The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [306]
Gul Baz had earlier helped him to pull on his boots and overalls and buckle on the webbed sword belt with its dangling straps about his waist; and now he shrugged himself reluctantly into the coat and adjusted the cross belt, feeling as stale and exhausted as though he had just returned from a route march instead of doing no more than rise from his bed and eat his breakfast. The high, tight collar of his uniform felt as though it would choke him, but though the day promised to be one of the longest and worst of his life, and was already abominably hot, as a Sahib and an officer he must sit through it sweltering in full-dress uniform, gloved, booted and spurred, and with a ceremonial sword clanking at his hip – which seemed, somehow, the last straw in the whole sorry business.
His hands were steady enough as he buckled on his sword, but when Gul Baz handed him the big white pith helmet that is worn with full dress, he took it and stood looking at it as he had looked at Jhoti, as though he did not see it.
Bands of blue and gold striped the pugaree-cloth about the crown, and the light glinted on the tall gilt spike that topped it and on the links of the chinstrap that custom decreed must be worn above and not below the chin. Gul Baz cleared his throat in a deprecatory cough that was a polite reminder that time was passing, and when that had no effect, said firmly: ‘Put it on, Sahib. The sun is hot.’
Ash obeyed mechanically, and having adjusted the chinstrap, drew on his gloves and hitched forward the hilt of his sword, and straightening his shoulders as though he were about to face a firing squad, went out to join Kaka-ji and others who were already waiting to welcome the bridegroom and his party in a covered courtyard by the main gate of the Pearl Palace.
The courtyard was a large one, but it was stiflingly hot, and also exceedingly noisy, for in addition to the many people waiting there, a three-man band sat playing in a small balcony above the arch that led into the main block of the palace.
Garlands of roses and jasmine buds hung down from the balcony's edge and were looped across the marble screens, and the close air reeked with the cloying sweetness of itr and incense and fading flowers, the sharp smell of pan and cardamom seeds, and the less pleasing odour of perspiration. Ash could feel the sweat running down between his shoulder blades, and he surreptitiously unhooked the high collar of his coat and wished that the dignity of a Sahib did not entail his having to accept a chair instead of squatting Indian fashion on the floor as his companions were doing: the marble would at least be cool, whereas the plush upholstery of the chair that had been provided for him felt as though it had just come out of an oven. He shifted restlessly and wondered how long he would be called upon to endure it, and whether it was the heat or the lack of air or the intermittent bursts of ear-piercing music that was making his head ache so abominably.
In the event the wait turned out to be even longer than expected, for the report that the bridegroom and his barat had left the city palace and were on their way to the park had been over-optimistic. They had intended to leave a full two hours before noon, but Asia has little regard for Time and none at all for punctuality, and the afternoon was far advanced before the procession finally set out for the Ram Bagh; and when at last it reached the park the sun was well down in the sky and the worst of the heat was over.
They could hear it coming from a long way off. At first the tunk-a-tunk of drums and the joyous squeal of flutes, the braying of horns and the shouts of watching crowds were only a distant murmur barely louder than the cawing of crows and the crooning of doves and green pigeons among the trees of the Ram Bagh. But as the minutes slid past the sounds grew