Page 7 of A Shimla Affair
I nodded, suddenly too shy to say anything more, and turned around as he left. I walked back absentmindedly to my desk, our conversation replaying in my head, still in a daze over our encounter. He had seemed like such a nice man: polite, charming, handsome. I wondered if he was already married and immediately chided myself on the thought. He was English, working for the administration in Shimla. But he had been so sweet, there was magic in his voice, and the way that his eyes danced, always on the lookout for the next exciting thing—
There he was standing again, in front of my desk, almost as if I had summoned him with my thoughts. ‘Oh, Mr Nayler—sorry Charles, I mean—’
‘Would you like to meet me for tea? At Davico’s? In town?’ He asked the questions in a rush, as if afraid that I would take them to be too much.
I tried my best to hide my surprise.
He scratched his head and looked at me uncertainly. ‘Am I being culturally inappropriate? I moved here only some weeks ago, for my service, and while Shimla has a lot going on, I am always with my people. It would be lovely to get to know you, as you are, well you, and also you know Shimla and all the flowers here …’ he added lamely.
I giggled, and had to keep a hand on my mouth so he wouldn’t think me too rude. ‘I don’t know. I would have to get permission from my sister. She’s never really allowed me to go out … with a man.’
He nodded, looking more confident again. ‘Well, at least it means it’s not a no from you.’
I thought about what he had just said. ‘Also, not a yes!’
He laughed, and turned around to leave, his smile bright, ‘The Saturday after next, three in the afternoon? If your sister permits, of course.’
3
Noor was at her wits’ end preparing for the big day. She had finally managed to find a Parsi family whose son had been posited as a suitable match for Afreen. They were residents of Bombay and were fully aware of our family’s past reputation, about our father’s death and how our larger family had ostracized us and had still chosen to consider Afreen as a suitable bride. If they liked her and all went well, Afreen would be married and settled, and Noor’s wish would be fulfilled.
We put our best foot forward, providing his family our most luxurious rooms, serving rich portions of dal baati, gatta curry, moong dal halwa, and even junglee maas with the deer from the woods around Shimla. Afreen played the role of a coy bride, dressed in a pale pink sari, not speaking much, quite unlike her normal self. I dutifully kept my head down as well, watching from the corners, listening to the elders talk, taking in their astonishment when they saw the three of us manage the hotel among ourselves.
The path seemed paved for a smooth engagement. The prospective groom remained mostly quiet, as his father and brothers led the conversation. I glanced often at Afreen,wondering how she managed to hold her tongue. Perhaps she too had finally understood the wisdom in going ahead with the path Noor laid out for her, in accepting what fate had in store rather than fighting the course of destiny. Or maybe she didn’t want to be a further bother to our eldest sister, saddle her with more responsibilities and vexations than she already had.
I too saw Noor’s innocent face, of all that she had given up to take care of us, and felt that the greatest gift we could give her would be to be married and be another’s responsibility. Five years ago, when the ship our father was on sunk on its way to Karachi, British administrators found the perfect opportunity to depict him as a thief, fabricating that he stole community funds for personal gain. They alleged that he had been trying to escape with all the money, but we knew that this couldn’t be further from the truth, as he had given all that he had to fight against British injustice. We hadn’t even known that he was on the ship. He had strict orders to remain in Bombay, arrested as he had been several times.
Our father’s opium business and assets had been seized, allowing our relatives to come at us like vultures and take the spoils. But Noor, widowed for some years and now in charge, negotiated the hotel for us. We were allowed to live there and run it on one condition: that all three of us stay confined to the boundaries of the hotel and the town that contained it, where we could be watched, until we were married and part of another family, and in which case, we wouldn’t be allowed to inherit the hotel anyway. Crossing these boundaries would spell arrest and seizure, losing any bit of stability that they were willing to spare us now. If all three of us were to be married, then the hotel would simply pass on to the government again.
If we had not been bound by the agreement that confined us here, we, too, perhaps might have had suitable matches arranged for us in Bombay, would be welcomed in ourcommunity circles. We heard that women were allowed more outward-facing roles now under the Mahatma, who had opened schools for children. Women were even studying law and pursuing other avenues that until then had only been the preserve of men. If we weren’t branded as daughters of a traitor, we too might have been at the forefront of all the new excitement, of a new fervour that had come up against the British. Yet, now, as I stood here, looking at the eventual fate written out for me with unease, my childhood dreams seemed to slip away from me.
I wondered if Noor was thinking about her own marriage, brutally cut short by a violent bout of tuberculosis that took away her husband’s life in two quick years. Afreen getting married would be the fruit of her labour, especially when everybody around us had wondered how the three of us would possibly get on in life.
Therefore, when the family agreed, and Afreen’s marriage was finally fixed, joy and despair threatened to tear me in half. Joy for our family, who could regain some respect with Afreen being accepted into a reputable family. And despair for myself, as in the course of a few months, my life too would be pushed in the same direction. Only one thing made me uneasy: Afreen’s willing acceptance. Agreeing to everything quietly was so unlike her that I watched her constantly, ready for an outburst or a declaration, which wouldn’t be surprising at all; some months ago, she had told us quite simply, that she would be dedicating her life to Satyagraha, to Bharat.
Thankfully, she mentioned nothing of the sort as long as the groom’s family was here, and, in fact, tolerated all the traditions demurely. So, once they left after three days, with the promise of a quick wedding, we basked in the warmth of a successful alliance. But that is the unfortunate nature of happiness: it’s only so sweet because it is fleeting. Little did we know back then,as we laughed and cried that night with Afreen’s bubble of joy enveloping us all, that our lives were quite suddenly going to be uprooted in the most tumultuous of ways.
I stole some minutes to decide which sari I would wear when I met Charles although I hadn’t asked Noor’s permission yet. Now that we were free once Afreen’s intended in-laws left, I could think about Charles again.
My thoughts repeatedly harked back to the moment he had returned to the hotel and asked me, without wasting a breath, if I would like to have tea with him. I chuckled as I remembered his shock upon seeing me chase away the monkey. He seemed to have liked me for me, even though I had told him I preferred reading Tagore over Shakespeare.
Perhaps … despite our circumstances—I stopped myself from thinking beyond that.
I moved over to Afreen’s cupboard in the room that would soon only belong to me, looking through her saris. I saw a pale blue one with a white border of lotuses, and I thought it might do the trick. Draping it loosely over my body, I was pleased to see that it flattered me, deciding that it would be perfect. As I tried to shut the cupboard drawer again, it felt like it was stuck. I shook it a few times but it seemed like something was definitely caught behind it, making it difficult for me to push it all the way in.
I took the drawer out with some effort and reached in to find the cause of disruption.
It was a gun—a revolver—like the ones I sometimes saw in the hands of policemen, and always only from a distance! The metal felt cold in my hands, and a lot heavier than I had ever expected a gun to be. I examined it more closely near the lantern and, withchagrin, realized that it seemed real enough. I kept my fingers well away from the trigger, not wanting to shoot it by accident, unsure whether it had any bullets.
My heart beat faster as I tried to fathom why my sister had a revolver in her possession. I knew she did mad things sometimes—like spending evenings playing cards with the women of the Lower Bazaar, writing fierce letters to newspapers and magazines protesting their articles and once she had attempted to start her own salt march from the hotel to town until Noor forbade her. But how could Afreen possibly get access to a gun?
I knew I had to find out what Afreen was up to and so I decided to wait for the right moment to ask her. Little did I know then that I would end up waiting too long, unaware that the storm of our undoing was on the horizon, just beginning to show its black clouds.
To my relief, Charles was waiting for me outside Davico’s Tearoom, dressed in a suit, his coat in his arms. If he had already gone in, I wasn’t sure that I would be allowed inside. But with him in the lead, I went in after we had said our greetings.
The beautifully polished hardwood floors welcomed us in and we entered a large tearoom that looked quite like our hotel ballroom: bouquets of holly and white roses garnished the walls and beautiful centrepieces sat next to exquisite brass candlestands on the tables. Glass chandeliers adorned the ceiling, and white and golden drapes covered the windows. A band played at the back, and the sounds of violin and piano filled the room.
Indian waiters in distinct liveries served guests everywhere, carrying trays of delicate teapots, meringues on tiered servingstands and bubbling champagne in elegant, long-stemmed glasses. Silver plates and cutlery furnished the tables. As we were seated, I felt eyes follow my every move. With my dark hair, braided with a single flower resting on top, and a sari trailing behind me, I stood out among the long skirts and gowns, evening hats and white-gloved hands. I was well used to ignoring the looks at the hotel—after all, they were the ones on my territory—but now it felt as though I had trespassed upon something exclusive.
