Hindoo Holiday (37 page)

We went on into His Highness's private garden to look at the trees and plants, and saw the lemon with its young fruit like small jade marbles, and the sweet lemon, the leaves of which smell so nice when crushed.

The
chandan
or sandalwood tree was there, from which is extracted the white paste used in so many religious ceremonies; and the
hari shringar
(God's adornment) with its small aromatic pink flower.

The
mahwa
tree has a large pale leaf, and a yellow flower and berry from which the peasants brew an intoxicating drink. Bears, too, are partial to its juice. They clamber up the tree after its flowers and, it is said, sometimes fall out of its branches completely sozzled—and perhaps it is whilst they are in this predicament that the manufacturers of the
Rajbansi
Pill take liberties with them. The banana, too, was there, but stunted and unproductive; and the pomegranate, most boring of fruits. The gardener presented me with two buds of double-jasmine—beautiful little things that looked more like exquisitely carved ivory than living flowers, and we argued for a little over the pretty, poisonous oleander. His Highness had once told me that there were only two true varieties of this shrub, one bearing pink and the other white blossoms. But the gardener showed me five varieties, including the two already familiar, and maintained that they were all true. Of the remaining three flowers, one was ruby, another yellow and bell-shaped, and the last like the English pink wild-rose. The leaves of all of them certainly had a very strong family resemblance; so eventually I sent him to His Highness with the five flowers, and a note to say that since the honorable gardener asserted that each of these blossoms was the true oleander, perhaps the best way of settling the dispute would be to feed him with them.

At about eight o'clock last night, while I was sitting in a long chair in the dining-room reading a newspaper before climbing up to my bed on the roof, Abdul appeared in the doorway.

“Good evening, Mr. Ackerley. May I come in?”

“Why don't you have yourself announced in the proper way?”

“Ah, sorry, sorry: I did not know. Are you displeased with me, Mr. Ackerley? I will know another time. I will not do it again. Please accept my apologies—for this time. May I come in now, Mr. Ackerley?”

“Yes, yes,” I said feebly. “Come in.”

He stayed half an hour, and spoke throughout, with very little assistance from me, in subdued, mournful tones, his hands clasped in his lap, his eyes downcast, his head a little sideways, and his chin drawn in.

The entire interview was, no doubt, already planned in his head. I always had from him, on every occasion, this impression of previous rehearsal; point by point he had considered it and worked it out, arranging it so that all his requests were nicely graduated and all the transitions carefully oiled. Here and there in his monologue he broke off to make polite inquiry:

“Is that your newspaper you are holding, or are you engaged in important work? I do not want to bore upon your time. A newspaper? Then I shall remain a little longer and converse with you. Ahem. May I remain a little longer?”

And with such diplomatic interruptions breaking the sequence of his petitions neatly up, he brought every card he had into play.

The Deogarh Collector had written to say that the post was no longer vacant, so he was just as badly off as before, a poor struggling man, preyed upon by his enemies. He was now trying to get a job in Africa as a stationmaster. Then the requests began and, with the production of each, he looked full at me and sniggered, his lips tightly compressed. He looked very horrid, I thought, with the rag of a beard he had just begun to grow for his religious festival, and his squat tarbush, very greasy round the edge, pushed down to his ears.

Once more, he said, he wished to request me to honor his feast—it was to-morrow—even for only a few minutes. His mother had renewed her invitation. She had been rendered disconsolate by my former refusal, and begged me to reconsider my decision. Had I the heart to disappoint her? I said I had.

“Send along some food as you did before.”

“
Very
well, Mr. Ackerley. I shall send you some sweetmeats—very good sweetmeats.”

The head sank down again, with a faint smile on its lips, while he connected his next move.

“You know, Mr. Ackerley,” he tittered, “I told my friends you had promised to honor my feast. I shall be much ashamed before them.” He paused expectantly. I had nothing to say. “They will laugh at me—and mock me. What can I do? I was a fool. But how could I know you would refuse me?” There was another pause. Another silence. “I also told to them that you were paying me twenty-five rupees a month—for your lessons.”

He watched alertly the effect of this.

“And why did you do that?” I asked.

“All Europeans pay so much for their lessons—thirty, forty, fifty rupees a month. Never less than twenty-five. Every man knows this. So I said
so
. I said you were paying me twenty-five, though you only paid me ten, for I was much ashamed before them. I was a fool!”

“You were indeed,” I said.

Again the spinster-like titter and the effect of sinking, of disappearance, of abrupt withdrawal down into his own mind to select and reappear with a new card up his sleeve, blandly, as though confident that no one could have missed him. It was like an elaborate conjuring trick.

“Oh, Mr. Ackerley—I have a request to make of you. Can you—will you be so kind as to grant me a little black polish? Only a small piece. I shall be very grateful.”

He fished a Nugget Boot Polish tin out of his pocket.

“Blacking?” I said, astonished. “Whatever for?”

“For my shoes. To-morrow we must all have clean shoes for the festival, and I have no blacking in my house and cannot afford to buy some. But I only want very little. Just enough for one shoe.”

Concealing my amusement, I told him that Hashim would no doubt supply him with what he wanted.

“Thank you, Mr. Ackerley, thank you
very
much.”

The tin was restored to the pocket, and again, so to speak, he sank, but for so long this time that I felt that he must be played out, that he had got to the end of the suit, that nothing, except perhaps the ace, remained. Eventually he came up with it, and in spite of my dislike for him I could not help feeling a certain admiration for his perseverance. Having failed to get what he wanted by putting me under a new obligation or playing for my pity, he now asked for it direct.

“Mr. Ackerley, if I make a request will you grant it?”

“No.”

He sniggered.

“Oh! You will not? You say ‘No' before you have heard me speak.”

“I know quite well what you are going to say,” I said.

But he could not allow that.

“It is a very
simple
request—a request you are able to grant very easily, with no trouble or inconvenience to yourself. May I make my request and will you promise to grant it?”

“I think it's time you went,” I said.

“We have our festival to-morrow which I spoke of, and there is much expense—we have to buy food and sweetmeats and invite our friends to our house and—I am a poor man, Mr. Ackerley. Will you be so kind as to grant me a little money? You will do me the greatest service, and I shall thank you from my heart, and remember you all my lifetime and—”

“Good-bye, Abdul,” I said, “I won't do anything more for you.”

“Ah, Mr. Ackerley, only three or four rupees—if you will be so kind—my family members . . .”

“Run along, Abdul.”

He got up without any sign of disappointment.

“Very well, Mr. Ackerley; I am going. At what time tomorrow may I bring my
gift
?”

“
Send
it,” I said.

“
Send
it? Not
bring
it?” His eyebrows went up.

“Yes, Abdul,
send
it.”

“Very well, Mr. Ackerley, I will
send
it. Good evening, Mr. Ackerley—and do not say a word to any other person of what we have been talking. You will not?”

“Oh, go away!” I cried angrily.

He fled.

I spoke to His Highness the other day about Narayan.

“Prince, I want to speak in honor of Narayan,” I said.

“Say what you wish.”

“You told me once in Garha that although he is the grandson of your old physician, whom you loved, you didn't know much about him—in fact, that you had never even looked him closely in the face.”

“It is quite true.”

“No doubt. Otherwise you wouldn't listen to discreditable stories about him.”

“Do you want me to give him more salary?”

“No, I want you to give him more respect”—and I went on to say all the nice things I could think of about Narayan, laying particular emphasis upon his loyalty. When I had finished he seemed rather pleased.

Later on, Narayan informed me that His Highness had called him and told him that I had spoken very highly of him, and because of this, and for no other reason, he himself was well disposed to Narayan, would examine him to verify the truth of my belief, and if he was satisfied, would give him employment in the Palace and a good salary.

So Narayan was to come to him for examination every third or fourth evening for a month, and they would converse together. Narayan had inquired, rather suspiciously perhaps, what sort of employment was meant, and had been told that the position he would get would be that once held by a greatly valued servant “who did all works for me and on whom I very greatly depended.” Beyond that His Highness had not been disposed to commit himself.

“What did the Sahib say about me?” Narayan had asked.

“No need to tell,” replied the Maharajah. “But you may be sure that no one could have spoken more highly of any man.”

So the interview had ended and (shades of Abdul!) produced uneasiness in at least three minds. Narayan himself was a little alarmed at this prospect of employment in the Palace, and neither his father nor Sharma felt quite comfortable about it. Both had recommended him to ask my advice.

“Go and ask the Sahib,” Sharma had said, “and do whatever he tells you.”

Narayan's father had said:

“Go to your master and talk to him.”

That is what we were all doing here this evening while I had my dinner.

I offered Sharma a sweet, but he shook his head.

“Ask him why he won't take a sweet from me,” I said to Narayan.

“He say me ‘How can it be? I am an Indian and you are a European,'” interpreted Narayan, laughing.

“Does he know that
we
know that he eats and drinks all manner of sinful things in his house—such as eggs and invalid port?” I asked.

“Yes, he know.”

“Then tell him he is a fool
buchcha
and I will not give him an ice!”

This produced consternation in Sharma; ices being permissible food and much appreciated; but we all looked very sternly at him, and even the grave, expressionless Hashim joined in the little joke, keeping back the third ice in the kitchen.

Sharma did not quite know what to make of it all; his nervous gaze darted from one face to another, and now he laughed and now he looked very serious, until our gravity broke down and he ran into the kitchen and got his ice himself. When they went I said I would walk with them, and getting a lantern from Hashim—for there was no moon—I strolled out with Sharma, leaving Narayan, who was talking to the cook, to follow. After a moment Sharma took the lantern from me, without a word, and carried it himself, on his far side so that it should not knock against me. His near hand was in his coat pocket. I put my arm through his.

Immediately he took his hand from his pocket, so that for a second I thought myself rebuffed; but instead he seized my hand in his and linked his fingers with mine.

“How is Napoleon the Third, Prince? I hope he has quite got over his leprosy?”

“Yes, yes, he is better. But now he has had his
choti
cut off by mistake, and he is quite in-inconsolable.”

“Poor Napoleon!” I said. “And what is his
choti
?”

“Do you not know?” His Highness shook with husky laughter. “It is
pigtail
! What is pigtail?”

It appeared that Napoleon had taken a sudden fancy for a European hair-cut, so the court barber was sent for and the operation performed. Naturally his little tail of hair had been snipped off; but Napoleon had not intended this to go, and realizing too late what had happened, had burst into lamentations, saying that they had shamed him, they had turned him into a Mohammedan and what would his people say?

“We have all tried to comfort him,” said His Highness, between gasps, “but he will not speak to any of us. He is very angry indeed.”

“Five days!” said Narayan sadly, as we all three sat on the verandah yesterday evening. Sharma, who was sitting on the other side of me catching fireflies and watching them glow on his dark palm, understood both these words and, suddenly apprehensive, asked Narayan what he meant.

“The Sahib is going away in five days.”

Sharma's face at once took on an expression of the deepest despair. I told him that that did not mean that we should never meet again, and that meanwhile I would send him picture postcards of Piccadilly; but he refused to be comforted; he turned his face away and gazed, with ominously bright eyes, over the dark countryside, responding neither to my smiles nor to the pressure of my hand in his.

“He got much sorrow,” explained Narayan.

They both wept together all the way back to the city; but this morning, when Narayan told me this, the sky was serene again, and each presented me with a jasmine blossom from the garden of Dilkhusha or Heart's Ease.

His Highness said this evening that it was a pity I was not staying on through the rainy season, for the country looked very beautiful during the rains, though he was afraid, for some reason or other, that they were going to be particularly heavy this year, as bad, perhaps, as they had been some years ago, when the rivers had overflowed and flooded the whole countryside. It had been a terrible time, he said; the rains had gone on and on, far beyond their normal period, as though they were never going to stop, and there was much panic, for the people thought it was a judgment upon them and offered sacrifice to Indra, the God of Rain.