A Sahib's Daughter (10 page)

“Goodness, what’s going on?”

“Daddy, it’s the Pathans,” explained Mark, as though Charles hadn’t guessed already.

“What a lot of stuff,” he commented. “What’s the guess we’re going to have to buy something?”

“Sahib, we come very far from Kashmir. You please buy?”

“I feel it would be only right,” agreed Ramona. She had her eye on a luscious, brown fox stole that did wonders for her coloring. And Charles who never showed any interest in household matters suddenly took a fancy to a large carpet. Much heated haggling and drama followed as Ramona bargained with the vendors. There would have been no pleasure in the purchase unless she felt an unbelievable bargain had been struck.

“We have made absolutely no profit, Sahib. No profit,” the Pathans lied as they reloaded their van.

The Clarke household excitedly unrolled their new, blue wool carpet in the drawing room. And much later, Ramona posed provocatively for Charles in their bedroom in her fabulous new fox fur and nothing else.

Every time Samira returned home from boarding school, she seemed to withdraw further into herself. She read voraciously, lying in her room, or on the swing bed in the verandah. It was not that she didn’t like school. She thrived in the company of her contemporaries. It was adjusting to life in the real world that she had problems with. She, rather than Mark, took part in all the school plays, sang in the choir and was among the top students in her class. Mark escaped the pressure to perform and excel that landed on Samira’s shoulders. His winning ways allowed him to evade responsibility and get away with things that she was punished for.

While she was sensitive to any form of criticism, comments made by her mother seemed to affect her most. She started to distance herself almost as a means of self-protection. She felt socially inept, always saying the wrong thing. She became distrustful of her ability to express herself, especially in the company of adults. Ironically, her insecurity was interpreted as aloofness.

“Samira doesn’t know how to talk,” Ramona told people, which was essentially true. But those remarks were humiliating and caused her to retreat further into her shell.

“Is that what you’re going to wear, Sammy?” Ramona said when she showed up in a pair of stylish new slacks, ready to go to the club one Saturday. “You should see yourself from behind.”

Mortified, Samira ran out of the room without a word and looked at herself anxiously in the mirror. Yes, she was huge. There was no question about that. She changed into one of her old dresses and returned to the verandah.

“Why did you change?” asked Ramona. “There’s no need to be so sensitive.”

Yes, she was too sensitive. Whatever she did was wrong. But she didn’t know how to be better, no matter how hard she tried. Samira felt the knot inside her tighten. Her mood and self- confidence shaken, she didn’t feel like going out any longer. But she didn’t want to incur Ramona’s wrath, so she climbed into the car, massive and ungainly.

Charles’ promotion to Burra Sahib necessitated the Clarke family’s moving from the Chota to the Burra Bungalow, previously occupied by Greg and Lorna Moorhead. So what would normally have been an occasion for celebration was bittersweet for the families who had spent so many happy years together. Despite their huge pay rise and elevated status, Charles and Ramona mourned the loss of good friends and neighbors.

The Moorheads were not the only ones leaving. British Tea Companies were hiring local managers who were proving to be as capable, if not more so, than their British predecessors. They spoke the language and instinctively understood the culture of the labor force. They were also far cheaper to maintain. There were no expensive flights to and from the United Kingdom and greatly reduced re-location and medical costs.

The person who was most apprehensive about the Clarkes’ move was Ramchand. He knew that Jetha the bearer, Kala the driver, Mohammed, the Muslim cook and, of course, Didi, were all moving with the family to the Burra Bungalow. He would never find another Memsahib like Ramona. She had cooperated with him in every way, allowing him all the fertilizer and seeds he needed. She had understood that it was not his fault when the entire rose garden was attacked by red spiders. And although she had ranted and raged when they lost a section of lawn when he inadvertently mistook weed killer for fertilizer, she accepted his inability to read the English writing on the packaging. He would have done anything for her. He was going to greatly miss her and the babas. Nothing would have made him happier than moving to the Burra Bungalow and working with Mohan, the head gardener there. It was hurtful that they had not even considered taking him along. Each day, he went to work hoping to be called by the Memsahib and be told that he was going with them.

His house, where he lived with his wife Usha, was in a cluster of weather-beaten, thatched huts made of bamboo and clay. It was always cool and dark inside their home because of the bamboo thicket in the back yard that shielded it from the sun. Fronds of an old banana tree obscured the house from the laneway that led to the water pump. He went home to Usha every evening and gloomily told her that he had not heard anything that day. But she didn’t need to be told. She could gauge his mood by the way he dragged his feet and bowed his head. The day of the move was rapidly approaching, and he moped about the garden, wondering what the new assistant manager would be like.

Finally, one afternoon when he was supposed to be at work, Usha heard Ramchand’s footsteps racing up the path. She ran to meet him and saw him joyfully waving a piece of paper. The Memsahib had finally called for him. He was going to the Burra Bungalow with the Memsahib! And not as under-gardener, they wanted him to be their head gardener! His black eyes shone, and Usha caught her breath with happiness for him. The reason they had not said anything to him before, he told her, was because they knew that Mohan was thinking of leaving, and they wanted to be sure first. He was the happiest man in the world.

She didn’t tell him that she had bled all day. He hadn’t even known that she had missed her last two periods. She had waited to tell him till she was absolutely sure, not wanting to disappoint him with another miscarriage. Now, they would have to start all over again. She was much younger than he was, but the pressure on her to produce a child was intense, both from his family and hers. But tonight they would celebrate. They would visit their families and share the good news. No one needed to know that there was bad news as well. She would keep that to herself.

Chapter 8

Dooars, 1977

Lying on the grass, Samira gazed at the sunset sky that shone a brilliant orange behind the branches of the giant Poinciana tree. Indian colors, she thought to herself, reveling in the feeling of peace the garden gave her: the gaudy ochre hues of mangoes, gold-Mohr blossoms, marigolds and saffron. The shriek of cicadas from secret recesses in the trees blended into the ringing twilight silence. Silhouettes of a hundred starlings streaked across the mango saffron sky. In the jacaranda tree, a flock of orioles assembled for their evening chorus.

Throngs of plantations workers trudged home in the tired dusk, trailing long shadows that leapt and jiggled on the dusty pathway behind them. Like their owners, the shadows balanced earthenware pitchers on their heads, trundled thin bicycles or tugged lagging children by the hand.

Mark was often restless these days. He had been consumed with a sudden burst of energy as the temperature cooled, after his lethargy in the heat of the afternoon. He was on vacation from his university in Calcutta. Samira was home from college, a graduate at long last.

“Sammy, where are you? I know you’re out there,” he called.

“Go away!” she said, wishing he’d leave her in peace. “What d’you want?”

“Let’s play hide-and-seek. I’m bored!” He ran toward the shrubbery, challenging her over his shoulder to join him in their childhood game. Samira laughed, humoring him, wondering if they would always behave like children when they were together. They played the familiar game with old expertise, reverting to well-known hiding places, running sure-footedly in the deepening shadows and screaming with laughter when discovered. Suddenly, the blast of a motorcycle driving up the gravel driveway shattered the tranquility of the evening.

“Who’s that?” asked Samira, seeing a young man sauntering over to them, somewhat peeved at having their game interrupted.

“It’s Ravi,” said Mark. “Ravi Anand. He’s the new assistant manager at Baghrapur.”

Baghrapur was the neighboring estate on the other side of the Murti River. It was a large, isolated plantation, bordered by the river to the west and a forbidding expanse of jungle to the north. Many years ago when they were young children, the plantation manager had been attacked by a rogue elephant that ran amok, crashing through the villagers’ houses and destroying their precious vegetable patches. On hearing about it from the breathless messenger, the manager had leapt into his jeep and rushed to the scene. He discovered the tusker with one of the laborers borne aloft in his trunk, about to batter him to death, impervious to the showering of rocks by the frenzied villagers. The Scottish planter had aimed his rifle right into the eye of the elephant, saving the man’s life. Since that day, he was affectionately known to the planters’ children as “Uncle Elephant.”

Ravi approached Mark and Samira. He was of medium height, with wavy hair that reached his collar. Samira could discern even through the half light that his eyes were vivid green. He had clear-cut features with defined eyebrows and walked with a confidence that was a near swagger, qualities almost guaranteed to bring out the worst in Samira’s insecurities.

“Ravi,” called Mark. “How are you, man? Come and meet my sister Samira.”

“Samira,” he emphasized her name. “I’m very pleased to meet you. What a pretty name.”

Obviously a bit of a smoothie, Samira decided, and most likely a product of St. Columbus or one of the other fancy Delhi universities. He’d be lucky if he lasted two seconds in tea.

“Pleased to meet you, Ravi,” she countered, resisting the urge to emphasize his name they way he had hers. “Welcome to the Dooars.”