Authors: Lucinda Riley
The less fortunate in India, trapped far below our mountain paradise, were not so lucky that season. The dust storms swirled on the
plains, covering everything daily in a fine layer; even a chink of a crack in a shuttered window could render the interior filthy by morning. The monsoon rains swelled the rivers and propelled the red earth out of its natural channels, destroying everything in its path.
It was also plague season in India—the time of year every mother dreaded for her children. As I wandered around the graveyard in Darjeeling, I was surprised to see that even a great number of British babies had died here before adulthood. Annually, typhoid, malaria and yellow fever swept through our population, culling it. That summer was particularly harsh and we had word of plagues breaking out in all parts of the country.
One night in late August, I suffered a series of strange dreams and awoke sweating and with a terrible feeling of dread, which I couldn’t make disappear. A week later, my heart leaped to my throat when I was called to the Maharani’s sitting room. I had never believed it when my mother had told me that I’d inherited her gift. But as I approached the Maharani with a sense of foreboding clutching at my heart, I already knew what it was she had to tell me.
The Maharani was holding a letter in her hands. She beckoned me over and patted the space next to her on the chaise longue.
“Oh, my
pyari
, I’m sorry to tell you that I have some very bad news for you.”
“How did my mother die?”
It was the only time in my life I ever saw the Maharani lost for words.
“I . . . Has someone told you? I only received the letter this morning.”
“No, I just . . . knew,” I said, fighting back my tears.
“Many say we feel it when a loved one has passed on,” she said, recovering her composure, “and you are obviously very sensitive to these things, Anni. I am so sad to tell you that you are right. Your mother had been staying with your aunt and uncle up in the hills to avoid the Jaipur heat. Unfortunately, there was a very bad monsoon, which caused a landslide that swept down the mountains at night. No one in the village survived. I’m so very sorry, my dearest Anni. It seems you’ve not only lost your mother, but also your aunt and uncle and five cousins.”
I sat there next to her, with her soft palm resting on my small, cold hand. I thought of my mother, her sister and brother-in-law and my
cousins, some of them no more than toddlers, and could not reconcile my heart to the idea that they were no longer on the earth.
“If there is anything we can do for you, Anni, you must simply ask.”
I shook my head, too grief-stricken and shocked to speak.
“This happened over a week ago. They are still”—the Maharani’s own eyes filled with tears—“searching for the bodies. If they find them, then you must of course return to Jaipur for the funerals.”
“Yes,” I answered, but we both knew they wouldn’t find any bodies. My poor mother would remain in the sun-hardened, red-caked earth for the rest of eternity.
“I’m sure you’ll wish to go to temple to offer prayers. I’ve also found this for you.” She handed me a white tunic, made of the softest silk. “I’ve always thought it a comfort that we Indians wear white to mourn the loss of a loved one, not black. There is enough sadness in this time without that. And, dearest Anni, you must not fear for your future. It was I who took you away from your family, and it is I who shall now take responsibility for your care. Do you understand?”
At that moment I understood nothing, but I nodded.
“Remember, even if we can’t see them, those we love are always with us,” she added softly.
I stood up, unable at that moment to find comfort in her words.
• • •
Once I had dressed in the white tunic, an aide-de-camp was dispatched to take me in the rickshaw to the small Hindu temple in the town. All alone, I sent up the traditional
puja
offerings and prayers to speed the dead on their way. Afterward, I sat in front of the gods, my head bent forward onto my knees. Even though I wanted to believe,
feel
, that my mother was still with me, as stark reality began to dawn, I also thought of myself. I was now an orphan, with no possessions or money of my own, dependent entirely on the magnanimity of the royal family. It would be doubtful that I’d ever marry—without a family, let alone a dowry, I wasn’t a prospect for any man. Even though I would continue to receive an education, it was unlikely that I’d be able to choose my own future path in life.
Along with the tears I cried for my lost family that day, I must confess that I also wept tears for the loss of the future my father had wished for me—a life in which I would use this bright, inquiring mind
he had fed and nurtured so assiduously. That life which had been cruelly curtailed.
I felt a hand clasp my shoulder, but I did not stir.
“Anni, Ma told me, and I’m so very, very sorry.” Indira’s voice drifted into my thoughts. “I’m here for you, Anni, I promise, for always. I will look after you. I love you.”
Her hand searched for mine and encircled it tightly. I clung on to it like it was a lifeline.
She hugged me then, her sinewy body shielding mine as I cried. I don’t know how long we were there before I stood up and said a final good-bye to my family. Then I walked slowly from the temple, arm in arm with the one person in the world who I felt truly cared about me.
Later that evening, unable to sleep, I unwound myself from Indira’s warm body, which was tucked up protectively in bed next to me, and ventured out onto the veranda beyond our room. The night air was wonderfully cool and the stars were shining brightly above me.
“Maaji,” I whispered, “I should be with you up there, not down here alone!” In my grief, it had not escaped me that if I’d still been living in Jaipur with my mother, I too, would no longer have been standing on this earth.
Then I heard a sudden, high-pitched sound in my ears. I turned from left to right to see who it was that was singing so sweetly and clearly. But the veranda and its surrounds were completely deserted. The singing did not abate but continued softly, soothing and comforting me, reminding me of the lullabies my mother would sing to me as a baby.
I suddenly remembered my mother’s words from long ago. I realized that, as she said I would, I had heard the singing for the first time. As I stood there, I felt my mother close by me, telling me that her gift was being passed over to my keeping. That it hadn’t been my turn, and that I had more left to do.
• • •
A month later, when the rains had almost stopped and the September air was cooler, we arrived back at the palace. An old lady whom I only knew by sight from the zenana sought me out.
“Anahita, I have something for you.”
I looked at her in surprise, and she led me to a quiet corner and sat me down.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked me.
“No.”
“My name is Zeena. I perform the same role here at the palace as your mother did in Jaipur.”
Her black eyes bored into me and I blinked, comprehending. “You are a healer?”
“Yes. And when she was here visiting you, your mother may have had a premonition of her own death, for she entrusted something to me. She said I was to give it to you if anything should happen to her.” Zeena held out a small, cloth sack tied with a piece of string and handed it to me. “I haven’t looked at what it contains, but I suggest you go somewhere where you won’t be disturbed and open it.”
“I will. Thank you for bringing this to me, whatever it may be.” I bowed in gratitude as I stood up.
“She told me that you have the gift of healing too and asked if I would help you.” She looked at me intently. “And I believe you do have it. I’ll teach you all I know, if you wish it.”
“My mother told me when I was small that it would pass to me,” I answered, overwhelmed with emotion. “I knew my mother was dead before the Maharani confirmed it.”
“Of course you did.” Zeena smiled at me as she brushed my forehead with a kiss. “You must come and find me when you are ready to begin.”
“Thank you, Zeena.”
I scurried off to my favorite spot in the palace grounds. It was a small pavilion, dedicated to Durga, the goddess of feminine power, hidden in a copse of trees, where I would often sequester myself to read and think. As I sat cross-legged, my hands fumbled impatiently with the tightly knotted string. I was aware that this bag contained the last earthly gifts from my mother, and I had no idea what I would find inside.
I carefully removed the three items from the bag and put them on the hard floor in front of me. There was an envelope addressed to me, a small, leather-bound notebook and another, smaller hessian bag, again bound with string. I decided to open the letter first.
My dearest Anni,
Pyari, I hope I’m wrong, but the night before I was due to leave Cooch Behar Palace, and you, my beloved daughter, the spirits sang to me
and told me that I must prepare. As I write, I’m not sure when it will happen. And as we must never live our life in fear of what may be, I’m happy that I do not. Anahita, my own beautiful daughter, I know that if you are reading these words, I am gone from the earth. But as you will learn in your life, no one who truly loved you is ever far from you.
You are a special child. I know all parents believe this of their children, but you were put on this earth for a reason. I doubt your journey will be easy, and you must remember that fate can throw many difficult situations at us. But whenever you are uncertain about which is the correct path to take, I beg you to use your gift of intuition. It will never fail you.
Perhaps you heard the spirits singing to you when I passed over—that’s what happened when my mother left me. I’m sure that while you read this, you are feeling alone. Do not, Anni, for you are not abandoned. Your life is just as it is meant to be, decreed by the higher powers. Never forget, our destinies are controlled by them. Maybe,
pyari,
while you read this, I’m sitting with them now, and beginning to understand.
The gift you have inherited is a blessing and a curse. It can pull you down into an abyss of darkness when you foresee the death of someone you love, but equally, it can lift you to the stars when your unique powers can help others to heal.
As you’ll learn on your journey through life, my daughter, all power can be used for good and evil. I know you will use your gift wisely.
I’ve left two items with Zeena, whom I trust implicitly, and you must too. Have her teach you all that she knows—she understands who you are. One is my book of Ayurvedic formulas, the recipes for my healing remedies. It was handed down through generations to me and is very old and precious. But I hope that what it contains will aid you on your life’s journey. Take care of it, for it contains the knowledge and wisdom of your ancestors, women of extraordinary ability.
The second item is what your dear father always called our “insurance.” At the very least, the contents will offer you a little security. I should add that your father never told me about their existence until the night he died; I don’t know their worth or how he came by them. Perhaps he meant to offer them as a dowry for you one day. If you feel this is an appropriate use of them, then the power is in your hands.
My darling daughter, do not let your grief and despair at your current fate prevent you from leading the life that both your father and I desired for you. You may feel that we have failed you by no longer being with
you, but I can assure you that at the moment you read this, we are both together, looking down on you and loving you.
As your father said, always try to be true to yourself.
Be a good girl in everything you do.
I love you,
Your loving mother, Xxx
I read the letter many times over, as the first few times, I couldn’t see the words for the tears blurring my eyes. Then, with trembling fingers, I opened the small hessian bag.
The string came away easily this time and I tipped its contents out onto the ground.
Inside were three stones. They looked like any clod of earth I might pull out of the ground anywhere in India. I took the largest in my hands, wondering why my father had called them “insurance.” Confused, I replaced them in the bag, stood up and walked back disconsolately to the palace.
It was only some months later that I discovered their true value; the Maharani had received a delivery from the local gem supplier for her to choose the gift of a new necklace from her husband. The stones—identical pieces of mud to mine—were laid out on a plate, and the jeweler took a special instrument and began to chip away carefully at the dirt. When he finally revealed a twinkle of deep red lying beneath, I grasped what my father had left me: three rubies.
I eventually decided to take the hessian bag back to the pavilion, and there I dug a small hole underneath its foundations with my bare fingers and buried it deep back in the earth. My mother had been right—even though I had little idea how much the stones were actually worth, at least I felt a little more secure that I had something I could call on in a moment of need. And I walked away from the pavilion with my heart slightly lighter.
From that moment on, when Indira was busy being a princess at state functions or dinners, I snatched as many hours as I could in the herb garden with Zeena, determined to learn all I could from her. Even though I had little intention then of becoming a healer, or of putting the concoctions which were listed in my mother’s leather-bound notebook into practice, I felt duty-bound to learn what she had wanted me to know. After Zeena had read through my mother’s notebook, her
gnarled fingers with their long, yellow nails tracing the potions on the page, it seemed to me that she looked at me with new respect.
“You come from a powerful line of
baidh
. There are potions here that are known only to a few.” She turned the pages, until she reached a particular section. “See, there are even ones listed that can kill a human being outright!” she said, lowering her voice.