The Midnight Rose

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘No,’ answered the Maharani softly, ‘it is my honour to meet you. You’ve given birth to a very special daughter and we are lucky to have her amongst us. Now, come and see my prayer room and we will offer puja to Brahma for blessing us with such offspring.’

  With that, she led my mother through the surprised onlookers and disappeared into the next room, closing the door behind her.

  Fifteen minutes later, when the two women emerged, they were chatting like old friends. My mother’s nervousness had completely disappeared and I, too, gave thanks to the gods that the Maharani had known exactly what to do to put my mother at ease.

  That evening my mother, just as everyone else, fell under the Maharani’s gentle spell. She waxed lyrical about her new friend’s taste in furnishings, clothes and her extensive knowledge of philosophy, poetry and the wider world. They shared their thoughts on Ayurvedic medicine and the Maharani was fascinated to hear about my mother’s special gift of sight.

  ‘Did you “see” for her, Maaji?’ I asked eagerly when she emerged from the Maharani’s rooms one afternoon.

  ‘As you know very well, Anni, that’s a private matter between the Maharani and myself,’ my mother replied.

  By the end of the first week, she was relaxed enough to take a walk with me around the gardens in full view of the male residents of the palace. She still wouldn’t remove her ghoonghat from her face and I respected her for it. But in all other aspects, she’d become as enthralled with Cooch Behar Palace and its denizens as I had.

  The day before my mother was to return home, the Maharani called her to her rooms for a private audience. I knew what they would be discussing and Indira and I waited nervously outside.

  ‘What if my mother wishes me to return with her? I think I would die!’ I whispered anxiously.

  Indira sat calmly next to me, holding my hand. ‘She won’t ask you to go back, Anni, I promise.’

  And, of course, Indira was right. My mother emerged smiling, and took me into my bedroom to talk alone.

  ‘The Maharani has asked me if I would be prepared to lend you to her family on a permanent basis. She’s also offered to educate you with Indira, which is exactly what your father would have wished for you.’

  ‘Yes, Maaji,’ I muttered.

  ‘She also said she understands it might be hard for me without you, so she’s suggested I spend part of my year here with you when the family is in residence at the palace. So, my daughter, do you wish to stay on here when I return to Jaipur?’

  ‘Oh, Maaji, I –’ A tear came to my eye. ‘I think I do, yes. Even though I’ll be away from you for part of the year and will miss you dreadfully. But I do know that Father would be very happy to see me continuing my education. And I can’t do that in the zenana in Jaipur.’

  ‘The opportunities you have here are far greater, I agree. And you’ve always been special, my pyari.’ She smiled and touched my cheek with her hand. ‘You will write every week when we are apart?’

  ‘Of course, Maaji. Every day, if you like.’

  ‘Once a week will be fine, dearest child. And I’ll be returning here after the monsoon, in four months’ time. I promise it will not seem long.’

  ‘I will miss you.’

  ‘And I you.’ She opened her arms to me. ‘Just remember, I will always be with you.’

  ‘I know, Maaji,’ I said, hugging her tightly.

  Even now, I remember that she looked at me in that moment with such sadness in her eyes that I was prompted to say, ‘Maybe I should come back to Jaipur with you after all.’

  ‘No, Anni –’ she looked up to the heavens – ‘I know it is your destiny to stay.’

  And so, my mother went back to Jaipur, laden with gifts from the Maharani. And although I’d achieved my heart’s desire and could now look upon Cooch Behar Palace as my permanent home, I couldn’t help feeling a slight twinge of discomfort that my mother, spiritually gifted and wise as she was, had been so subtly persuaded into giving up her precious daughter.

  That summer, when the monsoon season came and the hot earth beneath our feet stung even our hardened soles like a thousand bees, the royal party moved with the rest of privileged India up to the hill stations to breathe the fresh, cool air. We travelled to Darjeeling, a magnificent, mountainous region, seven thousand feet high and famous for its tea plantations, whose fields tumbled down the verdant hillsides as far as the eye could see.

  That summer was the start of my lifelong love affair with Darjeeling; the distant sight of the breathtaking Himalayas alone sent my spirits soaring. The British had also learned to escape to Darjeeling long ago and had made the town their own. Lines of white bungalows, named after places in England, lined the hillsides and the town was immaculately ordered and laid out, unlike our own chaotic Indian villages. I dreamed of one day visiting the real England for myself.

  It was in Darjeeling that I met Indira’s siblings. All three of them were on holiday from boarding school in England. Aged seventeen, sixteen and fifteen, they petted their younger sister, but, with them being so much more mature than she, I could understand why Indira had felt like an only child. Minty, her fifteen-year-old sister, seemed very grown-up and sophisticated. I listened in fascination as they chatted over dinner about life in England. I learned to play croquet on the immaculate lawns and also became skilled at a myriad card tricks thanks to Indira’s gregarious middle brother, Abivanth. I was particularly overawed by Raj, Indira’s eldest brother, the Crown Prince, whose good looks and charm rendered me virtually tongue-tied in his presence.

  The house we inhabited was tiny compared to Cooch Behar Palace, which meant we lived much more as a family unit. Set way up in the hills, and with only horses or rickshaws able to reach it, it was a place of privacy and tranquillity.

  Often, the handsome Maharaja – whom I’d seldom seen in Cooch Behar due to his state duties – would join the rest of his family for a simple picnic lunch in the garden. I saw, in the informal setting of Darjeeling, what I wished for in my own future life: an abiding and true love between husband and wife. I saw it in the way they’d sometimes catch each other’s eye over dinner and share a secret smile, in how I’d often see his hand snake surreptitiously to the Maharani’s waist. This was the kind of genuine affection that I recalled from my own parents’ marriage.

  Even though they ruled over a kingdom together, and the demands on their time were enormous, I realised that their true strength flowed from the mutual admiration and trust each felt for the other.

  That summer, Indira and I liked to rise very early in the morning and ride up the steep tracks to Tiger Hill in order to watch the sun rising over Mount Everest. We both loved visiting the marketplace in the centre of Darjeeling where Tibetan and Bhutanese vendors in enormous fur hats would sell their wares. I was, without doubt, happier than I had ever been and felt completely welcomed and accepted by Indira’s family.

  But even though I’d known hardship, I was too young to fully appreciate that the scales of life can tip in an instant. And that great happiness in one moment does not necessarily guarantee the same in the next.

  The less fortunate in India, trapped far below our mountain paradise, were not so lucky that season. The dust storms swirled on the plains, covering everything daily in a fine layer; even a chink of a crack in a shuttered window could render the interior filthy by morning. The monsoon rains swelled the rivers and propelled the red earth out of its natural channels, destroying everything in its path.

  It was also plague season in India – the time of year every mother dreaded for her children. As I wandered around the graveyard in Darjeeling, I was surprised to see that even a great number of British babies had died here before adulthood. Annually, typhoid, malaria and yellow fever swept through the population, decimating it. That summer was particularly harsh and we had word of plagues breaking out in all parts of the country.

  One night in late August, I suffered a series of strange dreams and awoke sweating and with a terrible feeling
of dread, which I couldn’t dispel. A week later, my heart leapt to my throat when I was called to the Maharani’s sitting room. I had never believed it when my mother had told me that I’d inherited her gift. But as I approached the Maharani with a sense of foreboding clutching at my heart, I already knew what it was she had to tell me.

  The Maharani was holding a letter in her hands. She beckoned me over and patted the space next to her on the chaise-longue.

  ‘Oh, my pyari, I’m sorry to tell you that I have some very bad news for you.’

  ‘How did my mother die?’

  It was the only time in my life I ever saw the Maharani lost for words.

  ‘I . . . Has someone told you? I only received the letter this morning.’

  ‘No, I just . . . knew,’ I said, fighting back my tears.

  ‘Many say we feel it when a loved one has passed on,’ she said, recovering her composure, ‘and you are obviously very sensitive to these things, Anni. I am so sad to tell you that you are right. Your mother had been staying with your aunt and uncle up in the hills to avoid the Jaipur heat. Unfortunately, there was a very bad monsoon, which caused a landslide that swept down the mountains at night. No one in the village survived. I’m so very sorry, my dearest Anni. It seems you’ve not only lost your mother, but also your aunt and uncle and five cousins.’

  I sat there next to her, with her soft palm resting on my small, cold hand. I thought of my mother, her sister and brother-in-law and my cousins, some of them no more than toddlers, and could not reconcile my heart to the idea that they were no longer on the earth.

  ‘If there is anything we can do for you, Anni, you must simply ask.’

  I shook my head, too grief-stricken and shocked to speak.

  ‘This happened over a week ago. They are still –’ the Maharani’s own eyes filled with tears – ‘searching for the bodies. If they find them, then you must of course return to Jaipur for the funerals.’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered, but we both knew they wouldn’t find any bodies. My poor mother would remain in the sun-hardened, red-caked earth for the rest of eternity.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll wish to go to temple to offer prayers. I’ve also found this for you.’ She handed me a white tunic, made of the softest silk. ‘I’ve always thought it a comfort that we Indians wear white to mourn the loss of a loved one, not black. There is enough sadness in this time without that. And, dearest Anni, you must not fear for your future. It was I who took you away from your family, and it is I who shall now take responsibility for your care. Do you understand?’

  At that moment I understood nothing, but I nodded.

  ‘Remember, even if we can’t see them, those we love are always with us,’ she added softly.

  I stood up, unable at that moment to find comfort in her words.

  Once I had dressed in the white tunic, an aide-de-camp was dispatched to take me in the rickshaw to the small Hindu temple in the town. All alone, I sent up the traditional puja offerings and prayers to speed the dead on their way. Afterwards, I sat in front of the gods, my head bent forward onto my knees. Even though I wanted to believe, feel, that my mother was still with me, as stark reality began to dawn, I also thought of myself. I was now an orphan, with no possessions or money of my own, dependent entirely on the magnanimity of the royal family. It would be doubtful that I’d ever marry – without a family, let alone a dowry, I wasn’t a prospect for any man. Even though I would continue to receive an education, it was unlikely that I’d be able to choose my own future path in life.

  Along with the tears I cried for my lost family that day, I must confess that I also wept tears for the loss of the future my father had wished for me – a life in which I would use this bright, enquiring mind he had fed and nurtured so assiduously. That life which had been cruelly curtailed.

  I felt a hand clasp my shoulder, but I did not stir.

  ‘Anni, Ma told me, and I’m so very, very sorry.’ Indira’s voice drifted into my thoughts. ‘I’m here for you, Anni, I promise, for always. I will look after you. I love you.’

  Her hand searched for mine and encircled it tightly. I clung on to it like it was a lifeline.

  She hugged me then, her sinewy body shielding mine as I cried. I don’t know how long we were there before finally I stood up and said a last goodbye to my family. Then I walked slowly from the temple, arm in arm with the one person in the world who I felt truly cared about me.

  Later that evening, unable to sleep, I unwound myself from Indira’s warm body, which was tucked up protectively in bed next to me, and ventured out onto the veranda beyond our room. The night air was wonderfully cool and the stars were shining brightly above me.

  ‘Maaji,’ I whispered, ‘I should be with you up there, not down here alone!’ In my grief, it had not escaped me that if I’d still been living in Jaipur with my mother, I, too, would no longer be standing on this earth.

  Then I heard a sudden, high-pitched sound in my ears. I turned from left to right to see who it was that was singing so sweetly and clearly. But the veranda and its surrounds were completely deserted. The singing did not abate but continued softly, soothing and comforting me, reminding me of the lullabies my mother would sing to me as a baby.

  I suddenly remembered my mother’s words from long ago. And I realised that, as she said I would, I’d heard the singing for the first time. As I stood there, I felt my mother close by me, telling me that her gift was being passed over to my keeping. That it hadn’t been my turn, and that I had more left to do.

  A month later, when the rains had almost stopped and the September air was cooler, we arrived back at the palace. An old lady whom I only knew by sight from the zenana sought me out.

  ‘Anahita, I have something for you.’

  I looked at her in surprise, as she led me to a quiet corner and sat me down.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ she asked me.

  ‘No.’

  ‘My name is Zeena and I am a baidh. I perform the same role here at the palace as your mother did in Jaipur.’

  Her black eyes bored into me and I blinked, comprehending. ‘You are a healer?’

  ‘Yes. And when she was here visiting you, your mother may have had a premonition of her own death, for she entrusted something to me. She said I was to give it to you if anything should happen to her.’ Zeena held out a small cloth sack tied with a piece of string and handed it to me. ‘I haven’t looked at what it contains, but I suggest you go somewhere where you won’t be disturbed and open it.’

  ‘I will. Thank you for bringing this to me, whatever it may be.’ I bowed in gratitude as I stood up.

  ‘She told me that you have the gift of healing too and asked if I would help you.’ She looked at me intently. ‘And I believe you do have it. I’ll teach you all I know, if you wish it.’

  ‘My mother told me when I was small that it would pass to me,’ I answered, overwhelmed with emotion. ‘I knew my mother was dead before the Maharani confirmed it.’

  ‘Of course you did.’ Zeena smiled at me as she brushed my forehead with a kiss. ‘You must come and find me when you are ready to begin.’

  ‘Thank you, Zeena.’

  I scurried off to my favourite spot in the palace grounds. It was a small pavilion, dedicated to Durga, the goddess of feminine power, hidden in a copse of trees, where I would often sequester myself to read and think. As I sat cross-legged, my hands fumbled impatiently with the tightly knotted string. I was aware that this bag contained the last earthly gifts from my mother, and I had no idea what I would find inside.

  I carefully removed the three items from the bag and put them on the hard floor in front of me. There was an envelope addressed to me, a small leather-bound notebook and another, smaller hessian bag, again bound with string. I decided to open the letter first.

  My dearest Anni,

  Pyari, I hope I’m wrong, but the night before I was due to leave Cooch Behar Palace, and you, my beloved daughter, the spirits sang to me and told me that I must prep
are. As I write, I’m not sure when it will happen. And as we must never live our life in fear of what may be, I’m happy that I do not. Anahita, my own, beautiful daughter, I know that if you are reading these words, I am gone from the earth. But as you will learn in your life, no one who truly loved you is ever far from you.

  You are a special child. I know all parents believe this of their children, but you were put on this earth for a reason. I doubt your journey will be easy, and you must remember that fate can throw many difficult situations at us. But whenever you are uncertain about which is the correct path to take, I beg you to use your gift of intuition. It will never fail you.

  Perhaps you heard the spirits singing to you when I passed over – that’s what happened when my mother left me. I’m sure that while you read this, you are feeling alone. Do not, Anni, for you are not abandoned. Your life is just as it is meant to be, decreed by the higher powers. Never forget, our destinies are controlled by them. Maybe, pyari, while you read this, I’m sitting with them now, and beginning to understand.

  The gift you have inherited is a blessing and a curse. It can pull you down into an abyss of darkness when you foresee the death of someone you love, but equally, it can lift you to the stars when your unique powers can help others to heal.

  As you’ll learn on your journey through life, my daughter, all power can be used for good and evil. I know you will use your gift wisely.

  I’ve left two items with Zeena, whom I trust implicitly, and you must too. Have her teach you all that she knows – she understands who you are. One is my book of Ayurvedic formulas, the recipes for my healing remedies. It was handed down through generations to me and is very old and precious. But I hope that what it contains will aid you on your life’s journey. Take care of it, for it contains the knowledge and wisdom of your ancestors, women of extraordinary ability.