The Linnet Bird: A Novel (51 page)
Read The Linnet Bird: A Novel Online
Authors: Linda Holeman
“Linny? Do you long for a baby?” Faith went on, when I didn’t answer immediately.
“I suppose it is in the hands of Fate,” I finally said, and was thankful for the distraction of the sudden appearance of a village as we rounded a bend in the river.
A
T THE END
of each day, when we stopped for the night and anchored the barges, the bargemen lined up in front of Mrs. Partridge, and she placed the agreed-upon number of rupees into each man’s calloused hand. The paid men would jump off the small barge and wade to the larger servants’ barge, where they would be given a wooden bowl of curry, some chapatis, and a plate heaped with fruit. If the night found us stopping in the country, the men would simply curl up on the open deck of the servants’ barge and sleep, keeping the mosquitoes at bay with smoking braziers. For our safety there were a few
chowkidars
who were posted to keep an eye on the little flotilla during the night hours. If we stopped near a town, some of the men would silently slip away after their meal. The next morning, although the right number of men in dhotis would be patiently standing in position at the sides of the budgerow, I eventually noticed that, except for the lead man, they were not always the same men who had so deftly maneuvered the long slender poles the day before.
At the junction of the Ganges and Yamuna rivers, our barges were directed onto the Yamuna. Eventually the sun played on the gilt domes and pointed spires and towers of the temples and mosques of Delhi as we floated by. I heard the sounds, muted by the distance, I knew so well from Calcutta—bells and chants and cries and laughter. The
ghats
that led down to the river held crowds, some sitting, some standing, and in the water others bathed or washed clothes. A child on his father’s shoulders waved at the budgerow; I waved back. The ivory of the buildings gave way to shades of yellow and orange in the lowering sun as the city disappeared from view.
The river grew ever more quiet, eventually leading us to a tiny village, where the budgerow stopped. The village had carts and animals for hire, as well as men to carry us. We had been traveling on the water for three weeks and were finally ready for the last portion of the journey—this one on land.
An hour later we stood on a narrow road that appeared to lead straight up into the hills, the servants loading the heavy trunks and cases onto hackeries pulled by lumbering bullocks.
“Get yourself into one of the
doolies,
” Mrs. Partridge instructed. She climbed onto the straw-filled mattress of a one-person palanquin and firmly buttoned the curtains. Faith did the same. I got into my own
dooli
but pushed my curtains aside. I was immediately thrown backward as a
boyee
picked up each corner. The ride was mainly uphill, so it was impossible to sit up. I lay back, Neel beside me, his head resting on my bodice, and I watched the rough rock that formed a low wall alongside the path. Tiny red flowers and lichen grew out of the cracks, a sure sign of cooler temperatures.
Near a dry
nullah
the
boyees
started a chanting song, their voices broken by their huffing intake of dusty air. As I listened, I realized, with a start, that it was about Mrs. Partridge. The song consisted mainly of comments on her spreading backside and voice like that of a hyena in heat. I wondered how much Hindi she understood.
W
E SPENT SIX
days being conveyed mile after mile up the precarious mountain paths and six nights of camping in primitive tents or the simple
dak
bungalows constructed out of thatch along the way by earlier English visitors.
I loved the nights, sitting outside our tents or thatched huts before a fire. The twilight descended in one fell swoop, and the birds quieted and the forests around us grew quiet. The smell of woodsmoke was sweet and drove away the mosquitoes. The simple food tasted more flavorful than any I’d eaten in the grand dining rooms in Calcutta. I slept, deep and refreshing sleeps, awakening in the morning with a vigor I didn’t know I could possess.
And finally we approached Simla. We stopped at the bottom of the serrated foothill, breezes filtering down to us, and once the
boyees
had rested, began the climb up. I couldn’t stay in my
dooli;
I got out and walked. Trees with blooms of scarlet rhododendrons blazed, bright as fire, all across the hills. When we reached the edge of the town, on a mountain road sheltered by dark pine trees, I stared in fascination at the majesty of it.
Seven thousand feet above sea level, the hill station’s houses had been built on a high, crescent-shaped ridge running along the base of Mount Jakko. They resembled English houses, some half-timbered cottages, and yet had an Indian flavor. Chattering monkeys scrambled along the tiled roofs, and mynahs and magpies called from the thick copses of trees clustered about. I could see the spires of a church and the covered stalls of an Indian bazaar. Mrs. Partridge knew exactly where to find our rented bungalow. Like many of the homes, it bore a strangely displaced English name—Constancia Cottage. Unlike the fussiness of our home in Chowringhee, it was small, built of lathe and plaster, with a thatched roof. Inside were three bedrooms, a dining room, and large sitting room. There was a fireplace there, the first one I had seen since leaving England. The kitchen, as usual, was a separate small building behind the house, close to the huts for the servants. I ran to each window, throwing open the wooden shutters. From the sitting room and the tiny front bedroom I looked up at the gigantic Himalayas, snowcapped and regal against a soft blue sky. The dining room and two larger back bedrooms looked down through sloping tree-covered hills to brown plains, and glinting like thin ocher ribbons in the far distance were the Sutlej and Ganges.
“Isn’t this marvelous?”
“Yes, yes it is,” Faith agreed, and spontaneously I grabbed her arms and tried to dance with her. But she stood, rigid, her eyes fixed on the view of the mountains. Mrs. Partridge gave me an annoyed look and limped into the largest back bedroom, closing the door firmly, and there was a heavy groan and the creak of a wooden bed. Faith moved, as if the pressure of my hands on her arms hurt her, and I let her go. She went to the other back bedroom and noiselessly closed the door.
Chapter Twenty-Six
May 20, 1832
Dear Shaker,
How shall I describe Simla, Shaker? I have written at great length about it in my journal and I pray you will be able to see and hear and smell it as I try to explain this queerest of places to you by copying out sections I have put down—so that I will always remember it—and in this way try to show you the shape of my life now.
Perhaps it is simplest to say the whole town is a curiously distorted vision of England, as if a wavering reflection in an Indian mirror. It is most definitely Chota Vilayat, little England of India, as it is often referred to here.
But in spite of this familiarity in a place so utterly foreign, I love the beauty and freedom it affords. If I wake early enough, I rush to my bedroom window to watch the distant line of peaks of the Himalayas catch fire, one after another, as they are touched by the rising sun. During the day I roam the promenade, a wide center street known as the Mall, built on the one flat stretch of ground in the area. All along the Mall are scores of English shops and the bustling Indian bazaar. There is even a small bandstand, where once a week an enthusiastic, if slightly off-key, orchestra plods through its repertoire for anyone who gathers to listen.
During the day, the Mall is filled with ponies and rickshaws waiting for hire. There are sidesaddles available should any of the memsahibs wish to go riding. The
jhampanis
pulling the rickshaws are to be pitied on the steep village streets, Shaker, and often it requires a joint effort of one or two pulling and another behind, pushing, to maneuver some of the more hefty women up the hills. Some women choose to ride in a dandy, a strong cloth strung between bamboo poles. It became apparent to me, after my first few days in Simla, that the ladies don’t change their habits when they leave the cities; they are determined not to exert themselves. I personally believe this inactivity is the cause of many of their ills, real and imagined.
I have taken to renting a pony early every morning. There is a wide, pine-framed field called Annandale, where all manner of sports and picnics and fairs take place. Beyond the field are low hills, and it is here that I set out for my ride. When I return I often sit on one of the park benches positioned along the Mall, listening to the blackbirds and cuckoos and watching Simla’s population.
Well-dressed white children in proper English sailor suits or long fancy dresses scamper freely about, attended by ayahs in snowy saris. Every day after tiffin a kindly old elephant with a magnificently decorated howdah is paraded into the Mall, and the children, in squealing groups of two or three, are carefully placed into the canopied chair and led around, waving proudly to their ayahs
.
The British women, busy shopping and taking tea or cherry brandy in the sidewalk cafés while their children are entertained, put away their hated solar topees and fight to outdo one another in the splendor of their hats. I personally find the flowered and feathered bonnets monstrous compared to the unadorned heads of the Indian women, gleaming with oil of the
eclipta alba.
Because of the cooler air, the fine ladies are also able to discard the limp muslin dresses of the city and wear their cotton and calico with heavily starched ruffles from neckline to hem. With the huge bustled skirts, broad-brimmed hats, and lacy parasols, each memsahib takes up three times as much room on the crowded boarded walkways as the Indian women. In comparison to the undulating ease of the Indian ladies, who slide by gracefully, bracelets and anklets jangling with a quiet sensuousness, ours are fettered in their armor of stays. They appear inflexible, as if frozen between neck and hip. I sometimes think their faces take on the same strangled expressions as their bodies. And perhaps also their souls?
There are a number of gentlemen present, although the vacationing women far outnumber them. Some are the men who work in Simla, and some are married men whose wives are currently at home in England. I have seen that these men, taking their own little vacations, are often looking for the company of bored wives anxious for a holiday flirtation while their husbands toil in the heat of the cities. It appears that the hill station, with its carefree festive air, makes these ladies much more susceptible to the attentions of gentlemen than they would dare to show in their usual domestic setting.