The Satapur Moonstone

by Sujata Massey

  A rose-colored cup of lukewarm tea and three biscuits waited on the bedside table. The maid had drawn Perveen’s bath, and it, too, was lukewarm. From the temperature, she guessed that Chitra had probably come with the water more than an hour before.

  Perveen took a quick dip in the tub and dressed in a lime-colored sari embroidered with curling vines and blush-colored camellias, one of the most elegant Gulnaz had packed for her. It smelled damp, as if the rain had soaked through the suitcase during the long, wet journey. Today, though, the sun was shining, and even though she needed to go downstairs, she went to the balcony for a quick look.

  The guest room balcony was on a corner, giving her a grand view of the north and east as she surveyed the landscape. Rolling green hills were like arms cradling the valley, but in the east, where the morning sun was shining, there was a small settlement of tiled-roof buildings. She wondered if this was a village that funneled its population to work in the palaces. Toward the north stood an impenetrable forest of green trees, large and small. That forest was probably where Prince Pratap Rao had been killed. The royal family’s losses were as much a part of the land as the thousands of trees.

  Perveen went to the desk and picked up her leather-bound folio holding her legal notebook and two well-sharpened pencils. She went through her room, closing the door behind her and wishing she had a key to lock it. In the hallway, sunlight streamed in through a row of tall, arched windows, making the marble floor shine. A thin man in his twenties dressed in a red palace uniform jacket worn over a lungi sat slumped with his back against the wall at the far end of the hall; he halfheartedly rose as she approached. She had thought her chamber was in an area just for women, but she must have misunderstood.

  “Where is Chitra?” she asked, because it seemed very strange that the maid who’d been so attentive the night before had not lingered to help her.

  “Rajmata called for her. Is something wrong?” His expression was wary.

  So there weren’t enough maids on duty to have one stationed near a guest. “I am quite all right. Where do the children have breakfast?”

  “In the nursery. But they’ve already eaten.”

  She bit her lip, sorry to have missed them. “Are they at lessons?”

  “Maybe.” The guard looked uncertainly at her. “It changes every day.”

  “What about the maharanis?”

  “Rajmata went for prayers at the temple and is just coming back to her zenana. Choti-Rani has gone riding.”

  She nodded, thinking to herself that Mirabai’s definition of being a purdahnashin was different from the one she knew.

  “Chitra told me you should go to the inner garden. She has arranged for you to have breakfast there.”

  “Which garden?” The palace had a maze of small green spaces in and around it.

  “Once you reach downstairs, you will see a big arch. You will find the garden there.”

  Perveen thanked him and started on her way down the staircase. The pearl-embroidered slippers she’d borrowed from Gulnaz slipped on the polished marble, so she grabbed fast to the bannister. Her calves ached from the difficult slog through mud the day before, and a subtle pain girded the muscles in her back. She did not feel as strong as she needed to be.

  She had to investigate a number of large arches before she found the right one that led to a dining room and adjacent garden. A bearer led her into a modern dining room with walls decorated with a line of large painted portraits of men with fancy jewel-studded pagris, all set at a forty-five-degree angle. Even if their coats hadn’t been draped in diamond and pearl necklaces, she would have known they were the past three ruling maharajas from the confidence in their golden-brown eyes.

  The furniture was ornate, curlicued Chinese mahogany, and a thicket of Belgian-glass chandeliers hung from the high ceiling. A long table was laden with many silver chafing dishes. The sight of the breakfast made just for her was overwhelming. She would hardly be able to put a dent in it.

  On the far side of the dining room, a pair of tall arched doors opened to a charming geometric parterre garden. The rectangular sections were filled to bursting with red roses, orange marigolds, and white datura blooms. Peacocks strutted along the gravel paths that ran between the garden beds. A round pond was completely covered with lotuses. It made an exquisite, romantic scene.

  “The rains may be hard, but they feed the flowers,” Perveen said to the gardener she came upon, who was crouched under a rosebush.

  Looking startled, he bowed his head.

  Perveen continued to a round cast-iron table. The table was laid for one with silver and a porcelain plate, and there was a brass vase filled with white roses. She felt grateful someone had remembered her. The pretty setting for one looked more inviting than the dining room’s mahogany table, which was long enough to seat forty people.

  “Please be seated.” A bearer dressed in fresh blue livery, with a pleasant round face, approached with a pot of tea on a silver tray. “Choti-Rani recommends that people eat outside when there is sun!”

  Perveen imagined that the senior maharani would have disagreed with that idea because sun darkened the complexion. What did the lady think about having a daughter-in-law so brown from daily riding?

  Perveen picked up the Limoges plate from the garden table and turned toward the dining room to go fill it at the buffet.

  “No! I must serve you,” he corrected her pleasantly. “What does memsahib wish to eat?”

  Perveen awkwardly handed her plate to the bearer. Mirabai was worried about poisoning. Perveen was unsure whether to take that seriously. She thought about asking for Ganesan, but she realized that the dog must have been accompanying his mistress on her ride. There was no other choice than to follow the bearer to the dining room, where he announced the dishes with pride. He pointed out vegetable cutlets cooked to golden perfection, a thick dal laden with sweet raisins, a rich curry of cauliflower and tomato, and pohe, the same beaten-rice dish Vandana had served. It must have been an area specialty. There were also puffy puris and crisp parathas, velvety scrambled eggs and plain hard-boiled ones, and a tall pitcher of fresh lime juice.

  This was the kind of spread Perveen normally would have welcomed with gusto, and it was late enough in the morning that her stomach felt empty. But recalling Mirabai’s warning, she reluctantly said, “Please give me two hard-boiled eggs and one puri.”

  “Only that?” The bearer looked affronted.

  She felt pressured but was determined not to show it. “Oh! How about that banana? I’ll peel it myself.”

  “You are choosing like the Englishman who used to come here,” he said curtly.

  “The last agent, Mr. McLaughlin?” The man had obviously been quite a presence here at the palace.

  He nodded. “His stomach was sensitive, so he only ate English food. But you are Indian. You must eat the food. The cook made it knowing that you were a guest from far away. There is pohe here, a palace specialty, and a raisin dal, and a cauliflower curry—”

  “I’ll try the pohe,” she said, not wanting to cause the cook undue offense.

  The bearer smiled with satisfaction.

  In the garden, with the plate set out and the tea beside her, Perveen began her meal. But after the bearer stepped inside, she quickly scooped the pohe under a tuberose bush. She felt too nervous about it.

  As she peeled the banana, a monkey loped toward her. She tossed the peel to him, thinking he looked almost identical to Bandar, the pet monkey who rode on the buffoon’s shoulder. Both creatures were gray with cream faces. She wondered how it was that one monkey was chosen as a dressed-up pet and the other lived as a scavenger. Was the pet monkey really more fortunate?

  A shriek cut through the garden’s stillness, distracting her. The noise sounded happy, and as high-pitched laughter followed, Perveen guessed that she was overhearing Padmabai playing somewhere higher up i
n the palace. Very likely she was with her brother.

  Perveen glanced up the garden wall and caught sight of a flash of red streaking through the sky. It was a kite. The children must have been running along the roof of the new palace. In her mind, she saw them tumbling off, and the worry cut her appetite.

  As the servant came out with more tea, Perveen pointed in the direction of the kite. “Are the prince and princess safe playing on the roof?”

  He seemed bemused by the question. “Of course. They aren’t alone.”

  How did a waiter working a dining room know what was going on above him? “If their mother is out riding and the dowager maharani is in her zenana, who is with them?”

  “Probably their ayahs.” He shrugged as if it didn’t matter.

  But she hadn’t heard an adult voice, and that made her nervous. Pushing her half-empty plate aside, she stood. “Will you ask someone to take me to them?”

  What she saw on the roof was alarming. Prince Jiva Rao was racing along a flat walkway that ran along the edge with the kite held high. Only a three-foot-high stone wall protected him from the open sky. Padmabai ran behind as fast as she could on her short legs.

  “Please stop! Both of you!” Perveen called out as the bearer who had led her up the narrow, steep staircase to the roof made his exit.

  Jiva Rao was startled and stopped short. Padmabai continued on her course and knocked into him. Perveen screamed as they fell down in a pile just inches from the low wall. Both children cried out in shock. As she ran to them, feeling mortified that her sudden command had caused an accident, she heard another voice.

  “What nonsense to shout at them!” Aditya the buffoon snapped. “They were only playing!”

  “This roof is a dangerous place to play kites. They are close to the edge. It was—” She heard herself sputtering, knowing it wasn’t a good argument. She should not have yelled out and shocked the children.

  “There’s a little wall around the edge, and we always play here,” Jiva Rao said, holding out his hands for Aditya to pull him up. Scowling at Perveen, the prince spat out, “You have no right to be here. I banish you!”

  Perveen was shocked, but her temptation to tell off the child was swiftly replaced by her knowledge that doing so wouldn’t be effective. “Maharaja, I’m sorry for startling you. I only came up for a chance to see you in more of your daily activities.”

  “The day’s activity is what the esteemed maharaja wishes,” the buffoon said, giving her a wink. The gesture told her that his annoyance at her arrival had worn off.

  “Maharaja, do you always take lessons when you wish?”

  Prince Jiva Rao pursed his lips as if he’d tasted something foul. “When it rains, I sometimes do the lessons.”

  “Look!” Padmabai was on her knees, holding on to the roof’s edge and staring down. “Someone’s coming. Another visitor, and not in a palanquin. A car!”

  Perveen walked carefully over and looked down, trying to ignore the fear of falling that gripped her. A bright green car was moving along a very distant road. Why hadn’t she seen this road when she had traveled the day before?

  “It’s Uncle!” Jiva Rao said with a look of joy. “That’s his Mercedes Cardan.”

  “Yes,” Aditya said, standing at the edge and squinting into the distance. “Our prince and princess have sharp eyes. Prince Swaroop and his entourage are coming.”

  Jiva Rao shoved the kite string into Aditya’s hand. “Let’s go.”

  “You see him—but he is not near. It will take twenty minutes or so for your uncle to reach the gate.” Winding the kite string around his broad hand, the buffoon gave Perveen a mischievous glance. “I think he heard about the lovely lady lawyer and came to see!”

  Perveen felt perturbed that this might be the case. “Who could have told him? Does the palace have a telephone?”

  “No. Why do you ask? Are you already wanting to call the English?” He snickered lightly.

  He had deflected her query into a joking accusation.

  “Even if I wished to call the Satapur agent, he doesn’t have a telephone!” Perveen snapped, just before realizing she was appearing too defensive. “I was only wondering how the prince learned I was here.”

  “We can only send messages by letter,” the buffoon said.

  “Or you ride a horse to bring people messages! You are always going here and there!” Padmabai looked cheekily at him, and after a moment he smiled.

  Perveen guessed that after the popular uncle arrived, the royal children would be even less willing to study. “Since the prince will be arriving in a bit, will you please show me your lesson books? It would be nice to have that finished for the day, wouldn’t it?”

  Jiva Rao frowned, but Padmabai beamed. “Oh yes! They are in our desks. I’ll show you mine.”

  Mr. Basu’s classes were taught in a grand room on the first floor. With a glossy black-and-white marble tiled floor and fifteen-foot windows overlooking the garden, this was like no schoolroom Perveen had ever seen, although it had a blackboard and real teak school desks with chairs. A globe rested on a stand, and framed maps of India and the world hung on a wall decorated with ornate plaster moldings. But the most surprising element of the royal schoolroom was a framed picture of Mohandas Gandhi. The spiritual leader’s kind eyes behind plain spectacles were a welcome sight to her, but seemed out of place given that Satapur was supposed to be in full support of British rule.

  The children trooped in ahead of Perveen and began to giggle, first behind their hands and then more openly. Jiva Rao and Padmabai looked at Perveen’s face for a reaction to the elderly gentleman sprawled out on a teak planter’s chair, his legs on the long arms. Perveen smiled, too. She’d seen lawyers sleeping in the same posture inside the Ripon Club, but it was very incongruous here in the palace.

  Jiva Rao’s giggles turned to ribald laughter, a surprisingly powerful sound for a child to make. The sleeper gave a start and opened his eyes. He blinked a few times, and the lines running on either side of his mouth grew deeper as he came more fully awake and reached for his spectacles. “What’s this about?” he said. “You are disturbing me.”

  Perveen spoke up because he hadn’t seemed to note her presence. “Good morning, sir. Are you Mr. Basu?”

  “Yes, yes!” he answered, and she saw his cloudy eyes finally focus on her. Sitting fully upright and adjusting the quilt on his lap, he said sternly to the children, “Who is this woman?”

  “She’s Perveen-memsahib,” Padmabai said, dancing from one foot to the other. “She brought us books!”

  “My name is Perveen Mistry.” Perveen thought about adding “Esquire,” so the tutor would understand she was a lawyer, but didn’t want to seem pretentious. “The Kolhapur Agency sent me as its representative to visit the royal family.”

  “And for what reason are you visiting?” The tutor looked slightly dazed, as if he was still half asleep.

  Perveen realized that her arrival might be a shock to a man in his seventies who was accustomed to an easy schedule. Gently, she said, “A decision must be made about the maharaja’s future schooling. In order to do that wisely, I would be grateful for your insight.”

  “Are you a governess? I have no need of assistance.” He pushed away the hand she offered as he slowly moved his legs off the chair.

  Watching the man pause, trying to gather strength before standing, she could sense how flustered he was. “I am sorry for the confusion. I’m not going to work here. I am a lawyer who practices in Bombay. I’m helping the Satapur political agent make the decision about the maharaja’s higher schooling. I only wish to chat with you and review the maharaja’s academic work.”

  “Uncle is coming. Therefore, we will show her the lessons quickly and then go to him.” Jiva Rao spoke as if he were already a ruling maharaja.

  “May we read the books that Perveen-memsahib brought u
s?” Padmabai asked. On the way down from the roof, she had fetched both from the nursery. Now she thrust them at the tutor.

  “Ah,” he said. “The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth . . .” His voice faded off. “And Marigold Gallery by Kate Green. We must check with Rajmata to find out if these foreign books are allowed.”

  He was having trouble reading the titles and the authors’ names, Perveen realized with shock. If the milky film she saw in his eyes was cataracts, this could be the reason.

  “But Rajmata doesn’t read English!” protested Jiva Rao.

  “I know our mother doesn’t mind,” Padmabai said, grabbing back both books and holding fast to them. “Please, sir!”

  Mr. Basu blinked again. “Very well,” he said grumpily. “Why don’t you look at those books while I show the lady your lesson books?”

  “I don’t like her seeing them. You must tell her I will not go away to school.” The maharaja kicked sharply at the leg of Basu’s chair.

  Basu’s shoulders jerked, and the boy laughed.

  “Maharaja, why don’t you want to try school?” Perveen had noted the childish behavior but was determined not to show a reaction.

  He nodded. “I haven’t been there before, and I won’t ever go.”

  Perveen suddenly regretted asking for the maharaja’s opinion. She’d created a situation where there would be a battle of wills. It would have been much easier to quietly observe and make the obvious conclusion herself.

  As Mr. Basu led Perveen away from the children, his shoulders seemed to drop. Was this from relaxation or sadness? He showed her into a dark parlor that was crowded with damask-covered Victorian furniture.