The World Beyond Read online

  She was relieved to be away from the stultifying heat and the even more stifling conversations within. She did not care how many days the washerwoman took to do the ironing or how slow Kallu was in laying the table. She watched two horsemen disappear into oblivion, whipping up a cloud of dust behind them. What would she not do to saddle up and ride alongside them? She grinned devilishly as she imagined the look of horror on the faces of all the guests at home.

  Rachael loved looking at the skyline at this hour. The white palaces and mosques, bedecked with golden minarets, domes and cupolas, looked flushed and pink as the sun set slowly behind them. Like a virgin bride blushing in all her bridal finery. As the incantation of Allah-o-Akbar rose from the mosques, a dozen sparrows flew into the air.

  She took a deep breath. The air was laden with the scent of roses and jasmine. She stooped to pick up a rose that had fallen on the lawn and started plucking its petals one by one. ‘Yes,’ she sighed contentedly. Lucknow certainly was more beautiful than Paris or Constantinople. She wondered what those palaces and mosques looked like from the inside. Did the women wear burqas inside the palace as well? She had heard Nabob Wajid Ali Shah had many begums. She wondered how they lived together. Did they live in harmony like sisters or were they always quarrelling? If only she could spend some time with them. And Urdu – the language they spoke – it sounded so poetic, so rich, so polite. And the way it was written from right to left – it was intriguing. One day, Rachael decided, she would learn to read and write in that language.

  Mother, of course, would not approve. She had no interest in India or its people. ‘The less I know about these heathens and their ways, the better,’ she would say. Rachael pitied her. She had no idea what a treasure trove of excitement she was missing. How narrow and shuttered her life had become.

  Rachael propped her elbows on the little wicker gate that led into the garden. The gate creaked in protest against the unaccustomed weight. She thought of the young man she had met in Chowk that morning. He had looked her straight in the eye – unlike the other natives, who never looked a woman in the eye unless she was his mother, wife, sister or a nautch girl. He was no ordinary native – he walked like one who owned the land. Who was he? A prince? But no, he did not wear any jewellery like all the nabobs and princes she had seen. So who was he, then? She blushed slightly as she caressed her right hand and remembered how his firm brown hand had touched it.

  The following morning, Rachael thought about the previous night’s party as Sudha brushed her hair. She would run away from home if Mother made her attend one more party that week. And what made all these social gatherings even more unbearable was whether it was a party or a ball or the theatre, they invariably met the same insipid crowd. Added to that was the matchmaking all the mothers were now indulging in since the day she had turned eighteen.

  ‘Captain O’Reilly has just arrived in Lucknow and he’s single. You must invite him next time, dear,’ crooned Mrs Palmer.

  Another one whispered conspiratorially into Mother’s ear, ‘Stella’s youngest son – what’s his name – ah, Thomas – that freckled Rebecca has given him the mitten. He’s a free man now.’

  For the love of God! Had she told them to look for a suitable boy for her? Did she look desperate? Then why were they so anxious to get her betrothed? Had they nothing better to do? It seemed the only purpose in a woman’s life was to go to the altar. And how that thought vexed her.

  Sudha stepped aside as she threw back her stool and turned away from the dressing table. She had had enough of this matchmaking. Next time someone said a word about marriage she would scream. Even if it meant being banned from English society for ever.

  She went into the dining room and looked around. Breakfast was going to be late. The servants were still busy clearing the mess from yesterday’s party. The room smelt of stale food and liquor.

  ‘Oh my God, memsahib, something wrong with puppy,’ Ram Singh suddenly exclaimed.

  Turning around sharply, she rushed to where Ram Singh was bending over something. Sure enough Brutus was acting in the strangest manner. He was spinning his head rapidly. Then he put his head down on the floor and rubbed it up and down against the carpet. Ayah looked at him and screamed, ‘Oh no, he possessed by evil spirit! Someone call the tantric!’ She scurried out of the room to call Mother.

  Rachael bent down over the puppy. ‘What’s the matter, baby?’ she cooed. She patted his soft black back and tried to scoop him in her arms. But he simply yelped and leapt out. He continued shaking his head, as though trying to rid himself of something.

  ‘What’s the matter? What’s all this hullabaloo?’ said a startled voice from behind. It was Mother – her eyes puffed and still sleepy, hair tousled.

  If there was one person who had strongly opposed keeping Brutus in the house, it was Mother. But Brutus had soon won her over. He followed Mother everywhere. He wagged his tail briskly and yelped in delight whenever she got back home. He looked at her with such sorrowful eyes whenever she scolded him that she began to soften. So much so, that now, if there was one person in the entire household who stirred any emotion in Mother, it was Brutus.

  If Rachael did not eat her meal, it often went unnoticed. But if Brutus did not eat, one servant was sent right away to summon the vet, another to the market to get some fresh meat and a third was ordered to roll out rotis just as Brutus liked them – thick and soft. And until Mother finally managed to coax Brutus to eat, she would sit with him on her lap, stroking his coat and whispering sweet nothings into his ear.

  Smiling sadly, Rachael wondered when was the last time mother had hugged her. It was so long ago it did not matter anymore. Mother’s lack of warmth and affection had hurt a lot when she was little. She would break Mother’s favourite china or throw tantrums to evoke a reaction from her. But nothing ever worked. Finally she had convinced herself that Mother was her stepmother. Just like Cinderella’s.

  ‘What’s happened to my Brutus?’ There was an edge of panic in Mother’s voice now, as she helplessly watched Brutus running around.

  As Rachael moved aside to enable Sudha to lay the table, she spotted something on the floor and picked it up. It looked as if it had been chewed and then spat out. ‘Nothing to worry about, Mother,’ she announced. Grinning, she held up something green for all to see. ‘Brutus has just had his first taste of green chillies.’

  Her declaration was greeted with oohs and aahs and mirth. Ayah went to fetch Brutus a bowl of water while Sudha scraped some leftover pudding from the dish for him.

  Once Brutus had been fed and watered and lay contentedly on his rug, Mother commenced her tour of the house. ‘Sudha, why have these dead flowers not been replaced?’ she said, as she lifted the bunch of flowers from the vase in the living room and handed them to her.

  ‘Sorry, memsahib, I do it right away. You see, they alive yesterday.’

  ‘And Ram Singh, I want you to remove all the cobwebs behind the khus mats at once. I felt mortified last night when Mrs Wilson noticed them.’

  ‘Very well, memsahib,’ replied Ram Singh.

  As Mother lifted a khus mat to point out the cobwebs to Ram Singh, a lizard fell on her. She screamed and shook her garments vigorously to get rid of the hideous creature.

  ‘Mother, pray sit down and have your breakfast. You can instruct them after you’ve eaten,’ said Rachael.

  Mother sighed and sat down at the table. ‘Oh, these dim-witted natives. They have again put the wrong cutlery.’

  ‘Pray do not vex yourself, mother. They’ll learn eventually. Your breakfast is getting cold.’

  But Mother was already marching towards the kitchen. She yanked open the cutlery drawer and, lifting out a spoon, waved it at Ayah. ‘This is the spoon—’ She could not finish as a cockroach darted out of the drawer. ‘What the—?’ she gasped, horrified.

  Poor Mother. ‘You don’t like this country much, do you, Mother?’ Rachael had asked her once.

  ‘I hate it,’ she had barked in r
eply.

  Yes, Mother hated India. She hated the uncouth natives; the heat and the dust; the hot curries and the leathery Indian bread; the smell of perspiration, strong spices and cow dung. Above all she hated the country for swallowing her only son.

  Rachael squinted as the glaring sun beat down on her as soon as she stepped out of the house later that day.

  ‘Good afternoon, missy baba,’ Ram Singh greeted her.

  She smiled and crinkled up her nose. ‘Afternoon, Ram Singh.’

  She had known Ram Singh since she had learnt to walk. When she was two, Mother had often asked him to keep an eye on her. She would throw her toys out of the window, then clap her hands with glee as he ran outside for the umpteenth time to pick them up.

  When she was older, he and his wife Parvati often told her tales from the Ramayana and Mahabharata. They would tell her about the cousins, the Pandavas and the Kauravas, and how they waged an eighteen-day war against each other. Or how Lord Ram was the only mortal who could lift the celestial bow to win Sita’s hand in marriage. She would listen in awe as the monkey god Hanuman set fire to Lanka with his tail, or Lord Krishna lifted an entire mountain on his little finger to save his fellow villagers from a thunderstorm.

  The couple would often quarrel over details. Angrily, Ayah would pull the edge of her sari over her eyes so she could not see her ignoramus husband’s face anymore, and stomp off. Ram Singh would shake his head at her receding form, and then continue the tale.

  Today, as Rachael passed the servants’ quarters, she halted. ‘What’s that lovely aroma coming from your house, Ram Singh?’

  ‘Missy baba, my son ask wife to make kheer. You like taste some?’ he added hesitantly.

  ‘Yes, why not?’

  She followed Ram Singh but hesitated at the doorstep. In all the years that she had known him, she’d never been inside his house. Even as a child she had understood it was not the done thing. Sahibs and memsahibs did not mix with the natives. But then Ram Singh and Ayah weren’t just any natives. They were almost like family. Rachael lifted her right foot determinedly and entered the house. The door was small and she had to bend down to enter. A peculiar smell greeted her – a mixture of sweat, food, incense and camphor.

  ‘Oh, missy baba, I no knew you come. Welcome, welcome. You sit, baba, over here. No, here,’ Ayah chattered, wringing her hands as she spoke.

  ‘You sure, missy baba, you like to eat in our house?’ Ram Singh asked her for the third time.

  She now suspected he had invited her out of politeness, but had not expected her to accept the invitation. But she couldn’t possibly refuse now. She sat down quietly on the chair that he had dusted and put out for her. He then excused himself and followed his wife to the kitchen.

  ‘Parvati, hurry up and serve food. If barre memsahib and sahib come and find missy baba here, they skin me alive,’ Rachael heard him say, and she felt guilty for putting him to such trouble.

  She looked around. The room was too small for even one person to live in. The roof was low and there was just one small square window in the entire house. Rachael wondered how Ram Singh and his wife survived in this heat. The only furniture in the room was a charpoy, a wooden table, a chair and a cupboard.

  ‘No, no, no, I’m happy eating on the floor,’ Rachael insisted when she saw Ram Singh clearing the clutter from the table. And before he could protest, she had settled down on the threadbare rug on the floor. The floor felt hard, but she said nothing. She did not wish to add more to the couple’s discomfiture.

  Ayah placed a plate of food before her and started fanning her with a punkah.

  ‘I’m not eating alone. Where’s your plate?’ Rachael asked.

  ‘Oh no, baba, how can I eat before husband?’ Ayah answered shyly as she continued to fan her.

  ‘Ram Singh, come and join me,’ Rachael called out to Ram Singh, who had stationed himself at the door and looked out nervously every two minutes.

  ‘No baba, you eat. I eat later.’

  ‘Look, I’m not going to eat alone. Either you or Ayah eats with me or I’m going.’ Rachael started to get up.

  ‘Oh no, missy baba, you know not how bad it is for a guest to leave table without eating,’ said Ram Singh. Reluctantly he sat down on a small chatai and gestured to Ayah to bring his food.

  Rachael licked her lips. She had never eaten without any cutlery before. She was relieved when Ayah handed her a small teaspoon she had managed to dig out. She spluttered as she took the first mouthful of the vegetable pulao. It was spicy and hot, but oh so delicious. ‘Where’s Kalyaan?’ she asked as she took another mouthful. What was that special aroma – was it the bay leaves, the green cardamoms or the black ones? How come English food always smelt healthy but never exotic like this?

  ‘He eaten and gone to tend the horses,’ said Ayah.

  Rachael smiled as she thought of Kalyaan. Many an afternoon she had spent with him as a child; until the fateful day when she had that fall. That was the last time she played with him. For thereafter, much to her consternation, she was whisked off every afternoon to Granny Ruth’s – that’s what everyone called her.

  Mother took a siesta every afternoon with clockwork regularity. She locked her bedroom door and nobody, not even Papa, was allowed to disturb her then. And certainly not her. But Rachael could never bring herself to sleep during the day. The world outside beckoned her. She’d creep out of the house and join Ram Singh’s son in his games. He’d defeat her at a game of marbles or teach her how to climb a tree. That afternoon, as she was climbing the guava tree, the branch snapped and she had a nasty fall. Mother had to be woken up and, of course, she was not pleased. She was scandalised to learn her daughter had been climbing trees. Rachael had to endure an hour-long lecture on the impropriety of playing with the natives while the nurse tended to her wounds.

  Granny Ruth was a frail old woman with a high-pitched nasal accent. At first Rachael abhorred her, until she introduced her to the enchanting world of music. From then on, Rachael began leading a secret life every afternoon, when only she and her piano existed. Her notes would rise to the skies and inhabit a world full of laughter and ecstasy. By the time the afternoon ended, her face would be flushed, fingers aching and eyes starry.

  ‘You not liking food, baba?’ Parvati asked.

  Looking down at her food, Rachael realised she had been daydreaming. ‘Umm … What’s this?’ she asked, pointing to the bowl Ayah had just placed before her.

  ‘Kheer … sweet?’

  Rachael took a spoonful. A kind of dessert. Tasted a little like rice pudding. Just then she heard the creak of a rusted gate being opened and the sound of horses trotting to a halt and neighing.

  ‘Oh my God, sahib here. I going to be skinned alive,’ Ram Singh groaned.

  ‘Shh, listen to me, Ram Singh. Tell me when they are inside the house and I will sneak into my room through the window.’

  Stepping out of Ram Singh’s house gingerly, Rachael looked around. No one was about except for the gatekeeper who sat yawning at the post. She glanced across the garden. Everything was still, as though drugged on opium. She lifted her skirts and scurried to the back of the house where her window was, as a hot gust of wind hit her.

  Suddenly she heard someone coming. She held her breath and closed her eyes. Then she heard a small bark. She opened her eyes slowly and found Brutus wagging his tail, his tongue hanging out and his little head cocked to one side as he looked at her.

  ‘Oh Brutus, it’s you,’ she exclaimed as she slowly let out a sigh of relief. Her heart was still thumping rapidly as she reached for the window latch.

  ‘Rachael?’

  She froze. It was Papa.

  Chapter Three

  SALIM

  Salim had just returned to his rooms after offering the Eid prayers. He was relieved Daima wasn’t around. Despite her warning yesterday, he had managed to oversleep and reach the Jama Masjid late. Although he had slipped into the prayer hall quietly after washing his hands and fee
t, he had espied Abba Huzoor noticing him from the corner of his eye.

  He walked over to the latticed window and looked out into the courtyard below, while the barber prepared his shaving foam. There was a hum of activity – servants ran helter-skelter, completing last-minute preparations for the Eid celebrations. New expensive carpets from Persia were being rolled out in the hall. As usual, food was being prepared in all the six royal kitchens.

  Salim sat down on the takhat and the barber began to apply shaving foam to his cheeks. He thought of the girl in the burqa whom he had met the previous day. She had the most beautiful pair of eyes he had ever seen – cool, calm and as blue as the sky at midday. It irked him, however, that the girl for whom he had felt a tug for the first time in his life was not Muslim. She was English. Damn, but she played the piano so well!

  Just then Ahmed entered the room. ‘Eid Mubarak, Salim mia,’ he said.

  The barber stepped aside as Salim got up to embrace his friend. ‘Eid Mubarak, my friend. Eid Mubarak.’

  Salim sat down on the takhat again and the barber recommenced his shaving.

  Ahmed walked over to the painting of a European lady in her boudoir that hung on the wall. He ran his finger alongside the frame, then turned to face Salim. ‘Can I ask you something, Salim mia?’

  ‘What is it, Ahmed?’

  Clearing his throat, Ahmed looked around. ‘Salim mia, the girl we saw yesterday. You sure it was the same girl? An English mem in a burqa?’ He put a paan in his mouth. ‘I think you’ve lost it, Salim mia. You’ve started hallucinating. Better start visiting the tawaifs.’

  ‘I’m absolutely sure,’ Salim replied, an edge of irritation in his voice.