by Di Morrissey
Catherine caught her breath as the landau turned into the driveway. The British Residence was an exotic blend of palatial splendour and old-world English charm. The classical Palladian villa in pink sandstone was enclosed by a high wall with ramparts. The ornately carved gates were manned by liveried guards on horseback. Once inside the forbidding walls they were taken aback by the beauty of a traditional English flower garden.
While outside the walls of the Residence the yellow dirt roads and drooping trees were dust covered and parched, the garden within was manicured and lushly green. A herbaceous border encircled the top of the driveway with flowering delphiniums, canterbury bells, hollyhocks and peonies. Nearer to the house, azalea bushes and large rhododendrons were smothered in massed blooms like coloured snow. Further away by a small lake they glimpsed a Mughal inspired miniature marble pavilion where one could sit and contemplate the serenity of the lake and gardens in cool shade.
The main foyer of the house had polished wood floors scattered with Kurdistan and Herat rugs. Contemporary Victorian furniture, large gilt-framed paintings of the Lake District and doleful springer spaniels, along with antiques and gleaming silver, made Catherine feel she was in some wealthy English aristocratic home. But the multitude of servants, the luxury of their surroundings and lifestyle was far removed from that of a British country squire. Years of such existence had given Sir Montague and Lady Willingham an air of being bred to this world, although Catherine recalled Lady Willingham telling her on board the ship that she had come from a simple home in a village in Surrey.
Robert and Catherine soon settled into the luxurious Residence and the days flew by. Sir Montague took Robert under his wing, entertaining him at his club while Lady Willingham escorted Catherine through the colourful bazaars. Robert and Catherine compared their day’s activities in the vastness of their tapestry canopied bed each night.
One day, when Catherine declined an invitation from Sir Montague to accompany him and Robert on a tiger shoot, Lady Willingham made a different suggestion. ‘My dear, would you like to join me and call on our local maharani and her palace retinue at the zanana?’
‘Indeed yes. What is the zanana?’
‘It’s the private apartments at the palace where the royal women are secluded in purdah.’
‘Like a harem?’ Catherine’s eyes were wide with wonder and curiosity.
Lady Willingham laughed. ‘It’s a matriarchal hierarchy dominated by the dowager maharani. Everyone knows their place and their duty, and the wives get along exceedingly well. They lead a very pampered existence. I’m sure you’ll find it interesting, and they will be delighted to meet you.’
They travelled to the magnificent palace in individual palanquins — small box-like carriages held between two poles balanced on the shoulders of two men, one in front and one behind, who ran at a fast trot. Catherine, screened by embroidered muslin curtains, sat on a cushion and held onto the sides for balance, gradually adjusting to the swaying motion.
From the sounds about her she knew they had arrived at the palace. Her palanquin was lowered to the ground and the curtain lifted. A smiling Indian dressed in uniform with a red feather secured by a jewelled clasp on his turban was beckoning her forward. Two Indian women in colourful saris with the ends held over the heads to screen their faces assisted Lady Willingham and Catherine from their conveyances.
Catherine gazed swiftly about her and drew a sharp intake of breath. She was standing in the courtyard section of the main palace. To one side was the entrance — sweeping marble steps flanked by two elephants bedecked with loops of gold braid and coloured silk headbands with richly embroidered cloths hanging across their backs. These giant beasts stood stoically, looking a trifle bored, idly swinging a trunk or shifting weight from one foot to another. Beside them, standing rigidly to attention, were the elephants’ mahouts, young men dressed simply in white dhotis, contrasting the row of palace guards in glittering red, white and gold uniforms.
The zanana was a smaller double-storeyed building to the side of the main palace. While modest in size, its facade was a blaze of colour and carving. It shone in the sunlight like dazzling peacock feathers. Emerald, indigo and gold mosaics were set in intricate patterns, a frieze of exotic dancers was picked out in ornamental panels. Along the top storey a series of balconies jutted from archways which were screened by bamboo blinds. Figures of women in saris were silhouetted behind these, staring down into the courtyard, watching the arrival of the two Western women.
Lady Willingham motioned to Catherine and they went to the entrance, the two Indian ladies fluttering around them. A welcome breeze swirled down the marble steps, lifting the edge of the sari worn by the woman leading the way. The other followed behind and Catherine caught the sweet scent of patchouli drifting from these butterfly-like creatures. Their bare feet made no sound on the polished tile floor and the tinkling of their anklets and bangles contrasted with the solid clack of the leather shoes worn by the two British ladies.
Catherine glanced from side to side as they were led down a magnificent passageway. The whitewashed walls were covered with frescoes of entwined flowers and geometric borders. The cool dimness of the corridor was interspersed by arched screen windows, latticed with a tracery of thin stone carved in a linked flower pattern. Set between the lacy stone flowers were coloured pieces of glass which cast rainbows of light into the shadows.
The final set of high wooden doors, panelled with carvings depicting local fables, swung open and they were greeted by the smiling dowager maharani, her round and solid shape swathed in pale blue silk embroidered in gold.
Lady Willingham placed her hands together and lifted them to her face in the traditional gesture of greeting. Catherine followed suit and was introduced.
‘Welcome to our zanana. Please, be comfortable.’
The old maharani led them to the centre of the bare room where large silk and velvet cushions were spread on valuable rugs scattered on the marble floor. There was no other furniture. Unconcerned, Lady Willingham lowered herself to the floor and sat daintily on a cushion, adjusting her crepe skirt across her legs.
There were more than a dozen women in the spacious room — the second and third wives of the maharajah, their two mothers and the daughter of the senior maharani. The other women were sisters of the maharajah, relatives of the other two wives, and their attendants.
Catherine tried not to observe the three wives too openly, but there seemed no rivalry between them — they giggled and chattered like sweet little birds — but it was apparent that the dowager maharani held the power in the zanana.
They all wore richly coloured saris but Catherine noticed that the wives wore fine silk, while the other ladies wore saris of ultra-fine muslin. Each wore a lot of jewellery though the gold bangles of the maharanis were studded with precious stones. Their necklaces, rings and earrings were ornate and it wasn’t long before the conversation turned to the previous visit of the bangriwalla — the bangle seller.
The old maharani clapped her hands and sent for their chest of purchases, and soon all the ladies were trying on and examining the bracelets and bangles made of precious metals, cut glass and tiny seed pearls.
While these women in purdah rarely left the palace, visitors and sellers were allowed into the zanana. If it was a man, the women covered their faces in layers of gauzy veils or sat behind a purdah screen. They chose the dyes for their saris of silk or soft muslin from the sariwalla. The attarwalla, who sold them perfumes, created special blends for important occasions.
While the women gossiped and laughed, a maidservant gently pulled on a long cord which swung the punkah above them. The heavy sheet of brocade hung between bamboo poles swayed back and forth, fanning and cooling the ladies.
Soon thalis — platters of beaten silver — were carried in and placed in the centre of the group. Each dish, covered by a cloth, held tiny sweetmeats, cakes and delicacies, all decorated in thinly rolled gold and silver looking like a feast of jew
els. Chai, sweetly scented milky tea, was served with goblets of lassi, a refreshing yogurt drink.
After eating, they all moved to the windows shaded by the split bamboo blinds and made themselves comfortable on cushions and rugs to watch the entertainments arranged for them in the courtyard below. Under the canopy suspended on four poles, traditional musicians, singers and dancers performed. They were followed by magicians with trained animals whose tricks delighted the audience.
At the end of these entertainments, Lady Willingham rose and bade the dowager maharani and the ladies of the zanana farewell.
Catherine, her eyes shining, also thanked the maharani. ‘It has been the most interesting day of my life. Thank you so much for allowing me to come.’ She had no idea how she was ever going to thank Lady Willingham for making it possible.
The old maharani took Catherine’s hands in her bejewelled plump hands. ‘May good fortune smile on your life.’ Her dark eyes stared into Catherine’s face and in their depths Catherine saw great sadness.
The maharani turned to Lady Willingham. ‘Take this girl to visit Guru Tanesh, Lady Willingham.’
Her tone was serious and the wife of the British Resident looked surprised but she recovered quickly and nodded. ‘Yes, indeed. I think Mrs MacIntyre would find him interesting.’
‘I believe it would be valuable for the child.’ The maharani dropped Catherine’s hands and lifted the edge of her sari back onto her shoulder. An attendant appeared beside the maharani with a small carved wooden box which she passed to Catherine. ‘A small memento of your visit to our zanana.’
Catherine opened the ebony box and in it saw a beautifully shaped, deep blue perfume bottle.
‘It is our special blend of attar of roses. Enjoy it, my dear.’
Catherine was quite overcome and with a shy wave to the women, followed Lady Willingham and their pretty escort from the room.
‘Who is Guru Tanesh?’ asked Catherine as they went down the marble stairs to where their palanquins waited.
‘He is a wise man with great knowledge and special powers.’
‘Like a fortune teller?’
‘That’s what my husband calls him, but Guru Tanesh is quite genuine. He is more a holy man and spiritual guide. Perhaps you should visit him seeing as the maharani suggested it. Though it’s quite a rough trip into the hills.’
‘I would indeed like to go. Would it be possible for Robert to come along?’
‘I will arrange for both of you to go to the Hill Station Residence. I’m sorry I won’t be able to accompany you, I have other commitments, you understand.’
‘Of course. Lady Willingham, I don’t know how to thank you for the wonderful and fascinating time here.’
The older woman turned to Catherine before stepping into her palanquin. ‘You don’t have to, dear girl. It was a pleasure for me to see how sincerely you enjoyed the day.’
That night, in their great canopied bed, shrouded in folds of gauzy mosquito netting, Catherine told Robert about the zanana.
‘It sounds like a gilded cage to me.’
‘Oh, Robert, in a way it is, but they are so safe and happy. It is a sanctuary for women, and in fact anyone they take in. Everyone is protected in the zanana. It all seemed quite magical.’
‘A sanctuary . . . hmm.’ Robert yawned and rolled over, burying his face in Catherine’s creamy throat. ‘Ummm . . . you smell of roses . . .’
Robert was dubious about the visit to Guru Tanesh but went along because Catherine seemed so keen and it was an opportunity to visit the hill station out of Kaliapur. Used only during the hot summer months, the British Residency in the mountain province was a cool retreat. The sprawling and gracious house was a mixture of expatriate grandeur and English country house comfort complete with a library, chintz sofas and log fire.
Tea plantations and a cool forest surrounded the estate grounds. Rising steeply behind these, dark hills disappeared into mist. The bay windows and terraced lawns at the front of the Residence faced a vista of valleys and distant mountains. Other than the servants’ quarters and a small village tucked further down in the valley, there were no other people living close by.
Robert and Catherine were alone in the Residence, looked after by a retinue of old retainers. It was pleasantly cool, the evenings chilly enough for an open fire. Their driver who had brought them to the Residence told them he would take them to Guru Tanesh in a day or so.
‘You can’t be more specific than that?’ Robert had experienced the flexibility of Indian time.
Singh the driver shrugged and lifted an arm in a vague gesture. He didn’t wish to offend, but from his manner it was obvious he considered these visitors still had many lessons to learn. Patience and letting fate take its course being one of them. ‘It will happen in its time, sahib. Maybe Guru Tanesh will see you . . . maybe not . . .’
‘He’d better after this trip,’ growled Robert.
Catherine put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘It will be all right, dear. Now tell me, Singh, do we make an appointment to see the Guru, or do we just go?’
The driver began swaying with indecision, his hands spread uncertainly. Catherine cut in smoothly. ‘I see. Singh, we will go to see the Guru at eight tomorrow morning. Will you please see that transport is ready. Thank you.’
Catherine turned on her heel and, taking Robert’s arm, left the room as the driver started to wring his hands. ‘But memsahib . . .’
‘Is that going to work?’ whispered Robert, grinning at his pretty wife.
‘We’ll find out at eight tomorrow. Let’s explore the gardens.’
The landau was duly waiting the next morning and they drove in the brisk morning air towards the hills. They wound up the precipitous mountain road, until it became too much of a challenge. Singh pulled to one side where a small tonga, drawn by a grey horse, waited with a young boy.
‘Ram will take you from here; the path is rough, but it is not far. And the carriage is comfortable. I will wait with the vehicle, sahib.’
Robert hesitated. Catherine pulled at his hand. ‘Come on, Robert, help me up.’
They settled themselves onto the cushioned seat and watched the young boy swing up in front of them and take the reins. He was dressed in a white cloth lungi wound about the lower part of his body like a sarong. His legs and feet were bare and a coarsely woven woollen shawl was draped about his shoulders. He gave them a quick shy smile over his shoulder and they set off along the twisting road.
In a short time they turned off the road and followed a track through tall cypress trees. To their surprise they came to a simple mud dwelling with smoke rising from a fire outside.
An old man, grey hair fanned around his shoulders, swathed in a brown woollen wrap, stood before the fireplace where a chapatti was cooking on a heated stone. His hands were folded over his chest beneath the drape of his toga-like dress.
‘Is that Guru Tanesh?’ asked Catherine softly. The young boy shrugged and indicated they should get down.
‘You wait here,’ instructed Robert firmly.
‘I don’t think he speaks English, dear.’
Robert made a gesture to the boy to stay with the horse and followed Catherine.
The man by the fire looked up as they approached but made no move, nor looked surprised.
Catherine lifted her hands. ‘Namaste.’
A thin brown hand appeared from under the guru’s robe, touching his heart then his forehead. ‘May the blessing and peace of God be with you.’
‘I am Robert MacIntyre and this is my wife Catherine,’ said Robert. ‘I assume you knew we were coming.’
The man looked from one to the other with a gentle smile. He had a calm face and, despite the grey hair, he was not elderly. ‘No, I was not expecting you. But you have come, and to make the journey to see me, you have been sent. So . . . welcome.’ He smiled and lifted the flat pancake from the fire and dropped it onto a tin platter beside a small mound of boiled rice. ‘Come, partake of my simple meal.
’
Robert went to protest but Catherine nudged him. They followed the guru into the one room hut. The windows were merely thick holes in the wall with wooden shutters. A rope bed on a wooden frame stood against a wall. A small shrine decorated with fruit and flowers sat in a shadowy corner.
The guru sat cross-legged on a mat and put the dish of food before him. He gestured to Catherine to sit opposite him. ‘Sir, take the patla.’ He pointed to the low wooden stool, but Robert sat awkwardly on the floor beside Catherine.
The guru tore off a piece of chapatti and, scooping a little rice into it, ate slowly, indicating Robert and Catherine should do the same. They ate as little as they could, not wishing to deprive the guru of his meagre food, realising to refuse would have been rude. They chewed slowly in silence for a brief time.
‘So, to whom am I to give guidance and who set you on the path to me?’ the guru finally asked.
Robert looked at Catherine who clasped her hands in her lap and spoke in a low voice, suddenly nervous. ‘Maharani Fatima suggested I visit you.’
He looked again from Robert to Catherine. ‘We shall eat and take tea, then I shall speak with you.’ He turned to Robert. ‘You are British serving in India?’
‘No. We are visitors. We are returning to Australia where I have made my home.’
The guru nodded. ‘Ah. Tell me of your life there.’
While Guru Tanesh finished eating, Robert told him how he had journeyed to Sydney from Scotland and how he had made friends with Hock Lee and had been lucky enough to find gold. How together they had built a thriving business and he had returned to Scotland, married Catherine and was now taking her to her new home. ‘Though I am yet to build our home, I plan to build her the grandest house in Sydney,’ added Robert, smiling at Catherine.