‘You don’t look old enough,’ she’d said to Zakia.
Zakia shrugged. ‘I am old enough.’
Nadine wondered about the woman she now regarded as her mother. How old had Shanti been when she’d given birth, and how far away had she been from living a life like theirs?
The realization that her father had at least claimed his daughter did nothing to mend the bridge between them. But Zakia had awakened some sleeping spirit deep within Nadine. She’d even stopped smoking and drinking her father’s Scotch. Dancing had become everything, like a tribute to her mother.
One day, Zakia brought her a dancer’s outfit.
‘Put it on.’
Nadine started to put it on over her underwear.
‘Not with your drawers still on,’ said Zakia looking bemused that Nadine could even consider it. ‘Take this off.’ She tugged at the button that fastened Nadine’s drawers. ‘And this,’ she said, poking at one cup of her salmon-pink bra.
Once her British cotton underwear was removed and replaced with ankle-length silk pantaloons, Nadine slipped the bodice over her head and the silk skirt up over her hips. Her body shivered deliciously in response to the feel of cool silk against her skin. Her eyes shone as Zakia tied ribbons of tinkling bells around each ankle.
‘And you need to paint your feet and your hands. Even your toenails.’
‘I will.’
‘Now your ears and your nose.’
‘My ears are already pierced – well, they were – years ago, of course.’
Of course. Shanti had taken her to have them done. Her father hadn’t approved, but she’d kept them open with small gold hoops at night in bed, her last tribute to her beloved nurse.
‘But not my nose,’ she added, a knot of apprehension tightening her stomach.
Zakia drew in her chin. ‘It is customary.’
Nadine groaned.
Smiling, Zakia produced what looked like a large hatpin.
‘Good grief!’
Zakia grinned. ‘Do not worry. The point is very fine.’
Although she gritted her teeth, she almost screamed as Zakia pierced her right nostril and fixed a pendant from her left.
A trickle of blood flowed into her mouth. She used her knickers to wipe it off her lips.
The hem of the purple skirt Zakia had brought her was encrusted with gold filigree thread and turquoise sequins. Bracelets, necklaces and bangles were added. Her hair was gathered and plaited with gold thread.
Hands perched on hips, Zakia stepped back to survey her work. ‘You look splendid.’
Nadine drew in her breath. ‘My ears hurt a little. My nose hurts a lot.’
Zakia threw up her hands in the manner of a woman five times her years. ‘Do you wish to be a dancer or a street sweeper?’
‘A dancer! Certainly not a road sweeper.’ Nadine expressed a desire to see herself in a mirror.
Zakia shrugged. ‘Trust me. You look like a gaudy peacock.’
Nadine protested. ‘But I want to see for myself whether I look like a gaudy peacock or a moth-eaten old hen!’
The afternoon heat had emptied the garden of all sensible life forms, including the servants. Seeing that the coast was clear, the two girls crept around to the back of the house, opened the shutters and climbed into her bedroom.
A full-length mirror stood in one corner. Even before she’d fully straightened from climbing through the window, Nadine caught sight of herself and sucked in her breath.
Zakia peered out from behind her.
‘See,’ she hissed. ‘You look like a much loved and respected dancer, not servant to a memsahib.’
Her eyes grew round. She was no longer Nadine Burton, the girl who had seemed destined to do nothing more spectacular than becoming the wife of a merchant, an army officer or government official. From glossy hair to painted toes, she was now a dancing girl.
‘I want to dance,’ she said simply.
‘Keep your mouth open,’ ordered Zakia. Using just the tip of her finger, she spread cochineal along Nadine’s open lips.
‘I want people to see me dance,’ Nadine said once the task was complete. ‘I want everyone to see what I look like.’
Her eyes shone with excitement.
‘Men,’ exclaimed Zakia. ‘You want men to see you dance. You want to inflame them. You want them to dream of houris when they lie beside their wife. And when they open her fat thighs and she lies there like a basking elephant, they will think of you and pretend they are coupling with a goddess.’
Nadine laughed. Surely she was teasing. ‘Is that what I will do?’
Zakia was adamant. ‘Of course you will. Imagine a handsome man running his fingers over your body.’ Nadine tingled as Zakia did exactly that, leaving goose pimples in the wake of her fingertips. ‘I will prove this to you. You will dance with us tonight.’
Nadine could barely drag her gaze from her exotic reflection.
The scenes Zakia had described flicked through her mind. ‘Tonight? You are dancing tonight?’
Zakia’s jet-black eyes shone gleefully. ‘If you can get out just after sunset, you must meet us at the house of Haramuk the silk merchant. He has business guests. There were only two of us entertaining him and his guests, but now there will be three. The musicians are arranged.’
Nadine felt a fluttering in her chest. ‘Dare I?’
‘You will dare. I can see it in your eyes.’
‘I will dare,’ Nadine whispered. ‘Yes. I will dare.’
* * *
The first time she danced in public with her new friends was the most difficult. Two or three times more gave her increasing confidence.
The steps first taught her by Shanti, her ayah, the nurse who was really her mother, became more skilful, more touched by the erotic awakening of a blossoming girl. Her body was lithe and there was no movement, no exaggerated stance that her slim limbs and supple torso could not master. She was the enchantress: the diametric positioning of her body, the jingling of bells, combining to bewitch the soul of those who watched.
Reluctantly, even Sureya who considered herself superior to both Nadine and her younger sister grudgingly admitted she was a natural dancer.
Crawling out through the hole beneath the wall, she met the sisters in the usual place: an alley not far from the great mosque of Aurangzeb cloaked in the shadow of its leaning minaret.
‘You were fated to be a dancer,’ said a breathless Zakia, flicking water over her face from a battered enamel bowl. ‘Better than being a servant to the memsahibs.’
‘I feel I am living.’ Nadine cupped her hands, dipped them into the bowl and hid her face in the scooped water. Dark-haired and with her skin the colour of creamed coffee, she could easily pass herself off as Indian.
‘Your mother taught you well.’ Praise indeed from Sureya who regarded herself as the best of the crop.
No one questioned her absences. The world had become an exciting place.
The fates that Zakia most assuredly believed in were bound to intervene. The inevitable would happen – and it did.
It was a night of a thousand stars – or at least, that was the way it seemed as she clambered into the gharry beside the two sisters. Sequins spangled like stars all over their costumes as though they had reached up and dragged down portions of sky.
Tonight was a most special night; they were to perform in the presence of the local gaekor, an official prince not dissimilar in rank from a British baron.
The wheels made a rushing sound over the dusty road, the horse’s hooves muffled by the same dust. A full moon turned a black sky to one shade lighter than indigo.
‘The gaekor’s residence,’ whispered Zakia.
Nadine eyed the castellated battlements towering from rose-red walls, like teeth biting chunks from the spangled sky.
Gharries, rickshaws and many motorcars pulled into the arched gateway, dispensed guests and withdrew, the dust from the wheels clouding the evening air. Light from a hundred windows threw ar
ches, squares and oblongs of amber over chauffeured cars and spindle-legged coolies pulling decorated rickshaws.
A group of men with slicked-back hair and pink complexions, bow ties tight around flaccid throats, alighted from a chauffeur-driven car. They were speaking loudly and sounded drunk.
‘Sahibs,’ said Sureya, a wary look stiffening her sensuous features.
It was not the first time Zakia’s sister had betrayed a wariness of their British rulers.
‘Nautch girls used to sell their bodies in the precincts of sacred temples and shrines. The fees charged went to temple funds. And then the British stopped it. But never mind. We still dance. We still entertain. Now, let me do your eyes. You have rubbed one and it looks like a bruise.’
Nadine found herself sympathizing with her dancing sister. She’d heard people – white people – say that the natives were sensual and given over to indulging in much debauchment. She’d danced at enough events to know that the British and other Europeans were the most avid audience.
Sitting on a stone close to the back door of the wealthy man’s kitchen, she stared up at the sky whilst Zakia outlined her eyes.
Thinking of British passions brought Vincent and the outdoor privy to mind. She smiled.
‘Why do you smile?’ asked Zakia.
‘I was thinking of Sureya and her hand.’
‘We have to live. We have to survive.’
A question came to Nadine’s mind. Would I sell my body in order to survive?
The seeds that would lead her to a different part of the world and the answer to that question were sown that night.
The sahibs were drunk. Sweaty, laughing men tried to grab her ankles as she made her way to the dance floor. The musicians were already in place. The smell was of all things Indian: food, spices and tangy perfumes mixed with the pomades, tobacco and heavy linens of Western men. No wives were present. This was a night for men only.
The daytime Nadine was supplanted by a lithesome figure who lost herself in the sound of the bells tinkling around her ankles, the plaintive twang of the sitar and the exhilaration of pleasing an awestruck audience.
She was the temple dancer declaring love for Vishnu, Siva and the whole pantheon of Hindu gods; she was the wife of the tree and moved like one, her arms moving as branches in the wind, her face cupped on the backs of her hands, presenting her emotion and her love.
The faces of those watching dotted the palatial room of arched windows, hanging silks and whirring fans. They were without feature, except for the eyes, more details becoming obvious when she halted, contorted her body, passed her hands over her face and became the lovesick princess peering through the shutters at her unfaithful lover.
This part of the dance called for a pause when, except for her eyes, she stood as though she’d been chipped from marble and not real at all. In that small segment of time she studied the faces of those in the audience, the fantasies of their minds shining in their eyes.
She saw the glossy faces of minor princes, the open-mouthed admiration of the British sahibs. And then she saw the white hair, the flaccid features. Her father was in the audience.
Her heart thudded. Her blood raced.
The dance called for her to hang her head, her eyes looking up from behind a curtain of semi-precious stones hanging on her forehead.
She would not flee. Let him see if he must. See what I can do. See for sure who my mother was! What I surely am.
Whirling more vigorously into the dance, and preoccupied with what might happen, she failed to see what was about to happen.
The man who reached for her wore a white suit and had a sweaty red face. The smell of whisky drifted into her nostrils.
‘Show us your pretty titties, my dusty little beauty.’
Before she could whirl away, his fingers had hooked over the neckline of her bodice, ripping it in half.
‘There,’ he shouted, his demand accomplished. ‘Just look at these pretty little dumplings!’
An avalanche of sound tumbled around her: claps, yells and shouts that he should remove her skirt.
His words were slurred but loud. She tried to tear herself free. Zakia and Sureya tried to help and called for assistance.
Sureya was shouting. ‘Get him off her.’
A turbanned retainer with strong arms and a square jawline reached out. Just as his hands were about to grip the man’s shoulders, he hesitated.
Sureya screamed at him. ‘Well, go on!’
He shook his head, fear in his eyes. ‘I cannot. He is a very important man. I do not want any trouble.’
It wasn’t the first time Nadine had danced before sahibs, but never as many as this. Even so, she could have coped with that. She could even have coped with the fact that he’d exposed her breasts. What she could not face was the look in her father’s eyes. She heard his voice shouting at the man who held her.
‘Martin! Let her go!’
At his word the nervous servant, and others like him, dragged the white-suited man off her.
Swiftly tying the ragged ends of her bodice between her breasts, she paused long enough to meet her father’s gaze.
Zakia’s sister Sureya shook her out of her terrified daze. ‘Come. We will ask for our money and leave early.’
They ran, Nadine and Zakia waiting in an anteroom until Sureya came back, the coins jangling in the silk purse she wore at her waist.
Their anklets jangled as they rushed headlong towards the exit.
‘Not that way! Not for such as you,’ a servant shouted.
He was old and tall with rounded shoulders, a slight hump immediately below the nape of his neck making him look like a tortoise leaning out of his shell.
‘Out the back way,’ he shouted, waving his arms. ‘Out, out, out!’
He ushered them to a narrow passage sloping downwards between lumpy walls, down stone steps past the kitchens and storerooms. The smell of sweat and smoke from roasting mutton permeated the unventilated corridor.
Nadine felt a tickle at the back of her throat and began to cough in response to the smoke. By the time they’d gained the warm air of a moon-drenched night, they were all gasping for breath.
Zakia shoved something beneath Nadine’s nose that revived her instantly.
She clasped her throat with both hands, her eyes watering.
‘What is that?’
Zakia grinned. ‘Smelling salts.’ She jerked her chin at her sister. ‘Mr Vincent gave them as a present along with a few rupees for my sister’s favours.’
The sound of men laughing drifted on the air ahead of them.
‘They sound drunk,’ said Sureya as the three girls made their way across the dark yard to the back gate that would lead them into the maze of alleys bounded by houses – and even palaces – hidden behind rich facades.
‘Everyone is drunk,’ said Nadine.
The smell of freshly butchered meat and the buzz of flies led to the rear gate. They were passing close to where animals were killed by those of lower caste – an area and people separated from the house.
The moon threw their shadows like black trees towards the gate. Sentries in red turbans stood to attention either side. Normally at this late hour they would be lounging, leaning against the wall in a fitful doze. Their alertness meant their British officers were present.
There was an art to keeping their heads down at the same time as keeping a lookout, and Nadine was as flexible as her friends. She saw much whilst seeming to notice little.
Behind the sentries a square of light fell out from the guardhouse.
The door to the squat block building opened at the same time as the gate. A figure appeared, silhouetted against the inner glow. Although they could not see his features, judging by the way he paused he could certainly see them.
A Scottish accent bawled out into the night. ‘Hey, fellas! Come and see what I’ve found.’
‘Quickly,’ murmured Sureya to her sister and Nadine.
Nadine drew her veil over her head,
hiding her face, and quickened her footsteps, Zakia close behind her and Sureya in the rear.
Too late, thought Nadine, her heart beating a thundering tattoo.
A number of broad-shouldered, barrel-chested men stepped out into the compound, their shadows straggly across the ground.
‘Come on, girls. Dance for us.’
‘Do a shimmy,’ shouted another voice.
Nadine responded in heavily accented English. ‘We do not understand.’
The girls hurried through the gate, sticking together like glue, elbow to elbow.
The gate closed behind them with a satisfying clunk, but their relief was short-lived. The heavy thud of boots and the raw vulgarity of drunken men echoed between the high walls bordering the alley.
Although impeded by the weight of their skirts, they broke into a jog.
The boots tramping the night road also broke into a jog. The men were laughing, revelling in the chase.
‘Come on, girls. Dance for us.’
Nadine glanced over her shoulder. She counted four, though one was trailing behind, intermittently resting his hands on his sagging knees.
One of their pursuers also saw him. He shouted to his colleagues. ‘Gordon’s had enough. It’s three all, now, lads. One for each of us.’
The girls quickened their pace, their chests tight with exertion. As they ran they looked for some way out of the maze of alleys.
‘This way,’ gasped Nadine.
They ran to where a handsome dome of white marble shone like silver in the moonlight above the rooftops.
Nadine recognized it as being part of a Hindu shrine some way behind the Rajah Potia temple. Beyond that was the sacred River Ganges and far meaner alleys than the one they were running through. Once they’d reached these they would be safe – if they hurried.
Their pursuers thundered after them until they ran into a blind alley where rats scampered through the pungent foliage and snakes slithered into gaps in the wall.
Nadine was jerked from her feet as strong arms wrapped around her. She screamed and scratched at the man’s bare arms.
He laughed. ‘Oh, I do like a fighter!’
His laughing lips turned into a straight line as he threw her against the wall. ‘Let’s get to your thatch, my little wog girl,’ he said through gritted teeth. His breath stank.
East of India Page 4
