Goddess of Fire

by Bharti Kirchner

  Close behind me, Idris whispered, “That’s Anne memsahib. Gorgeous, I must say, absolutely gorgeous.”

  I looked down at my spice-streaked sari and felt the sweat under my arms. In the room, Job sahib stood face-to-face with Anne memsahib. As he smiled and chatted with her, he seemed to change visibly. His gaze was fixed on the woman in front of him. For a moment he’d tossed aside the mantle of his official duties. However beguiling the Chief Factor was this evening, Anne memsahib was more enticing. Even as she responded to Job sahib’s queries, her blue gaze flitted to other prospects in the room flush with laughter and conversation.

  One of the servers consulted with Job sahib after which he requested that everyone be seated. The seats had been allocated according to rank, recent accomplishments, and seniority. Anne memsahib eased herself into a chair on Job sahib’s right, the most coveted seat at the table that evening. Her face pink with pride, Anne memsahib looked as though she’d earned the seat by being the most beautiful woman in the room.

  The aroma of food throbbed in the air and heads turned as four servers paraded in, bearing silver trays stacked with bronze platters. There were gasps of admiration, as each person was served the first course: a meat soup.

  “Let us steal the cook!” one of the women chirped; the company laughed.

  “We might as well be at a soirée in the Royal Court,” said another woman. “Shabash!”

  “Who made the soup?” a third woman asked Bir.

  “Maria, our chief cook,” Bir replied.

  Job sahib’s face flushed, momentarily, or perhaps it was my desperate imagination.

  Anne memsahib took a small portion of the soup, pushed the bowl aside, turned away from her host to her other neighbor, the one on her right, Arthur sahib. Above the clattering of silverware, they conversed. She laughed coquettishly, whispering into his ears and leaning in closer to him, her earrings swaying. He seemed to sparkle from her attention, while Job sahib looked away.

  All eyes were raised as the servers circled the table, offering the next course, a fragrant chicken biryani. The air was charged with the fragrance of clove, cardamom, and black pepper. There wouldn’t be any left for us, those who had slaved away in the heat to prepare these dishes.

  The guests ate with gusto and the smiling servers kept their wine glasses filled. The stream of conversation flowed from the effects of smallpox in England, to that of a plague epidemic, to the growing popularity of tea as a beverage. Some women attested that tea houses were springing up in London, serving a strong dark beverage called tea, so loved by Queen Catherine.

  Yet another course arrived in a white oval platter: mutton korma, with cubes of tender meat drenched in deep brown gravy. Bir uncorked another bottle of fine wine.

  Anne memsahib’s roving eyes caught the gaze of Charles sahib, dressed in a brown doublet and a cape trimmed with green taffeta, sitting across from her. Although I could only see his back, I imagined him scratching his chin and responding with a deep seductive look, his lips pursed and pale, beady eyes burning. Job sahib leaned back against the gold velvet of his chair. More than one woman in the room glanced at Anne memsahib suspiciously, tension palpable in the room. The conversation slowed. It was as though everyone either contemplated or dreaded who would pair up with whom. Anne memsahib with Charles sahib, I thought, smiling to myself, a perfect match.

  Standing next to me, Idris shook his head. “She’s cheeky, she’ll ruin the evening. Ah, let me go serve the next round of dishes.”

  I too retreated to the kitchen where I kept filling the serving platters, making sure that each was garnished with herbs, nuts, and dried fruit. The food vanished in no time and the servers returned. “They’re having the time of their lives,” Bir said. “One lady said it was worth taking a long voyage from England if only to taste our roasted brinjal dish. The idea of roasting brinjal is exotic to her.”

  “You can’t please them all,” blurted Pratap. “I saw one lady crinkling her nose. She’s not used to our style of food. Bread, cheese, onions, and boiled cabbage, that’s what she eats at home.”

  Tariq swept in through the door, dressed in a light green vest and a white muslin headdress adorned with silver threads. “Good work, everyone,” Tariq said. “Everything has gone without a hitch, although I think the korma could have been garnished better. They’re going to relax in the courtyard for a few minutes before the dance begins. The meeting hall has been cleared for that.”

  I sighed with relief, but Tariq’s gaze was on me. “Now it’s your turn to use your English skills, Maria. Job sahib and Anne memsahib have retired to the verandah to have a private moment. Go ask them if they’d like more wine.”

  I stared down at my soiled sari. “But—”

  Tariq cut me off with a sneering laugh. “Do you think Job sahib will look at what you have on? With that beauty on his arm? The ladies are curious about the genius cook who has prepared this banquet. They’re full of praise, although I noticed that not everyone has polished the last course off their plates. You must have rushed too much. Well, next time, make sure. Now, hurry! Go tell Anne memsahib you planned this whole meal. She’s our guest of honor and you should respectfully present yourself to her.”

  How would I greet an English lady? Who would help me? Idris came to my rescue. He had previously worked in a French household and showed me how to curtsy. I practiced by bending one knee, placing one foot in front of the other, and sinking, whileholding a hint of a smile.

  “Oh, you’re a natural at this,” Idris said after a few rounds and rushed off to play the flute to our honored guests.

  I covered my head with the sari train and bearing a tray of wine, I walked, feeling hungry, weary, and lost amidst so much pomp.

  I paused at the verandah bedecked with lanterns and roses, with incense smoldering on an ivory burner. The sweet strain of flute music, an invocation of courtship, flowed from a not-too-distant spot in the courtyard. It filled the space to overflowing, silencing the mosquitoes, speaking as though to the longing in my heart.

  A strong wind blew. Drops of rain began to fall as I stepped onto the verandah. Job sahib and Anne memsahib idled on wicker chairs. Job sahib leant forward, smiling and trying to make a joke.

  She gave me a cold stare and a long-drawn-out, “Yes?”

  I put the tray down on a low table and sank into a curtsy. “I have not yet had the honor of presenting myself to you, memsahib. I am Maria, the cook. May I offer you a glass of wine?”

  She shrugged, gave me a disdainful look, and turned to Job sahib. I stood there, holding my breath, and waited for recognition from him. He’d always greeted me in the past, joining his hands in namaskar, eyes twinkling with welcome. Now, in a secret chamber of my heart, I hoped for a similar greeting.

  Job was enamored by Anne’s gorgeous appeal. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. All evening he had been admiring her satin complexion, her elegant carriage, flirtatious hand gestures that spoke as much as her azure eyes. She aroused feelings in him that he had not felt since he was a much younger man. It wouldn’t be easy to win her favor. He’d already seen her catch the attention of both Arthur and Charles. Yet he trusted in his own virility as never before, and he welcomed the challenge. He would simply draw her into his arms and kiss her passionately, erasing any thoughts of other men from her mind. She would be happy that he had done so.

  Only in passing did he notice me. He was about to look up when Anne memsahib leaned closer to him and squeezed his hand. That touch made Job sahib forget his cook. Anne memsahib was trying to take him away from me, I thought. The lights blurred in the rain. The music faded. The jasmine fragrance cloyed. Job sahib looked deep into Anne mem-sahib’s eyes. Standing forlorn with a tray of wine, I wished I could make myself invisible.

  “I wish you a safe return journey, memsahib.”

  I bowed gracefully and hurried toward the servants’ quarters; raindrops pelted my forehead. The revelry continued all around me; a roar of laughter emanated from the mee
ting hall as I passed by it. For the sahibs and the ladies, the night was still young, still full of promises. I was alone, hungry, exhausted, humiliated. In my mind, I glimpsed Job sahib and Anne memsahib whirling, taking intricate steps, inhaling each other’s scent, laughing, mumbling sweet words, kissing. I nearly screamed.

  “Maria!”

  I heard Job sahib’s voice and swiveled around.

  He stood on the verandah, Anne memsahib was nowhere in sight. I walked back toward him in the misty rain. “A splendid job, Maria, far beyond what I’d expected. I must extend my compliments to you personally. You and the other kitchen workers have impressed our guests.”

  I drank in the compliment, my voice catching, and bowed. “That’s most kind of you to say, sir.”

  “And please do not take anyone’s manners as being directed toward you.”

  He was about to turn away when I inquired, “Why did the ladies come so far, sahib? Couldn’t they find suitable mates in England?”

  “No, not if they want to marry in station.”

  He sighed and continued, “Even though some of the women have perfected their French and know how to dance, not all are highborn, but then neither am I. Some are plain looking, middleclass, and corpulent, as you can very well see. Others are daughters of farmers and laborers. Still others work as milliners and tailors. But all of them dream of living in the Orient, of having jewels, domestic help, estates, ballroom dances, and meat dishes at every meal, none of which they can afford in England. They’re also seeing this as an adventure. We English are a seafaring people born to adventure, you see.”

  I was grateful for the apologetic gift of an explanation. How I would have liked to dress like an English lady: the feel of a smooth cool velvet gown against my skin, the clinking of bracelets, and the rustle of silk petticoats under my skirt. How I’d have liked to twirl and laugh and jostle and fritter the evening away; to be surrounded by candles, flowers, incense, music … the warmth of a man.

  “I must return to my guests.” He bade me good night, turned, and walked away, leaving me feeling empty, weary, and convinced that his heart was elsewhere, despite that lost look in his eyes.

  I was drenched. I rushed to my room, the thunder in my ears, and discovered that this night of misery wasn’t over yet. The wind had forced open the door of my room, and the rain had drenched my only quilt. I would have to sleep on the cool hard floor, but I had to first return to the kitchen to help clean up.

  FOURTEEN

  The next day at dawn, I marched down the walkway that led from the servants’ quarters to the main wing. A flight of crows cawed as they wheeled overhead. I halted in surprise when I saw Charles sahib and Anne memsahib speeding down the front steps of the mansion. Hand-in-hand, laughing and murmuring, they lurched toward a waiting carriage. Her loose brown hair streamed behind her, her creased gown swept the steps.

  Smiling to myself, I went to the kitchen. As Idris fanned the fire and I skinned a ripe pineapple, Bir said in a low voice, “Can you make a guess which sahib’s room was the messiest this morning?”

  To my relief, several names were floated around, but not that of Job sahib. In the pink promise of morning, I saw us together in the verandah, in the courtyard, in his bedchamber. The tug at my heart was as real as the knife I held, as constant as the smoky air from the chulah I inhaled. How did Job sahib really feel about me? Did I appear in his dreams in the depths of the night when all that was untrue dropped away? Or was he simply being kind to a girl he’d saved from death’s clutches?

  Bir looked up from rinsing a pan in a bucket of water. “Guess who could be crass enough to leave his door ajar in the early morning hours, even if it was much hotter outside?”

  Idris laughed. “Couldn’t be Mr Earthquake, could it? A man or a woman?”

  “I saw him abed with Anne memsahib, naked and tossing in the sheets,” Bir said. “The door was ajar when I passed by, so I got a full view of them kissing and had an earful of vulgar words.”

  “Are you joking?” Pratap said, pounding spices. “Mr Charles sweeping a princess off her feet? In my mind, he’s the last person.”

  “Oh, you, the wrestler,” Bir said, interrupting. “You think looks and strength are all that matter. Charles Jones, though not of royal blood, has money, a whole mint of it, and he can turn on his charm when he wants to. He’s perfect for Anne memsahib; she craves money and status, I think. I also think Charles sahib is trying to knock Job sahib down so he can get the position of the Chief Factor. He likes to be on top, and he’ll do his best to get there, that vicious man. Shiva, Shiva! Had he noticed me peeking, I wouldn’t be alive.”

  I arranged the pineapple slices in a flowery pattern on a platter. All the while I imagined Charles sahib on the verandah, heard his ominous barks, the threats I’d received from him insisting he’d punish me if I didn’t report kitchen gossip to him.What if he found out how we had discussed him in the kitchen this morning? I had no time to seek answers to my doubts and worries.

  Judging by the amount of sunlight streaming through the window, I could tell it would soon be time to serve breakfast. Cloth bag in hand, I slipped out the door to pick some plums.

  My bag was only half-filled when I glimpsed Job sahib waiting by the stable, his lean form in sharp profile in the light from the rising sun. He seemed to be waiting for his favorite stallion Sudarshan to be saddled. I plucked a dozen more plums and stowed them in my bag, all the while stealing glances at him, hoping to catch his attention, but he seemed preoccupied.

  “Late again, aren’t you?” I heard him bark at Pratap who was tending the stable. “You get your meals and a place to stay, but no work? Next time I’ll have you expelled.”

  Seeing Pratap shrink and feeling his shame, I bowed my head. I had not expected Job sahib to speak in such a rough tone to another person, to a worker. The sahib turned, noticed me, and strode toward me. His eyes were a sleepless red. Even though the sun shone on him, his complexion looked dull. I could tell from the stiffness in his posture that all was not well. I wondered if it concerned Anne memsahib. Did he know about her and Charles sahib?

  “Good day to you, Maria,” he said in a pleasant tone. He complimented me once again on the night’s feast, but he had bad news. Our beloved Nawab had collapsed last night in the middle of a meal, and his condition was deemed to be serious. “I’m off to the Palace to visit him.”

  To maintain law and order, the Nawab employed 200 war elephants, huge beasts said to be as unmovable as mountains and as aggressive as lions. He also had several thousand armored horsemen. His army, which had already subdued many Portuguese pirates, would fight to protect our traders from the hands of bandits and insurgents. Those security measures were likely to be revoked if another Nawab ascended the throne.

  However, I wanted to speak about another matter of more immediate concern. “I am a humble servant, sahib. All of us who work here are lower in status than you and the other sahibs. Pratap is a hard-working man, sahib, and he deserves …

  “Of course,” Job replied. “I didn’t mean to … I shouldn’t have …

  His harsh treatment of Pratap had had to do with how miserable he felt. The sense of being rejected was strong in him. It also revived bitter old memories of which Job would speak at length another day. For the time being, he had failed to win Anne; she had taken to Charles instead. Wasn’t he handsome and desirable? Hadn’t he told her she was beautiful?

  Yet another blow to Job had been the news Anne had brought from England.

  He didn’t know whether he could confide in the girl standing in front of him, accusing him of rudeness, of insensitivity. She was a stranger still. He wasn’t used to revealing his feelings to any woman other than his mother. It was easier to discuss personal matters with the Nawab and Arthur, also with Tariq, at times. But Maria? Well, for some reason, she made him feel relaxed, safe.

  “You see, Maria, after I left home as a young man, I had to take many small jobs. Away from my family, amid many difficulti
es, I haven’t forgotten what it was like to be ill-treated. Yes, I am upset, but not with Pratap. Last night I got news from Anne that my mother is seriously ill. I wonder if I might be indirectly responsible for her illness, if my being away for so long …”

  A blend of emotions deepened the etchings around his mouth. “She’s the only member of my family I still correspond with, but I haven’t written to her in a while. I haven’t been a good son.”

  He turned back at some movement and found Pratap waving from the stables. He nodded to Pratap in a friendly manner, walked up to his horse, swung himself up onto the saddle, and galloped off, a pale sun shining on his back.

  I could imagine the empty space inside him, its crying need to be recognized and healed. Was he even aware of it? Did self-blame really cause his occasional angry outbursts? I didn’t fully forgive him at that instant, but I was less angry, more willing to understand.

  Before returning to the kitchen, I looked in on Pratap. He went back inside the stable, his shoulders sagging. How long would it be before his day brightened again?

  For the next several hours, despite the company of the kitchen staff and the rigid details of meal preparation, I felt distracted. Why did these people from a far-off land treat us so poorly? Why didn’t they consider us their equals? How could we ever change the situation?

  What if I, a woman of humble origin, could attain a position which would offer me a broader perspective than that provided by my current cramped reality of cooking and cleaning? What if I could then reach out to those less fortunate among us?

  FIFTEEN