A Sahib's Daughter (5 page)

“Look between those trees.” He pointed to a section of jungle. “A tiger was spotted there last week. Normally, they avoid humans as much as we avoid them, but occasionally they get hungry. And once you have a man-eater on your hands, you’re in serious trouble.”

“Are they protected in any way, the tigers, I mean?”

“Not nearly enough. They are widely hunted for their skins and for various medical remedies. It’s the same with elephants. Such a tragedy! We used to have to carry a weapon any time we were in, or close to, the jungle, which is no longer the case. Do you have a gun?”

“I don’t…yet,” said Charles. “But I understand there are opportunities to hunt in these parts.”

“Absolutely. We hunt wild boar and deer mostly, which are not endangered in any way, and also wood pigeon, pheasant and duck. If you’re interested, you’re welcome to join me on shikar. I have to warn you, though. It can be grueling out there in the jungle what with the heat and mosquitoes.”

“Count me in,” said Charles. “It’s just one of the reasons I wanted to come to India.”

“By the way, my wife asked if you would like to come to dinner tonight, nothing fancy, just a chance to become acquainted.”

“Thanks very much. I’d be delighted,” replied Charles.

“I’ll send the driver to pick you up around seven. Casual dress is fine. We’re pretty informal around here.”

When he bicycled to his bungalow later that afternoon, he was served tea with hot buttered toast and jam. After tea, he realized that his bearer was asking him for money for provisions.

“Rupees, Sahib. Stores,” said Jetha, his bearer. “Bazaar.”

“Yes, of course,” said Charles. He reached for his wallet. “How much?”

He had no idea of the value of money in this country or what it would cost to feed himself. He held out ten rupees. Jetha stared in disbelief, holding up his palm as if to stop him. Charles wondered if it was too little, until he saw Jetha hold up five fingers. Five rupees? He figured that was less than a shilling. What could one buy with a shilling? He had been wondering where his groceries came from and was planning to ask Greg about it later. He gestured that he would not be needing dinner that evening and went to his bedroom to bathe and change. He badly needed to cool off and freshen up after a day in the heat. He shaved and changed into khaki trousers and a white shirt hoping that this was the correct interpretation of “casual.”

A thicket of lychee trees and a giant bougainvillea bush concealed the Burra Bungalow from the road. As Charles stepped out of the jeep Greg came down the steps to greet him.

“Good to see you. Welcome to our home away from home! This is my wife, Lorna. Darling, meet Charles.”

Lorna stretched out her hand. Sophisticated and self-assured, her blond hair was impeccably styled. She wore red lipstick and a navy blue dress that showed off her white shoulders. She was probably in her mid-twenties and might have been prettier had it not been for her thin lips.

“Scotch okay for you?” asked Greg. “You don’t mind if we sit outside for a bit?”

“Wonderful,” replied Charles, who had never been much of a drinker except for the occasional glass of ale or lager at the Pig and Whistle in Barnet High Street.

“You have a beautiful home,” he said, looking around appreciatively. He’d thought his bungalow was attractive, but this place was magnificent. The scent of roses wafted up from the garden beneath the verandah. Palm trees that bordered the expanse of lawn were silhouetted against a golden sky.

After cocktails, they went inside for dinner. They sat at one end of a long table served by bearers in white jackets and maroon caps, moving soundlessly in and out of the room. They were served tomato soup followed by an excellent chicken casserole and sherry trifle for dessert.

“This is delicious,” said Charles, appreciatively. “Did your cook prepare it?”

“I have to admit that I seldom cook anymore,” smiled Lorna. “Occasionally, I’ll bake a cake or a batch of biscuits, but it’s pretty hot back in the kitchen.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being waited on,” Charles said. “I’m afraid I shall become quite spoiled living here.”

“You’d better believe it,” said Greg. “When Memsahibs return to England after a lifetime in tea, they find themselves at a total loss without servants to do everything for them.”

“It’s even harder for the Sahibs having no one to give orders to after being in charge of a workforce of thousands,” said Lorna. “I worry that Greg might have to resort to ordering me around.” She laughed. “The only consolation is that planters usually retire with their fortunes made. It’s easy to save money when there’s so little to spend it on.”

“And it would take a lot of money in Britain to replace the lifestyle we’ve been accustomed to,” said Greg. “Don’t forget that, darling,” he teased his wife, “just enjoy it while you can.”

Chapter 4

Dooars, 1959-1963

It was half past five. If the car didn’t start soon, they would have to abandon the whole idea. They had risen before dawn to make the three-hour drive up the mountain to Darjeeling. A jeep could have made the same journey in less than three hours, but Charles was only an assistant manager and did not have access to the company jeep for personal business. In fact, many cars were able to make it in less than three hours. But the Clarke’s gray Ford V8 was no ordinary car.

It was an unreliable and temperamental old guzzler, prone to over-heating and breaking down just when it was most inconvenient. Today, it wouldn’t even start. Kala the Nepalese driver bent over the engine furiously, muttering something about the choke. Kala looked forward to their trips up the mountains. Usually, he didn’t even have to drive as Charles preferred to drive himself and was only taken along because the car was so unreliable.

Once they arrived in Darjeeling, they would park on the street below the Planters Club. Kala would sit and gossip all day with the other planters’ drivers. Charles would give him a rupee for his lunch. He would spend it on a hot meal of momos and soup followed by biris and betel hut from the paan shop tucked in the hillside beneath Keventers Cafe. Kala chewed paan constantly. Strong and bitter, it warmed his insides, staining his teeth a treacherous shade of red.

He gave the car a final crank while Charles pumped the accelerator. For a moment, they thought the engine had caught, but it only spluttered and died for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning. The sun had risen steadily, drying the dew on the lawn that sloped down to the bamboo thicket bordering the compound. Sparrows fluttered in the mango trees, Ramona’s chickens squawked and fussed in the kitchen garden. In the distance, the wail of the electric siren summoned the plantation laborers to work, signaling that it was six o’clock.

Didi, the Nepalese ayah, was in the house with the baby. Ramona had spotted Ram, the pani wallah, arriving. He was disappointed to see the car in the driveway, having anticipated a quiet day with plenty of opportunity to play with his catapult. She remembered that the cook and the bearer had the day off. Was there even anything to eat in the fridge? They had been planning to stock up on provisions in Darjeeling.

In the back seat, Samira was asleep on the coats and sweaters that only emerged for these trips or on rare, chilly winter evenings. She would be bemused to find herself in the car when she woke up and not in Darjeeling as promised. She had been born at the Planters Nursing Home there four years ago, followed by Mark two years later. Warm and flushed, she was oblivious to the tempers beginning to fray. Ramona, not the most patient of people, and eager to escape the monotony of the tea garden, was struggling to control her temper.

By this time, two gardeners, assisted by Ram and Kala, with much ado and heated discussion, were pushing the car, which still refused to start. Finally, Charles emerged from the driver’s seat mopping his brow and said to Ramona.

“Looks like we’re not going to make it today. I’m sorry, darling. We’ll have to give up the idea. Perhaps we can try again next week.”

He knew how much she looked forward to these trips, not just because of Prava, but because it meant she could visit shops and restaurants and be among people.

Samira awoke dazzled by the sunlight and puzzled to find herself alone in the car. She stuck her head out of the window and shouted,

“Daddy, Daddy! Let me out!”

“I’m coming, darling,” Charles laughed, lifting her out of the back seat. “Our silly old car wouldn’t start today, so we’ll have to go see Grandma another time. Let’s go find Mummy.”

They walked into the house, and Ramona reappeared on the verandah with Mark in her arms, looking hot and disheveled in her Darjeeling clothing.

“To think we sat in the car all that time scarcely daring to breathe,” she said, indignantly.

“And look at us in these warm clothes,” said Charles. “You have to see the funny side of it.”

“Well, I might, but our bacon certainly won’t,” Ramona told him, “It’s just eggs for breakfast, I’m afraid.”

“Why don’t we go for a whole weekend sometime soon?

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” said Ramona. “I’ve got a better idea. How about getting a new car, one that actually goes?”

“What? And get rid of the Silly Old Car?” Charles bantered, using Samira’s nickname for the Ford.

“Perhaps we could buy a proper car,” suggested Ramona, smiling, “an Indian one that starts first time?”

“I agree,” said Charles, sarcastically. “If we’re quick and put our names down immediately, we could have a new car in as little as five years.”

That was true. The waiting list for new vehicles was endless. Ramona groaned. “Perhaps the Silly Old Car isn’t so bad after all.”

“Perhaps not,” agreed Charles. “All she needs is a little tender loving care.”

Ramona stepped into the verandah where breakfast had been laid out on a yellow and white checkered tablecloth. In the garden below, Ramchand was watering the flowers, but his attention was elsewhere. She could hear sounds coming from the lawn on the other side of the house and wondered what was going on. She walked the length of the verandah to investigate and could scarcely believe her eyes. The children were running on the grass, shrieking with excitement, with three tiny animals in pursuit. They didn’t look like puppies or kittens, she thought, and then she gasped. They were leopard cubs! She ran down the steps toward them.

Samira saw her and screamed, “Mummy, Mummy, come and see!”

The cubs were adorable, only a few days old, covered in downy fur and playful as kittens.

“Be careful, darling,” she said to Mark, who was trying to lift one of them by its tail. “Where on earth did they come from?”

Just then she noticed an old Nepalese man crouched in the shade by the bungalow. He rose and saluted.

“Where did you get these animals?” she asked, in Nepalese. “Where have you come from?”

Before he could answer, Charles, home for breakfast, appeared.

“Why, Gurung, what are you doing here?” he spoke in Hindi, not having mastered Nepalese.

“Salaam, Sahib. I bring these to show your babas,” Gurung said, in English. “I think they like.” He had walked three miles to do this.