The Letter (9 page)

She was wasting away, plagued by persistent diarrhea,
increasingly frightened to eat the spicy food in case she hastily needed to relieve herself.
Embarrassed by her predicament, and with no one to confide in, Margaret spent days in idleness, playing with Pavia, walking or reading in the hotel’s private garden.

She wondered miserably what Jean was doing back home in Scotland, probably working too hard but at least she had a purpose. Margaret wrote her sister long letters but it wasn’t the same as talking together. This was the longest they’d been apart. Her mother often said, “Stop blethering, Maggie” but here she was mute.

The real India bore no resemblance to the place Ben had described in the stories and legends he’d related in Scotland. He made it sound like a magical country where everyone spoke English. Margaret was shocked by the poverty littering Bombay’s pavements but Ben said fatalistically, “The poor are always with us. Don’t trouble yourself about it. They are untouchables. You won’t come into contact with them.”

It was easy for him to say but she couldn’t ignore the men, women and children of all ages, wrapped in rags, eking out a dire existence when she had so much. Margaret didn’t know what she would do if she had to walk past them in Bareilly.

*  *  *  *  *

A new maid was to bring morning tea. Almost shouting
at Ben, Margaret exclaimed, “I don’t want any more servants!
I want something to do!”

He retorted, “You have something to do. You are my wife. That’s what you do.”

“Well it’s not enough.”

Ben shrugged, “Give yourself time and it will be.” That was the end of any discussion.

Margaret grudgingly sipped the tea and nibbled sweet biscuits brought by the maid.
Bed
tea
, aptly named, a harmless indulgence, to be enjoyed propped by an assortment of bolsters and pillows before rising. She’d written and told her mother about it.

“Memsahib, will it please you to take a bath?”

Margaret jumped. The slightly built servant was so quiet she had forgotten she was in the room, “What… is… your… name girl?” she asked, emphasizing every word.

The maid looked down at her feet in a gesture of respect, and replied humbly, “I am called Muni.”

“Well Muni, where did you learn to speak English so well?”

“Sahib arranged it in order that I could help his British wife. It was a great honour for my family. I worked very hard at my studies, as I had been so favoured. Please God I will serve you well.”

“I’m sure you will,” Margaret replied amiably. The maid’s decorum inhibited any demonstrative show of friendship between them.

“If you permit, Memsahib, I will prepare you for your bath.”

Margaret wasn’t certain what that meant but it was bound to be better than her messy attempts with bowl and bucket to keep clean.

“Please to sit?” Muni said indicating a dark wooden chair that was evidently used for this purpose. The maid massaged rose-scented oil into Margaret’s hair, scalp, neck and shoulders, modestly helping her out of her night gown and into a tub of heavenly scented water. Then she withdrew leaving the memsahib soaking her cares away.

At last someone who could speak English, but it was more than that. Muni reminded Margaret of Jean. She couldn’t explain it. There was an air about the maid’s movements. When Muni returned Margaret readily asked questions and advice as if they had known each other for years.

Glowing from the massage and with renewed spirits, Margaret joined Ben in the breakfast room. “What kept you so long?” he said curtly.

“I didn’t realise the time. Is it today we meet your mother?”

“What ever makes you think that?”

“The maid… I thought you had sent her to prepare me…”

“All the women in my family have a personal maid. It’s no more than that.”

“But…”

“Charuni, I am opening a clinic here and have attracted many sponsors. The rich will pay but the poor… For you I will treat them for nothing.” Ben made it plain that he was pleasing her but was in no hurry to grant any request to meet his family.

She asked Muni where Ben’s home was and discovered that Aakesh was in the countryside, some distance away. Surely it would be better if she stayed there. She would have his family for company. He would be able to get on with his work and it would be less expensive. Puzzled, she put it to Ben.

“My dear,” he condescendingly answered, “you have joined an elite, aristocratic family of the highest caste. There are many responsibilities that go with this position. Money is not a consideration. I have been remiss in not teaching you more about your duties and conduct as my wife.”

“I’m trying to learn” Margaret mumbled apologetically,
but again her husband failed to detect the homesickness in her voice.

“Charuni, your work is to supervise the servants who have positions in the household according to their caste. Our caste is similar to your class system but possibly more refined. It defines ones role in society, which person you marry, where you live and the very food you eat. Here the hotel servants get on with their routine. You do not need to interfere, merely alert them to your presence. Our personal servants must follow your command.”

Margaret nodded obediently but Ben’s lecture wasn’t over, “For instance, my dear, you must have noticed that there are servants to carry out the lowly jobs?”

Lowly jobs… What ever did he mean? She asked him. Ben’s lip curled in disgust, “Cleaning toilets and other waste. You must have no contact with them but instruct another to check the work is done.”

Who would she ask? He didn’t say but continued to give reams of information, stuffing Margaret’s head with noise.

“A dhobi collects the laundry and returns it ironed ready for use. Others attend to us at meal times, clearing away when we have finished. I have employed a Brahmin cook to prepare our food. We have our bearers and of course there is the ayah, our driver and a couple of general servants to run errands and such like. They will always keep a respectful distance and you must encourage this or they will become confused and take liberties.”

Did this include Muni? If so where would Margaret find a friend?

Ben modulated his tone, “It is very important that you allow specific persons to handle our food and touch you and Pavia. The ayah and bearer, along with your maid and members of our family, are the only people who can touch the child. My daughter’s feet must not come into contact with the earth outside the hotel and its grounds for fear of infection. Of course your maid will attend to your needs. Keep her close by you.” He caressed Margaret’s cheek easing the tension between them. “My dear, to me this is quite enough for you to do. Don’t worry, you will get used to it in time. It is what everyone expects and works very well if you follow convention.” He left abruptly without kissing her.

Before India Margaret and Pavia slept in the same room, from opening their eyes to going to sleep they were constantly together. She was the first thing Margaret saw in the morning and the last thing at night. Now Pavia’s nights were spent with the ayah. This was one change Margaret quietly resented. Sometimes, when Ben was away, she smuggled her daughter into bed with her, then she didn’t feel quite so lonely.

The woollen comforter given to Pavia by her Scots grandmother had long since disintegrated, replaced by a gold engraved bracelet from her father. Pavia twisted this round and round on her chubby wrist if she was tired. Today the delightful toddler was bursting with energy, jumping off her mother’s knee calling, ‘Jaldi jaldi,’ and running off to play with the ayah.

*  *  *  *  *

Muni was Margaret’s salvation, a discerning supporter, guiding her memsahib through the intricacies of the household. Mistress and maid were comfortable in each other’s company and their conversations soon assumed a natural flow. Concerned that her mistress was very thin Muni ventured to ask, “Memsahib, are you well?” Margaret explained that she was continually suffering from a runny tummy. “Let me help you, memsahib, for in summers even we suffer from this. A diet with bananas and papaya fruits can help. I will also make you a special pink tea.”

“Pink tea, I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“It is made with green tea, cardamom, cinnamon, saffron threads, almonds and honey. Sweet and soothing, it will quickly make you feel better.”

An exotic cocktail made from tea. Margaret would have to write to tell her mother about it. Anxious to relieve the restricting condition Margaret suggested they go to the market to buy the ingredients.

Muni rang a small silver bell to summon a bearer. The maid spoke quickly to him and he left returning with an umbrella and a companion. Margaret had no money, but Muni told her that as the wife of such a prominent man it wasn’t necessary. There was a way of doing such things.

Bareilly was an English garrison town. In the past it had been one of the sites of the Indian Mutiny and a scene of fierce sectarian fighting. At present Hindus and Muslims lived side by side and it was an important trade and travel centre. Margaret had high hopes of making friends among the British colony.

It was nine o’clock when the little party left the hotel and already growing hot when they got down from the tonga in Bareilly. The ayah carried Pavia and their fearsome bearers deterred the inquisitive as they headed towards the market.

Small wooden carts and anything with a flat surface were used to make improvised stalls. The more permanent fixtures had a straw roof and were a mass of red, orange, black, brown and brilliant yellow powder. The colourful heaps spilled over into one another merging into bright marbled streams. Muni explained these were ground spices used in cooking and took pinches of the most common ones holding them out to her mistress who cautiously sniffed them. The ground cinnamon, cardamom and coriander tickled Margaret’s nose making her sneeze, sending clouds of fine powder into the air. She refused to sample any more but instead tried to repeat their Hindi names. Mistress and maid giggled like children at her tongue twisting efforts.

Muni pointed out oranges, apples and bananas. These fruits were familiar but the yellow ball-like raspberries, red tinged guavas and prickly topped pineapples were unknown to Margaret.

“Memsahib, this area of my country is famous for mangoes but they are for summers… never eat them, or peaches, unless at home. They cannot be safely washed here in the market. Fruit that can be peeled without washing is safe to eat outside,” Muni demonstrated by peeling a banana and holding it out to Pavia who took a bite, then ate the rest. The maid peeled another, “Eat memsahib… it too is good for you.”

“I’m not sure,” Margaret said nibbling round the edge. She would have eaten more, but Muni nodded as if to say that’s enough.

Two English ladies accompanied by servants sauntered
ahead of them.
Margaret quickened her pace treading
between cloths of nuts and dried fruits covering the ground,
calling urgently, “Excuse me! Excuse me!”

The women stopped. They were used to seeing the overheated face and inappropriate clothing of recent arrivals but whoever this was didn’t know the form. It simply wasn’t done to call out like that in public.

Margaret enquired shyly, “I wonder if you can tell me where I can find a good dressmaker. I find my clothes are most unsuitable for this heat.”

The ladies, who Margaret deduced were in their late twenties, were always pleased to pass on the benefit of their knowledge. They saw it as their duty to oil the wheels of colonial tight knit society. Margaret’s
faux
pas
was forgiven and they strolled along dispensing advice.

It was not the done thing to go shopping with a young child in the heat of the day but of course this once wouldn’t matter. Everyone could see she was new to India. They complained of the heat, that summer was the worst, the servants and the deplorable lack of standards before one of them pried “You didn’t say what company your husband was in?”

“Oh he’s not in the army.”

“Sorry, I thought from your speech and retinue that you were the wife of a British Officer and we hadn’t come across you in the military cantonment.”

“You must be the new missionaries?” deduced her companion.

“Well no”, Margaret replied, “My husband belongs here.”

“You surely don’t mean he’s a native, an Indian?”

“Why yes. My husband is doctor Atrey.”

The more forceful of the two women replied, “In that case we will not be expecting you to call.”

Margaret’s face flushed deeper. She turned from the retreating figures and returned to the hotel. In the evening she recounted the incident to Ben who assured her he would take measures to prevent it happening again.

He questioned Muni and the bearers about the insulting behaviour of the British women towards his wife. Enquiries among the garrison’s servants easily identified them and their husbands’ rank. The slight would not pass unpunished.

The next thing Margaret knew was that they were moving to a splendid bungalow, in landscaped grounds belonging to a wealthy relative of the Nawab. The same man had arranged the exotic train carriage to bring Margaret to Bareilly. He had been educated in England so the building reflected this. The spacious rooms were a fusion of chintz-covered couches, ornate mirrors, ivory carvings and embroidered panels and wall hangings. Margaret had admired such things when visiting the homes of wealthy students in Edinburgh but didn’t expect to live amidst such treasures.