The Mountain of Light

by Indu Sundaresan

  At night, we stop in the village of Lowick, where our horses have been sent post to the local inn. I go to bed in a low-ceilinged room with exposed beams and quivering plaster that flakes at the slightest movement I make. The sheets are my own, the mattress has been shaken down, the carpets come from the palaces at Lahore, and Bhajan Lal sleeps on the floor, near the fireplace.

  I lie in the half darkness; light filters through the tiny window that overlooks the inn’s forecourt. There is a dance going on, and carriages rumble into the yard. Through the walls I hear the sound of the orchestra, the laughter, the voices, some clapping. I sleep and wake as the revelers call out their good-byes.

  Tomorrow we will reach London. Dr. Login says the Queen is anxious to meet me. I wonder, will she be wearing the Kohinoor?

  • • •

  Paris, 1893: Sophia empties out the teapot and shakes crumbs from the tablecloth. She sets the dishes on a tray and places it outside the door. If the charwoman comes, she will wash them. There’s no vase in the room, so Sophia takes the base of a hukkah, wrought in solid gold, fills it with water from a bucket, and sets the hyacinths in it.

  “I should go get some more water,” she says. There are no pipes in the room; she has to walk down six flights of stairs to the pump in the courtyard.

  Her father is looking at her, his head resting on his fist; he is not really here, but far away in the England of his youth. “Let it be,” he says.

  “Who were they, Papa?”

  “The Logins?” She nods.

  “He was a surgeon in the Bengal army. I wouldn’t have met him, you know, under any other circumstances. John Login was sent in Henry’s place, as . . . Resident perhaps; I can’t remember, they changed the titles around as they wished. He was, though, my guardian. I loved him . . . loved his wife. For a while—a very long while—they were good to me.”

  He gestures, and she obeys. Opens the diary. Reads.

  • • •

  June 2, 1854: We are settled at Mivart’s Hotel on Brook Street, on the whole of the top floor. Dr. Login says this is temporary, only until the East India Company finds me an adequate house, and both Mivart’s and the house are courtesy of the Company.

  This is not the fort at Lahore, but my rooms are spacious, a bedroom with its own attached bath, and a sitting room which opens into two other bedrooms. Bhajan Lal is in one; the other holds my clothes. Mir Kheema unpacks the trunks, shakes out their contents, sequesters my jewels in a leather-strapped box with a lock. The key hangs around his neck.

  Dr. and Mrs. Login are down the corridor; Frank Boileau is next to them. Lord Dalhousie wouldn’t let Frank’s brother Charles come with us, said the Company could not bear that expense. So Frank is here by himself, hoping to find both of them commissions in a Queen’s regiment in India.

  It is a few days before I look down from the windows. Horse buggies trawl the road below; men are in top hats, tailcoats, breeches, and boots; women in wide skirts that brush the cobbles, bonnets tied under chins, arms hung with reticules. The streets are clean, as though cut new each morning from night’s dark cloth. The sun shines fitfully, glancing between tall buildings on either side—there is no openness in London, none like the most hurried bazaar street in Lahore, where the sun blazes bright and the whole landscape seems . . . wider somehow. It is a different world, and I am here to become part of this—an English gentleman, for a while at least.

  The past week is spent in fittings to make me truly one. A representative of Cotes & Sons from Savile Row is ushered in on Monday, and Mrs. Login stays only long enough to make sure that he can understand me before fleeing to her own rooms. She has known me since I was ten years old, running around in my underwear in the heat of a Lahore summer, but suddenly, I am now, at sixteen, a grown man.

  The shop sends Cotes himself. He has a gloomy, white face, bred in the dark of a sewing room, and blinking, hazel eyes. His hands are immaculate, the nails trimmed, fingers tapering to pointed edges. A measuring tape throttles his neck. He gives a pencil and notebook to his assistant. When he is done, Cotes stands back, clears his throat, and orders the boy to bring out samples.

  Frock coats, cutaways, morning coats, afternoon coats, smoking jackets, box coats, and waistcoats—long ones and short. So much material in which to be warm, comfortable, ill at ease, constricted under the armpits, suffocated at the waist, but above all, stylish. The English gentleman, it seems, changes his look through the day with the giddy frequency of a silly girl who cannot make up her mind on what to wear. Then come the shirts, made of silk, thin muslin, linen, starched or malleable, with pearl buttons or chunks of false gold. The vests have pockets, and so I have to have pocket watches with fobs or chains. I have to have boots, shoes, capes and winter overcoats, top hats and bowlers, trousers and pantaloons.

  Where in all of this finery am I going to fit in my pearls and my turban?

  • • •

  June 6, 1854: A dinner party tonight. I wait at the end of the yellow and white paneled drawing room at the top floor of Mivart’s for this, my first introduction to society, as Mrs. Login breathes softly by my side.

  “Why is this even necessary?” I ask in a bit of a grumble, tugging at the waistband of my pants, which is an effort, as I wear a kurta above them, and have to raise the material to reach my trousers.

  “Hush, Maharajah,” Mrs. Login says. “There is nothing to be nervous about. The guests are all friends of ours; there’s a friend of a friend, a Captain Watkins, but I am assured that he will be good company. He’s the third son of an earl. And then there is—”

  “I am all at sea with the English nobility,” I say. It is true, the very thought of keeping track of all the dukes, the earls, the marquesses, the viscounts, and the barons, not to speak of those knighted recently or in the past, sets my head spinning. And if I am to fit in this society, I must know all these orders of precedence; which sons of whom were important, who went into the dining room first, which lady he took in; where they sat.

  “You will learn. As indeed, you must. Dr. Login has written to the India Office and to Sir Charles Phipps for an introduction to our sovereign, Maharajah. She has wanted to see you for a long while; this party tonight will give you a taste for what is to come, although you must not think that we will be entertaining in any scale close to that of her Majesty’s. It is a great privilege for the Queen to be so willing to meet you.”

  Tonight, she has on something new, not the perpetual black she wore in India but a hibiscus red. The dress has silk roses on the bodice and is cut away from her shoulders. I have never given thought to how old my guardians are; they have been married for ten years or so. Their children are here with us; in India they are looked after by the ayahs and the English governess. Perhaps it is a sacrifice, taking care of me, although I know that Dr. Login gets a thousand pounds a year from the Company for it. And Mrs. Login will now receive an invitation to Buckingham Palace, will shake the hand of the Queen, has already been in correspondence with her—about me.

  Dr. Login comes in just as the guests enter. He takes my hand and presses me forward. This is a test for both of us, for all of us. The names pass in a haze. A Lord and Lady Bowles; their daughter, a Miss Bowles (something like Fanny? Edith? Cecilia?); their good friend, Captain Richard Watkins; the rector from Tipton (Dr. Login’s home parish), a man with the most unfortunate (and consequently unforgettable) name of Mr. Sneaky; his wife, Mrs. Sneaky; a Lady Hartford and her charge, Miss Victoria.

  Richard Watkins is the one who stands out. He has a big head, glistening white teeth too large for his mouth, sandy hair ironed down over one part of his forehead. We bow to each other.

  “I say, Maharajah, this is a real pleasure indeed. The Bowleses were insistent that I come, and I wasn’t so sure I would like it, but I see I’m wrong. There’s nothing of the blackamoor about you. Why, you are as white as I am!”

  • • •

  Paris, 1893: They hear the charwoman’s heavy tread upon the stairs, and the b
ump-bump-bump as she drags her pail behind. When she fills the doorway, she puts her hand theatrically on her heart. She’s unlovely—matted hair pulled into an indifferent bun, sunken eyes, two teeth missing in the front. Her voice is grating. “Maintenant, eh? Allez vite.”

  The water in the pail is already filthy; the mop drips dirt onto the floors. She begins her work even before they flee, scraping up ashes from the grate, leaving a fine plume of black dust in the air. Her face catches the soot.

  He gets up from the chair. His legs are swollen, and walking is difficult. The weight that he carries around doesn’t help, he thinks grimly. When he first came to England, he was slim, slender, bursting with energy and inquisitiveness. “She’s no Cinderella.”

  “That woman?” Sophia laughs. They speak in English; the charwoman does not understand.

  They crowd into the landing. April in Paris. The sun is fickle, faithless; it has already shrouded itself with clouds. What little light comes through the grimy window is of a pale, colorless kind.

  For a long time, Sophia does not read from the diary. “So, it began then, so early, Papa.”

  She’s speaking of Richard Watkins calling him a blackamoor, to his face, at the very first meeting. This was in 1854, remember, he says, three years before the Sepoy Rebellion, four years before we officially became lesser subjects of the British Crown. But . . . the sentiment was there, had been there all the while, else the Rebellion wouldn’t have occurred in the first place. Now . . .

  Sophia knows that now it’s fashionable to make these distinctions—you’re black and Indian; I’m white. Or you’re not quite white, are you? Some Indian blood lurking around somewhere? A quarter of it? A sixteenth?

  He shifts on his feet, moving his weight around. There’s a catch in his chest; these memories are of days when he was very, very happy. Or at least he thought that he was. One thing is true, though.

  “Richard Watkins was a good man, Sophia. My first true friend in England. At least, he was honest. He said what everyone was thinking. He wasn’t the first to say this to me, but he was one of the very few.”

  She has the book open. Her finger rubs over the writing, finds the place.

  • • •

  June 6, 1854: When I look down briefly at our clasped hands, I see that it is true, our skins do match. I do not know how to answer, so I look at his face. It’s easy, it’s amicable; there is no malice here. Richard’s not a bit like Dr. and Mrs. Login. Their manners are rigid, although since we’ve come to England, they’ve unbent a little. The English are more at home in England than in India—there, with so much India all around, they are likely to turn native at the drop of a hat if not careful enough to preserve their . . . Englishness.

  The Bowles girl is standing next to us. “I’ve dropped my handkerchief,” she says, in a lilting voice.

  Richard and I both bend; the girl’s foot comes forward and knocks him on the head. He retreats, and I pick up the piece of cloth.

  “Thank you, Maharajah,” she says. “I think it’s time for dinner.”

  I take Lady Hartford in, sit at the head of the table, and place her upon my right as Mrs. Login has cautioned me to. The girl Victoria is on my left—why, if Watkins wants to find darker skin, look here, at this girl. She has brown eyes, brown hair, and a very well-bred twirl to her tongue. I can’t make her out at all. She looks a smidgen Indian, but her mannerisms, the serene way in which she spoons the clear soup, the graceful arch to her neck, the quiet movements of her mouth, are all essentially English. However, it is Lady Hartford who demands my attention. She is, perhaps, Victoria’s guardian? Or something like that? When the girl doesn’t put her napkin down correctly, Hartford clinks her fork in warning against her plate. Victoria reddens, slouches; her posture shatters.

  Richard’s voice booms at the other end of the table. He is seated in between the Bowles girl and Mrs. Login. Between the soup and the fish I realize that the girl deliberately created a diversion after Richard’s gaffe. While Hartford is scolding Victoria with twistings of her nose and gestures she thinks no one can see, I watch Miss Bowles. The glow from the chandelier overhead sets fire to her golden head; her eyelashes are long and cast shadows upon her pink cheek, her mouth is a luscious pink. She’s wearing a pale blue gown, trimmed with white fur, and cloth-covered buttons ride up the slender wrists of her gloves. Lucky Richard, to be seated next to such a beauty.

  Lady Hartford rises when the meal is over and before the cloth is whisked off, to lead the rest of the women out of the dining room. We stay on, light our cigars, warm the brandy in our hands, and wreath the room in a pleasant smoke.

  Dr. and Mrs. Login’s little Timothy, who has been brought in to balance out the numbers at the table, has been intently breathing in the fog from my cigar. His father gives him a quick glance. Go. He jumps up, regretfully, and pounds down the corridor to his governess, his bed, his prayers.

  The talk is droning, as is usual: politics in India, or the mighty India Office in London which rules all of our lives from its lofty heights in the Parliament buildings near Downing Street.

  Richard is at my elbow, smiling. “I say, do you belong to any of the clubs?”

  “What are they?” I ask.

  “You don’t know?” He scrubs his hands. “You’re in for a real treat. I will nominate you and get my friends to second the nomination. A real Indian Maharajah will be an acquisition for most of them, increase my stock substantially, if I may be frank. The dues will be nothing to a rich man like you; I hear the India Office is going to settle fifty thousand pounds a year upon you?”

  Again, that honesty. Dr. Login has said nothing yet about a . . . salary. What an ugly word. What about the riches from my Punjab Empire? My inheritance, what was left to me as my father’s sole heir. I know, I know that the India Office is somehow in charge of giving me the money, but am I going to be at the mercy of accountants and civil servants? I, the Maharajah of the Punjab?

  Lady Hartford was sonorous and boring all through dinner. Inconsequential. Richard has already, in a few minutes, made my skin prickle. And yet, I like him.

  Watkins misinterprets my consternation. “You must not mind this talk of your income, Maharajah. Here in England we are apt to do little else.” His laugh rings out, causing Dr. Login to turn toward us, his own conversation briefly silenced. “We pick apart our neighbors’ money, their property, their estates, how many people they employ, what they pay them, what they earn, what each promotion is worth. It is so common knowledge as to be nothing at all in terms of consequence. Even our affairs, those of the heart you understand”—and here he closes one large blue eye in a wink—“are not to be secret. But the clubs. Now”—he draws out a small notepad from his vest pocket and begins writing—“the Garrick? It’s a theater club mostly, actors and such, but you need not worry about being in poor company. Do you like the theater, Maharajah?”

  “Very much, what I’ve seen of it.”

  “Ha-ha, the Indian nautch girls are not theater, Maharajah.”

  When I was thirteen, at Lahore, Tommy Scott came to wake me one night, long after everyone was asleep. Tommy was the local schoolmaster’s son, a year older than I, wise, and free. He did not have my restrictions, or the masses of attendants who followed me around. Dr. Login’s room was across the courtyard, and Tommy and I tiptoed out on bare feet to the carriage he had waiting.

  The night over the city’s streets had an aroma all of its own, smoky from the evening’s fires, stinking of the gutters, of sweat, of heat. We stopped outside an old haveli. The front room had been converted into a music hall for the redcoats of the British army. All the soldiers I’d seen thus far were so correct, their tunics buttoned, their backs stiff, their gazes distant. Here, they roamed with their coats undone, shirts untucked, faces blotched with drink, hands roaming over and pinching the bottoms of the girls.

  A man stooped and hissed into Tommy’s ear, “Twenty minutes, white sahib, only twenty minutes. If your father comes to know, he w
ill kill me.”

  Tommy gave him two rupees. I’d never handled money before; he did this with such ease. “Keep an eye on us, will you, Krishan Singh? The crowd looks rowdy around here, and I have the Maharajah with me. We must take good care to deliver him safely back into the arms of his nursemaids.”

  The men roared as the nautch girls came onstage. They wailed out terrible songs, took off some of their clothing. Tommy smoked a cigarette, coughing at each drag. Krishan Singh put his beefy hand on the chest of a drunken soldier who had wandered too close, and pushed him back into the crowd.

  And then, the English act came on. I’d seen only respectable Englishwomen until then, collars strangling their throats, gowns sweeping the floor, hair covered in hats. These women wore nothing. Thin cotton shifts, lace panties that showed when they kicked their feet into the air. Tommy wiped drool from his mouth. I stared hard at the white thighs. Just as one of the women was raising her shift to reveal the curve of her breast, Krishan Singh said, “Out. Now. You too, your Majesty.”

  “Nothing like the nautch girls,” Richard says. “But, maybe better than them.” His grin is wicked. Another Tommy Scott. I hope. I hope!

  He goes on writing, and I look over his shoulder. His handwriting is abominable, squiggles and scribbles. He raises an eyebrow when I point it out. “Come, Maharajah, only clerks write legibly; they’re taught to, and it’s their job. If you write too well—when you can hire someone else to do this for you—you’ll be nothing more than a munshi.”

  Richard has done all of his tours of duty in Europe, heavily cushioned as the son of an earl against any real fighting or scrimmage, and yet his language is composed of Indian words. Two things I learn from my newfound friend: that the Indian Empire is never far from the shores of England, and that I am, with this knowledge on how to write badly, a step closer to becoming blue-blooded English.