The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [166]
‘Except yourself,’ said Ash slowly.
‘Except myself. But then, you see… he was a brother to me – a true brother, as my own were not – and I do not remember my mother. She fell into disfavour before she died, and afterwards my father's new wife saw to it that I was kept out of his sight, so that he became a stranger to me. Even the servants knew that they need not treat me well, and only two were kind to me: one of my serving-women, and her son Ashok, a boy some few years older than myself who was in the service of my half-brother, the Yuveraj. Had it not been for Ashok and his mother I should have been friendless indeed, and you cannot know what their kindness meant to the child that I was…’
Her voice wavered uncertainly and Ash looked away from her, for there were tears in her eyes and once again he was ashamed because he had allowed himself to forget a little girl who had loved his mother and looked up to him as a friend and a hero, and whom he had left behind, friendless, in Gulkote and never thought of again…
‘You see,’ explained Anjuli, ‘I had no one else to love, and when they went away I thought that I should die of grief and loneliness. They had no choice but to go… But I will not tell you that tale, for it is one I think you must know, or how else would you have known who had the other half of the luck-piece? I will only say that when we parted I gave the charm to Ashok for a keepsake, and he broke it in two and gave half back to me, promising that he would surely return one day and then – then we would join the two pieces together again. But I never learned what had become of him or even if he and his mother had escaped to safety, and there were times when I feared that they were both dead, for I could not believe that they would send me no word, or that Ashok would not come back. You see – had promised. And then… and then tonight, when I saw that what you had given me was not my own half of the charm, but his, I knew that he was alive and that he must have asked you to give it to me. So I waited until all the camp was asleep, and came here to ask for news of him.’
The moth had fallen down the chimney of the oil lamp and set the wick flaring, and another clumsy night-flying insect was battering itself against the glass, making a monotonous sound that now Anjuli was no longer speaking seemed as loud as the beat of a drum in the silence. Ash rose abruptly and went over to trim the wick, standing with his back to her and apparently giving his whole attention to the task. He had not made any comment, and as the silence lengthened and he still did not speak, she said with a catch in her voice:
‘Are they dead, then?’
Ash spoke without turning: ‘His mother died many years ago. Not long after they left Gulkote.’
‘And Ashok?’ She had to repeat the question.
‘He is here,’ said Ash at last; and turned towards her, the light at his back falling full on her face and leaving his own in shadow.
‘You mean – here in the camp?’ Anjuli's voice was a startled whisper. ‘Then why did he not… Where is he? What is he doing? Tell him –’
Ash said: ‘Don't you know me, Juli?’
‘Know you?’ repeated Juli bewildered. ‘Ah, do not make game of me, Sahib. It is not kind.’
She wrung her hands together in a gesture of despair and Ash said: ‘I am not making game of you. Look at me, Juli –’ he reached for the lamp and lifting it, held it so that the light fell on his face. ‘Look carefully. Have I changed so much? Do you really not know me?’
Anjuli backed away from him, staring and whispering, ‘No! no, no, no –’ under her breath.
‘Yes, you do. I can't have changed as much as all that: I was eleven. It was different with you. You were only a baby of six, or was it seven? I would never have recognized you if I hadn't known. But you still have the scar where the monkey bit you. Do you remember how my mother washed the bite and tied it up for you, and told you the story of Rama and