by N. H. Senzai
“Well, let’s get her out and ask her what she’s up to,” said the officer, walking toward the back of the truck.
Maya’s heart caught in her throat. She watched the truck driver’s sandals disappear as he climbed aboard. She was furious that Bhagat had brought them here, but at the same time she couldn’t help but be touched by the fact that he was worried about what happened to them. For a brief second, she wondered if he’d help them get to Aminpur if she told him what she was really up to. But staring at the crisp crease in the police officer’s trousers, she knew it was too late for that. If the police were involved, even if he was a good cop, he wasn’t going to let her go on some wild goose chase. He’d make her call her mother to come get her. And Maya had come way too far to give up now.
As the truck shook, Jai grabbed Maya’s arm and pointed. Nodding, she followed as he slithered forward on his belly.
“Where are they?” asked the officer, growing suspicious.
“I don’t know,” muttered Bhagat. “They were right here, asleep, when I left.”
Emerging from beneath the front of the truck, Maya saw that a river flowed behind the police station. No escape that way unless they swam for it. Parked beside the truck stretched a row of police jeeps, parallel to the main road. Maya and Jai shared an anxious look. It’s now or never, Maya thought. With both men busy searching, Maya and Jai darted through the parking lot, using the jeeps as cover.
They paused beside the last vehicle in the lot, a bullet-riddled van, and caught a glimpse of Bhagat sticking his head out the back of the truck. “They’re gone!” he bellowed in irritation.
Jai grabbed Maya’s hand and pulled her forward, running along the shoulder of the road, where a line of trucks rattled along beside them, stacked with lumber. A tiered building loomed ahead—reminding Maya of a wedding cake—topped with an umbrella-shaped dome. As Jai passed beneath a sign on the padlocked gate that encircled the building, she glanced back and saw Bhagat and the policeman standing at the edge of the parking lot, scanning the road.
“We have to hide!” she cried.
Jai nodded, realizing they were exposed on the naked stretch of road.
“There.” She pointed toward a line of buses standing at a bus station.
“No,” said Jai. “We don’t have any money to buy a ticket, and if we sneak on board, the bus driver will toss us out.”
They ran past the depot toward a lush stretch of green—a park of some sort? They ran across the road, dodged a motorcycle, and leapt onto a stone path toward the park entrance. Once through the arched gates, they paused to catch their breath. Maya peered around the stone wall toward the police station.
“They’re coming,” she gasped, spotting a green turban bobbing in the distance, and a flash of khaki.
“This way,” said Jai, dragging her up the stone path.
Shaded on both sides by old trees, the path took them deeper into the park. Around the bend they slowed, surprised to see empty, skeletal brick buildings rising on either side, with gaping holes where windows and doors had been. A blue-and-white sign declared the structure on the right to be Dr. Fayrer’s House.
“What is this place?” muttered Maya, skirting an old cannon sitting at the entrance to a squat, cream-colored building. She squinted, reading the sign hanging outside: BRITISH RESIDENCY MUSEUM—CLOSED. At the center of the clearing languished another set of ruins, a sprawling ochre building ravaged by cannon and musket fire. Most of the walls had collapsed and Maya could see its innards, the remnants of a once grand villa. Side rooms branched off wide central halls, fitted with spacious balconies and lofty pillars. A feeling of unease settled over her as she glanced back up the path they’d come; it was empty. “They’re not behind us,” she said.
“We need to get back to a main road,” Jai urged.
“Wait a second,” she said, stopping in the shadow of a tamarind tree, thick with pods of sour fruit, and extracting the guidebook from her backpack. “Look,” she said, pointing down at a map of Lucknow.
Lucknow saw the last days of Muslim rule in India when the British deposed Wajid Ali Shah, the last nawab of Awadh, in 1856. This fueled the 1857 mutiny, and the city is best remembered for the ordeal of its British residents during a five-month siege of the British Residency.
As she peered at the legend for “British Residency,” the date rang a bell in her mind. Naniamma’s words came rushing back: In retaliation, Indians rose up in mutiny all over India, in the 1857 war of independence. “We’re here,” she said, pointing to the northeast corner of the city.
“There’s a main intersection there,” Jai noted, then gave her a questioning look. “From there we can figure out how to continue to Faizabad.”
“Yes,” said Maya, jaw tense. “Faizabad is a few hours from here and we will find a way to get there. My mom and sister will be waiting for us.”
Book tucked away, they ran toward a dense thicket of trees to the west. Once through the tightly growing trunks, Jai paused, stumbling upon a jagged piece of marble sticking up from the ground. Maya’s gaze fell on the inscription:
John Snowdon—Here lies the son of Empire who tried to do his duty. A few feet farther sat another pillar of granite: Simon Merriwether—Do not weep, my children, for I am not dead, but sleeping here.
“What is this place?” she muttered, startled. She stared across the field and saw hundreds of similar stones.
“Look,” whispered Jai, pointing at a ruined church, its steeple tilting to the right. It stood like a solemn guardian, keeping an eye over the vast graveyard they had stumbled upon.
“Let’s get out of here,” urged Maya.
She’d nearly made it onto an overgrown path on the other side of the cemetery when she heard a curse come from near the church. Her eyes met Jai’s and they both dove for cover. Huddled behind a large headstone, she formed a tight ball in its shadow. Footsteps approached, and she prayed they would keep going. But it wasn’t so. On the other side of the headstone, they stopped.
18
Unexpected Encounters
“MY DEAR, ARE YOU lost?” quavered a voice, its accent distinctly English, though the words were in Hindi.
Maya’s heart pounded. She curled up tighter, hoping that the eerie voice would go away, thinking she was losing her mind.
The voice above cleared its throat. “It’s all right, child, I won’t hurt you.”
She cracked open an eyelid and found watery blue eyes staring down at her, sunk into a wrinkled, sharp-featured face between large ears.
“Uh, yes,” she blurted in English, thinking fast as she sat up. “I was visiting with my family and somehow we got separated.”
“Oh my goodness,” said the man, switching to English. His linen suit hung from his thin frame. “How could they have just forgotten you?”
“Well, I was with my sisters . . . and cousins. . . . There’re so many kids that we’re always losing someone.”
The man paused, a frown adding to the score of wrinkles. “Are you a Yank?” he asked, eyeing her quizzically.
“A Yank?”
“From the United States of America.”
“Um, yes,” said Maya, eyeing the path, hoping to catch sight of Jai. The longer she dawdled, the more the likelihood of being found by Bhagat grew.
“Those Americans made some fine automobiles,” said the man, a faraway look in his eyes. “I still remember my father’s Tin Lizzie. . . . Have you ever seen one?”
Maya shook her head.
“A Tin Lizzie is a Model T Ford—my father had one imported from Canada. She was a thing of beauty—shiny Brewster green, stunning curves. . . . But I ramble on,” he said, his gaze sharpening. “I am Sir Arthur Cecil Labant, at your service,” he said with a short bow. “That’s my wife.” He pointed to the grave where Maya sat.
Horrified, she rolled away, catching a
glimpse of the inscription on the headstone. Amelia Labant: 1924–1946. If tears could build a stairway and memories a lane, I’d walk right up to heaven and bring you home again. “I’m so sorry,” she sputtered, smelling mothballs as she stood beside him.
“She doesn’t mind, do you, dear?” he said, laying a bouquet of pink roses on the headstone.
“Rosa bourboniana,” remembered Maya.
“Why, yes,” said Sir Arthur with a pleased smile. “These were her favorite.”
“I helped my grandfather plant them in his garden,” she said. “They were his favorites too.”
“A man with good taste,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “Is he here with you?”
“No, he died recently. . . .”
“So sorry for your loss,” he said with a sigh. “When my Amelia died, I went into deep mourning—didn’t come out of my room for months. We’d been married a scant year but had known each other since our salad days. Our fathers, bless their souls, were managers with the railway, connecting Bombay to Calcutta.”
“Oh,” murmured Maya, trying to edge away, but he didn’t take the hint.
“When I emerged from my room, India was a country divided . . . no longer the beloved land of my childhood.”
“Partitioned?” Maya blurted, then mentally kicked herself. She was supposed to end this conversation, not extend it.
Sir Arthur’s eyes took on the glazed look again as he stared at the British Residency, jutting up from above the trees. “James Scott Labant, my illustrious forebear, arrived in India as the writer for records of state with the East India Company. It was 1798, a decade from the day the British had been booted from American shores.” Maya inched away while clearing her throat, trying to get Jai’s attention. He was nowhere to be seen. But Sir Arthur pinned her with his gaze and she froze. “While your first president, George Washington, battled over the future of the new United States, the British East India Company dug its heels into India. Its army defeated the Mughal emperor and the nawabs of Lucknow and Bengal.”
Maya blinked and mumbled, “Oh,” while he continued talking.
“It was a heady time for James, as we’ve read in his letters to his wife. He fell in love with the country, you see,” rambled Sir Arthur. “But things took a terrible turn on June 4, 1857. Sepoys attacked their British officers all across India and mutiny blazed.”
You mean the war for independence? Maya thought, feathers ruffled as she channeled Naniamma’s indignation at what the British had done.
“Here in Lucknow, the siege of the British Residency lasted months. Over two thousand English sheltered here, including women and children, many perishing.”
Maya’s stomach knotted as she eyed the line of graves. They marked casualties of battle that began the unrest that would lead to Partition a hundred years later. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a dark head behind a cherub statue. There, she thought with relief, inching toward it. Jai’s head popped up and their eyes connected. He pointed toward the path and she nodded.
“The British recaptured Lucknow, buried their dead, and kept the Union Jack flying night and day for the remaining ninety years.”
“Well, it’s been lovely,” said Maya brightly, “but I need to go find my family.”
“Would you like me to drop you off at your hotel?” asked Sir Arthur, changing the topic.
Maya thought fast. “I don’t quite remember which one it is. . . . Palace something or other.”
“You don’t remember?” asked Sir Arthur.
“I, er, hit my head,” she said, pointing to the cut on her head. “My memory is a bit blurry.”
“What about a telephone number?”
She shrugged, watching Jai inch toward the path.
“Oh dear, this is quite a predicament,” said Sir Arthur. “I’m afraid I don’t have those newfangled cellular telephones everyone is carrying about these days. But you’re welcome to have a spot of tea with me, rest a bit, and hopefully your memory will jog itself. If not, we can call Inspector Muneer, a good friend of mine from the police station.”
Maya gulped at the mention of the police. The last thing she wanted was to talk to a police officer. She eyed the frail, trembling man, recalling Naniamma’s advice not to ask strangers for help. But they needed to get out of here, and fast. A car ride out of the British Residency sounded like a good idea. She looked toward Jai and motioned him to come over. “That would be very kind of you,” she finally said.
19
A Spot of Tea
WITH THE AID OF a cane, Sir Arthur led Maya and Jai down a dirt path and to the street, toward a sleek silver coupe parked under a baobab tree. When Maya had introduced Jai as a family servant, Sir Arthur hadn’t blinked an eye. And when the old man had asked Jai in Hindi where Maya’s aunt lived, Jai had given him the blank, addled look of a halfwit. Thinking fast, Maya had told Sir Arthur that Jai was a mute and didn’t speak. So with a shrug he’d agreed to take them both.
“Here she is,” he said proudly. “She’s a Yank too,” chuckled Sir Arthur. “A 1957 Studebaker Golden Hawk. Used to race it with my friends, and no one, not even Dr. Manfred’s Bentley or Nawab Patallia’s Jaguar, could keep up with it.”
The driver’s-side door swung open and out slid a hunched, white-haired man in a faded black suit. “Sir Arthur, you’ve finished early.”
“Well, Frank, I’ve run into a young lady who’s in a spot of trouble,” said Sir Arthur. “I found her in the cemetery, quite lost. And she can’t remember which hotel her family is staying in.”
With drooping, hound dog eyes set in a dark-featured face with aquamarine eyes, Frank took in Maya’s tangled hair and dirty clothes, a frown settling between his brows. “I see,” he murmured.
Maya had a sinking feeling Frank didn’t quite believe her story, but it didn’t matter; this was her ticket out of the Residency and away from Bhagat. Frank pulled open the passenger door and Maya and Jai slid inside, scooting along the springy leather seat toward the gearshift. Sir Arthur folded his frail body beside them and Frank revved the engine, reversed, and merged onto the road. Maya hunkered low, peering past Sir Arthur’s hawkish profile toward the river, watching the multitiered building they’d passed barely an hour before.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” asked Sir Arthur.
Maya nodded, spotting the board she’d just run past. Written in bold letters was: CENTRAL DRUG RESEARCH INSTITUTE. Beneath was a plaque with smaller type: ARCHAEOLOGICAL DEPARTMENT OF INDIA—CHATRI PALACE RENOVATION PROJECT.
Maya slid lower as they passed the bus station, catching the glint of the sun’s rays across the water as it sank into the horizon. It would be dark within the hour. A hot breath expelled itself from her lungs as they passed the police station—no sign of Bhagat or the officer. A line of squat concrete apartment complexes floated by, and Frank took a right down a shadowy street lined with a row of genteel, aging Victorian bungalows, languishing behind overgrown hedges. Soon the car pulled up to a set of tall iron gates. In response to the bellowing horn, a wiry old man in shorts appeared to open them. The car purred up the path, past a rambling garden to a dilapidated two-story villa lined with dusty windows.
“Come, my dear,” said Sir Arthur, exiting the car.
Maya and Jai followed him up the steps to the porch, its sloping roof held up by engraved columns. She shared a worried look with Jai as the man in shorts efficiently locked the gates.
“Miss Smith, we have company,” Sir Arthur called out as they stepped into the expansive foyer. A dusty chandelier hung above, illuminating the rose-patterned wallpaper, cracked and peeling. A wooden staircase curved up to the second floor, lined with a series of portraits of stern-faced men in fitted jackets and silk cravats.
A tiny old woman in old-fashioned black skirts popped in from a side door. “Sir Arthur, you’re back early.”
“Yes, y
es. I have a young lady joining me for tea. If you would be so kind as to tell the cook to have it served in the library.”
She stared at Maya quizzically, her blue eyes strikingly similar to Frank’s. They’re brother and sister, thought Maya. Anglo-Indian, a mix of English and Indian blood.
“The cook died five years ago and his son ran off with the silver,” Miss Smith reminded him, smoothing back strands of white hair that had escaped her bun.
“Oh, right,” said Sir Arthur.
“But I will get it,” she chirped, disappearing in a whirl of crinkling satin.
Jai’s eyes widened as they stepped into the library, which occupied half of the first floor of the house. Since passing through the front door, he’d hung back, following them like a ghost. He trailed behind as Sir Arthur led them over moth-eaten tiger pelts, past bookshelves crammed with leather spines, and below the mounted heads of big-horned sambar and smaller, spotted chital deer.
Against the window sat a heavy teak desk, designed with dozens of cubbies, filled with stationery and fountain pens. Leaning against a dictionary teetered an envelope. Maya squinted at it, catching a glimpse of multicolored paper, but before she could examine it further, Sir Arthur guided her toward a dusty grand piano, groaning under the weight of hundreds of framed photographs: shots of tennis matches, tea on the cricket field, and elephant hunts. One in particular caught her attention. A young couple in their wedding finery, smiling ear to ear, eyes sparkling. Sir Arthur and Amelia.
“This one was taken in London,” said Sir Arthur, pointing to a miserable-looking young man with floppy ears, standing in front of Big Ben. “My father sent me to Cambridge to study law. I hated every minute of it—the awful headmaster, terrible food, querulous students, and the blasted, endless rain.”
Maya glanced behind the piano and saw a dreamy-eyed young man looking down at them, resplendent in a medal-encrusted uniform, crown, scepter, and sword.