by Olivia Drake
She handed Patel the shopping list, and he led her through the crowded byways. Acrid blue smoke swirled around the Indian women who squatted before their cooking fires. Curiosity stirred in Sarah. What must it feel like to be a Hindu wife, watching her husband and sons eating their fill of rice and curry while she and her daughters humbly awaited the leavings? And what of the urchins, naked save for a strip of filthy cotton over their loins, their limbs often deliberately deformed for begging? And the leper who extended a hand crowned by stumps for fingers?
Along a narrow lane choked with sewage, a bleary-eyed woman with a baby suckling at her breast leaned against a doorpost. Red ribbons tied back her hair in English fashion. Around her garish gold sari peeped a lad of perhaps four years old. As Sarah passed, the woman thrust the boy toward her.
“Memsahib,” he said, small hand outstretched, “please, money.”
Sarah’s heart melted. Dressed in rags, he wore the torn cap of an infantry private on his tousled black hair. A European look graced his features, a fairness of skin that contrasted with his big dark eyes. The boy was a half-caste, his mother one of the whores who haunted the bazaar. Sarah had heard whispers of such females...women frequented by the soldiers, women whom English ladies weren’t supposed to know even existed.
Repressing the urge to stare at the whore, she slipped a half anna into the boy’s hand. He salaamed in gratitude, then scuttled back to his mother.
Patel clucked his tongue. “You cannot feed every beggar in India, missy-sahib. Especially one born of that kind.”
“Perhaps not.” Impotence tugged at her. “Yet the money might keep at least one boy from starving today.
He shrugged. “The destiny of every man is in the hands of the gods. To starve is to ascend to a higher life so much the sooner.”
The abdur started toward a butcher’s stall. Sarah stood in a swirl of Indians, strange yet familiar people with friendly yet unfathomable faces. Despite her study of the Hindu culture, she often felt baffled by its fatalistic views.
A burst of raucous cries from around the corner drew her attention. While Patel bargained for a haunch of mutton, she wended her way toward the din and came upon a gathering near a spice vendor’s shop.
In front of strings of dried garlic and red chili peppers stood a fakir. His bony body was clothed in a soiled saffron robe, his wild black eyes framed by long, tangled locks.
“It is thy destiny to drive the feringhi devils from the Raj,” the holy man shouted in Hindi, using the derogatory term for the English. “They pollute thee with their vile ways! They mix the dust of cow bones in thy flour. They steal the land and wealth of thy princes and thy kings, men like Dhondu Pant and Bahadur Shah. They defile the caste of thy soldiers with their befouled bullets.”
His arms flashed downward to a kneeling woman clad in an indigo sari. Her head was bent, her features veiled. Jerking her up like a puppet, so that her figure was profiled, the fakir said, “And see how the feringhis lure thy women into disgrace.”
Sarah sucked in a breath. The woman was heavily pregnant, her rounded belly conspicuous beneath the fine silk.
Like a dust storm across the Rajasthan plains, angry mutters swept the crowd. A few badmashes, hard-eyed ruffians in tattered clothing, heckled the woman and laughed. A sepoy standing near Sarah turned to stare with a malice that shocked her.
The fakir yanked off the woman’s chuddur, revealing lustrous black hair and an exquisite ivory-brown face. Her eyes as wide and frightened as a cornered doe’s, she glanced at the throng. A ray of early sunlight gleamed on the tiny gold ring in her nose and glinted off the bangles adorning her arms.
“Look,” he said, sneering. “Look upon one who defiled herself with a foreign devil. Look upon the fruit of her shameful deed.”
He ran a hand over her fertile form. She shrank from his touch, but his arm clamped tight, forcing her to endure his crude caress. Desperation haunted her fine-boned face.
“Cut out the feringhi’s bastard,” a sepoy called.
Hoots and gibes echoed him. A badmash yanked a tulwar from his sash, the curved sword shining. “And when we’re through, let us serve her up to Lord Canning himself.”
Fear for the woman seared Sarah. Unthinking, she took a step forward, but someone caught her sleeve.
Patel stood beside her. “No, missy-sahib,” the servant hissed. “Stay back. He is sadhu. Very holy man.”
That Patel would break the strictures of caste by touching her emphasized his urgency. Yet Sarah couldn’t ignore the woman’s plight. “Holy or not, he hasn’t the right to abuse her.”
“Stone the whore,” someone yelled.
Rough voices took up the cry. People stooped to find rocks. Tears wetting her face, the woman cowered before the fakir.
“Quick, missy-sahib,” said Patel, tugging again on her sleeve. Deep lines of worry etched his brow. “We must leave bazaar.”
Glancing around, she saw few friendly faces. The assemblage was swiftly growing into a mob. Dear God, if anyone in the English community learned of her involvement in a native riot, she’d be shunned. She’d be the target of malicious gossip. Reginald might forsake her, and she’d lose the chance to be mistress of her own household. She might even become prey to the mob herself.
Yet she could not abandon the defenseless woman.
“Go if you must,” she told Patel, “but I cannot.”
Turning, she skirted the swarm of people. Resentful murmurs and pointed stares stung her, but no one blocked her passage. People stepped back, opening a path. Alarm twisting her stomach, Sarah held her head high and walked toward the fakir. The stink of unwashed bodies and unguarded hostility drenched her with the force of a monsoon.
As she drew close to the holy man and his quarry, a hush fell over the congregation. His ash-smeared skin showed the outline of his bones. His hair hung in greasy black clumps, and he reeked of sour sweat. With self-righteous satisfaction, he regarded his victim. The Hindu woman knelt submissively, her lovely eyes dazed with terror, her smooth cheeks streaked by tears.
“Excuse me, sir,” Sarah said in Hindi.
The fakir raised his head and swung toward her. A fanatic flame burned in his hell-black eyes. “Feringhi she-devil! Dare thou interfere?”
Each heartbeat thrummed like a hammer blow against her corset. She touched her trembling hand to her forehead in a respectful salaam. “The woman has committed no crime. Will you not release her?”
His nose as sharp as a vulture’s beak, he hardened his expression. “Thou wouldst deign to speak our tongue. Yet thou meddle in the rites of our religion.”
Rumblings rose from the crowd. Several badmashes elbowed closer, hands gripping their tulwars. Gazing at the sea of suspicious faces, Sarah felt perspiration trickle between her breasts. The Indians she’d come to honor and trust now regarded her as a symbol of oppression.
Quickly she said, “I mean no disrespect, O holy man. This isn’t a religious matter. I wish only to avoid an injustice. This woman has been granted no trial, no chance to speak in her own defense.”
“Because she is guilty!” shouted the fakir. “Her crime is here for all to see. Thou needs no more proof than this.”
He grasped a handful of silk covering the distended belly. The woman gave a gasp that was almost lost in the taunting yells of the mob, yet the tiny sound tore into Sarah’s heart.
She stepped closer and lay a hand on one drooping shoulder. Shivers convulsed the woman. “You say she was lured into disgrace,” Sarah said. “If she is weak, why hold her to blame? Why not seek instead the man responsible for her condition?”
The fakir bared his yellow teeth. “We must punish the whore. She forsook her caste to lie with a feringhi. Now she carries the English heathen’s child.”
“And if you kill her, you’ll only bring English vengeance down on your heads.” Sarah turned to the gathering. “On each and every one of you. Is that what you wish?”
The catcalls died to a restless muttering.
Some people began to shake their heads; others whispered to one another. A baby bawled; its mother shushed it. Even the badmashes fell silent.
Taking advantage of the lull, Sarah seized the woman’s hand and helped her stand. Slowly she began to back away, pulling the woman with her. The scents of garlic and chili peppers mingled with the delicate jasmine fragrance emanating from the Hindu woman, who stumbled as if confused. The slender fingers quivered inside Sarah’s. Aware of the fakir’s threatening presence, Sarah held tight, but trained her eyes on the crowd. Her only chance was to keep the tide turned in her favor. Surely there were enough peace-loving people here to overrule the violent.
“Bloodshed can solve nothing,” she said, her voice steady despite the fear squeezing her throat. “We must work at finding ways to compromise. We can continue to live together in friendship, as we’ve done for over a hundred years. Harming this poor woman can bring nothing but misfortune to all of you.”
While she spoke, she guided the woman toward the edge of the spice seller’s stall. Here and there, people began to lay down their rocks. A few drifted away, back to their marketing or to their huts.
Fury contorted the fakir’s expression. “The memsahib lies! Thee must not listen.” He howled at the horde and waved his arms. “We outnumber the feringhis. We must drive the invaders from our land before they rob us of our religion. Before they pollute us further with their sinful ways.”
A sepoy snatched off his white military cap and slammed it to the ground. “We must heed the holy man! The feringhis force us to taste the cow fat on their bullets.”
“And jail any pious man who refuses,” shouted another.
The outcries again built to a clamor. Swiftly Sarah steered the dazed woman down the length of the crumbling mud building. Beyond lay a fruit seller’s shop, then the twisting byways of the bazaar. They might find help there.
The fakir pointed an accusing finger. “Stop them! We must satisfy Kali and mete out her justice.”
Kali...the vengeful goddess who held a severed human head. Kali...who drank the human blood of sacrifices. What manner of justice could this frail woman expect from a monster-deity?
Sarah began to run, half dragging the pregnant woman. The dark faces of the Indians flashed by. A few seemed uncertain and moved to let her pass. But others jeered. Hands grasped at Sarah’s sleeves, her skirts. The lace at her wrist ripped. The topi tumbled from her hair and rolled beneath the crush of people.
Heart thudding, she hugged the woman’s awkward form and pressed her close to the wall. At the fruit seller’s, they passed bamboo baskets piled high with watermelons and figs and coconuts.
“Be warned!” the fakir shrieked over the melee. “Sub lal hogea hai!”
Everything will become red. Like foul water in a gutter, the words slithered through Sarah. Blood. He meant a bloody uprising.
The prophecy slid away, banished by a more immediate nightmare. A man lunged into her path, a badmash. His unkempt mustache topped a leering grin. From the sleeves of his dirty red robe, his thick-knuckled hands stretched toward her.
She ducked beneath one of the long trays of fruit. Roaring, the ruffian barreled at her. His shoulder bumped a pole. The cotton awning tilted and collapsed. The man lost his balance and fell into a mound of green bananas, his arms and legs flailing. Tumbling baskets strewed their bright contents over the ground.
Dissension fell prey to greed. People snatched at the rolling fruit. The stout proprietor of the shop leaped up and down, alternately swearing and wailing.
Urging the Hindu woman onward, Sarah trod on a lemon. Her voluminous petticoats wrapped around her legs and she stumbled. Someone’s hand clamped tight to her arm and held her upright.
She wrenched hard, but the fingers clung like the teeth of a mad dog. Panic misted her vision. She pivoted, fist swinging wildly.
“Ouch! Missy-sahib!”
Blinking, she recognized her captor. “Patel!” She’d never been more glad to see his genial, age-lined face.
“Come quickly,” he said. “This way.”
He drew them toward the corner of the building. Just as the mouth of an alleyway yawned ahead, a trio of ruffians broke from the agitated crowd. The one in the lead brandished a tulwar. The wicked-looking blade flashed in the sunlight.
“O Rama, save us,” Patel moaned.
He yanked Sarah into the alley. Inside stood a cart piled high with musk melons. He squeezed behind the wooden vehicle and crouched. With her arm around the Hindu woman’s waist, Sarah dropped to the rubbish-strewn ground beside him.
“We can’t stop here,” she gasped out. “For mercy’s sake, at least draw your dagger.”
“No, missy. Help me...” Grunting, he thrust his shoulder at the cart.
“Oh!” Grasping his purpose, she lent her own strength to the task. She held her breath and pushed. Pain splintered down her arm. The Hindu woman cowered nearby, swaying back and forth, hands splayed protectively over her belly.
Loosing a barbarous screech, the badmash dived for the narrow space between the wall and the cart.
“Harder,” Patel wheezed.
Sarah shoved with all her might. The wooden wheels groaned. The heavy vehicle shifted. The weight blessedly left her shoulder. A mountain of melons rolled downward and blocked the alley. The rogue and his cohorts fell, screaming curses.
“Now,” Patel said, grinning as he hopped to his feet, “we go.”
Elation brought an answering smile to Sarah’s lips. She helped the woman up, and Patel hustled them along the dank passageway. The odors of refuse and sewage hung in the air, but Sarah inhaled deeply, for freedom had never smelled sweeter.
They emerged into the early sunshine where people went about their marketing, unaware of the commotion in the street beyond. The abdur hurried through the maze of shops and toward the fringes of the bazaar. Only then did Sarah realize they were heading back to the bungalow.
“Wait.” Still supporting the Hindu woman, who sagged listlessly, Sarah paused in the shade of a leather worker’s awning. Despite the bulk of her belly, the woman looked as fragile as a jasmine bloom wilting beneath the hot Indian sun. Wisps of thick black hair framed her dusky features. Her gaze was downcast, and her delicate cheekbones bore the tracks of tears.
Anger gripped Sarah. What Englishman had used this lovely woman, then callously left her to fend for herself? What Englishman would doom his child to a life of begging in the streets like that poor little half-caste boy?
She gently said in Hindi, “May we escort you to your home?”
The woman lifted her face, the haze clearing from her dark eyes, as if she were seeing Sarah for the first time. She gathered Sarah’s hands, raised them, and kissed the backs.
“Memsahib, thank you,” she murmured in softly accented English. “You have saved my life and the life of my unborn baby.” She pressed Sarah’s palms to the hard roundness of her abdomen. “Praise Sita, see how the child leaps for joy.”
Against the silk-draped curve, Sarah felt the baby kick. Fierce yearning flooded her heart. More than anything, she wanted to feel new life growing inside her. More than anything, she wanted to marry and have children to love—
“Please, missy-sahib.” Patel broke into her thoughts, jumping from one foot to the other as he glanced toward the milling shoppers. “You hurry. Or badmashes find us.”
“Of course.” Sarah turned to the woman. “But first I insist that we take you home.”
The Hindu woman cast a fearful look over her shoulder, then touched her fingers to her brow, gold bracelets tinkling. “I would be most grateful. Come, please.”
She led the way along twisting lanes and byways until the small party emerged at the edge of the bazaar. Near the mud-brick wall surrounding the military cantonment stood a curious boxy vehicle, painted a dusty white to ward off the heat of the sun. Two water cisterns sat atop the caravan.
The woman mounted the short steps leading to a door in the side. There, she paused and turned ba
ck. “Please, I would be honored for you to come in.”
“You be safe here, missy,” Patel told Sarah. “I will finish shopping, then hasten back for you.”
She nodded, swayed as much by interest in the woman as by concern for her own safety. Aunt Violet would be horrified should she learn that her niece was being entertained by a native woman. But Aunt Violet need never find out.
Sarah followed her hostess inside, where windows of yellow glass let in the sunlight. Amazed, she realized the vehicle was a miniature house on wheels, complete with a folded bed and cooking stove. Every inch of space was utilized, with bookshelves and cabinets, a collapsible desk and leather bench. A fine Persian rug covered the floor, and a brilliant red-and-gold curtain concealed one end of the dwelling. The stuffy air held the trace of a peculiar chemical aroma.
The woman waved Sarah onto the bench, then sat on a hassock. “I am Shivina.” Apologetically she added, “I would offer tea, miss-sahib, but we’ve run out. That is why I foolishly ventured into the bazaar.”
“Please, call me Sarah...Sarah Faulkner. And you needn’t trouble yourself over me. You’ve had quite a fright.”
Shivina stared down at her hands, folded over the mound of her belly. “The holy man, he held my arm and screamed at me. People gathered and stared. I could not move. I could not think of what to do.” She shivered. “I do not know how he learned that my child has an English father.”
Sarah suspected that more than terror had robbed Shivina of the ability to run; a Hindu woman’s ingrained subordination to men caused her to endure the ravings of the fakir. Then anger invaded Sarah’s compassion. “Where is...the child’s father?”
“He goes to visit General Hewitt.” A glow eased Shivina’s expression. “My master is Damien Coleridge, a photographer. He seeks leave to go among the sepoys, to take pictures of the native soldiers at work.”
