A Sahib's Daughter

by Harkness, Nina

  His house, where he lived with his wife Usha, was in a cluster of weather-beaten, thatched huts made of bamboo and clay. It was always cool and dark inside their home because of the bamboo thicket in the back yard that shielded it from the sun. Fronds of an old banana tree obscured the house from the laneway that led to the water pump. He went home to Usha every evening and gloomily told her that he had not heard anything that day. But she didn’t need to be told. She could gauge his mood by the way he dragged his feet and bowed his head. The day of the move was rapidly approaching, and he moped about the garden, wondering what the new assistant manager would be like.

  Finally, one afternoon when he was supposed to be at work, Usha heard Ramchand’s footsteps racing up the path. She ran to meet him and saw him joyfully waving a piece of paper. The Memsahib had finally called for him. He was going to the Burra Bungalow with the Memsahib! And not as under-gardener, they wanted him to be their head gardener! His black eyes shone, and Usha caught her breath with happiness for him. The reason they had not said anything to him before, he told her, was because they knew that Mohan was thinking of leaving, and they wanted to be sure first. He was the happiest man in the world.

  She didn’t tell him that she had bled all day. He hadn’t even known that she had missed her last two periods. She had waited to tell him till she was absolutely sure, not wanting to disappoint him with another miscarriage. Now, they would have to start all over again. She was much younger than he was, but the pressure on her to produce a child was intense, both from his family and hers. But tonight they would celebrate. They would visit their families and share the good news. No one needed to know that there was bad news as well. She would keep that to herself.

  Chapter 8

  Dooars, 1977

  Lying on the grass, Samira gazed at the sunset sky that shone a brilliant orange behind the branches of the giant Poinciana tree. Indian colors, she thought to herself, reveling in the feeling of peace the garden gave her: the gaudy ochre hues of mangoes, gold-Mohr blossoms, marigolds and saffron. The shriek of cicadas from secret recesses in the trees blended into the ringing twilight silence. Silhouettes of a hundred starlings streaked across the mango saffron sky. In the jacaranda tree, a flock of orioles assembled for their evening chorus.

  Throngs of plantations workers trudged home in the tired dusk, trailing long shadows that leapt and jiggled on the dusty pathway behind them. Like their owners, the shadows balanced earthenware pitchers on their heads, trundled thin bicycles or tugged lagging children by the hand.

  Mark was often restless these days. He had been consumed with a sudden burst of energy as the temperature cooled, after his lethargy in the heat of the afternoon. He was on vacation from his university in Calcutta. Samira was home from college, a graduate at long last.

  “Sammy, where are you? I know you’re out there,” he called.

  “Go away!” she said, wishing he’d leave her in peace. “What d’you want?”

  “Let’s play hide-and-seek. I’m bored!” He ran toward the shrubbery, challenging her over his shoulder to join him in their childhood game. Samira laughed, humoring him, wondering if they would always behave like children when they were together. They played the familiar game with old expertise, reverting to well-known hiding places, running sure-footedly in the deepening shadows and screaming with laughter when discovered. Suddenly, the blast of a motorcycle driving up the gravel driveway shattered the tranquility of the evening.

  “Who’s that?” asked Samira, seeing a young man sauntering over to them, somewhat peeved at having their game interrupted.

  “It’s Ravi,” said Mark. “Ravi Anand. He’s the new assistant manager at Baghrapur.”

  Baghrapur was the neighboring estate on the other side of the Murti River. It was a large, isolated plantation, bordered by the river to the west and a forbidding expanse of jungle to the north. Many years ago when they were young children, the plantation manager had been attacked by a rogue elephant that ran amok, crashing through the villagers’ houses and destroying their precious vegetable patches. On hearing about it from the breathless messenger, the manager had leapt into his jeep and rushed to the scene. He discovered the tusker with one of the laborers borne aloft in his trunk, about to batter him to death, impervious to the showering of rocks by the frenzied villagers. The Scottish planter had aimed his rifle right into the eye of the elephant, saving the man’s life. Since that day, he was affectionately known to the planters’ children as “Uncle Elephant.”

  Ravi approached Mark and Samira. He was of medium height, with wavy hair that reached his collar. Samira could discern even through the half light that his eyes were vivid green. He had clear-cut features with defined eyebrows and walked with a confidence that was a near swagger, qualities almost guaranteed to bring out the worst in Samira’s insecurities.

  “Ravi,” called Mark. “How are you, man? Come and meet my sister Samira.”

  “Samira,” he emphasized her name. “I’m very pleased to meet you. What a pretty name.”

  Obviously a bit of a smoothie, Samira decided, and most likely a product of St. Columbus or one of the other fancy Delhi universities. He’d be lucky if he lasted two seconds in tea.

  “Pleased to meet you, Ravi,” she countered, resisting the urge to emphasize his name they way he had hers. “Welcome to the Dooars.”

  “And where have you been hiding?” he asked.

  “I just graduated from college in Darjeeling.”

  “Look,” said Mark, still in the throes of their game.” It’s getting dark. We were in the middle of hide-and-seek, Ravi. Rather juvenile, I know, but it’s one of the things people who don’t have television do to amuse themselves. Will you join us?”

  “Sure,” said Ravi, somewhat taken aback.

  “Good. Samira, you’re ‘it.’ Come on Ravi, let’s go hide.”

  Samira wondered how old he was, counting to the obligatory twenty. Probably only slightly older than herself, she guessed, if this happened to be his first job.

  “Ready or not, I’m coming,” she shouted, running off to search for them in the shadows. The garden rang with shouts of laughter. Ravi was “it,” and then it was Mark’s turn. Samira, breathless from running, and searching for somewhere to hide, crawled behind a clump of flowering jasmine. She gave a start when she realized that Ravi was already there. She giggled and was about to tiptoe away when he pulled her down beside him.

  “Sshhh!” he whispered. They could hear Mark counting out loud at the far side of the garden.

  “I knew Mark had a sister, but I wasn’t expecting one so pretty,” he said softly. She saw that his eyes were fringed with black lashes. The scent of jasmine hung heavy in the soft air. He placed his hand under her chin and looked deep into her eyes. Samira gazed back, overcome with surprise and light-headed with the cloying scent. His hands stroked her hair in flowing movements that extended down to her chest, with a gentle pressure against her breasts. Or was she imagining it?

  “Do you realize how lovely you are?” he murmured.

  In a state of confusion mingled with a rush of sexual excitement, Samira was speechless. Was she mistaken, or had he really been that forward? She jumped to her feet trying to hide her discomfiture. Thankfully, Mark appeared at that moment, a little surprised at finding the two together. Samira mumbled something about being tired and wanting to go back indoors. Inexplicably, it seemed to Mark, Ravi announced that he was leaving, too.

  “But you just got here. Why so soon?” he asked in bewilderment. Normally, Ravi lingered during these visits, hoping for an invitation to dinner, postponing the return to the solitude of his bachelor bungalow.

  “I have to make some phone calls.”

  “See you at the club on Sunday?” Mark persisted.

  “Of course. Say good-bye to Samira for me.” He leapt on the red motorcycle and disappeared. The roar of the motorcycle’s engine could be heard long after the pinprick of light from the tail light vanished from sight.

&n
bsp; Samira retreated furtively to the swing bed in a corner of the verandah, hoping to be left undisturbed until she’d collected her thoughts. She knew that Charles and Ramona would be relaxing in the drawing room before dinner. But Mark knew her only too well and found her almost at once.

  “What was all that about?” he demanded. “What made you take off so suddenly?”

  “Sorry, Mark. I’m… not good with new people. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “You need to give people a chance,” he said, “not judge them so quickly. He’s not a bad chap, and a damn good tennis player. Just what the club needs.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she mumbled. “People like that always manage to make me feel insignificant.”

  He knew that it took time for her to feel relaxed around new people. She had grown up with an acute consciousness of not “belonging” and had developed a defense mechanism to protect herself from being hurt. Her self-confidence had developed during her time in college, but Mark knew that being at home didn’t always bring out the best in her.

  “I really like him and am sure you’ll get to like him, too,” he said, as they went inside to join their parents for dinner.

  The Clarkes were late arriving at the Club on Sunday. Samira regarded the prospect of seeing Ravi again with a mixture of anticipation and dread. She was excited to meet friends she hadn’t seen since her return, realizing how few of the old-timers remained. By the time she made it to the tennis courts, Mark and Ravi were in a game of singles. She joined the spectators on the wicker chairs courtside waiting for a game. Ravi was an accomplished player. Mark was right about that. She had to admit he looked very good in his tennis whites.

  “My, who’s that handsome man?” she heard one of the women asking.

  “That’s Ravi Anand,” said Anita Dutt. “He’s the new assistant manager at Baghrapur.”

  “Oh, is he married?” she heard the other woman ask.

  “No, no. Not yet. But I’m sure he will be soon.”

  “Samira, you should grab him,” said Anita. “Look how cute he is.”

  “I don’t want to get married yet,” said Samira, blushing.

  “What rubbish!” said Anita. “You’re a college graduate. It’s high time you got married.”

  “Sammy, come and play mixed doubles with us,” Mark called from the court, to Samira’s relief, putting an end to the conversation. “Pia will be our fourth.”

  He insisted on teaming her with Ravi, and she resigned herself to the fact that it was inevitable that they’d be seeing a lot of each other.

  “Hi, Sammy, how are you?” he called, with a little too much familiarity, she thought, already using her nickname. “Which side of the court do you prefer?”

  “Hello, Ravi,” she replied, coolly. “Shall I take the forehand side?” She knew her forehand was her strong point.

  “No problem.”

  He spun his racquet to see who would play first, and after allowing the ladies a brief warm up, the set started. Charles always said you could get to know someone better on the tennis court in five minutes than you otherwise could in five years. Samira quickly discovered that it was impossible not to like Ravi. He had a knack for genuinely enjoying himself and connecting with everyone around him. He was confident without being cocky. Mark would have been the first to sense that and would certainly not have developed a friendship with him if he were.

  Ravi had never met anyone quite like Samira, accustomed as he was to the highly tuned culture of the girls in Delhi. She had none of their sophistication, running around the court in her short, frilly skirt, intent only on winning. It was difficult to gauge exactly how she was to be handled. It was clear that she would not be pursuing him, which was something of a novelty to him. He regarded her reserve as a challenge to be penetrated and knew that his normal mode of conquest would be ineffectual against her.

  The son of a successful doctor in Delhi, he had grown up with all the benefits of a pampered middle-class child. He was educated at St. Martin’s Academy and St. Columbus College and had planned to go into advertising. He had a certain innate creativity and artistic flair. But things had come too easily to him, and he grew bored. He felt suffocated by the familiarity of the city. Funnily enough, the notion of working as a tea planter had arisen after a game of tennis at his club when he was dismantled by an excellent player who turned out to be a tea planter from Assam. They sat over a beer at the bar afterwards, and the idea of becoming a planter captured Ravi’s imagination. It was only a matter of time before he left the stifling city for the soft air of the Dooars.

  If what he wanted was a change, Baghrapur most certainly provided that. He enjoyed the feeling of space and independence from his large, extended family. He reveled in the freedom of his own bungalow and a staff to take care of his needs. True, he missed his friends, but it didn’t take him long to get to know people at the club. He quickly learned what was expected from him at the factory. He knew instinctively how to address the workers and command their respect.

  Ravi had always had a weakness for the ladies. In Delhi, there was always some obliging female fluttering around him in her salwar kameez. He had fallen in love a few times, but in the end found the girls too sweet, too cloying. He felt he needed some resistance from a woman to sustain his interest, but his green eyes and charm made him irresistible, even to the most cynical of women. He had never met anyone like Samira, and the fact that she appeared completely oblivious to his charms captivated him. Marriages were still often arranged in his circles, and he knew that his female relatives were on the lookout for a suitable match for him. He was only twenty-four. There was no hurry to marry, but there was no doubt that he was a catch, even now that he was far away in the gardens.

  After playing and freshening up, they joined the others in the verandah of the clubhouse where afternoon tea was being served. In golf slacks and tee shirt, Ramona was at the head of the long table.

  “Hello, my dear,” she said to Anita. “Did you bring your famous samosas today?”

  Anita was another old-timer, an Indian woman accustomed to British ways, having to re-adapt to a more Indian culture. She had strong, dark eyebrows, eyes that she outlined with a sweep of black eyeliner and chins that wriggled and jiggled when she laughed, which was most of the time. Her flesh bulged under her cropped blouse that revealed her ample midriff. She wore a blue and mustard sari that she used to wipe the sweat off her face.

  “Of course, I did, Ramona! I brought enough for everybody, I hope.”

  There were also contributions of pakoras, gulab jamuns and sandesh. The days of macaroons, meringues and cucumber sandwiches were over.

  “Have you met the new chap from Delhi?” Anita continued, dipping her samosa in mango chutney. “I saw Samira playing tennis with him today. Very handsome, no?”

  “Yes, I’ve met him. He’s very handsome,” agreed Ramona, who knew exactly what Anita was getting at.

  Charles sat at the other end of the table with the young people. Samira looked around, happy to be home and increasingly comfortable in company. Ravi was easy and relaxed and already seemed to know everyone. Maybe she’d been too quick to judge him. And it wasn’t as though there were many young people around.

  At lunch time the following day, they heard the phone ring in the drawing room. Jetha ran to answer it and returned, addressing Samira.

  “Missy Baba, Ravi Sahib telephone kia.”

  Mystified, she went to the telephone. Mark looked surprised.

  “Hello, beautiful,” Ravi’s voice said. “How are you? I was wondering if you’d like to take a spin on my bike this evening.”

  “Hello, Ravi,” she said, surprised. “Gracious, I’ve never been on a motorcycle before.”

  “Well, that’s not a reason. You can trust me. I’ll be very careful not to break you.”

  Samira had to laugh. “Oh, all right. It sounds like fun.”

  “What did he say?” asked Mark, jealously. Ravi was supposed to be his friend, not he
rs.

  “He wants to take me for a ride on his motorcycle this evening.”

  “That’s nice,” said Charles, absently. “Where is he taking you?”

  “That’s not the point,” said Mark. “The point is why is he taking her and not me?”

  “Stop it, Mark,” said Ramona. “It’s none of your business.”

  “Thank you, Mother,” said Samira, glaring at Mark. “Sometimes, people want to see me, not you, believe it or not.”

  “Now, you two, you’re not children anymore,” Ramona interjected.

  “Coming, dear?” Charles held out Ramona’s chair for her to rise. “Time for my nap.”

  “Typical,” thought Samira. “He always takes off at the slightest sign of confrontation.”

  Her indignation with Ravi had evaporated, and she was suddenly glad of an opportunity to get away from her family, even if only for a few hours. Mark had a lot of growing up to do. It was time he realized that the men who came by were not always there to see him. Meanwhile, she was excited about her date and digested the implications of Ravi’s phone call. A young man wanted to see her and had asked her out. She actually had a date! He would be here in a few hours.

  She ran to her room and searched through her wardrobe for something to wear. What did one wear on a motorcycle? After the comments her mother made about her new trousers, she hesitated to wear them. But it really wouldn’t do to wear a dress or a pair of shorts. Maybe she should stop considering the opinion of her mother? She found the red trousers and tried them on with a white, halter-necked blouse. She swung around and regarded herself from behind. She filled out the pants nicely. She decided that she would wear them and that they actually looked quite cute. Red trousers for a ride on Ravi’s red motorcycle! By the time he arrived, her outfit had been complimented with red lipstick and a red-and-white striped headscarf to protect her hair from the wind.