Authors: Sylvia Atkinson
The Letter (11 page)
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.
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.
Muni believed her mistress had come to her senses and, like an Indian bride, accepted the situation. She would ensure she wasn’t cheated in the town’s bazaars.
Margaret hung on to the side of the tonga. She must have been mad to set off. Would she ever learn to take advice and a measured view?
Ever attentive Muni said, “Memsahib I have water and fruits. Stop and eat.”
The tonga driver pulled off the road. The bearer lifted out a basket from under the seat. They picnicked at the roadside in the shade of a banyan tree looking out at the baking countryside. Margaret flexed her swollen fingers and toes. “Muni, what would I do without you?”
“Rest mistress… Let the sun pass.”
Refreshed, they travelled on to the town. Muni’s chosen shopkeeper sent for a chair. Honoured by Margaret’s patronage and flattered that she spoke to him in his own language, he served hot sugary tea that the maid prescribed fit to drink.
An accomplished sales magician, the shopkeeper swirled a rainbow of cotton and silk over the counter. Some fabrics were plain, woven to catch the light, others sported gold leaf patterns, paisley and intricate traditional designs. Muni was quick to point out that in summer, cotton made the best saris, with gossamer silk for more formal occasions. Winters required heavyweight silk for warmth. Margaret didn’t know where to start, but the astute maid suggested she choose two or three sari lengths to take today. She also suggested that the shopkeeper bring his most exclusive goods to Aakesh. This was the way local business was conducted by wealthy families. Public buying of saris was not suitable for ladies of the Margaret’s rank.
At the end of their transactions a bill was made out which Muni checked item by item, negotiating a hefty discount.
Ben arrived home unannounced the same afternoon. Margaret’s absence and Muni’s questioning of the servants in the main house were reported to him by his mother. The findings would be unpleasant but of no consequence. Margaret would return. Her child was here; besides where else could she go? His mother had the gate keeper beaten.
Ben sent for Pavia but his little girl was out of sorts, unwilling to sing or be amused by her father. Her dark brown eyes mirrored his but she had a knowing way of looking at him, and for a second he was shamed. He sent her away and was reading in his favourite chair when Margaret returned. He expected recriminations but none came. Curious to know where she had been, he was furious with the reply. “Shopping” he repeated, “risking our unborn child for trifles! Let me see this shopping that might have cost so much.” He passed the packages to Muni who dextrously unfastened the tightly knotted string unrolling the acres of brown paper. “Saris, you bought saris?”
“Lots to wear at home…” Margaret gave him the bill.
The discount was good but he said she should have tried for more. Rubbing the material through his fingers, he approved of the quality. “Well done my Charuni” he said, calculating the advantages of a sari-clad British wife. “Wearing these you will attend the temple. I will instruct you in all aspects of the Hindu religion but when we call on the British you will dress according to their custom.”
Did Ben think she was so easily charmed into submission? If so he was badly mistaken.
“Memsahib” Muni said, “the cotton blouse you are wearing has been dyed green, the same colour as this sari. You can wear a different colour or shade and change the sleeve length according to your wish. Step into the petticoat and please to stand while I drape the cloth
over it.”
Muni picked up the end of the sari and dexterously pleated the length of fine cotton cloth around her mistress. She paid special attention to the arrangement of ties tucks and pleats that kept the material in place, without buttons or hooks.
“Are saris always the same size?” Margaret asked.
“The length is six yards. It is said the cloth was born on the loom of a fanciful weaver. He dreamt of a woman, the shimmer of her tears, the drape of her tumbling hair, and the colours of her many moods, the softness of her touch. All these he wove together. He couldn’t stop. He wove for many yards
.
And when he was done, the story goes he sat back and smiled and smiled.”
“Just like me” Margaret said, pleased at how comfortable it felt over her changing shape. Under the maid’s tuition she practised until she mastered the art of sitting, walking and carrying out tasks with aplomb.
* * * * *
The men were away from home and the women getting ready for lunch in the main house on the day Margaret made her entrance. She wore a sari that
matched her blue eyes, and displayed a garnet-encrusted pin given to her by Ben. Suleka invited her to join them.
The others were too stunned to object.
The meal was strictly vegetarian without onions or garlic. The strongly spiced food didn’t agree with Margaret but it was a small price to pay to court her enemies. She nibbled at a selection of pakoras. “We are to have another child” she said ostensibly to Suleka, “He will be born in August.”
‘The Impostor’ cried out in dismay. Margaret couldn’t help seeing the dulled red weals gouged in her neck, partially concealed by the sari’s pallu. Ben’s mother dismissed the broken girl with a flick of her hand, a frightening demonstration of the woman’s power and capricious nature. Turning to Margaret she addressed her for the first time in halting English, “Such information is not necessary… We have eyes! Your condition becomes obvious. We have need of a boy. I trust you will be strong enough to withstand these hottest months.”
Vartika mocked, “You British flee to the hill stations.”
“I will not be leaving,” Margaret said bravely. “My husband is an excellent doctor. He will take care of me.”
Vartika glowered at her, “Another delay in arranging a marriage for Suleka… if we can find a bridegroom… all because my brother married you. Ghandi is urging the British to leave India. You will not be here for ever! Maybe then we will find Suleka a husband.”
Margaret wisely refused to be drawn and said reasonably, “That may well be the case. Meanwhile if my husband is not at home it will suit him if I will take lunch with you ladies and join you for the evening meal. I have asked for my household duties to be given to me as soon as possible.” Wary of Ben’s mother and Vartika, it was crucial Margaret sought his approval of anything involving them.
His mother craftily gave Margaret the responsibility for overseeing the cattle and the field labourers, telling her to wait until after the birth to take up such duties.
Ben refused to allow it, considering it to be menial work but to Margaret it presented a chance to break out of Aakesh. She argued persuasively, “Your mother is in good health but one day I may have to take some of the burden. What better way to learn and please her?”
Ben wasn’t convinced, but said she could try it for the next month, for most of that time he would be away. He’d review it on his return.
* * * * *
Suleka was sixteen. Vartika and Hiten were fully occupied with matchmaking arrangements so she seized every opportunity to visit Margaret. She stayed for hours, playing with Pavia and listening to stories about Scotland. In return she narrated ancient Indian legends and introduced Vedic chanting. Muni joined them, chanting in a squeaky high-pitched voice, resulting in little chanting and lots of affectionate laughter.
Early one morning they journeyed in a silver decorated bullock cart to inspect the outlying farms. The animals’ burnished coats and gaily-painted horns were adorned with red silken plumes and musical silver bells. The young women were seated on brightly quilted cushions and shielded from the sun by a red and gold tasselled canopy.