The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [382]
Manilal shivered involuntarily and his teeth made a little chattering sound. They had, he told Ash, learned nothing more when the Rana fell seriously ill, and before very long it became plain to all that the illness could be mortal.
‘Only then did we learn by a chance whisper overheard in the palace – and later through the open talk in the city and certain unseemly jests in the bazaars – that if he died his wives would burn with him; for save for his father, the old Rana, who died of the cholera, no ruler of Bhithor has ever gone to the pyre alone – and for him it was only because there had been no wives to become suttee as they too, and his favourite concubine also, had already taken the disease and died of it. But it seems that when his predecessor died, in the year that Mahadaji Sindia retook Delhi, fourteen women – wives and concubines – followed him into the flames; and before that never less than three or four and often more than a score. Now the wits say that this time there will be only two, there being no concubines but only catamites.’
Ash's mouth twisted in a tight-lipped grimace of disgust, and Manilal said: ‘Yes, it is an ugly jest. Though well deserved. But what matters is that even the jesters take for granted that the Ranis will become suttee, as do all in Bhithor. It is, they say, the custom; though the common folk no longer observe it, and only a very few of the noble families have done so during the life-time of the present Rana. Yet the people still consider it incumbent upon the royal house to respect the old laws, for the honour of Bhithor and all who dwell there – particularly those who do not keep them. For when the Rana's wives become suttees they will stand, as it were, as a symbol and a substitute for all those widows who have shrunk from doing so, or been prevented from it by their relatives.’
‘In fact,’ said Ash savagely, and in English, ‘it is still expedient that one man should die for the people. In this case, two women.’ He saw that Manilal was looking startled, and reverted to the vernacular: ‘Well, they are not going to die, so Bhithor will just have to do without its scapegoats and burnt offerings. When do you return?’
‘As soon as I can procure more pigeons and another six bottles of useless medicines from the dewai dukan. Also a fresh horse, for my own will not be fit to ride for some days yet and I dare not delay my return. I have lost too much time already. Can the Sahib perhaps help in the matter of a horse?’
‘Surely. You may leave that to me. The pigeons and medicines also. What you need is rest, and you had best get as much of that as you can while you have the chance. Give me the empty bottles. Gul Baz shall fetch what you require as soon as the shop opens tomorrow morning.’
Manilal handed them over, retired to his charpoy and was asleep again within minutes: a deep, refreshing sleep from which he did not awake until the sun was up and the crows, doves and parrots were quarrelling over the spilt grain by the stables, while the well-wheel squeaked in descant to the clatter of cooking pots and all the familiar sounds of an Indian morning. But by that time Ash had already been gone two hours, leaving a message telling Manilal to procure such things as he needed and meet him at Sarji's house.
The message had been delivered by Gul Baz, in a voice laden with disapproval, together with half-a-dozen bottles of patent medicines from Jobbling & Sons, the Chemists. Manilal made his way to the bazaar, where he bought a large wicker basket, a quantity of food and fresh fruit, and three chickens. The basket, like the one he had previously taken into Bhithor, had a false bottom. But this time it had not been