In a tree-lined square Joe and Stuart found themselves ambushed by a crowd of young boys anxious to direct their attention to one of their fellows who was preparing with the sole aid of a battered attaché case to put on a magic show for the strangers.
To Joe’s surprise, Stuart stopped and indicated that he was prepared to watch the show. ‘We artistes,’ he grinned, ‘have to stick together. They’re good, these kids. I’ve never managed to work out how they do what they do. Take a look.’
They watched in delighted astonishment as the ten-yearold prestidigitator performed trick after trick with a running commentary in a mixture of Hindi and English. Small brown hands flashed mesmerizingly, performing impossible feats with the simple props of a few polished stones, copper cups, two red-painted metal balls and a greasy pack of cards. At each magical disappearance of an object they had thought was clearly in their view the child would cry out in triumph, ‘Where’s it? Gone to Delhi!’
The culmination of his act came with the vanishing of the two red balls from an upturned cup and the subsequent mysterious reappearance of the balls from Joe’s crotch, tinkling into the cup the conjuror held up between his legs. Joe put on a show of horror followed by relief to find, on mimed investigation, that his own balls had not gone to Delhi. The audience were delighted and even more delighted when an over-large tip had them all shooting off to the nearest sweetmeat stall.
Still smiling with pleasure, Joe waited until they had run off before turning to Stuart. ‘Look, Stuart, I have to tell you, the last person I’m expecting to see here is Ali,’ he admitted. ‘I’m glad I came but in fact I’m not quite sure what brought us here. . Curiosity, I suppose. . It felt right to fill in a bit of background on the maharaja. . The whole problem seems to stem from the succession and this is where it all started.’
Stuart grinned. ‘Your instinct’s probably right. This whole nasty business is driven by one question — who succeeds? Did you see the large haveli I pointed out to you? That’s where Udai was born and where his cousin, the town headman, still lives. His name’s Shardul Singh. We’ll go and say hello.’
‘Haveli, did you say?’
‘Yes. Never heard of the havelis before?’ Stuart smiled smugly. ‘You’re in for a treat! They are rather special. Look, here’s a small one coming up on the right.’
The buildings which had appeared block-like and drab from the air were enchanting when seen at street level. Joe stopped and stared in wonder at his first sight of one of the decorated merchants’ houses that lined the main street of the town. They presented strong walls punctuated only by rows of small fretted windows and, Joe guessed, were aired and cooled by the internal courtyards he had spotted from the plane. But it was the wall decorations which stunned. As though to counteract the bleak surroundings, the painters had covered the walls with brilliantly coloured frescoes. Joe laughed to see caparisoned elephants in procession, rearing battle-ready horses, hunting scenes, prowling tigers, flowers and birds, even files of red-coated British soldiers and a childlike impression of a train.
Stuart pointed out the most interesting scenes as they walked up the crowded main street, the houses and the standard of painting growing ever more impressive. Joe paused in front of a spectacular display of artistry in a limited palette of red, brown and green, admiring the intricate floral arches outlining two Rajput warriors mounted on gaily decorated steeds. On either side of the main image were smaller pictures of Rajput women. One played with a yoyo, another held a musical instrument, a third, skirts aswirl, ran with bow and arrow and a determined expression, and a fourth, veiled this one, peered from behind her ghungat, fixing the observer with one bright dark eye, ankles and wrists heavy with jewels.
‘Here — what do you make of this?’ Joe asked, his attention caught by a linear pattern of red handprints running along the bottom of the wall. ‘It doesn’t seem to chime with the rest of the decoration?’
‘Thapas,’ said Stuart. ‘No, a false note if ever there was one.’ He shuffled his foot uncomfortably on the sandy road. ‘It’s symbolic of the practice of sati. All the widows of the head of the house used to go to the pyre with their dead lord. And his concubines as well. Most went willingly — it was a matter of pride and honour and an outward show of the love they bore for him. But I suppose you know all this? On their way to the fire they dip their right hand into red ochre and leave a print on the wall of the house.’
Joe looked in distress at the line of prints, some no more than child-sized, and stammered, ‘But there must be. .?’
‘Never tried to count them. They go all the way around.’
Joe looked more closely. The line of prints was fading progressively as it stretched away but the last two or three seemed to him suspiciously fresh. He shared his suspicions with Stuart.
‘It goes on,’ said Stuart wearily. ‘The British outlawed it a hundred years ago but you can’t be everywhere. The last of these prints was put there three years ago, I’m told. But come on, let’s go in, shall we? This is the headman’s house. The house where Udai was born. They’ll be expecting us.’
‘Amal khaya, sahib?’
‘What’s he saying?’ asked Joe.
‘He’s asking if you’ve had your opium today. He’ll provide if you haven’t had time for it yet this morning,’ said Stuart.
Joe managed to find the right words in Hindi to say thank you but refuse the traditional stimulant. His host, Shardul Singh, waved away the hookah, smiled and asked for tea and pastries to be brought instead. They were seated barefoot and cross-legged on white cotton-covered mattresses laid on the cool marble floor of a verandah overlooking a courtyard filled with flowers and fruit trees. Joe wondered briefly how many buckets of water had to be carried here each day to maintain this profusion. Shardul was simply dressed in white dhoti and kurta with a yellow turban and surrounded by similarly attired smiling men ranging from very old to young. One of the younger ones was brought forward with the explanation that his English was much better than Stuart’s Hindi and with great good humour the audience got under way.
The polite compliments flowed from both sides and it was some time before Stuart judged the moment right to introduce his business. Delicately he asked if he might speak with the chief ’s kinsman, Ali.
The enquiry was greeted with what Joe’s keen eye took to be genuine puzzlement. Heads were shaken, consultations took place and questions were asked. The conclusion was that Stuart must have been misinformed about the movements of his rigger. Ali had not returned to his home since he had left it over a year ago to work for Stuart at the palace. The men appeared politely concerned but not alarmed by the alleged disappearance of their kinsman. They were in fact more intrigued by Joe’s presence than by Ali’s absence and, it seemed to him, were impatiently waiting for some explanation of his arrival amongst them.
Stuart filled in the details of Joe’s visit to Ranipur, rather overdoing his importance, Joe thought. Friend of the Viceroy? Celebrated tiger hunter? Polo player extraordinaire? He hoped he would not be expected to demonstrate any of these alleged attributes. And now Stuart was telling them that Joe was also a scholar — a great Brahmin in his own land. He was involved in research for a study of the Shekhavati region. They had all heard of Colonel Tod who a hundred years earlier had written a history of Rajputana? Well, Joe was continuing the Colonel’s good work. Would they mind if he asked them a few questions on life amongst the Rajputs?