The Moghul Part 46

The bride and groom were standing together now, and they began to circle the fire while the women standing nearby sang a monotonous, repet.i.tive song. Hawksworth counted seven turns of the fire. Then they seated themselves and the priest placed a red dot on the forehead of man and wife.

"They'll feast tonight, and then the groom will return to his village."

Vasant Rao spurred his mount to catch up with the caravan. "Later she and her family will go there for more ceremonies. After that the groom may not see her again for several years, until the day her father decides she's ready for the _gauna_, the consummation of the marriage.

I didn't see my bride again for two years."

"What happened then?"

"She came to my village for a few days and stayed in the women's quarters--the men and women sleep apart in these villages--and I had to go there and try to find her cot. After that she went back home and it was several months later before I saw her again. Then she came back, for a longer time. Finally she moved to my village, but by then I was nineteen and soon after I left on a campaign. She stayed with my younger brother while I was gone, and when I returned, she was with child. Who can say whether it was mine or his? But none of it matters, for she died in childbirth." He spurred his horse past the line of carts. "Let's try to make the river before sundown."

Hawksworth couldn't believe what he had heard, and he whipped his mount to catch up.

"Your brother kept your wife while you were away?"

"Of course. I don't know how it is here, but in the part of India where I was born, brothers normally share each other's wives. I used to go to my older brother's house when he was gone and visit his wife. She expected it and would have been upset if I hadn't come to her." Vasant Rao was puzzled by Hawksworth's surprise. "Don't brothers share one another's wives in England?"

"Well, not. . . usually. I mean . . . no. h.e.l.l no. It's d.a.m.ned close to incest. The truth is a husband would have grounds to call out a man he caught with his wife. And especially a brother."

"'Call him out,' Captain? What does that mean?"

"A duel. With swords. Or maybe pistols."

Vasant Rao was incredulous.

"But what if a man goes away on a campaign? His wife will grow frustrated. Hindus believe a woman has seven times the s.e.xual energy of a man. She would start meeting other men in the village if a man didn't have a brother to keep her satisfied. In the village where I grew up, if a man and woman met together by chance in the forest, and they had the same caste, we all a.s.sumed they would make the most of the opportunity. So it's better for the honor of the family if your brothers care for your wife. It's an important duty for brothers. And besides, as long as a woman attends to her own husband's needs, what does it matter if his brother enjoys her also?"

Hawksworth found himself astonished.

"How does . . . I mean, what about this brother's own wife? What does she think about all this?"

"If her husband wants to visit his brothers' wives, what should she care? It's normal. She'll also find ways to meet her husband's brothers for the same purpose. Women married to brothers often try to send each other away on errands, in order to enjoy the other's husband. So wives have no reason to complain. In fact, if a woman returns to her own village for a visit, she will probably seek out some of the men she knew when she was young and enjoy them, since her husband is not around and no one in her own village would tell him. Hindus in the villages don't lock away their women the way the Muslims do, Captain Hawksworth.

And because they're free to enjoy whoever they wish, they aren't frustrated and unhappy the way Muslim women are. Surely your England is an advanced country where women have the same freedom."

Hawksworth puzzled for a minute before trying to answer. The truth is there's a big difference between what's said and what's done. With chast.i.ty praised from the pulpits and wh.o.r.es the length of London. And highborn ladies thronging the playhouses, ready to cuckold their husbands with any cavalier who'll give them a look. How can I explain it?

"I guess you'd say upper-cla.s.s women have the most freedom to take lovers. Usually young gallants or soldiers. And no one is surprised if her husband makes full use of his serving wench."

"Are these soldiers and serving women from a lower caste?"

"Well, we don't exactly have . . ." Hawksworth paused for a moment.

"Actually I guess you could say they're a lower 'caste,' in a way."

Vasant reined in his mount and inspected Hawksworth for a moment in disgust.

"Please excuse me if I say yours must be a very immoral country.

Captain. Such a thing would never happen in India. No Rajput would touch the body of a low caste. It would be pollution."

"You don't care what your women do? All that matters is who they do it with?" Hawksworth suddenly realized he found it all too absurd to believe. It sounds like another tale of the Indies. Concocted to entertain credulous seamen. "All right, then, what about your own wife?

Did she have other men besides your brothers?"

"How would I know?" Vasant Rao waved his hand, dismissing the question as insignificant. "I suppose it's possible. But after she died I decided I'd had enough of wives and women. I took a vow of chast.i.ty.

There's the legend of a G.o.d named Hanumanji, who took on the flesh of a monkey and who gained insuperable strength by retaining his s.e.m.e.n. It made him invulnerable." Vasant Rao smiled. "So far it's worked for me as well. But to protect the charm, I eat no meat and drink a gla.s.s of opium each day."

The Rajput suddenly spurred his mount toward the head of the caravan.

The sun had disappeared behind a heavy bank of storm clouds in the west, and the road had already begun to darken. The river was probably still another hour away, perhaps two hours.

Hawksworth studied Vasant Rao's tall, commanding form, sitting erect and easy in the saddle.

Sweet Jesus, he thinks he's invulnerable because he avoids women and drinks opium. Rajputs are even madder than the d.a.m.ned Turks. And he thinks the high castes rule by the will of G.o.d. I wonder what the low castes think?

Hawksworth puzzled through the Rajput's words and half-dozed in the saddle until he realized they were finally approaching the river.

Ahead, past groves of mango trees, lay a sandy expanse leading down toward the water's edge. As they approached, Vasant Rao sent some of his hors.e.m.e.n to scout along the riverbank in both directions to find a shallow spot for crossing. The caravan followed the stream for half a _kos_, then halted on a sandy plain that sloped gradually down toward the wide stream. The water rippled slightly all the way across, signifying there were no lurking depths to swallow a cart.

The sun was dying, washing a veneer of gold over the high dark clouds threatening in the east. The smell of rain hinted in the evening air.

Vasant Rao peered across the water's darkening surface for a time, while the drivers waited patiently for orders to begin crossing, then he turned to the waiting Rajputs.

"The light is too far gone." He stroked the mane of his gray stallion and again studied the clouds building where the sun had been. "It's safer to camp here and cross in the morning."

He signaled the head driver and pointed the Rajputs toward a sandy expanse close to the water's edge. In moments the drivers were urging their teams toward the spot, circling them in preparation for the night.

"The carts will go on the riverside, and we'll camp here." He specified areas for the Rajputs and the drivers, and then he turned to Hawksworth and pointed out a large mango tree. "Your tent can go there."

Hawksworth had been required by the Rajputs to keep a separate area for his campfire and cooking. Vasant Rao had explained the reasons the first evening of the journey.

"Food is merely an external part of the body, Captain, so naturally it must be kept from pollution. Food is transformed into blood, and the blood eventually turns to flesh, the flesh to fat, and the fat to marrow. The marrow turns to s.e.m.e.n, the life-force. Since you have no caste, a Rajput would become polluted if he allowed you to touch his food, or even the pots in which he cooked."

Hawksworth's driver, being a low caste, had no objection to cooking and eating with the English amba.s.sador. Their diet on the trip had been simple. The Rajputs lived mainly on game they killed as they rode, though some occasionally ate fish. A few seemed to subsist on rice, wheat cakes, and boiled lentils. That night, as an experiment, Hawksworth ordered his driver, Nayka, to prepare a dinner of whatever he himself was having. Then he reclined against his saddle, poured himself a tankard of brandy, and watched the preparations.

Nayka struck up a fire of twigs, to ignite the chips of dried

cow dung used for the real cooking, and then he began to heat a curved pan containing _ghee_, b.u.t.ter that had been boiled and strained to prevent rancidity. Although the Rajputs cooked in vegetable oil, Nayka had insisted from the first that a personage as important as the English _feringhi_ should eat only clarified b.u.t.ter. The smoldering chips of dung took a long time to heat, but finally the ghee seemed ready. Nayka had ground spices as he waited, and he began to throw them into the hot fat to sputter. Then he chopped vegetables and dropped them in to fry. In a separate pot he was already boiling lentils, together with a yellow spice he called turmeric. As the meal neared readiness, he began to fry _chappatis_, thin patties of unleavened wheat flour mixed with water and ghee. Then Hawksworth watched in shock as Nayka discreetly dropped a coal of burning cow dung into the pot of cooking lentils.

"What the h.e.l.l was that?"

"Flavoring, Captain Sahib." Nayka's Turkish had been learned through procuring women for Turkish seamen, and it was heavily accented and abrupt. "It's the secret of the flavor of our lentils."

"Is that 'high-caste' practice?"

"I think it is the same for all." Nayka examined him for a moment, twisting his head deferentially. "Does the Sahib know about caste?"

"I know it's a d.a.m.nable practice."

"The Sahib says what the Sahib says, but caste is a very good thing."

"How do you figure that?"

"Because I will be reborn a Brahmin. I went to a soothsayer who told me. My next life will be marvelous."

"But what about this life?"