The Dancer and the Raja (19 page)

“Don't tell the raja I've brought you here,” Bibi asks her. “He wouldn't understand.”

Anita nods as she sips her tea, which the princess has served in a little clay cup. She is pensive because the story of Gobind Kaur does not leave her feeling indifferent. She is seeing a woman who has paid a very high price for her freedom. And will she too one day have to give everything up in order to be free? Will her idyll with the raja last forever? Will she be accepted some day by everyone, or will she still be an outsider? She always ends up asking herself the same question, the question her painter friend Anselmo Nieto asked her in Paris:
Do you really love him? Yes, of course I love him,
she answers herself. This is confirmed by the fact that a few days previously her husband's foot got caught up in the stirrups and he fell, and she had a terrible fright thinking that something bad had happened to him. It was nothing, but the anguish she felt was love, she tells herself. Meanwhile, as she watches the sun sinking over the fields of mustard-flowers crowned by an aura of bluish mist, another question crosses her mind for an instant.
What if one day I fall madly in love with another man, like Gobind Kaur did?
She prefers not to answer that question and immediately puts it out of her mind, as though in obedience to a self-defense reflex, not wanting to think what extremes could lead her to such an eventuality. Besides, the answer would force her to ask herself another question:
Have I ever fallen in love?
One thing is to love the raja, and quite another to have fallen in love with him. And she knows that in her case it was not love at first sight. She has never known that feeling of falling in love that shakes the person to the core, that feeling of madness that is so well described in the flamenco
cante jondo
… Can one live one's whole life without being struck by the arrows of love, even if only once? Without allowing oneself to be carried away by passion?

“Ram, Ram!”

Some peasants who are coming back to the village greet her, joining their hands. It is the magical moment of the day in the countryside of India. The people call it “cow-dust time,” because of the clouds of dust kicked up by the animals when they return to the cowsheds. The sky turns a pale lilac color. The smell of wood smoke coming from the little ovens where the women are beginning to prepare supper invades the narrow streets and spreads across the plain. The men come back home with their implements on their shoulders, and their turbans and
longhis
dirty with mud. The dogs whine and howl as they sniff for food. It is an ancient landscape that seems eternal.
There is nothing as beautiful as sunset in an Indian village,
Anita says to herself.

25

Throughout the year, Anita attends all the civic and social acts in which the raja and she have major roles. The religious festivals are celebrated in Amritsar, and many receptions take place in Lahore, the capital of the Punjab, located three hours by car from Kapurthala. Perhaps because she had become accustomed to a quiet life at Villa Buona Vista, Anita feels fascinated by the contrast offered by the old capital of the empire of the
Arabian Nights
. Lahore is known as the Paris of the East for the beauty of its monuments and the elegance of its palaces, for the treasures it contains and for its open, lively atmosphere. More cosmopolitan than Delhi, it has enjoyed the reputation of being the most tolerant and open-minded city in India for some time. At the buffets in the Gymkhana Club and the Cosmopolitan Club, Sikhs, Moslems, Hindus, Christians, and Parsis mix freely. The society women dress a little like the French courtesans of the seventeenth century, and the men like
beaux
from silent movies. At the receptions, dinners, and balls of high society, which the nobles and business magnates hold in their sumptuous mansions in the residential suburbs, there is no discrimination except for that imposed by the English in their favorite meeting place, the Punjab Club, where a sign in the entrance reads: europeans only. For Anita, Lahore is the ideal counterpoint to the small-town, suffocating atmosphere in Kapurthala. Here there is no tittle-tattle or intrigues encouraged by the raja's women, “which is like having four mothers-in-law,” she says, laughing. In Lahore there is a big-city atmosphere. The English have a military cantonment and administer the affairs of the Punjab from an old Moghul palace, now the headquarters of the British governor.

The weekly trip to Lahore has become a habit that Anita observes religiously. For her, like her horse rides, it represents an escape valve. The raja usually takes her with him in one of his Rolls, which he drives himself because he always has some paperwork to be done or some visit to be made in the most important city in the region. But what Anita really likes is to go shopping alone, that is, without her husband, accompanied only by Dalima, Lola, and two or three servants to carry the parcels.

“Come and meet me at the governor's office when you've finished,” the raja asks her when he leaves her at the corner of the street of the jewelry shops one day when Anita intends to buy presents for her family in preparation for an imminent visit to Europe.

She replies by blowing him a kiss, which makes the raja smile at how daring and spontaneous the gesture is. The women get out of the car and go into the narrow streets and disappear in a Byzantine jigsaw puzzle of stalls and workshops. Anita loves to mix in with the great spectacle of the intricate Oriental bazaar in the heart of the city and look closely at everything, to emerge, hours later, followed by her cohort of servants, and walk victoriously down the Mall, a wide avenue in European style lined with cafés, bars, shops, restaurants, and theaters. Given the imminence of her voyage, on which Anita is thinking of taking little Ajit so her parents can see him, the shopping compulsion becomes even more urgent. She is so looking forward to seeing her family again that she wants to take them everything she can see, as though she could give them a piece of India tied up with a bow like a box of chocolates. That is why she goes with such satisfaction up and down the street of the jewelers with their shining samples of gold bracelets, lacquered boxes, and little cases made of sandalwood; then the street of the perfume makers, with their forests of sticks of incense and their flasks full of exotic essences; she runs her gaze over the sparkling counters of slippers embroidered with sequins; she stops in one of the many shops in the street where they sell weapons—guns, lances, and
kirpans
, the ritual dagger of the Sikhs that her son, Ajit, will have to carry one day at his waist. The flower sellers are hidden behind mountains of carnations and jasmine; the tea merchants offer a dozen different leaves, which go from pale green to black. The cloth merchants, barefoot and squatting on little mats in their tiny shops, invite her to choose from among the brilliant sheens of their merchandise. There are shops where women slip in hidden under their
burqas
, with their eyes peeping out from behind the narrow visor of their veil, like “nuns at Vespers,” according to Anita. Here they only sell veils: some small and square, others like handkerchiefs, and yet others as big as scarves; there are masks from Arabia that only cover the forehead and the beginning of the nose, or
burqas
with a lattice, like the Afghan ones; a whole display of garments to conceal women from the lascivious gaze of men.

The governor's palace is the old residence of Prince Asaf Khan, the father of Mumtaz Mahal, the muse who inspired the Taj Mahal. Grandiose and refined at the same time, with elegant, long, narrow windows and large interior courtyards, the palace is a real jewel of Indo-Moghul art.

Anita, followed by her maids and the menservants loaded down with parcels, stops in front of the English guards dressed in their khaki uniforms. “The governor's office, please?”

“I'm sorry, Miss, but I can't let you in.”

“I've come to fetch my husband, who is in a meeting with the governor.”

“You'll have to wait for them to finish, ma'am.”

“I am the princess of Kapurthala,” Anita states.

“No doubt, Madam, but I still can't let you in. That's the rule, I'm sorry.”

Anita's vehement protests come up against the guards' impassiveness.

“If you won't let me tell him I'm here, at least send someone else to do it.”

“I'm not allowed to interrupt one of the governor's meetings. The most I can do is to point you to the waiting room …”

Anita has no option but to give way and keep quiet. She suddenly finds herself in a gallery where there are only women, most of them dressed in the
burqa
, sitting on uncomfortable wooden benches. For the first time, as she waits for her husband to finish his meeting, she realizes how hard it is to be treated like a normal woman.

When the raja finishes his interview and comes out of the governor's office, he finds Anita sitting on a bench in the waiting room, looking at him like a little bird. The raja is not in a good mood. He has had to put up with the governor's impertinence: he has asked Jagatjit, as usual, if the fact that he is so often away on long trips to Europe is not going to have a harmful effect on affairs of state, to which the raja has given the usual reply: that he leaves affairs of state in good hands. But what has upset him the most is the official communication that Anita may not have the right to be addressed as Highness, or to use the title of maharani or princess outside the strict circle of Kapurthala. She does not even have the right to be called Spanish rani, as she is already known in society. “The Government of India has not recognized and will not recognize His Highness' marriage to the Spanish lady,” says a letter from the viceroy's office, which the governor himself has read aloud to him, in response to the raja's official request asking the English to review the status of his wife. The final note in the document has especially irritated Jagatjit, because it makes him suspect that his first wife is involved in the matter. “It must be borne in mind,” continues the document, “that Her First Highness has also refused to recognize her (referring to Anita).” Although the document admits that the Spanish girl has been received in society by top civil servants and their wives, it recommends that “no civil servant, not even a subordinate or police station assistant, must in any case have dealings with the Spanish wife of the Rajah.” As though she had the plague.

“If I'd known the orders would be so restrictive, I would have thought better of marrying her,” the raja told the governor. “It does not seem right to me to subject my wife to being excluded by the European society we like to frequent and which in the Punjab is made up of civil servants and government military staff.”

“I understand, Your Highness. We know that because of her personality and personal charm, your Spanish wife is making a place for herself in society, so these restrictions will come into conflict with existing practice; and I have already mentioned that to the viceroy.”

“And what did he say about it?”

“The problem is that no exceptions can be made. The marriage of the raja of Jind to Olivia van Tassel presents the same problem. She does not have the right to be called ‘Maharani Olivia.' And neither does the government recognize the marriage of the raja of Pudokkatai, who has just married an Australian woman, Molly Fink. We cannot recognize the mixed marriages of the princes of India, Your Highness, unless they meet certain conditions. It's a matter of common sense …”

“Common sense? It would be common sense not to interfere in the private lives of princes. That would be common sense.”

“I beg you to understand, Your Highness. Our position is reasonable and coherent. The government could recognize the marriage of a European woman to an Indian prince if certain conditions were met: first, that she should be the only wife. Second, that the state where she marries should recognize her as rani or maharani, which is not the case here because the official rani of Kapurthala is your first wife, Harbans Kaur. The third condition is that any children by that wife should have the right to succeed to the throne. By fulfilling those conditions, the rights of any European woman would be protected. Otherwise we would be recognizing morganatic marriages, that is to say, marriages that exalt the status of the prince to the detriment of the status of the woman. And that, as Europeans, we cannot accept.”

The governor's logical explanation has had no effect on the raja, who finds himself in the unpleasant situation of having to go against his natural allies. The English educated him, ensured the throne for him when one side of the family questioned the legitimacy of his mandate, and have protected him by guaranteeing his borders and his power. A part of his heart feels English, although there are moments, like now, when he cannot stand them. His pride cannot abide being set limits, and neither can he accept a civil servant dictating the way he should live, he, who has dined tête-à-tête with Queen Victoria at Balmoral.

“I'm afraid that these rules, which you modify to suit your own convenience, may finally undermine the good relations that have always existed between you and the royal house of Kapurthala,” the raja says in conclusion, in a threatening tone.

“That would be lamentable, Your Highness, and I have already pointed that out to the viceroy since it is an eventuality that we have already considered,” the governor replies, twirling the ends of his gray mustache; in a conciliatory tone, as though wanting to take the sting out of the affair, he goes on, “Allow me to remind you that these restrictions on paper are mere recommendations, and that, in practice, as you know from experience, they are not necessarily applied. No doubt you can go on with the same lifestyle, Your Highness, without prejudice to your reputation or that of your wife.”

“The restrictions you impose on me are an unacceptable interference in my private life. You know full well that they limit my movements and restrict my contacts with society.”

“Your Highness, allow me to ask you to be a little more patient. I suggest that you wait for the new viceroy to arrive and review the situation so we can go back to the way things were before—with fewer restrictions. I myself will set in motion the official request to give your wife all possible recognition. I am sure that it has been the growing number of mixed marriages that has been the cause of the rules being tightened.”

As he drives back to Kapurthala, Anita gets out of him the subject of his conversation with the governor.

“Don't worry,
mon chéri
, I'll win them all over, each and every one of them, by the grace of God.”

But the raja is concerned. He is not accustomed to confrontation, whether it be with his family—and almost all of them are against him—or with the English, his putative parents. His role is not to fight, but to reign, without having to give an explanation to anyone. That is what he has done all his life. And he intends to go on doing it. His intuition tells him that as time goes by the situation created by Anita's presence in his life will be solved, but for now he does not want anything or anyone to come and upset the harmony of his marriage. The charming woman who is sitting beside him is his creation, and perhaps she is the only thing that he has ever fought for in his entire life. She is his traveling companion, even if his other wives and the English do not like it.

“It's my birthday on Monday,” the raja tells her. “I'd like you to be present at the
puja
we have every year as a family. We gather round the holy book to read paragraphs and recite prayers.”

“You told me once you preferred me not to be at that
puja
, do you remember? In order not to upset the ranis …”

“You're right, but I've changed my mind. I want you to attend the puja, to make it clear that I will not tolerate people looking down on you. You'll be there, at the front. As the new maharani of Kapurthala. That is if you like, of course.”

“Mais bien sûr, mon chéri.”