Flowers in the Blood (48 page)

“Is something the matter?” I asked nervously.

“Don't you know why Amar was in Cochin last month?” his wife interjected.

“I supposed he was seeing the Maharajah of Cochin,” Edwin offered easily. “They have such close ties.”

“Exactly so. The prince had come for advice about the transfer of power in case his uncle's health worsened.”

“Is the maharajah ill?” I asked.

“The man has had a weak heart his whole life. There was an episode before Christmas when some claim his heart stopped and his lips turned blue. They revived him with cold water and brandy.”

“It sounds serious,” I said, recalling Grandmother Flora's illness.

“Yes, quite.” The resident folded his hands and peered at Edwin thoughtfully. “The prince confided he has high regard for you, Mr. Salem. He told me he was hoping you would become one of his advisers someday. I must admit when I met you and your enchanting wife earlier today, I was a bit dismayed to find you so youthful. Now I realize you have much to offer the heir. May I speak frankly?”

Edwin nodded respectfully.

“Travancore is like most Indian states, with factions broken along religious and caste lines. Among the Hindus, there are several castes of Brahmins who are wealthy and contentious; the Nayars, the largest and most important section of society, from which all the royalty descend; the Iravas, who do much of the agricultural work; and the Shanars, who are the Tamil-speaking laborers. There is also a large colony of Syrian Christians, a smaller group of Muslims; several despised slave castes; and the odd Englishman like me—not necessarily in order, mind you.”

“And the maharajah must make decisions that satisfy everyone,” his wife added.

“I do not know if he ever satisfies anyone. At best, he pacifies. In any case, as a Jew you stand outside these factions, giving you a neutral position. When the new maharajah takes the throne, everyone will plead his own interest and Amar will lose perspective. Where will he turn for advice? To a prime minister, who may have been corrupted . . . to his mother, who will have ideas of her own . . . to the resident, who must represent the crown above all? No, a man looks to his friends, often his boyhood friends. Who better than you, especially since your friendship began when there was little chance he would ever be maharajah?” He stared at Edwin with eyes the hue and toughness of steel.

“That may be true,” Edwin replied carefully, “but my wife and I have no intention of making Trivandrum our home. This is merely a trip to introduce Dinah to Travancore and to spend time with an old friend.”

“I thought the prince gave you the Orchid House,” Jemima stated bluntly.

Edwin's hands waved in the air as if he was dismissing the idea. “Merely a gesture, part of a wedding game.”

“That's not the way I heard it,” she replied crisply.

“Well, my dear, we have been told only Prince Amar's version, and we both know how impetuous a young man he can be. Just let me say I believe it is possible you will be on the scene when a transition takes place.” He hesitated and watched the effect his words had on Edwin.

“Then, sir,” my husband replied somberly, “would you have time to speak with me tomorrow and advise me on the particulars?”

The waiters removed our plates and served a pudding. “Yes, let's leave this business until tomorrow,” his wife suggested earnestly. “Remember, Dennis, these two are on their honeymoon.”

“I don't know how long a honeymoon lasts,” I said. “Edwin's mother says that it ends when the children come. Do you agree?”

“Certainly not,” Jemima exclaimed. “Or I would not have had quite as many.”

 

In the morning, while Edwin met Dennis in the resident's study, his wife introduced me to five of her children.

“Paul and Mary are away at school. I am considered a renegade, since I would not permit them to leave before twelve, but I believe a child needs his mother until then and the rest of the world is wrong-minded on that score. Besides, I am perfectly competent to tutor my own.”

“I am certain you are right,” I replied with conviction, since I could not imagine having to leave home at five or six and not see my parents for some years, like many of the English girls I had known.

A toddler climbed on her lap and pummeled her chest. “Mooky, mooky.”

“Oh, Sebastian.” With a demure shrug she put the boy to her breast. “If you will permit me one more piece of advice, may I suggest you feed your own children when the time comes? I have not lost a single child, and this is because my own sanitary habits are far beyond what one can expect of any native ayah. Besides, a child should have but one mother. That is not to say I don't have help with the children. We employ two ayahs at present and I'll bring on a third for the new baby. Someone else can wipe its bottom or wash its clothes, but only a mother can nurture and educate.”

My thoughts turned to my mother dozing on the veranda at Theatre Road, the mouthpiece of the hookah cupped in her hand. “Not every mother is as skillful as you, Mrs. Clifford.”

“You will be a fine mother, Mrs. Salem.”

I heard footsteps behind me and turned. Edwin and the resident were standing in the hallway. “We must get ready to depart,” Edwin called softly.

With her free hand Jemima clasped mine. “I wish you could stay longer.”

“We will pass through Quilon on our way back to Cochin,” Edwin said.

“You must plan to remain longer next time,” Dennis insisted ' graciously.

At the wharf, the men had a few final words together while I rearranged the cushions and told the porters where to place the baskets of fruit we had purchased.

“Don't forget my suggestions,” the resident said as he shook Edwin's hand. “And remember to advise me if the situation changes. I would rather not wait for official tidings.”

“Don't worry, sir, I am most happy to oblige.”

The next section of our journey took us through a series of tunnels carved in the mountains that crept close to the waterways, and in a few hours we came to Varkala. The village sat quietly at the foot of red hills streaked by water spurting from sharp clefts.

“Above here are three springs of sanctity and purity that have always attracted pilgrims,” Edwin pointed out. “Once I climbed that hill, called the Mountain of Shiva, for the splendid view. Sometime I will take you there, and also to see the
math
, the hermitage where a Hindu mystic they call Narayana Guru presides. Amar is quite taken with his preachings, which declare that Hindus should break free of the caste system. 'One caste, one God, one religion' is his motto.”

“Doesn't that sound familiar?”

“Exactly. I'd say he was the Moses of Malabar. Actually, the guru is attempting to open the temples to all Hindus and abolish idols. To set an example, Amar has replaced the statues in his own home with mirrors to remind everyone that 'As we are, so are our gods too.' When Amar becomes maharajah, I would not be surprised if he enacts laws to that effect.”

“Is the maharajah really dying?”

“That is Dennis Clifford's opinion, but who knows? He has dozens of doctors and healers who attend his every breath.”

“Did Amar give you any hint of this?”

“No. If I had known the situation, I probably would not have brought you here.”

“Why? Don't you agree it would be good for Amar to have a friend nearby?”

“Situations involving power are complicated. I am no expert in royal politics, but I have heard enough to guess the intrigue is exceedingly unpleasant. Amar has dreaded this for many years, ever since his brothers died.”

“How did they both die at the same time?”

“Cholera. There was an outbreak in Travancore before the monsoon floods.”

“I still don't understand why you would not have come if you had known.”

“Because if the old maharajah dies, anything we do or say will be deemed suspicious. Everyone will think we have come for personal gain.”

“The prince sent for us.”

“We know that. Others might think we manipulated him into giving us the Orchid House or that we are vultures hovering outside the palace walls.”

“Is that what the resident suggested?”

“No, but even Clifford wondered if we knew the situation before we arrived in Quilon. Now he does not believe those are our motives. However, he wanted me to see how we would be perceived. He gave me suggestions on how to proceed if the worst happens. Let's just hope it doesn't.”

33

 

T
rivandrum, the capital of Travancore, unfolded like a mysterious flower.

I was asleep when we docked, and moved in a daze to the litter that carried me through the silent nighttime streets. Without fully awakening, I passed through a lofty gate, up stone stairs, and into a gaslit chamber where the walls had a golden glow. Yali attended me and soon I was asleep in the arms of my husband.

In the morning, as we lay in bed sipping tea served by Hanif, I hardly knew where I was. “Could you open one of those compartments in your mind and tell me what you know about Trivandrum?” I asked Edwin.

“Well, its Indian name is Tiru-Ananta-puram, meaning the 'sacred city of the snake Ananta.' You know about the snake on which Vishnu—whom they call Padmanabha in Travancore—reclined. He's a very important deity here.”

I rolled out of bed. “I want to know more,” I said as I peered out the narrow windows.

“We'll spend the day looking around,” he said lazily.

Even before he was ready, I padded in my bare feet down the stone corridor to an arched doorway. Stepping outside, I saw our dwelling was one of many along a street bordered by twin stands of regal palms. Two women in flowing white gowns bent over the red soil paths, tracing patterns with white powder. Working rapidly, guided by almost invisible marks, they fashioned geometric arabesques that flowed from their fingers like ribbons. From a distance I admired the variations. Strolling closer, I admired the intricate workmanship. Just before I approached, a graceful lady had finished her design by adding a hibiscus blossom at the main intersection of her lines. As she stood up, turned, and smiled at me, I gasped. The gauzy drapery of her garment did not even attempt to cover her chest. Confused, I gave a jerky bow and rushed back to the Orchid House.

I bumped into Edwin at the doorway. “That woman—her breasts are completely exposed!”

He gave a wry smile. “That's how the Brahmin women dress here.”

I stiffened. “Is that the fashion for everyone at court?”

“Wish that it were,” he said with an admiring glance at the woman's back.

Just then a breeze whipped up, destroying the ephemeral patterns in the dirt. I shook my head. “What a waste.”

“Not at all,” Edwin countered. “The pleasure was in the preparation, not the glory.”

“Don't you believe they feel a pang of regret?”

“Perhaps those who live from moment to moment rest more easily.”

“That is merely the excuse that has kept Indians slaves to the caste in which they were born.”

Edwin shrugged. “While you may think an immutable caste restricts potential, others believe the system offers freedom. Look at our predicament: you and I have so many choices, we do not know what to do, not even where we should live. But if I had been born a sweeper in Trivandrum, I would die a sweeper in Trivandrum. I would not question my lot. I would make the most of every day.”

“Until you actually are a sweeper in Trivandrum, you cannot possibly know what they feel or think,” I replied with a sniff. “For instance, if I were the sweeper's wife, I might hope that my children might do better than their father. And if I knew this was impossible, I might despair.”

He gestured to the smudged remnants of the white patterns on the red earth. “Does that look like the work of despairing women?”

“Obviously they are not the wives of sweepers,” I replied.

“You are right. This is the royal garden area. However, that doesn't alter my argument.” Edwin led me inside, and I sensed the discussion was over.

“Will we see the prince today?”

“He will have been informed we are here. I expect he will greet us as soon as he is able.”

 

A cow-drawn cart driven by a syce in a black turban was waiting when we left the Orchid House, which I soon realized was the grandest dwelling in that walled section of the town.

“Who else lives here?” I asked.

“The extended family of the maharajah: children, sisters, and court favorites.”

Passing a street bordered by humbler clay houses, I asked, “And who lives in those?”

“Other high-caste Brahmins.”

We rolled along sandy avenues laid out in a regular fashion. The quantity of sturdy buildings surprised me. Edwin pointed out two hospitals, several banks, various ministries that one would expect in a capital, and dozens of schools.

“I have never seen so many schools so close together.”

“Remember what you said about the longings of a sweeper's wife to better her child? Travancore has the highest literacy rate in India, which is the result of having a woman sitting beside the throne.”

My resistance to Travancore began to melt. “I would like to meet the maharani.”

“There is none. Remember I said the maharajah's mother is dead. Amar's mother is the first princess. She will become queen when his uncle dies.”

“Will I meet her?”

“Certainly. She was very kind to me when I was last here.”

After passing churches and chapels for the Protestants, Catholics, and Syrian Christians, we came to the Street of Merchants, which was filling with men whose faces had high, noble brows and wide almond eyes.

“What do you think?” Edwin whispered as we passed a group of Brahmins.

“They are very handsome,” I replied.

“Indeed.” Edwin chuckled. “You can see so much of them!”

My gaze shifted from their honey-glazed faces to their clothing. “I would hate to be a tailor in Travancore.”

“Yes, the higher the caste, the less they wear. Do you see those men?” I glanced at a group who had ivory cloths around their loins and only a cord draped around their shoulders.

“Yes.”

“They are dignitaries.”

“Why do they have that cord?”

“It signifies rank. They get them from the priest at birth and wear them until they die. The cords are their sacred link between birth and death.”

The men wore their hair in long knotted tresses that hung over their shoulders, giving me the impression they were female, but when they turned, it was clear they were not. “Why are there no women anywhere around?”

“The wives and daughters of Brahmins don't walk about until after sunset.”

“And I know why.” I giggled as we moved on behind the bazaar, where copperware glinted in the sun among fruits, grains, and printed cottons that flapped in the breeze. Edwin held my hand discreetly. “Where is the palace?”

“We'll go by it before we head back to the Orchid House. I don't suppose we should be away too long, in case Amar summons us.”

The cart came to a stop after we rounded an archway guarded by armed soldiers on horseback. “Only the royal family may pass underneath,” Edwin explained. “We won't go any farther today.”

I looked over a low wall to see an immense tank in which hundreds of Brahmins had plunged to their waist in water and were making ablutions and praying. With their dripping hair and glistening chests, they looked like golden gods emerging from a sacred sea. “Why are they here?”

“Some sort of ritual or festival—I do not know.” Gesturing more than speaking, he conferred with the driver. Turning to me with a somber face, Edwin said, “They are praying for the health of the maharajah.”

“So, it is true,” I said softly. “Maybe that is why there has been no message from Amar.”

Edwin nodded. “We had better return to the Orchid House.”

During the morning we had seen clusters of soldiers wearing the large red turbans of the maharajah's guard. Now they were marching in formation toward the palace. The dust from their boots blew across the cart and covered us with a burnt-sienna mist. I gave Edwin a searching stare. He smiled slightly to console me, then gave clipped instructions to our driver.

The sky crowded with swift-moving clouds. More and more people milled about. Large droplets began to spatter the road intermittently. In the distance, we heard a rumble that I first thought was thunder, until I recognized the regular beat of drums and then the long wail of a fife. The driver halted the cart, and we strained to listen. Now a burst of booms drowned out the music. Another volley came in rapid succession, and many more followed.

“What—?” I asked Edwin.

“Rifles,” he replied as a lightning flash illuminated the taut cords of his long neck.

“Does that mean he is dead?”

“Yes, I think so.”

I looked down at my trembling hands. The rain had dissolved the red dust into scarlet streaks.

“Now I wish we had never come,” I moaned.

“Dinah, my darling, don't worry.”

“Why are so many soldiers on standby? Will someone contest Amar's succession? Why were they shooting?”

“It was a military salute. The old maharajah had been sick for a long while. His time had come. Amar's hour is here. Just think, we are about to witness something few people ever see. This should be wonderfully exciting.”

With renewed admiration I watched the raindrops running off my husband's chiseled chin. “Yes, Edwin,” I said, lifting myself to kiss his shining brow.

 

The wails of the women of Trivandrum and the piercing sound of the death horn echoed in the streets of the capital as everyone prepared for the cremation.

“When will it take place?”

“This afternoon, I believe.”

“We will remain in our quarters, won't we?” I asked in a thin voice.

“That would be a grave insult to our friend.”

“Thousands will gather here. He won't know where we are.”

“Eventually he would be told.”

“Edwin, I do not want to see it.”

“You don't have to watch. I doubt we shall get closer than a mile away.”

“Edwin . . .” I pleaded.

“Surely you could not have lived your life in India and avoided the sight of cremations.”

“I cannot . . .”

He saw my distress, but it puzzled him. “We shouldn't have walked so far in this heat. After you have a nice tiffin and—”

“No, Edwin, I shall not change my mind on this!” I snapped in a brittle voice.

He opened his mouth, then closed it without replying. I could not explain that every flaming pyre reminded me of the gruesome night my father burned my mother's possessions.

“I suppose you could be ill,” he said, backing down.

As we arrived at the red path to the Orchid House, we saw Hanif waiting at attention. When he caught sight of us, he waved wildly. Edwin hurried to see what the commotion was about.

“You just missed him,” Hanif said breathlessly.

“Who?”

“The sepoy sent by the British resident.” He handed Edwin an official envelope.

“Is that from the Cliffords?” I asked.

Edwin turned it over. “No, the resident in Trivandrum—the bloke Clifford told us about.”

“You did send word to Clifford, didn't you?”

“Yes, late last evening.”

“Do you think this man knows what you did?”

Edwin tore open the envelope and read it rapidly. “No, that is not the problem. This is an invitation to sit in the distinguished visitors' enclosure.” He stared at me.

There was no choice. Now I would have to attend the funeral.

 

If there was ever a man who could be described as “doddering,” it was Sir Mortimer Trevelyan, who had been resident to Travancore under three maharajahs.