Page 55 of A Shimla Affair
Despite how the day was about to turn out, I felt lightheaded and free, as if I had been carrying a burden all this while and had finally found release. Standing next to me, Afreen clutched my hand, and its clasp was almost soulful, full of promise. There are not many people in the world who held such power in their hands as we did that morning. And now that power and its burdens were upon us, we hoped to God we did right by it.
To ensure that nothing amiss was noticed, the Summer Jubilee Ball had to be exactly as it had been in the past years. Canopies of white and pale pink roses were nestled in vines and trailing plants all around the hotel to intensify the feeling of summer. The windows were ornamented with beautiful cream drapes, held together by strings,dorisdesigned especially for the Royal Hotel Shimla. Several chairs and footstools were added in the lobby, which was the centre of buzz and activity as the servants, dressed in their best liveries today, hurried about. Even the grimy fireplace had been cleaned up by the valiant efforts of the smallest of servants, who had accessed its innermost niches and removed the ash that was years old.
The ballroom looked the finest of all. The floor had been polished so that it shone merrily. Our most prized paintings and tapestries were uncovered and displayed in their full glory, adorning the walls in a burst of colour. The seven chandeliers gleamed in their glassy brilliance, and at night they would be alight with hundreds of candles. The oil lamps in the corners were ready to cast a hued glow as the night would progress and the room would be decorated by the sparkly dresses of the ladies and the elegant white ties of men. At the back would stand a band composed of violin, harp, clarinet and bassoon players.
‘You understand everything, Khushilalji?’ Noor asked him quietly as chaos took over the premises.
Khushilalji’s wrinkled, aged face boasted a contradictory vitality. He smiled, and I felt a rush of emotion for him, this old man who had spent so much of his life serving in our father’s enterprise, quietly running the show even after our father was gone, accepting our charge with love and respect.
‘Much more than you give me credit for, Sahiba,’ he replied, ‘I knew all along that you are your father’s daughters. One can plan all they like, but the course of our lives has been charted longago. All one can do is embark on one’s path and attend to it with grace.’
I smiled.
‘Remember this moment, Khushilalji,’ Afreen said.
Guruji arrived not long after, as a hired hand for the day, unable to stop himself from hissing instructions when he would pass us by. Khushilalji had told the servants that he was a special butler trained in Calcutta and was here to supervise the ball. Guruji, from his side, emerged a changed man: out of his khadi attire, his turban tied neatly, his beard shaved to its grain, dressed impeccably in the footman’s uniform, wearing clean white gloves. And while he had expressed revulsion at the idea of bowing and serving champagne to the very people that he wanted to remove from the face of the earth, now that the moment of reckoning had arrived, he seemed to be quite in character, eager to play the role to its perfection. He greeted and bowed convincingly and mastered the art of skilfully holding out a tray full of stemmed glasses filled to their brim.
I spent the morning in the ballroom with Noor, dictating instructions: where the servants would go, where the guests would stand, and where the chairs would be placed; how the champagne and wine were to be served when the younger ones wanted to dance wilder and when the band should play faster jazz tunes. The Viceroy’s preferences were relayed to the staff, and only Khushilalji was to serve him. Afreen paid special attention to the dinner, making sure it was prepared to perfection, refusing to come out of the kitchens for anything.
I looked around the ballroom, the ghosts of past dances in front of my eyes, fully aware that soon it would be similarly occupied, with the jingle of jewellery and the soft tapping of feet on wood. I wondered what our father would make of the ball and its preparations, about what we set out to do.
My body alternated between states of action and paralysis as the day went by, until Afreen finally called out to Noor and I. It was time to get ready.
We took out our mother’s saris, the ones she had stitched as a part of her dowry when she married our father. Noor joined us and we took turns pinning the drape on with perfection. Noor wore a pale pink sari that brought out the colour in her cheeks. Afreen chose a deeper blue one, looking fiercely beautiful and uncaring. I, on the other hand, wore a brilliant red; so bright I could have been a Hindu bride.
We sat together and said a little prayer, holding on to our farohar pendants, knowing that we needed all the strength and luck we could get on this day.
‘I’m going to get the maid to do my hair one more time, I don’t like it,’ Afreen said.
‘Again?’ I was annoyed because I had just spent fifteen minutes braiding flowers into her hair, exactly the way Afreen wanted it.
Noor reached over and flicked Afreen’s hair. ‘The secret to a good day is beautiful hair. Did your mother never teach you that?’
I must have looked weak, for Afreen kept her hand on mine, and said fervently and honestly, as she always did, ‘Some quests are worth it. Even if they are bound to fail.’
If courage in the face of odds was not enough to shake a nation, I didn’t know what would be.
The wooden floor tapped and creaked melodiously under our feet as we went back and forth between the foyer and theballroom. It smelt of polished wood, of freshly lit candles, of flowers and perfumed dresses—it smelt of hope and fortune and prayer. The glass chandeliers were lit up, gleaming crystal flutes were laid out on silver trays, and footmen in liveried uniforms stood smart and ready to serve. A long, red carpet had been rolled out from the foyer steps to the main gates, right outside where the carriages would stop.
The guests began arriving. Khushilalji stood at the main door, welcoming and bowing, taking coats and scarves as they slid smoothly off their backs. Most of them wore stylish backless and strapless gowns, dressed up for one of the more exciting Shimla evenings. Balls, after all, were one of the best places for dalliances, and even proposals. Men accompanied in their white waistcoats and bowties, their hands in their pockets as their tailcoats trailed them, looking around the hotel.
More guests arrived and I ticked off the names of the more prominent ones with ease: Sir James Harris and the Baron of Cheshire were already here, their laughing voices booming across the room. A little way off was Sir Philip Ramsden, a captain in the Royal Navy. He had a sharp look, and I made a note to keep an eye on him. Lord Richard Gaunt and Lord John Biggs, looking similarly excited for an evening of merrymaking.
We waited by the door, and I greeted everyone, trying not to let my nervousness show, folding my hands and smiling a lot. Noor would be the one to talk, and there, in the background, I tried to quieten my frazzled mind. At times, my heart thudded so fast I wondered if they could see it through my sari! A ball like this one was an intimidating event in the best of times, but this evening was supposed to change the course of Indian history.
When I caught sight of the door next, the world around me came to a standstill. Between the low hum of the music, the frills of elegant dresses, the traces of perfume that lingered in the air, the obvious menace that hung above us and the promise ofan eventful night, walked in Charles. Standing tall in his dinner jacket, his hair swept back, Eliza May on his arm. Our eyes met.
My heart stopped as I watched him walk towards us, and this time I was in no doubt that his eyes were only for me, and in them was everything that I had hoped for and feared: love and mistrust and a cold determination that refused to look away. He had come to keep an eye on me, on us. He suspected something would happen, and instead of betraying us, he decided he would come and stop it.
I had to blink several times to push back the tears that rose to my eyes. That foolish, foolish man.
Although I stopped myself from shaking before he reached us, I knew that Charles could see it: there wasn’t much I could hide from him any more, once he had touched me and known me. The memories of that night came rushing to me, and I pushed away the other thoughts that accompanied it, for I could hardly afford to break down right now.
Charles greeted my sisters and Ratan Babu, keeping his eyes averted from mine. But when he finally approached me, it was everything I could do to not fling my arms around him.
‘How do you do, Miss Mistry?’ he asked, his voice polite, reassuring.
I looked up at him, but now that he was so close, I couldn’t get past this mask that he had put on. So intent was I on reading his face that I greeted him and completely forgot Eliza beside him, until Afreen nudged me and I coughed out a hasty wish.
