The turbaned house boy announced each guest and, with gloved hands, collected their proffered cards on a silver tray. Everyone who was anyone came. Whiskey and gin flowed freely, with sherbet, soda and refreshing lime drinks for the more abstemious.
Neat understated British wives, adept at small talk clucked “My dear what a splendid evening…”
“Can’t imagine why I’ve not bumped into you before…”
“You have a child? Sorry, I didn’t think… Of course you have. I have two and that’s quite enough in this climate… boarding school can’t come too soon for me.”
Margaret smiled graciously easing her way through the conventional chitchat of her countrywomen knowing that their true opinions would be discussed elsewhere, probably at the numerous tea parties from which, so far, she had been excluded.
Talking with the strikingly bejewelled Indian wives was more testing. Margaret overheard them talking about Aakesh, Ben’s family home but the subject was dropped when she joined them. Instead Margaret was profusely congratulated on her grasp of Hindi and, charmed by her modesty and intelligence, invited to call.
Honour was satisfied. Ben had ensured that his wife had access to the most influential society in the district.
* * * * *
The low roofed clinic in Bareilly housed a pharmacy and was the only one in the area with separate facilities to treat the poor. Ben was joined by two other experienced doctors and a recently qualified junior. They trained proficient medical orderlies who were often poached by the military hospital. Every day the line of patients grew longer, sometimes stretching out into the narrow road. Margaret wanted to help but Ben forbad it. Instead she busied herself raising money at tea and garden parties to fund the enterprise.
Liberal Indian society found her amusing; donated money but avoided any references she made to Aakesh. Margaret didn’t know why but she did know that caste was supreme, providing a strict framework for social interaction.
She had learned so much since she landed in India seven months ago and grown accustomed to life with a mainly absentee husband. Indeed it was a relief to be freed from Ben’s constant instruction. Although her health was much better she was still troubled by the vagaries of the climate. Materially she wanted for nothing but she had to ask. This was galling for in effect she was trapped without personal money and tolerated by British women because of her husband’s powerful position.
In Britain and its territories class was extremely effective at politely marginalizing outsiders while keeping the native population in their place. Margaret wasn’t certain what her place was. She often thought of her family in Scotland but this was unsettling, weakening her resolve to make the most of the life she had chosen.
* * * * *
Margaret was enjoying a rare evening with Ben, “Charuni I have built an English House for you with furniture and fittings from abroad. You will keep your own servants when we transfer there.”
“Transfer… !” She echoed incredulously. “Where is this house?”
“Where else but in the grounds of Aakesh…”
Pregnant again, Margaret was terrified of giving birth without her mother’s support. The summer months’ soaring temperatures and dripping humidity made her irritable. Bathed in torrents of sweat, it was as much as she could do to sit still. She’d planned to have Muni with her at the birth and, if there was an emergency, the military hospital was nearby.
“I didn’t need an English house to meet your mother,” she said petulantly.
“Charuni, Charuni…” Ben said, shaking his head as if she was a child. “My mother is in charge at Aakesh. She runs it according to our tradition. I wanted you to have a separate place of your own before we reached there.”
Margaret didn’t understand what he meant. She didn’t want to live separately from Ben’s family. Divided from her own she expected to find the support and companionship she badly needed from his. “It’s the baby…” she explained. “I’ve waited this long to meet your family. I’d rather wait a little longer in Bareilly until after the birth.”
Unfortunately this brought another rebuke from her husband, “Are you forgetting that I am a doctor… as good as any with the British? I will be with you. We move in a week.”
Chapter 12
Aakesh 1936
Cloudless blue sky and flat fertile fields stretched way into the distance on either side of the road leading out of Bareilly. Occasionally, copses of ancient oak-like trees with a few optimistic traders crouching beneath bountiful leaves drew Margaret’s attention from the discomfort of the journey.
“Aakesh…” Ben proclaimed as they approached the drive of a magnificent stone mansion dominating the landscape, surrounded by a high wall. Carved balconies arranged in tiers ran round its upper storeys and everywhere there were trees: thick leaved banana, banyan, pomegranate, limes, lemons, oranges, apples, peaches and grove upon grove of mangoes.
He reeled off the family’s assets: land as far as the eye could see from the uppermost balcony of the mansion, twenty one villages, wells, flour mills, property in Moradabad, Lucknow, Delhi and Calcutta. This extensive description of his wealth was wasted on Margaret who was searching the skyline for signs of British residents. There were labourers in the fields and the villages that housed them. This was Ghandi’s India.
“The trees make me think of Edinburgh and the Botanical gardens” Margaret said, but she didn’t say how she longed to be there. The nearer they got to the mansion’s huge gates the more her apprehension increased.
Ben picked up on her mood, “Why so sad, my dear one? See what a rich husband you have and how much I love you. The English House is sheltered within these walls. I wanted to bring you here when it was worthy of you,” but Margaret saw no shelter behind the mansion’s solid walls trimmed with a tangle of spent jasmine and roses.
India bloomed endlessly, its sensuous nature unrelenting, heightening emotions. Margaret was acutely aware of her husband. She had given him everything but yet some vestige of her soul remained untouched by his influence. Would it last in Aakesh?
The car drew into a leafy courtyard where ornamental fountains played into raised pools. Almost five months into her pregnancy Margaret found it difficult to alight in a ladylike manner. She needn’t have worried. There was no one to greet them.
Ben strode ahead. Margaret followed him into a long room with high windows where pankah-wallahs, seated cross-legged on the tiled floor, pulled the hanging cords of suspended fans. After the savage sun the constant breeze and thick stone room were refreshingly cool.
An imposing woman dressed in white, seated on a throne-like chair inlaid with ivory disdainfully regarded Margaret. Two graceful young women dripping with gold and jewels were seated beside her. The vulgar intrusion of noisy footsteps and a pregnant British woman in a crushed cotton dress didn’t belong here. Ben bowed low and touched his mother’s feet. She laid her hands on him in blessing but there were no reassuring hands when Margaret attempted to do the same.
Ben introduced his eldest sister Vartika and her husband Hiten. Margaret bent to perform the foot touching ritual but Ben forced them to bow to his wife. Maintaining an aspect of civility Vartika said maliciously in Hindi, “My brother, you treat your wife like her British Queen. Beware! Even she may yet be forced give up the claim to our India…”
A crying child put an end to any further remarks. The mother, scarcely more than a girl, and the ayah failed to pacify the little one. They must have crept in at the back of the room.
Margaret expected Ben to call them forward but he went to them. The tilt of his head and raised voice indicated his anger. A stifled sob and swish of kingfisher silk signalled the trio’s departure. Vartika’s sly smile was not lost on Margaret but it vanished with a blistering look from Ben.
His family excluded her by speaking Hindi. If they had spoken more
slowly Margaret would have stood a chance of understanding and joining in the conversation. Ben had said that his sisters and brother-in-law were fluent in English, his mother less so. Margaret asked Ben for permission to summon Muni to translate, but he refused. The maid hadn’t travelled in the car with them; without her Margaret was trapped with no where to hide.
“Perhaps I can help? These formal welcomes are so tedious… made worse in this heat. I am Suleka, the youngest sister. Do take my fan.”
The straw plaited fan resembled an axe head but, when wafted, cooled her face.
“My brother has told me all about you…” Suleka said sympathetically. “It is his wish we become friends,” but Margaret was losing faith in her husband’s wishes.
Pavia, bored with being confined by the ayah, began running up and down the room. Ben caught his daughter and threw her in the air “Go to your dadi” he said, sitting the exuberant child on his mother’s lap. “This is your grandmother. You must call her dadi.”
Margaret tried to explain, “Dadi is papa’s mother… Granny in Scotland is mine.” Pavia’s lip trembled.
Once again Suleka came to the rescue, holding a bracelet to the sunlight, dancing the green gems on the wall. Pavia reached out for it, saying please in English and Hindi, entrancing the company, especially her grandmother who remarked, “Not only is this daughter beautiful, but like her father she has great intelligence.”
Margaret couldn’t help thinking there was something more in the supposed compliment. That was the trouble with India, layers of meaning underneath the obvious. The trick was to feign belief then work out the significant. This didn’t come naturally but she was learning.
Ben refused to be delayed any longer. He had been supervising the design and building of the English House for three years and wanted Margaret to see it before nightfall. He hurried her outside where the Bareilly bearers, servants and Muni were lined up in front of the entrance. Margaret’s heartfelt “Namaste” was sincerely returned. Ben whisked her inside closing the door behind them. The scent of recent lime wash, saffron and wood added zest to his kisses.
They toured the house. A black rosewood table with twelve matching chairs took pride of place in the dining room. Margaret ran her hands across the smooth polished surface, stopping short in front of the silver candelabra ready to be lit in the evening.
“See, I have selected everything myself,” Ben said parading the contents of a dresser: crockery from England, Sheffield cutlery, Edinburgh crystal, porcelain from China and damask table cloths. Chandeliers twinkled in the drawing room. Chinese silken drapes framed windows. Golden brocade high backed sofas, chairs, a chaise lounge, carved tables and lamps were arranged to their advantage. It was as if Margaret was walking through a grand furniture store. If it wasn’t for the kisses she would have cried with loneliness.
The study was different. Behind the mahogany door, row after row of shelves were filled with books. Tagore nestled alongside Shakespeare, Keats, Byron and Shelly. Medical tomes nudged history and philosophy; the tooled titles of old friends inviting Margaret to linger. An oval burr walnut desk with a leather top and hive of drawers was positioned near the window. Stationary embossed with Mrs. Margaret Atrey, inkwells and pens were ready to be used, but a red tartan-covered book, small enough to fit in a hand, caught her attention. Ben picked it up, “Take it Charuni… you can read to me like you did on the night of the poetry prize.”
Burns poems, a reminder of home; if Margaret knew exactly where Aakesh was perhaps she could adjust until it became home. She asked Ben if there was an Atlas or maps so she could plot how far she’d travelled. He said he would acquire some but warned “Charuni, you know exactly where you are. You are my wife; in my world.” That’s what she was afraid of.
Ben admitted the servants, who began lighting lamps and preparing the evening meal. Tired by the day’s events Margaret retired early.
* * * * *
In the magic interlude before day-break Ben came to her. They made love as the sun broke through the night sky and birds chorused in the morning. Resting he said, “I am the happiest of men. My son will be born in this house.”
Margaret laughed, “How can you be so sure we will have a boy?”
“We will. He will be brave and bold with a mind as sharp as a razor.”
Their intimacy was cut short by a servant pounding on the door, “Sahib, Sahib come quickly!”
Edinburgh had taught Margaret that temporary desertion by her lover was one of the hazards of being a doctor’s wife. She passed that day foraging through the library and occupying Pavia and fruitlessly hoping for a visit from Suleka. Every time the outer door opened one of the houseboys became increasing jumpy. Inherited from service with Ben’s mother, his dialect was impossible and Margaret was uneasy about questioning him. She despatched Muni to find out the cause.
The maid was gone for hours and on return avoided looking at her mistress. Exasperated Margaret said “Muni, I mean to know.”
“Memsahib, it is better that you do not ask and I do not tell.”
“You have found out? Haven’t you?”
“An ayah in the main house raised the alarm.”
“And… ?”
“She discovered her mistress hanging by a scarf.”
Margaret had a hunch that Muni was holding something back. She continued probing; dragging out that the victim was the young woman who had left the room so suddenly on their arrival. Under relentless questioning, it fell to the maid to expose the brutal truth. The young woman was Ben’s Indian wife and the crying child his daughter.
The threat of all manner of curses would not alter Muni’s story. On the verge of collapse, Margaret was forced to accept it.
Chapter 13
Muni was sent on countless errands to find Ben but the walls of silence and subterfuge in the main house were impenetrable. Sobbing uncontrollably, her thoughts racing, Margaret paced up and down… a child younger than Pavia.! No wonder they stayed in Bareilly. Was he sleeping with that woman while she made a fool of herself? The shame of it! If news got out into British society she’d be the joke of the garrison. Her Indian hostesses must have known. There was a slight chance they were sympathetic but even if they were they wouldn’t be able to help. They too were owned by their husbands’ families. Life was cheap and with no protector, friends or money she could be locked behind the mansion’s gates for the rest of her life or, worse still, murdered at the whim of this powerful family. Why did Ben uproot her from Scotland, establish her in Bareilly then shift to Aakesh, where she counted for nothing?
She fell on her knees in an agony of indecision; pounding the unforgiving tiles with her forehead, peppering them with blood. Muni rocked her like a child. The maid, more than anyone, knew that one wrong move and her mistress would be swallowed up by the river of India without leaving so much as a ripple on the surface. Their lives, including that of the unborn child, depended on the memsahib.
Over the next few days, Margaret read and reread the numerous letters from her mother and Jean. Their forgiveness for the hurt she’d caused them and their words of endearment chastened her. Yet paradoxically she drew strength from them. Ben’s Indian marriage was a religious union unrecognised by the British. She was his lawful wife and would fight with whatever means she could to secure the position. She owed it to those closest to her to find a way out of this mess.
* * * * *
The English House, that Ben had boasted was built with love, was based on deceit. Since the fateful morning of the attempted suicide no one had visited or enquired about Margaret and the unfortunate girl lived on. Margaret christened her ‘The Impostor’. She didn’t want to know the girl’s real name but she couldn’t hate her. Blameless adversaries, they were thrown together, pawns in the machinations of the family. Margaret refused to be marginalised, or live in some kind of ménage à trois.
/> She had to break out of this convenient prison and assert her presence in the main house.
* * * * *
“Memsahib, it is some days since you tasted food.” Muni said offering a small bowel of rice. Margaret had no appetite but to please the maid she ate a little.
“Muni, today I’m going to buy saris.”
“But Memsahib the heat…”
“I’ve made up my mind.”
“And Pavia…”
“Will be left to sleep…”
“Memsahib the car is not available. We could go by tonga.”
“Bareilly is too far away to go by tonga.”
Muni laughed, “We will go to Aakesh.”
Margaret said, “But we’re already there.” Muni explained that Aakesh was also the name of the nearby town with ancient buildings, a famous mosque, temples, excellent schools and colleges, a hospital, markets and a railway station that connected to Bareilly, Delhi and Lucknow.
“Memsahib, for us it is an easy walk. Daily you can see the women going to market from one of the balconies.”
“Oh Muni I feel so useless… I thought I was miles away from anywhere.”
“You are miles away from your own people but you have Pavia, and me and soon another child. We will be your people.”
“You are Muni… you are,” Margaret said gratefully.
Afternoon was for resting, especially with the late monsoon. Margaret relied on this to slip away but nothing stirred in Aakesh without her mother-in-law’s knowledge. Going at this time of day would also limit the possibility of creating tittle-tattle among British women in Aakesh town. If there were any, they too would be resting in their cloistered cantonments.
The Letter Page 7