Daughters of India

by Jill McGivering

  She took a deep breath. ‘Because of your wife?’

  He frowned. ‘Is that what they say?’ He shook his head. ‘Poor Johnston. His heart broke and he hid himself away with the natives and went doolally.’

  She reached down, picked up a large fallen leaf and smoothed it out between her fingers. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—’

  ‘It’s alright.’ He sighed. ‘If we’re going to speak at all, we may as well be honest.’

  He became quiet for a while and she thought the subject was closed. She ripped the leaf along its veins, section by section.

  Suddenly he said: ‘My heart did break. But that was years ago now. That’s not why I stay in Car Nicobar.’

  She tore the leaf into smaller and smaller pieces, then let them flutter through her fingers to float to the jungle floor. Her hands trembled as she waited to see if he’d carry on.

  He stood up. ‘Anyway, we should head back.’

  She said quickly: ‘So why do you stay?’

  Edward paced round the clearing. He regarded the toes of his boots as he placed his feet with care, his brow creased in a frown.

  ‘Your husband wants to wipe all this off the face of the earth. To civilise the people who depend on it.’ He spread his arm, indicating the jungle, which pressed round them in a solid circle of green. ‘And it’s not just him, it’s all of them.’

  Isabel looked at the sunlight through the canopy, which coloured the air a dappled green.

  ‘They have every right to live the way they do, don’t you see?’ He shook his head. ‘The Nicobarese, they’re wonderful people. Yes, they live differently from us. But why not?’ He looked exasperated. ‘If you met them, you’d understand.’

  ‘I’d like to.’

  He gave her a sharp look, then carried on. ‘They’ve been the same for centuries. What gives us the right to destroy their way of life? Show me that in the Bible.’

  She didn’t answer. Edward was so different from Jonathan. His warmth. His respect for local people. She realised, feeling the contrast, how much she despised her husband.

  ‘I agree.’ She got to her feet. ‘You need to be there to protect them. And you’re absolutely right.’

  She strode past him out of the clearing, retracing their steps through the foliage. Fronds and leaves brushed wetly against her face. His footsteps, his breathing were close behind her as they returned together to civilisation.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Their lives found a steady rhythm. During the day, Isabel resumed her old ways, with long walks around Port Blair, afternoon visits and reading. Jonathan and Edward busied themselves with work.

  And yet, everything was different. In the evenings, during Jonathan’s many absences, she and Edward dined alone together. She developed an interest in running the household, which she had never previously known, arguing with Cook about the menus and asking the ladies how best to cook mutton to bring out the taste or how to curry fish.

  Over dinner, she talked to Edward about the Indian families in the bazaar and the stories they shared with her. He told her about his meetings. Much of the time, they sat in comfortable silence.

  One evening, about three weeks into Edward’s stay, they were sitting together on the balcony after dinner, smoking. It was a pleasant evening, the heat made bearable by a light breeze from the sea. Isabel looked out at the hillside and the dark outline of the prison in the trees.

  ‘I hate that place. It looms over everything.’ She drew on her cigarette and let out a stream of smoke.

  He gave her a sideways glance. ‘Have you been inside?’

  She nodded. ‘I had to attend a hanging there. I hated it.’

  Edward sat quietly. There were voices, footsteps below. Locals, jostling and joking.

  ‘When I sailed out here, I went down to the hold and saw the prisoners there. They were chained up in the dark, like animals. I told Jonathan but he didn’t want to hear.’

  ‘I doubt there’s much he can do.’

  She drew on her cigarette. Singh hovered at the screen doors behind them and she lifted her glass to ask him to mix fresh drinks. When he’d delivered them, the silence settled again.

  She leant forward and stubbed out her cigarette, said in a low voice: ‘Edward, can I show you something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She opened her bag, unzipped a side pocket and drew out a folded sheet of paper.

  He bent his head low over the lamp to read. His shorn hair rose in clumps across his skull and into the nape of his neck. The skin below it was red with sunburn. She thought of the elephant calf and the feel of its bristly hide. Finally he looked up, the letter limp in his hands. His face was grave.

  ‘Sanjay Krishna. The terrorist?’

  She nodded.

  ‘He says you met in Delhi, then again on board a ship?’

  She found she couldn’t raise her eyes to meet his. ‘In Delhi, Jonathan and I ran into a hostile crowd. A man intervened and saved us. I didn’t know who he was.’ She took a deep breath, remembering. ‘Then when I saw the prisoners in the hold, I recognised him.’

  Edward turned again to the letter. ‘How did he get this to you?’

  ‘It was just there on the letters’ tray one morning. The servants didn’t know who’d brought it.’

  ‘Have you shown it to Jonathan?’ Edward passed it back to her. ‘You ought to, you know.’

  She felt herself flush. ‘He’d be furious. You know he would.’

  ‘Krishna’s a dangerous man.’ Edward rubbed his chin. ‘Burn it. Forget it came.’

  Isabel looked over the lines of small, neat handwriting. ‘He says he knows what happened to Rahul, our cook’s boy. My friend.’

  Edward leant in close. ‘Isabel, he’s trying to trap you. If you reply, you’d compromise yourself at once.’

  ‘Compromise myself?’ She shook her head.

  ‘It’s not just your reputation. It’s Jonathan’s too. He can’t have his wife writing in secret to one of India’s most dangerous prisoners.’

  She got up and went to stand against the rail. An unseen wireless crackled Indian music in the night.

  ‘Rahul was like a brother to me.’ She pulled herself against the rail, then swayed away again, restless. ‘If I knew where he was, I could at least write to him.’

  ‘I’ll visit the prison before I leave.’ Edward rubbed again at his chin. ‘I’m expecting a consignment of Bibles from Calcutta soon. I always take some to the prisoners. I could ask about Rahul, if you like.’

  She clenched her fingers on the rail and stared at the dark roofs against the sky. To one side, the jungle rose. To the other, the buildings of the town sloped to the invisible shore. It was the first time he’d spoken of leaving. She felt sick. She hadn’t realised, until he came, how alone she felt here.

  He rose and came to stand beside her.

  ‘Another cigarette?’

  He took two from his case, lit them and passed one across. His free hand rested on the rail, capable and strong, inches from her own. The heat rising from his body warmed her side. They stood in silence and smoked, looking out at the night.

  Several days later, Isabel sat alone in the sitting room, reading. The ceiling fan overhead rippled the heavy air. Singh tapped on the door and brought her an envelope on the silver letters’ tray. She knew the hand at once.

  ‘Who delivered this?’

  Singh looked awkward. ‘I don’t know, madam.’

  ‘Someone must know.’ She turned over the envelope in her hands. ‘When did it come?’

  Singh shook his head. ‘It was in the hallway just now, madam. I did ask Asha and Cook but neither of them knew anything about it.’

  ‘Letters can’t appear from nowhere.’ She reached for the opener and slit the top of the envelope. Singh hovered. ‘Tell Cook I’d like luncheon at one, would you?’

  The paper crackled in her fingers as she opened it up. It was the same cheap ink and translucent paper as Sanjay Krishna’s first lett
er. Her eyes went first to the signature, the initials SK, then she returned to the top and began to read his small, neat hand.

  Isabel Madam,

  How is your good self? I trust you are well in body and soul and happy now in your new life.

  Did you receive my letter? I feel you did. I have waited these many long days for answer but none has been forthcoming. Perhaps you are already forgetting our previous encounters in Delhi and on the ship? I will never forget them. I feel I am gifted to know a person’s heart from their face and I read goodness in yours only.

  In my former letter, I am quoting to you some lines from our great Bengali poet, Tagore. Here I am quoting another: Men are cruel but man is kind.

  Why am I again writing? I fear you are thinking badly of me for offering to tell you the whereabouts of your friend, Rahul. I wanted your reply, it is true, but now I fear I may not live long enough to tell you, person to person, even if you agreed such a thing. Therefore I am telling this: he is still in prison in Delhi at the hands of your government. I am not knowing how long he will be kept from his wife and son. What is it which you Britishers are saying? At the pleasure of His Majesty? I wonder what manner of King takes pleasure in subjugating and punishing men who want freedom only.

  We face days of darkness here. My people are dying at your people’s hands. As you take chai with the British ladies or sit at dinner with your husband, is there talk of our bhukh hartal? A hunger strike is a desperate protest. A man must be driven by despair itself to refuse food and drink when his body craves it. They are forcing tubes down our throats. Do they say that at your dinners? The suffering is very terrible.

  One of my men, a good fellow from Calcutta itself, has just passed. The doctors forced milk down his throat and it entered into his lungs. Imagine the pain of his dying.

  Forgive me for such hard words, Isabel Madam. I would not be wasting my ink and strength in writing to you if I did not have faith in your good nature.

  What can you do? I am not knowing. Only I am knowing that you will do whatsoever you are able to give us justice. That I do believe.

  I am taking my leave with another line from the great Tagore:

  Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark.

  From the brink of eternity,

  Your faithful servant,

  SK

  Isabel sat for a long time with the letter in her hands. The pulsing breeze from the fan rattled the paper.

  When Singh appeared to escort her to lunch, she sat alone at the head of the long polished table. The sunlight fell in slices through slats of the blinds and set the water jug glistening.

  Her mind was full of thoughts of another place. Of Rahul, confined in some dank cell in Delhi with no idea when he might be released. And of Sanjay Krishna and his men who were driven to starve themselves to death by hunger strike.

  The plates of soup, mutton and sliced bread sat untouched in front of her.

  Two wooden tea chests arrived for Edward. Isabel sat beside him in the drawing room after dinner as he rolled back his shirtsleeves and fell to prising out the nails and ripping off the slatted lids. He pulled out handfuls of scrunched newspaper, then reached in further and handed her a black leather-bound Bible.

  The scent of leather and freshly printed ink spoke of England but already it had acquired a hint of mildew. The flyleaf and edges were embossed with gold, which glistened and left specks on her fingers.

  ‘They don’t last long out here.’ Edward flicked through another volume. ‘White ants. Get into everything.’

  The print was cramped. ‘Can they read English?’

  He closed the book in his hands. ‘Some can, the ones who attend the Mission School. But even those who can’t like to have them. It’s the only book they’re likely to own, you see.’

  ‘And you’ll take some to the jail?’

  ‘The Good Lord knows they need comfort too.’

  He opened up a canvas bag and began to fill it with Bibles. Isabel watched his deft hands at work. She said: ‘Will you tell me the truth?’

  He looked up. ‘I hope I always do that.’

  She opened the Bible again, flapped the front cover back and forth in her hands.

  ‘Is it true there’s a hunger strike in the jail? That we’re force-feeding them?’

  Edward pursed his lips. She waited, her fingers tense on the cover.

  ‘Isn’t that a question you should ask Jonathan?’

  ‘Is it true?’

  He sat back on his haunches, his hands full of Bibles. ‘Yes, it’s true.’ His voice was soft. ‘Where did you hear about it?’

  ‘And a man died because they forced milk into his lungs?’

  He lifted one of his hands and ran its back across his forehead. He looked weary. ‘The doctors force-feed them to save their lives but the men struggle.’

  Isabel got to her feet and crossed to the windows. Down below in the garden, the mali was pruning the trees. He was barefoot and stripped to the waist and his back ran with sweat.

  ‘You’ve had another letter from him, haven’t you?’

  She didn’t turn round. She stood quietly, breathing deeply. The sun glinted on the clippers as the mali swung them back and forth in his hands.

  ‘My father despises revolutionaries. So does Jonathan. They call them murderers.’

  ‘Some of them are.’ Edward’s voice was gentle.

  ‘What if they’re right?’ She turned to face him. His eyes, on her face, were sad. ‘Sometimes I think we have no right to be here. That Mr Gandhi and all these so-called subversives are only doing what we should do in their position.’

  Her father would blanch if he heard such a thing. So would Jonathan. They had such belief in the Empire. Her fingernails dug into the soft leather binding of the Bible in her hands. Edward regarded her thoughtfully.

  ‘Aren’t you shocked?’

  ‘The Lord gave us minds for a reason.’

  She strode back to the chair and sank into it. ‘He has written again. He says we’re torturing and killing people who only want freedom.’

  His eyes stayed on her face. ‘And what do you think?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I feel guilty. I feel I ought to do something to help them.’

  ‘To help them?’

  ‘Something to stop all the hatred.’

  He smoothed the cover of the books in his hand as if he were caressing them. ‘Perhaps if they read these, their hearts will heal.’

  She sat forward. ‘What if he dies and I did nothing? He saved my life once.’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Could I come with you when you go into the prison? Please, Edward. I want to see him, see what state he’s in. I’ll just hand him a Bible. You’ll do that in any case.’

  Edward sighed and turned back to packing Bibles into his bag. ‘The prison officers might not allow it.’

  ‘But you could ask.’

  He lifted another handful of books from the crate and made space for them. ‘On one condition. That Jonathan consents.’

  She reached down to him, took his hand and squeezed it. ‘Ask him for me. Please? Just say I want to help.’

  A shadow shifted at the half-open door. She turned her head quickly to look.

  ‘Is someone there?’

  The door eased open. Asha stood in the doorway, the sewing basket in her hands. She looked from Isabel to Edward.

  ‘Did you want something?’

  ‘Nothing, madam. Very sorry.’

  Later, Isabel sat alone in her bedroom, looking out at the darkness. In the corridor, Edward’s footsteps finally sounded, retiring to his own room. Once the house fell silent, she reached for her dressing gown.

  The piles of Bibles were heaped on the sitting-room floor. She opened one to the back cover. Thick, dark paper fixed the bound pages to the leather. She ran her nail along the seam. It would be easy to prise it up with a knife or a sharp pair of scissors.

  Her heart thu
mped. She stood in silence, listening to the creaks and sighs of the wicker furniture. She turned again to the back cover. If she inserted a letter there, there was every chance Sanjay Krishna would find it.

  She lit the lamp, drew out her writing case and began to write, before she had the chance to change her mind.

  Dear Mr Krishna,

  Thank you for your letters. As the wife of a senior officer here, you will understand that I am in no position to pass judgement on the nature of your conviction and imprisonment. But I am grateful for the chance to express my thanks to you for your kind intervention during the disturbances in Delhi, a kindness which I have not forgotten.

  I am deeply distressed to hear of the demise of your friend as a result of his refusal to eat. I can only urge you to accept food and drink yourself in order to preserve your own health.

  She paused, read over what she had written, tapped the end of her pen against her lips. Insects, attracted by the light, banged against the screened door. Voices drifted up from the servants’ quarters below. She turned again to her paper.

  I want you to know that, however great the divide between us and whatever the political differences, you are not alone in your suffering. I urge you to address your attention to the Holy Bible and I hope most sincerely that you will find comfort in its pages.

  When she finished her letter, she lifted the back cover of the Bible and inserted it inside, pressing her thumb firmly along the join. It was quite invisible unless the book were examined with care.

  She put away her writing case and closed the drawer, then picked up the Bible and leant forward to turn out the lamp.

  She jumped. A sound. Close, in the shadows. Down to the right, towards the balcony doors.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Her voice was loud in the silence. Her heart thumped.

  She reached out to the lamp and turned it up with shaking fingers. Something moved. The darkness behind the planter seemed to shrink into itself. She went across and pulled out the chair. A small figure sat hunched in the corner, his arms wrapped round his knees.

  ‘Bimal?’