The Sandalwood Tree (8 page)

Billy said, “Is that a prince and princess?”

I nodded. “They are today, Sweet Pea.”

As they passed, the bride lifted the curtain of her palanquin to peek at me, and I saw her teenaged face—her kohl-lined eyes and plump mouth. She looked like the embodiment of untroubled love, in spite of the fact that her marriage was undoubtedly arranged. I struggled with a bitter mix of nostalgia for that warm feeling and disdain for such naïvety. Why do we insist on believing in the impossible? That young couple was luminous with the belief that their worlds were now complete. I remembered how that felt, and my throat constricted, aching. I had to swallow and blink and turn my face away from Billy. He always registered changes in my mood, and I wanted to protect him, at least for a while. I wanted him to enjoy the magic while he could and to give him a soft launch into a hard world. I put on a smile and pulled the wagon away from the wedding party, saying, “Wasn’t that pretty?”

“Will they live in a palace, Mom?”

They would probably live in a one-room hut with a dirt floor. The princess would collect cow dung for fuel, haul wood, and carry water pots on her head for the rest of her life. She would lose almost half of her babies in infancy. The dashing young prince would probably pull a rickshaw until his health gave out, or he might wrest his food from the stubborn earth and watch his children die while he begged the gods for the right amount of rain. I said, “Not a palace, sweetie. They’re just ordinary people, but today is their big day.” I did not add that because they were Indian their resilience would probably save them, unlike the rest of us poor fools.

With Amritsar and the wedding procession hurting my heart, I walked through the dusty, unpaved lanes watching for signs of the unrest that so worried Martin. Two men sat on a rooftop contentedly chewing paan, and the ground beneath them glistened red where they spat; a barefoot man in a white skullcap strolled by, cracking sunflower seeds in his teeth; a little girl with an enchanting
smile sat on her heels, holding a white rabbit, and, slowly, India worked its soporific magic on me. Life went on.

People wore the same saris, dhotis, chadors, salwar kameez, dupattas, kurtas, skullcaps, and turbans they’d worn for centuries—these street scenes had probably not changed much since Felicity and Adela walked there. I imagined Victorian parasols and sun-struck pith helmets amid the saris and kurtas, and I felt a sense of continuity. It was a congenial scene, except for the beggars, especially the children.

There were too many of them; thin, ragged mites with matted hair and bony legs and small hands thrust out. I couldn’t resist the tiny brown palms, tough as paws, and the lean little faces. They made eating motions, putting their dirty fingers into their mouths, their dark eyes desperate. No child should look like that. I knew the moment I placed a coin in the hand of one, ten more would come swarming, quick as rats. Many were no older than Billy; some were younger. They tried to touch my clothes, as if I was a saint with curative powers, and I felt ashamed of my wealth and powerlessness. I had been warned to resist them. James Walker had said, “Giving them money compounds the problem.”

The problem was slavery. Walker said the children were often sold to slavers by relatives who could not afford to feed them—earthquake victims from Bihar, war orphans from the Punjab, refugees from West Bengal—and the money they begged would be used to buy more children. They were thin, filthy, and vulnerable, and yet those children were some of the luckier ones; having masters gave them the means to stay alive.

When the children became too old to beg, they would be sold into domestic service or prostitution. I knew all this, and I didn’t want to perpetuate it, but if the children didn’t bring in a daily minimum, they would be beaten. There was no way to win, so I carried lots of small change and gave them each one pice—less than a penny. I salved my conscience by thinking,
It’s not enough to buy
another child and maybe today this one won’t be beaten for bringing in nothing at all
. Billy didn’t ask why the children begged, but he watched them with a solemn expression. I walked quickly, trying to distract him.

I pointed out an astrologer giving consultations from a wooden chair under a tall, fringed umbrella, and let Billy snap a photo. We took another shot of a shoemaker fashioning sandals from old bicycle tires. People spoke Hindi, Urdu, Telugu, Bengali, and a jumble of other languages, all of which created a babble as impenetrable as the culture. All we could do was stare and take pictures. In my viewfinder, I framed up tea stalls packed with baskets of fragrant leaves—
snap
—spice merchants standing behind open sacks of cumin seeds—
snap
—and an incense shop swathed in gauzy smoke—
snap
.

I found the perfume vendor especially seductive and always stopped to sniff his samples—patchouli and lust, tincture of myrrh, roses, and smoke. I’d often felt tempted to buy a small, stoppered bottle of something, an ounce of India just for me. I didn’t normally wear perfume, but I thought it would be nice to take some back to Chicago, where, on a gray, subzero day in January, I could hold it to my nose and remember. But we lived on a budget, and I knew exactly how much we had in the tea tin, even if Martin didn’t. Anyway, I had never mastered the art of haggling, so I just smiled at the vendor, snapped a picture of his elegant cut-glass bottles, and moved on.

We came to a stall where an old man with wide, flat Mongolian features sold Tibetan turquoise, and I stopped to watch him manipulate an abacus with flying fingers. He had skin like cured leather, and his polished stones, in shades of mottled aqua, were set into elaborate silver earrings, complicated necklaces, and thick bracelets, all hung around him like a rattling curtain. One moment too late, I saw Edward and Lydia rummaging through a basket of loose stones.

“Evie, darling!”

Edward touched the edge of his topee, a polite greeting. “Thought we’d do a spot of shopping, as long as we’re stuck here.”

“Those are beautiful.” I nodded at the loose turquoise.

Lydia passed a hand along the curtain of necklaces. “Have you ever seen anything so vulgar?” She gave me a conspiratorial smile and lowered her voice. “But the loose stones are magnificent.” She held up a turquoise the size of a quail’s egg. “I can bargain this ignorant fellow down to nothing, and have it set in London.” She beamed, and Edward nodded his approval.

“Mom?”

I turned to Billy gratefully. “What, Peanut?”

“Me and Spike are learning how to belch. Wanna hear?”

“Um …”

“Buuurrrp.”

“Wow. Sounds like the real thing.”

“Thanks.” He smiled with shy pride.

Lydia looked as though someone had handed her a still-beating heart on a plate. “Really, Evie, what were you thinking, bringing a child to India? Such a lovely boy. Honestly, how could you?”

I nipped the tip of my tongue to bite off the salty retort sitting there. I said, “I’ve recently heard an interesting bit of history, and I wonder if either of you might shed some light.”

“Of course, darling.” Lydia switched to gossip mode. “What have you heard?”

“It’s an episode in Indian history involving Great Britain.”

Lydia’s eyes wandered back to the turquoise. “I should say all Indian history involves Great Britain.”

Edward mumbled, “Indeed.”

I forced my mouth into something I hoped passed for a smile. I said, “This happened in 1857. The Sepoy Rebellion?”

“I’m sure I don’t know anything about it.” Lydia foraged through the turquoise. “That sort of thing depresses me.”

“Ah, yes, the sepoys.” Edward assumed the voice of imperial
authority. “Natives in British service caused all sorts of devilment. You’d think they’d appreciate the uniform and proper training, but no, they kicked up a bloody fuss. Cheeky ingrates. Plenty of British lives lost in that one, I can tell you.”

“What upset them?”

“Some superstitious rot about the grease on their rifle cartridges.” Edward snorted. “Cow fat or pig fat, or some such. Who knows?”

“Please don’t bother yourself, dear.” Lydia turned a concerned face to me. “We came to India to get away. London’s all rubble, you know. The war …” She frowned, trying to find adequate words. “Well, you can imagine our disappointment when we got here. The good parts are English, only not as good as England, and the rest is just a sprawling slum. Of course, I feel sorry for them, as far as that goes, but honestly …”

The tip of Edward’s tongue made its appearance. He said, “Don’t misunderstand. We pity them, poor buggers. But they don’t help themselves, now do they? Reminds me of Africa. Those Kikuyu, I can tell you stories.” He raised one eyebrow.

“Eddie, you don’t want to go on about that. You’ll only bother yourself.”

I felt heat building in my face, but I forced my voice to remain even. “I think Gandhi has been trying to help the Indians to help themselves. But first they must be allowed to govern themselves.”

“Gandhi.” Edward pronounced the name with a flat A, like candy. “A politician dressed up like a prophet.” Pink splotches on each of his cheeks deepened to the color of raw pork. “Look here, Mrs. Mitchell, it’s easy for you Yanks to flounce over here and be terribly democratic about every little thing, but we Britons have had to put up with a damnable responsibility in this godforsaken place.”

Billy had registered the rise in Edward’s voice as well as the strain in my face. He stopped his belching practice and leaned forward
in the red wagon, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. He held Spike close to his chest.

I asked, “What responsibility would that be, Edward?”

“Keeping the peace, of course.”

Lydia sniffed. “I should think that would be painfully obvious, especially now.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “The peace isn’t being kept very well just now, is it?”

Edward stepped closer. “You can’t blame us for this Hindu-Muslim muddle.”

“Oh? I thought Great Britain favored Partition.” I could feel my color rising. I
hated
that.

“Of course we do! The bloody wogs can’t get on together. Never have.”

“They seem to be getting along just fine here in Simla.”

Lydia appeared to have lost interest in the turquoise. “Really, Evie, I don’t see how you can claim any moral high ground when you’ve brought an innocent child into this …” She flapped her white gloves around at the bazaar. “A child. Your little boy, your baby …” Lydia’s voice cracked on the word “baby,” and her face went rigid.

Edward put an arm around her shoulders. “All right, my dear. Steady on.”

Billy stared at the Worthingtons, his mouth slightly open and his eyes wide. I knew he shouldn’t be hearing this, but having just read about Amritsar I couldn’t stop myself. “Maybe you’re right, Edward. I guess I don’t have your refined sense of moral responsibility. I’ve read about how well you kept the peace at Amritsar.”

Noises receded. The bazaar blurred. Time slowed. We stared at each other in cold stasis. My reference to the massacre had pushed us beyond the bounds of polite conversation. I felt light-headed, realizing I’d gone too far. After all, Lydia and Edward had nothing to do with Amritsar. I heard the quick click of the abacus,
the running murmur of strange languages, and I caught a swirl of movement in my peripheral vision. Then the noon bell from Christ Church broke the spell, and normal sounds and movement resumed.

Edward touched the brim of his topee. “Lovely running into you, Mrs. Mitchell.”

Lydia tugged on her white gloves. “Good afternoon, Evie.”

As Edward and Lydia walked away, I felt a grim satisfaction. Good, I thought, maybe now they’ll avoid me and save me the trouble of ducking them.

“Mom?” Billy’s face made me think of a worried cherub. “Spike is tired. Let’s go home.”

But I needed to walk off the Worthingtons. I bent down and planted a good, solid kiss on his cheek. “Why don’t you and Spike take a little nap?” I fluffed up his pillow and petted his hair. “When you wake up we’ll have masala chai.”

Billy consulted Spike, and then curled up on the pillow with the toy dog under his arm. I took a deep breath and started walking, but I feared that walking off the Worthingtons might require trekking clear over the Himalayas.
Amritsar
. My hand tightened on the wagon handle at the thought of it, but why take it out on Lydia and Edward? It wasn’t at all rational. My face still felt hot from the encounter.

I looked back at the wagon and saw Billy asleep, curled peacefully around Spike, so I stopped under a neem tree and sat in the lacy shade, watching a silk merchant mist rose water over the dusty ground outside his shop. I smiled at him and he salaamed like a Moghul prince.

Sunlight dappled through the neem leaves, and I remembered Martin saying that villagers brushed their teeth with the frayed twigs of neem trees. I’d often seen cut branches with leaves still fresh and supple for sale on street stalls. Impulsively, I reached up and broke off a twig. The pale-green center leaked clear sap and
I chewed one end until it softened, then rubbed it over my teeth. It tasted bitter and astringent, but it was pleasantly uncivilized to have a twig in my mouth, and I liked the feel of the fibers massaging my gums. Suddenly I laughed out loud at the absurdity of a redhead from Chicago morally outraged and sartorially confused, brushing her teeth in public with a mashed twig, and I’ll be damned if laughing at myself didn’t purge me of the Worthingtons.

I breathed in the mountain air, picked up the wagon handle, and headed for a tobacco stall to buy a pack of Abdullah cigarettes. I hadn’t smoked much in Chicago—a Raleigh after meals, maybe one at night—but I liked those short, oval Abdullahs with gold, rose-scented tips. Verna had offered me one at her tea party and now I smoked them all the time. I had tried one of Martin’s bidis, the thin native cigarettes wrapped in a leaf and secured with a thread, but I found them hot and harsh. The bidis were another thing that made Martin appear Indian, but he said it established a rapport with the people he interviewed.

I turned down a street behind the Chinese shoe shop and found myself in a quiet cul-de-sac that ended at an old temple—yellow brick built on top of the stone ruins of an earlier structure. Two wooden doors stood open and appeared welcoming. They were carved in a filigree of birds and flowers, and a string of faded prayer flags fluttered above them. I peeked inside, and in the dim light of oil lamps I made out the figure of a large stone Buddha.