Daughters of India

by Jill McGivering

  Isabel turned, making a physical barrier between the two. ‘That’s enough, Singh. He’s perfectly alright.’

  Once Singh left, his eyes grumbling, she pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her dressing gown and dried his eyes, his nose, as if he were a much younger child.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘Now what is it, Bimal?’

  His eyes slid to the balcony floor and fixed there.

  ‘If you’re in trouble, you can tell me. I’m mistress here now.’

  His breath gave a final judder and settled back into a normal rhythm. He climbed awkwardly to his feet and made to slip past her, his head bowed.

  ‘If it’s the other servants, you must say.’ She spoke softly so only he could hear. ‘I won’t have bullying.’

  He padded through the sitting room without a word. When he returned with the breakfast tray, his expression had recovered its usual blank calm.

  As Jonathan had predicted, the ladies of Port Blair proved eager to clasp Isabel to their bosoms.

  ‘Gracious! Jonathan is a dark horse.’

  ‘We had absolutely no idea.’

  ‘What a whirlwind romance!’

  ‘It was all rather sudden.’ Isabel nodded round at the three thickly powdered middle-aged women and sipped her tea. Her host was Lady Harriet Lyons, the wife of the chief commissioner, Sir Philip, the most senior administrator on the Andamans.

  Her two fellow guests, Mrs Copeland and Mrs Allen, were stout matrons with double chins and large bosoms and inclined to twitter.

  By contrast, Lady Lyons struck Isabel as a shrewd woman, reserved and watchful. Now she intervened to ask: ‘And what are your impressions of the islands, Mrs Whyte?’

  ‘I’d heard they were beautiful, of course, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen more stunning scenery.’

  As Mrs Copeland gushed about the climate, Isabel looked past her at the view from the glassed-in verandah, which ran the length of Government House. The sun hung low in the sky. Below, the harbour glistened, dotted with fishing boats and light steamers. Beyond, the red roofs of Port Blair glowed. Higher on the hillside, almost touching the edge of the jungle, lay the round tower and reaching arms of the Cellular Jail, casting low shadows over the surrounding ground.

  When Mrs Copeland came to a halt, Mrs Allen leant forward and began to dispense advice on local housekeeping.

  ‘Meat is generally very poor. Mutton is the only exception and even that needs considerable stewing.’

  Mrs Copeland: ‘Considerable.’

  ‘But there are so many interesting varieties of fish,’ Mrs Allen continued. ‘I have devised a host of methods of preparing fish here.’

  Mrs Copeland twisted her lips. ‘Your husband hasn’t hosted many dinners. We made allowances, of course. His being a bachelor.’

  Mrs Allen: ‘But no longer!’

  ‘Your cook may need a heavy hand. Start as you mean to go on. Has anyone explained to you about daily order books? No?’ She shook her head. ‘Each morning, a convict orderly gathers all the ladies’ order books – he’s perfectly safe, by the way – and brings them in person by ferry to the keeper of supplies here on Ross. He delivers the goods to one’s door by four o’clock in the afternoon.’

  ‘Milk, bread and so forth.’

  ‘Stay on the right side of him.’ Mrs Copeland arched her brow. ‘I know a lady who scolded him once. She had sour milk for a month.’

  ‘Stay on the right side of all the servants,’ Mrs Allen put in. ‘You’ve heard about poor Mrs Doyly, surely?’

  Isabel shook her head.

  ‘Well! Perhaps Lady Lyons would do us the honour.’

  Lady Lyons lifted her hand and her houseboy came across to refresh the teacups and hand round a plate of buttered scones. When he finished, she sent him back to the kitchen to replenish the pot and turned to Mrs Copeland.

  ‘Really, you remember the details far better than I.’

  Mrs Copeland purred with pleasure and launched into her tale.

  ‘It was some time ago now.’ She looked round to assure herself of the room’s absolute attention. ‘Mrs Doyly’s husband was away on business. She was at home with her new baby and a visiting friend. She had a tiff with one of the servants, a Mohammedan, and called him the son of a pig.’

  Mrs Allen tutted in anticipation.

  ‘Well, to a Mohammedan, that’s a grave insult. He was a convicted murderer, of course. Later, Mrs Doyly was sitting at her dressing table before dinner. Her friend was dandling the baby in the adjoining bedroom. When what should she spy in the mirror?’ She paused for dramatic effect. ‘The door slowly opened and on the threshold the Mohammedan servant appeared, creeping into her dressing room, an axe raised in his hand.’

  Mrs Allen gasped. ‘Goodness!’

  ‘She didn’t stand a chance. Hacked to death. It’s a mercy the child and friend survived. The murderer was hanged, of course.’

  Mrs Allen shook her head. ‘I have the sweetest houseboy – you know Mani? He murdered his own mother in cold blood when he was practically a child.’

  They sat in silence for a few moments, drinking their tea. Isabel looked out at the dark blot of the Cellular Jail on the opposite hillside. He must be there, the young man who saved them in Delhi, who was transported here like an animal in the ship’s hold. They were so close, these men. Yet no one spoke of them.

  She turned to Lady Lyons. ‘I believe many of the men sent here nowadays are political prisoners?’

  ‘Political?’ Mrs Copeland snorted. ‘They’re thugs. I can more readily understand a man who kills in a fit of rage than one who murders complete strangers because of the uniforms they wear.’

  Mrs Allen reached forward and patted Isabel’s knee. ‘You needn’t worry, my dear. The real terrorists are confined to jail and rarely see the end of their sentences. You’re quite safe.’ She helped herself to another slice of cake and broke off a piece with her fork.

  Lady Lyons said: ‘It’s a curious business, isn’t it, joining one of His Majesty’s penal colonies?’ She regarded Isabel closely. ‘It takes a little adjustment.’

  ‘It does indeed.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever quite lost the urge to ask people what they did. You know, servants and shopkeepers and so on. They’ve practically all been convicted of something grisly.’

  Mrs Copeland gave a high laugh. ‘Oh really, Lady Lyons.’

  Mrs Allen turned to Isabel. ‘It simply isn’t done, asking a person directly. It causes great offence.’

  Mrs Copeland nodded. ‘One finds out by other means, naturally.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  Isabel hesitated. ‘There are one or two things I don’t quite understand.’

  Lady Lyons inclined her head.

  ‘Am I right in thinking that most murderers are likely to be released in due course and allowed to live a free life here?’

  Lady Lyons nodded. ‘If they behave themselves. We call it ticket of leave. They can run a shop or farm or whatnot, but they cannot leave the island.’

  Isabel continued: ‘But not political prisoners?’

  Mrs Copeland stiffened.

  Lady Lyons said: ‘Political prisoners are treated differently, that’s true.’ She paused, choosing her words with care. ‘Some can be rehabilitated, but not many.’

  Isabel persisted. ‘And is it ever possible to visit the prisoners?’

  Mrs Allen looked astonished. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘It is possible to see inside the jail on occasion,’ said Lady Lyons. ‘But not to meet with a particular prisoner, if that is what you have in mind.’

  The houseboy came back into the room, carrying the teapot with care. He lifted the lid to allow Lady Lyons to inspect the water level and stir round the leaves, then she gestured to him to pour fresh cups.

  Mrs Copeland said: ‘Do you have mosquito boots? I know just the place to have them fitted.’

  Mrs Allen chimed in: ‘And if you’re alone in the evening and boots are simply too hot, put
your feet in a nice soft pillow case. Does the trick.’

  ‘Plenty of citronella. A tad smelly, but it works.’

  After that, Mrs Allen turned to Mrs Copeland and they began to discuss arrangements for a forthcoming dinner-dance at The Settlement Mess, which also served as The Club.

  Isabel sat quietly. Her head moved from one lady to the other as they spoke but her thoughts ran back to the jail and to the men imprisoned there, such a short distance away. She felt herself observed and lifted her head. Lady Lyons’ eyes were on her face. As she met her gaze, Lady Lyons changed her expression in an instant from watchfulness to polite neutrality. She leant forward and indicated a plate.

  ‘Another piece of seed cake, Mrs Whyte?’

  That night, Isabel was woken by the slow squeak of her bedroom door. She lifted her head, narrowing her eyes to make out a ghostly figure in a white nightshirt. Jonathan crept across the room and eased back the sheet to slide into bed beside her.

  His manner was eager but awkward. Dry lips opened on hers and he grasped her shoulders too firmly with moist hands. Isabel submitted quietly as he fumbled his way around her body with brittle anxiety. After a little while, he gave a cry and buried his face between her breasts. She stroked his hair with her fingers, as a mother might caress a child and his breathing gradually steadied and slowed. A few minutes later, he slid out of her bed without a word and disappeared back to his own.

  The next morning, he left earlier than usual for the office and returned long after dark when she was already in bed. She reached for her dressing gown, hoping to sit with him for a while but before she could intercept him, he padded softly down the passageway and his bedroom door clicked shut.

  He never entered her bedroom again and she, uncertain, didn’t dare to risk embarrassing him further by trying to find the words to confront him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Asha

  ‘I have news, little sister.’

  Amit removed his spectacles as soon as she sat beside him and played with them in his hands, bending the arms back and forth as he spoke.

  ‘I have friends inside the jail. Secret friends. You understand?’

  She nodded. She understood that the men who came late in the evening to whisper must have some connection with those still locked up within the thick walls.

  ‘They tell me that your baba is to be released.’

  Her breath stopped in her throat. ‘When?’

  ‘Soon. Very soon. I am waiting for another message to tell us the day.’ He smiled. ‘You are a good girl, Asha.’

  She threaded her arms round her knees and hugged her legs. She had been here for several months now. Without her baba, it had been a time of wasted days.

  Amit-ji became serious. ‘Sometimes it can be difficult, Asha, when a man comes out. You must try to understand.’ He twisted his spectacles in his fingers. ‘The body suffers in that place but so too does the soul, shut up alone in a cell, day after day, year after year. No one speaks of it and your baba won’t also. He will lock it away inside himself. Freedom can be hard to bear. Do you understand?’

  She nodded but she didn’t understand. All she thought was: my baba is coming home. Thanks be to the gods.

  ‘Your baba is a simple man. He has suffered a great deal in prison. You must be patient with him.’

  The jail was a vast, forbidding complex, surrounded by high walls. Asha sat in the shade of the frangipani trees and watched the heavy wooden gates. The day was hot and humid and her salwar kameez was damp with sweat, her throat parched. She had arrived soon after dawn and now the sun was high and hard. Other women waited too, heads bowed, eyes fixed on the gate or on the ground and the trails of ants which hurried to and fro in the dirt. They stood or sat separately, each one carefully apart from the others, and although they were equally poor, equally wretched, no one spoke.

  The trees burst with flowers and their scent hung solidly in the air. High above, a jungle bird kept up a high-pitched cry. No one raised their eyes to look for it.

  Asha ran her tongue round dry lips. Her thighs were numb and she shifted her weight, crossed and re-crossed her legs. Time passed. She had prepared food at home and she wondered if it would keep, if he didn’t come. She had spent good money on daal and fresh subzi.

  In the afternoon, boots struck stone on the other side of the wall. The women rose to their feet. A metal jangling. The women took a few tentative steps forward. The scraping of bolts, of keys. The vast gates slowly parted to create a meanly narrow gap of a foot or two. The men emerged without energy and the women stepped forward to claim them, one by one.

  Her baba was the fourth to appear. He stumbled as if he were blind and unsure of his footing. He looked an old man now, damaged by the rigours of his years in prison and the hard manual work he had undertaken there. He took a few faltering steps away from the gate, then stopped and looked around, uncertain.

  ‘Baba. I’m here.’ She went quickly to him, slipped her hand through his arm and drew him away. The arm was all bone. ‘Let’s go home.’

  Home was little more than a crawl space, a triangular lean-to of wood and woven straw down the lane from Amit-ji’s restaurant. She had swept and cleaned it well and rolled out rattan matting to make a floor where they could sit and sleep. He sat on the matting and closed his eyes.

  She went outside, crouched over the cooking fire and blew life back into it. She boiled up chai and took it to him, then went back to heat the food in the same pot.

  ‘Amit-ji was a prisoner himself once,’ she said.

  He made a ball of the daal and subzi and lifted it to his mouth between his fingers.

  ‘He owns a restaurant. I help them when it’s busy and they pay me. They’re very respectful.’

  He chewed his food slowly. All his movements were painstaking as if his heart barely beat enough strength round his body. When he was halfway through his meal, he stopped, set down the plate, wiped off his mouth with his sleeve.

  ‘Can’t you eat more, Baba?’

  He put his hand on her shoulder. ‘I have no appetite.’

  ‘You will, Baba. I’ll cook for you. You’ll soon be strong again.’

  He didn’t answer. He had a way of looking past her as if she weren’t there.

  ‘We could rent a shop, Baba, and sell fruits. They have such plump mangoes here, and coconuts too.’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Or buckets and brooms, maybe.’

  ‘If you like, Asha.’ He sighed. ‘Whatever you like.’

  She took away the food on his plate and scraped it back into the pot for later. Then she crouched beside him, eased off his sandals and brought water to wash his feet. They were the feet of an old man now. It would take a lot of washing to make them clean again.

  When she had finished and patted them dry with her dupatta, he reached out a hand and stroked her hair. ‘You’re a good daughter, Asha. But you shouldn’t be here. This isn’t what I wanted for you.’

  She pressed up against him and put his arm round her shoulders. ‘I belong with my baba. We can be together, now you’re free.’

  He shook his head. ‘I am not free, child. I will always be their prisoner.’

  She soothed him and fanned his face as he settled down on the mat to sleep. Once he was quiet, she rinsed the dishes in a pail and set them to dry.

  She looked at him as he slept. His skin was weathered and stretched tightly over his bones, making his cheeks sunken and his chin sharp. She would feed him well and care for him. They would build a new life here together.

  The muscles in his face twitched. He let out a cry and opened his eyes.

  ‘Baba? Are you alright?’

  The eyes looked unfocused but full of fear.

  ‘Hush, Baba.’ She patted his thigh. ‘Hush, you’re safe now.’

  His eyes fell closed again.

  This Baba, who emerged from prison, was not the father she remembered. This was a sick man, listless, broken and easily angered.

  I
n those first days, he lay in their shelter and dozed. She worked in the restaurant and bought good food but he had little appetite. She watched in despair as he failed to gain weight or to take interest in the world.

  At night, she slept curled beside him. He woke often with cries but refused to discuss the terrors inside his head. Sometimes, as she held him and stroked his head, he wept into her hair.

  A week after Baba’s release, Amit-ji came to visit him. It was morning and she sat outside their shelter in the dirt, boiling up daal and crushing garlic and turmeric to season the subzi.

  ‘Bhai! Brother!’ Amit-ji rapped on the wooden strut of the shelter with his knuckles. Only her father’s feet stuck out and Asha crawled inside to wake him. His chin was prickly with stubble and his hair unwashed.

  ‘Baba! Amit-ji is here to see you.’

  He grunted, turned onto his side.

  She took hold of his shoulder and shook him. ‘Baba! Please.’

  Finally he stirred and came crawling out, blinking in the sunlight. His kameez was crumpled and stained.

  ‘Welcome, brother. I salute you. We have friends in common, I think. In Delhi, I once knew Krishna-Sahib, a man who became a martyr for our cause. Your former master, nah? I am Amit.’

  Her father sat cross-legged in the dirt, his large gnarled feet tucked under his legs. His jaw was set and hostile.

  Amit sat down beside her father and patted his knee as if they were old friends, then drew a parcel from his pocket. He unwrapped the paper and set it on the ground between them. Sweetmeats. Kaju barfi, one of the most expensive in the restaurant. Their silver tops gleamed in the sun. Her father turned his head away.

  Asha said: ‘How kind, Amit-ji. Baba, try some.’

  ‘They’re too sweet. My stomach is ruined by years of eating filth.’

  Amit nodded quietly. ‘I was in that place for six years. It’s true. The food is not fit for cattle.’

  Asha got to her feet. ‘Will you drink chai, Amit-ji? Baba?’

  Her father didn’t answer. She mixed water and milk and blew on the fire to boil it up with tea.