Belonging

by Umi Sinha

  I met his deputy magistrate, a Bengali Muslim called Hussain, the next day. Indian DMs are very rare so I knew he must be a man of considerable ability. He showed me a huge backlog of cases awaiting trial or sentencing. He did not need to tell me that Thornton has not shown much interest in his job: he had invited me to watch a session of the court that morning and I have never seen a man look more bored; it was worse than watching Father when he was forced to attend a social event. He yawned loudly, whacked about himself with his fly swat and even sang to himself once or twice, while the lawyers were speaking. After lunch he fell asleep, but the lawyers carried on unperturbed, as though used to it. I wondered how Thornton would cope when it came to the summing up and verdict, but when both parties had finished presenting their cases Hussain woke him and there was a brief adjournment while they went into another room. When they returned, Thornton gave his verdict, which seemed a sensible one.

  It is apparent to me that Hussain is the magistrate in all but name and would make a useful ally. He seems – on first inspection anyway – to be an honest man and reminds me of Mr. Mukherjee. Since it is clear that he has extensive experience and has actually been running the show, I wonder if he resents my being promoted over him. I hope not, as I shall be quite reliant on him until I develop an ear for the local dialect. It looks as though the work is going to be rather more challenging than I had expected. I am expected to tour the area for at least ten days a month, but this territory is so large that Hussain says some of the remoter areas have never been visited by Thornton, and justice is administered by the police without trial, often by a beating. This is something I am determined to remedy.

  30th November 1880

  With the help of Hussain, I have worked my way though most of the backlog of files. I have found his knowledge of local conditions invaluable: he knows the history of many of the disputes, and my fears that he might be biased in favour of one or other party have proved to be unfounded. It is undoubtedly due to his competence and integrity that Thornton has been able to continue in his role for so long. I feared Hussain might see me as a usurper and resent the demands I am making on his time, for we work late into the night and I have extended the court hours so that we can begin to clear the backlog of cases, some of which have been waiting for years to be heard. But he seems pleased that I am taking an interest and that I value his opinion.

  One embarrassing episode occurred on my first day in court. I had already noticed that Hussain always refused my invitation to sit down when we were working together, saying he preferred to stand, but now I understand why. One of the local landowners came to my office to see me during the lunch break to introduce himself and I offered him a chair. He stood hesitating, and to my astonishment the chaprassi pulled away the chair facing my desk and fetched another from against the wall – an ancient broken-down wreck of a thing. When the landowner had left I asked the chaprassi what he thought he was doing. He didn’t understand at first but then explained, as though puzzled that I was unfamiliar with the concept, that it was the ‘babu’ chair. I looked at Hussain, not quite believing my ears. He said, ‘Mr. Thornton kept a special chair for Indian visitors.’

  I could not think of anything to say, except to order the chaprassi to get rid of it. ‘Sit down, Hussain,’ I said, indicating the remaining chair.

  He demurred.

  ‘For God’s sake sit down, man!’

  He sat.

  I thought afterwards that perhaps I should not have been so sharp, but the next morning he asked if I would care to take lunch with him and his wife, and seemed delighted when I accepted. I was surprised that his wife sat with us, which is unusual for a Muslim woman. She is an educated woman from Bengal and, like her husband, speaks Hindustani, Bengali and English. She is also an avid reader, so we conversed a little about literature. Her ambition is to open a girls’ school in Calcutta one day.

  Over lunch I asked Hussain why he chose to join the civil service, and he told me that he had been inspired by a story he read in a book when he was at college, about the magistrate at Delhi, a man called Metcalfe. The story goes that during the Mutiny he was escaping along a road on foot, pursued by mutineers, when he stumbled upon a holy man sitting by the roadside. The sadhu, sizing up his situation, indicated a cave in the hillside and advised Metcalfe to hide in it. Having little choice, he entered it with misgiving, knowing he would be trapped if the sadhu betrayed him. When the mutineers arrived, they demanded of the sadhu whether he had seen anyone. The sadhu said he had not, but the mutineers, seeing the cave, proposed searching it. The sadhu told them in a loud voice, designed to reach Metcalfe’s ears, that there was a red demon that lived in the cave, which liked to decapitate men before eating them. Upon hearing this, Metcalfe took up a position, sword in hand, just inside the entrance to the cave and, as the first man stooped to enter, he decapitated him with one blow of his sword. The head rolled down the hill and the mutineers fled in terror. Later, Metcalfe thanked the sadhu and asked why he had saved his life. The sadhu replied, ‘I was up in front of you once and I know you are an honest man.’ ‘I must have found in your favour, then,’ Metcalfe replied. ‘No,’ the sadhu said. ‘You found against me. But you were right.’

  Hussain smiled at me.

  ‘For some reason that story inspired me.’

  I laughed. ‘Do you think it true?’

  He chuckled. ‘Unfortunately not. I did some research into Sir Theophilus Metcalfe later. He was magistrate at Delhi during the rebellion and his life was apparently saved by a nawab of his acquaintance, who sheltered him and whom he subsequently rewarded. But after the recapture of Delhi he was so maddened by revenge and so bloodthirsty in his reprisals that the Commissioner removed him from the city, saying that the sooner the power of granting life or death was removed from him, the better.’

  Something came to my mind:

  ‘My friendless heart’s a city reduced to ruin,

  The great world has shrunk to a patch of rubble.

  In this place, where love was martyred,

  What now survives but memories and regret?’

  ‘Mir,’ he said. ‘How do you come to know that?’

  ‘I had a Bengali tutor when I was a child.’ I’m not sure why I didn’t mention the bibi; perhaps I was afraid that he would think less of Father.

  Hussain told me that when he joined the I.C.S. he was warned by one of his tutors that he would never reach the highest echelons of the service because there would always be junior Europeans promoted above him. ‘I have a verse for you too,’ he said.

  ‘High on the mountain

  the fruit is seized by the croaking crow

  while the lion who bullies bull elephants

  growls hungrily below.’

  He smiled. ‘But please do not imagine, Mr. Langdon, that I am comparing myself to a lion, or you to a crow.’

  It is certainly true that as deputy magistrate, if he had been a white man, he would have been promoted to the job that I have now; but we both know that no European would submit to being judged by a native. It is also clear to me that Hussain is not in awe of Englishmen and that I shall have to win his respect.

  In the meantime I have had practical matters to deal with, like finding somewhere to live. I cannot afford, on an assistant magistrate’s salary, to continue living at the Club, nor to take over Thornton’s bungalow. Fortunately, I have made the acquaintance of a ‘Yellow Boy’, a newly arrived member of the 1st Bengal Cavalry – otherwise known as ‘Skinner’s Horse’ – who has suggested I share quarters with him and a fellow officer, as they have a spare room. Roland Sutcliffe is everything I am not – tall, blond, handsome, and a favourite with the ladies – and he appears to great advantage in his regimental uniform with its long yellow tunic and blue and gold striped puggree.

  He has undertaken to educate me and advises me that flirting with unmarried European girls is unacceptable because it raises their hopes, but that married women are fair game as long as one is discreet. Eu
rasians are the best bet of all, he tells me: because a man knows they are using all their wiles to trap him into marriage, he need feel no guilt about seeing how far he can get without committing himself. Roland is already carrying on a flirtation with the wife of an officer who is out of station, and the cynical part of me cannot help wondering whether he has befriended me because I offer no competition in the looks department.

  From what I can see, there is not much to do in Bhagalpur except attend the various dances and balls, and I have been warned that it is a full-time occupation to avoid being trapped into matrimony with the hundreds of young girls who flock out every year, and are known as the Fishing Fleet. Civil servants are not bound by the same restrictions as Army officers, who are discouraged from marrying young, so despite my lack of charm I am actually more eligible than Roland, even though, having no private means, I could not support a wife on my pay.

  1st June 1881

  I have been here almost nine months now and I feel at last that I am making progress. Hussain and I work well together and I am beginning to acquire a sounder grasp of the local conditions and to understand the dialect. I enjoy the tours especially – they remind me of the manoeuvres on which I used to accompany Father as a child. In some places we stay in dak bungalows, in others we camp in airy and comfortable ‘Swiss cottage’ tents, and during the day we hear cases. Where there is no building available, we hold court in the open air, sitting under the trees. Since there are no roads, reaching the further places on horseback can take several days, so I am often away for two or three weeks.

  Before I left on my last trip, Roland told me he had met a girl at a dance. Her name is Rebecca Ramsay and she is the daughter of a ‘boxwallah’, as he insists on calling people in trade. He says she is the most exquisite creature he has ever set eyes on and promises that when I meet her I shall fall head over heels in love with her. I told him that in that case it might be better not to meet her, since he is so obviously in love with her himself. In the event, she went off to the hills with her ayah for the hot season before I had a chance to make her acquaintance. She must be special, since he still speaks of her almost three months later, and looks forward to her return when the rains start. However, I notice it has not stopped him from flirting with the Eurasian girls who attend the hot season balls, now that all the Englishwomen are in the hills.

  30th June 1881

  I have met Miss Ramsay at last and she lives up to Roland’s description. I have never seen anyone as exquisite as she. She is very slender and has a cloud of curly dark hair and pale skin. The most fascinating thing about her is her eyes. They are slightly different shades of blue-green, and the greener one has a splash of brown on one edge of the iris, an imperfection that, strangely, adds to her beauty. I felt when I met her as though I was meeting a creature from another world – a sprite, or water nymph. There is something fragile and vulnerable about her that makes one long to protect her.

  Roland introduced us and almost immediately left us alone together while he went to fetch her some fruit punch. At times like that I envy him his ease with ladies. I stood there tongue-tied until she smiled and suggested we take some air. I followed her out on to the verandah, feeling awkward and foolish. Standing there in the moonlight, with the smell of night jasmine wafting in from the garden and her pale face glimmering in the moonlight, I felt for a moment as though I was in a tale from the Arabian Nights.

  ‘Roland tells me you’re an assistant magistrate,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’ Then I launched into an account of some of the mishaps I had encountered in my open-air trials. I had just made her laugh by telling her about the time when a cow lifted a file of papers from a table placed under a tree and wandered off with it, and the poor court clerk had to run after her to retrieve it, when Roland came back with the drinks. Although she tries not to show it, I can tell from the way she looks at him that she is in love with him.

  Back at the bungalow, I reminded Roland about what he had said about not flirting with unmarried girls but he just grinned at me. ‘There’s always an exception to every rule. Don’t you think she’s the most delectable creature you’ve ever set eyes on? She’s almost worth losing one’s commission for.’

  ‘Do you mean you’d consider marrying her?’

  He laughed. ‘If I were to consider marrying anyone it would be her, but the C.O. would never give his permission, and I’m not cut out for any other work. I’m not clever like you, Henry, and I have only a small private income. No, I was always destined to be cannon-fodder. I know I shouldn’t raise her hopes, but you must admit she’s enchanting. If only that ayah of hers would leave us alone sometimes, I could at least snatch a kiss.’

  I laughed. ‘She obviously doesn’t trust you. And if Miss Ramsay has no mother to watch out for her…’

  ‘Yes, but the woman’s insufferable. If we’re on the verandah, she hovers nearby in the garden shrouded in her veil, like some sort of ghoul or banshee.’

  ‘I didn’t notice her. What about Miss Ramsay’s father?’

  ‘I’ve hardly seen him. As soon as they arrive he’s off to the card room. Doesn’t come out till it’s time to go, and then he can hardly stand.’

  Something else she and I have in common, then. But it must be harder for a girl to grow up with no mother; nor does she seem to have any female friends. I suspect the fact that she is country-born and -bred, like me, doesn’t help, and her beauty and the fact that she is inundated with requests for every dance must provoke envy among other girls.

  24th July 1881

  I have found out a bit more about Miss Ramsay. She grew up in Assam on a tea plantation; her father was a planter but is now a steamboat agent. I met him briefly at the Club one evening and would never have guessed who he was if I had not been introduced to him by name. He is short, stout and ruddy-faced, and what little remains of his hair is a faded red. She must get her beauty from her mother. Miss Ramsay was two when she died and does not remember her; she was raised by her ayah, who is devoted to her and never leaves her side – for which I must admit I am grateful, because I fear Roland is completely smitten and too used to having his own way to resist the temptation to take advantage of her innocence.

  20th September 1881

  Roland has been away with his regiment for almost a month now, and I must confess, with some shame, to having taken advantage of his absence to get to know Miss Ramsay better. Despite not being one for balls and parties, I have continued to attend them in Roland’s absence in the hope of seeing her. When she failed to appear I even plucked up the courage to call on her and ask if she would like to go for a drive. I could tell she only agreed because she was bored, and all she did on the drive was talk about him. Her ayah sat up front with the syce, with her headscarf pulled tightly around her face, but I was aware of her watching and listening to every word we said, though I don’t know how much she understands. Generally speaking, servants understand a lot more than we think.

  Miss Ramsay brought her embroidery with her and kept her head bent over it and would hardly meet my eyes, though she seemed pleased when I admired it, and indeed I have never seen such fine embroidery or such strange designs or combinations of colours: trees, birds and flowers of a shape and form I have never seen before. She says they are all her own design and come from her imagination. ‘You must have a very vivid imagination,’ I said, and she said that her father told her that her mother, who was Irish, used to read her stories when she was very young. She does not remember her mother, but thinks some of the pictures from the stories must have stayed with her. And then she lifted her beautiful mismatched eyes to mine and I saw that they were full of tears, and I ached to hold her in my arms and kiss them away. I have never felt so tender towards anyone.

  I know that I am poaching on Roland’s territory, but I also know his intentions are not honourable, and with his penchant for clichés he would be the first to say that all’s fair in love and war.

  29th October 1881

 
I must take care, as my feelings for Miss Ramsay are getting out of hand. Yesterday I found myself thinking about her in the middle of a case and Hussain had to draw my attention to the fact that the plaintiff ’s lawyer had finished speaking. I had to call for a brief adjournment so he could brief me on what I had missed. He made no comment but I wondered if he was thinking of Thornton, who presumably had started off at least trying to be competent. I apologised for my inattention, which astonished him. I know it is not sahib-like behaviour, but one thing Father taught me was always to apologise when I am wrong.

  10th November 1881

  Roland is back. Tonight we met Miss Ramsay at the Club and the moment she saw him her face lit up. It was obvious they wanted to be alone so I left early. I have been trying to work, but while I look through the case of Gobind Chunder, who is trying to register a claim on land that his Muslim neighbours say belongs to them, all I can see is Rebecca Ramsay in Roland’s arms, and hear that maddening dance music over and over in my brain, compounding my misery. I have put aside the work, but even three whiskies have not helped to deaden the pain and jealousy.

  I suppose this must be what they call being in love, because when I am with her it feels as though the whole world is illuminated and every moment is precious and I would not exchange it for anything, and when I am away from her everything seems empty and meaningless. I wonder if this is how Father felt about my mother. For the first time I have some inkling of what her loss might have meant to him.