‘Timid! You don’t strike me as being timid,’ Eliza said.
‘Ah, but once we were ferocious,’ Dev chipped in, and judging by the look on his face Eliza could believe it. In fact, though shorter than Jay and despite his flippant manner, there was something about the man. He had been friendly enough, but every now and then she caught him staring at her with a wary look and it made her feel uncomfortable. It might just be curiosity but, whatever it was, she found it hard to look him in the eyes. They were very deep and Eliza found them difficult to read. He didn’t at all seem like the kind of man she’d have expected to be a friend of Jay’s.
‘You speak of balance,’ she said, turning from Dev to look at Jay. ‘So what about work? If your old role of warrior has gone, why not find something useful to do?’
‘Hear that, Jay, she thinks camel racing isn’t useful.’ Dev laughed at his own comment and, relieved that the mood had lightened, she smiled.
‘She may have a point,’ Jay said.
‘So how did you become interested in photography?’ Dev asked.
‘My husband bought me my first camera when we were on our honeymoon.’ She had spoken without thinking and glanced at Jayant.
‘You must miss him,’ was all he said.
The guilt over Oliver knotted somewhere deep in her chest. The slow tightening, the feeling of not being far from foolish tears. But now, as always, she clamped down on her emotions and gave a curt nod.
‘And what in particular intrigued you about photography?’
‘It was so exciting.’ She smiled. ‘I saw pictures of the work of Man Ray. It’s highly experimental, and he worked with surrealist artists like Marcel Duchamp. And then, when I tried for myself, I found I could see things differently through my lens. I learnt to focus on the unexpected. It was like seeing the world anew. Of course my husband didn’t imagine it would lead to a career.’
There was a slight pause.
‘It was only after he died that I had the funds to buy more equipment and pay for lessons.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realize,’ Dev said.
‘And now …’ She glanced down. ‘It’s my whole life. For me photography is not just about what I see, it’s about what I feel.’
But her response had lacked the strength of passion she really felt. She didn’t tell him that only through her camera lens could she really express herself, nor did she say that photography had become her solace. She didn’t tell him that she believed success in her career might relieve her of her guilt. She wanted to make her father proud of her, and believed that if she worked hard she could rise above her pain. But the truth was she would lay down her life rather than end up like her mother, even if it meant she had to accept a lifetime of loneliness as the price of pursuing a career. And one thing was certain: never again would she compromise who she was for the sake of feeling less alone, nor would she feel ashamed of insisting on having a voice.
‘You look different,’ she said to Jay, putting aside her thoughts, and pointing at his coat.
‘Ah, this. It’s called an achkan. Mughal in origin.’
She glanced up at the lacy jali screens carved from marble and experienced again the sensation of being watched.
Eliza spent much of the rest of the day immersed in her darkroom. In the heat of Rajputana undeveloped photographic plates would easily deteriorate, so her plan was to always develop the plates quickly. What she hadn’t bargained for was how the extreme heat of the afternoon sun intensified the oppressive atmosphere of an enclosed darkroom with no ventilation, especially as she wore gloves of nitrol and a face mask. The developing fluid was a mixture of chemicals, the most toxic being the white lustrous crystals of pyro, and that was the main reason she had insisted on there being only one key. Just a little pyro ingested or touching the skin could have nasty side-effects. But she loved working alone like this, and although the smell from the acrid, vinegary chemicals made her head ache, she carried on and ended up with a series of contact prints. These she’d show to Clifford, who would hopefully give permission for them to be sent on to Delhi with the plates for the final printing, along with Eliza’s marked-up instructions and notes about the desired size too.
5
Surprised by a knock at her door, Eliza called out to whoever it was to wait and that she wouldn’t be long. She had thought it must be a servant bearing some kind of refreshment, but when she opened the door she saw Indira leaning against the opposite wall.
‘Would you like to see my work?’ the girl said, her eyes darting about and looking as if her high spirits had returned. ‘We are both artists, if you can call photography an art.’
Eliza nodded politely. ‘Surely if pictures make people want to look that’s all that matters.’
She was quite keen to see Indi’s artwork, though if she had been asked she’d probably have said she was more curious about the girl herself. There was something about her. Something that didn’t quite add up. Who was she? Where had she come from, this young woman who appeared to enjoy the freedom of the castle with few of the constraints? And, at the back of Eliza’s mind, she continued to wonder what was the nature of this lithe young woman’s relationship with Jayant.
Indi’s diaphanous scarf floated as she sailed with liquid beauty through labyrinthine corridors and cramped rooms, but Eliza found it hard to breathe freely. The feeling was deepened by the darkly claustrophobic passages, shadowy recesses and countless narrow staircases. The jali screens were everywhere and, having lost her way on two occasions, it was easy to understand why the British had described these palaces as rife with intrigue and gossip.
And yet the magnificence of the golden pillars when they arrived at an opulent durbar, or reception hall! When Eliza gazed up at twenty-foot-high doors made of brass and beyond them a mirrored ceiling sparkling with light and inset with jewels, she gasped. Rubies. Sapphires. Emeralds. It was quite insane. There was a proud lilt to Indi’s voice as she pointed out each member of the family hanging on the walls. She had painted them all in the old Mughal style, and as Eliza took them in she marvelled at the girl’s talent.
‘You painted all these?’
Indira nodded, and with a touch of pride in her voice said, ‘Yes.’
‘You don’t see the need for a photographer, do you?’
The girl chewed her lip while Eliza waited for an answer. ‘Painting is mera pyaar,’ she eventually said.
‘Your love. I do understand.’
‘I feel as if I enter a secret inner world when I paint.’
‘That’s how I feel about photography. It’s all about how I see things,’ Eliza said, and held Indira’s gaze, weighing every word she was about to say. ‘I’m not here permanently. I promise I’ll be no threat to you.’
‘And that’s really all you’re here for? To take photographs?’
‘Of course. What else?’
The girl narrowed her eyes and something flitted across her face, but she didn’t speak.
‘And I’m certain not everyone approves. The Maharani, Priya, doesn’t seem to like me.’
Indi chuckled. ‘Priya doesn’t like anybody. She blames the way Jay is on his British education. You’re British.’
‘The way he is? What does that mean?’
‘On the one hand he avoids displays of emotions, which is very Rajput, and also he will never own up to any kind of vulnerability. On the other hand he’s self-reliant and wayward, often not listening to his family! He is a man who refuses all opportunities to marry a pretty young Princess and has friends who favour civil disobedience, especially since the salt tax and Gandhi’s march against it. As I said, Priya is no friend of the British, but there has been growing unrest and her fear of violent revolution is even greater than her anger at the British.’
‘She’s frightened, I suppose,’ Eliza said, thinking that behind Priya’s hard edges there might be an underlying fragility.
‘She’d never admit it, but probably yes.’
‘People who h
ave a lot to lose often are. Maybe she’s scared of what will happen if India becomes self-governing?’
‘Maybe. But I think Anish will have already made plans to hide his wealth somewhere in one of the old tunnels under the fort.’
‘The wealth is incredible.’
Indi nodded.
‘What about Dev? Is he one of Jay’s friends who favours civil disobedience?’
‘Possibly. He has not been given licence to own a typewriter. That should tell you something. He believes ordinary people should be educated so they can speak with one voice.’ Indi shrugged. ‘Or something like that. You never know with Dev.’
Eliza let out her breath in a long sigh and decided to change the subject. ‘How did you learn to paint?’
‘I was taught by a Thakur at my village.’
‘A nobleman?’
‘Yes.’
‘You aren’t of high birth?’
Indi shook her head and looked at her feet. ‘No.’
Eliza hoped the girl would reveal more, but her face had closed so she decided not to pry about the past, instead asking what she liked about being at the castle.
Indi looked up, seeming relieved at the new direction the conversation was taking. ‘I love everything about it, of course. But I’m more interested to hear about you. Did you never want to marry?’
Eliza smiled internally. Did she seem so very old? As she gazed up at Indi’s beautiful miniatures she thought about how photography had come to take over her life. When they had been in Paris she’d met a woman who was on her way to becoming a photographer in her own right. It was then Eliza had realized that such a thing might be possible. And after one of her early amateur prints of a lone ragamuffin child had made it into an illustrated magazine, she was certain she too could become a competent photographer.
She hesitated but then decided to speak. She might need this girl’s friendship one day. ‘I was married, but my husband died in a traffic accident.’
Indira’s face wore an expression of shock and her mouth fell open. ‘You are a widow?’
Bewildered by such a response, Eliza experienced a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She hadn’t fully grasped the gravity of telling anyone. Jay had said she should keep it quiet, but she had blurted out something about a husband in front of his friend Dev, and now Indi too. What had she been thinking?
6
One night soon after her meeting with Indi, Eliza glanced out of one of the corridor windows not screened by jali and saw a courtyard dotted with utensils, the pale moon silvering the bowls, pots and all manner of cooking containers lying on the ground outside the kitchens. This nocturnal display amplified her feeling that she might never understand her new world or what it meant to be a Rajput.
And in the morning when she heard that Clifford had arrived at the castle, she couldn’t avoid thinking he was about to further upset her tender equilibrium. After she was shown into a small day room further along the corridor dividing the men’s and women’s quarters, he breezed in carrying a large flat box and in a most unprecedented way made himself immediately at home, with his feet up on the plush velvet day bed.
‘I’m here to help you prepare for the state durbar,’ he said in his clipped manner of speaking, and pushed back the wire spectacles that had been sliding down his nose. It was clear he was a man inclined to sweat, especially when wearing a heavy linen suit, and his forehead was shining now. He took out a white handkerchief and wiped his skin. ‘It’s a rather showy spectacle in a couple of days’ time. A giddy affair really, with all the usual ceremonial trappings, and a high turnout.’
‘I have to go?’
‘I was under the impression you’d enjoy it. Dottie will be there.’
She took a breath and, feeling brave, decided to state her case. ‘Well, it would be nice to see her again, but actually I want to move out of the castle.’
‘Into the town?’
She nodded.
He shook his head, though it didn’t seem to be with much regret. ‘Sorry, no can do. Guest house is closed.’
She sighed deeply. This wasn’t going to be easy. ‘There’s no privacy. I feel as if I’m being watched the whole time.’
‘That’s because you are. It’s always an uphill battle with these types.’ He paused and lifted up the box. As he did, his trouser leg rolled up and Eliza saw that his skin was milky white and the hairs were ginger. He was clearly a man who would burn badly.
‘But you must always remember, it is we who are the Empire builders.’ He paused for a moment as if to let that sink in. ‘Anyway, I have something for you.’
‘I don’t understand. From whom?’
He smiled, looking pleased with himself. ‘Let’s just call it a little settling-in gift from me to you.’
She took the box, laid it on the table, slowly undid the strings and then opened the lid. She couldn’t prevent a slight gasp at the sight of a gown in the most beautiful vibrant shade of blueish-green.
‘Your mother told me it was your favourite colour.’
She frowned. ‘How did you know my size? Was that my mother too?’
‘It’s silk,’ he said, ignoring her question. ‘Do you like it?’
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘If you feel it’s a trifle too revealing, there’s a matching shawl, embroidered by hand with gold thread, no less. You can throw it around your shoulders.’
‘I really don’t know what to say.’
There was a momentary silence as he got to his feet and went to look out of the window. If it was to allow her time to think, she felt grateful; maybe she’d been wrong about him, maybe he was more sensitive than she’d thought. But she couldn’t accept this dress from someone she barely knew. What would it say about her if she did? And yet she’d never owned anything so glamorous and the temptation was strong.
‘Tell me about this durbar,’ she said to give herself time. ‘What’s it for?’
‘There was a time when the princely states would hold two important durbars, one a political event where the Maharajah and his ministers would hold court to determine the affairs of the state; the other social, a spectacle to entertain and display the wealth and magnificence of the Prince’s court.’
‘And this is the second kind?’
‘Yes. Since we manage most of the administration in co-operation with Prince Anish, there’s now only a need for a lavish durbar to remind folk of the splendour.’ He beamed proudly. ‘We have successfully separated the administrative from the ceremonial. We can’t have these people creating chaos.’
Eliza still didn’t understand why the Princes had relinquished so much of their power by signing treaties with the British, and longed to ask, but she’d had enough of Clifford for one day. All she knew was that British India took up about three-fifths of the country, and that the rest was made up of 565 princely states under ‘indirect’ British rule.
‘I can’t accept a gift like this from you,’ she said flatly.
‘I think you will find you have to.’
Rather than argue, she changed the subject. ‘Do you know why they put dozens of cooking pots out last night?’
‘I don’t give a hoot for their weird and wonderful customs. But probably moon’s rays, that sort of tosh.’ He walked over to the door. ‘By the way, what do you make of Laxmi?’
‘She’s very kind.’
‘Be a good idea to keep eyes in the back of your head. Just report anything that makes you feel suspicious direct to me.’
‘Goodness. Like what?’
He shrugged. ‘Nothing in particular. Just a friendly suggestion.’
‘Clifford, I was thinking of using some of the better photographs to mount a small exhibition. Would that be all right? Perhaps in October, towards the end of my year here?’
‘I don’t see why not. Have you thought of where you’d mount it?’
‘Not yet. I thought you might be able to advise me on that.’
‘Well, we’ll see. Just run
the ones you want to use past me first. Wouldn’t want you to give the wrong impression of the Empire. Anyway, see you on the night. Don’t let the side down.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Frankly, the way you’ll look in that, well, it’s just as well the zenana and mardana are kept separate.’
‘Mardana?’
‘Men’s quarters, my dear. In my eyes you are already beautiful enough but in that, well, you’ll be a sight for their sore eyes. I’ll have to keep a watch on you.’
As Clifford had given her some idea of what to expect, she took time over her appearance on the evening of the durbar and, once she was dressed in his silky gift, the handmaiden Kiri came to brush her hair. One hundred strokes, Eliza whispered. No more. No less. She could almost hear her mother’s demanding voice in her head as Kiri threaded glittering crystals through her hair.
A memory came racing back of brushing Anna’s hair. When Eliza had asked why she looked so sad, there had been only silence and then her mother’s warm tears had dripped on to Eliza’s own hand. She hadn’t known what to do or how to comfort her mother but had tried to reach out. Anna had swept her hand away and nothing more was said. It had swollen in Eliza’s mind, that small moment, though she never understood what triggered her mother’s ongoing melancholy, except for the death of her husband, of course.
As Eliza gazed in the mirror now she hadn’t expected the way the peacock colours of the silk dress lit her eyes so they sparkled as brightly as the crystals in her hair. And indeed, waving freely beyond her shoulders, her hair shone like burnished copper against the creaminess of her complexion. The woman tied up her hair loosely, then gave her a subtle version of Indian-style make-up, outlining her eyes in grey and dabbing a touch of colour on her lips and cheeks.
Just as Eliza was set to leave the room, Laxmi entered, issued an order to Kiri, who scuttled off, and then, as she appraised Eliza, smiled.
‘But how beautiful you are. Why do you hide your light, my child?’
Before the Rains Page 6