by Umi Sinha
I shrugged.
‘Do you know “I’m thinking of something”?’
I nodded. It was a game I played with Father sometimes.
His eyes flicked to my stick. ‘I’m thinking of something beginning with S.’
I wrote ‘STICK’.
He looked disappointed. ‘Your turn.’
I won easily.
Simon should have been at school with other boys his age but he was considered delicate, so a tutor gave him lessons in the morning. The boys in the village were too rough for him to play with; he told me they taunted him and called him a sissy and a girl. He was going to be fourteen that autumn, around the time I was to turn thirteen myself, and would soon be going away to boarding school, once he was considered strong enough. But until then we saw each other every day and became companions of a sort. It helped that I thought myself superior to him – he was so childish that I felt like the older, wiser one.
Dry days we spent on the Downs where we played hide-and-seek and I taught him to play Fivestones and Seven Tiles; rainy days were spent in the old schoolroom where we played chess and Parcheesi. He soon got used to my silence and began to frame his questions as Aunt Mina and the servants had learnt to – so that I only had to nod or shake my head to reply. Aunt Mina seemed relieved that I had found a friend. I wonder now if his discovery of my hiding place was as accidental as it seemed, or whether Aunt Mina and Mrs. Beauchamp had put their heads together.
I did not have much in common with Simon, but I tolerated him because I knew that he was lonely, and I understood loneliness. In India, Father and the servants had been my only real companions. All the other children my age were at school in England and Mother did not like me to play with Indian children. She had pressed Father to send me away too, but he refused; he had hated being sent away when he was a boy.
Simon’s tutor had been giving him extra lessons all summer to prepare him for school but on the day before he was due to leave he developed a fever. His departure was put off to give him time to recover, and over the next month I went over to visit him every day. Mrs. Beauchamp sent the dogcart for me each morning and I was driven to their house in the next village, which lay less than a mile away along the foot of the Downs.
I could tell that Simon’s complaint was more one of nerves than health. He was perfectly happy playing games or talking when we were alone, but, as soon as one of his parents entered the room and asked how he was feeling, his temperature soared. He was made to rest in the afternoons, and so I often ended up joining the grown-ups downstairs. Right from the start, the Beauchamps treated me as one of the family. Like Simon, his mother was small and fair, but her hair was a deeper gold and her eyes a warm blue. She dressed in the latest fashions, in beautifully cut patterned long coats over narrow ankle-length skirts in vivid peacock colours, unlike Aunt Mina, who wore old-fashioned dresses with a small bustle, in grey or muddy mauves and lilacs. They were unlikely friends, because Aunt Mina was deeply conservative and Mrs. Beauchamp supported women’s suffrage, but the two families had known each other for years.
I came to know Mrs. Beauchamp quite well because she took an interest in me. Simon told me she’d always wanted a daughter and added, rather bitterly, ‘I think she’d like me better if I was a girl,’ though she seemed to me to like him well enough – certainly more than my mother had liked me. I knew Mr. Beauchamp less well because he was a Labour Member of Parliament and stayed up in London during the week. He was small too, like Simon, but dark, with shiny nutbrown eyes, and he was always very kind to me.
The Beauchamps had lots of visitors: Mrs. Beauchamp’s suffragette friends met there and Mr. Beauchamp often brought friends and fellow M.P.s home from London at weekends and in the parliamentary recesses. I enjoyed being there – the constant flow of people and the preparations for visitors brought the house alive and made me feel connected to the bigger world. But my mornings at their house came to an end when Simon went off to school. After that Aunt Mina arranged for his tutor to come to me.
I was surprised to find that I missed Simon, and he obviously missed me, because I received a letter from him after the first week. I could tell that he wasn’t happy. Most of his fellow pupils would have been there for a year already, and even the new ones had had a month to form friendships. As his letters continued I noticed that he never mentioned any of the other boys; then, towards the end of the first term, he mentioned having made a friend – ‘a boy in the year above me, a frightfully decent chap, but the rest is a surprise…’ And then the letters stopped. I told myself I didn’t care and when he wrote to say he was bringing his friend home, and that I was bound to like him – ‘Everybody does!’ – I was determined that I wouldn’t.
Henry
14th December 1868
Aunt Wilhelmina is nothing like I imagined. She is not pretty at all. Her hair is not dark but greyish, and she wears dull colours because she is in half-mourning for her father. He was my grandfather and his name was Henry too, Henry Partridge. I was named after him. Partridge is a funny name because it is a kind of bird and Father and I sometimes go shooting for them. He must have been very old when he died because Aunt Mina looks old, though Father says she’s only thirty-two. Kishan Lal is worried because he says she should be married by now and she must be looking for a husband. I said Father was too old to get married but Kishan Lal says a man is never too old. He says Father is a fine man and any woman would be lucky to catch him, even now. Father is fifty-eight so that means he was twenty-six years older than Mother. That’s a lot.
I wondered if Aunt Mina would cry when she saw me, because the mems always cry when relatives visit them, but she didn’t. She shook my hand and looked me up and down like Father’s subhedar-major does when he inspects the sepoys, and then she told Father that I was dreadfully sunburnt and that my clothes were quite unsuitable. She said, ‘One could almost take him for a native.’ I saw Father’s scar twitch a little, but he just said, ‘That’s why we need you, Mina. I trust I can leave his transformation into a well-brought-up English boy in your capable hands.’ I wondered if she could tell he was being sarcastic, but she just said that she would do her best but she knew she could never hope to replace my own dear mother, and then her eyes filled with tears and Father said he had to see to his men and went to the Lines and left me with her.
After he had gone, she inspected the house and I could tell she didn’t like it because her mouth puckered up as if she were sucking a green tamarind. Kishan Lal saw too and looked even sulkier. He was already cross because Father had asked Mrs. Hewitt and some of the other mems to help to get the house ready and they had made new curtains for her room and stood vases of flowers all over the house. They also told Allahyar to prepare only English food for Aunt Mina, so for lunch today we had boiled mutton and potatoes. It was like lumps of gristle in peppery water and when Father asked Allahyar what it was he said proudly that it was called ‘harish stoo’ and that the memsahibs had shown him how to make it. Father told Aunt Mina it was supposed to be Irish stew and in his opinion Allahyar’s Indian cooking was preferable, but that she must, of course, do as she thinks fit.
When Father got back from the Lines this evening he took her round the cantonment to leave her cards on all the other ladies.
15th December 1868
Today, as soon as Father had gone to the Lines, Aunt Mina said she would blush to entertain anyone in the house in its present state, and she told Kishan Lal to call all the staff and to tell them that the house needed a thorough clean and that the bathrooms were a disgrace. She ordered each of them to start scrubbing a different room and sent them off to fetch cleaning water and soap. None of them, except the sweeper, came back, so Aunt Mina sent me to find them but they were all hiding and the compound was empty. When Father came home for lunch Kishan Lal told him the servants were all threatening to leave. Father explained to Aunt Mina that each servant has work according to his caste and religion and cannot be expected to do another’s work. He t
old her if she wants anything done she must tell Kishan Lal, who will manage the other servants. Aunt Mina went red and said that she had never heard anything so ridiculous, but Kishan Lal was pleased.
We both hope she will go home soon.
19th December 1868
This afternoon Aunt Mina asked me to read to her from my school books, so I read her my favourite passage from the Mahabharat. Mr. Mukherjee says it’s a very fine description but he wasn’t here because he doesn’t come on Saturdays.
‘In the midst of the great battle, surrounded by the clash of arms, the pounding of hooves, the rattle of trappings, the shouts of warriors and the screams of wounded men and beasts, where the dust churned up by the horses dimmed the sun and blood turned the earth to mud, Krishna suddenly stopped the chariot and sprang to the ground. Raising the wheel of a disabled chariot over His head, the Lord raced towards the great general Bhishmadeva like a lion charging an elephant. Just moments before, wave after wave of lethal arrows from Bhishmadeva’s bow had crashed down upon Arjuna’s chariot. In amazement, the other warriors had seen the figures of Arjuna and his driver Sri Krishna disappear behind the curtains of the general’s arrows. It had been certain that Arjuna was about to fall before the fury of the attack.
‘And then Bhishmadeva’s bow was still. It dropped to the ground, and the invincible general stood unarmed and stared with widening eyes at the Lord charging furiously toward him. In intense concentration he noted every detail of Krishna’s appearance: he saw how the beautiful flowing black hair of the Lord had turned ashen from the dust of battle; he saw how beads of sweat adorned His face like dew on a blue lotus flower; he saw how red smears of blood from wounds made by his own arrows enhanced the beauty of the transcendental body of the Lord. Bhishmadeva watched the Lord rushing towards him, preparing to kill him with a hurl of the wheel, and he was filled with ecstasy.’
But Aunt Mina didn’t like it. She said she had never heard such nonsense and that she hoped Mr. Mukherjee was not filling my head with superstitious native ideas. Then she asked to see my scripture book and was cross when I said I didn’t have one and asked what I learnt at Sunday school. I said I didn’t go to Sunday school. She asked me what I did do on Sundays and I said that I played with my friends Mohan and Ali. She asked whether I had been confirmed yet and when I said no she was shocked and she said she would have to speak to the chaplain. I didn’t tell her that the last time the chaplain was at our house was when he came to argue with Father about not taking me to church. I don’t know what Father said to him but he seemed very cross when he left. Afterwards Father asked me if I would like to go to church and I said no. But today, when Aunt Mina asked Father whether we would be attending Sunday service with her tomorrow, he said yes. Afterwards Kishan Lal told me this was the first sign. ‘First sign of what?’ I asked, but he just shook his head. Why will no one ever tell me anything?
26th December 1868
I haven’t seen Mohan and Ali once since Aunt Mina arrived. She is always finding something to keep me occupied. She says prayers every morning and evening and we have been to church three times since she has been here – once on Sunday, to midnight mass on Christmas Eve, and again yesterday morning. When she first came she wanted the whole household to be present for morning and evening prayers, as she says they are at Home, but Father said the servants are not Christians, and he has no intention of trying to convert them, and he forbade her to try do so. I could tell she didn’t like it but she didn’t say anything, so I asked him to speak to her about Mohan and Ali, but he just smiled and said, ‘Softly, softly, catchee monkey, Henry.’ I asked Mr. Mukherjee what it means but he doesn’t know.
Church is not as I imagined it. I knew it would not be like the pujas that the sepoys do on feast days, but I did not know there would be so much talking and singing. It’s quite boring but Mr. Mukherjee says I should try to listen as it will help my Latin.
Father is being very nice to Aunt Mina, so he must like her. He has called on all the important mems in the cantonment with her and even takes tea with them when they come here if he is not at the Lines. He has told Kishan Lal that Aunt Mina is now the mem and must be obeyed. Kishan Lal calls her ‘the Great She-Elephant’ and mutters under his breath whenever she asks him to do something. She has changed our food to chops, pies and cutlets, like the other English families eat, and tea is now served with lemon, instead of with milk and sugar and spices as Father and I like it.
For Christmas we had roast chicken and roast potatoes and red cabbage. Aunt Mina supervised the cooking and Allahyar sulked, but I thought it was nice to spend Christmas at home like other people and not at the Club. Afterwards we played cards and I wondered if this was how it would be if Mother were alive.
6th January 1869
It’s very late now and I have lots to write before I forget. Something queer happened tonight. Father and Aunt Mina were invited to an Epiphany dinner at the chaplain’s house to celebrate the arrival of the three kings. I thought at first they meant three real kings till Father explained. Kishan Lal was very gloomy when he heard they were going together because Father never accepts invitations. He said that soon Father will be completely under her spell and that we need to keep an eye on them. And he was right, because when Father came in to say goodnight he brought Aunt Mina too. He was wearing his evening clothes and looked very smart and Aunt Mina was wearing a shiny mauve dress and jewellery. As they left I heard him warn her not to expect too much as it would be an indifferent dinner, followed by maudlin songs performed by members of the Fishing Fleet hoping to ensnare a husband.
After they had gone I got dressed and followed them. I got past our chowkidar easily – I knew once the trap was out of sight he would go and collect his dinner from the kitchen and the gate would be unguarded. I wasn’t sure how I’d get past the chaplain’s chowkidar but when I arrived he was standing outside the gate talking to our syce, so I slipped past without them noticing. By the time I reached an open sitting room window the guests had already gone in to dinner so I hid in the flowerbed behind a raat-ki-rani bush and waited. They took ages to eat dinner and I was almost asleep when I heard the ladies coming back. Aunt Mina and Mrs. Hewitt sat down right next to the window and I could hear them talking about Father. Mrs. Hewitt was congratulating Aunt Mina on working wonders with him and said they had all been convinced he was going native because he sat on the verandah in his pyjamas and seemed to prefer arranging nautches and wrestling matches for his sepoys to mixing with his fellow Europeans.
Then the gentlemen came in and the chaplain’s wife called for everyone to gather round the piano and a lady called Miss Pole was invited to sing. Miss Pole looked just like her name – she was very tall and thin, with a pointed nose – and she clasped her hands under her chin and began to sing in a reedy voice about someone who had falsely sworn a vow and broken it, and how his lover had pined away with grief and died blessing him. I could see that Father was trying not to laugh. Then they all begged Aunt Mina to sing and she said no and they said yes and in the end she agreed, as she obviously meant to all along. She went to the piano and Father stood to turn the pages for her.
I was surprised when she started because she sang beautifully. The song was called ‘What Voice Is This?’ and it was about someone who had died and how her voice was carried on the evening breeze. It made me sad, but Father didn’t seem to be listening. He was just staring at the floor and forgot to turn the page so the chaplain had to jump up and do it. And then she got to the end and her voice went high and sweet. She was singing: ‘The dead shall seem to live again, the dead shall seem to live again, to live again… to live again…’ and then Father turned and knocked the music off the stand and almost ran out of the room. Everyone looked surprised and Aunt Mina stopped. The chaplain picked up the music and she started again, and then Father came out of the front door on to the verandah and I had to duck back behind the bush.
He stood still for a moment, breathing loudly and making a funny chok
ing sort of noise, and then he plunged off the verandah and rushed straight past our carriage and down the road with the syce staring after him in amazement. He looked even more confused to see me come out of the flowerbed. ‘You wait here for Memsahib,’ I said, and followed Father, but by the time I got home he was already in his room. I came straight here to mine, which is next to his, and listened at the wall, but there was silence. Not long after, Aunt Mina came home in the trap. I heard her thanking the syce before she came into the house and went to her room.
Cecily
SS Madras, 10th October 1855
Dearest Mina,
You must have wondered what had become of me after such a long silence! I am penning this on the ship to India, for it was impossible to find the smallest opportunity to write when we were ashore. The steam-barge from Alexandria to Cairo was so crowded that all except the most elderly members of the party were without berths and had to forage for armchairs or a space on the floor. Shepheard’s Hotel, where we were supposed to stay, was already full of passengers coming from India, and even the older members could not obtain a bed. They slept upon couches in the public rooms, but some of us younger ones decided to pay a visit to the public baths, which are open all night.
It was the most romantic evening; I wish you could have seen it, Mina. Men in burnooses carrying flaming torches escorted us through the streets, and in the bath-house women with huge arms pummelled us black and blue and then anointed us with oils and perfumes. Mrs. Weston, who accompanied us as a self-appointed chaperone, protested vigorously at having to disrobe in public but even she was no match for two brawny Turkish women who held her down and rubbed and scrubbed, laughing and making faces of disgust at one another. We were all quite mortified when they showed us the rolls of dirt that rubbed off us, though I was so sore for the next few days that I suspect it was not dirt at all but skin! Afterwards, feeling wide awake (as one is bound to do when one has been flayed alive!) we kept a vigil on the hotel steps till dawn, watching the donkey boys gather in the streets and people in colourful costumes going about their business. I am enclosing a watercolour I made of the scene but you will have to imagine the delightful warmth of the night air and the scent of jasmine, woodsmoke and spices.
