imaginary heroic moustache.
‘How is it that I strayed from my garden
and in this trap seem to have fallen?’
‘And over there,’ says the Khwaja-sara, ‘is the man for whom you have been brought to Fatehpur.’
Pran follows the hijra’s gaze. Intently watching them is an elderly man with a hennaed beard and clothes that are even more jewel-encrusted than those of his neighbours. The Khwaja-sara makes a gesture towards Pran and the man nods.
‘Him?’
‘No, that is the Diwan, of whom you should be most respectful. I mean the man at the back there, the fat Englishman.’
A line of foreigners is half asleep on cane chairs, the only chairs in the room. Accompanying them is an elegant Indian, dressed in European clothes, his glossy black hair slicked back with pomade. Most of the men are young and wear Civil Service uniforms. One, little more than a blond boy, looks over at the Khwaja-sara and winces as if in pain. By his side, his head lolling on his chest, is a florid middle-aged man. He appears completely, unashamedly asleep.
‘Him?’
‘Yes, him. That, child, is the accursed Major Privett-Clampe, who is the British Resident here. He is a very powerful man, and a very stupid one. Though he is pickled in gin, he holds the fate of our beloved kingdom in his hands. Luckily, little Rukhsana, he has a weakness.’
‘A weakness?’
‘Yes. He likes beautiful boy-girls. Like you.’
After the mushaira has ended, Pran is given a meal and dressed in a blue silk sari. ‘Now,’ says the Khwaja-sara, ‘there are some people who wish to have sight of you. Come.’
Lighting a lamp, he leads Pran up a wrought-iron staircase to a region of the palace decorated in a warped version of French Baroque. Gilt mouldings flare from corners and ceilings. Spiralling foliage and faintly obscene curlicues worm around the huge mirrored panels that encrust every flat surface. In places even the floors are mirrored, disorientating and treacherous underfoot.
Pran is ushered through a set of tall double doors into a room where a group of men sit in almost total darkness. Their faces are illuminated only by a pair of oil lamps, their wicks trimmed so that they give off the feeblest orange glow. Pran recognizes the jutting beard and hooked nose of the Diwan. The second face belongs to a thin courtier, a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles hovering beneath a tall turban. The third is that of the young blond Englishman who looked so uncomfortable at the mushaira. Now he looks worse. His hair is plastered to his scalp with sweat, its perfect wax dressing sliding down over his cheeks, giving him the appearance of a varnished wooden puppet. His uniform tunic is unbuttoned to the waist. He is voraciously smoking a cigarette.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he swears, catching sight of Pran. ‘You meant it. This is insanity. You can’t expect me to do this.’
The speech is addressed to the Diwan, who shrugs. The young courtier laughs. ‘Humbly begging your pardon, Mr Flowers.’ he says, ‘but we can.’
‘You’re a swine, Picturewallah,’ spits the Englishman. ‘I ought to –’
‘You ought to?’ asks the courtier politely. The Englishman groans, and lowers his head to the table.
‘Click-click,’ says the Picturewallah, with a giggle.
‘Go to hell,’ he replies, his voice muffled by his forearms.
The Khwaja-sara turns to Pran. ‘Meet Mr Jonathan Flowers, who is a member of the very fine Indian Political Service. He is one of Major Privett-Clampe’s very fine junior officers. If Major Privett-Clampe asks you, you are to say that he brought you here, and hid you in the zenana. Do you understand?’
Pran nods.
‘Jesus Christ,’ repeats the Englishman, who appears to be on the verge of tears.
The Diwan scowls at Pran. ‘This is him? I hope he was worth the money. Where did you say you got him?’
‘Agra,’ lisps the Khwaja-sara.
‘Oh well,’ says the Picturewallah with satisfaction. ‘There you are, then.’
‘The
‘How is it that I strayed from my garden
and in this trap seem to have fallen?’
‘And over there,’ says the Khwaja-sara, ‘is the man for whom you have been brought to Fatehpur.’
Pran follows the hijra’s gaze. Intently watching them is an elderly man with a hennaed beard and clothes that are even more jewel-encrusted than those of his neighbours. The Khwaja-sara makes a gesture towards Pran and the man nods.
‘Him?’
‘No, that is the Diwan, of whom you should be most respectful. I mean the man at the back there, the fat Englishman.’
A line of foreigners is half asleep on cane chairs, the only chairs in the room. Accompanying them is an elegant Indian, dressed in European clothes, his glossy black hair slicked back with pomade. Most of the men are young and wear Civil Service uniforms. One, little more than a blond boy, looks over at the Khwaja-sara and winces as if in pain. By his side, his head lolling on his chest, is a florid middle-aged man. He appears completely, unashamedly asleep.
‘Him?’
‘Yes, him. That, child, is the accursed Major Privett-Clampe, who is the British Resident here. He is a very powerful man, and a very stupid one. Though he is pickled in gin, he holds the fate of our beloved kingdom in his hands. Luckily, little Rukhsana, he has a weakness.’
‘A weakness?’
‘Yes. He likes beautiful boy-girls. Like you.’
After the mushaira has ended, Pran is given a meal and dressed in a blue silk sari. ‘Now,’ says the Khwaja-sara, ‘there are some people who wish to have sight of you. Come.’
Lighting a lamp, he leads Pran up a wrought-iron staircase to a region of the palace decorated in a warped version of French Baroque. Gilt mouldings flare from corners and ceilings. Spiralling foliage and faintly obscene curlicues worm around the huge mirrored panels that encrust every flat surface. In places even the floors are mirrored, disorientating and treacherous underfoot.
Pran is ushered through a set of tall double doors into a room where a group of men sit in almost total darkness. Their faces are illuminated only by a pair of oil lamps, their wicks trimmed so that they give off the feeblest orange glow. Pran recognizes the jutting beard and hooked nose of the Diwan. The second face belongs to a thin courtier, a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles hovering beneath a tall turban. The third is that of the young blond Englishman who looked so uncomfortable at the mushaira. Now he looks worse. His hair is plastered to his scalp with sweat, its perfect wax dressing sliding down over his cheeks, giving him the appearance of a varnished wooden puppet. His uniform tunic is unbuttoned to the waist. He is voraciously smoking a cigarette.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he swears, catching sight of Pran. ‘You meant it. This is insanity. You can’t expect me to do this.’
The speech is addressed to the Diwan, who shrugs. The young courtier laughs. ‘Humbly begging your pardon, Mr Flowers.’ he says, ‘but we can.’
‘You’re a swine, Picturewallah,’ spits the Englishman. ‘I ought to –’
‘You ought to?’ asks the courtier politely. The Englishman groans, and lowers his head to the table.
‘Click-click,’ says the Picturewallah, with a giggle.
‘Go to hell,’ he replies, his voice muffled by his forearms.
The Khwaja-sara turns to Pran. ‘Meet Mr Jonathan Flowers, who is a member of the very fine Indian Political Service. He is one of Major Privett-Clampe’s very fine junior officers. If Major Privett-Clampe asks you, you are to say that he brought you here, and hid you in the zenana. Do you understand?’
Pran nods.
‘Jesus Christ,’ repeats the Englishman, who appears to be on the verge of tears.
The Diwan scowls at Pran. ‘This is him? I hope he was worth the money. Where did you say you got him?’
‘Agra,’ lisps the Khwaja-sara.
‘Oh well,’ says the Picturewallah with satisfaction. ‘There you are, then.’
‘The
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