A Sahib's Daughter (27 page)

“So, who is doing the catering?” she asked Charles.

“What d’you mean?” he said.

“No food has arrived yet, darling. Who is bringing it?”

“No one is bringing it. We’re providing it!”

Ramona looked at him with horror. “But no one said anything to me about a party! The first I heard of it was when you came home for lunch today!”

Charles flushed. “Bloody hell! Did I forget to tell you? You mean to tell me we have sixteen people coming and no food!”

“Honestly Charlie, you’re the limit! What are we going to do?”

“Tell Ram to go and fetch Mohammed, and tell Kala to come back.”

Ram left hastily on Jetha’s bicycle to summon them. Ramona buttered bread and sliced cucumbers for sandwiches, and Jetha sliced onions. Charles went outside to greet guests and keep them talking as long as possible.

When Kala arrived, Ramona instructed him to take the jeep to a sweet stall at the market and buy four dozen assorted sweetmeats. Mohammed arrived looking sleepy and disgruntled and was not at all pleased to hear that he was to fry up a huge batch of pakoras as quickly as possible. Ramona smiled wryly to herself. She would deal with Charles later. Men were impossible beings!

Outside, Charles tried to persuade Lakshmi, one of the female staff members known to be musically inclined, to sing for them.

“No, no,” she tittered, lifting her plump hand to her mouth in embarrassment, delighted at being asked.

“Oh, come on. We know you’re a great singer,” the others urged.

“Come on Lakshmi!”

“Yar, just sing.”

Finally with much feigned reluctance, she was cajoled into performing. Rising to her feet and rearranging her fluffy yellow sari, she gave a loud rendering of “Dum Maro Dum.” Suddenly, one of the older baboos leapt up and started to dance wildly on spindly legs, clapping his hands to the music, his dhoti flapping wildly around him. Soon they were all on their feet, dancing and singing as she belted out one song after another. Giggling coquettishly, she pulled Charles up to join them.

He allowed himself to be persuaded to dance and mimicked them by holding out his arms and jerking his shoulders up and down. This caused great mirth among the dancers, who pushed him into the centre and formed a circle around him. Next, he was gyrating and shaking his hips suggestively like an Indian movie star, which had everyone convulsed with laughter. When Ramona went down to join them, he grabbed her hand and spun her round and round till the tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Look at the Burra Sahib!”

“Look at the Memsahib!” they all pointed and laughed, having a wonderful time.

Tea was served all too soon, and a very good tea it was, too, with excellent food prepared by the Sahib’s cook. When it was time to go home, they all agreed that it was the best party they had ever attended and that Charles was the best Burra Sahib ever.

Their last club day was a poignant occasion with long speeches and the presentation of a silver tray to Charles and Ramona. Everyone promised to visit them in Darjeeling. After all, it was only a three-hour drive.

But on the day of departure, with their furniture and belongings gone ahead in a delivery van, Charles and Ramona stepped out of the bungalow for the last time to bid farewell to the household staff. It was one of the hardest things they had ever done. They lined up beside the car, Mohammed, Ram, Jetha, Ramchand and the gardeners, tears streaming down their cheeks. They had devoted their lives to the Sahib and Memsahib, Mark and Missy Baba, watching the children grow from babies to adults. In all probability, they would never see the Sahib and Memsahib ever again. Samira was with her new Sahib Justin, and Mark was in college in Calcutta. Samira was the only one among them not moving away, though she would be gone for six months.

Ramchand had prepared a tribute for the Memsahib, a massive bouquet of flowers artistically arranged in a flat wicker rice tray that she could easily transport to Darjeeling. He handed it solemnly to Ramona, his head bent low, so she couldn’t see his tears. She accepted it with her heart breaking. Their relationship went back thirty years to when he was an obstinate lad of fifteen who treated the garden of the Chota Bungalow as if he owned it.

Charles shook them all by the hand, and Ramona handed out envelopes with baksheesh in acknowledgement of their years of service. They drove away for the last time, with everyone waving forlornly.

It was early evening when they arrived in Darjeeling. They pulled off the main thoroughfare and up the hill to the home they had bought. Prem and Prava were eagerly waiting for them, with fires lit, the tea trolley ready and plenty of hot water for baths. It was a gray colonial villa with a strip of lawn in front and Georgian windows that overlooked the town and the Kanchenjunga Mountains.

Chapter 22

England, Northern Ireland, 1978

“I’m just going to have to re-read absolutely everything I’ve ever read,” declared English Literature graduate and bookworm Samira to her fiancé.

“I’ve read all the classics, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Hardy, Dickens, without knowing what England was really like. I’ll have to read everything all over again now.”

They were on a double-decker London bus that went from Victoria Station past Buckingham Palace, St. James’ Park, Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus up the curved colonnades of Regent Street to Oxford Street. It was like reliving a dream, being able to see many of the places she’d read about in books. It was thrilling to experience the city that was the setting for numerous literary works.

“Baker Street!” she cried, as the bus turned off Oxford Street, “Where Sherlock Holmes and Watson solved their crimes, only there’s no smog now. And there’s Regents’ Park! Can we get off? I have to see the pond.” They alighted from the bus to explore the park and wander up Primrose Hill with its sweeping views of the city. Justin shared her enthusiasm, never having spent much time in London. They went to the theater, to Agatha Christie’s “Mousetrap,” billed as the longest running show in London, to the musical “Jesus Christ Superstar” and to a concert by the London Symphony Orchestra at the Royal Albert Hall. They danced at the elegant Café de Paris and had tea at the Ritz. Anita Dutt had not exaggerated when she described the stores as being “bigger than your bungalow and more than four stories high.” They explored the food halls at Selfridges, Harrods and Fortnum and Mason where they saw miniscule packets of tea being sold for astronomical sums. They held the tiny packages up to each other in total disbelief. In the Dooars, they distributed tea to friends and relations in pillowcases.

“Darjeeling tea in teabags!” laughed Samira. “What sacrilege!”

She was amazed by the fashion and the sophistication of the women with their immaculately styled hair and perfect makeup, striding through the streets in high heels. Her new outfits made by her tailor in Darjeeling now looked homemade and provincial.

“I have so much to learn,” she sighed. “I’m a total country bumpkin. I daren’t visit Rachel looking like this. And what will your mother think of me? Added to that, I’m getting fat eating all this wonderful food.”

“You’re more beautiful than all these Londoners,” said Justin. “And perfect just the way you are.”

She felt shabby and unkempt in the glossy city, but the price of everything was exorbitant, especially when converted to rupees.

“You can’t think like that,” said Justin. “If you do, you’ll never buy anything.”

So she bought some high-heeled sandals, a black pencil skirt and a beige jacket that fitted her form perfectly. For sightseeing, she bought a pair of Gloria Vanderbilt jeans, a white tee-shirt and a pair of comfortable loafers.

“Darling, you’re a Londoner now,” said Justin, as they boarded a British Rail train in Victoria to visit the Moorheads who now lived in Surrey, after finding the climate of Aberdeen impossible to adapt to. She acquired a new sophistication in her London clothes, although she was nervous and excited about visiting Rachel.

“It’s been so long. I wonder if we’ll have anything to talk about.”

Greg was at the station to meet them, grinning broadly and even burlier than of old.

“Sammy, you’re all grown up! Justin, nice to meet you, old chap!”

They drove through streets of identical, manicured houses, and he pulled up outside one of them. Samira wondered how he recognized it as his. Lorna was at the door, her hair in a blue rinse, immaculate as ever. She hugged Samira and shook Justin’s hand.

“I can’t believe you’re here. It’s just wonderful to see you. We miss India so much, you’ve no idea. Come on in. This is our own not-so-Burra Bungalow.”

They crowded into the hallway. Suddenly, and Samira said to Lorna, “Could you excuse me for a second? Where’s the bathroom?”

She emerged a few minutes later looking pale.

“Are you okay, darling? Is it your motion sickness again?” asked Justin.

He turned to Lorna and said, “Poor Sammy is having a difficult time travelling on planes, buses and trains. London is quite a change from Ranikot.”

“Let me get you some water,” said Lorna. “Or would you rather have tea? We’ll be having lunch as soon as Rachel gets here. She lives in Brighton. She should be here any minute.”

The house was small and confined and couldn’t have been more different from the Burra Bungalow at Ranikot. It had wall-to-wall carpeting, an ornate fireplace and a bay window that overlooked the street. Relics of their time in India were in evidence throughout the house, framed prints of leopards and tigers, photographs of Greg on safari with his beaters beside him, Rachel in a topee on her horse and the family in front of the bungalow. There was a stool made of an elephant foot, silver and brass ornaments and a faded Kashmir wool rug.

“Those were the happiest days of our lives,” said Greg. “I wish we could have stayed longer. How are Charles and Ramona?”

Samira started to explain how they had left tea and moved to Darjeeling when the door burst open and suddenly Rachel was there, and she and Samira were hugging, jumping up and down with tears in their eyes. Rachel had grown plump, her blonde hair cut short. She wore baggy jeans and a sweatshirt and was still the tomboy she’d always been.

“Rachel, meet Justin, my fiancé,” Samira said. “I’ve told him all about you.”

“Congratulations, Sammy! How d’you do, Justin? You’re a lucky man. Now, tell me all your news. How are things back in dear, old Ranikot?”

Presently Lorna announced lunch,

“It’s chicken curry and rice with dhal and poppadums,” she said. “Our favorite meal. We thought you might be ready for some Indian food.”

“Wonderful!” said Justin. “Just as I’d hoped!”

“I can’t believe how much weight I’ve put on in the two weeks we’ve been here,” said Samira, surveying her waistline. “With a bulging midriff, I’m going to look like Anita Dutt soon.”

“How is the old gal, anyway?” asked Lorna. “She and Shiv came to visit us last year.”

“Apparently, she’s taking over from my mother at the club. She’ll do a great job, I’m sure.”

The time passed quickly, filled with reminiscences. All too soon, it was time to catch the train back to London. Samira gave Rachel their address in Newcastle and made her promise to visit.

Justin and Samira spent their remaining days in England taking trips to Oxford, Stratford-upon-Avon, Cambridge, Windsor Castle and Bath. It couldn’t have been more different from India. Samira marveled at her father’s initiative, travelling so far to seek his fortune back in the forties. Justin had done the same thing many years later with his new wife Lorraine, gone to India and become a Sahib.

She wondered what Ravi was doing and whether he was now engaged to the girl his parents had chosen for him. She pushed the thought out of her mind, as though even thinking of Ravi was unfaithful to Justin. Justin was kind, generous and thoughtful, and they got along so well. She looked forward to going to Ireland and meeting his parents. They were going to stay with them for a few days, separate rooms, Justin warned her, before renting a house of their own, as it was such a long visit.