Authors: Sara Banerji
Tikkipala
Sara Banerji
Chapter 1
Sangita, Ranee of Bidwar, stood at the edge of the Parwal palace garden holding her little boy by the hand.
She looked up at the mountain peak and realised she was happy again.
Anwar's hand felt soft and warm against her own and the tiny wiggling of his fingers sent a soft stir of pleasure into Sangita's heart. She had got him back. She could hardly believe it, for there had been a time when she had feared she might never be allowed to see her son again. Even now the thought sent a little chill of fear into her heart, making her squeeze his hand tighter.
âBreathe deeply, darling,' she told the little boy. âLike this.' She opened her mouth and took in gulps of air, as though it was something to drink. As though air could quench thirst. As though breathing the cool wind could blow away two years of suffering. âThere. What can you smell?'
âPapa said I've always got to breathe through my nose.'
âBut Mama is back and she knows things too,' said Sangita. She tried to smile but her lips felt stiff. âGo on. Try it. What can you smell?'
âWhiskers,' said Anwar.
âDon't be silly,' laughed Sangita. âTell me really.'
âTiger whiskers,' persisted the little boy. âPapa said there were tigers up there.'
She sighed.
Above them the great rock bulged out like a too clever forehead, too clever for anything to grow upon, too smooth for anyone to climb.
âCan you see anything up there?'
âI can see tiny little trees,' said the child.
âThey are enormous really. They just look little because they are so far away.'
âPapa saidâ¦'
âDon't keep talking about Papa all the time.'
Anwar started to try to pull his hand away.
Sangita held on and squeezed her eyes to keep the tears in. Swiftly, as though to divert the direction of the child's thoughts she asked, âCan you see animals up there, even though it's so far away?' Then, as he began to speak, she added swiftly, âNot tigers, Anwar. Don't talk about tigers. I want to know what you really see.'
Anwar squinted into the dazzle of distant shade and light. âWell, there's some people sitting on top of the trees.'
âNo darling,' she told him gently. âThere are no people living up there. It might be the only place in earth which is so high and difficult to get to, that people can't reach it.'
âI can see them' said Anwar. âAnd Papâ¦' He stopped himself quickly.
âThat's monkeys,' said Sangita. âHuge monkeys live up there.'
âThey've got hats on,' said Anwar.
âYou're being silly.'
âI'm not. They really do have hats on. Can I have a monkey, Mama?'
She couldn't stop herself constantly looking at him, as though each time she felt unable to believe what she had seen the last time. He had changed so much. When she had last seen him, he had been barely able to walk or talk and now he had become a grave little boy, dignified and slightly remote. She wondered if the long gap had permanently spoiled their relationship.
She wanted to ask him, âDo you love me?' but did not dare. Instead she gently stroked the soft skin of his wrist with her finger, revelled in the furry feel of his skin and hoped he would not try to pull his hand away again. She had got him back. That was all that mattered. The past was behind them.
When her husband, the Raja of Bidwar, sent her home to her parents two years before, she has asked him, âFor how long?' and tried to keep herself from crying.
âUntil I have made up my mind what to do.'
She wanted to throw herself at his feet, to weep, to plead, to swear that that nothing like it would ever happen again, to implore him to forgive her, but she knew from the chill of his expression that she would be humiliating herself for nothing, and instead just asked, âHow long will you take to make up your mind?'
âI don't know. Give me time to think about it. When I am ready I will let you know.'
She had entered her parent's home a disgraced woman.
Her parents had been delighted and proud when she became the Raja's bride three years before and now they could not bear to look at her. During meals she sat hunched and ashamed at their table, while they ate in horrified silence. Several times during those awful months that lingered on into years, Sangita tried to explain, but her parent's dismay was so great, they would not listen. Quickly they would change the subject and when Sangita tried to force her father to hear her, he said, âBecause of your behaviour, your life is ruined and you have only yourself to blame. Now please do not mention the matter to me anymore, for even to hear you speak of it brings a pain into my heart.' He suffered from a heart condition and the family always had to be careful not to do anything to upset him.
After the Raja returned Sangita to him, he lay for two whole days in bed in a darkened room, with the doctor administering to him every hour and the people of the house talking in whispers so as not to make a noise that might startle him and tilt him into death.
âWalk without shoes on,' Sangita's mother ordered. âFor if your soles make the smallest clattering you will not only be guilty of betraying your husband, but you will have killed your father also.' Her mother's voice, always deep, took on a new funereal depth, her eyes became hollow and dark ringed and her shoulders bowed after Sangita's disgraced return.
Sangita followed her mother from room to room telling her, âI couldn't help it. There was nothing I could do,' while her mother put hands over her ears saying, âI don't want to hear anything. Things are bad enough already and talking of this will make it worse.'
âIt was my husband who encouraged me to accept the invitations from the Collector,' Sangita told her mother's muffled ears. âHe said it would improve relationships with the British.'
âI don't want to hear,' cried the mother.
âAnd when the Collector's daughter and I became friends and started playing tennis together, he was pleased. He said I was creating a bridge between our two nationsâ¦'
But her mother rushed into another room and slammed the door.
âYou made a noise,' shouted Sangita through the key hole. âNow if Papa dies it will be you who killed him and not me.' She was going wild and mad with her desperation because of having no one who would listen to her. She was saying awful things which she instantly regretted, but could not stop herself.
She longed for Daisy, but her friend had returned to England and Sangita knew that whatever happened, even if she, Sangita, was allowed to return to the palace of Bidwar and take up her place as the Raja's wife again, she would probably never see Daisy again.
Sangita was not even given a chance to say goodbye to Daisy and could not write to her for she did not know the address and had no way of finding it.
She got no letters from Daisy either, though she felt sure her friend was writing to her, for several times her mother quickly whisked an English airmail letter from the post before Sangita had time to get there.
Once Sangita tried to snatch the letter from her mother's hand. âGive it to me. You must. It is mine. It is stealing to take away my letter.'
But her mother held on grimly, saying, âYou are mistaken. This is only an official letter for your father.'
âLet me see it then,' cried Sangita, as her mother began to shove the letter into the blouse of her sari. âShow me. Since when did our father get official letters from England?'
âAll the time,' said the mother. âYou know nothing.' And she strode away, this time too, not walking silently, but letting her slippers slap loudly against the marble floor as though the father was not laying a wall away, nearly dying from a heart attack.
Sangita ached for Daisy almost as much as she longed for her child. Until Daisy came there had never been any young British people living in Bidwar. Sir Knutley Smithers had been the Collector there from the time of Sangita's earliest memories. He was a pompous old man with a red face who breathed snortingly down nostrils that sprouted an amazingly large amount of long hairs and wore a dinner jacket and bow tie in the
evening, no matter how hot the weather. When he was invited for dinner, Sangita's mother always instructed her daughter beforehand, âWhen you meet him, make sure you don't stare at his nose.'
Ayah would dress Sangita in a silk kurta panama weighted with golden zari and pearls, clasp golden bangles round her wrists and a diamond choker round her throat, then bring her down to be presented to the Collector.
âMy daughter, Sangita,' her father would say each time, as though otherwise the English Collector would not know who this small girl was. âCome, stand by the chair of Sir Edward and say good evening.'
Reaching out, hardly looking at her, the English Collector would pinch Sangita's cheek with large pink fingers that smelled of tobacco, soap and horse, and say, âHave you been a good girl?' then return to his plate without waiting for her answer. His breath always smelled of brandy. She would hastily avert her eyes from the quivering nose hairs as she answered, as she had been instructed, âYes, sir.'
At this point Sangita's father would tell the ayah, âYou can take her away now,' and Sangita would be returned to her room, the ayah chiding, as they went up the winding stairs, âYour Mama told you not to look at the Collector's nose, so why did you disobey her?'
Then one day, when Sangita was grown up and married the Raja of Bidwar, Sir Knutley Smithers retired and in his place came Daisy's father.
âWe will have to go round to the new Collector's house and make ourselves known to him.' grumbled Sangita's husband. âEven though he is not even knighted, because he is British it is we who must make the first visit.' He felt insulted but because of a complicated dispute he was involved in regarding land and the British government,
was forced, for the moment, to humiliate himself. âThough once this matter is sorted out, these people will be compelled to show me proper respect.'
Her husband would not have allowed Sangita to accompany him at all, if it had not been for the fact that both Raja and Ranee were on the invitation.
This expecting a man to be always partnered by his wife, was, the Raja knew, one of the quirks of the British and in his present delicate situation, he was forced to accommodate them.
He told Sangita, âBecause of your youth, it is my duty to instruct you in how to deport yourself in front of this foreigner, who, although a person of lower rank, is also the representative of the British government and as you are aware I am being forced to propitiate them in order to retain my legal property. It is important, therefore, that you behave correctly. There have been occasions,' he went on, âin which I have felt you have not behaved with the modesty required of the wife of the Raja.'
Sangita, he said, had let him down the time she had taken part in the men's conversation and then there had been that time when she had thrown a ball for the collector's dog, then gone running across the lawn with the animal, allowing her bare ankles to be seen by all. âYou must keep your palu over your head throughout the visit and also completely covering the shoulders.'