The Passions of Dr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  I began to see a pattern that made me uncomfortable. First, I left England to escape memories of you. Then I left Bombay to escape memories of Sarah. Sure I was more or less forced to take a hiatus from my duties in Bombay, but I did not vigorously argue the point with Doyle either. It has bothered me that I might be a bit of a coward. You can imagine how this possibility would discredit my asserted confidence! I am far too arrogant to allow for any flaws to my character! Dr. Ullas maintains that fate plays a large part in our destinies. He never asked why I agreed to embark on this journey with him, but if he does know, I doubt he is crying over White’s forced retirement from the EIC. He has expressed his desire to have me as a part of his team and offered me a permanent post. It is tempting to accept his offer, let me tell you! But I need to prove to myself that I am not a coward. I need to know for sure that when I join Dr. Ullas it is not because I am running away. We have spoken of these matters briefly and he has a maddening habit of growing very Hindu when we do! That is when he speaks of destinies and God’s will and other Hindu beliefs I do not comprehend. Oddly, although our gods are different, his words echo what the Pemberley rector taught us. Without launching into a dissertation on religious tenets, the idea is that, though it may feel as if I was running away, it was all part of the grand design to give me what my heart desires, that being to travel India and learn. As wonderful as that sounds, I still need to prove myself worthy, I guess. Maybe I am simply not yet willing to admit that my relationship with Sarah was doomed from the outset. I don’t relish feeling guilty or brokenhearted forever, and for the most part, I have let go of those negative emotions. Perhaps too easily, in fact, and that bothers me a bit too. Shouldn’t I still be torn up over losing the woman I wanted to spend my life with? Dr. Ullas would say no. He would say to accept the reality and move on. Maybe in time I will learn to be as accepting, but for now I guess I am too English!

  So my plan is to head back to Bombay after I recuperate from the Sardar’s birthday. That promises to give me much to write about!

  Chapter Four

  Kalyan

  February 1791

  Four months as traveling companions had led to a growing familiarity between George and Dr. Ullas, but the older physician had remained somewhat aloof. Yet as soon as the wheels of their tanga touched the dirt of the open road after leaving Daman for Kalyan, where his family awaited, Dr. Ullas started talking with an easy openness George had not seen previously.

  Kshitij Ullas had been born fifty years ago in a village far to the south in Mysore. He was the tenth child in a family that would eventually number thirteen children who lived to adulthood. Being people of strong faith, and a fair dose of superstition, their great fortune in regards to healthy prosperity was attributed to the school of Ayurvedic medicine located in the city of Mysore.

  “The science of Ayurveda encompasses the eight components of medicine, which, in turn, arise from the need for balance and proper measure of the elements and energies every human body possesses.” Dr. Ullas handed George a cloth square upon which was woven an intricate and colorful picture of the Ayurveda concept. “These humors and dosas are unique to each person and closely linked to spirituality. The sacred Vedas enlighten us as to all aspects of living, including medicine. Practitioners of Ayurveda are often looked upon as holy men with their lives devoted to healing. We certainly saw them as such. Miracle workers from the gods some said. Of course, they are fallible men, same as others, but those who embrace the art do possess a harmony and skill that is miraculous. Witnessing such a one is awe-inspiring. Witnessing dozens at a time is indescribable. Many young boys were captivated, including me and four of my brothers. Vish, Aatish, and Hakesh still live around Mysore and exclusively practice Ayurveda. Mihir and I were not as contented.”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “Mihir left as soon as he could, and I have not heard from him in over a decade. He was forever the adventurous one and has either been eaten by a tiger or is in an African jungle where the post does not deliver. I might have followed him, probably would have in fact, but instead I fell in love.”

  This time he dug deep into his traveling bag and withdrew an object bundled within layers of cloth. It was a medallion no larger than an English sovereign, the painting of the Indian woman worn and chipped in spots but clear enough to reveal a plain but pleasant face.

  “Her name was Ira. We married when I was nineteen and she sixteen. In short order, we welcomed three daughters, and any dreams I had to journey away were ended. Mihir was long gone when Ira died giving birth to our son. Our families assumed care of the children, as is our custom, while I continued to serve as the village healer. In time, my wanderlust asserted itself.”

  Dr. Ullas took the portrait back from George and gazed at the faded image for a minute before resuming his narrative while rewrapping it.

  Fate and world affairs played a large part, as Dr. Ullas stated it, with the outbreak of the First Mysore War in 1767 presenting the opening he secretly yearned for. Physicians were needed and he joined several others who heard the call, traveling to Madras and becoming army doctors. That decision set him on a path that would eventually lead him all over the east, as far north as Bengal, ofttimes serving the military during the frequent wars that cropped up, usually with the British. He also branched out as an itinerate physician, happy to apply his skill wherever necessary and in something other than patching up sword wounds.

  “I once studied through my journals and concluded that the longest I dwelt in one place was six months, and that was because we were snowbound in Nepal.”

  “Did you ever go home? To Mysore?”

  “Three times,” Dr. Ullas answered. “The last was ten years past now. My daughters are grown and married. My son became an Ayurveda healer, much to my pride. My parents are gone and brothers old. Our lives have changed,” he said with a hint of sadness.

  It was while serving with the Maratha Confederacy in 1776 that Kshitij met Thakore Sahib Pandey Dhamdhere, who was then a commander and loyal to the legal Peshwa Sawai Madhavrao II. During the bitter war against the Bombay Presidency, when they chose to support the usurper and murderer Raghunathrao, Pandey was grievously wounded and nearly died. Dr. Ullas arrived in the nick of time to assume care, Pandey surviving his injuries and later leading a major offensive against the British at Sipri. It was a decisive victory that led to the 1782 Treaty of Salbai and the current peace between the two great nations.

  “Pandey was most grateful and declared all sorts of promised payments. I thought little of them, having no desire for wealth or rank even if I had considered it necessary to be remunerated for doing what I am called to do. Among the promises was the choice of any of his daughters as wife.” Dr. Ullas laughed heartily in remembrance. “Honestly, I paid no more attention to that one than all the others. Until, that is, while resting at his griha in Kalyan over a year later, he suddenly parades all sixteen of his unmarried daughters in front of me and tells me to take my pick!”

  George joined him in the laughter. “What did you do?”

  “Ah, you may be surprised, Dr. Darcy, as was I at the time, but I realized I liked the notion of being married again and establishing a home and family. I did insist on speaking with each daughter first, but the truth is that I was drawn to Jharna from the moment I met her eye. My wife is a marvel, as you shall discover.”

  “I look forward to making her acquaintance, Doctor, and consider it an honor. You have two sons, yes?”

  “Nimesh and Sasi. I miss them. Now that I am a father and husband I do keep my absences as short as possible. Fortunately, my wife has her family close by and she understands the importance of my profession. This is the longest I have been away since Nimesh was born four years ago and I miss them sorely. I doubt my yearning to practice medicine in new and varied circumstances shall ever change, but I no longer feel suffocated at the idea of being stationary for a time either. Or perhaps it is merely advanced
age creeping up on me,” he finished with a laugh.

  George laughed with him as he shook his head. Kshitij Ullas looked fifty with streaks of gray peppered all through his dark hair and fine lines creasing the planes of his face, but he did not act like a man of “advanced age.” George’s respect for Dr. Ullas had grown exponentially as he worked alongside him during their months abroad and the additional delight of conversing with him in the casual way of friendly comrades increased his respect. Kshitij spoke of his private life, his wife Jharna and sons, in the open manner of one who unquestionably trusts the listener. Without realizing it, George followed suit, talking of Pemberley and his family, sharing humorous stories from his youth and tales of his university days, and even mentioning Alex and Sarah.

  Because of how naturally the conversation flowed, a mutual fondness was formed. Only later would George recognize this was the turning point in their relationship. Forever would there be an air of mentor and pupil with shades of father and son eventually added to their association, but henceforth, more than anything, they would be friends.

  The residence of Sardar Pandey Dhamdhere sat on the banks of the Ulhas River approximately halfway between Thana and Kalyan. Dr. Ullas repeatedly used the term griha when talking about his father-in-law’s home, the humble word for ordinary dwelling places utterly inappropriate for the palatial structure spread before George’s eyes.

  “This is a mahal!” George whistled. “Pemberley could fit in one corner of this place!”

  “Technically it is a haveli, this one built some two hundred years ago by the Mughals. Chhatrapati Shivaji, our holy emperor and Maratha founder, awarded this haveli to an ancestor of Pandey for valorous service during the Battle of Kolhapur. It has remained in the Dhamdhere clan ever since. Someday you shall see a true mahal, such as the Naukhanda at Aurangzeb or Chandra and Mubarak palaces in Jaipur, and then appreciate the difference. Nevertheless, Pandey’s haveli is vast. I lived here for four months and never encountered Pandey’s daughter, who would later become my wife! Now you know why staying here for the duration is not a problem,” Dr. Ullas said with a chuckle. “The architectural influence is Persian, but there are wings designed for English and other non-Indian visitors. Pandey is an excellent host and politician, so part of that is ensuring the supreme comfort of his guests.”

  Their tanga stopped in the bustling courtyard, joining a veritable army of conveyances and horses delivering guests and supplies for the epic celebration. Dozens of uniformed servants hastened to unload George’s luggage, including the massive trunk that accompanied him on his travels, while Dr. Ullas delivered a string of instructions in Hindi. After a farewell bow and promise to meet him at the dining table in a few hours, Kshitij climbed back into the tanga to be taken to the private quarters on the far side of the sprawling building.

  George swept his eyes over the white, glistening marble archways and pillars spanning the wide front façade of the haveli, many edged in gold or covered with vibrantly colored mosaic patterns. He followed a beckoning servant into the mansion, his thick boots adding their noise as they struck the veined marble tiles of the walkway before the six gleaming mahogany doors gaping open. He glanced around at the chaotic surge of people being efficiently handled by the Sardar’s staff, the multitude of voices in several languages falling in waves before rising to be swallowed within the domed ceiling easily three stories above his head. Phenomenal architecture with acoustics he could not fathom dampened what should have been a deafening cacophony to a gentle hum, drowned under the soothing cascade of bubbling water that flowed over the gigantic fountain of glass and stone sitting in the center of the enormous foyer.

  George was not an innocent. As a Darcy, he had entered many of the greatest houses and castles in England, including St. James’s Palace in London for his formal presentation to King George III. It wasn’t that this house was grander or more ornate than some he had seen. Rather it was the foreignness of it that rendered him as awestruck as a country boy. A thrill ran up his spine and he shivered with delight. Curiosity to explore his first true exposure to a place so utterly alien to anything in his birth land, as well as being beautiful beyond compare, created a burning itch within his bosom. Yet somehow he walked with controlled dignity behind the servants lugging his trunk up a broad staircase and then down a series of twisting corridors wide enough that five broad-shouldered men could walk in a row without their sleeves touching.

  Along the way, he nodded at the people he passed, noting a few familiar British faces among the many he did not know. Finally reaching a quiet hallway far from the entrance, George was ushered into the chambers assigned to him for his stay. He released a low whistle and crossed to the arched windows and glass doors extending the entire length of the back wall. Each one was open, a gentle breeze causing the gauzy curtains to flutter, the private balcony without affording him the ready opportunity to gaze upon the stunning view of green lawn, verdant gardens, and cobalt river.

  As tired as he was from his journey, George could not relax into the tub of warm water waiting in the bathing closet attached to his bedchamber until he had thoroughly inspected his quarters. The mixture of Persian architecture, Indian decor, and English furnishings should have clashed, but it oddly meshed into an exquisite atmosphere that was luxurious and comforting. The enormous four-poster bed was decidedly English, while the cushioned divans were right out of a painting of a harem. The oak sidebar laden with glass bottles filled with an assortment of spirits would have fit into any room at Pemberley, yet did not look out of place next to the writing desk that was clearly Indian.

  “I think I could stay in here for the duration and be blessedly content,” he muttered after a deep swallow of the best English brandy he had ever tasted.

  Of course, that was not true. If nothing else, his stomach had a different idea, and George was a man who appreciated a fine meal.

  It was no surprise to enter a dining area designed with low tables crowded with dishes of food to be shared freely by the diners who sat cross-legged on thick cushions carpeting the floor. What did surprise him was the immensity of the room and that nearly every space from wall to tapestry-covered wall was filled. An open expanse in the middle of the room was the only empty space, it surrounded on all sides with tables in varying sizes and heights.

  Most of the tables were low to the floor with brightly colored cushions serving as seats, but a cluster along the left were higher and set in a proper English manner with tall-backed wooden chairs. Across the back wall, facing the arched and pillared entry, was a raised platform upon which a crimson and gold draped table fifty feet long was crammed with laughing men and women. In the precise center sat a man indisputably recognizable as Sardar Thakore Sahib Pandey Dhamdhere. That was partly due to the regal garments he wore, complete with a turban adorned with four rainbow-hued feathers, but it was primarily due to his presence. Even from a distance and concealed inside a loose fitting sherwani, George could discern the powerful warrior body that age had not appeared to diminish. Luckily, he did not look to be imminently planning to grab the firangi, shamshir, pata, or other dozen razor-sharp-bladed weapons mounted on the wall behind him. The only real danger he currently looked to be instigating was having his guests somnolent from so much food or overly stimulated from so much activity.

  Properly adorned with a welcoming garland of orange and red flowers, a servant escorted a stunned George to the head table and the empty seat next to Dr. Ullas and two away from the Sardar.

  “She will be along in due course,” was Kshitij’s cryptic reply when George asked about Mrs. Ullas, and with so much food and wine being passed before his eyes, it was an adequate enough answer to accept.

  After an hour of ceaseless eating, Pandey stood to his feet and lifted his hands into the air.

  “Honored guests, welcome to my humble home for this feast to mark the beginning of the celebration marking my fiftieth year of life. May your time dwelling
here be replete with delights, entertainments, relaxation, fine foods, and wine that never ceases to flow!”

  A hearty round of cheers and applause rent the air, the Sardar waiting patiently for silence. “Let tonight’s entertainment begin!” He clapped twice, the staccato sound reverberating around the room but quickly lost in an abrupt swell of music. On the first beat, the side doors flew open and eight women dressed in a kaleidoscope of vibrant colors danced in. Their bare feet hardly touched the floor as they twirled with the rapid tempo, jewels and gold flashing as their limbs moved to the rhythm, their fingers clattering tiny cymbals while simultaneously fluttering gossamer fabric of silver around their bodies. They were fluid one moment, jerky the next, but forever in unison, purposeful, and timed to the exotic music and singing that came from the minstrels who had entered through another door at the same time. It was utterly mesmerizing.

  “They are telling a story in the Sardar’s honor,” Kshitij whispered to George. He proceeded to explain in hushed tones the tale of a great battle being related through the chanting lyrics and swaying choreography of the dancers. Specifically, it was one of Pandey’s battles when he was commander of the Peshwa’s army, and as George listened to Kshitij’s hushed commentary and those phrases he was able to interpret, the meaning became clearer. Even to an Englishman, it was rousing to the soul.

  The dancers were slender and captivatingly beautiful. Dark eyes and flawless skin of milky chocolate dusted with glitter, they danced with the skilled grace of women born to do so. Although different in their features, they were sheer perfection of form from their painted, ringed toes to jewel-adorned, raven hair. Visually, it was a treat in a host of ways, most especially for the men who watched.

  Then the song ended on a sudden, dramatic upbeat. The audience inhaled and stirred in preparation to express their appreciation, but before they could, new music burst forth. Only this time it was softer and slower. The dancers, who had splices of a second to rest, smoothly glided into the new tempo. Their lithe bodies undulated as if branches of a willow, their hands floating seductively near their skin as if in a caress, and their faces lit with expressions of deep emotion.