Washerwoman's Dream

by Hilarie Lindsay

  A woman with a tin box for offerings sat by the entrance to the markets beside a white cow.

  ‘She’s a cow-keeper,’ John da Silva had explained when the children first saw her. ‘The cow is sacred to the Hindus. The woman is a widow. You can tell because she wears white. Widows cannot marry again. Once they were forced to throw themselves on their husband’s funeral pyre and be burnt to death; it’s called suttee.’

  ‘Why?’ Yusef asked.

  ‘It was something to do with Sita, who offered to throw herself into the fire because her husband doubted her honour. She had been kidnapped by the monkey god and taken to Ceylon.’

  ‘Would our mother have had to burn herself when Baba died, if she had been in India?’

  Dr da Silva ruffled the boy’s hair and laughed. ‘We are Moslems. It is only Hindus who worship cows and burn widows. Though when the British came they made it illegal. But this is how this woman lives, caring for the cow.’ He gave Yusef a couple of annas to throw into the old woman’s tin.

  ‘The cow is a point of contention,’ he told Winifred as they stood around a stall eating hot samosas and drinking unfermented palm juice. ‘Moslems eat meat. We have no aversion to killing cows. Hindus are vegetarians and revere the cow as the giver of life. It is something to resolve before we can unite Hindus and Moslems in the fight for Home Rule. The Hindus want us to agree to a cow protection act. Gandhi is trying to strike a compromise with the Khalifat.’

  On a hot day they bathed at Chowpatty Beach and played ball on the dark sand. Sometimes in the cool of the evening they walked by the water, watching the kolis mending their nets as they prepared to put out to sea. Then one day the family found themselves in a place where there were shanties made from scraps of bags and branches of palm trees. It reminded Winifred of the Aboriginal camp at Oodnadatta. But this was different. There the air was dry and the wind from the desert blew away unpleasant smells. People had enough to eat. Here people were starving and you choked on the stench of raw sewage, rotting garbage, dead bodies and scavenging dogs.

  She drew her sari over her face and went to turn back, but it was too late. People seemed to emerge from nowhere, pulling at her clothes, touching the children, holding out their hands for money. For the first time in India she felt afraid.

  She scooped Pansy up in her arms and called to the boys, ‘Run!’ and they hurried back the way they had come, pursued by a screeching mob of children. Winifred hailed the first tonga she saw and they jumped in without haggling over the fare.

  Winifred was still shaken that evening at dinner when she told Mr da Silva what had happened. He regarded her gravely, saying, ‘You must be careful where you walk in the city. It is divided into many parts. Some are safer than others. When a person is starving there is no knowing what they will do.’

  Winifred paused as the servant stood by her side with a dish of steaming vegetables, then spooned some onto her plate. She began to eat with her fingers, mopping up the hot chilli sauce with a piece of hati still warm from the coals. When she had finished she asked, ‘Why doesn’t the government help?’

  Mr da Silva stopped eating, wiping his hands on a damp cloth the servant passed him. ‘It does. It does. These people are immigrants, like the rest of us. Bombay was created by the British from a cluster of islands. As it prospered people came from the hinterland to share in the wealth created by the British. All except the koli, who were here first. They live as they have always done by the edge of the sea, and earn their living from fishing. Have some curry sauce. It may be hotter than you like, but try it anyway.’ He motioned to the servant, who moved towards Winifred with a sauce boat in his hand.

  ‘These people you saw will not be there long. The City Trust is building chawls, you have seen those tall, ugly grey buildings. They have small rooms and a place to cook. There are latrines and washing facilities. I have heard that as many as forty live in one room. At least it is shelter when the monsoon comes.’

  ‘But all those children — naked and so thin …’

  ‘Ah, the children. That is another thing again. You must ask my son. He is the doctor and works among the poor. Children are seen as a gift from God. If they survive they are put to begging — or worse. The government is reclaiming land from the sea at Back Bay. Once the harijans find work they move into chawls. Sometimes they open a stall and send their sons to school where they learn to speak English, to read and write. Yet for everyone who leaves the shantytown there are a thousand to take their place. It will never be any different while Bombay is seen as a Mecca by the poor.’

  Despite his words Winifred was still disturbed. She thought about it as she lay in bed and drifted off to sleep, to dream she was back in Oodnadatta with the camels. Ali was there and they were happy. There was work and plenty of food and somewhere safe to live. When she woke she made up her mind to wait no longer but to return with the children to Australia and take up their old life. At least there were no people starving and it was safe to walk anywhere in the street.

  That afternoon a message came from the Khalifat to say that King Amanullah and Queen Souriya were coming to Bombay with their retinue. Mr da Silva passed it on to her. ‘They are hoping that the All India Congress will support their request to the British Government for money to fight. The Khalifat is giving a banquet in their honour. The British are to be invited also. Your name is on the list, of course. You will be presented to the king and queen. The Khalifat has a favour to ask. It is that you arrange the food for the British guests.’

  The news that the king and his consort were to be in Bombay heartened Winifred. Even though she had made up her mind to return to Australia as soon as possible, now she was not so sure. She had set her heart on going to Afghanistan for the sake of her children, and she did not want to let it go if it was still possible. She thought if she could speak to the queen they might be able to accompany them when the royal family left Bombay.

  She was not so happy about the idea of catering for an English banquet. She had never been to one. At home her meals consisted of meat and vegetables with damper cooked in a camp oven or a fuel stove. And yet she knew that if she refused she would lose face.

  The function was to be held in the town hall. Built by the British in 1833 in a neoclassical style, it had become the cultural and civic heart of Bombay and contained massive assembly rooms. The exterior had three porticos with fluted Doric columns and an imposing staircase. Winifred went to inspect it with the major-domo, who was to oversee the preparations, and was startled to see the building had been festooned with great quantities of red twill bunting, giving it the appearance in her mind of a furnace of turkey red.

  The main room had a raised trestle table for the royal party, plus two other long tables that stretched to the end of the room. Here the Indian dignitaries would be seated. The British had been assigned a smaller room with one long table covered with red twill over which Winifred draped a length of white sheeting. She was not pleased with the finished effect but there was nothing else available. Also the choice of Western-style food was limited so she decided to serve roast chicken and beef, both of which were readily available. There were no potatoes or pumpkin. Instead she settled for tinned green peas and tinned beetroot.

  Winifred knew it was a poor menu for a banquet but the cook made a special oven for the occasion, lined with tin and the roasts were cooked to perfection. She had decided on blancmange for pudding and made this by simmering two gallons of buffalo’s milk in a boiler. She thickened it with a whole packet of cornflour, flavoured it with vanilla and divided it into three portions, which she coloured saffron, pink and green.

  The Indians were accustomed to eating with their fingers but she knew that she would need to provide cutlery for the British. She sent the khansama to the bazaar and was far from happy when he returned with some cheap tin spoons, odd forks with bones handles and an assortment of knives. She felt even more mortified when she saw the room reserved for Indian guests and wondered if it had been done delib
erately to slight the British. The tables were covered with cloth of gold, with great epergnes of sparkling crystal overflowing with fruit and sweetmeats. The royal table was decorated with the crescent of Islam picked out in precious stones, which gleamed as they caught the light. Later Winifred was to learn that it was part of the loot rescued on the death of Ghengis Khan.

  Winifred had been invited to stand in the receiving line to be presented to the royal couple. She had dressed carefully, wearing a long white silk gown she had bought at Laidlaws. With it she wore her silver-crescent brooch and snake bracelet, and she pinned some white jasmine in her hair. As she waited in the entrance hall with the guests, both British and Indian, she rehearsed a little speech in which she planned to express her thanks to the king and queen for the opportunity to serve them. A band, with men in British military uniforms, stood on the footpath, the sun glinting off their brass instruments, the red coats making a splash of colour matching the red carpet covering the steps.

  A buzz of excitement ran through the guests as the fleet of black limousines drew up in front of the town hall and the king and queen alighted. They paused briefly as the band struck up the British national anthem, ‘God Save the King’, and then began to walk slowly up the stairs.

  Winifred noticed that the queen had discarded Western dress but was unveiled, with a spray of white jasmine in her hair. She wore a cream satin sari embroidered with pale pink roses with silver leaves. On her right shoulder was a crescent-shaped brooch that gleamed with diamonds and she had a diamond bracelet on her right arm. Despite her magnificent attire she looked sad and withdrawn, her mouth drooping, and Winifred saw she was expecting a child. The king was a disappointment. She had envisaged a dashing warrior, only to find he was nothing more than a tubby little red-faced man, the type she had often seen in London racing to catch a tram, except that the little tubby red-faced man would not have his suit plastered with medals and the tag ends of ribbons.

  The royal couple passed along the line as Winifred watched, until it was her turn and they stopped in front of her. Her name was called and she curtseyed, but before she could speak they had passed on.

  The banquet had barely begun when the guests were asked to stand while the king and queen left. They were to travel by train to Peshawar, the British end of the Khyber Pass. Later Mr da Silva told Winifred that the banquet had achieved nothing because it was too late. A rumour was circulating that a bandit leader called Baccha Sakao had seized the throne and there was deep concern in both Indian and British circles as to the fate of the royal couple.

  Winifred listened in silence, resigned to the fact that now she had no option but to return to Australia as soon as she could get a berth on a steamer. She was bitterly disappointed. She had allowed her hopes to be raised and now she felt cheated.

  * * *

  As the weeks went by the situation in Afghanistan worsened. The story of the beleaguered king and queen captured the attention of the Australian press. The beautiful young queen had fired the public’s imagination and photographs of her wearing the latest Parisian fashions were published.

  When reports circulated that King Amanullah and Queen Souriya had been declared infidels and that rebel groups in Afghanistan were determined to kill them, the Moslem community in Bombay became concerned. Placed as she was in the da Silva household, Winifred became a party to the events as they unfolded. First there was the news that King Amanullah had abdicated and his place had been taken by the bandit Baccha Sakao, and that Kabul, the capital of Afghanistan, was in ferment. There was no cable or telephone connection with the country and it was impossible to know the true situation or what had happened to the former king and queen. Nadir Khan, concerned for his cousin Amanullah, cabled that he was arriving from France to see if he could assist. Winifred was asked to help look after Nadir Khan and wrote an account in her diary which was later published in the Register in South Australia, with Winifred described as ‘a special correspondent’.

  21 February 1929. Wireless just received from Nadir Khan. Says that the vessel will arrive in Bombay Roads tonight. He is returning from France to see what aid he can give to his cousin. Nadir Khan used to be in command of the Afghan King’s forces. Maulana Shaukat Ali has telephoned me to wear Indian saris and come to town and act as hostess for the visiting entourage. Maulana intends that Nadir Khan and party should be guests of Khalifat House.

  Later: Am already dressed and waiting for the car. Here it comes.

  22 February 1929. Nadir Khan is a very sick man. I believe from the look of him that he has consumption, and that he is very far gone with it, too. He is almost too weak to walk. At seven o’clock last night we went in state to the wharf. Our official car was in the lead, with a great blazing crescent on the radiator. Five other cars followed behind.

  Madame Shaukat Ali, Ziad Ali and myself occupied the front car, and lesser dignitaries the hinder one. Arrived at the wharf, our car held the position of honour, with our volunteer corps drawn up in formation on either side. They looked very smart in the Khalifat uniform of light brown, with crescent metal buttons, and caps to match. We had to wait nearly an hour. The city police arrived in files to keep back the great crowds that had gathered around us. It was rather fascinating to watch the gaily coloured, shifting throng beneath the great arc light of the wharf’s entrance.

  At last they came, and for a while all was confusion as the throng pressed to see our Afghan guests, and the police in vain tried to hold the crowds back.

  It seemed that they had wirelessed for accommodation at the Taj Mahal Hotel, and Nadir decided that it was better for the ladies to go there, and the gentlemen of the party to the Khalifat office. Finally, I got the women away in several car loads. For they had many relations, dependants, and ayahs. After they had been got away I had time to take further stock of Nadir Khan, and it seemed to me that bed was about the best place for him. He was so weak that his voice quivered as he spoke. Maulana and Ziad had the front seat going back to the office, and Nadir Khan and I sat in the rear. As soon as the car started he leaned back against the upholstery and closed his eyes from sheer fatigue. We had borrowed the second chef from the Taj Mahal together with three Indian cooks, to cater for our guests. I stayed during supper, leaving shortly after and travelling home accompanied by four volunteer guards.

  23 February. Am just about to leave to take up the day’s duties as hostess again. I feel inclined to wipe the floor with Nadir Khan. He considered I have no right to have any ankles. My sari reaches to within two inches of my feet, but that evidently is not enough. He is, of course, polite as far as words are concerned but he does not attempt to disguise his scornful contempt as he lets his eye drop downward. Evidently he has not learned too much toleration. I can see he considers me almost declasse.

  Later: They stayed for three days and then entrained for Peshawar. When he arrived there he was so ill that he had to be supported from the train. They rented a little bungalow with a compound and within it Nadir Khan lay in bed for three weeks, while special prayers were offered for his recovery. All his proclamations were made by medium of his brothers, and indeed, are so still, as he is always too weak to raise his voice above a murmur.

  One paper reports that he has been made king against his will. This is absolutely impossible. He has only to repeat a certain line from the Koran, and not even the boldest would risk the danger of the implied curse. For politic reasons he would not allow himself to be king. I know this definitely. He signed, and also his brothers, a lengthy document at the Peshawar Khalifat office that on condition of the Afghan treasuries being placed at his disposal for the purpose of ousting the bandit usurper, he would fight to place one of the direct line of the blood royal on the throne. He will never aspire to more. Indeed, he would have no benefit or pleasure from such a course. His only desire is for quiet and peace, and the consolation of the church for his last days. For too well he knows the toll runs short.

  He was bitterly grieved at Amanullah’s abdication and
does not hide his thoughts about what he considers has disgraced the family. To mend that disgrace alone is his endeavour … But people must not run away with the idea that Nadir is a violent reformer. It sounds nice on paper and nice on the tongue, but there is very little reform to be expected from him. He is most conservative for the old ways. One proof is that of his position today. Had he shown the tiniest piece of a reformer, the soldiery would not have stood for him any more than for Amanullah.

  27

  SECRET MISSION

  WHILE WINIFRED WAITED FOR A passage on a ship back to Australia an invitation came to afternoon tea at the home of Bebe Feroza, wife of the bey, who was very high in Khalifat circles. Her hostess greeted her and led her into a light airy room painted white with high ceilings. There were tapestries hanging on the wall with a design of birds and flowers, and matching rugs on the polished floor. It was much more sparsely furnished than other Indian homes she had visited.

  Bebe Feroza followed her gaze, saying ‘I like to keep the room simple because of the heat. It allows the air to circulate. There is always a breeze from the sea. The design of the room is French but the furnishings are Indian. The tapestries were stitched locally and the rugs are hand-woven. They are traditional designs. This is a tree of life design, one of the most beautiful. I am not so fond of the traditional Moslem designs with their geometric patterns. I like something that speaks to the heart as these birds and flowers do.’ She led Winifred to a large sofa covered in cream brocade and they sat together.