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Ch 36 - A Passage to India · A Passage to India

• 0:00
  Chapter thirty six. All the time the palace ceased not to thrum and tum
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  tum. The revelation was over, but its effect lasted, and its effect
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  was to make men feel that the revelation had not yet come. Hope existed
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  despite fulfillment, as it will be in heaven. Although the God had been
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  born, his procession loosely supposed by many to be the birth, had not
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  taken place in normal years. The middle hours of this day were signalized by
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  performances of great beauty in the private apartments of the Raja. He owned a
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  troop of men and boys whose duty it was to dance various actions and meditations
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  of his faith before him. Seated at his ease, he could witness the
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  three steps by which the Savior ascended the universe to the discomture of Indra,
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  also the death of the dragon, the mountain that turned into an umbrella,
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  and the Sadou, who, with comic results, invoked the God before dining.
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  All culminated in the dance of the milk maidens before Krishna, and in
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  the still greater dance of Krishna before the milk Maidens, when the music and
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  the musicians swirled through the dark blue robes of the actors into their tinsel crowns,
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  and all became one. The Rajah and his guests would then forget that
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  this was a dramatic performance and would worship the actors. Nothing of the sort
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  could occur today, Because death interrupts, It interrupted less here than in Europe.
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  Its pathos was less poignant, its irony less cruel. There were two
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  claimants to the throne, unfortunately, who were in the palace now and suspected
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  what happened. Yet they made no trouble because religion is a living force to
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  the Hindus and can, at certain moments fling down everything that is petty and
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  temporary in their natures. The festival flowed on, wild and sincere, and
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  all men loved each other and avoided by instinct whatever could cause inconvenience or pain.
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  Aziz could not understand this any more than an average Christian could. He
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  was puzzled that Mao should suddenly be purged from suspicion and self seeking. Although
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  he was an outsider and excluded from their rights, they were always particularly charming
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  to him. At this time, he and his household received small courtesies and
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  presence just because he was outside. He had nothing to do all day except
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  to send the embrocation over to the guest house, and towards sunset he remembered
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  it and looked round his house for a local palliative, for the dispensary was
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  shut. He found a tin of ointment belonging to Mohammed Latif, who was
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  unwilling it should be removed, for magic words had been spoken over it while
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  it was being boiled down, but Aziz promised that he would bring it back
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  after application to the stings. He wanted an excuse for a ride. The
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  procession was beginning to form. As he passed the palace, A large crowd
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  watched the loading of the state palanquin, the prow of which protruded in the
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  form of a silver dragon's head through the lofty, half opened door. Gods
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  big and little were getting aboard. He averted his eyes for he never knew
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  how much he was supposed to see, and nearly collided with the Minister of
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  Education. Ah, you might make me late, meaning that the touch of
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  a non Hindu would necessitate another their bath. The words were spoken without moral
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  heat. Sorry, said Azziz. The other smiled and again mentioned the guest
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  house party, and when he heard that Fielding's wife was not misquested after all,
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  remarked, ah, no, he married the sister of mister heathlo Ah
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  exactly, I have known that for over a year, also without heat.
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  Why did you not tell me? Your silence plunged me into a pretty pickle.
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  Good Boulet, who had never been known to tell anyone anything, smiled
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  again and said, in deprecating tones, never be angry with me. I
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  am, as far as my limitations permit, your true friend. Besides,
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  it is my holy festival. Azziz always felt like a baby in that st
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  range presence, a baby who unexpectedly receives a toy. He smiled also,
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  and turned his horse into a lane. For the crush increased. The sweeper's
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  band was arriving, playing on sieves and other emblems of their profession. They
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  marched straight at the gate of the palace with the air of a victorious army.
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  All other music was silent, for this was ritually the moment of the
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  despised and rejected. The god could not issue from his temple until the unclean
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  sweepers played their tune. They were the spot of filth, without which the
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  spirit cannot cohere for an instant. The scene was magnificent. The doors were
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  thrown open, and the whole court was seen inside, barefoot and dressed in
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  white robes. In the fair way stood the Ark of the Lord, covered
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  with cloth of gold, and flanked by by peacock fans and by stiff circular
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  banners of crimson. It was full to the brim with statuettes and flowers.
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  As it rose from the Earth's on the shoulders of its bearers, the friendly
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  son of the Monsoons shone forth and flooded the world with color, so that
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  the yellow tigers painted on the palace walls seemed to spring, and pink and
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  green skeins of cloud to link up the upper sky. The palanquin moved,
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  The lane was full of state elephants who would follow it Erhuda's empty. Out
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  of humility, Aziz did not pay attention to these sanctities, for they had
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  no connection with his own. He felt bored, slightly cynical, like his
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  own dear Emperor Babur, who came down from the north and found in Hindustan
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  no good fruit, no fresh water or witty conversation, not even a friend.
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  The lane led quickly out of the town on to high rocks and jungle.
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  Here he drew rein and examined the great mau Tank, which lay exposed
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  beneath him, to its remotest curve, reflecting the evening clouds, it filled
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  the nether world with an equal splendor, so that Earth and sky leant toward
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  one another, about to clash in ecstasy. He spat cynical again, more
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  cynical than before, for in the center of the burnished circle, a small
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  black blot was advancing the guest house boat. Those English had improvised something to
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  take the place of oars, and were proceeding in their work of patrolling India.
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  The sight endeered the Hindoos by comparison, and looking back at the milk
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  white hump of the palace, he hoped that they would enjoy carrying their idol
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  about, for at all events it did not pry into other people's lives.
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  This pose of seeing India, which had seduced him to misquested at Chandrapur,
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  was only a form of ruling India. No sympathy lay behind it. He
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  knew exactly what was going on in the boat. As the party gazed at
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  the steps down which the image would presently descend, and debated how near they
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  might row without getting into trouble. Officially, he did not give up his
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  ride, for there would be servants at the guesthouse whom he could question.
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  A little information never comes amiss. He took the path by the Somber promontory
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  that contained the royal Tombs. Like the Palace, they were of snowy stucco
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  and gleamed by their internal light, but their radiance grew ghostly under approaching night.
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  The promontory was covered with lofty trees, and the fruit baths were unhooping
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  from the boughs and making kissing sounds as they grazed the surface of the tank
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  hanging upside down. All day, they had grown thirsty. The signs of
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  the contented Indian evening multiplied frogs on all sides, cow dung burning eternally,
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  a flock of belated hornbills overhead, looking like winged skeletons as they flapped across
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  the glooming. There was death in the air, but not sadness. A
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  compromise had been made between destiny and desire, and even the heart of man
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  acquiesced. The European guest house stood two hundred feet above the water, on
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  the crest of a rocky and wooded spur that jutted from the jungle. By
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  the time Aziz arrived, the water had paled to a film of mauve gray,
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  and the boat vanished entirely. A sentry slept in the guest house porch.
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  Lamps burned in the cruciform of the deserted rooms. He went from one
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  room to another, inquisitive and malicious. Two letters lying on the piano rewarded
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  him, and he pounced and read them promptly. He was not ashamed to
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  do this. The sanctity of private correspondence has never been ratified by the East.
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  Moreover, mister McBride had read all his letters in the past and spread
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  their contents. One letter, the more interesting of the two, was from
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  he slap to Fielding. It threw light on the mentality of his former friend,
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  and it hardened him further against him. Much of it was about Ralph
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  Moore, who appeared to be almost an imbecile. And on my brother,
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  whenever suits you I write to you, he is sure to make a bad
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  bunderbust. Then I quite agree life is too short to cherish grievances. Also,
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  I'm believed you feel able to come into line with the oppressors of India
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  to some extent. We need all the support we can get. I hope
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  that next time Stella comes my way, she will bring you with her,
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  when I will make you as comfortable as a bachelor can. It's certainly time
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  we met. My sister's marriage to you, coming after my mother's death and
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  my own difficulties did upset me and I was unreasonable. It is about time
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  we made it up properly. As you say, let us leave it at
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  faults on both sides. Glad to hear about your son and heir. When
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  next any of you write to Adela, do give her some sort of message
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  from me, or I should like to make my peace with her too.
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  You are lucky to be out of bittish India at the present moment. Incident
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  after incident, I'll due to propaganda, but we can't lay our hands on
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  the connecting thread. The longer one lives here, the more certain one gets
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  that everything hangs together. My personal opinion is it's the Jews. Thus far,
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  the red nosed boy Aziz was distracted for a moment by blurred sounds coming
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  from over the water. The procession was under way. The second letter was
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  from Misquested to mister Fielding. It contained one or two interesting touches. The
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  writer hoped that Ralph will enjoy his India more than I did mine, and
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  appeared to have given him money for this purpose, my debt, which I
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  shall never repay in person. What debt did besquested imagine? She owed the
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  country? He did not relish the phrase talk of Ralph's health. It was
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  all Stella and Ralph, even Cyril and Ronnie, all so friendly and sensible,
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  and written in a spirit he could not command. He envied the easy
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  intercourse that is only possible in a nation whose women are free. These five
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  people were making up their little difficulties and closing their broken ranks against the alien.
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  Even Hayslop was coming in hence the strength of England. And in a
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  spurt of temper, he hit the piano, and since the notes had swollen
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  and stuck together in groups of threes, he produced a remarkable noise. Oh
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  who is that? Said a nervous and respectful voice. He could not remember
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  where he had heard its tones before. Something moved in the twilight of an
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  adjoining room, he replied. State doctor ridden over to enquire very little English,
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  slipped the letters into his pocket, and to show that he had free
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  entry to the guest house. Struck the piano again. Ralph Moore came into
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  the light. What a strange looking youth, tall, prematurely aged, The
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  big blue eyes faded with anxiety, the hair impoverished and touzled. Not a
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  type that is often exported imperially. The doctor in Uzziz thought, born of
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  too old a mother. The poet found him rather beautiful. I was unable
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  to call earlier owing to pressure of work. How are the celebrated bee stings,
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  he asked, patronizingly. I was resting. They thought I had better,
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  They throbbed. Rather, his timidity and evident newness had complicated effects on
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  the malcontent. Speaking threateningly, he said, come here, please allow me
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  to look. They were practically alone, and he could treat the patient as
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  Calendar had treated Nora Adine, You said this morning, the best of doctors
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  make mistakes. Come here please for the diagnosis. Under the lamp. I
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  am pressed for time. Aw, what is the matter, prey, Your
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  hands are unkind? He started, and glanced down at them. The extraordinary
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  youth was right, and he put them behind his back before replying with outward
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  anger, What the devil have my hands to do with you? This is
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  a most strange remark. I am a qualified doctor who will not hurt you.
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  I don't mind pain. There is no pain. No pain. Not
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  really an excellent news, sneered Aziz. But there is cruelty. I have
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  brought you some salve, but how to put it on in your present nervous
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  state becomes a problem, he continued, after a pause. Please leave it
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  with me, certainly not it returns to my dispensary. At once he stretched
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  forward, and the other retreated to the farther side of a table. Now
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  do you want me to treat your stings? Or do you prefer an English
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  doctor? There is one at Asirgar. Asirghar is forty miles away, and
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  the ring no damn broken. Now you see how you are placed. I
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  think I had better see mister fielding about you. This is really great nonsense
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  your present behavior. They are out in a boat, he replied, glancing
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  about him for support. Azziz feigned intense surprise. They have not gone in
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  the direction of Mao. I hope on a night like this the people become
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  most fanatical, and as if to confirm him, there was a sob,
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  as though the lips of a giant had parted. The procession was approaching the
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  jail. You should not treat us like this, he challenged, and this
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  time Uzzies was checked for the voice, though frightened, was not weak.
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  Like what doctor Azziz, we have done you no harm? Aha? You
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  know my name? I see, yes, I am Azziz. Now of
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  course your great friend, misquested, did me no harm? At the marabar,
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  drowning his last words, all the guns of the state went off.
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  A rocket from the jail garden gave the signal the prisoner had been released and
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  was kissing their feet of his singers. Rose leaves fall from the houses,
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  Sacred spices and cocoanut are brought forth. It was the half way moment.
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  The god had extended his temple and paused exultantly. Mixed and confused in their
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  passage, the rumors of salvation entered the guesthouse. They were startled and moved
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  onto the porch, drawn by the sudden illumination. The bronze gun up on
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  the fort kept flashing. The town was a blur of light, in which
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  the houses seemed dancing, and the palace waving little wings. The water below,
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  the hills and sky above were not involved. As yet, there was
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  still only a little light and struggling among the shapeless slumps of the universe.
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  The song became audible through much repetition. The choir was repeating and inverting the
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  names of deities. Radakrishna, Radakrishna, Rada Krishna, Rada Krishna, Krishna,
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  Radha, Radhakrishna, Radakrishna, Radakrishna. They sang and woke the sleeping
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  sentry in the guest house. He leant upon his iron tipped spear. I
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  must go back now. Good night, said Aziz, and held out his
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  hand, completely forgetting that they were not friends, and focusing his heart on
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  something more distant than the caves, something beautiful. His hand was taken,
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  and then he remembered how detestable he had been, and said, gently,
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  don't you think me unkind anymore? No? How can you tell, you
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  strange fellow? Not difficult? The one thing I always know? Can you
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  always tell whether a stranger is your friend? Yes? Then you are an
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  Oriental. He unclasped as he spoke with a little shudder. Those words he
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  had said them to Missus Moore in the mosque, in the beginning of the
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  cycle, from which, after so much suffering, he had got free.
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  Never be friends with the English mosque caves, mosque caves. And here he
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  was starting again. He handed the magic ointment to him. Take this think
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  of me when you use it. I shall never want it back. I
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  must give you one little present, and it is all I have got.
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  You are Missus Moore's son, I am that, he murmured to himself,
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  and a part of Aziz's mind that had been hidden seemed to move and force
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  its way to the top. But you are Heslop's brother also, and alas
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  the two nations cannot be friends. I know not yet. Did your mother
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  speak to you about me? Yes, And, with a swerve of voice
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  and body that Aziz did not follow, he added in her letters she loved
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  you. Yes, your mother was my best friend in all the world.
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  He was silent, puzzled by his own gratitude. What did this eternal goodness
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  of Missus Moore amount to to nothing? If brought to the test of thought,
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  she had not borne witness in his favor? Nor visited him in prison.
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  Yet she had stolen to the depths of his heart, and he always
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  adored her. This is our monsoon, the best weather, he said,
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  while the lights of the procession waved as though embroidered on an agitated curtain.
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  How I wish she could have seen them our rains. Now is the time
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  when all things are happy, young and old. They are happy out there
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  with their savage noise, though we cannot follow them. The tanks are all
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  full, so they dance. And this is India. I wish you were
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  not with officials. Then I would show you my country, but I cannot.
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  Perhaps I will just take you out on the water. Now, for
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  one short half hour was the cycle beginning again. His heart was too full
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  to draw back. He must slip out into the darkness and do this one
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  act of homage to missus Moore's son. He knew where the oars were hidden
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  to deter the visitors from going out, and he brought the second pair in
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  case they met the other boat. The fieldings had pushed themselves out with long
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  poles and might get into difficulties, for the wind was rising. Once on
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  the water, he became easy. One kind action was with him, always
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  a channel for another. And soon the torrents of his hospitality gushed forth,
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  and he began doing the honors of Mao and persuading himself that he understood the
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  wild procession, which increased in lights and sounds as the complications of its ritual
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  developed. There was little need to row, for the freshening gale blew them
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  in the direction they desired. Thorns scratched the keel. They ran into an
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  islet and startled some cranes. The strange temporary life of the august flood water
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  bore them up and seemed as though it would last forever. The boat was
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  a rudderless dinghy, huddled up in the stern with the spare pair of oars
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  in his arms. The guests asked no questions about details. There was presently
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  a flash of lightning, followed by a second flash little red scratches on the
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  ponderous sky. Was that the Raja? He asked, what what do you
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  mean? Row back? But there's no raja nothing. Row back. You
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  will see what I mean. As he's found it hard work against the advancing
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  wind. But he fixed his eyes on the pin of light that marked the
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  guesthouse and backed a few strokes. There floating in the darkness was a king
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  who sat under a canopy in shining royal robes. I can't tell you what
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  that is, I'm sure, he whispered. His Highness is dead. I
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  think we should go back. At once, they were close to the promontory
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  of the tombs and had looked straight into the chat tree of the Raja's father
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  through an opening in the trees. That was the explanation. He had heard
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  of the image made to imitate life at enormous expense, but he had never
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  chanced to see it before, though he frequently rode on the lake. There
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  was only one spot from which it could be seen, and Ralph had directed
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  him to it hastily. He pulled away, feeling that his companion was not
• 25:57
  so much a visitor as a guide. He remarked, shall we go back
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  now? There is still the procession. I'd rather not go nearer. I
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  have such strange customs and might hurt you a little nearer. As he's obeyed,
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  he knew with his heart that this was Missus Moore's son, and indeed,
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  until his heart was involved, he knew nothing. Radha Krishna Radhakrishna Radhakrishna,
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  Radakrishna, Krishna Rada went. The chant then suddenly changed, and in
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  the interstices he heard almost certainly the syllables of salvation that had sounded during his
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  trial at chandrapor Mister Moore, don't tell anyone that the Raja is dead.
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  It is a secret. Still, I am supposed not to say. We
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  pretend he is alive until after the festival, to prevent unhappiness. Do you
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  want to go still nearer? Yes? He tried to keep the boat out
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  of the glare of the torches that began to star the other shore. Rockets
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  kept going off, also, the guns suddenly closer than he had calculated.
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  The palanquin of Krishna appeared from behind a ruined wall and descended the carven glistening
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  water. Steps on either side of it, the singers tumbled a woman prominent,
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  a wild and beautiful young saint with flowers in her hair. She was
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  praising God without attributes. Thus did she apprehend him. Others praised him without
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  attributes, seeing him in this or that organ of the body, or manifestation
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  of the sky down They rushed to the foreshore and stood in the small waves,
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  and a sacred meal was prepared, of which those who felt worthy partook.
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  Old gud Bullet detected the boat which was drifting in on the gale,
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  and he waved his arms, whether in wrath or joy, azzies never discovered.
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  Above stood the secular power of mau elephants, artillery, crowds, and
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  high above them a wild tempest started, confined at first to the upper regions
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  of the air, gusts of wind mixed darkness and light. Sheets of rain,
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  cut from the north stopped, cut from the south, began rising from
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  below, and across them struggled the singers, sounding every out but terror,
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  and preparing to throw God away, God himself, not that God can be
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  thrown into the storm. Thus was he thrown year after year, and were
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  others thrown little images of ganpati, baskets of ten day corn, tiny tasievs
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  after muhoram, scapegoats, husks, emblems of passage, a passage not easy,
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  not now, not here, not to be apprehended, except when it
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  is unattainable. The God to be thrown was an emblem of that. The
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  village of Goku reappeared on its tray. It was the substitute for the silver
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  image, which never left its haze of flowers on behalf of another symbol.
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  It was to perish. A servitor took it in his hands and tore off
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  the blue and white streamers. He was naked, broad shouldered, thin,
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  wasted, the Indian body again triumphant, and it was his hereditary office to
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  close the gates of salvation. He entered the dark waters, pushing the village
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  before him, until the clay dolls slipped off their chairs and began to gutter
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  in the rain, and King Gonza was confounded with the father and mother of
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  the Lord. Dark and solid. The little waves slipped, then a great
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  wave washed, and an English voices cried, take care. The boats had
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  collided with each other. The four outsiders flung out their arms and grappled,
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  and, with oars and poles sticking out, revolved like a mythical monster in
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  the whirlwind. The worshippers howled with wrath or joy as they drifted forward helplessly
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  against the servitor who awaited them, his beautiful, dark face expressionless, and
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  as the last morsels melted on his tray, it struck them. The shock
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  was minute, but Stella, nearest to it, shrank into her husband's arms,
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  then reached forward, then flung herself against Aziz, and her motions capsized
• 31:33
  them. They plunged into the warm, shallow water and rose struggling into a
• 31:38
  tornado of noise. The oars, the sacred tray, the letters of Rannie
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  and Adela broke loose and floated confusedly. Artillery was fired, drums beaten,
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  the elephants trumpeted and downing all. An immense peal of thunder and accompanied by
• 32:00
  lightning, cracked like a mallet on the dome. That was the climax,
• 32:07
  as far as India admits of one. The rain settled in steadily to its
• 32:13
  job of whetting everybody and everything through, and soon spoilt the cloth of gold
• 32:20
  on the palanquin and the costly disc shaped banners. Some of the torches went
• 32:25
  out, fireworks didn't catch. There began to be less singing, and the
• 32:31
  tray returned to Professor Goodbuy, who picked up a fragment of the mud adhering
• 32:37
  and smeared it on his forehead without much ceremony. Whatever had happened had happened,
• 32:45
  And while the intruders picked themselves up, the crowds of Hindus began a
• 32:51
  desultry move back into the town. The image went back to and on the
• 32:58
  following day underwent a private death of its own, when some curtains of magenta
• 33:02
  and green were lowered in front of the dynastic shrine. The singing went on
• 33:09
  even longer, ragged edges of religion, unsatisfactory, undramatic tangles. God is
• 33:20
  Love. Looking back at the great blur of the last twenty four hours,
• 33:28
  no man could say where was the emotional center of it, any more than
• 33:32
  he could locate the heart of a cloud. End of Chapter thirty six.