by Umi Sinha
Jagjit was standing just outside the front door, breathing deeply, as though he had been running. He took my hand, pulling me away from the door. ‘Don’t look so worried; it’s nothing bad. I just wanted to talk to you.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Can you meet me in the old greenhouse in half an hour?’
I hesitated.
‘Please, Lila. It’s important.’
I waited till Aunt Mina was safely settled in the drawing room before I crept downstairs. I could hear Cook and Ellen washing the dishes and talking in the kitchen as I slipped out the side door. I made my way to the vegetable garden and the old greenhouse with its broken panes, where we had sometimes played when we were younger. A faint light glowed through the smeary, cobwebbed windows and, although it was a warm night, I found myself shivering.
Through the panes of the door I could see that Jagjit had pushed the old planting tables aside to make a space in the centre. He had fixed a lighted candle into the bottom of an upturned pot and was sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring into the flame. Through the dirty glass the light from the candle glowed gold, smudging and softening everything. Suddenly I was afraid. I took a deep breath to stop myself shaking and pushed open the door.
His face under his ochre turban turned towards me and he rose to his feet in one supple movement.
‘I’m afraid it’s not very cosy in here. But come and sit down.’ He gestured to the floor where some gunny sacks had been pulled together to form a sort of rug. There was a strong smell of mildew. ‘They’re a bit damp, I’m afraid.’
We sat down opposite each other with the candle between us. The floor was gritty, and I shifted uncomfortably as I waited for him to speak. He seemed to be finding it as difficult as I was; I noticed his hands were trembling, and that made me nervous but also gave me courage.
‘I’m sorry to drag you out like this, Lila, but I wanted to see you alone and it’s impossible to get away from Simon.’ His voice shook with irritation and I looked at him in surprise. He flushed. ‘I’m sorry. I know that sounds unkind, but we’ve just had the most filthy row. You must think I’m rottenly ungrateful, especially as he and his family have been so good to me… but sometimes it feels as though he thinks he owns me.’
I shook my head, trying not to show the secret pleasure I felt.
There was a silence while we both stared at the candle and I began to wonder if he had anything to say to me at all. I could feel the damp rising from the sacks and shivered again.
‘Here, put this on.’ He took his jacket off and stood to drape it round my shoulders. It held his scent, and I remembered his body beside me on the beach, his finger touching mine, and again that surge of warmth travelled through me. I turned my face away and held myself perfectly still.
‘Lila!’ He knelt opposite me and leant forward. ‘I just wanted to say that… that I really value your friendship. That’s the reason Simon made that scene today… he can’t bear it if I show a liking for anyone else and he’s jealous because he knows that I like you. You don’t mind my saying that, do you?’
I shook my head.
‘It’s just that I know how your aunt dislikes me. But, to get back to why I’m here… I wanted to apologise for the way Simon behaved today, and… Oh, hell, Lila, the truth is I just wanted to have you to myself! I’m sick of never being able to tell you how I feel. Don’t look so surprised – you must know I care for you. It’s obvious enough! Sometimes I’m afraid even to look at you when we’re in company because I think everyone will see it…’ He laughed uncomfortably. ‘You look so blank! Do you have any idea at all what I’m talking about?’
I nodded, though I wasn’t really sure. Could he really mean what I thought he did?
‘Do you like me, Lila… even a little bit?’
I nodded again.
‘Really? You’re not just being polite?’
I hesitated and looked down. ‘Yes.’ It was a whisper, so I said it again, louder. A croak: the frog princess. I looked up. He was staring at me.
‘Say it again.’
I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘Yes, I do.’ Too loud. I grimaced. ‘Is that how you imagined it?’
‘What?’
‘My voice.’
‘Absolutely. Like a sergeant-major!’
We laughed and then, somehow – and I am still not sure how it happened – we were talking as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it was the dark and the quiet and the soft circle created by the flickering candle, or maybe the forgotten warmth of being held in someone’s loving gaze, but after the initial groping and fumbling for words, and stumbling over my tongue, the dam burst and everything I had locked away came pouring out, and I found myself telling him everything about my life in India, and my friends, and Father’s missions, and Mother’s strangeness. And finally I found myself speaking about what happened that night, as though I was just talking to myself as I watched the candle flame flicker.
When I had finished, there was a long silence and I felt empty and peaceful. Then he sighed and moved the candle out from between us and pulled me towards him. I knelt up until my face was level with his and he kissed me, first on the forehead and then on the lips. It was the most gentle and innocent of kisses, almost like a blessing, but it cannot have looked like that to Aunt Mina and Mr. Beauchamp, who chose that moment to burst into the greenhouse.
Twenty minutes later I lay in bed, seething with anger and defiance at being made to feel guilty when we hadn’t done anything wrong. Aunt Mina had said nothing to me except to order me to my room in a cold voice, but I could hear the three of them talking downstairs. Then Mr. Beauchamp and Jagjit left and I heard Aunt Mina go to bed. I lay awake for ages thinking of him: how it felt to be held by him and to talk about Father without being judged or pitied; to be really listened to. I knew there would be consequences but I didn’t care. There was nothing they could do to us.
I was woken the next morning by stones clicking against my window. For the first time that I could remember since Father’s death I did not think of him first, but of the night before. I smiled and stretched and got out of bed, smoothing my hair back before lifting the sash. But it wasn’t Jagjit. It was Simon.
‘Come down!’
I dressed quickly, wondering where Jagjit was.
As soon as I emerged from the front door Simon rushed up to me, almost spitting with rage. His face was white. ‘What did you do? You selfish rotter! You’ve ruined everything – everything!’
I stared.
‘Father’s sent him away! I listened at the study door when they came back – there was the most frightful row. Father said that no gentleman would have behaved the way he did with a girl as young as you are. Jagjit said nothing had happened, that you were just talking, but Father said your aunt was upset and Jagjit had to go back to school. He made him promise not to write to you and he put him on the early train, and he says he can never come in the holidays again because your aunt won’t permit it! And it’s all your fault – your stupid fault!’
‘No, it isn’t. I bet you told your father because you were jealous, you telltale sneak!’
His jaw dropped. ‘You’re talking!’
‘Yes, but you needn’t worry, because I’ll never speak to you again!’
I turned and went into the dining room where Aunt Mina was having breakfast and screamed at her that I hated her and would never ever forgive her. They were the first words I ever said to her.
A fortnight later I was sent away to school.
PART TWO
Henry
Karachi, 16th August 1880
I could smell it even before we saw land. That instantly recognisable, complex scent of India – a mingling of woodsmoke, perfume, dung and baking biscuits – came out to greet us as we approached Karachi, carrying the memories that I had locked away inside me, and suddenly I felt myself again. In England I had been someone else, a pallid imitation of a person.
At school we had been discouraged from talking a
bout India. The other boys sneeringly referred to us as ‘koi hais’, and using Hindustani words to each other was regarded as showing off. Standing out in any way was frowned upon, but I am more like Father than I knew, and I had no desire to fit in. I hated the regimentation, the bullying, the fagging, the enforced team sports, the tasteless food and always being cold. My childhood dream of being confined in a suffocating dark place recurred frequently, and waking the whole dormitory with my screams did nothing for my reputation.
The holidays at Aunt Mina’s were a relief from school. She and I had almost nothing to say to one another, but I got on better with the boys from the village than I did with boys at school, and enjoyed playing cricket on the village green and helping with getting in the hay. They accepted me as belonging to the village, but my hopes of learning anything about my mother were disappointed.
After school I had dreamed of going to Sandhurst or Addiscombe and following Father into the Indian Army, but I discovered that he had arranged for me to go to Haileybury to train for the Indian Civil Service. I was deeply disappointed. At school, almost the only activity I enjoyed was being a cadet, enacting battles from the Zulu wars and learning to form square. My pleading letters produced a brief response – our future in India was uncertain and Father felt that if I wished to make a career in India I would have a better future in the I.C.S.
At Haileybury my fluency in Hindustani gave me a head start, but that, together with my familiarity with native customs, raised the inevitable suspicion that there was ‘a touch of the tar brush’ about me. I do not say I was ostracised, but I am too proud to accept being tolerated, and the only real friend I made there was Gavin McLean, whose father was Scottish and mother Chinese. He is one of the cleverest people I have ever met, and is planning a career in the Indian Political Service. We have promised to keep in touch.
Apart from school essays and letters to Father, I have done little writing since I left India. I did not keep up my journal because there was nothing I wished to remember of my time in England. It was like being suspended in a limbo that I had to endure until real life started again. While I was there, I understood Father’s depressions for the first time; I felt as though I had lost everything that gave my life meaning. If I ever have children, I shall never send them away.
Rawalpindi, Northwest Frontier, 19th August 1880
When I arrived yesterday, Kishan Lal came out to greet me. His hair is whiter and his stoop more pronounced, but his smile is as big as ever. He came forward and bent to touch my feet but I caught him by the shoulders. He straightened up and we looked at each other. His eyes were full of tears.
‘Sahib has become a man.’
My own eyes felt damp. ‘How is my father, Kishan Lal?’
‘The same as ever, God be thanked.’
The house, though different from the one I left, is a standard Army bungalow with its high ceilings and large central room divided into drawing and dining room. The furniture is unchanged and Father’s steamer chair is on the verandah in the same position it has always sat. For a moment I felt as though I had stepped back eleven years.
‘Where is he?’
‘We were not expecting you so early. Sahib has gone to the Lines. He said to send to him when you arrived. He wanted to come to Karachi to meet you but he said you told him no.’
‘I didn’t want him tiring himself unnecessarily. He must be, what… seventy now?’
Kishan Lal waggled his head. ‘Must be.’
I wondered how old he himself was but knew it was pointless to ask; he wouldn’t know. ‘He’ll be retiring soon.’ I tried to imagine it and failed. What would he do with himself? ‘And you, Kishan Lal? What will you do?’
Kishan Lal grinned. ‘Sahib will never retire. He is a lion among men. He can still wrestle with young men and win. And what would I do? No, I shall stay with Langdon-sahib till the end.’
‘He’s lucky to have you, Kishan Lal.’ I looked around me. ‘Where is Bibi? I brought her a present.’
Kishan Lal’s face fell. ‘Did Sahib not write it in a letter? Bibi died – must be nine, ten years ago now. The year after you went to England. You truly did not know?’
‘No. He never mentioned it.’
He put a hand on my arm. ‘Don’t be angry with him, sahib. He must have wished not to trouble you. He knew you were not happy there.’
I bit back the obvious reply while I thought of all the inquiries I had made after her health, the good wishes I had asked him to pass on. He had never replied to any of them.
‘How did she die?’
‘She had something – a growth – here.’ He touched his side. ‘The doctor said it could not be taken away.’
I thought back to the months before I left – the doctor’s visits, the way she used to catch her breath, the hand pressed to her side. ‘I remember. She must have been in pain. So they knew before I went. Did it take long?’
‘One year, maybe one and a half. The pain was very bad. The doctor gave her medicine but it wasn’t enough. She suffered greatly at the end. Your father sat with her all day, all night, sometimes reading to her, sometimes wiping her face. He even bathed her himself because he said the bai the doctor sent was not gentle enough.’
‘He must have been very lonely after she died.’
‘Yes, but he has his work with the regiment. It is good to have work.’
‘I suppose so. Look, don’t bother to send for him, Kishan Lal. I’ll walk over there. I could use the exercise after all those weeks on the ship. Have my bags put in my room, would you?’
‘Of course, sahib. And sahib…’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s good to have you back. It will make him young again. It will make us all young again.’
Father was standing on the parade ground talking to a group of native officers and sepoys as I approached. As soon as he saw me he came forward to embrace me, then gripped my shoulders and looked into my face. His white hair is as thick and his eyes as blue as ever and apart from a slight shake in his hands and a new wildness to his eyebrows he looks just the same.
‘You’ve grown up, Henry, and become very like your mother.’ He wrung my hand and stepped back. ‘Here are some old friends, come to greet you. They’ve been eagerly awaiting your arrival.’
Two sepoys in regimental uniform came forward and saluted me, then bent to touch my feet. I stepped back.
‘Sepoy Bedi and Sepoy Khan. Do you recognise them?’
‘Of course I do. Mohan. Ali.’
Then all the other sepoys, ones I remembered and ones I didn’t, were crowding round to greet me and welcome me home. But it is different from how it used to be. I am no longer a child they can tease. I am now a sahib and none of them, not even Ali and Mohan, would dare to pull my leg, or play a joke on me, or take me down a peg when I get too big for my boots.
As we walked back to the bungalow for lunch I understood for the first time how lonely Father’s life has been. He has always been a figure apart: respected and perhaps even loved by his men, but never able to confide, share his troubles or take off his officer’s mask. I wonder why he has never made friends with other British officers and whether that was always so, or whether his separateness started after Mother died. I wonder if it will be the same for me.
20th August 1880
Last night Father and I sat on the verandah and talked. Again I noticed how his hand shook as he raised his whisky to his lips. For the first time it struck me that he will die one day. The thought shocked me and made me realise how alone I shall be when he has gone.
We talked about ordinary things: he gave me the latest news of General Roberts’ march on Kandahar, which he feels is doomed to failure. ‘No one has ever been able to hold Afghanistan for long, and no one ever will.’ I gave him news of Aunt Mina and a brief resumé of my time in England and then we seemed to run out of subjects to talk about. I watched him swirl his whisky in his glass; it’s an old habit, one he uses when he has nothing to say. I have seen
him do it a hundred times at the Club. I had a sudden urge to puncture his defensive shield.
‘Kishan Lal tells me the bibi died.’
He looked up. ‘Oh, yes. Do you remember her?’
‘Of course I remember her! She nursed me that time I had typhoid fever.’
‘So she did. Fancy you remembering that!’
‘Why didn’t you tell me she had died? I asked after her in every letter. I even enclosed some poems for her.’
‘Did you? I’m sorry, it must have slipped my mind.’ He rubbed a hand across his eyes.
Rage twisted through me. I remembered him telling me as a child that I surely must have known my mother’s name. Perhaps that too had ‘slipped his mind’.
‘Was she your bibi before you married my mother?’ I asked deliberately.
He drained his glass, picked up the small brass bell on the table beside him and rang for Kishan Lal.
‘What I mean is, did my mother know about her?’
He laughed harshly. ‘I didn’t keep them both at the same time, if that’s what you mean. But yes, I knew Sabira – that was her name, by the way – before I met your mother. I was twenty when I came out to India. There were no Englishwomen here then; it wasn’t considered safe. In those days there was none of this fuss about going native; we were encouraged to blend into Indian society, to eat the food and appreciate the music and culture. The Company was here for business, not to build an empire, and we were healthy young men with normal appetites. It was a less prurient time; having a bibi was encouraged. They educated us in the ways of the country and the customs of the people we had to do business with, or the men we would command. Sabira was an intelligent and cultured girl, trained in singing and poetry and dance. I was lucky to have her. I never understood why she chose me – a green young subaltern – when she could have been the mistress of a nawab. She taught me to speak the court Urdu and almost everything I know about Indian history and culture. It was after ’57 when the Crown took over that everything changed. Englishwomen began to come out here with their husbands, and they wanted to turn India into suburban England. They and the missionaries and the religious zealots in the Army decided it was our God-given mission to “civilise” the natives by pushing our customs – and of course our religion – down their throats.’ The stream of words paused as he rang the bell again.
