East along the Tapti River valley the land was a verdant
paradise, a patchwork of mango and pipal groves and freshly turned dark
earth. By mid-October the fields of cotton, corn, and sugarcane were in
harvest; and in the lowlands paired buffalo strained to turn the
crusted mud to readiness for broadcast sowing the grain crops of
autumn: millet, wheat, and barley. The monsoon-washed roads had again
grown passable, and now they were a continual procession, as mile-long
caravans of corn-laden bullock carts inched ponderously west toward the
shipping port of Surat.
The distance from Surat to Burhanpur was one hundred and fifty _kos_,
and in dry weather it could be traversed in just over a fortnight.
Vasant Rao had hired fifty carts to transport the sealed bundles--which
he said were lead--to Burhanpur, swelling his entourage of forty Raput
horsemen by fifty low-caste drivers and bullock teams. He had also
hired five additional carts to carry provisions.
Brian Hawksworth had contracted for his own cart and driver,
negotiating a price of twenty rupees for cartage of his belongings all
the way from Surat to Agra. He was amused to reflect that the chest
containing King James's gifts for the Moghul of India traveled lashed
to the bed of a ramshackle, wooden-wheeled cart originally intended for
hay.
The caravan had been scheduled to depart early on a Saturday morning,
but the drivers had suddenly refused to budge until the following day.
Hawksworth had confronted his driver, Nayka, a dark-skinned low-caste
man with the spindly limbs of the underfed, and demanded to know why.
Nayka had twisted his head deferentially, riveting his eyes on the
ground, and explained in halting Turki.
"Today is Saturday, Captain Sahib. Saturdays and
Tuesdays are sacred to the goddess Devi, the Divine Mother. Journeys
begun on those days always meet disaster. Bandits, tigers, washed-out
roads. A Mussalman once made my cousin bring a cart of indigo to Surat
from a village down the river on a Tuesday, and a bridge broke under
his load. Both of his bullocks were drowned."
It was mid-afternoon on Sunday when the caravan finally pulled out from
the water tank at Surat's Abidjan Gate. By nightfall they had traveled
three _kos_, reaching the outskirts of the village of Cossaria. The
next day they made twelve _kos_ east-northeast to reach the town of
Karod, a strategic fort on the Tapti, dominated by a hilltop castle
that garrisoned two hundred Rajput soldiers. The next three days their
camp stages had been the towns of Viara, Corka, and the large garrison
city of Narayanpur.
On the insistence of Mirza Nuruddin, Hawksworth had carried only a
minimal amount of money with him. Instead he had adopted the practice
of Indian merchants, leaving a chest of silver in Surat and receiving a
letter of credit, which could be debited for cash at major stops along
the road to Agra. Moneylenders received negotiable notes against the
silver deposit, which would be paid in Surat at 7 percent surcharge,
thereby allowing travelers along the bandit-infested roads to carry
cheques instead of cash.
Hawksworth found himself annoyed that Vasant Rao never allowed the
caravan to stop inside the towns, where traditional Indian guest
houses--a stone floor and a roof-- were available free for travelers.
Instead they camped each evening on the outskirts, while a few Rajputs
rode in to the town bazaar to buy fresh vegetables, bricks of cow dung
for cooking, and betel leaves for the drivers.
The evening they reached Narayanpur, the governor of the garrison,
Partab Shah, had paid a surprise visit to their camp, bringing his own
troup of _nautch_ women. While the women entertained the Rajputs with
an evening of dance and low-priced intimacy, Partab Shah whispered
warnings to Hawksworth that the road farther east was no longer safe
now that civil rule in the Deccan was teetering. The governor had
offered to provide additional troops to escort the English ambassador
and his gifts for the Moghul safely through the district. To the
governor's--and Hawksworth's--dismay, Vasant Rao had politely declined.
It had been well after midnight when the governor and his aides rose to
return to Narayanpur. Vasant Rao had insisted that the women be sent
with him. Then he convened the Rajputs and drivers and announced that
they would assemble the caravan two hours before sunup the following
morning, an hour earlier than usual. They would try to reach and ford
the Tapti before nightfall, then veer northeast for Burhanpur.
Hawksworth thought he detected a trace of worry in Vasant Rao's voice
for the first time.
They were well underway by sunup the next day, and as he fought off
sleep in the rising heat, Hawksworth reflected on what he had seen
along the road. It was clear the larger towns were collection depots
for the Surat region, centers where grain, cotton, indigo, and hemp
were assembled for delivery to the port. As their caravan rumbled
through town after town, Hawksworth began to find them merely a
provincial version of Surat, equally frenetic and self-absorbed. Their
bazaars bustled with haggling brokers and an air of commerce
triumphant. After a time he began to find them more wearisome than
exotic.
But between these towns lived the other India, one of villages
unchanged for centuries. To a Londoner and seaman they were another
world, and Hawksworth understood almost nothing of what he saw. Several
times he had started to ask Vasant Rao some question about a village,
but the time never seemed right. The Rajput was constantly occupied
with the progress of the caravan and never spoke unless he was giving
an order. The long silence of the road had gathered between them until
it was almost an invisible wall.
For no apparent reason this changed suddenly on the afternoon after
Narayanpur, as the caravan rumbled into the small village of Nimgul and
began working its way along the single road through the town. Vasant
Rao drew his mount alongside Hawksworth's and pointed to a white
plaster building up ahead that dominated the center of the village.
"I grew to manhood in a village such as this, Captain, in a house much
like that one there."
Hawksworth examined the well-kept house, and then the village around
it. Spreading away on all sides were tumbledown thatch-roofed homes of
sticks and clay, many raised on foot-high stilts to keep them above the
seasonal mud. Gaunt, naked children swarmed about the few remaining
trees, their voices piping shrilly at play, while elderly men lounged
on the porches smoking hookahs. Most of the able-bodied men seemed to
be in the fields, leaving their women--unsmiling laborers in drab body-
length wraps, a large marriage ring dangling from one nostril--to toil
in the midday sun combing seeds from large stacks of cotton, shelling
piles of small-eared corn, and boiling a dense brown liquid in wide
iron pans.
Vasant Rao drew up his horse in front of the pans and spoke rapidly
with one of the sad-eyed women. There was a tinkle of her heavy silver
bracelets as she bowed to him, then turned to ask a turbaned overseer
to offer them two clay cups of the liquid. Vasant Rao threw the man a
small coin, a copper _pice_, and passed one of the cups to Hawksworth.
It was viscous and sweeter than anything he had ever tasted. Vasant Rao
savored a mouthful, then discarded the cup into the road.
"They're boiling cane juice to make _gur_, those brown blocks of sugar
you see in the bazaars, for the Brahmin landholders to sell. She's a
Camar, a low caste, and she works from sunup to dusk for a day's supply
of _chapattis_, fried wheat cakes, for her household. Wages haven't
risen in the villages since I was a boy."
"Why did she ask the overseer to bring you the cup?"
"Because I'm a Rajput." Vasant Rao seemed startled by the question. "I
would pollute my caste if I took a cup from the hand of a Camar. If a
Rajput or a Brahmin eats food that's been handled by a member of the
low castes, he may be obligated to undergo ritual purification. If you
are born to a high caste, Captain, you must honor its obligations."
Hawksworth studied him, wondering why he had finally decided to talk.
Security had been unaccountably tight for a shipment of lead. Vasant
Rao had insisted that all carts be kept within the perimeter of the
camp, inside the circle of guards. No one, neither drivers nor guards,
had been allowed to touch the contents of the carts: sealed packages
individually wrapped and lashed in bricks.
"Did you grow up around here?" Hawksworth tried to widen the opening.
"No, of course not." He laughed sharply. "Only a _feringhi_ would ask
that. I was born in the foothills of the Himalayas, hundreds of _kos_
north of Agra. In a Rajput village. The villages in the Surat district
are ruled by Brahmins."
"Are Rajput villages like this?"
"All villages are more or less the same, Captain. How could it be
otherwise? They're all Hindu. This is the real India, my friend.
Muslims and Moghuls, and now Christians, come and go. This stays the
same. These villages will endure long after the marble cities of the
Moghuls are dust. That's why I feel peace here. Knowing this cannot be
destroyed, no matter who rules in Agra."
Hawksworth looked about the village. It seemed to be ruled by cattle.
They roamed freely, arrogantly, secure in the centuries-old instinct
that they were sacred and inviolable. Naked children had begun to swarm
after the carts, and a few young women paused to cast discreet glances
at the handsome Rajput horsemen. But the main work pressed monotonously
forward. It was a place untouched by the world beyond its horizons.
"You said this was a Brahmin village. Are all the men here priests?"
"Of course not." Vasant Rao grunted a laugh and gestured toward the
fields beyond. "Who would do the work? There must be the other castes,
or the Brahmins would starve. Brahmins and Rajputs are forbidden by the
laws of caste from working the land. I meant this village is ruled by
Brahmins, although I'd guess no more than one family in ten is high
caste. The brick and plaster homes there in the center of the village
probably belong to Brahmins. The villages of India, Captain Hawksworth,
are not ruled by the Moghuls.They're ruled by the high castes. Here,
the Brahmins, in other villages, the Rajputs. These, together with some
merchants called Banias, make up the high-caste Hindus, the wearers of
the sacred thread of the twice born, the real owners and rules of
India. All the other castes exist to serve them."
"I thought there were only four castes."
Hawksworth remembered that Mukarrab Khan had once described the caste
system of the Hindus with obvious Muslim disgust. There are four
castes, he had explained, each striving to exploit those below. The
greatest exploiters called themselves Brahmin, probably Aryan invaders
who had arrived thousands of years past and now proclaimed themselves
"preservers of tradition." That tradition, which they invented, was
mainly subjugation of all the others. Next came the Kshatriya, the
warrior caste, which had been claimed by Rajput tribes who also had
invaded India, probably well after the Brahmins. The third caste, also
"high," was called Vaisya, and was supposed to be made up of society's
producers of foods and goods. Now it was the caste claimed by rich,
grasping Hindu merchants. Below all these were the Sudra, who were in
effect the servants and laborers for the powerful "high" castes. But
even the Sudra had someone to exploit, for beneath them were the
Untouchables, those unfortunates in whose veins probably ran the blood
of the original inhabitants of India. The Untouchables had no caste.
The part that annoyed Mukarrab Khan the most was that high-caste Hindus
regarded all Muslims as part of the mass of Untouchables.
"The four main castes are those prescribed in the order of the _varna_,
the ancient Aryan scriptures. But the world of the village has little
to do with the _varna_. Today there are many castes," Vasant Rao
continued, reflecting to himself how he loathed most Brahmins, who took
every opportunity to claim caste superiority over Rajputs. "For
example, the Brahmins here probably have two subcastes--one for the
priests, who think up ceremonies as an excuse to collect money, and the
other for the landowners, most of whom are also moneylenders. "There"--
he pointed--"that man is a Brahmin."
Hawksworth saw a shirtless man standing by one of the white plaster
homes. He wore a dingy loincloth beneath his enormous belly, and as
Hawksworth examined him he noticed a strand of thread that circled
around his neck and under his left arm.
"Why is he wearing a cord around his shoulder?"
"That's the sacred thread of the high castes. I wear one myself."
Vasant Rao opened his shirt to reveal a strand of three colored
threads, woven together. "It's consecrated and given to boys around age
ten at a very important ceremony. Before the thread ceremony a boy has
no caste. An orthodox Brahmin won't even eat with his son until after
the boy's thread ceremony."
Hawksworth examined the thread. It was the first time he'd noticed it.
"What about the men who don't wear a thread?"
"They're the middle castes, the ones who do the work in a village.
Carpenters, potters, weavers, barbers. They serve the high castes and
each other. The barber shaves the potter; the potter makes his vessels.
The Brahmins here probably won't sell them any land, so they'll always
be poor. That's why the middle castes live in houses of mud and thatch
instead of brick. And below them are the unclean castes. Sweepers,
servants, shoemakers."
And below them are the non-Hindus, Hawksworth thought. Me.
"What the hell's the reason for all this? It's worse than the class
system in England. I'll drink with any man, high or low. I have. And I
usually prefer to drink with the low."
"That may explain why most _feringhis_ seem so confused and unhappy.
Caste is the most important thing in life." Vasant Rao glanced over his
shoulder at the receding village. "It's the reason India's civilization
has lasted for thousands of years. I pity your misfortune, Captain
Hawksworth, not to have been born a Hindu. Perhaps you were once, and
will be again in some future life. I think you'll someday be reborn a
Kshatriya, a member of the warrior caste. Then you'll know who you are,
what you must do. Unlike the Moghuls and the other Muslims, who have no
caste and never know their purpose in life, a Rajput always knows."
As they rode on through the countryside Hawksworth tried to understand
the purpose of castes. Its absurdity annoyed him.
Mukarrab khan was right for once. It's just a class system, devised by
the highborn to keep the others in submission. But why do they all seem
to believe in it? Why don't the so-called lower castes just tell the
others to go to hell?
As they neared the next village, he decided to try to guess who was in
which caste. But the central road in the village was deserted. Instead
all the villagers, men and women, were clustered around a tall,
brightly painted pole that had been erected near one of the dingy
thatch homes. Vasant Rao's face brightened when he saw the pole.
"There must be a wedding here today. Have you ever seen one?"
"No. Not in India."
"This is a powerful moment, Captain, when you feel the force of
_prahna_, the life spirit."
Vasant Rao pointed toward a pavilion that had been erected next to the
marriage pole. From horseback Hawksworth could just make out the bride
and groom, both dressed in red wraps trimmed in silver. The groom wore
a high turban, on top of which were ceremonial decorations, and the
bride was so encrusted with precious metals she might have been a life-
size ornament: her hands, wrists, feet, ankles, and her head were all
adorned with elaborately worked silver rings, bracelets, medallions.
Her necklace was a string of large gold coins.
"Where'd she get all the silver and gold?"
"Her father is probably a big landowner. Those ornaments are her
savings and part of her dowry. Look, all the women wear thick bracelets
of silver on their ankles. There's much gold and silver in India,
Captain."
As Hawksworth watched, a Brahmin priest, his forehead streaked with
white clay, finished lighting a fire in a central brazier and then
began to recite.
"The priest is reciting from the Vedas, Sanskrit scriptures thousands
of years old," Vasant Rao continued as they watched. "This is a ritual
going back to the dawn of time."
The couple began repeating the priest's verses, their faces intent and
solemn.
"They're taking the marriage vows now. There are seven. The most
important is the wife's vow of complete obedience to her husband. See
the silver knife he carries? That's to symbolize his dominion over her.
But really, she will belong to his entire family when she finally comes
to live at his house."
"What do you mean by 'finally'?"
"These things take time. To begin with, a marriage proposal must come
from the family of the girl. As she approaches womenhood, her father
will hire a marriage broker, probably the village barber, to go to
surrounding villages to look for a suitable match. I remember when I
was young and they used to come to my village." Vasant Rao's face
assumed a faraway expression. "I didn't want to marry and I dreaded
seeing them, but unfortunately I was a good catch. My subcaste is high,
and I had many sisters, which meant more women to share the work in our
house. Then one day my father ordered the priest to cast my horoscope
and I knew I was lost. A broker had brought an inquiry from a girl who
had a compatible horoscope. Soon after, the engagement ceremony was
held in our house. The girl was not there, of course; I didn't see her
until three years later. When we finally had the ceremony you see
here."
The bride and groom were standing together now, and they began to
circle the fire while the women standing nearby sang a monotonous,
repetitive 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. Hell no. It's damned 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 sexual 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 assumed 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
chastity praised from the pulpits and whores 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-class 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 chastity.
There's the legend of a god named Hanumanji, who took on the flesh of a
monkey and who gained insuperable strength by retaining his semen. 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 glass 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 damned Turks. And he
thinks the high castes rule by the will of God. 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 horsemen 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 semen, 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 ambassador. 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.