Delhi (34 page)

I can never forgive myself for persuading my hubby to move to Delhi. ‘What’s wrong with Calcutta? We are quite happy here,’ he used to say.

There wasn’t anything wrong with Cal but there were many reasons why I did not want to go on living there. For one the place was full of Eurasians and if you didn’t cut yourself off completely from them, English gentry began to suspect you were one of them. Mind you I have nothing personal against Eurasians! I know some fine gentlemen who have a bit of the tar-brush in them. Being half-caste is not their fault, is it? But I simply had to get away from them. Mum had lived in Cal so long that she had forgotten where she had come from back Home. She had also picked up that awful
chichi
of the half-castes. For another I had married a pucca English gentleman: Alexander Aldwell Esquire of Her Majesty’s Post and Telegraph Services. Although yours sincerely was only a sweet eighteen and he going into his fifties when she went up the altar with him, he was, as I said before, of pucca English stock— sixteen annas to the sicca rupee! I didn’t want him to mix with the riff-raff of Cal.

Alec gave me two girls in the first two years of our marriage. Then he went
phut
just like that,
phut
. At fifty-five he was retired from service. I hoped he would take us back to Ole Blighty. But he refused to leave Cal. ‘Livin’ is cheaper here,’ he said. ‘Back home we won’t have an
ayah
or
chokra.
’ In any case he hadn’t saved up anything so we did not have money to pay the ole P. & O. our passage money. We had to move into cheaper digs in the Eurasian quarters between Chowringhee and the native bazaar. I tried to have as little to do with our neighbours as possible. But Alec took to them like a duck takes to water. He started drinking toddy with Eurasians and going to their homes. I pleaded with him: ‘Alec, I don’t want my girls to grow up in India, I want to send them to a good school at Home. If you can’t afford it on your pension, let’s go up country where they are short of sahibs. I am sure you could get some kind of job. With your salary plus the pension we could give the girls what they deserve. We can save up and then join them in England. Meanwhile we could mix with the right kind of people.’ If I said this once, I said it a hundred times. You think that Mister Alexander Aldwell would listen! In through one ear, out of the other! ‘Who’ll give me a job at my age?’ he would say and go out of the house as fast as he could.

I got fed up. Without telling Alec I went to see Mr George Atkins who had been his boss. Mr Atkins was real nice. Only forty and a bachelor. He listened to me and said he’d like time to think it over. He asked me to dine with him at the Calcutta Club. Real swanky it was! Gentlemen in tails, ladies in long dresses! Bearers,
khidmatgars
,
abdars
and what have you! And Mr Atkins so gallant! He said he was mighty proud to be seen with anyone as pretty as yours sincerely. I gave him a friendly peck on his nose. After dining and dancing he drove me back in his
buggy
. I gave him a real mouthful of a goodnight kiss.

A few days later, Mr Atkins invited me to dine with him at his bungalow. So romantic it was! Candle-light and champagne and all that kind of thing. English ham, Cheddar cheese and everything of the best from Calcutta’s poshest store—the Hall of All Nations. I knew what he wanted. And I knew what I wanted. After supper we got down to business: I gave him a real nice time. As I said, my hubby had gone
phut
. I was only twenty-six and hadn’t known a man for more than a year.

George Atkins did not know the first thing about making love—I mean full twenty shillings to the pound worth of love. No sooner he put his thing in, he was finished. He worked himself up for a second bout. This time he was very rough; he bit my breasts, dug his nails into my poor bottom and rammed away as hard as he could. As he was about to come, I screamed: ‘You are kill in’ me darlin’!’ He lunged away and with a great ‘whoa’ spent himself. I pretended I had come and was exhausted. He looked like St. George who had slain his first dragon. He turned very gentle: ‘Did I hurt you, dear? Do forgive me.’ Hurt me? My foot! I replied in my most tired voice; ‘No, darling, you did not hurt me. You just did me in. It was wonderful. Thank you, thank you, thank you.’ George Atkins looked as if his salary had been doubled and he had scored a century at a cricket match. He lay beside me tapping his chest as if it were full of gold medals. I began to play with his nipples till they became hard. I kissed his paunch and stuck my nose in his navel. I could see his member was in a sorry state of dejection. I ran my fingers in his fuzzy red pubic hair and gently played with his whatnot. It began to stir like a snake in a snake charmer’s basket. Then I applied my tongue to it till it was fully revived. It was quite a size. I came over him and took him between my thighs. I wanted him to have a night he would remember as long as he lived. ‘I expect it’s the Indian in you which makes you such a superb lover,’ he said crossing his arms behind my back. I didn’t like that and told him so ‘No Georgie dearie,’ I told him, ‘there is nothing Indian about yours sincerely. I am as pucca as you: one hundred per cent British and proud of it. Now promise me one thing. You must get Alec a job some place up country. God promise?’ I kissed him and wiggled my middle on him. I looked directly into his eyes and asked: ‘Do I have your word?’ He tried to look away, but I held his head in my hands. ‘Promise! I’ll make it worth your while,’ I assured him. ‘I will do my best,’ he replied. That was enough. I glued my mouth to his, ran my tongue in his mouth and worked on him till both of us were like two animals:biting, clawing, drawing blood. We almost killed each other in the final act. This time it was, as they say in an attorney’s office, ‘Signed, sealed and delivered.’ His
syce
drove me home at 3 a.m.

The next morning I nagged Alec and made him call on Mr Atkins. (I told him that I had spoken to someone who had spoken to Mr Atkins). My only fear was that Atkins might want to keep me in Cal. But you know what men are! Within a week he fixed Alec with a job in Delhi. I went to his bungalow to thank him. This time there were no candles, no champagne, no supper. He just fucked me.

That’s how we came to be in Delhi in the spring of 1856. We rented a large double-storeyed house in Daryaganj where most of the European civilians lived. Our bungalow had a spacious compound and quarters for our
ayahs, khansama, masalchi,
abdars, bhishties,
syce, jamadars
and other servants. It was like a fortress with high walls and a massive iron gate. On the eastern side of our bungalow was the city wall with the river Jamna running below it.

In November I had my third child, another girl. We had her christened at St. James Church in Kashmiri Gate. I chose the name for her: Georgina. (I sent Mr Atkins a card announcing the birth and the name of our girl). Fifteen days later we had a party to celebrate Georgina’s arrival. Just everyone who was anyone in Delhi was invited. More than fifty ladies and gentlemen responded. The Resident, Mr Theophilus Metcalfe, who was the
burra
sahib dropped in for a few minutes. Mr Beresford, the manager of the bank in the main bazaar, Chandni Chowk, and his wife came with their children. Captain Douglas, commander of the guard at the Red Fort came with Mr Simon Fraser, the Commissioner. Because of the baby I could not drink or dance. Everyone else had a wonderful time.

We did not ask any natives. Nevertheless many sent us presents. Amongst them was a lovely brocade piece from Begum Zeenat Mahal, the favourite wife of the old king Bahadur Shah.

Mr Metcalfe took me aside and asked me for a favour. He said that he wanted someone to keep in touch with the harems of the
nawabs
to know what their begums were saying. I do not know how he guessed that I could understand Hindustani. Since he spoke to me personally, I promised to do anything I could after I had weaned my baby.

Winters in Delhi are very pleasant. By December it is cold enough to have a log fire. There is frost on the ground in the mornings; the days are bright and warm. I made my place real comfy and kept an open house for Europeans. Captain Douglas and his young subalterns became regular visitors. I served them hot rum punch with cloves and nutmeg which they loved. On Christmas eve, we went to the carol service at St. James Church. Next morning, our verandah was full of baskets of fruit and flowers sent by my husband’s native subordinates for the
bara din
. In the afternoon, Mr Metcalfe was at home to the European community. We toasted Her Majesty the Queen on the lawns of his mansion beyond Kashmiri Gate. That evening we had a few bachelors join us round our Christmas tree. Everyone got very drunk: Alec was quite blotto and had to be put to bed. The men flirted with me — mind you nothing very serious! Just a lot of Christmassy kissin’ and cuddlin’.

On Boxing Day Alec went out with Captain Douglas for
shikar
. They brought back two blackbucks, four geese and almost fifty partridges. We sent legs of venison and a brace of partridges to our friends.

We organized a grand feast on New Year’s eve. Mr Metcalfe again did us the honour of a short visit. Once more he took me aside and reminded me of my promise to find out what the native women were saying. He sounded very eager about it. I assured him I would get down to the job.

The real fun began after Mr Metcalfe had left. Alec passed out and had to be put to bed. One of the subalterns almost raped me within a yard of where Alec was lying drunk. That stupid, besotted husband of mine kept egging him on, ‘Take the bloody bitch..go on...’ Such was life in Delhi!

After the season’s festivities were over I sent letters of thanks to the wives of the natives who had sent us gifts on Georgina’s birth and the
bara din
. Some begums came to call and protested that letters were not necessary between members of the same family. (‘I a member of a native family! Really!’) Natives are given to this kind of exaggeration. I was ‘sister’ to everyone. Their children called me
mausi
. Fawning and flattering you to your face but always ready with a dagger to plunge in your back!

*

It was some time in the April of 1857. I remember it had turned very, very warm. We had
bhishties
splashing water on the
khas
curtains we hung on the doors. No one dared to stir out in the afternoon. Even the nights were unpleasant. We slept on our roof and had a relay of
pankhawallas
to fan us throughout the night. One day Begum Zeenat Mahal sent us a trayload of watermelons and mangoes from her estate in Talkatora. I gave a handsome tip to the bearers and informed Mr Metcalfe about it. He sent me word that I should join the party of European ladies who had also received baskets of fruit and who were calling on Zeenat Mahal to thank her.

I took my two older girls with me in the phaeton sent by Mr Beresford, the banker. Captain Douglas received us at Lahore Gate. It was a memsahibs’ afternoon. There was old Mrs Flemming, wife of Sergeant Flemming and her daughter, Mrs Scully, and a few others. Captain Douglas passed us on to Basant Ali Khan, a fat eunuch who was the head of the harem guard. He escorted us through the Meena Bazaar and endless corridors with rooms on either side occupied by the
salateen
members of the royal household. A scruffier, smellier lot would be hard to find anywhere in the world. Their quarters were worse than those of my servants; the women were poorer dressed than my
ayahs
. We were conducted to the queen’s reception room which overlooked the river.

We were seated on
divans
overlaid with Persian carpets and bolsters covered with brocade to rest our backs. Carpets in the heat of summer! But there are natives for you! Every visitor had two women standing behind her waving huge fans. They sprinkled us with rose and
kewra
water. A female herald announced: ‘Her Majesty, the Queen of Hindustan, Empress of the Universe, diadem of the age.’ Natives love high-sounding titles. In came the queen. She certainly was a beauty! Large almond-shaped eyes, olive complexion and jet black hair. She was exquisitely dressed in her native chemise and
garara
with a gossamer-thin
dupatta
flung over her head. We stood up to greet her. She shook each of us by the hand, said ‘good-afternoon’ in English and patted my children on their cheeks. My girls curtsied to her. Trays of fruit and sweetmeats were passed around. She pressed us to taste them. Although she knew a little English, she spoke in Persian or Hindustani. Most of us had picked up a few words in Hindustani, so we got along quite well. When we ran out of words we giggled or laughed.

There was much coming and going of begums and their daughters all very curious to see the memsahibs and talk to them. Men were not allowed in the
zenana
apartments but Prince Jawan Bakht, the queen’s only son, a sallow-skinned youth of sixteen who had recently married his cousin, was allowed in with his wife.

The queen had presents for all of us. We also had presents for her and her daughter-in-law. My girls received a silk chemise, a
salwar
and a gold bangle each. In return I gave the queen a bottle of Yardley’s lavender water and her daughter-in-law, a lady’s watch. They were very happy with the gifts.

The party broke up into small groups. I joined a group with Jawan Bakht and his wife. The boy had not been taught how to behave in the company of ladies. He kept chewing
betel
-leaf and spitting the horrible, bloody phlegm into a silver spittoon which a eunuch carried everywhere he went. And like common natives he kept scratching his privates. He also had the nasty habit of whispering in the ears of his cronies. At times he made remarks in Persian which he thought we could not understand. Since I had tried to speak to him he directed his evil eyes and tongue towards me. He recited a couplet in Persian to his wife:

Expect not faithfulness from nightingales

Who sing every moment to another rose.