The Linnet Bird: A Novel (47 page)
Read The Linnet Bird: A Novel Online
Authors: Linda Holeman
At other times I creep about Calcutta on the pretext of shopping. What do I care of shopping, Shaker? You know me well enough to understand that this pastime, so precious to the English memsahib, holds no interest for me. Instead, I give Malti, my confidante, who seems to adore me for no other reason than that she has been given the task of caring for me, a shopping list, a large basket, and a chit. She rides off to the Hogg Market and collects what is needed for the next few meals, or else goes to Taylor’s Emporium, with its wide clean aisles of gleaming silverware and sparkling china and crystal and jewelry and all manner of things English. She feels important and happy with these chores, and tells me she is the envy of her counterparts, whose memsahibs would never entrust to them such decisions.
And while Malti does the shopping, Shaker, I explore. I go to the open bazaars. The main one is Bow Bazaar, with its cheerful, although squalid, profusion of stalls, and oh—I have seen items I didn’t know existed, items never found in all the books I studied before arriving. There are curious idols and strange fabrics, pungent, aromatic spices, rich gums, and large glass bottles of oil and rosewater encased in wicker. There is pure ivory from Ceylon and there are rhinoceros hides from Zanzibar. I am perfectly safe; there is an unspoken and, I suspect, false respect for all memsahibs here. False because the Indians have no choice. It is not a respect born of admiration, but one that simply is, for no reason other than the color of our skins. This, to me, is deeply disturbing, and yet I have come to understand that India is a country that links worth with the level at which one is born.
Much as life is in England. In this one respect only there is a similarity.
I am assuming that you are aware that Faith married not long after I did. I know that Faith wrote of this wonderful fact to Celina, and I hope she may have passed the news on to you. I do see Faith as much as possible. Her health appears rather fragile, I’m afraid. Her husband, Mr. Snow, is a kind, serious yet thoughtful man, and obviously adores her. In spite of this happiness within her marriage, Faith finds the chaos of the Indian world difficult to manage. She talks about making the journey home for a visit next year, which I think would be a wise choice, although she would have to build up her physical stamina to face that challenge.
Thank you again for writing, Shaker. I tried not to lose faith in hearing from you since I left Liverpool—close to a year now. Your letter makes me feel as if a door has just swung open again.
Again, Shaker, my deepest condolences on the loss of your mother.
Yours faithfully, as always,
Linny
P.S. For future correspondence, your postings will reach me directly if sent to Mrs. Somers Ingram, which is the name by which I am now addressed.
T
HERE WERE PARTS
of my life that I didn’t describe to Shaker. I didn’t tell him of my visits to the cemetery at St. John’s churchyard, for fear he would think me strangely morbid. It seemed that, for some of the Englishwomen, grave visiting was a compulsive pastime. The Glory Here Lies All Buried was written over the gate to the graveyard at St. John’s. I found a peacefulness there that brought me closer to the memories of my mother and little girl. There were many, oh, far too many little babies buried in these cemeteries: dead of cholera, dead of enteritis, dead of smallpox, dead of fever, dead of . . . the inexplicable, delicate, yet terrible grasp of India. But in spite of the sadness of all of this, again, I felt at peace there. After the rains started, and the stones had been washed clear of dust so that the lettering stood clear, and green sprouted from crevices in those very stones, it indeed felt a holy place.
I also didn’t tell Shaker of other things I witnessed. One was a suttee. Although it was prohibited by a government sanction the year before I arrived, I chanced upon the smouldering remains of a pyre where a widow had lit herself and burned to death. Judging by the two small boys weeping there, at the pile of dark ash and grisly human remains, she had been a young woman. I looked at the boys, wondering whether they were old enough to understand that she had sacrificed herself not only for their father—her death ensuring his successful rebirth—but for them. With their mother gone to take her place at her husband’s heavenly feet, they would now be assured that the whole of the family property passed on to the male heirs. I wondered if the boys had any sisters, and, if so, what their fate would be.
Another afternoon, as I stood in the shade between two temples, I watched a crowd of men dragging another man with his arms and legs bound tightly with strips of cloth to a clearing between the shrines. The man was forced to kneel and place his head on a large wooden block. Hearing
“Chore, chore”
murmured through the quickly gathering crowd, I knew him to be a thief.
Next a
mahout
led a docile elephant, ceremoniously painted, bells jangling on his massive ankles, into the clearing. An uncharacteristic silence fell over the assembled people. At a word of command from the
mahout,
the huge wrinkled leg rose over the thief’s head. Slowly, almost delicately, with a slight tinkling from the bells, the massive foot descended, crushing the man’s skull into the stained wooden block. I couldn’t look away. The reverent silence continued as the elephant was led off and the crowd thinned. Immediately two Sudras hurried to drag away the body with only a pulpy mess attached to the neck. The remaining throng made a wide path around the Untouchables in their rags. The Sudras passed in front of me, hauling their gruesome cargo. I vomited neatly and quietly on the macadam, wiped my mouth with the edge of my skirt, and walked past the blood-covered block to the alley that would lead me back to the bazaar.
There I bought a paper pack of
pan
and stood chewing the ground mixture of spices, leaves, and betel nuts, hoping to settle my stomach. As I ate I watched a withered blind man play a sitar with graceful movements. The music he created was unstructured and yet ethereal. When he was done he tilted his head to the sky and I saw tears streaming from his eyeless sockets as a wide smile creased his filthy face. I squatted beside him and pressed what was left of my
pan
into his hand. He took hold of my outstretched hand and gently ran his hoary fingers over my palm and wrist, whispering a toothless blessing, and I felt a shiver of repulsion and yet—and yet, I believe the other emotion I felt at that moment was envy. Yes. I was envious of this stinking, ancient musician. He wanted nothing more than his sitar and the warmth of this patch of sunlight. At this moment, he knew his place in his world and he accepted it.
For all I felt that the strange shape of my life had brought me to a secure place—a lovely home in which I wanted for nothing materially, I couldn’t understand why I continued to feel, often, that I was not right within my skin. Was I to feel this way—this restless questioning—while dressed in fine gowns and knowing no hunger or fear for my life, as I had for all of my former years in Liverpool, both on Back Phoebe Anne and Paradise?
What was this odd, empty ache that clung to me no matter how luxurious my life now proved to be?
As I walked away from the old man, I berated myself heavily for my selfish thoughts.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I
WORRIED MORE AND MORE ABOUT
F
AITH.
She and Charles were forced to live in the rather run-down area for the uncovenanted civil servants that I had often passed through. Their home was at the furthest end of Chitapore Road, in a row of low, poorly constructed bungalows with weedy growth sprouting from wide cracks in the outer walls.
The hot season was growing intolerable when I first visited Faith. The bungalow was small but neat, filled with evidence of Charles’s life in India, unlike the homes in Garden Reach and Alipur and Chowringhee I frequented. It was simple and unadorned in a pleasing way with its rattan furniture and small brass tables, the white walls bare except for a few woven hangings, and rush matting fragrant underfoot. In spite of what might be seen as a step down the social ladder, Faith appeared to be blissfully happy in this first flush of marriage with Charles, enjoying playing at house. There was no verandah, and the back of the house opened on to a courtyard. With no chance of any breeze, the house was utterly suffocating.
She had the bare minimum of servants: a thin, rabbity girl of about twelve as her ayah, the girl’s younger brother as a general cleaner, and a very elderly man who seemed to shuffle about a great deal without really accomplishing anything. She shared a cook, a
dhobi,
and a
durzi
with three other bungalows.
As time passed and debilitating heat descended over Calcutta, Faith’s answers to my chits, asking her to visit at my home during the day, or whether I might call on her, began to hold her regret and apology, citing a variety of reasons, from the heat to her feeling poorly to a problem with a servant. And so, after I hadn’t seen her for three weeks, I took it upon myself to visit her in spite of the afternoon sun.
I was met at the door by the ayah, who ushered me into the tiny drawing room. She went to fetch Faith, and as I waited in the unbearably hot room, lightheaded with the lack of air, I couldn’t help but notice that white ants crawled within the matting on the floor, and there was a sour odor of unwashed linen. The flounce of the punkah showed a layer of dust. Dirty plates and cups sat on the small round teak dining table, visible through an open doorway. Finally Faith came to the drawing room. She was pale, her clothing rumpled, and her hair fell from its pins.
“Hello, Linny,” she said. “I was trying to stay cool by just lying very still.” She glanced around. “Please forgive the state of my home. We haven’t been entertaining at all; it’s too hot.”
“Of course, Faith. Who can deal effectively with anything in this scorching air?” I said, trying to put her at ease. We sat, and she had the ayah bring us some cold tea. With the tea the girl sullenly brought out a plate of biscuits and put it in front of us. She smelled strongly of the ghee she used to oil her hair. Faith didn’t even glance at the plate, but I noticed the biscuits had a mealy look to them.
We attempted small talk, but Faith seemed somehow confused, giving the ayah instructions to give to the cook for dinner, and then changing them twice over. She ordered the cleaner to spend time on small and unimportant tasks while flies swarmed over the dirty dishes on the table. When I announced that I would be leaving within the half hour, she paced about the room, looking out the windows.
“Are you sure you’re all right, Faith?” I asked her. I saw that she wore no stays or petticoats, and her ecru dress hung limply, sweat-stained under the arms and down the back. I changed at least four times daily in this heat, but I had Malti to prepare cool baths for me and have fresh clothes waiting.
She looked at me distractedly. “Yes. Yes, I just thought Charles might arrive home earlier than usual. I hoped so. I don’t like being here alone.”
“You’re not alone. You have the servants and the other women in the courtyard. Do you not visit with them?”
She looked away from the window. “I just meant . . . I hope he arrives before you leave.” She came closer. “It’s the servants. They’re always watching me, and I feel they don’t like me.”
“Perhaps you could come out more,” I said. “I know it’s almost impossible in this heat, but it doesn’t do to stay shut up alone every day.”
