head. Harry groaned with his eyes shut: "It's killing me. "
"What is killing you? This beautiful spot, sacred to my ancestors? Or perhaps it is our company?" He smiled at Olivia, then asked her "Do you like it here? You don't mind I brought you? I wish Mr. Rivers would have come with us also. But I think Mr. Rivers must be very busy." He darted the tip of his tongue over his lips, then equally rapidly darted a look at Olivia: "Mr. Rivers is a proper Englishman:' he declared.
"I know you like him," Harry said from his prone position.
"Go to sleep! We are not talking with you but with each other ... I think Mr. Rivers went to one of the English public schools? Eton or Rugby? Unfortunately I myself did not have this chance. If I have a son, I think I shall send him. What do you think? A very good education is to be obtained and also excellent discipline. Of course Harry did not like it at all, be says it is - what did you say it is, Harry?"
“Savage," Harry said with feeling.
"What nonsense. Only for someone like you because you are improper. Let us try and make him a little bit proper, what do you think, Mrs. Rivers?" he said with another smile at her. He called to the young men who came running up and, at the Nawab's invitation, they threw themselves on Harry, and one massaged his legs and another his neck and a third tickled the soles of his feet. They all, including Harry, seemed to enjoy this game. The Nawab watched them, smiling indulgently, but when he saw Olivia was feeling left out, he turned to her and now he was again the way he had been with his guests at his dinner party: attentive, full of courtesy and consideration, making her feel that she was the only person there who mattered to him.
He invited her to see the shrine with him. It was a small plain whitewashed structure with a striped dome on top. Inside there were latticed windows to which people had tied bits of red thread, praying for fulfilment of their wishes. They had also laid strings of flowers - now wilted - on a little whitewashed mound that stood alone in the centre of the shrine. The Nawab explained that the shrine had been built by an ancestor of his in gratitude to Baba Firdaus who had lived on this spot. Baba Firdaus had been a devout soul devoted to prayer and solitude; the Nawab's ancestor Amanullah Khan - had been a freebooter riding around the country with his own band of desperadoes to find what pickings they could in the free-for-all between Moghuls, Afghans, Mahrattas, and the East India Company. In the course of a long career, he had had a lot of ups and downs. Once he had sought refuge in this grove - all his men had been killed in an engagement, and he himself had only just escaped with his life, though badly wounded. Baba Firdaus' had kept him hidden from his pursuers and also tended his wounds and nursed him back to health. Years later, when fortune smiled on him again, Amanullah Khan had returned; but by then the place was deserted and no one knew what had happened to the Baba, or even whether he was dead or alive. So all Amanullah Khan could do was to build this little shrine in the holy man's honour.
"Because he never forgot friend or foe", the Nawab said about his ancestor. "Where there was a score to be settled for good or bad, he did not forget. He was only a rough soldier but very straight and honourable. And a great fighter. The British liked him very much. I think you always like such people?" He looked enquiringly at Olivia. She laughed - it seemed strange to her to be nominated as a spokesman for the British. Then he smiled too: "Yes you like rough people who fight well and are mostly on a horse. Best of all you like the horse. But I think you don't like others so much?"
"What others?" Olivia asked, laughing.
"For instance," he said, also laughing, "myself." But then he grew serious and said "But you are a different type of person. You don't like horses, I think? No. Come here please, I will show you something. "
He
"What is killing you? This beautiful spot, sacred to my ancestors? Or perhaps it is our company?" He smiled at Olivia, then asked her "Do you like it here? You don't mind I brought you? I wish Mr. Rivers would have come with us also. But I think Mr. Rivers must be very busy." He darted the tip of his tongue over his lips, then equally rapidly darted a look at Olivia: "Mr. Rivers is a proper Englishman:' he declared.
"I know you like him," Harry said from his prone position.
"Go to sleep! We are not talking with you but with each other ... I think Mr. Rivers went to one of the English public schools? Eton or Rugby? Unfortunately I myself did not have this chance. If I have a son, I think I shall send him. What do you think? A very good education is to be obtained and also excellent discipline. Of course Harry did not like it at all, be says it is - what did you say it is, Harry?"
“Savage," Harry said with feeling.
"What nonsense. Only for someone like you because you are improper. Let us try and make him a little bit proper, what do you think, Mrs. Rivers?" he said with another smile at her. He called to the young men who came running up and, at the Nawab's invitation, they threw themselves on Harry, and one massaged his legs and another his neck and a third tickled the soles of his feet. They all, including Harry, seemed to enjoy this game. The Nawab watched them, smiling indulgently, but when he saw Olivia was feeling left out, he turned to her and now he was again the way he had been with his guests at his dinner party: attentive, full of courtesy and consideration, making her feel that she was the only person there who mattered to him.
He invited her to see the shrine with him. It was a small plain whitewashed structure with a striped dome on top. Inside there were latticed windows to which people had tied bits of red thread, praying for fulfilment of their wishes. They had also laid strings of flowers - now wilted - on a little whitewashed mound that stood alone in the centre of the shrine. The Nawab explained that the shrine had been built by an ancestor of his in gratitude to Baba Firdaus who had lived on this spot. Baba Firdaus had been a devout soul devoted to prayer and solitude; the Nawab's ancestor Amanullah Khan - had been a freebooter riding around the country with his own band of desperadoes to find what pickings they could in the free-for-all between Moghuls, Afghans, Mahrattas, and the East India Company. In the course of a long career, he had had a lot of ups and downs. Once he had sought refuge in this grove - all his men had been killed in an engagement, and he himself had only just escaped with his life, though badly wounded. Baba Firdaus' had kept him hidden from his pursuers and also tended his wounds and nursed him back to health. Years later, when fortune smiled on him again, Amanullah Khan had returned; but by then the place was deserted and no one knew what had happened to the Baba, or even whether he was dead or alive. So all Amanullah Khan could do was to build this little shrine in the holy man's honour.
"Because he never forgot friend or foe", the Nawab said about his ancestor. "Where there was a score to be settled for good or bad, he did not forget. He was only a rough soldier but very straight and honourable. And a great fighter. The British liked him very much. I think you always like such people?" He looked enquiringly at Olivia. She laughed - it seemed strange to her to be nominated as a spokesman for the British. Then he smiled too: "Yes you like rough people who fight well and are mostly on a horse. Best of all you like the horse. But I think you don't like others so much?"
"What others?" Olivia asked, laughing.
"For instance," he said, also laughing, "myself." But then he grew serious and said "But you are a different type of person. You don't like horses, I think? No. Come here please, I will show you something. "
He
Similar Books
