Under the Jeweled Sky

by Alison McQueen

  “Kya mein?” Sophie asked quietly. Mrs. Gupta looked into her hands and nodded.

  Sophie raised herself to her knees, her hand reaching up, oh so slowly, and taking down the photograph. And there he was, his gaze fixed squarely into the center of the camera’s lens, pale eyes looking straight at her, tourmalines lost to the monochrome. It was a photographer’s portrait, a picture taken for the sake of memento. She turned it over and read the inscription on the back. The name of the photography studio, the date, May 1952, seven years ago. How old would he have been? She turned it over again and looked at him, searching him. Twenty-four, maybe twenty-five? She had never asked him how old he was, having been told that age did not matter to the Indians. Why did I never ask how old you were? She found herself smiling at him. She touched the image with her fingertip, then looked up at Mrs. Gupta. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Shukriya.” Her head dipped.

  Mrs. Gupta stood up and went to the shelf. She took down the small wooden box and opened it, taking something from it and pressing it into Sophie’s palm, closing her hand around it.

  “It was the only thing Jagaan had left when he found us,” she said quietly. “He had never shown it to anyone, not in all the months it took him to get here. He was afraid that if anyone knew about it, it would be stolen from him.”

  Sophie opened her hand. Her gold locket glinted back at her, the one she had worn as a girl before dropping it from a high window into the hands of the boy she loved.

  The sob shook her whole body, the wave of grief crashing over her, closing in above her head, taking her down with it. She pressed her face into her hands and heard herself wailing, a sound so terrible that it might have come from every spirit lost to the darkness between heaven and hell. Tears poured from her eyes, her mouth, her nose. She felt Mrs. Gupta’s arms come around her, holding her tightly, rocking her into her chest, wiping her tears with the soft hem of her sari.

  “Shhh,” she said. “Do not cry.” She continued to dry Sophie’s tears. “Shhh. Do not let your son see you like this.” Sophie nodded into her hands, her breath stuttering. She reached down and took the woman’s hand and gripped it hard.

  Mrs. Gupta looked at her. From outside came a few distant shouts, a brief burst of children’s laughter. “School is finished,” Mrs. Gupta said. Sophie nodded again and swallowed hard, almost choking on her own breath, feeling suddenly that she might be sick. Mrs. Gupta rose from the floor and pulled her to her feet, then stood before her and took slow, deep breaths, not once taking her eyes from Sophie’s: breathe in, two, three, four, five, six, and exhale.

  Sophie steadied herself, wiped her face, and sniffed hard. Shaking her head briskly, she returned Mrs. Gupta’s gaze and began to breathe along with her. In, and out, and in again, until she felt herself calmed.

  “He will be here soon,” Mrs. Gupta told her. “His name is Joy.”

  • • •

  Parvesh Gupta stood guard outside his stall, watching every young figure as it ran toward him before rushing past along the street. Joy was fast on his feet. That boy could outrun anyone. A customer interrupted his concentration. Parvesh hushed him in annoyance and told him to wait. The customer took umbrage and began to complain. Parvesh sighed and turned to him, about to explain why he was busy. In that moment, a flash of white cotton dashed past the corner of his eye.

  Parvesh rushed after him, catching the cloth of his white pajamas, snapping him back. The customer called his exasperation, threw the sandals back on to the stall, and marched off indignantly.

  “Wait!” Parvesh held on to the boy’s arm.

  Joy looked at him and hoped he wasn’t about to send him off on an errand. He was starving, and the only thing he cared about right now was whether there were any chapattis left over in the kitchen. With any luck, Mausi would have made a batch of pakoras and put a few out for him, to stave off his hunger until suppertime. He stared at his uncle, his hope sinking a little as he saw the grave look on his face. It was something serious, he could tell. Perhaps some busybody had gone and told them about the accident, so now he would be in big trouble, even though he hadn’t been the one who did it. It wasn’t even his ball. If he had a cricket ball, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to let an idiot like Manoj bowl it straight through a window, never to be seen again. They had turned on their heels and scattered like cockroaches under a light before anyone came out to catch them, and there was no way that any of them were going to knock on the door of the house with the broken window to ask for it back.

  “What’s the matter, Uncle?” Joy tried to look innocent.

  “Joy,” his uncle said, putting his hands on the boy’s shoulders. Joy felt his guts become leaden. There was only one other time when his uncle had done that to him. It could mean only one thing. Somebody was dead.

  “Yes, Uncle?”

  Parvesh Gupta took a deep breath. “Your mother has been found.”

  Joy’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He stared at his uncle, his eyes widening.

  “She is here,” Parvesh said. “She is upstairs, waiting for you.”

  Joy stood stock still, his head turning slowly, looking into the back of the shop. He wrenched himself out from under his uncle’s hands and ran.

  • • •

  Sophie broke away from Mrs. Gupta, turning suddenly at the noise, fast footsteps thundering up the wooden staircase, a boy bursting into the room. He stopped, thin body breathing hard beneath his loose white shirt, staring at her with wide green eyes. She looked at him, her heart turning over, but before she could speak, before she could smile, he rushed forward and grabbed hold of her so hard that the force of it unsteadied her. His face pressed fast into her chest. Sophie wrapped her arms around him, bending into him, holding him to her. She felt his heart beating fast like a bird through his thin shirt. She felt his breath, short and hot, dampening her blouse. She closed her eyes.

  “My son,” she whispered into his soft dark hair. “My Joy.”

  He pulled away from her, staring up into her face, his expression filled with wonder, and with worry. “Are you staying?”

  Sophie glanced uncertainly at Mrs. Gupta, who was watching silently from the corner of the room, a sad smile on her lips. Mrs. Gupta nodded.

  “Yes,” Sophie said to him. “I am staying. I will never leave you again.”

  “I knew you were coming,” said Joy. “My father promised me. He said he would find you even if it took him a hundred years.”

  Sophie smiled at him, glad that her tears had been spent before he could see them.

  “I know,” she said gently, holding him close. “I’m sorry I took so long.”

  42

  Dr. Schofield picked up the package and inspected the handwriting. It was from Sophie, and she had written: PHOTOGRAPHS, DO NOT BEND across the front, boldly underlined. He slit it open with a paper knife. Inside were two photographic mounts, covered over with a face of textured black card, and a note, left flat and unfolded, as though it had just fallen from her fingertips. Dr. Schofield began to read, a smile coming over him. You said you wanted me to send you a photograph to display proudly at the clinic. He continued down the page, his smile drifting away, before setting the letter aside. He chose the larger of the two black cards and opened it, a gasp on his lips as he looked at her, smiling into the camera, the boy at her side, about a dozen people grouped closely around them. An older couple, of his age perhaps. A young man of about twenty, looking very serious. A pair of apparent newlyweds, with a baby. A Sikh family, unrelated he guessed but smiling nonetheless. And Sophie, right there among them. He shook his head in amazement and stared at them all, posing so proudly for this unlikely family portrait. She looked so happy. It had been a long time since he had seen that smile, the one that had lit him up inside when she was a girl.

  The door to his study opened.

  “Coffee,” said Mrs. Nayar, her tray clattering to th
e table. She hovered next to his desk. The package had arrived this morning when the doctor was at his clinic, and she and Salil had been bursting to see what was in it. They had taken it into the kitchen and propped it on the table against a jam jar so that they could talk about it all day, speculating about it before the doctor came home. He had been in his study now for over half an hour and still no news.

  Dr. Schofield glanced up at her and smiled enigmatically before handing her the photograph to see for herself. Mrs. Nayar looked at it, her brow rumpling for a moment as she stared into the image more closely. Her eyes slid inquiringly toward Dr. Schofield.

  “Yes,” Dr. Schofield said. “Go and show Salil.”

  Mrs. Nayar rushed off to the kitchen and Dr. Schofield took up the other black card, holding it closed for a moment, preparing himself for what lay inside. The other is a picture of Joy’s father, Jagaan Ramakrishnan. It is the only photograph that exists of him, so this is a copy. Dr. Schofield took a deep breath and opened it.

  He recognized him in an instant. The boy from the camp. The face the same, but older. It knocked the wind from him. He pulled the spectacles from his face, dropping them to his desk, and let out an endless sigh.

  15 August 1970

  California

  15 August 1970

  Carpinteria, CA

  My darling Jag,

  It is 15 August again, the day when I sit quietly and write to you. I talk to you for hours. I tell you everything. My hopes and dreams, my darkest fears, my life and what it has become.

  Our son graduated this summer. He smiled at me with such happiness, my face hidden behind the camera, and I saw you so clearly. Such a beautiful day it was. You would have been so proud of him. He went out afterward, to celebrate with his friends, and I came home and lit a candle for you and put it on the shelf where we keep your memories.

  He is in love with a girl. He has not told me as much, but I know. They have been going steady for almost a year now, and they look at each other as we once did. She is half Japanese and delicate like a doll. Joy is taller than ever and brave-looking and he towers over her. He has your eyes. Sometimes I can hardly bear to look into them, such is their weight. It reminds me of you, and I have to be careful because sometimes I see him and I want to cry, or to hold on to him and pretend that he is you. I have to remember that he is not you, and that you are waiting for us in a distant place where all love is the same.

  We talk about you often. I tell him my legend, and he tells me his. We never tire of it. It brings you closer to us. I piece together your journey and write every word so it will never be forgotten, even after I am long gone. I tell the tale of the boy who was raised in a palace and fell in love with a girl he was not supposed to fall in love with, and how he spent the rest of his life searching for her, to restore his family.

  Your aunt calls me daughter. We visited her in the spring, and she could scarcely believe how much Joy had grown. She is seventy-four now and has more grandchildren than she knows what to do with. You are the hero of the family, she says, and she gathers the little ones around her and tells them of your adventures. We traveled down to Ooty afterward, and Joy’s grandfather paraded him proudly and insisted he become a proper member of the club now that he is twenty-one. My father tells him the stories of how you worked together in the camp hospital. He is getting old now, and he likes to talk about the past. He says that the day he met his grandson was the happiest day of his life.

  Joy wants to make his home here in America. It is a good place for him. It seems that everyone here has come from somewhere else. Like us, they arrived full of hope and filled with dreams of a life not yet lived. We are happy here, in this land of people from other places where nobody cares who we are or where we came from. He has been offered an internship at a hospital in San Francisco. It will be the making of him. He is coming home this weekend and is bringing Lucy with him. He says they have some news.

  Oh, how I miss you. I took out the letter this morning and read it, as I always do on this day. We keep it in a small silver box with the locket I gave you, and it sits on the shelf of memories with your picture. The paper is falling apart and the stains have faded, but I touch them still and bring my finger to my lips, as if wanting to taste your blood, so that you might live within me. Sometimes I see a bird high above, riding the thermals, circling, circling, and I think of it as you, watching over us.

  At midnight I will go outside and look at the stars and pray that you can hear me. The black water has no memory, they say. It traverses the earth without soul or conscience, gathering nothing on its way, waves crashing into the shore before sloping back and turning over, heading out again. I am at peace here, looking out over the sea of no memories, watching the water that never sleeps while I think of you. I shall see you again one day, my love, and our spirits shall be as one, passing silently through the walls of a palace in the sky.

  READING GROUP GUIDE

  1. Why would it have been considered unthinkable for Sophie to have kept her baby in 1948? What has changed since then?

  2. Do you think Sophie’s mother realizes her role in the destruction of her family?

  3. Was George Schofield a weak man? Should he have done more to protect Sophie from her mother’s rages?

  4. Jagaan defies his father and rejects the ancient traditions regarding marriage in India. Do you think this contributed to his father’s death?

  5. As an adult, how has Sophie been affected by her relationship with her mother? Does this influence her choice of husband? Or do you think she married Lucian for other reasons? If yes, what were they?

  6. How would the First Maharani and her retinue of ladies-in-waiting have felt about women like Mrs. Ripperton and Sophie?

  7. Is it human nature to plaster over the cracks of an unsuccessful marriage rather than to admit defeat? Why stay in a bad marriage rather than divorce? Was it merely a trend of the times?

  8. Race and religion are at the root of many of the conflicts in the story. Is it natural for different races to be suspicious of one another?

  9. How would the Diplomatic Wives have reacted to modern views toward women’s equality and the high-profile female politicians of today?

  10. How did women handle postnatal depression in the days before its recognition and treatment? Did it carry a stigma?

  11. Are there similarities between Jagaan and Lucien?

  12. India’s partition was implemented in August 1947. What has been the legacy of that decision?

  13. Which is morally less acceptable: a philandering husband or an unfaithful wife?

  14. By 1970, Sophie is living as a single woman in California. What is the likelihood that she would want to find love again? Would her experience with Lucien have put her off relationships all together?

  15. Should Jagaan have been more forthright when he discovered Sophie was back in India? How did cultural differences affect his thinking?

  16. What would it be like to live in purdah, in an all-female environment, shielded from the outside world? Did the women of the zenana mind?

  17. Did Lucien deliberately misrepresent himself to Sophie prior to their marriage?

  18. Was it selfish for Sophie to take her son away from his family in India to make a fresh start in America? Would you have done the same thing?

  A CONVERSATION WITH THE AUTHOR

  Q. Where did you get the idea for Under the Jeweled Sky?

  A. Under the Jeweled Sky was inspired by memories of the women I would eavesdrop on, the hushed voices and grave expressions passed over teacups. My mother and her friends had grown up in the days before such things were openly spoken of. But it was all there: domestic violence, unwanted pregnancies, addiction, ruin, and occasional salvation.

  Among the whispers I overheard as a child was the story of the love affair that ended in tragedy and scandal and, separately, the tale of the baby who was birthed in
secret and left at an orphanage in Delhi. Adults think that small children are not listening, or that if they are, they are too young to take anything in. But this is not so. I remember everything.

  Q. Why did you set the story in the 1940s and 1950s?

  A. Under the Jeweled Sky unravels the fragile construct of a dysfunctional British family and watches its slow disintegration in the wake of World War II, the subsequent partition of India, and a scandal with terrible consequences. The tangle of politics and diplomacy during both periods seemed like a fitting backdrop to the disordered lives of the characters, with layers of deceit and half-truths and nothing being quite what it seems.

  Q. How did you learn about the details of what India was like back then?

  A. One strand of the novel is partially set in a maharaja’s palace. Although the palace and its location is anonymous and fictional, I did have an inside track into life inside an Indian palace. In her twenties, my mother was hired as the private nurse to the Maharaja of Indore’s mother-in-law. She arrived there from Bombay and was shown to her quarters—an enormous suite in a grand building set across the grounds from the main palace. A car was sent for her every morning, but she preferred to walk. So off she would go, strolling through the grounds while the car followed along a few yards behind, driving at a snail’s pace in case she should change her mind. Her breakfast would be served to her on a solid silver service, with a footman standing by should she want for anything.

  From what she has told me, I am not sure that she handled it particularly well. She said that she didn’t want any fuss, which was quite the wrong way to go about things in a palace. There was also an incident when she was caught preparing her own boiled egg, which didn’t go down well at all. The cook was quite overcome with grief, and my mother never ventured to lift a finger again. I have to say, I rather like the thought of that.