The Satapur Moonstone Page 16

  “I love my son,” Mirabai repeated, and now Perveen was close enough to see that the lady’s eyes were shining with unshed tears. “Sending Prince Jiva Rao to England will mean I will miss precious years with him. But I know it’s the only way to keep him alive.”

  A shudder ran through Perveen. Since she had read Mirabai’s letter to Colin, Perveen had wondered what the queen had meant about her son’s physical safety. And the dowager was also concerned. This was something the maharanis agreed on, and possibly the way for Perveen to broker a resolution. Softly, she said, “Choti-Rani, you wrote to the Satapur agent about education. That was your main argument. Are you saying now that is not quite true?”

  She looked steadily at Perveen with her luminous gaze. “I am also concerned about education. He’s learning very little from Basu. But in the end, what matters is life. And I am afraid as I’ve never been before.”

  A chill ran through Perveen. Not wanting Mirabai to see her reaction, Perveen went to the almirah and found her silk wrapper. Tying it on, she returned to her chair. “What reason have you to fear for him?”

  “His older brother’s death wasn’t an accident. It was intentional.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “I believe someone wishes to exterminate my children. I don’t know who, but I sense it. It is as real as the rain falling outside, as the air that I breathe.”

  To call for an investigation of the past, Perveen needed hard evidence. “Please tell me the reasons you believe Prince Pratap Rao’s death was not natural.”

  “Just listen!” Mirabai’s hands clenched the chair’s armrests tightly. “The day that my eldest son was taken hunting, I was here at the palace with my other children. In the morning, we prayed together in the palace temple. First we prayed to Shiva, the destroyer of evil. He is our main deity. We have a side temple with a stone statue of Aranyani, who protects the forests. I always leave flowers and fruit for her, too. But this time, when I looked into the statue’s face, I saw tears on her cheeks.”

  Perveen was careful not to let her facial expression change. Her initial reaction was skepticism, for anyone could accidentally drop water on a stone statue, or water could run from a leak in the ceiling. But what if the tears were real? Aranyani was a force Perveen did not know.

  “I should have showed this wonder to the children. But they would have asked me what it meant. And I thought tears might mean something had happened in the forest.” Looking down at her lap, she twisted the bangles on her left wrist. “Late that afternoon, I climbed the stairs up to the top of the palace. There is a parapet walk where one can see very far over the forest.”

  Perveen nodded, not wanting to interrupt.

  “The hunting grounds are five miles from here. I didn’t hear a shot, but I knew something must have happened, because I saw vultures circling in the sky.”

  “There are a lot of birds in this area.”

  “Vultures eat what has already been killed,” she said. “I have seen it many times, because I hunted from my childhood up through the time my husband passed away. That particular afternoon, I thought the presence of vultures meant that the leopard or tiger had been killed by my son, and the skinned carcass had been left for the birds. It greatly relieved me, and I expected they would be home in a few hours.”

  “Who does the skinning?” Perveen asked, because the idea the maharani was presenting in calm language was upsetting to picture.

  “Not my son,” Mirabai said with a sympathetic look at her. “The grooms who went along are used to that. They take off the hide to be the trophy of the one who shoots it, to serve as a rug.” She paused. “The rugs in this room were the work of my husband.”

  “I see.” Perveen was not about to admit she felt sorry for the leopard and had avoided stepping on the rug. She knew that animal trophies were synonymous with royal life.

  “But no leopard or tiger was ever killed; the men on the hunt all confirmed it.” Mirabai’s voice trembled as she continued the tale. “My brother-in-law said my son got lost in the woods that day and was killed during the night by a leopard or perhaps another animal. But as I’m telling you, I saw the vultures circle early that afternoon. Now I believe they had come for my son.”

  In her own religion, Zoroastrianism, vultures were an integral part of the death process. After funeral rites, bodies were carried to a tower so the birds could consume the flesh. It was simply a way for humans to give back to the world without contaminating the earth or water. But Perveen knew this was not a time to talk about her own people’s appreciation of the great birds. She needed to untangle Mirabai’s confusing theory without causing further emotional upset. “I understand what you are saying to me. But could an animal have killed the late maharaja and run away afterward? Then the vultures would have come.”

  “That could be, but I never saw his body.” Mirabai unleashed her death grip on the chair to wrap her arms tightly around herself, as if for consolation. “My brother-in-law said it would be too upsetting for me to see. My mother-in-law and her lady-in-waiting washed his body without telling me. And then he was taken for the funeral.”

  “I can see why you have questions,” Perveen said, nodding.

  “I asked to have my son’s clothing returned. I was told it was all gone. But animals don’t eat cloth. There would have been scraps!”

  “Do you think someone on the hunt shot your son?” Perveen asked.

  “The doctor’s report did not say he was shot. Prince Swaroop and Aditya both told me the doctor’s report said he was not shot. But it could not be confirmed entirely, because the gun was not found.”

  This was interesting information. “Besides Prince Swaroop and Aditya the buffoon, who else was on the trip?”

  “Three or four grooms. I don’t know their names, but two were from our palace and two from Prince Swaroop’s household.”

  “Did Prince Pratap Rao show any signs of being nervous before the leopard shoot?” Perveen wondered if the young maharaja might have sensed someone on the trip had bad intentions.

  “Yes. Very nervous!” Mirabai’s words came out in a rush. “He was crying, and when I asked why, he told me he thought that Prince Swaroop would bag all the animals, as had happened before. He wished so much to have his very own leopard rug. Many princes even younger than he was have killed leopards and tigers and have their skins as trophies in their nurseries.”

  This was not the kind of detail Perveen was after, but Mirabai’s words gave credence to the doctor’s account of the boy insisting on carrying the only gun. Perhaps he had dropped or left it somewhere in the forest because he found it too heavy to carry. The darker idea she didn’t voice to Mirabai was that someone had cornered the boy, hit him with the gun, and then gotten rid of it.

  The junior maharani leaned forward, looking intently at Perveen. “So my son was anxious—and I was hoping he’d have his chance. He was just like me—always carrying very strong feelings. I wish now I had said, ‘You are too young to succeed. Stay home today and go hunting another time.’ Then I might still have him!”

  Perveen heard the raw grief in Mirabai’s voice and felt a resurgence of her own sadness. She knew how it felt to wish one’s actions had been different. “I am deeply sorry that you lost your oldest son. And I’m not sure we’ll ever know the truth of what happened.”

  Looking grim, Mirabai shook her head. “He is gone, and nothing will bring him back. Now all I can do is protect Jiva Rao. I spoke of rainy season sickness to placate the rajmata, but I tell you, last week he was poisoned by someone in this palace. He is only with us today because I recognized the signs and made him drink yogurt.”

  Perveen was sympathetic, but the number of Mirabai’s murder theories made it hard to take her seriously. “Why do you think it was poison—not an upset stomach?”

  Mirabai closed her eyes tightly for a moment. When she reopened them, she said, “The woods are full of man
y plants. And now that so few of us are living here, sometimes the food served in my own palace comes from the old palace, where she stays with her servants—the ones who’ve always hated me. He fell ill after taking lunch there with her, when I was away. I did not know he would eat there—and I had Ganesan with me. I like him to run alongside while I ride.”

  “So if Ganesan was with you, he was not able to taste the food!” Perveen’s swift realization was followed by doubt about the maharani’s choices. Surely she could have one dog to stay with her son, and another to protect her while she was riding. “Do you usually take Ganesan out during the children’s mealtimes?”

  “Never. I did not expect to be out as long as I was. The rains came, and to avoid flooded places, I had to find another way back to the palace. I was stupid to ride when the sky was so dark.” Her face clouded over.

  Perveen could not believe the maharani’s theory—not when the dowager was also worried for the same child’s safety. “What reason would a grandmother possibly have to poison her grandson? She must love him very much.”

  “There are many different kinds of love. And the question is, whom does she love best?” Mirabai looked intently at Perveen. “My son is not the quiet, obedient child she would like him to be. And if he died, my brother-in-law could ascend to the gaddi. Prince Swaroop is the son she coddled over the years. He was always her favorite.”

  “I’m not sure the throne passes that way,” Perveen said. “If a royal line is extinguished, I believe the Kolhapur Agency might become involved.”

  Mirabai’s lips parted as if she needed to take in some air. “Are you certain? Which man has such a right? Is it the viceroy, or King George himself?”

  Perveen didn’t want to give a pronouncement that could be interpreted as her own decision. She parried. “I don’t know. I think that discussion about succession is done with a great deal of consideration.”

  “You may be right.” Mirabai sounded stoic. “After all, the British arrange royal marriages.”

  Perveen was startled. “Do you mean your own marriage wasn’t arranged by your parents?”

  “The Kolhapur Agency administrator wrote to the dowager’s husband proposing me as the bride for the next maharaja of Satapur. It took a few years for everyone to agree—and of course, I never saw him before the wedding. I was sixteen. I had just finished tenth standard.” She cast an eye at the mahogany bookcase across the room. “Those are my old schoolbooks.”

  Now the odd assortment made sense. “Why aren’t they in your own rooms?”

  “My mother-in-law didn’t approve of them. She said there was no use for such books after I became a maharani. All I needed to know was the culture of the zenana.” Giving Perveen a sly look, she added, “I do still get newspapers. They were delivered in my husband’s day whenever the postal cart could get through, and I saw no reason to stop getting them.”

  “But this is princely India—not ruled by the British. Why would royal families let the British control their children’s marriages?” As the question left Perveen’s lips, she realized the dowager Putlabai’s distaste for Mirabai might originate with the marital choice forced upon her son. Probably the dowager would have preferred one of the Satapur area’s noble daughters.

  “If royal states don’t comply with these gentle suggestions, the amount of tribute we pay to the government might rise. Besides, I know why I was chosen. My father had never argued against the government, and he’d allowed me to go to the boarding school in Panchgani they suggested. Neither my mother nor I maintained purdah. At one time, I was considered a model for Indian womanhood.” Her narrow lips twisted as she spoke the last words. “But now I sit alone in this palace, because the dowager says if I break purdah, the people will be unhappy.”

  Perveen’s mind was working. Clearly the royal women did not observe purdah in the traditional sense within their own home; it was a matter of show to people in the state. Mirabai’s inner rebellion made her think of Vandana, who also felt alone. Perhaps these two spirited women would find an easy kinship. Casually, Perveen said, “I met a charming woman who lives about twelve miles from here. She is named Vandana Mehta and has some past connection to this palace. I asked Chitra about her, but she didn’t know her name. Do you know of her?”

  Mirabai’s brow furrowed, and she was silent for a moment. At last she said, “I do not know her, but I never visited this palace before I married. And Chitra probably doesn’t know her because Vandana may not be her original name.”

  Perveen was intrigued. “Why do you think that?”

  “Many of us Hindu women have our names changed by our husband’s families. When I came here in 1905, I was no longer called by the name my parents gave me.”

  “And what was that name?”

  “Keya.” She spoke the name very softly. “In Sanskrit, it means ‘monsoon flower.’ I was born during a very hard monsoon. But tell me—you said the lady’s married name is Mehta. Is she married to a Parsi businessman?”

  “Yes! He is Mr. Yazad Mehta. I met them both at the circuit house.” She wondered if being in business was a social disqualifier.

  “I once heard the buffoon speak about that man.” Mirabai put a hand over her brow, as if her head ached. “He wishes to make hydroelectric dams all through these hills.”

  “What do you think of that idea?” Perveen had noted the dramatic reaction.

  “It would be sad to see nature ruined. If forests are cut down, the animals lose their homes. Aranyani would not like it.”

  Perveen was perplexed. “But don’t you enjoy electricity and running water in this palace?”

  Mirabai shifted in her chair, as if it had become slightly less comfortable. “We have our own electric plant within the compound that supplies the power. The rajmata said we must have a modern palace to make visitors comfortable, but there is no need for others to have such things. The villagers could not afford to pay for electric light—so why install it? I am sure that is what she would tell you.”

  Perveen knew the palatial luxuries of electric light and piped hot water should have made her feel more comfortable than she’d been at the circuit house, but they did not. She thought of the thin, desperate people in the village, the burned buildings that hadn’t been restored. Mirabai was telling her in no uncertain terms that the state believed this was meant to be. She reminded herself reluctantly that this was not her affair; she had come solely to decide the maharaja’s future.

  Noticing that Mirabai looked as tense as when she’d arrived, Perveen tried to reassure her. “I am not involved in advocating for electricity. I will just discuss your concerns for the maharaja’s education.”

  “You must tell the British to approve him for schooling in England. I don’t care which school—just that he has eight years to grow strong in body and mind.” Mirabai rose to her feet and shot a glance toward the closed door. Turning back to Perveen, she muttered, “If God wills it, she will die during that time. Her health is not good: she eats too many sweets. In eight years, my son will be eighteen. Jiva Rao can then take proper charge without being hampered.”

  “I see.” Perveen knew from experience it was a mistake to count on people to behave the way one hoped. There was also a real chance that Mirabai could take on the same negative role in the household as the dowager had done.

  “I shall go.” Mirabai nodded at her and then crossed the room toward the balcony.

  “Why not use the door?” Perveen suggested. “It’s safer than climbing outside!”

  “The guards in the hallway would see me,” Mirabai said, reminding Perveen of the many unseen watchers. “By the way, my bedchamber is just below this room. In case you must see me.”

  Perveen knew there was no chance she’d climb the castle’s exterior for a chat with the maharani. As Mirabai went to the railing, Perveen stood anxiously on the balcony and clicked on the bright torch to help the mahara
ni see better.

  “No!” Mirabai said under her breath. “That light can be seen by anyone below!”

  The queen truly had no privacy. Hastily, Perveen shut off the battery torch. “God protect you.”

  Holding fast to the holes in the damp marble, Mirabai dangled her feet and moved her hands down the balcony wall. She tilted her face up one last time. She hissed, “Don’t worry about me. Worry about my son!”

  Mirabai vanished, and in the next moment, there was a soft thumping sound.

  “Are you safe?” Perveen whispered over the balcony, praying for an answer back. The thump had made her own body feel as if it had fallen.

  “Yes!” came a fierce whisper from below. “But never speak of this route to anyone, especially not the children. I don’t want them trying it!”

  14

  The Maharaja’s Word

  Perveen squinted at her Longines watch. Was it really just six o’clock?

  No. The night before, she had forgotten to wind the watch. The room was bright with sunshine, and the grandfather clock near the doorway said nine-fifteen.

  She’d awoken slowly, feeling exhausted from the previous day’s hard journey and the broken sleep that had followed the maharani’s midnight visit. Even though nobody had told her breakfast was at a certain time, Perveen had a dreadful feeling she’d missed it. She might also have missed a chance to see Mr. Basu teaching the children, which was exactly what she’d come to evaluate.

  The curtains were open, and a wide ray of sun slanted across the bedroom floor. The large cream marble tiles were set in a pattern with small diamonds of black onyx. This floor was a modern one and very different from the smaller marble tiles and semiprecious stones inlaid into a complicated mosaic in the dowager maharani’s grand dining room. Despite its darkness and the smell of mildew, the jewel-like setting of the old palace had appealed to Perveen’s imagination; but that was because of her childhood illusions about the grandeur and power of India’s royal families. Putlabai and Mirabai had both schooled her in the limitations for royal women in princely India when there was no adult maharaja to summon guests for parties, or to take the women out and about.