CHAPTER 7
It is not surprising that a state so steeped in myth and superstition as Ratangarh should have many strange aspects and amount the most grotesque is the building known to the population as Badal Mahal. This is a fantastical gothic structure built on the top of a hill, which commands a view of the town of Ratangarh. The palace, after having seen many vicissitudes, is now used as the state guest house for VIP’s and it was in the ornate drawing room of this palace that Cartwright sat talking with Colonel Somers the Resident at Indore, who had come down on his annual visit to Ratangarh.
“I rather like this place, don’t you Cartwright,” Said the Colonel. The Colonel was a portly figure, totally bald but for a peripheral fringe of golden hair which formed an untidy halo around his red face.”
“It is charming, though a bit strange,” said Cartwright.
“Strange, I suppose you could call it that, though to someone fresh from England, everything must appear strange here. But then all the princely states of India have their own strangeness. Only each is strange in a different way. But you are right, the ramshackle kingdom of our friend Preddy must be one of the strangest. Do you know, there were human sacrifices offered in the temple until a few decades ago.” The Colonel was an old India hand, who had spent a long time in the Political Service.
“Human sacrifices, gosh, but I thought that sort of thing was the stuff of store books.”
“Not here. The last reported case occurred as recently as 1893. You will find a full account of it in Grierson’s History that you are reading. It was the Paramount Power that put a stop to it. Even now, if you were a young brahmin travelling alone, you would be well advised to stay clear of the dominions of Ratangarh, because it is more than likely that you would be kidnapped by one of Preddy’s press gangs and that would be the last anyone would hear of you. Such cases still occur every now and then. I suspect they end up as cold meat in the temple at Antara. By the way, have you seen the temple.”
“Not yet sir, but I mean to. I am told the priestess is rather a formidable personage.” Said Cartwright.
“An interesting old lady I would say. Not formidable when you know her.”
“Old lady, but I thought they had to be young maidens.”
“Yes when they start their career, but they retire at thirty when a new priestess is chosen. This one is probably at the end of her innings.”
“What happens to them when they retire.”
“Oh, they get married I suppose. It is considered a great honour to marry a former priestess and all the leading families vie with each other to get her hand in marriage. Another gin before we go” The Colonel clapped softly and a liveried servant, much more magnificent than any that he had seen in British India appeared with a gin and tonic. He was followed by a second servitor bringing the same drink on a salver for Cartwright. As his drink was being brought to him Cartwright cast his eyes around the room. Portraits of the King’s ancestor hung on the walls, dark bearded men with turbans festooned with strings of pearl, and two enormous stuffed tigers stood around a glass case which contained some kind of medal placed in an open jewel box. This was the Star of India, second class, presented to the former ruler of the state at Queen Victoria’s Jubilee. “The trouble with this state is that it is so small,” said the Colonel as a servant lit his cigar for him and the Colonel took a first few exploratory puffs,” if you light a cigar while riding a fast horse, you are out of the bloody place by the time you finish. This being so it is impossible to build any stable source of revenue and that I fear is the root of the problem.”
Looking at the opulence all around him, Cartwright couldn’t see any want of money. “How does he manage to keep up all this,” said Cartwright, pointing at the ornate room.
“Oh, various ways, Old Preddy is not scrupulous how he gets his money, but mostly it is by illicit felling of trees. As you know, the British territory all around his state is rich in forest. What Preddy does is to select a patch of jungle which is adjacent to our own forests. He engages an Englishman, a chap called Rumbold to cut the forest. What Rumbold does is to poach into our territory on the pretext of felling Preddy’s jungle. The boundary marks in this particular area are uncertain, the forest guards are easily bought over and when we send our forest officials to the spot, Rumbold takes the plea that he is only working in the state forest, all fair and square.”
“But sir, if the whole thing is as clear as that, how does he get away with it.”
Oh, he has influence. Influence out of all proportion to the size of his state. His father wasthe Chancellor of the Chamber of Princes and even Preddy, I am told, is in the good books of the Viceroy. They say he was at school with Balfour, and when King George came down to India, he made it a point to make a stop in Ratangarh to shoot a tiger. There is no better placefor tiger shooting on elephant back than this place, and there is no one who knows more about the sport than Old Preddy, whose own count of tigers is well over two hundred I am told.”
Cartwright was shocked. First the human sacrifices and then this timber thieving on a grand scale. His Idea of the Raj as a benign dispensation that brought flush toilets and carbolic soap to India took a knock. How could one bring about responsible government in British India, if the Paramount Power turned a blind eye to such abomination.” Can’t we just catch hold of the old buffer and put him on trial,” he fumed.
“We just did that to the Rajah of Alwar, for shooting his polo ponies. But then Preddy doesn’t shoot his polo ponies. He is too clever to do anything that would giver real offence to the British.”
“Is shooting a polo polo pony worse than human sacrifice?”
“Oh definitely Cruelty to animals, especially to dogs and horses offends the British sense of fair play. Human sacrifice; well if it is a barbarous custom of the country, what can we do. At the end of the day it’s only natives killing natives. You must remember my boy, that the Princes of India are sovereign rulers in their own territories. That at least is the theoretical position.”
“That may be true in theory sir, but surely the Princes of India, exist only at the sufferance of the Paramount Power and if so, why should their states be denied the fruits of that enlightened policy that we bring to bear in our own dominions.” It sounded awfully priggish even to Cartwright, but he meant what he said.
“Young man, one thing you must not do, is to mix up British India with the Princely states. If the Princes are Licentious, extravagant, and sunk in medieval superstition, it only serves to highlight the virtues of British rule by contrast. And even here things are improving. You must remember that not so long ago, Slayman, my predecessor, used to regularly attend nautch parties given in his honour by Preddy’s father, in this very room.”
“Nautch parties!”It sounded like a yelp even to Cartwright.
“Yes, and not the decorous kind that you see in old water colours drawn by European artists. These were real orgies, I can tell you. “The Colonel sounded almost wistful as he said this.
“Did they drink at these parties?”
“Aye, something stronger than barley-water, you may be sure.”
“You are not, by any chance suggesting that these woman danced naked, and Englishmen continued to sit there and enjoy it.”
The Colonel shook his head with a rueful smile. “They damn well did, and not just sitting there either. But you must give up these schoolboy notions about the British in India. Not every white man here is an evangelist. And the Indians, for all their talk about spirituality are really complete Sybarites, obsessed with sensual pleasure. It rubs off on Europeans too, it is only natural. But come, let us go and see the temple and meet the oracle of Antara, for in the evening we dine with Perddy.”
It was a blustery evening with some dark clouds hanging low in the sky, as they drove down the winding road in the phaeton that was placed at their disposal by the king. The town lay stretched below them, its houses glowing in the strangely luminous light of the evening. It wasn’t a large town, just a huddle of houses, most of which were along a broad avenue that went straight across to a small hill on which stood the temple of Virasini, At the other end of the avenue was the royal palace, a fantastic jumble of domes, cupolas, gables and spires, which rose behind the town like a picturesque backdrop behind a dull stage. The temple was much large than Cartwright had imagined, the hill being flat on the top. It was enclosed by a large protective wall, and lesser temples stood at various points within this enclosure. A covered colonnade led to the main temple and in this colonnade statues of various gods and demons were placed at regular intervals. These statues were far more life-like than any that Cartwright had yet seen in India, and in the dim light of torches-which was the only illumination in the passage-these magnificent figures with their strange expressions, sometimesserene sometimes menacing; had a curiously impressive quality. Reaching the main temple they found themselves in a large hall with many subsidiary shrines on the sides and exactly in front at the far end; the sanctumsanctorum, whose ornate silver portals were forbiddingly closed. Place on one side, on a raised platform was a throne-like chair on which sat a rather gorgeously dressed woman who rose to receive them as they arrived.
The Colonel bowed to the lady and looking at him Cartwright did likewise. The lady motioned them to sit on chairs that were placed a little below the dais on which she herself sat. The Priestess knew no English but the Colonel was fluent in Hindustani so they could converse without interpreters. “Welcome to the temple Somers Sahib. You come after a long time.”
“Indore is a long way from here Madam and I have many states to look after, whose affairs keep me busy. But there is no place better than this in my charge. I can assure you.”
“Are you talking about the temple of Antara or the state of Ratangarh.”
“About both of course.” The Colonel was little taken aback.
“If you mean the temple you are only stating the truth, but if you talk about the state of Ratangarh you are being diplomatic.”
“You mean things are not what they should be.”
“You know what I mean Sahib, You have your own sources of information, do you not.”
“Well, well, I do know that the state’s finances remain precarious, but there is nothing unusual about that.”
“You are right, the annual grant to the temple should have been paid months ago. You see all these brahmins, they have been working without salary, only making do with what they get from devotees. They remain at their jobs because they are devoted to the Goddess. The temple has never been so neglected before. And if the temple is neglected the state cannot prosper, for the two are linked together, are they not.”
“They must be, for there is no earthly reason why the state should have survived so long. Only divine protections can explain it..”
“It won’t; not for very long if things go on like this, I am told the tax collectors have now taken to robbing tradesmen in the guise of dacoits. There are other things that I dare not speak of, dark unspeakable deeds.”
“But why don’t you talk to the king about these matters. They say no king can disregard the priestess of Antara.”
“I have Colonel Sahib, but he does not listen to me. He says now that he has the Paramount Power on this side he does not need divine protection. And I have been weak myself. I have allowed myself to be used. And now my tenure is ending, mercifully, and I don’t have to be a mute witness to these things. But I am not totally helpless, there is still one thing that I can do.”
“What is that?”
“Why, choose a successor who will ensure that wrongdoing is no longer tolerated. This is still my prerogative where the king cannot interfere.”
A young brahmin was tuning two large kettledrums in one corner, beating them with a knobbed drumstick, and setting up a deep booming rhythm that reverberated in the large hall.
“Can we take a look around the temple?” asked Cartwright.
“Certainly.” All three of them went around the numerous subsidiary shrines. Each one was dedicated to a different god or goddess and each was gorgeously decorated.
“Why do we need so many gods. Would India not be better off if it had fewer gods and more factories.” Like England, Cartwright almost said. His question was translated by the Colonel.
The goddess did not pause very long in her reply.“Why are there so many different types of men.White, black, yellow and so on. Would it have been better if there were only white men?”
Cartwright pondered over this reply. What she probably meant, he thought was that this diversity was a fact of nature and did not require any rational explanation. Still religion was different from nature, or so he had been taught to believe. It had to be somehow an improvement on nature, while these Indians seemed content to accept nature as it was. Behind the main shrine was another hall, one side of whose wall carried a sculptured frieze of men and women in different stages of copulation. Despite his initial shock Cartwright looked at them with interest. The sculpture undoubtedly had great exuberance, all the women had luscious rounded breasts and large hips and their draperies seemed to cling around their voluptuous bodies, the men were comparatively puny and insignificant. It seemed as if the artist had spent all his passion on the women and left and assistant carve out the men. What struck Cartwright about these statues was the complete absence of romantic sentiment and the total absence of guilt. “Don’t these statues cause impure thoughts in the minds of worshippers?”
“There is nothing impure about sex. Besides, this is a tantric temple and the tantrics believe that man and woman, or Shiva and Shakti create the world through the act of sex.” The priestess sounded completely matter of fact, as though she were explaining theorem to a class of students.
The temple orchestra had finished turning their instruments and they now assembled before gates of the main temple, waiting for the doors to be opened. A servant brought two dhotis on a platter and stood expectantly before the two foreigners. The priestess said something to the Colonel in Hindustani. “Come on old chap, off with your clothes. You have to put these on. It is the custom here” The Colonel asked Cartwright.
“But why, I mean sir, you don’t expect me to undress before all these people.”
“Oh, come man, I am not asking you to parade naked. You can keep drawers on.” The Colonel had already taken off this tunic and shirt, showing his hairy chest which sported a bushy of growth of blonde hair which the onlookers must have found interesting, He was unbuckling his trousers as though he were enjoying the whole thing.
“But sir, I mean, what about the lady.” Cartwright was red with embarrassment.
“Oh, you mean the priestess. You mustn’t mind her, look on her as you mother. That’s how the Hindu’s look upon her. When in Rome do as he Romans do.”
Cartwright had hoped that the priestess would at least avert her eyes modestly while he changed his clothes, but she kept looking at him with her direct gaze. Cartwright finally needed the assistance of a young Brahmin to put on his dhoti, once they were ready they were each given a burning brass lamp and the doors of the sanctum were thrown open. The image of the goddess that now revealeditself was truly magnificent. It was a slightly larger than life statue of white marble, with one hand raised in blessing, and the other grasping a sword. What struck Cartwright when he first saw the statue were not the rich vestments in which it was clothed, nor the golden lamps, silver salvers and other bric-a-brac which lay strewn all over, but the absolutely serene and joyful expression on the Goddess” Face.
“Rather like the Madonna in native gear, only she looks more conscious of her power,” whispered the Colonel, as the Priestess performed the aarti, describing great circles around the statue while a brahmin jangled a brass bell and the temple orchestra kept up a fast tempo.
Cartwright looked on, slightly bemused by the strange music, the gorgeous pageantry, and the devotional fervour that seemed to be surging all around them. What would this mother have said to all this, he wondered, heathenish abomination’ probably, all the same, it was rather attractive, he thought. When the service was over, the priestess distributed a sweet from a silver chalice, handing out small portions to all. Everyone received the prasad with great reverence. Before they left she extracted a promise from them that they would attend the ceremony when she chose her successor.
“It is essential that the Paramount Power be represented in this ceremony because the person I choose may well be the last priestess of Antara. And the person I am going to choose will certainly be a far more forceful character than me. The king or his henchmen may well try to question my choice.”
“Certainly we well be there if you think it is so important, but tell me priestess, do you know in advance whom you are going to choose. I thought the choice of your successor was dictated by divine intervention.”
“Yes! Yes! But surely I am allowed to have some for knowledge, some presentiment of the shape of things to come. After all I am the oracle of Antara, am I not, and the future is an open book to me.”
“What do you make of it.” asked the Colonel as they drove away in their phaeton.
“The lady sounded sincere, even though I couldn’t understand a word of what she said.”
“Yes, I believe she means what she says. The funny thing is she is supposed to choose her successor in a trance, in a kind of divine madness when she is not herself. Or so goes the legend anyway, but from what she said she seems to have already chosen her successor. Wonder who that person is. If she is not amenable to old Preddy, there is going to be trouble, sure as death.”
They drove straight to the place where they were received by the old Dewan who led them through a corridor lined with nude statuary to a brilliantly lit chamber where Preddy was waiting to receive them. It was a room lined with large mirrors in ornate gilt frames, where three large crystal chandeliers depended from a gilded roof, although one would have been quite enough. Exactly in the centre was a fountain where the water spouted out a marble cupidon’s penis in a steep parabola. The room had the air of excess and reffishness which characterised its owner, who now came forward with exaggerated bonhomie to greet them.
“My dear Colonel, so glad to see you.And Mr. Cartwright, what a pleasure it is to receive you in my humbleabode.”
“It is always good to see you your highness,” said the Colonel, “your hospitality is always so generous that everything else appears rather tame in comparison.”
“Oh, come now, Colonel, you do me more than justice, as always.”
The three men took their seats around one side of the cupidon, the Colonel raising his eyebrows slightly as he looked at the statue. “I got the little chap form Rome. Versaci, the sculptor who decorated the King of Monaco’s palace, was the sculptor. You like the statue Mr Cartwright.”
“Ah, yes, yes indeed.”
“Do you know what one Brithish officer used to say when he urinated into the fountain after a night of drinking,” ‘let the poor bugger take a break while I stand in for him’. The British have a great sense of humour once they get off the high horse. Trouble is, with us poor natives,they never do. What will you drink gentlemen, whiskey, champagne, or do you wish to try the Ratangarh special, a cocktail devised by me, and much better than either I can assure you.”
“Thank you, I will stick to whiskey and soda I think,” said the Colonel.
“And you Mr Cartwright, do try the cocktail.”
“I think I will have some lime cordial, your highness.”
“And nothing else.
“And nothing else.
“Your abstinence will be taken as a diplomatic snub. Do take something Mr Cartwright.
“I don’t mean it as a snub, your highness.”
“All right, in that case, let us drink to the king Emperor.”
“To the king Emperor!”
“And my old school mate, Arthur James Balfour, may he be Prime Minister once again.”
“Not that that will mean any change in British Policy towards India. As your highness is well aware.”
“Oh, yes, and I have no complaints to make, as you well know Colonel. The only thing that remains is to appoint Uday Singh as my successor. If only the Paramount Power would approve it, my cup would run over, as they say.”
“Uday Singh is not a lineal descendant of your house, nor is he your closest male relative, your highness, if would be difficult, indeed impossible for the government to accede to your request”
“You don’t understand Colonel, there are wheels within wheels.”
Drinks had reappeared and both the king and the Colonel downed their glass quickly.
“What are those wheels within wheels, your highness. Are you perhaps referring to the various claimants to the throne who are sprouting up like to bulrush weeds after a rainstorm.”
“Exactly. The Queen Mother has her candidate. The nobles have their own man I am told even the priestess has her choice. We are heading towards chaos.”
“But why should the matter of succession have come up. Your highness is in excellent health apparently, and this matter need never come up for decades, for all we know.”
“I will explain it to you later.” As a bearer had brought a fresh round of drinks, the king summoned a waiting aide with a gesture, “Is everything ready?”
“Everything is ready, your highness.”
“Right then, let us go to the palace theatre. Gentlemen, we have organized a dance recital for you which I rather think you will like Colonel.”
“A nautch party?”Asked Cartwright in rising alarm.
“No not a nautch party, this is a classical dance with musical accompaniment, quite a different thing from the vulgar hip-grinding dancing girls that you have in mind. But you shall see.”
Once the King and his parties were seated the musicians struck up a classical melody, then the curtain rose to reveal a gorgeously dressed woman of ample proportions standing motionless with folded hands. She broke into slow and graceful movements, keeping tune with the rhythm of the music. It was all very beautiful but in a decorous way that was much too tame for Preddy’s taste, thought the Colonel. After the first number was over the King whispered something to a servant and when the curtain rose a second time the dancer had changed into a diaphanous sari that showed glimpses of her body in a subtly tantalising way. The king sank deeper into his chair and sighed with satisfaction. “You like this colonel?”
The Colonel looked at the voluptuous figure of the dancer and nodded.” yes, yes indeed.”
The dance had picked up tempo, the dancer was now dancing close to the front of the stage, or may be the stage itself had somehow advanced, but she seemed much closer, and her smile now became provocative, her eyes fluttered with coquettish intent, her full figure seemed light and sinuous as she danced in perfect concert with the ebb and flow of the music, Even Cartwright was captivated.
“Champa Bai is the best dancer in the state. There is no one like her anywhere. Do you know the Maharajah of Patiala once offered her a bagful of gold to defect to his state, but she would have none of it. The funny thing is she is part British. Yes sir, her grandfather was a British soldier of fortune, who was for a time the commander-in-chief of the Ratangarh army. No wonder she is putting up a special performance for you gentlemen. The next number, I assure you would be even better.”
Cartwright, wondered if this would mean a further reduction in her already scanty apparel. But just as the musicians were tuning up for the third number a tall lumbering man in riding booth and jodhpurs staggered in.
“Uday Singh, by God! What are you doing here?”
“Brother… “His speech was slurred.
“Your Highness, to you,” said the king.
“Brother,… Your Highness, I thought I would also look in as Champa was giving a performance.” He waved his riding crop about and swayed drunkenly as he said this.
“You are drunk and you have disobeyed me.” The king summoned some servants and ordered them to carry Uday Singh to his own quarters.
“But I am perfectly sober and I am your heir, sir.”
“You are not my heir, not yet anyway.” Said the king, as the servants struggled with the powerful form of Uday Singh.
“So this is the man you want to appoint as your successor, Preddy.” The Colonel had dropped the pretence of your highnessing the king. “He certainly lives up to his unsavoury reputation”
“He is not always like this. He is better than the others anyway.”
Champa Bai had come down from the stage and after salaaming the king and his guests, filled their goblets with another round of drinks. She proffered a glass of wine to Cartwright as well, “no, not for me thank you.”
“You did not like my performance Sahib?”
“No, no, I mean yes I did. It’s just that I am not very fond of drink.”
“But Sahib, this wine has a special flavour, it is the flavour of jasmine blossoms, the flavour of my own name.” Her fingers holding the glass and almost touching Cartwright’s wrists were long and slender, her large, dark eyes glittered, she knew how to make her appeal sound like a promise of nameless pleasures.
“All, right, if you insist,” Cartwright blushed as he took the goblet of purple wine.
“Bravo! Champa Bai, but I am afraid we must wait another day to watch your dance. Uday’s foolish action has soured my mood. Let us go in to dinner gentlemen.”
Cartwright was sorry that he was not to witness the final number of Champa Bai’s recital. He was beginning to relish the obvious resemblance between the courtesan and the temple sculpture that they had seen earlier in the day. Both had the sensuous fullness of form, the abandonment that is without any sense of original sin and therefore impossible to any European. He rather hoped she would come out and help serve dinner but that was not to be. It was too late in the day for him to really do justice to the various dishes with which the table was piled and the king and the colonel had by now drunk too much to take any serious interest in food.
“So coming back to my request, when do you think the Government of India will make up its mind.”
“What’s the hurry Preddy. You are not an old man.”
“I told you there are wheels within wheels. And don’t want to be the only one of my line to leave the throne without an heir.”
“There is time yet to remedy that. I take it, er..that you are still able.”
The king shook his head mournfully. “I can still enjoy a woman, but children no. It was the pox that I got from an English tart when I was a student in England that did it. None of my ancestors had the chance of sampling the fleshpots of Soho in their youth, or I shudder to think of what might have happened to my dynasty.”
“So now you want the government to provide you with an heir.”
“Look at it like this, it was a British liaison that put me in this predicament, now it must be a British firman that will get me out of it.”
“It will take more than a Soho tart to do that. What about Maan Singh for instance.”
“If the British want him they can have him. I know things would come to this pass one day. Only give me a month’s time.”
It was with this promise ringing in their ears that they said their goodbyes for the night. As they passed out of the room Cartwright had an impression of someone stepping out from behind a pillar and walking off silently into the shadows. He fancied it was Champa Bai, but he couldn’t be sure. Although he had drunk only a single goblet of wine, its sickly sweet flavour seemed to cloud his mind like a roseate mist.
