“You can’t be serious, sir.” Tariq waved his hand impatiently. “We don’t do such favors for servants; the work won’t get done. Our budget is limited, and we can’t hire more help.”
I could see from the cloud of concern on Tariq’s face: budget was an important consideration for him, conscientious employee that he was. Still, I persisted. “If I speak English better, it will not only help me but also the Factory.”
“Quite so,” Job sahib said. “It will be most useful to have one more servant who speaks English fluently. I hope to expand our business in future. The more English-speaking staff we have, the better.” His face shone, as though a bigger, more hopeful future dangled before him. He turned to Tariq. “Besides, she’s motivated, unusually so. We’ve never seen that in the servants we hire. We ought to give her a chance.”
“At all costs, sahib, we obey you.” With that, Tariq turned to me, but the frown on his forehead only deepened. “I’ll give you part of the morning off and make arrangements with Charles sahib for regularly scheduled tutoring.”
“I will not disappoint you,” I said to Job sahib, “even though English words do get stuck in my throat sometimes.”
Job sahib broke into a good-natured laugh. This was for me, and I would nurture it in my heart. “If you only knew how difficult it is for us to correctly pronounce Bangla and Persian words.” He held my gaze for the briefest moment. “I’ll test your progress.”
“I’ll be so honored,” I said breathlessly. “I will do all I can to pick up English faster.” A small pain nudged me from inside. “But Sal?”
“Now, for the last time, Sal is not coming back,” Tariq said.
“It hurts me to think that he’s been punished so severely,” I said to Job sahib.
“Reflecting back on the decision, I regret it. When I was young and worked on ship maintenance, I once stole an extra piece of bread during supper. I was caught and taunted cruelly for it; it was humiliating. They punished me by not serving me any food for a whole day.” Job sahib looked far into space. A moment later, he blinked, recovered, and concluded, “If it’s any consolation, Maria, you’ll now learn English from a native speaker.”
“That would surely help my pronunciation, sir. I am grateful for your generosity.”
Tariq turned to Job sahib. “Shall we join the meeting now?” Glaring at me, he spat out the words, “Don’t forget the petition at the Royal Court. I expect you to be ready.”
Job sahib nodded at me. “I trust you will do well.” I tucked away his kind expression in my heart. I had to succeed, so Job sahib could succeed. They walked away, their voices angry. Perhaps the sahib questioned his trust in Tariq, if only a little, a seed planted in unprepared soil.
It was time to report to the kitchen.
Job couldn’t help but think about the Company, how he would like to see it grow, and how much that depended on the competence of his staff. If they were familiar with the language and the ways of the English, all the better, for the Company would need such people if it were to prosper in this often unfathomable land. Thus far, Tariq had been indispensable in the day-to-day running of the place, but could he really trust him? He would walk out the door tomorrow if his interests were better served elsewhere. But Maria—her eyes were full of admiration when she looked up at him. She was dedicated to her kitchen duties, and from all accounts, the quality of her cooking was consistently excellent. He could see that she had a strong desire, a spark in her to better herself. Just as he did. And she wanted to learn his tongue more than any of the other servants. Loyalty and motivation—yes, that was why he took the time to listen to her. He sensed that she would be an invaluable asset to him and the Company someday.
SEVEN
Late that night, after twelve hours of toil, I retired, only to find myself unable to rest, my insides in tumult from both panic and excitement. Outside, a storm roared. I had to make a petition to the Nawab! In the dim light of the oil lamp, I conjured a mental picture of the Nawab’s reception hall, the darbar, a space so big that it could accommodate a hundred elephants, so bright as to make it seem a part of the sun itself. Only if you accumulated a lifetime of good karma, my people said, could you dream of having an audience, a darshan, with the Nawab.
What if, surrounded by the pomp and splendor of the hall, I lost my voice before the crowd of petitioners, or worse yet, broke down? What if the Nawab laughed at me? What if my petition was rejected and Job sahib was in worse trouble than before? What if my in-laws were allowed to take me away?
I took a deep breath and stood up. I couldn’t let any of that happen. I had to rehearse my talk in the quietness of my hovel, practise and practise until I got it right.
I covered my head with the sari train, only my eyes visible, as I would present myself in the darbar. “Your Lordship,” I began in Bangla, my voice high but well-modulated. Although I listened to English much of the day, it was so much easier to weave sentences in Bangla. The sweet sounds were as much a part of me as my skin and muscles, as precious as my eyesight. I poured out the details: a brief marriage, my husband’s sudden death, his relatives’ plan to eliminate me, the arrival of Job sahib, the smoke and fights and confusion at the cremation site, and eventually, my rescue.
I heard a knock at the door. The door was sturdier than on that grim night of assault, but who could it be at this time of the night?
“Who’s there?” I asked after a moment of hesitation, my voice guarded.
“Teema.” Her tone sounded bright and eager. I could hardly believe my ears. Teema, the mysterious sweeper who never uttered a word of greeting, one who dressed in nothing but black, who wailed high enough at night to disturb my sleep, had come to visit me? She must have been listening to my outpouring through the thin mud wall between our rooms. I opened the door.
She stood at the door, commanding and erect, her black skirt billowing in the wind, her hair done up in a bun. Even at that late hour, her eyes glittered.
“What a surprise! Come in, do.”
She slipped into the room, adjusting a sequined black scarf around her throat. “Please forgive me; I’ve been listening to you. Yours is an incredible story.”
“I disturbed you.”
“Can we talk?”
I nodded. We both sat on the floor mat, knees pulled up to our chests, the oil lamp flickering between us, quiet, not looking at each other. “I must tell you how much it pained me to hear you.” Her gaze exuded warmth, her voice was mellifluous. “We’re the same in many ways.”
“I’ve heard you crying at night.”
She was quiet for a while. When she spoke, her voice was soft, warm. “I was born not too far from here in the village of Kolapara where there was no talk of buying and selling and cheating. I lived with my family next to a pond. My father, a farmer, taught me how to plough when I could barely walk. We didn’t have enough to eat because of the high revenue we had to pay the tax collector, but I could dance. As soon as I heard music, I would want to stand up, smile, and move. My legs twitched; my hands moved on their own free will. Dancing has always been in my veins. I am a nautch girl.”
Dancing girl. One who practised the ancient art of nritya, performed for the public. Our community shut its door to such women. It’s not respectableto be out in public, to show your flesh to men and taunt them with suggestive movements, the elders would say. Should I seek her company?
“Would you like to see me perform?”
“Why, yes, of course,” I said, but I wasn’t sure.
She removed the scarf from her throat, stood up, and began twirling, her legs loose, her spine flexible, her movements fluid. I almost wanted to stop her. The decorative gemstones on her skirt twinkled in the lamp light. A silver ring flashed on her third toe. She skittered into new positions, filling the space with her presence, compelling me to watch her. She whirled one arm round her head and loosened the coil of hair she had twisted into a bun. Lustrous black hair streamed down her back.
Although she coul
d hardly be called a beauty, the light around her countenance made her seem like a celestial maiden, an apsara who, in ancient times, descended on earth to charm the mortals. The rhythm of her movements made my body tingle. I could almost hear rich instrumental music swelling around us. I felt an urge to get up and join her but shyness and a sense of propriety prevented me from doing so.
Teema stopped and bowed. She had transformed within minutes from the sweeper I was familiar with to one who stood on a high stage and charged the air with light and grace.
“Shabash! Shabash, Teema! How did you learn such intricate moves?”
She folded her legs beneath her as she settled onto the floor and caught her breath. “After my father’s death, with three younger sisters to support, I had to earn a living for my family. That’s when I came to town and wandered through the streets looking for a job. I hoped to become a dancer.”
Her voice was thick with sorrow. “It must have been my destiny to perform. Soon enough, I got an opportunity to dance in a punch house filled with liquor, unruly crowds, bad manners, and fights. Still, many customers appreciated my dancing. It came easily to me—expressing my feelings, visions, and dreams through my body.”
In the evenings, she dressed in a gold-embroidered muslin robe and gold bangles, sprinkled attar on her body, and chewed betel leaves to redden her lips. Ornaments dangled around her waist and she had a ring on each finger and toe. Silver bells on the chain around her ankles made tinkling sounds at every step she took. Brass lanterns shone on her. She smiled and flew onto the dance floor, her hands weaving images and emotions. All day long the beauty she saw, the love she felt, the fear that gripped her, would find expression in her nightly performance. The audience was made up of local merchants and foreign traders alike.
“And, oh, what an appreciative audience!” Teema said, her voice high pitched, delighted, yearning for that golden past. “When I finished my routine, they would rise from their seats, applaud, and shower me with gold coins.”
Why did she stop dancing and work as a sweeper? Perhaps she sensed my curiosity; her face turned pale, but she didn’t seem ready to confide in me.
“So what have you been doing with your spare time?” She asked in a light-hearted manner.
“Not much.”
“Let me take you around the city. We’ll start with a stroll through the market and you’ll see the articles for sale, what brings traders from all over, the haggling that goes on, the liveliness.”
“But Tariq?”
Teema laughed. “We’re allowed to have free time, you know. That bojjat keeps it a secret. Let me tell you about him. His father was a petty criminal who is now in prison. Tariq is responsible for a large, extended family. He can’t handle the pressure, so he takes it out on us. I’ll speak with him. Day after tomorrow, at three in the grove. Achcha?”
“I’ll be there,” I said in a cheerful voice. She hadn’t revealed why she’d stopped dancing, why she’d given up what she loved. She kept it bottled inside; I could see that from her sudden stiff gestures.
“That’s settled, then,” Teema said with a grin. “Rest well.” On that note, she leapt to her feet and bent to pat my shoulder. Her skirt rustling, she dashed out.
EIGHT
I walked over to the verandah for my first English lesson the next morning, alert and hopeful, only to find my tutor wasn’t there. I stood by the railing for some time, then, hearing footsteps, I turned.
Charles sahib, the Second Officer, stepped onto the verandah. So far, I’d only seen him from a distance. I smoothed the folds of my sari, bowed, and took a close look; this sahib was a foul-smelling man of substantial girth, with a high nose and florid face.
“Ah, there you be,” he said in English, “on time. I didn’t expect it.”
I almost took a step back but met his eyes instead. “I always try to be on time, sir.”
He stared at my bare feet and raised his eyebrows. “No shoes?”
In my village, inside our homes, we never wore footwear. “Our home is God Shiva’s landing,” my mother would say. “It’s sacred. We mustn’t bring in animal skin or dust from outside.”
“It’s our custom not to wear shoes at home,” I said.
“Primitive, I should say.” Lips curling, he gave out a laugh of derision. “All right, be seated.” He sank into a chair and switched to thickly accented, broken Bangla. “I’m supposed to tutor you in English so you can follow our orders better.”
Why did Job sahib assign this man as my tutor? My mother’s voice floated out from my childhood. Respect your elders, the monarch, and your teachers. Don’t show the slightest dissatisfaction in their presence, keep your head down, and don’t raise your voice. Even if I dismissed Mother’s words, the fact would remain that my employment here depended on the good graces of the sahibs. I must hide my annoyance and show only politeness.
“How did you learn to speak my mother tongue, sir?” I asked in a softer tone.
“It hasn’t been easy,” he said in halting Bangla, tilting his chin and giving me a cool stare. “I had no choice but to pick up some native phrases here and there. Only a few people understand English in this godforsaken place. But trust me, there will come a time when you’ll hear our tongue spoken everywhere.”
“I’m eager to take lessons, sir,” I said, quivering with anger. “I’m thankful to Job sahib for making this arrangement.” I wasn’t thankful any longer, not if I had to take my lessons from this conceited man.
“Job asked me to find the time, as if I had nothing better to do. If only he wasn’t performing his duties so poorly …”
Charles sahib let the sentence dangle. My gaze followed his to the walkway outside the verandah. Last night’s storm had left a lot of devastation in its wake. Leaves, twigs, and broken branches littered the pathway.
The sahib scowled. “Why is that path cluttered with rubbish? It’s an eyesore. Someone could trip.”
Did Teema oversleep? Or did she walk past that pile of debris without even registering it? “Our sweeper will get to it soon,” I said. “She’s running late.”
“Lazy people; no future.” He paused. “You’re ready for today’s lesson, I take it? Can you describe this verandah in English?”
Hands on my lap, I tried to get my thoughts together in English.
He sighed heavily, shook his head, and said slowly, “Repeat after me, this is a chair. That’s a table.” He named at least ten more objects. “Come! Speak! Speak the great English language! And be quick!”
I repeated the sentences, misplacing a word here and a word there and biting my lips in frustration. Once corrected, I plunged in with renewed energy, my voice strong and steady. After a while, the sahib fell deeper into the chair, wiping perspiration from his forehead, as though I’d exhausted his store of energy.
“Please, sir, will you allow me to practise some more?” I asked eagerly. I was very much aware that he could drop me as a student, which would result in my forever remaining in the kitchen as a lowly cook. Nothing existed at that moment but Charles sahib, English, and I. On this verandah, the hard marble floor beneath my feet, I sat up straighter. Words and phrases rose and fell, stormed on my tongue, exhausted my breath, and muted the birdsong. At the end of the hour, I had acquired a new vocabulary, collected the prize of several new sentences, and felt famished, but I wasn’t intimidated by the sahib. The sounds were now my own and belonged to my treasury of expressions.
Charles sahib stole a look at me. “It’s passable, your English.”
Mumbling a word of gratitude, I rose and bowed respectfully. As I was about to slip away, he said in halting Bangla, “Wait, Maria.”
I was startled by his use of my name, the fact that he addressed me as a person and not as an ignorant help. “Yes, sahib?”
For a moment he was silent, as though attempting to choose the proper words. When he spoke, his voice was softer than it had been, more courteous.
“I didn’t mean to be hard on you, but I’ve
been unwell.” He burped. “I get attacks of fever and can’t seem to digest any food. They say drinking water from the Ganges will cure any disease, it’s the “water of immortality”, and I drink it. Why am I so sick then?”
I stood still and waited, smelling an opportunity for providing assistance.
“Do you think …” he asked, “do you think, you could prepare special meals for me, soups, some light dishes?”
I looked into his cloudy eyes, noted the exhausted slouch of his shoulders. Yes, I could see it; he was ailing. “It would be a pleasure, sir. I often cooked for my father. He always asked for mild fare when he had, what he called ‘guts gripe.’”
“Good. Do that!” He suddenly seemed so pleased that I almost smiled. Then he asked, “Have you heard other servants passing remarks about me?”
I shook my head. His voice was still soft, as he said, “Well, if they ever do, report that to me right away, will you?”
So he wanted me to act as an informer. The concept was familiar and distasteful. The Royal Court was known to hire informers, people who lived risky lives and were often murdered. No, I had no intention of ever being an informer, which would put my kitchen mates and me in harm’s way.
“Of course, sir.” I bowed again, controlling the shaking that seemed to be affecting all my limbs.
I hurried away from the sahib, peering around the courtyard. Teema was nowhere in sight, so I peeked into her room. She wasn’t there either. I picked up a spare broom and began sweeping the pathway.
Idris approached me. “You’re covering for Teema? Do you have any idea the trouble you’ll be in, if Tariq sees you?”
“I can’t find Teema. I have to get this done or she’ll be in trouble. You get back to the kitchen and start the meal preparation. I’ll join you when I’m done here.”
Half-an-hour later, I put the broom away, sprinkled water to beat the dust, and took comfort in the fact that Teema had been spared. Then I strolled back to the river ghat to wash up before heading to the kitchen.
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