Rhamon/Chapter 7

by Heluiz Chandler Washburne

Chapter VII

The Garden of Happiness

The boat came out of the river and crossed the big lake to the Garden of Happiness. Here it was made fast and everyone jumped out. Rhamon wanted to skip and dance, for he had never seen anything so lovely. Fruit trees were in bloom everywhere, standing white against the background of rough brown mountains; as if the snow from the highest peaks had blown down and settled on their branches, he thought.

Forgetting his lame foot, he ran limping along the great stretches of green grass, stopping to smell of the purple and yellow pansies that grew on the borders. He looked at his reflection in the pools of clear water, felt the spray of the sparkling fountains on his face, and laughed for joy.

Then he saw Subro coming up the path and asked him, "Who made these great gardens, my father?"

Subro answered, "Long ago, there was a noble Emperor named Jahanjir. He had a wife whom he loved with all his heart. To please' her he made this beautiful garden. And here they often came to spend happy hours together. Players and singers filled the air with music. Dancing girls entertained them, slaves waited on them. And so it is called the Garden of Happiness."

A golden butterfly fluttered in the rainbow mist of the fountain and Rhamon started toward it.

"Who made these great gardens, my father?"

"Come now," called Subro, "and help unpack the lunch."

Rhamon ran back to the boat, and a big silver teapot was placed in his arms. He carried it up the path between the rows of giant Chenar trees, and stopped in the shade of one, bigger than all the others. Here spring beauties bloomed in the grass and made a pink and white carpet on which to set out the lunch.

"You were here when the Great Emperor came to this garden," thought Rhamon, looking up at the king of trees. "Your spreading branches kept him cool when the sun was hot, as they will keep us cool today. And if it rains, not a drop will fall between your thick leaves to wet us."

Ibrahim brought up a big cake and Ramzana came with bundles of sandwiches. The others brought more things, and soon the feast was ready.

There was good food for Rhamon to eat too, sweet cakes and a cup of warm tea. He took them back to the boat and sat there enjoying them. The cool breeze ruffled his hair and the warm sun beat on his back.

Soon another shikara slid slowly up beside him. It was poled by a little girl, and in the far front end sat her baby brother. Her dark hair was braided in with heavy black yarn to make it thicker, and hung far down her back in many pigtails. She wore large silver earrings and a tiny embroidered cap.

The little girl's big black eyes gazed longingly at the cake Rhamon was eating. She did not say a word, but Rhamon guessed what she wanted. He looked at his cake. It was not often he had a treat like this. And he had been eating it slowly to make it last. Then he looked into the little girl's dark eyes. Breaking his cake in half, he put a piece into her eager hand.

Then his heart was glad, for suddenly her face broke into a shy smile showing a row of white teeth. She stuffed the bit of cake into her mouth as if she were afraid Rhamon would ask to have it back. Then pushing the long pole deep into the water she slid her boat out into the lake again.

It was nearly dark when the party started home. Rhamon watched the sunset colors changing on the snowy mountains. As night came on he tried to count the stars reflected in the black water. The boat slid silently past the shadowy trees. Tiny lights appeared in the houseboats anchored by the shores. Sometimes the good smell of food cooking for the evening meal made Rhamon sniff and wrinkle up his little nose. He would like a big dish of spicy curry and some fluffy white rice.

How quiet everything was! Hardly a leaf stirred in the trees. There was no sound but the swi-i-i-ish! swi-i-ish! swi-i-i-ish! of the paddles and the drip of the water as it fell away from the blades.

Suddenly the stillness was broken by the rich voice of one of the boatmen. It was Ibrahim, singing an old Kashmir boat song. One by one

She slid her boat out into the lake again

the others joined him. Rhamon sang too, his voice rising clear and sweet above the men's deeper ones. Soon the night air was throbbing with the music. Then with his hands Subro began to beat the rhythm of the song on the side of the boat. Another boatman drummed on his paddle laid across his knees.

Sometimes their voices swelled to great shouts of joy. Then the boat sped swiftly through the water from the force of their strokes. But sometimes their song faded to a whisper of sadness and there were tears in their singing. Then the boat glided slowly through the darkness.

That evening the men gathered on Subro's little houseboat to sing together. They squatted on the floor in a circle and each held something to make music—a big red clay pot, a bell or a pair of homemade clappers. Ibrahim started a song. The others joined in, swaying from side to side. Then they began to ring the bells, clap the clappers, and beat on the pots.

Ramzana hit the open top of his pot with the palm of one hand, and tapped the rounded side with the fingers of the other. It made a hollow drumming sound. Subro wore heavy silver rings on the ends of his fingers to make the sound sharper.

Rhamon was there too, of course, singing his heart out and shaking his head under his huge white turban. He loved this strange sweet music. He did not have an instrument to play, but he beat time on his father's knee with his hands and wrists. "Some day," he thought, "I shall be a man and then I shall play on one of the big red pots, and have silver rings on my fingers."

The bridge of shops in Srinagar