The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [208]
‘ “Take what you want,” says God. “And pay for it,” ’ quoted Ash. ‘Do you really believe all that, Juli?’
‘That we must pay for all we do? Of course.’
‘No: that we are born over and over again. That you and I, for instance, have already lived many lives and will live many more.’
‘If one has been born once, why not again?’ asked Juli. ‘Besides, the Upanishads* tell us that this is so, and according to that teaching it is only those who attain to the knowledge of the identity of the Soul of Brahma who reach “the way of the gods” and do not return to earth. Therefore it follows that you and I have not yet freed ourselves from the cycle of re-birth; and as I do not think either of us are seekers after holiness – or anyway, not yet -we shall surely be born again.’
‘As a worm or a rat, or a pariah dog?’
‘Only if we have committed some terrible sin in this life. If we are kind and just, and give to the poor -’
‘And the priests,’ interjected Ash derisively. ‘Don't forget the priests.’
‘And the priests also,’ amended Anjuli gravely, ‘then – who knows? -we may even be born as great ones. You a king or a famous warrior; or even a Mahatma. And I a queen – or a nun.’
‘The gods forbid!’ said Ash with a laugh.
But Anjuli did not smile and her face was suddenly sober as she said slowly, and almost as though she were speaking to herself: ‘But I had forgotten… I will soon be a queen in this one. The Junior Rani of Bhithor…’
Her voice died out in a whisper and they rode on without speaking, until presently Ash reined in to sit watching the sun go down. He knew that Juli had drawn rein beside him, but though he would not look at her, he was acutely aware of her presence – of the faint fragrance of dried rose-petals that clung about her and the fact that he had only to move his hand a little way to touch hers. The sun slid below the horizon and was gone, and from the shelter of a patch of high grass a peacock called mournfully into the silence. Ash heard the girl beside him draw a slow breath and let it out on a sigh, and he said abruptly, still without looking at her: ‘What are you thinking about, Juli?’
‘The Dur Khaima,’ said Juli unexpectedly. ‘It is strange to think that I shall never see the Dur Khaima again. Or you either, once this journey is ended.’
The peacock cried again, its harsh call a loneliness in the gathering dusk. And like an echo of that sound came Jhoti's high-pitched voice calling to them that it was time to go back, and there had been nothing for it but to turn their horses and rejoin the others.
Ash had been noticeably silent as they rode back to the camp, and that night for the first time he took stock of the situation, and made a serious attempt to sort out his emotions and decide what, if anything, he meant to do about Juli. Or could do.
To the consternation of Gul Baz, he announced that he was going to take a long walk and would not be returning for some hours; and having brusquely refused to allow anyone to accompany him, he strode off into the darkness, armed only with a stout, iron-bound lathi (staff) such as country folk carry.
‘Let him be, Gul Baz,’ advised Mahdoo. ‘He is young, and it is too hot for sleeping. Also I think there is something that troubles him, and it may be that the night air will serve to clear his mind. Go to bed, and tell Kunwar that I will be chowkidar tonight. There is no need for us both to wait up for the Sahib.’
The wait had proved much longer than Mahdoo expected, for the Sahib did not return until shortly before dawn; and long before that the old man fell asleep at his post, secure in the belief that Ash must arouse him in order to re-enter the tent, and untroubled by any serious fear for the safety of one who had learned caution