bai's deficiency in the matter of breeding, age and beauty should be compensated for by a substantial dowry. And besides, the cost of a double wedding was bound to be less than two separate ones.