The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [388]
‘Sarji, I brought those two to Bhithor. You may say that I had no choice, but that doesn't make me feel any better about it, and if they are burned alive I shall have it on my conscience to the end of my life. That's no reason, though, why you should get involved in this, and if you feel you would rather have nothing to do with it – I mean… as a Hindu –’
‘Chut!’ said Sarji. ‘I am no bigot to desire the return of a cruel custom that was outlawed before I was born. Times change, my friend; and men change with them – even Hindus. Do your Christians in Belait still burn witches, or fellow-Christians who do not agree as to the manner in which they shall worship the same God? I have heard that this was once your custom, but not that it is still so.’
‘Of course not. But –’
‘But you think we of this country are incapable of any similar progress? That is not so – though there are many things that we do not see in the same light as your people do. I myself would not have any widow burn herself unless she desired it above all things, loving her husband so greatly that she could not endure to live without him and so chose of her own free will to follow him. That, I confess, I would not prevent, since unlike your people, I do not consider that I have a right to decide that a man or a woman may not take their own life if they choose to do so. Perhaps this is because life is less important to us than it is to you, who being Christians have only the one life on this earth, whereas we have many. We die and are re-born again a hundred thousand or a thousand thousand times; or it may be many more. Who knows? Therefore what matter if we choose to shorten one of these lives by our own desire?’
Ash said: ‘But suicide is a crime.’
‘To your people. Not to mine. And this is still my country, and not yours. As my life is also mine. But to contrive the death of another is murder, which I do not condone; and because I have seen and spoken with the Hakim from Karidkote, I am ready to believe him if he says that the Ranis of Bhithor stand in danger of being forced to the pyre against their will, for I judged him to be a good man, and no liar. Therefore I will do all that I can to help you and him, and the Ranis also. You have only to tell me what you need.’
Manilal, arriving at mid-day, was met by the shikari Bukta, and taken into the presence of the master of the house and a man whom he did not immediately recognize: which was understandable. Sarji and Bukta had taken great pains with Ash's disguise, and walnut juice when properly applied is an admirable dye, though it does not last over-long. Ash had also shaved off his moustache, and it would never have occurred to anyone that this was not a compatriot of Sarjevar's. A sober, middle-class Indian, with a parent or ancestor who hailed from the hills where men are fairer of skin than in hotter parts of the country, and whose dress proclaimed him a professional man in good standing. A vakil (lawyer), perhaps, or a hakim, from somewhere like Baroda or Bombay.
Manilal, that stolid and imperturbable person, was for once betrayed into a startled gasp, and stood open-mouthed, staring at Ash as though he could not believe his eyes. ‘Ai-yah!’ breathed Manilal, awed, ‘it is wonderful. And yet… yet it is only a matter of clothes and a razor. But what is the meaning of this, Sahib?’
‘Ashok,’ corrected Ash with a grin. ‘In this garb I have another name, and am no longer a Sahib.’
‘What does the –