The Far Pavilions (79 page)

In this way, averaging no more than twenty-five miles a day, they covered the last lap of their journey. And in the early dawn of the last day of May they came within sight of Rawalpindi, and found Wally waiting, as he had waited every morning for the past eight days, by the third mile-stone on the 'Pindi – Jhelum Road.

Ash had been away for eight months, during which time he had spoken English perhaps half-a-dozen times at most, and for the rest had talked, thought and dreamed in the language of his adoptive mother, Sita.

'Pindi in June is a place to be avoided. Heat and glare and dust combine to turn it into an inferno, and those whose duty keeps them tied to an office or to barracks and parade ground are liable to fall victim to a tedious variety of hot-weather ills ranging from heat-stroke to sandfly fever.

In the compound of Wally's bungalow the giant neem tree was grey with the dust of the scorching plain, and when the hot wind blew, its leaves did not rustle but clicked instead like dice in a leather shaker, or rattled like dry bones: nor could Ash any longer see the hills, for they were hidden by the dust-clouds and the heat haze.

‘How does it feel like to be a lowly Lieutenant again after eight months of peacocking about as a lordly Captain in command of countless thousands?’ asked Wally curiously.

‘Dull,’ said Ash. ‘Dull but peaceful. How many pairs of socks do you think I'd better take?’

The best part of a week had passed since Ash's return from his travels, and he was preparing to move again, but this time on leave. He had duly presented himself at Army Headquarters, where he had given a brief report of his mission and a detailed account of the Rana's misbehaviour to a Colonel Dorton, whose habit of falling asleep during office hours had earned him the nick-name of Dormouse. The Colonel had run true to form and sat through the interview with closed eyes, only opening them (after Ash had been silent for a full two minutes) to stare vaguely into the middle-distance and remark that Mr Pelham-er-Martyn had better report to the Adjutant General's Department, where Major Boyle would assign him to some new duty.

But the prediction made by the District Officer at Deenagunj proved correct. There had been no special reason for Ash's recall. Major Boyle had gone down with a severe attack of dysentery and no one else in the Adjutant General's department appeared to have heard of Lieutenant (lately Captain) Pelham-Martyn, let alone have any orders for him. On the face of it he might just as well have stayed away, for apart from demoting him from the honorary rank he had held for the past eight months (and sending an immediate memo to this effect to the Pay Department) no one seemed to know what to do with him. Ash had asked to be allowed to return to his Regiment, but had been told somewhat tartly that this was a matter for the Commandant of the Guides, who would send for him when he thought fit.

All in all, it had been a depressing home-coming, and but for Wally, he might well have resigned his commission on the spot and set off to explore Tibet or enlist as a deck-hand on a cargo boat – anything that would take him away from the monotony of cantonment life and let him work off the gnawing restlessness that had possessed him ever since his last sight of Juli outside the Pearl Palace in Bhithor. The speed of the journey back across Rajputana and the Punjab to Deenagunj had temporarily assuaged it, but here in Rawalpindi where there was little or nothing to do it returned to torment him, and only Wally's cheerful presence and lively interest in every detail of the Karidkote-Bhithor venture kept it within bounds.

To Wally, Ash retold the story that had aroused so little interest in the somnolent Colonel Dorton, but this time in more detail and leaving less out, though he held back the truth about Juli, and, oddly enough, did not mention the fact that Karidkote had turned out to be the Gulkote of his childhood. Even to this close friend he would not – could not – talk about Juli, and if he could have left her out of the story altogether, he would have done so. That being impossible, he referred to her only when he must, and as though she were less an individual than an abstract problem that had to be solved between the ruler of Bhithor and himself. Though why he should have remained silent on the other matter was something that he could not explain even to himself. It was, after all, the most surprising thing about the whole affair, and Wally, who already knew the saga of those early years in Gulkote, would have been enthralled to hear that the State of Karidkote was the self-same place that Ash had described to him over a year ago on a moonlit night among the ruins of Taxila.

Yet Ash had kept back that vital piece of information, and without it the tale of Biju Ram's death lost much of its point. The rest posed no special problems, and Wally had listened and asked questions as avidly as Jhoti had done; and with much the same enthusiasm.

Compared with these stirring adventures, Wally declared that his own doings during the same period had been deplorably tame. He had, predictably, fallen in and out of love with several charming young women, written a vast amount of bad poetry, broken his collar-bone playing polo and lost a month's pay in a single evening at poker. But his most important piece of news had been kept until the last.

Having finally passed for his Lieutenancy, he had been offered, and accepted, a commission in the Guides, and would be joining the Corps in August.

Wally added, after congratulations, that he had delayed putting in for joining leave in the hope that Ash would return in time for the two of them to spend it together. ‘Because of course you must be due for some too. You haven't had any since last summer, so it stands to reason they'll give it you without a murmur if you ask for a couple of months off now.’

This was something that had not occurred to Ash, largely because he had felt himself to be enjoying a glorified form of leave during a good two thirds of his time with the Karidkote camp, and to demand more now smacked of extortion. But taking into account the fact that the Adjutant General's Department appeared to have no orders for him and Major Boyle was still on the sick-list, he could see no harm in asking. They could only refuse, and might even welcome the chance of getting rid of him for a further spell.

He therefore immediately put in for six weeks' leave, and far from being refused, was told that he could take eight – the extra two being in the nature of a bonus, in consideration of the fact that he had been constantly on duty for a period that included the New Year, the Christian holidays of Christmas, Whitsun and Easter, the Hindu festival of Diwali, and the Moslem celebration of Id-ul-Fitre.

He was not particularly grateful for the extra two weeks once he discovered that the ban on his entry into the North-West Frontier Province was still in force, because it meant that he would not be able to visit Mardan and that unless Zarin could manage to get a few days' leave and ride over to Rawalpindi, he might not see him for another year – possibly even longer, should the Commandant of the Guides decide that it would be wiser to extend the ban for a further period.

Ash returned to the bungalow to tell Wally the news and to write three letters: one to the Commandant, Colonel Jenkins, asking to be allowed to return to his unit, another to Wigram Battye, begging him to put in a good word on his behalf, and the third to Zarin. Colonel Jenkins had been away on leave and unable to reply, but his Second-in-Command wrote to say that Ash's request had been noted and would, he felt sure, receive the Commandant's sympathetic consideration as soon as he returned to Mardan, while Wigram, in a friendly letter full of regimental news, promised to do all he could to speed Ash's recall. Zarin did not write, but he sent a verbal message by an itinerant horse-dealer, well known to them both, making an assignation to meet Ash at a certain house on the outskirts of Attock.

‘The Resaidar’ (Zarin had been promoted) ‘cannot take his
chutti
at this time,’ explained the horse-dealer. ‘But as it is permitted that he absent himself for a day, he will set out at nightfall on the coming Friday, and if all goes well should reach Attock by midnight. If this should not be convenient, the Sahib has only to send a
tar.
’

The messenger salaamed and was about to leave when he remembered something and turned back: ‘
Chut
! I had almost forgotten: Zarin Khan called after me to say that if the Sahib wishes to bring Ashok with him, all can be arranged. Would that be one of the Sahib's syces? I have heard that many down-country men make good horse-boys. My own…’ Here he embarked on a discussion of the merits and demerits of horse-boys in general, thereby saving Ash from the necessity of answering such an awkward question, because the purport of Zarin's apparently casual afterthought was clear. The little town of Attock lies on the east bank of the Indus, and one has only to cross the river to enter the North-West Frontier Province. It would therefore be wiser if Ash were not seen there, as it might look as though he intended to defy the ban, which at the present moment could easily prejudice his chances of being allowed to return to the Guides in the near future. Yet as Zarin could only spare a day, if they could meet at Attock rather than in Rawalpindi or some half-way house, they would have more time together.

Wally put in for his leave as soon as he heard that Ash's had been granted, but whereas Ash had been told that he could take his immediately, Wally was informed that he might go on leave in ten days' time, and not a day before: ‘I tried everything, but the old scutt was adamant,’ explained Wally sadly. ‘It seems that they cannot spare their blue-eyed boy at present, because Johnnie Reeves has chosen this moment to join the ranks of the great majority.’

‘Dead?’ asked Ash, startled.

‘ No. Dysentery. That makes six of 'em so far. Ah well, it can't be helped, so I'm thinking you'd better go on ahead. We can arrange to meet somewhere as soon as I can get away.’

As it happened, this programme could not have suited Ash better, since it gave him a free hand for the next few days, and absolved him from explaining about his own plans to visit Attock, which was something he preferred not to discuss with Wally. The two agreed to meet at Murree and go on from there, on foot, to Kashmir; taking only Wally's bearer Pir Baksh, and hiring any other servants they might need, so that all those who had accompanied Ash to Bhithor could take leave.

Both Mahdoo and Gul Baz had protested that they had no wish to take
chutti,
but in the end they had allowed themselves to be persuaded, and Ash had engaged a seat in the mail-tonga bound for Abbottabad, and seen Mahdoo aboard: ‘And when you return, we will engage an assistant for you, Cha-cha-ji. One you can instruct, and who will learn to cook so well that all you will need to do will be to oversee him. It is time you had more leisure and someone to take the bulk of the work off your shoulders.’

‘It is not necessary,’ growled Mahdoo. ‘I am not yet so old that I cannot earn my wage. Or are you no longer satisfied with me?’

Ash laughed and told him not to talk nonsense for he knew very well that he was indispensable.

Gul Baz and Kulu Ram and the others left for their respective homes that same day, and when darkness fell Ash went out into the Mall, and hailing a passing
ekka,
told the driver to take him to a house in the Rawalpindi bazaar where he had some business to transact. He did not get back to the bungalow until long past midnight, and some five hours after breakfasting with Wally, he left again by tonga, taking a modest amount of luggage and bound, ostensibly, for Murree.

There were several rest-houses on the Murree road, and Ash stopped at the least frequented of these, where having paid off the tonga and selected the least stifling room, he stretched himself out on the bare
narwar
bed and made up for lost sleep. Awakened in the late afternoon by the sound of two horsemen riding into the compound, he went out to greet a friend of his, one Kasim Ali, whose father owned half the cloth shops in Rawalpindi bazaar, and whom it seemed that he had been expecting.

The two exchanged a few words, and the second rider having dismounted, Ash took over his horse and told the
khansamah
of the rest-house that he would be away for a couple of nights, but that his friend's servant would remain to keep an eye on his luggage, and must be provided with bed and food. The horse carried a small bundle strapped to the back of the saddle, and once safely out of sight of the rest-house Ash stopped in the first clump of trees to change into the clothes it contained, before riding on across country in the guise of a Kashmiri pundit.

Reaching Hasan Abdal in the twilight, he bought food at a wayside stall and let his horse rest and graze while he ate his evening meal on a grassy hillside overlooking the tomb of Lalla Rookh. There was still another thirty-odd miles to be covered, but as Zarin would not be leaving Mardan before sunset there was no need for haste. He lingered by the quiet tomb, listening to the horse cropping the parched grasses and watching the light fade from the far hills while the sky bedecked itself with stars, until at last the moon rose in the hot dust-scented dark. With that bone-white glare lighting the road, it was possible to press on at a fair pace, and the rest and the cooler air had put so much heart into the horse that it brought Ash to the tall old house on the outskirts of Attock in far less time than he had anticipated.

The house stood in a large walled garden, and its owner, Koda Dad's sister Fatima-Begum, was an elderly widow who had often entertained her nephews and their friends there, and this would not be the first time that Ash had stayed under that hospitable roof. Tonight the old lady had already retired, for the hour was late, and as the gatekeeper said that the Risaidar-Sahib Zarin Khan had not yet arrived, Ash left his horse to be stabled and walked on down through the sleeping town, past the walls of the Emperor Akbar's great stone fort that had guarded the ferry for close on two centuries. The descendants of the first ferry-men still plied the trade, of their forefathers, but they would soon be gone, for the English had constructed a bridge of boats over the Indus and nowadays nine tenths of the traffic crossed by that.