Daughters of India

by Jill McGivering

  ‘I told you, little sister: your work in that house will be useful. He also thinks it. He’s very pleased.’

  She twisted away to hide her confusion and reached for her parcel.

  ‘Sunday,’ she said. ‘I will go.’

  The wooden door was thick and studded with metal and she rapped several times on it before footsteps came. A hatch slid open with a bang. Dark eyes moved, looking out at her.

  Her mouth was too dry to speak. She held up the brown paper parcel, stained with patches of grease. ‘Samosas,’ she said at last, ‘from Amit-Sahib’s restaurant. For his friend, Abhishek.’

  The hatch closed. She stood in the dust with the warm bag in her hand. Eventually, a bolt scraped, then another and a key turned. The door inched open. A stout guard peered out. He looked out beyond her, as if checking that she was alone, then reached out and snatched the samosas.

  ‘Are you Abhishek?’

  He scowled, opened the door further to let her slip inside, then locked it behind her and led her down a long corridor. It smelt of lime and disinfectant and the sourness of sweaty, confined men.

  They turned a sharp corner and an endless procession of identical doors appeared, left and right. There was no time to stop and look, she had to run to keep pace with him as he strode, the bag of samosas swinging from his fist. Her blood sounded loud in her ears. My baba was here. In this corridor, maybe. In that cell. Or that one. All those terrible, cruel years.

  He led her up a stone staircase and along an upper corridor, then stopped outside a door and nodded. Without a word, he turned on his heel and stood guard at the top of the staircase, his back to her. She stood at the door, looking after him for a moment, lost.

  The wood was worn. There was a covered hole in the door and she stood on her toes to shift the metal cover to one side and peer through.

  Her breath caught in her throat. She knew him at once. He sat on a battered cot, his back straight, his chin raised, his eyes closed. The cell was no bigger than a shack. The upper portion of one wall gleamed where a thin shaft of sunshine fell obliquely from the high window onto the whitewash. He, who once had so much, now had so little. A bucket in the far corner. A grey blanket folded on a single pillow on the cot beside him. She saw the book, open on his lap, and knew it at once. It was the volume of Tagore’s poetry which had once belonged to his uncle and brought him comfort in his final hours.

  She tapped lightly on the door with the tips of her fingers and he turned his head, opened his eyes and smiled. Her cheeks flamed. She blinked, peering through the peephole, unsure whether to speak.

  He got to his feet and came to the door. He dominated the space, a noble creature caged in a tiny, bare cell. She grasped her hands, one in the other. He was broad and handsome, just as she remembered, but the skin around his eyes was dark with fatigue and his cheeks were hollowed.

  ‘Sahib. Are you ill?’ Her whisper sounded obscenely loud in her ears and she looked quickly down the corridor. The guard didn’t turn.

  Sanjay Krishna stood a foot or so from the door and faced her. He couldn’t see her, she knew that, yet she felt herself watched by him. He put the palms of his hands together in namaste.

  ‘Little sister, I condole you for your poor baba. He died a martyr. Be proud, even as you grieve.’

  Her baba, stooped and shaking on the floor, blood on his fingers. Could she be proud? But Krishna-ji said so. It must be true.

  ‘Have courage, little sister. We have both lost loved ones. We are of the same stuff, you and I. One blood.’ His voice resonated with the same deep richness she remembered from Delhi.

  One blood. Her legs trembled. She was bound to him. You are all I have left in this world, she thought. You are the only person on this earth who cares for me, even a little. Her eyes filled and she swallowed hard.

  ‘Tell me, sahib. Tell me what to do.’

  He smiled, a gentle smile which melted the stone walls and the heavy door between them.

  ‘You are a good girl, Asha, and a brave one.’ His voice fell to a whisper. ‘You have your part to play. An important part. I know you will make your baba proud. And make me proud also.’

  She couldn’t speak. She wanted to blurt out: already I have betrayed you and my baba both, I am serving that man, who condemned him to death. She stood, silent and ashamed.

  He nodded as if he understood everything, as if he saw not just through the thick door but right into her soul. Her body ached from straining to reach to the peephole. It was hot and airless in the corridor. There was so much she needed to say, to confess to him, but she couldn’t find the words.

  He said then: ‘Your madam. You are knowing who she is?’

  She blinked. ‘Isabel Madam. Her husband sentenced my …’ Her voice faltered.

  ‘Her husband made your baba a martyr. That is true. But she herself, you know her?’

  He lifted his hand. She couldn’t see but it seemed to her that he placed it flat against the wood of the door between them. She lifted her own and placed it too, flat against the worn wood on her own side, imagining that they could touch.

  He began to whisper to her.

  ‘Do you remember that day, long ago, when you were a little girl only and your baba brought you to my uncle’s house? Rahul was there, my good friend, and he told you about the Britishers’ house with the mango and jamun trees where you and he were children? They cast out your baba and sent him to the slum, accused him falsely of being a thief.’

  Of course she remembered. Her poor baba bore it all and never spoke of it.

  ‘That was your madam’s house. It was her people who destroyed your baba’s reputation. They set him on the long path that led him to a cell here and to death.’

  Her hand shook on the wood. ‘Her people?’

  He nodded. His eyes fixed on the peephole as if he could see her.

  ‘They are snakes, these people. Full of kind words but also of poison.’

  The wood swam. She felt a sudden wave of sickness and leant her cheek against it.

  He said: ‘Harden your heart against her.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘I will leave her. Amit-ji will protect me. I’ll clean pans and cook for him.’

  On the other side of the door, he let out a low sigh. ‘No, little sister. They are snakes but we are tigers. Be strong. Be fierce. And have faith. The day of the tiger is almost come.’

  He disappeared from view and, a moment later, a sheet of folded paper, as thin as tissue, slid under the door. She bent, scooped it up and hid it in her sleeve.

  He said: ‘Take this to your madam. Deliver it in secret. Can you do this?’

  At the end of the corridor, the guard turned and started towards her.

  ‘Go now, little sister. Do as I say. Our day, the day of the tiger, will come.’

  He lifted his hand and placed his palm flat against the other side of the peephole so it turned pink with flesh and she felt his blessing.

  The guard reached her side and pushed her from the door. As she stepped away, his voice came after her.

  ‘We will defeat them. Your baba did not die in vain.’

  From that moment, she made a study of Isabel Madam, knowing now that she was doing Krishna-ji’s work. Her mistress barely saw her husband, who left early for the office and returned late. At night, he called Bimal to his side and closed the door of his bedroom on them both. In the kitchen, no one spoke of it.

  In the mornings, Isabel Madam took long walks, even on hot, humid days. When ladies visited the house for tea, Asha helped Bimal to carry in the trays, pass round sandwiches and cakes and serve milk, sugar and chai, British-style. Isabel Madam nodded along to the ladies’ stories but Asha saw the tension in her shoulders. It only eased when the last lady left and Isabel Madam pulled off her shoes, tucked her stockinged feet under her and opened a book, one of the thick volumes on Sahib’s shelf.

  ‘Asha, here you are!’

  Madam swept into the bedroom from one of her walks, her face flushed and
the hair around her forehead damp. Asha stood at the dresser, a drawer open, tidying Madam’s clothes. A floppy parcel flew through the air and slapped onto the bed.

  ‘Have a look.’

  Asha closed the drawer. The package was wrapped in paper and tied with string.

  ‘Well, go on.’

  She spent time unpicking the knots – it was good string – and smoothing the paper. The fabric inside was deep red, trimmed with gold braid. It couldn’t come from the derzi. He came to the house for fittings.

  Isabel Madam lifted it out of her hands and held up a kameez against Asha’s body, measuring the width against her shoulders.

  ‘You like it?’

  Asha hesitated. It was a salwar kameez with matching dupatta in fine, good-quality cotton. But why had she bought it? No memsahib dressed in Indian clothes.

  ‘We can take it back.’ Isabel Madam’s face reflected the doubt in her own. ‘Is it the colour?’

  ‘Colour is very nice, madam.’

  ‘Why not try it on? Don’t be shy.’

  Asha stared. Try it on?

  Isabel Madam banged down onto the bed, making the springs bounce. Her head tipped backwards and her teeth gleamed.

  ‘You thought I’d bought it for myself? Oh dear. No, Asha, it’s for you.’

  Asha looked down at the faded, patched clothes she was wearing. How long had she had them? She didn’t even remember. Her hands and feet protruded from the cuffs like overgrown branches. She slipped the tunic over her neck and looked at herself in the dress mirror. A different girl stood there, smarter, richer, illuminated by the bright colours. She blinked. She rubbed the hem between her finger and forefinger. Costly.

  Isabel Madam said: ‘It’s a gift, Asha. If you’ll accept it.’

  Asha looked again at the girl in the mirror.

  Isabel Madam lifted the dupatta from the paper and looped it around Asha’s neck.

  ‘You need more than one but I wanted to be sure it fit. I had them make it in my size. We’re almost the same, aren’t we?’ She lifted Asha’s arms and weighed the fit at the seam, as a derzi might do. ‘A tiny bit loose.’

  She stood with her hands loosely on Asha’s shoulders, admiring her in the mirror.

  That evening, before she settled down to sleep, Asha drew the new suit of clothes into her lap and stroked the cotton. The gold braid shone dimly in the half-light. She tried to think of the last time in her life that someone had gifted her anything.

  She folded the new clothes, wrapped them back in paper and stowed them under her bedroll. One day, she might need them. Until then, she would wear her own clothes with pride, however small and faded they might be.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Isabel

  The main salon at The Club rang with gossip. The usual array of cane-topped tables were moved to the sides to allow room for people to circulate. Sir Philip and Lady Lyons only hosted a few parties each year and Port Blair society hurried to attend.

  Mrs Copeland and Mrs Allen threaded their way across the freshly polished wooden floor towards Isabel, tilting their heads to the gentlemen they passed. Overhead, newly installed electric ceiling fans stirred between the wooden pillars, creating a pleasant movement of air. The brass along their arms flashed as they reflected light from the chandeliers.

  ‘Goodness, what excitement!’

  Mrs Copeland’s expression was sly. ‘My dear, we were starting to fear you might never come!’

  They were late. Jonathan had again been delayed in the office.

  ‘Such a sight, The Club at night, don’t you think?’

  ‘No wonder your husband practically lives here!’

  The two ladies turned to consider the company, commenting on hairstyles, figures and clothes. Their powdered faces shone.

  Isabel looked too but with less interest. Jonathan stood with a small group of men over by the French windows, which had been thrown open to the lawn. The warm night air was heavy with the scent of bougainvillea. One hand sat loosely in his pocket, the other held his drink. His eyes, lowered, studied his glass as, beside him, Sir Philip spoke. The chief commissioner seemed to be in the middle of one of his lengthy stories. A few moments later, the men burst into laughter. Isabel looked more closely. One of the men, standing with his back to them, was unfamiliar. His hair was closely cropped, with an austerity that was military, as if he’d come just that morning from the barber’s. His back, in his evening dress, was broad.

  ‘Have you met Mr Johnston?’ Mrs Copeland missed nothing.

  Mrs Allen put in: ‘She’ll be seeing a great deal of him, soon enough.’

  ‘You poor, poor thing. I do hate house guests. Such a bore.’

  Mrs Allen: ‘How long will he be with you? I’d heard it was a month!’

  Isabel managed a smile. As usual, Jonathan had kept her in the dark about the details. ‘I believe he’s at Government House at the moment, staying with Sir Philip.’

  ‘Oh yes, but that’s never for long. He’ll move across to you next.’ Mrs Allen tutted. ‘All those menus. Linen to organise. It’s too bad.’

  The ladies knew more about the arrangements than she did.

  Mrs Copeland: ‘And he’s come to study your husband’s methods, hasn’t he? For clearing jungle and civilising the natives and whatnot.’

  The two ladies exchanged looks. ‘He’s a queer fish. One hears such stories.’

  Mrs Allen’s face became suddenly eager. ‘Here’s Lady Lyons!’

  Lady Lyons turned to Isabel almost at once. ‘May I steal you away for a moment?’ She nodded apologies to the others. ‘I want to show Mrs Whyte the flowering poinsettia. It’s doing splendidly.’

  She led Isabel through the French windows and out onto the gravel path. The salt tang of the breeze cut through the floral scent of the gardens. Ahead, several couples had spilt onto the sloping lawn and stood in clusters on the shadowy grass. Across the harbour, the lights at Aberdeen glistened along the narrow stretch of water which separated it from Ross Island and The Club.

  Lady Lyons lowered her voice. ‘I can’t abide gossip. It causes such pain.’

  Isabel waited for her to continue.

  Lady Lyons went on: ‘I wanted to speak to you about Mr Johnston. Has your husband told you much?’

  ‘Very little.’ She considered. ‘I hear he’s the Assistant Commissioner of the Nicobar Islands and come to Port Blair to study jungle clearance.’

  ‘Quite.’ Lady Lyons spoke briskly as if she were eager to deliver her message before they were interrupted. ‘He’s half one of us, you know, government servant, and half missionary under the Bishop of Rangoon. He spends all year out there with only the savages for company. Hard to imagine, really, the only white man with all those junglis.’ She hesitated. ‘I suppose it’s made him a little peculiar.’

  ‘Peculiar?’

  She didn’t reply at once. They reached the end of the path and turned back towards The Club. Light falling through the open doors made broad stripes along the path. The members of a convict band, smart in red and white uniforms, were assembling at the top of the lawn.

  Lady Lyons shrugged. ‘He’s been there some years. I think he sees it as some form of penance. He was married, you see. Tragic. She was bitten by a scorpion. Or was it a snake? Anyway, he was away at the time, upcountry. By the time he heard and rushed back, it was all over. He was devoted to her, by all accounts. Not sure he’s ever recovered.’

  ‘How sad.’

  ‘Quite. One must make allowances. It wasn’t long afterwards that he applied for the Nicobar post. A sort of self-imposed exile. Philip says he’s done jolly well to stick it.’

  They approached the French windows. As they re-entered the salon, a servant appeared, offering glasses of punch and flutes of champagne.

  ‘The ladies dislike anyone who’s different from the herd.’ She gave Isabel a complicit smile. ‘I think you understand that, don’t you?’

  She steered Isabel across the salon towards Jonathan and Sir Philip
. The gentlemen turned politely as the women approached.

  ‘Mr Johnston, may I present Mrs Whyte?’ Lady Lyons was once again a commanding hostess. ‘Mr Whyte kept their whole courtship strictly under wraps, isn’t he a dark one?’

  If Isabel had imagined a missionary, she might have thought of an elderly man with a beard, rather like the drawings in her books of Bible stories. Edward Johnston could hardly be more different. He was young, barely thirty, and rugged with good health. His cheeks were clean-shaven. His eyes were blue-green and intelligent and when he turned them on her, he gave the impression that he thought a great deal more than he chose to say. He greeted her with a restrained half-smile.

  ‘A pleasure to meet you, Mrs Whyte. I was just congratulating your husband. He’s a lucky man.’

  Isabel opened her mouth to reply but at that moment, the convict band struck up outside with a popular tune and, conversation suspended, the crowd pressed outside to listen, glasses in hand. Jonathan fussed at Isabel’s side with the folds of her shawl. When she looked up again, Edward Johnston had melted away into the crowd.

  Jonathan dined late at The Club on Monday evening and surprised her by returning to the house with Mr Johnston unexpectedly in tow. Isabel, already in bed, lay, embarrassed, listening to their low voices and wondering whether she should get dressed again and greet her guest or wait until the morning.

  The voices quietened and the house drifted into sleep.

  The next morning, Jonathan left early. Isabel was sitting in the dining room over breakfast when Mr Johnston appeared. He sat, eyes cast down, grinding the inside of his cup with a spoon as he stirred his coffee.

  ‘How did you sleep, Mr Johnston? Was the room comfortable?’

  ‘Perfectly, thank you.’

  She hesitated. ‘I do hope you didn’t think me impolite. I mean, not greeting—’

  ‘Of course not.’ He spoke without expression. ‘We were rude to arrive so late.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  He scraped back the chair and served himself from the dishes of sausages and eggs on the sideboard. When he returned to the table, Isabel tried again.