Read Online Nightrunners of Bengal by John Masters - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Masters
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high, she’s going to be different. ‘S not another woman of family in India dares do what she’s done. She’s wonderful—terrifies everyone. Woman like that’s like tigress with wings—a freak? I say, you won’ tell her this, will you? I’m drunk’s th’ Archer-God.”
Rodney shook his head and sucked on the amber mouthpiece of his own hookah. It was all true enough; she was like a fire, or a steel spring, and terrifying in the force and range of her passions. Her rages struck like lightning; she even stood still with a sort of passionate realization of her stillness. He had not sought a meeting with her, partly because he was ashamed of his outburst that night in the courtyard. Dellamain had presented him at an informal audience, and after that the Rani took the initiative. Rodney had tried to remain cold and official; it was impossible, because the emotions she aroused were powerful ones—whether of contempt, dislike, distrust, fear, or admiration. Within ten days after Dellamain’s departure he had felt all those, in that order. She saw him two or three hours a day; never covered her face; cross-examined him on a thousand minutiae of his work and life; sometimes asked him to call her by her name, Sumitra, to help her “think English.” She thought that way she would understand better what he was getting at It was an impossibility, of course; there was no Englishwoman in the world quite like Sumitra, Rani-Regent of Kishanpur.
The music beat a louder tune; the dancers swung, their fingers gestured, their silver anklets clinked and crashed. Prithvi Chand raised his voice. “What a row! You know the miss sahib—Langford, wasn’t it?—who was here six months last year? She an’ the Rani hated each other, ‘cos they’re so much ‘like.” Rodney opened his mouth to protest. “Oh, yes, Captain. One’s Indian, one’s English—one has power do what she likes, other wants it. But why you find us easy—tha’ss because you fit in, yet you’re still English as goddamn—’scuse me, Captain.”
Rodney smiled. Perhaps it was true. Or perhaps they had some ulterior motive in view and wanted to make sure he would report favourably to the Commissioner. But it was a nice thing to hear. He said, “Thank you, Prithvi. You’ve all taken such a lot of trouble to see that I had a good time—all the shikar you’ve shown me …”
Prithvi Chand giggled; Rodney frowned, then relaxed in a sheepish grin. In the beginning, Prithvi, Shivcharan, and even the golden youth, had indeed taken him out hunting. One of them always went along to show him where the wild fowl flighted and the red jungle cock fed. They clung close and never left him to do his own explorations; once, wanting to take the morning flight and not thinking it necessary to disturb anyone at four a.m., he had slipped out alone. The surly Shivcharan came running after, and later blurted out the reason for his haste. The Dewan feared Rodney might lose his way or come to some harm in the jungle. The Rani would hold the Dewan responsible; so one of the officers was always to accompany him when he left the fort. The Dewan himself seemed to be away a lot.
All that was in the early weeks. For the last month it had been the Rani who came with him talking without cease, demanding to be taught to shoot, asking his advice on the ordering of guns from England. She was a little over five feet in height, firmly built, and had big black moving eyes. It was she who sat over the kill with him when villagers brought in news of a leopard; she who shot the leopard and clapped her hands like a young girl.
He wanted to thank Prithvi for other benefits besides good hunting. He swept his hand in a gesture embracing the dancers, the bottle of imported brandy on a table, the liveried servants behind him, the strewn cushions. “And then there’s all this …”
Prithvi smiled happily. “We want you to see our life, Captain, what we are. This is the best tr-troupe dancers
Rodney shook his head and sucked on the amber mouthpiece of his own hookah. It was all true enough; she was like a fire, or a steel spring, and terrifying in the force and range of her passions. Her rages struck like lightning; she even stood still with a sort of passionate realization of her stillness. He had not sought a meeting with her, partly because he was ashamed of his outburst that night in the courtyard. Dellamain had presented him at an informal audience, and after that the Rani took the initiative. Rodney had tried to remain cold and official; it was impossible, because the emotions she aroused were powerful ones—whether of contempt, dislike, distrust, fear, or admiration. Within ten days after Dellamain’s departure he had felt all those, in that order. She saw him two or three hours a day; never covered her face; cross-examined him on a thousand minutiae of his work and life; sometimes asked him to call her by her name, Sumitra, to help her “think English.” She thought that way she would understand better what he was getting at It was an impossibility, of course; there was no Englishwoman in the world quite like Sumitra, Rani-Regent of Kishanpur.
The music beat a louder tune; the dancers swung, their fingers gestured, their silver anklets clinked and crashed. Prithvi Chand raised his voice. “What a row! You know the miss sahib—Langford, wasn’t it?—who was here six months last year? She an’ the Rani hated each other, ‘cos they’re so much ‘like.” Rodney opened his mouth to protest. “Oh, yes, Captain. One’s Indian, one’s English—one has power do what she likes, other wants it. But why you find us easy—tha’ss because you fit in, yet you’re still English as goddamn—’scuse me, Captain.”
Rodney smiled. Perhaps it was true. Or perhaps they had some ulterior motive in view and wanted to make sure he would report favourably to the Commissioner. But it was a nice thing to hear. He said, “Thank you, Prithvi. You’ve all taken such a lot of trouble to see that I had a good time—all the shikar you’ve shown me …”
Prithvi Chand giggled; Rodney frowned, then relaxed in a sheepish grin. In the beginning, Prithvi, Shivcharan, and even the golden youth, had indeed taken him out hunting. One of them always went along to show him where the wild fowl flighted and the red jungle cock fed. They clung close and never left him to do his own explorations; once, wanting to take the morning flight and not thinking it necessary to disturb anyone at four a.m., he had slipped out alone. The surly Shivcharan came running after, and later blurted out the reason for his haste. The Dewan feared Rodney might lose his way or come to some harm in the jungle. The Rani would hold the Dewan responsible; so one of the officers was always to accompany him when he left the fort. The Dewan himself seemed to be away a lot.
All that was in the early weeks. For the last month it had been the Rani who came with him talking without cease, demanding to be taught to shoot, asking his advice on the ordering of guns from England. She was a little over five feet in height, firmly built, and had big black moving eyes. It was she who sat over the kill with him when villagers brought in news of a leopard; she who shot the leopard and clapped her hands like a young girl.
He wanted to thank Prithvi for other benefits besides good hunting. He swept his hand in a gesture embracing the dancers, the bottle of imported brandy on a table, the liveried servants behind him, the strewn cushions. “And then there’s all this …”
Prithvi smiled happily. “We want you to see our life, Captain, what we are. This is the best tr-troupe dancers
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