The Sandalwood Tree (9 page)

I knew I could not enter a Hindu temple without taking off my shoes, and mosques had rules about ritual washing and head coverings. I didn’t know the protocol for Buddhists, but I poked my head inside the door and glanced around the empty space. I wondered, isn’t Gandhi Buddhist? No, he’s Hindu. Or is he Muslim? I suppose he could be Christian. Then again he could be Parsi or Jain. The Jains were fanatical pacifists, who sometimes wore masks to prevent them from inhaling microscopic insects; they weren’t even willing to kill hair lice. India was a spiritual carnival complete
with sideshows, but whatever religion Gandhi had been born into, he had become a humanist espousing all religions and none.

Everyone admired Gandhi for forcing the British out, but I secretly marveled at the backbone of the colonials who had managed to establish themselves in this land of conflicting taboos, killing heat, medieval kingdoms, and a plethora of fatal diseases. They had transplanted a pocket of England into one of the most confounding places on earth, with nothing but mules and determination. It must have been a terribly hard life, especially for the women, and I wondered whether any but the most dedicated empire builders were really happy here. They had grit—you had to give them that—but like all imperialists, they sowed the seeds of their own demise.

It was all too complicated, the sun was too hot, and I’d been out too long. I felt drawn to the shadows and serenity of the Buddhist temple, and when I stepped over the threshold, a sense of calm came over me. The place transcended the Worthingtons, politics, even India. In the end, the pull of tranquility won out over caution. I left my shoes at the entrance and crept inside, pulling my sleeping munchkin in his red wagon behind me.

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1947

T
he muted squeak of the red Flyer’s rubber wheels echoed in the vaulted silence of the Buddhist temple, and I was glad Billy had fallen asleep; his high, sweet voice would surely ricochet off the walls. The stone floor was cool under my bare feet, but I felt like an intruder and I suppressed an urge to walk on tiptoe.

It was much smaller than Christ Church, more like the gaily painted little Hindu temples that I saw everywhere, but simpler. A calligraphy scroll hung on one wall, and a multicolored thangka depicting Indian myths hung on another. As in Hindu temples, there were no chairs, but instead of Ganesh or Hanuman, a massive stone Buddha sat under a gold cloth canopy, and at his feet, an array of butter lamps flickered amid a scattering of offerings: marigolds, a bowl of rice, browning apple slices, bidis, and the odd item—a curling leaf, a black-and-white photo, a beaded bracelet—whose significance was known only to the supplicant and Buddha.

The relative emptiness of the place felt foreign. I was accustomed to stained glass and pipe organs, gilded saints, silver candelabra, and ceilings covered with naked cherubim. By comparison,
the Buddhist temple felt stark, and there was a sense of waiting.

A man in white kurta pajamas padded through a side entrance, his bare feet softly slapping the stone floor. I realized this was no tourist attraction and said, “Excuse me … I was just going.”

His shaved head shone bronze in the candlelight, his eyes were coffee bean brown, and his skin was like dark honey. He was not handsome, not at all, but his face was likable—his forehead seemed too large, almost bulbous, and his features were compressed into the center of his face. His eyebrows slanted down at the corners, giving him a look of ironic patience. The man put his hands together in an attitude of prayer and said, “It’s quite all right, madam. I’m an interloper myself.”

His British accent caught me off guard. “You’re English?”

“Eurasian. Born in Delhi of an Indian mother and English father who, amazingly, didn’t try to hide me. That would make me a very fortunate Eurasian. I read law at Cambridge.”

I felt excitement rise in my chest like bubbles in champagne. Here was an Indian who might be a bridge between east and west, a source of understanding. I said, “May I ask why you came back to India?” I thought he looked disappointed and hurried to say, “I don’t mean you shouldn’t have.”

He smiled. “Many would wonder why anyone would leave the comforts of Europe. I came with some of my colleagues to assist Gandhi three years ago and rediscovered my mother’s spiritual roots in Ladakh. At the moment I’m attempting a meditative retreat at an ashram, but frankly it’s not going well. I find the silence quite unbearable, and I tend to sneak out every day. I walk around town just to hear the sounds of life, and I end up here.”

“Well, that’s honest.” I offered him my hand. “My name is Evie Mitchell.”

He did not shake my hand, but stepped back, pressing his praying hands firmly to his nose and bowing deeply. Later, I would learn
that while on retreat Buddhist men refrain from physical contact with women. He said, “A pleasure, Mrs. Mitchell. My name is Haripriya, but you can call me Hari.” He looked slyly amused. “Harry, if you like.”

I’d been dithering around trying to understand India for months, and here was an Indian who truly spoke my language. I saw the heavy, opaque door to that inscrutable country swinging open, and I returned Harry’s bow. “Please, call me Evie.” I gestured at Billy, still asleep in his wagon. “This is my son. We were out for a stroll and I saw the temple. I couldn’t resist coming in.”

“I understand. It’s human, don’t you think? To be drawn to places of transcendence.”

“Is that it? Transcendence?”

“I think so.” He chuckled. “Or in my case, escape. We get up so bloody early, every day seems endless.” He shook his head. “I have a long way to go.”

“Well, since we’re being honest, I actually came out today sleuthing for information that’s probably none of my business, but I’ve become intrigued. I’m living in a house where an English lady lived about ninety years ago. I’ve found her letters, and her friend is buried in a graveyard in Masoorla.” I stopped short, amazed to hear myself talk so freely about Felicity and Adela for the first time, and to a stranger. But it felt good. “I believe they were here during the Sepoy Mutiny, and I’d like to know what happened to them. But …” I shrugged. “Ninety years …”

Harry smiled, more with his eyes than his mouth. He said, “In India, ninety years is nothing. The monks at the ashram have records from before the Moghuls. Almost everything that has happened here has been written down somewhere by someone. When did your elusive ladies write their letters?”

Gentle excitement swelled in my chest. “The letters are dated from 1855 to 1856.”

“And their names?”

“Adela Winfield and Felicity Chadwick.”

He nodded, committing the names to memory, then said, “Two young women living alone in the mofussil? That would have been highly unusual. Girls came out to India to find husbands, and if they didn’t succeed in a year they went back home. Poor things were called ‘Returned Empties.’” He shook his head. “But you’ve made me curious. I’ll check our records.”

“Wonderful.”

“Sad to say, you can find me here every day about this time. I’m sure they think I’m in my cell communicating with my inner self. Unfortunately, I’ve discovered that my inner self is rather a bore.”

I laughed. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

Billy stirred and sat up in his wagon. Bleary with sleep, he looked soft and defenseless, his eyelids pink and puffy. Harry and I watched him rub his eyes. I said, “Hi there, sleepyhead.”

“Hi.” Billy looked at Harry, then at me, then back at Harry. He said, “Who the heck are you?”

“Billy, that’s rude.” I turned to Harry apologetically. “He’s only five.”

Harry smiled and bent down with his hands on his knees. “I was just talking to your mother.”

Billy scowled at me. “I thought we’re not supposed to talk to strangers.”

“
You
are not supposed to talk to strangers. This is Harry.”

Harry bent down farther and put his hand out. “Glad to meet you, Billy.”

Billy’s little hand shot out, quick as thought, and he squeezed Harry’s nose between the knuckles of two fingers. He said, “Got’cher nose!” He stuck the tip of his thumb between his fingers and wiggled it, laughing. His cheeks glowed like waxed apples.

“OK, Peach.” I shrugged another apology. “My father taught him that.”

Harry laughed and said, “A child’s mind. How enviable.”

“We should be going. But I’m happy to have met you.” With the awkwardness of a novice, I pressed my palms together, saying, “Namaste.” I hesitated, and then, “I hope to see you again.”

He said, “I’ll see if our records say anything about your English ladies.”

“You’re very kind.” I wheeled the wagon around, and Billy wiggled his thumb. “I still have your nose.” I threw a sheepish grin over my shoulder, and then another question made me turn back. “One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“What do you think about Partition?”

Harry looked at me with a kind of weariness. “I think that when you create borders based on ideology you create a reason to fight. When you live side by side, you create a reason to get along.”

“But we’re safe in Simla, aren’t we? Someone told us we’d be safe here.”

“Perhaps, or perhaps not, but there are many things more important than safety.” Harry’s demeanor of ironic patience deepened. “Anyway, is anyone ever safe?”

1856

F
rom the Journal of Adela Winfield

June 1856

Beyond our little compound, cows wander at will. The roads are full of ox carts & camels & elephants & people, always people. Women collect cow dung from the road & take it home to make cakes of it to dry in the scorching sun for cooking fuel
.

I cannot keep the servants straight. We have at least two dozen, although there are always more in the godowns than we have hired. The extras are the caste-brothers who come by for a daily gossip & whatever bit of patronage might fall their way
.

Ours is considered a small staff. It takes a multitude to accomplish anything because caste & custom complicate the simplest task. For example, a server cannot let the sweeper’s shadow fall on him, & a Hindoo cannot enter the cookhouse or even touch our plates, which are polluted. As foreigners, we are Untouchables. Mohammedans are preferred as servants, as worshippers of one God & people of the book, but I cannot yet tell them apart from Hindoos
.

Our bearer, Khalid, assigns daily chores in the bungalow, but how do they manage all these rules whilst living together in the godowns? Only the syce—the
groom—is on his own, living in the stable with the ponies, & Lalita, who lives in the village & walks to work
.

We have our own cow, which the servants consider even more auspicious than the sandalwood tree. To buy milk from unknown sources is to pay a high price for cholera & a plethora of other diseases, which is absurd since they can easily be had for free. The cowherd, who would disdain to bring water to a horse, is honoured to live within range of the cow’s sacred odour. I have seen our cow wearing a string of blue beads around her horns & contentedly munching hay poached from the pony
.

The cookhouse is separate from the bungalow, & Felicity has gone to great lengths to befriend the cook, Hakim. I wonder whether she is compelled by her memory of food defiled by human ashes or by her democratic inclinations. Felicity took me into the cookhouse to meet Hakim, & I’m afraid I could not disguise my distress at the dirt-floor shack they call a kitchen. There is a shelf of questionable condiments dear to Hakim’s heart, a table for chopping, & a stove precariously constructed from scavenged mud bricks. A hollow in the top was full of glowing charcoals, which Hakim fanned with a palm frond; he has a tin box to serve as an oven. I suggested the possibility of sending to Calcutta, or even to England, for a proper cooker, but Hakim sees no reason to afflict himself with the complicated ways of the foreigner. Felicity, too, is content with this arrangement, which is familiar to her from her childhood
.

But I saw leftovers crusty with mould & milk stored in an old kerosene can. I lifted a kettle & a family of cockroaches scattered in a panic. The day’s market basket sat on the table heaped with cauliflower, beans & potatoes, but a feeble squawk revealed a live pigeon with its wings twisted round one another, snuggling next to a joint of raw mutton. Mohammedan law forbids the killing of pigeons, but encourages the eating of them. The solution appears to be letting the poor creature expire on its own
.