Tea and Spices (An Erotic Novel of Colonial India)

by Lane, Nina

  Devora drew herself up and tried to compose herself. She nodded, running a hand through her hair. “Yes, thank you. I’m fine.”

  “You were out with the maharaja again,” Rohan said, his disapproval still all too evident.

  “Yes, I was,” Devora snapped, suddenly sick to death of men. Either they were disapproving, apparently cruel, or just plain absent. “What do you have to say about that?”

  “You know that I think it is not a good idea for you to be with him.”

  “Why do you even care?”

  “Because you reflect on the status of this household,” Rohan replied.

  “Well, do you know what?” Devora said angrily. “I don’t care what you think! You can disapprove of me all you want, but I really don’t give a damn!”

  “I only disapprove of women who do not keep their promises.”

  “Oh, stop sounding so bloody self-righteous! I never promised anything, least of all that I wouldn’t see the maharaja again.”

  “You have also disobeyed your husband’s orders,” Rohan continued, apparently not having heard a word she said. “He told you that you were not to see the maharaja again.”

  “Damn his orders! I don’t take orders from people, not even my husband. You know, I used to think you people were a little more liberal when it came to human relations, but I can see now that I was sadly mistaken!”

  Devora turned and stalked towards the bedroom, fighting an onslaught of tears. She hated having been frightened by the maharaja, but she hated even more the fact that Rohan disapproved of her.

  With a sob, she threw herself onto the bed and buried her face in her arms. India had so much to offer, yet she still could not escape the confines of the British presence. And she realized now that she probably never would. A wave of self-pity washed over her, and she intended to wallow in it to the fullest extent.

  After her tears dried, Devora rolled over and stared at the mosquito-net canopy overhead. She was becoming unbearably tired of being so out of place. She didn’t fit into the British community, and she certainly didn’t fit into the Indian. In fact, she suspected she would never understand the Indians, which is exactly what Gerald and the Thompsons had been trying to tell her all along. As much as she hated admitting it, Devora suspected they were right.

  “Memsahib?” Rohan’s voice drifted through the closed door.

  Devora lifted her head. “Yes?”

  “You wish some tea?”

  “Yes, please. I’ll come right out.” Devora hadn’t even realized it was tea-time already. She climbed off the bed and went to the dressing table, grimacing at the sight of her tear-stained, smudged face. She splashed water on her face from the basin and powdered her nose, then brushed her hair and changed clothes.

  Finally feeling more presentable, Devora went into the sitting room, where Rohan was setting out a tea tray for her.

  “You are expecting guests?” he asked.

  “No, no one.” Devora sat down and accepted a cup of tea from him. She suddenly wished that Mrs. Thompson or Louise would drop by to share tea with her. She would have appreciated someone to talk to.

  “Rohan.”

  He turned from his way back to the kitchen. “Yes, memsahib?”

  Devora gestured towards the tea tray. “Would you like to join me?”

  “That would not be proper.”

  “It’s just a cup of tea.” Devora gave him a exasperated look, remembering that he recently had the gall to watch her as she was pleasuring herself. That was proper? Not that she had made an effort to prevent him from doing so.

  “I have my duties to attend to.”

  “Don’t tell me that you’re disgusted by the thought of having tea with a woman who allegedly doesn’t keep her promises,” Devora said, her tone somewhat bitter.

  “No. Servants do not socialize with the master or mistress of the household. It is custom.”

  “Oh, but servants do secretly watch the master and mistress when they’re engaged in intimate acts,” Devora snapped, finally so fed up that she was unable to prevent the words from escaping. She put her cup down so hard that the tea splashed over the edges. “Is that customary, Rohan?”

  A flicker of surprise appeared in his eyes, but his expression did not change. “I’m afraid I do not understand, memsahib.”

  Devora’s hands clenched into fists at her sides.

  “The hell you don’t,” she said angrily. “You’re a hypocrite, Rohan, did you know that? You’re so damn self-righteous about my activities, and yet you’re the worst kind of voyeur!”

  Rohan was quiet for a moment, and then his broad shoulders lifted into a shrug. “If the person being watched is putting on a display, am I still considered to be a voyeur?”

  Devora gasped in shocked outrage, her body trembling. She strode across the room and slapped Rohan hard across the face. “You bastard! How dare you say that to me?”

  “It is simple fact, I believe.”

  “Don’t you dare judge me!”

  “I never said it was wrong, memsahib. On the contrary, I enjoyed it very much.”

  Devora stared at him. And then, as his words penetrated her mind, she started to laugh. Never in a million years would she have thought she would ever have such a conversation with the impassive Rohan. Yes, she had gotten herself into quite a muddle. The humor of it struck her all at once, and she sank down in her chair and laughed until her stomach hurt.

  “Memsahib?” A thread of concern wove through Rohan’s voice. “You are all right?”

  “Yes, Rohan, I’m fine.” Still chuckling, Devora reached for a napkin and wiped away tears of laughter. “Actually, I might even be mildly flattered that you enjoyed yourself.”

  Rohan’s mouth quirked upwards at the corners in what would have been a smile in anyone else. “I suppose it would be little consolation if I told you I happened upon you by accident. I was on my way to the back of the house.”

  “When I distracted you, is that it?” Devora shook her head and reached for her tea. She took a sip and closed her eyes. “Oh, never mind, Rohan. I expect that such activities aren’t viewed with the same sort of prudery as they are in England.”

  “Your view of India is not entirely accurate,” Rohan said. “Indians can be very backwards in their way of thinking, particularly when it comes to matters of sexuality.”

  Devora opened her eyes and looked at him. “Is that right?”

  “Indeed.”

  “What about The Kamasutra and fertility goddesses and all that?”

  “Those are part of Indian culture, no doubt,” Rohan explained. “However, Indians for the most part are much more…what was the word you used? Prudish.”

  “Really?”

  “Sexuality is acceptable in a historical sense, but it can cause people discomfort in daily life.”

  “I’m surprised to hear that.”

  Rohan shrugged. “Perhaps it is a result of so many years of British influence.”

  Devora couldn’t help smiling. “Perhaps it is.”

  “You, however, are not this way,” Rohan said. A hint of wickedness appeared in the fathomless depths of his eyes. “At least, not from what I have witnessed.”

  A flush rose to color Devora’s face, but she couldn’t bring herself to be offended by his words. Quite the opposite. “I suspect my lack of prudishness is one of the reasons I don’t fit in with the British.”

  Rohan lifted an eyebrow. “You don’t?”

  “You mean, you think I do?” Devora was surprised to discover she was mildly dismayed by the thought. “You consider me to be just like them?”

  “No, I don’t consider that at all,” Rohan replied. “You are different. There is little question of that.”

  “Well, being different is of no use, anyway.” Devora put down her teacup and stood, brushing the wrinkles out of her skirt. “So far, all it has done is irritate me to no end. I think that conformity might be far easier.”

  “Easier, yes,” Rohan said. “But
it would not be nearly as interesting.”

  Devora looked at him, thinking this was the first time she had ever spoken so easily and comfortably with him. And she did so enjoy hearing him speak with good-natured humor and honesty.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “Conformity wouldn’t be nearly as interesting.” She paused to set the tea things back onto the tray. “I’d like to go into the village for a bit,” she said. “Will you accompany me?”

  “You are asking me to accompany you on an outing for a change?”

  Devora gave him an amused look. “Yes, believe it or not. I’d like to purchase another shawl and perhaps some silk scarves. Try not to be so shocked.”

  Rohan bowed slightly. “I will be most happy to accompany you. Let me harness the horse to the carriage.”

  “No, wait. Let’s walk. We can catch a tonga on the road.”

  “Memsahib, you will be more comfortable in the carriage.”

  “I’d prefer the tonga. The carriage is so British.”

  “I suspect people will know you are British whether you are in a tonga or a carriage,” Rohan said dryly.

  “Pity, isn’t it?” Devora glanced at Rohan with a grin.

  To her utter surprise, he smiled at her. Her heart leapt with a wild rush as she stared at him, stunned by the way his entire face changed with the lovely display of even, white teeth. The air seemed to shift between them in that instant. And then Devora forced her gaze away from him, suddenly unsettled, and went to put on a hat and retrieve her parasol. “All right, let’s go.”

  They went to the village market, which Devora always found overwhelming with scents of everything from cow dung to curry spices. She purchased a shawl, a small pair of earrings, and a bar of sandalwood soap. She grateful for Rohan’s presence as he obtained a fair price for her and told her which merchants sold the highest quality goods.

  Devora paused next to a man who was seated cross-legged on a mat, spreading a paste-like substance onto a large, green leaf. He then placed a nut in the center and folded the leaf into a neat, little package. After placing the folded leaf on a bamboo tray with several others, he started on a new concoction.

  “What is that?” Devora asked Rohan.

  “It is called paan,” Rohan explained. “A betel nut wrapped in a leaf with a number of spices, such as cardamom, anise, and cloves. It is usually used to aid digestion after a meal.”

  “I’d like to try it.”

  “Memsahib, it is not appropriate for ladies,” Rohan explained.

  “Why not?”

  “The taste is rather bitter and you must put in into your mouth all at once, or else the red juice stains your hands and clothes.”

  “I’d still like to try it,” Devora said. She reached into her pocketbook and handed him a couple of rupees. “Get one for yourself as well, if you’d like.”

  Rohan shrugged and spoke in Hindi to the man, who gave Devora an odd look. He wrapped up two paans and handed them to Rohan in exchange for the rupees.

  “Now, place it all at once in your mouth and bite down,” Rohan said, handing Devora one of the wrapped leaves.

  Devora did, her teeth crunching through the betel nut and filling her mouth with a tangy, bitter taste. She was startled by the flood of acridity, as well as the fact that it seemed to make her entire mouth go numb. She gave Rohan a surprised look as a trickle of liquid escaped her mouth.

  He grinned and handed her a handkerchief. “Too bitter for you, I think.”

  Devora wiped her mouth, but gamely chewed down the rest of the paan and swallowed. “Yes, but certainly interesting. This is a common food among Indians?”

  “Oh, yes. It is very popular.” Rohan ate his paan with practiced ease. “The British have not yet acquired a taste for it.”

  “I can see why.” Strong bitterness lingered in Devora’s mouth. She patted her lips again and tried to swallow the taste.

  “Wait, I will get you something to drink.” Rohan approached a stall and purchased a glass of mango juice, which he brought to Devora.

  Gratefully, she drank the entire glass to wash away the taste and the numbness. “Thank you.”

  “Not many memsahibs would be willing to try a traditional Indian food such as paan,” Rohan said.

  “Well, I’m not ‘many memsahibs.’“

  He inclined his head in acknowledgment of her words. “I dare say you are not.”

  Pleased with his words, Devora continued walking alongside him as they made their way through the spice market.

  “Do you come here often when you’re not shopping?” Devora asked, glancing at Rohan as they walked through the bustling streets. Shouts and voices emerged from every direction. A cow plodded past them, followed by three women with bundles balanced on their heads.

  “Memsahib, do be careful.” Rohan touched Devora’s elbow to steer her around a steaming pile of cow dung. “Yes, I come to a pub here in the evenings.”

  “Really?” Devora thought briefly about asking him about his alleged fiancee, but decided such a question would surely break the tenuous camaraderie that had developed between them. “You mean you have a social life?”

  Rohan tossed her a wry look. “Don’t you?”

  Devora chuckled. “If you can call going to the club and cricket games a social life.”

  “That isn’t all you do, though, is it?”

  Devora looked at him, wondering if he was fishing for information about her and the maharaja. The maharaja whom she had no intention of ever seeing again unless it was at one of his crowded dinner parties. “You mean my lunches with the maharaja? I assure you they were entirely uninteresting.”

  “I believe he took you to the Khajuraho temples, didn’t he?” Rohan asked. “At least, that is what his driver told me.”

  Devora arched an eyebrow. “Then why ask me? And here I thought you didn’t gossip.”

  “As I told you, I am required to make certain of your safety. The master told me as much.”

  “Well, I will assure the master that you’ve done your duty,” Devora said. She climbed into the tonga ahead of him and settled into her seat. “Why don’t we go to the club?”

  “Yes, memsahib.” Rohan rapped out a few words of Hindi to the tonga wallah, who began peddling in the direction of the British club. He drove past the Indian guards stationed at the gate entrance and stopped at the foot of the steps.

  Devora climbed down and glanced back at Rohan, who remained seated in the tonga. “Well,” she said. “What are you waiting for?”

  “You know that Indians are not allowed into the club, memsahib. I will wait outside the gates for you.”

  Horror filled Devora as his words struck her. “Oh, Rohan. I’m so sorry. I completely forgot. Do forgive me.”

  “As I said, I will wait outside the gates. When you are ready to return home, I will call for another tonga.”

  “No, don’t be silly, I don’t have to—”

  “Devora, is that you?”

  Groaning inwardly, Devora turned to find Adele standing at the top of the steps, peering down at her and Rohan. She was dressed in a silk evening gown with her hair arranged in the latest fashion and a glass of sherry in her hand.

  “Devora, come inside!” Adele said. “They’re starting a performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in less than five minutes.”

  “No, I’m afraid I need to return home,” Devora called. “I’m not feeling well.”

  “Oh. Didn’t you just get here?”

  “Yes, I felt ill rather suddenly. I’ll call on you tomorrow if you’ll be home.”

  “Yes, of course.” Her expression darkening slightly, Adele watched Devora climb back into the tonga next to Rohan. “Have a good evening.”

  “Oak Street, tonga wallah,” Devora said.

  The tonga jerked and moved back to the street. Devora crossed her arms and sat silently, aware of Rohan’s stiff figure beside her.

  “Memsahib, it is ridiculous for you to return home,” he finally said.

  �
��It’s even more ridiculous that the club doesn’t allow Indians.”

  “That is the way things work.” Anger edged Rohan’s voice.

  “Yes, I know. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  They were silent for the remainder of the trip home. Devora took her packages from Rohan as they walked back into the bungalow. She shot him a sideways glance.

  “You seem angry,” she said. When he didn’t reply, she pressed the issue. “Why? Because the club doesn’t allow Indians?”

  Rohan glared at her. “No. Because you seem to think that somehow you are a martyr for the Indian cause.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Not even refusing to enter the British club tonight will prevent you from being British,” Rohan said. “Making such a sacrifice is noble, I’m sure, but not one that Indians need.”

  Devora couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  “You think I made some sort of sacrifice by not going into the club?” she snapped. “Believe me, Rohan, it’s no sacrifice to avoid watching those people mutilate Shakespeare.”

  “All I am saying to you,” Rohan said, “is that you needn’t sacrifice yourself on my behalf.”

  With that, he turned and went towards the back door of the house. The door banged shut as he left to go to the servants’ quarters. Devora stood in the middle of the room for a long minute after he had gone. She should have known that she would hurt his pride by not allowing him to simply do his duty. Rohan had a prideful streak as wide and deep as the Ganges River. He would take any concession on her part as an insult if it interfered with his role as the servant.

  Devora almost went after him to try and explain, but decided that it was better not to. She felt as if she had already become more involved with him than was wise. Perhaps it would be better simply to let their relationship return to its normal state. Not that Devora had any idea what that was.

  ***

  CHAPTER TEN

  Rain spilled incessantly from the sky, pattering on the bungalow roof and windows like a million, tiny pebbles. Awash in heat and humidity, Devora gazed up at the gossamer mosquito net.