The Impressionist (14 page)

The Nawab tends to look even less like a ruler on his way out. He is never in the zenana long, and usually exits at a half-run, as if he has been expelled at high pressure. On his face he customarily wears a limp and stricken look: the look of a man who has failed to live up to expectations. As the Pathans nudge each other and the hijras stare at the floor, despondency settles a little heavier over the palace.

*

Pran starts to despair. He is trapped in Fatehpur; not at its heart but in its gut, like a gallstone or something swallowed by mistake. He is alone, without context, without anyone who cares about him. When he hears one evening that Flowers is going to bring the Major back to the Chinese room, he smashes a mirror and digs one of the shards into his wrist, opening up a deep cut.

Someone hears the crash. Soon he is surrounded by hijras, who bind him up and give him hot tea to drink. For a moment he thinks he will be taken off to bed or to see a hakim, but instead he is dumped in the Chinese room, where, just as before, Flowers shows in Major Privett-Clampe and closes the door. As Pran woozily stares up from the bed, the Major lurches drunkenly towards him, slurs ‘My beautiful boy’, frowns and passes out on the floor. There is a heavy silence. Gratefully, Pran loses his own grip on consciousness. He is woken by the Picturewallah, who is poking his head through the hatch and shouting at him to take the Major’s trousers off. Hearing the noise, the Major wakes up and spots the Picturewallah before he has a chance to close the hatch. Startled and temporarily unable to remember where he is, Privett-Clampe gropes for the door-handle and staggers out into the passageway, which he mistakes for the thunderbox. Some minutes later, considerably relieved, he sets off in search of his driver.

The next day Flowers reports that the Major has no recollection of the specifics of his evening. He has, however, been sitting in his office with all the blinds down, emerging only to invite Flowers in for a long chat about the importance of secrecy in all dealings with his wife. Flowers thinks the Major’s state of mind is delicate, probably too delicate to permit suggesting another rendezvous.

Pran is temporarily reprieved. The hijras, perhaps because of his suicide attempt, start to treat him better, speaking kindly to him and letting him assist in some of the life of the zenana. He is permitted to walk on the roof. He helps prepare the begum’s bath, laying out her silver bowls of oil, the lotas of herbal waters, the brazier of scented coals over which she will dry her hair. One afternoon he is even allowed out of the palace. The occasion is that most dreaded of all the hijras’ tasks: escorting a zenana outing.

In front of the main entrance is a line of Rolls-Royces, their chauffeurs standing to attention in their livery of grey serge trimmed with Fatehpur pink. Maids and mistresses take the first six cars, closed and curtained so they can maintain purdah en route. Trunks, wicker hampers, badminton equipment and eunuchs follow in the next four. Once everyone and everything has found a place, and hijras have been sent back for forgotten combs, jewellery, medicines and shawls, the cortège pulls sedately away.

Their destination is a quiet stretch of tree-lined river bank. As soon as they arrive, the zenana party spill out of the cars like infantry off a troop train. Within minutes the entire area is in their hands, the badminton net up in use, tables and chairs deployed, and elaborate formations of tiffin-boxes and tea urns in motion around the redoubt of the hampers. When one adventurous splinter-group embarks on a walk, hijras have to trot on ahead with whistles and big red flags, signals for any passing farmers to press themselves face down on the earth while the palace women go past. They are unveiled. It is more than a peasant life is worth to take a peep. Throughout the afternoon the hijras are kept on their toes by reconnaissance missions of this kind, but for the most part they maintain a static purdah cordon, firmly gridding zenana-space over one sector of the river.

It feels good to be outside. The labyrinthine confusion of the palace seems to breed uncertainties, always generating new and subtle ways of getting lost. Over the weeks his memories of life in Agra have taken on a hazy quality. It is hard to picture himself anywhere else but Fatehpur. At the river he thinks, inevitably, about escape, but something about the landscape makes the idea ridiculous. Easier to think about immediate things. Easier to lie on the river bank and watch the zenana at play.

Over the course of the afternoon, Pran notices that there are two quite distinct factions. One, the badminton players, consists mainly of younger women, centred around one of the Nawab’s junior concubines. An older group gathers by the buffet, picking at choice morsels of food and gossiping under their breath. There is an atmosphere of mutual hostility. Once a maid is returning from the urn with a brimming cup of hot tea when she goes sprawling on the grass. Her badminton-playing friends rush up and accuse the old ladies of tripping her. For a while it looks as if things are going to get ugly, and it takes several hijras to part the two sides. Pran is bewildered, until Yasmin, the youngest of the palace hijras, explains. With the explanation, a lot of other things about Fatehpur become clear.

‘Babies,’ whispers Yasmin. ‘Sons. What else could be the matter? The Nawab comes to the zenana but he cannot perform. The older ladies say it is the fault of the younger ones. The younger ones say it is his. Sometimes he becomes very angry, but still he cannot do the deed. It is almost ten years since his father died, and Fatehpur has no heir.’

‘What happens if he dies without a son?’

‘The throne goes to his brother. Then Firoz will make hotels and railways, and an airstrip and a cinema, and he will pass a law saying everyone must wear trousers and believe in modern industrial methods.’ Yasmin sounds rather excited at the prospect, but he checks himself. ‘It will be very bad,’ he says solemnly, ‘because Firoz loves only things which come from Europe in crates, and if he becomes Nawab he will spend his fortune on these things, and the great tradition of Fatehpur will be lost.’

‘Can the Nawab not make someone else his heir?’

‘There is a boy he wants to adopt, but to do that he needs the approval of the British. They do not like him, because they say he is anti-Raj and wants to build the Muslim Khilafat, and kill all the unbelievers.’

‘Does he?’

‘Of course. The British prefer Firoz because he wears a tie and has promised to let them build factories.’

So Major Privett-Clampe has the power to decide the succession. Everything falls into place.

Click-click.

For a few weeks, Pran is left to his own devices. Gradually the politics of the palace become clearer. Prince Firoz surrounds himself with an ever changing cast of Europeans, a dozen or so at any one time. Sometimes the guests include British officials, but for the most part they are flappers and playboys who conduct a more or less non-stop party in the Prince’s rooms. The Nawab’s faction could not be a greater contrast. They attend prayers, and talk in hushed tones of the Mahdi, who one day will sweep down on the enemies of Islam and disperse them to the winds like so much dust. They discuss the Holy Places in the Middle East, and the accession of Amir Amanullah in Afghanistan. In the evenings, as gramophone jazz competes with the call of the muezzin, the tension is palpable, and the hijras go about their work with bowed heads, fearful about the future.

Then Flowers sends a message that Privett-Clampe wants to see Pran again. To the plotters’ dismay, the Major is refusing to come to the Chinese room. Instead he wants the boy delivered to him at the British Residency. The Residency compound is guarded. There is no time to make a plan. Reluctantly the Khwaja-sara bundles Pran into one of the Nawab’s fleet of cars, hissing at him to do whatever the Major tells him, and then report back. This time there will be no pictures.

The Residency lies some distance outside the walls of Fatehpur town. As befits the senior representative of the Crown, Major Privett-Clampe lives in considerable style. Set in several acres of grounds, lovingly watered by teams of gardeners and planted with English flowers, is a sprawling two-storey house in Tudor style. Built at the turn of the century, it is the type of suburban cottage-castle, simultaneously cosy and imposing, which a stockbroker or the owner of a middlingly successful mill might build for his newly wealthy family. Somewhere in its recesses lurks Mrs Privett-Clampe. Elsewhere are a number of offices, used intermittently by secretaries and junior political officers. In one of these, at a comfortable distance from those regions of the house roamed by his wife, Major Privett-Clampe has arranged to receive his young visitor.

Pran is deposited at a discreet distance from the back gate, and taken by a hijra to a side door. At the sound of their knocking, the Major’s throaty voice responds. He is discovered sitting at a desk, wearing his mess uniform, the buttons undone to reveal a globular stomach. On his head is a crumpled green crêpe-paper crown, a relic of the religious festival the British have been celebrating that day. The Major has been sweating, and the hat’s cheap dye has begun to stain his forehead. A tumbler and a half-empty bottle of domestic whisky (‘Highland Paddock’, manufactured in Calcutta by the illustrious firm of Banerji Brothers) sit in front of him.

‘Run out of soda,’ he comments, as the door closes behind Pran. ‘Angrezi pani.’

Pran wonders if he is meant to go and get it. He points at the door. The Major shakes his head. ‘No, no. I’ve drunk too bloody much already.’

Pran stands, braced.

‘I’m not a bad man, you know,’ says the Major, rubbing his bulbous nose with the back of his hand. ‘It’s not as if I’m some kind of degenerate.’ Then he explodes, banging the table with his fist. ‘Ye gods! How am I supposed to have a conversation with you like that? Look at that fancy dress they’ve put you in. You’re supposed to be a chap, not a bleeding
girl!’

He appears to gather his thoughts. ‘You’ve got some English in you. I can tell. Where – no, no, on second thoughts I don’t want to know.’ He pours himself another burra peg of whisky. ‘Happy Christmas,’ he says. And again, as if testing the words ‘Happy Christmas’. He falls silent for a while, then, to Pran’s surprise, says ‘I have a present for you.’

By the window, on a battered cane chair, sits a large brown-paper parcel. The Major gestures impatiently for Pran to open it. Inside he finds a set of English clothes: short trousers, a white cotton shirt, knee-length woollen stockings with garters to hold them up. There is also a tie and a cap, both rather old and decorated with the same pattern of blue and burgundy stripes.

‘Now at least you shan’t look like something from a circus. Well, what are you waiting for? Put them on.’

A few minutes later Pran is attired as an English schoolboy, minus shoes. The bare boards of the floor are rough under his feet. The clothes fit quite well, though the collar is too tight.

‘Good,’ mutters the Major, his eyes bright. ‘Very good. We’ll have no more of those heathen dresses. Those were my colours, you know. School colours. You had to play at least one first-team sport to win a tie like that.’ He waits for this to sink in. ‘I played four.’

Pran nods, to indicate he is impressed.

‘Those were good days,’ the Major continues. ‘Exciting days. Our world was inspiring. Stand up straight!’

Pran stands up, wondering where this is all heading. Privett-Clampe pours himself another peg, even more burra than the last. His hand is unsteady. Whisky splashes on to the scarred morocco of the desk.

‘You’ve got some white blood in you,’ he continues, gesturing at Pran with his tumbler. ‘More than a little, by the looks of you. With training you might understand. The thing is, boy, you have to learn to listen to it. It’s calling to you through all the black, telling you to stiffen your resolve. If you listen to what the white is telling you, you can’t go wrong.’

The Major is struck by an idea. Cursing and muttering, he begins rummaging around the desk, then levers himself upright and makes for a shelf of books. Steadying himself against the wall, he finds what he is looking for: a slim blue volume. He tosses it over to Pran.

‘Read it out. Page one hundred and twenty-six.’

With an exhalation of breath he settles back into his chair. The book is a collection of poetry, battered and ink stained. It looks like a school text, from the same stratum of the Major’s life as the cap and the tie. Pran opens it at the page indicated, and begins to read aloud:

‘The boy stood on the burning deck

Whence all but he had fled’

Privett-Clampe snorts in disgust. ‘It’s
whence,
not
vence,
you nincompoop! Try it again!’

‘The boy stood on the burning deck