Lakshman shook his head.
It really was a small place. “What about a school?”
He shook his head again and spit red betel juice on the ground.
Feeling uneasy, she asked, “Which village does have a school?”
“No need for schools in Satapur. Everyone is farming.”
So the previous maharajas hadn’t thought it worthwhile to better the minds of their subjects. Feeling cynical, she asked, “Are there other jobs for people besides in the fields?”
His thin shoulders rose in a weary shrug. “Men like me who care for horses and donkeys and take travelers places. And there are a few shops. You will see in our bazaar.”
Perveen wondered what comfort natural splendor could provide to people who had so little. She felt some irritation that Colin had not mentioned the condition of these villagers.
As a teenager studying both history and current affairs, she had fantasized what India would be like if it were entirely a tapestry of small kingdoms, each ruled by an Indian. Young Perveen had thought of a diverse, independent subcontinent as a glorious prospect. But now she was disturbed to see how little care this ruling family had taken with its subjects.
“Here is the bazaar,” announced Lakshman.
Perveen peered ahead at the muddy lane punctuated by a few weathered wooden stalls. Sitting on the edges of them were men wearing rough homespun and wary expressions. There were no cries about how delicious their wares were, or how well made. It was not at all tempting, as Bombay’s markets were. But she was determined not to turn away.
Lakshman’s mouth had settled into a smug line. It seemed as if he was reminding her that he’d told her she shouldn’t have come and pointing out that here was her reward.
She forced a cheerful note into her voice. “Lakshman, will you please take the horse? I’d like to get down and walk through the market.”
Lakshman nodded and steered Rani to one of the shops, where there was a step for Perveen to disembark. She thanked him and began her walk, feeling the eyes of everyone on her. It was only a split second before the charge began.
“Memsahib, memsahib, come and buy!”
The vendors looked so thin and anxious that she wished to buy something. But all she saw were the nuts and grains that were grown locally, as well as sugar and salt priced the same as in Bombay. She continued and found a sweet stand. It sold just one item: the cashew brittle known as chikki. She bought three one-pound boxes. They went into a jute bag she bought at another shop for more than she would have paid at Bombay’s Crawford Market. She could have bargained harder, but she felt sorry for the men.
“I am not a cook, so I’m sorry; I have no use for grain,” she said with a smile to the elderly man who’d sold her the bag.
“You are going to the palace?” he asked with a wheeze.
She was startled, having assumed the matter was confidential government business. “Where did you hear that?”
“Everybody knows that a lady traveler is leaving from the circuit house.”
“Yes, but the palanquin is in Lonavala.”
“It is broken.”
It seemed strange that the news had traveled from Lonavala without benefit of telephone or telegram. “How did you know about the delay?”
He pointed back to where Lakshman was waiting with the horse. “He is the one who walked back from Lonavala alone.”
“Does anyone else have a palanquin?”
The man shook his head. She asked a few other people, and then, convinced that she’d exhausted her possibilities, she returned to find Lakshman sitting in the shade of a tree. His eyes were closed, as if he was napping. She thought about the roughness of the long journey he’d made on foot and felt guilty for having suspected dishonesty about the palanquin situation.
As he jerked awake to look at her, she said, “Thank you for bringing me here. I’ve seen everything. I shall ride back to the circuit house by myself. I know the way.”
“The horse does not like you.”
He had a point. She might be unable to get the damn horse to go the way she wanted. But she also knew that she needed to learn how to move horses by herself if she was going to be independent during her time in Satapur. “If she stops and won’t go my way, I’ll get down and lead her with the reins. My boots are good for riding and walking.”
Lakshman gave her a grudging nod. “Yes, but . . .”
He was probably thinking that if he didn’t take her back, he would get only half the money.
“What is your fee?” she asked.
He told her an anna, and she doubled it.
Before clambering back on, Perveen looked Rani square in the eyes and informed her that they were going back to the circuit house. It was unrealistic to think the horse understood Marathi, but she did belong to the circuit house, and seemed more amiable about the idea of returning home. Being up on the horse by herself was frightening at first, but then it was exhilarating. She was riding without a guide—and perhaps because Perveen was the only human around, Rani responded. After five minutes, Perveen felt relaxed enough to glance away from the horse and examine the surroundings. As they traveled back into the woods, she took a longer look at a bungalow she’d noticed on their ride into the village. A brass plate on its wrought iron gate said heaven’s rest. Through its iron gate, she surveyed the large, new-looking stucco bungalow, built in the fashionable neo-Georgian style.
Beyond the house’s stone wall was a large garden with elegantly clipped trees and bushes, a dramatic contrast to the lush overgrowth at the circuit house. She wondered who lived in the bungalow. It appeared double the size of Colin’s government residence and surely was too grand for the local doctor.
Perveen nudged Rani to move on. They continued at the same pace until a sound from behind alerted Perveen that someone was coming up fast on the narrow path. She kicked lightly but frantically at the horse’s side to get her to sidle to the edge of the road. They made it just as a tall black horse cantered by. She would have expected the rider to tip a hat to acknowledge her courtesy, but he did not.
All she could do was glower. The rider was an Indian man wearing jodhpurs and a pith helmet. He was too fancy to be a villager; perhaps he was the landowner, although he had not emerged from Heaven’s Rest.
Arriving at the circuit house ten minutes later, she saw Rama leading the same black horse into the stable. When he finished, he came to her side and held Rani while she slid down.
“Who has arrived?” She decided not to tell Rama how annoyed she’d been.
“The government engineer. He’s staying the night.”
“I see.” Perhaps this was the man with whom Colin had an important appointment that had kept him from going into the village with her.
“Sandringham-sahib has eaten. I will bring your lunch.”
After washing off the dust from the ride, she went to the veranda table for a very modest repast: a bowl of dal and small plates holding some greens, a paratha, and a cup of tea. Still, it was tasty. She thanked Rama and retired to her room to read through more of the palace correspondence, which was mostly between the last political agent and the late Maharaja Mahendra Rao. The letters made it seem that Mahendra Rao had made inquiries into the cost of a prospective school in the village she’d just toured, and he had suggested building a processing plant for grain, rather than having it sent away. She was glad to gather these bits and pieces so she could bring up the ideas when she spoke to the maharanis.
At four-thirty, she heard voices. She remembered Colin’s mention of local people possibly coming to dinner. It was far too early, she thought with irritation. She wouldn’t have a chance to question him privately about why the late maharaja’s plans weren’t being carried out.
Perveen had been relaxing in her chemise and petticoat while reading, but now she donned a fresh white Chantilly lace blouse a
nd a violet-colored Pathani sari with a pattern of green parrots woven into the border. Swiftly, she styled her hair into a pompadour. She took care not to touch her pearl necklace when she rubbed herself with the pungent neem oil to keep the mosquitoes away.
Walking out to the veranda, she saw that the teak table where she’d breakfasted and lunched was set for tea. Colin had a hand on the table’s edge, as he faced the Indian man she’d seen riding past her earlier in the day. She recognized his solid frame even though he’d changed from his riding clothes into a beige linen lounge suit similar to the one Colin was wearing.
The click of heels announced more guests. Perveen turned toward the sound and saw an Indian couple, both of whom were smiling excitedly. The male was a dapper fellow in his sixties, with thin hair that had been slicked with black pomade in the manner of a much younger man; he wore a suit of a lissome wool that could have come only from Europe. The lady with him appeared to be in her late thirties and was dressed in a chiffon sari of the palest blush color. There was no border at all, making it likely the fabric was from France. She’d left her hair uncovered, revealing that it was cut into a shingle style that ended just below her jaw. As she drew close, Perveen saw robust diamonds hanging from her ears, and that her eyes were lined and lips rouged to a cherry red.
Colin went forward to shake the gentleman’s hand. Then he turned to Perveen. “You must meet Yazad and Vandana Mehta. They own a large farm nearby. Perveen is a solicitor from Bombay who is traveling onward tomorrow.”
“I rode by your place today. It’s beautiful,” Perveen said, studying them. While the man had the fair skin and prominent nose that were common to Iranis, the Zoroastrians whose families had emigrated from Persia in the last seventy years, the woman looked different. She had wheat-colored skin, exquisite Dravidian cheekbones, and almond-shaped eyes.
“How exciting to meet an accomplished woman!” Mrs. Mehta said in an accent with hints of England, India, and somewhere else. Was it France?
“I am only at the beginning of my career, Mrs. Mehta,” Perveen said, feeling awkward about the woman’s gushing.
“You must call me Vandana. There are so few of us in the area, Colin and Yazad are like a family, using first names.”
Yazad was a Parsi name as surely as Vandana was a Hindu one. For Perveen, the fact that they were a mixed-faith couple was as stunning as that they used first names, just like Colin.
“We usually see few ladies here,” Yazad Mehta said, putting out a hand to her. “And then just English ladies with narrow noses. A lady with a good Parsi nose is a pleasant surprise.”
Uneasily, she chuckled and tried to refocus her thoughts. She decided to speak in Gujarati and throw in a Parsi expression for good measure. “My parents would be mortified if I addressed my elders without titles. May I call you Yazad-uncle and Vandana-aunty?”
“Naturally,” Yazad Mehta said, but he spoke in English, and then repeated what she’d said, as if his wife didn’t know Gujarati. “Consider us as your family in the hills.”
“Although ‘aunty’ feels a little old for me,” Vandana said, flashing her beautiful eyes mischievously. “I like to tell people I have just celebrated my twenty-ninth birthday.”
“We all have celebrated Vandana’s twenty-ninth twice already!” Colin said with a grin. “Perveen, I’d also like to introduce Roderick Ames of the ICS engineering division. Roddy’s based in Poona but comes through a few times a year on assignment.”
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Mr. Ames said in a rolling Welsh accent. Perveen thought this was like a masquerade party. She had met a woman with a short Western hairstyle and an Indian background; a Parsi man who was married to a Hindu; and now a man with an English name who had Indian bone structure and coloring. And bringing them together was a casual young Englishman who called everyone by their first names.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Ames,” Perveen said, deciding against employing his first name since he’d given her the cue of ma’am. “What kind of engineering do you practice?”
“Electrical is my specialty, though I have training in civil engineering as well,” he said with obvious pride. “I’m en route to Lonavala. The dam there has some issues.”
Perveen remembered that there was only one palanquin in the area. Would Roderick Ames also wish to use it? She imagined his government business in a British Indian town might trump her excursion to visit Indian royals. “How will you travel there?”
“I came by horse, and that’s how I’ll continue.” He shot her a sideways glance. “You weren’t also riding a little while ago, were you?”
“I certainly was,” Perveen answered coolly, deciding not to publicly announce that he had almost knocked her off the path. It wouldn’t help her image to appear to be a helpless female.
“Roddy knows the way quite well having gone many times. He is fearless,” Colin said. “Sit down, everyone. Rama is preparing drinks.”
As people settled around the table, Roderick Ames took a planter’s chair, just on the edge of things. From her beaded purse, Vandana pulled an ebony cigarette holder and a golden box decorated with a pattern of diamonds surrounding an amethyst flower. “Who else would like a Sobranie?” she asked.
“I will join you,” Yazad said, taking a sleek silver lighter out of his breast pocket. Roderick Ames looked for a long moment at the open cigarette case Vandana proffered, but he shook his head.
“Perveen?” Vandana’s thinly plucked eyebrows rose. “You are a sophisticated lady, yes?”
“The taste doesn’t suit me.” Perveen tried to sound nonjudgmental.
“The Parsis believe fire is a sacred element that should not be polluted. That’s why they don’t smoke.” Yazad gave Perveen a patronizing look as he reached into the box for his own cigarette. She resented it; she felt he was declaring to one and all she was old-fashioned and bound by her community’s rules.
“No thank you,” Colin said.
Perveen looked at him with surprise. Meeting her gaze, he said, “I smoked Player’s when I was a collector. But Rama pointed out that it weakened my ability to do the deep breathing that is part of yoga. So I very rarely smoke anymore.”
“Dr. Andrews smokes a pipe. Any doctor would tell you smoking is healthy,” Vandana said, puffing a smoke ring heavenward. “I spent my childhood watching males enjoying the pleasure of cheroots, pipes, and cigarettes. Chewing mitha paan was supposed to be enough for ladies, but it turned my teeth the most awful red. So I took up cigarettes in Paris and never regretted it.”
Perveen wanted to move the conversation elsewhere. Glancing toward Roderick Ames, she said, “Fire seems to be the main source of light in Satapur. Is there a chance of bringing electricity to the state?”
She had expected the engineer to answer, but Vandana broke in.
“Don’t I wish it!” the lady said, raising her hands upward as if beseeching a deity. “You must think us awfully backward with no electricity or running water.”
“Of course not—this is how much of British India is, too,” Perveen said, giving a sidelong look at Colin. “Just as decisions in British India are made by the government, I imagine it’s up to the maharaja’s family to decide for Satapur, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Colin, who had not yet seated himself, rocked slightly to one side, as if his prosthetic foot was uncomfortable. “They own the land and all bodies of water—so even if the Mehtas wished to put in a plant with their own money, they couldn’t.”
“I’ve got a question about that,” Vandana said with a pretty pout. Patting the empty seat on the other side of her, she said, “Do join me. I have a geography question for Colin, because that is his training. A waterfall is the result of many streams flowing from other areas, isn’t it?”
“You don’t need a geographer to tell you! Every child knows that,” Roderick answered condescendingly.
So now he was
talking. Perveen shot him a chilly look for the disrespect he’d shown Vandana, and he looked back, nonchalant.
“The streams come from bodies of water that are north of Satapur,” Vandana mused. “Wouldn’t this mean that water isn’t the property of the royal family? And that we could use it as we like?”
Roderick drew his lips together in a thin line. “I don’t know. That hasn’t been broached before.”
“What is your legal opinion, Perveen?” Colin looked intently at Perveen. It was flattering—but also unsettling because lawyers were cautioned not to make statements that could be considered pronouncements in the eyes of the public. Yet here was a chance to show Ames that she and Vandana weren’t just window dressing.
“It’s not straightforward,” Perveen said. “One could certainly go to court to make a point about the water’s origin, but an easy counterargument from the royals is that nothing can be built on royal land without permission. So even if one could use the water, it would be hard to manage a plant without building on land.”
“That is a question for a male lawyer,” Roderick Ames said pointedly. “I don’t believe women can be barristers, can they?”
“I currently work as a solicitor in Bombay Presidency,” Perveen acknowledged. “But royal courts have no bar against woman lawyers arguing cases in their courts. The empire’s first woman solicitor, Cornelia Sorabji, Esquire, has argued cases in several princely states.”
“Marvelous!” Vandana said, tapping ash from the glowing end of her cigarette into a glass ashtray. “Since we are in a royal state, we could hire you to be our advocate.”
Perveen hesitated. The prospect of such work was tempting, but it would be a conflict of interest. “For now, I’m just working on behalf of the Kolhapur Agency. But I can refer you to someone later.”
“Vandana, why don’t you just ask the prime minister for permission?” Colin said. “You’ve got the blood connections.”
The Satapur Moonstone Page 6
