The Karma of Love (Bantam Series No. 14) (11 page)

Sitting in the train she shut her eyes and tried to go to sleep, but she found herself thinking of that night when looking out over the desert, she had spoken of loneliness and Major Meredith had kissed her.

He had done it, she must suppose, mockingly, and yet she could still remember the sense of security his arms had given her.

He had held her again as he carried her up the stairs to the Writing-Room when she had nearly fainted.

Even then she had known the same extraordinary feeling of safety.

I
shall never see him again,’ Orissa told herself. It was just an episode in my life and the sooner I can forget it the better.’

But she could not forget the feelings Major Meredith had evoked in her with his lips.

The train sped on, stopped and started again for two nights and a day until finally they reached Delhi.

The light after the darkness seemed almost blinding and as they drew near the city Orissa had a glimpse of a tall, Gothic spire, memorial to the British dead in the Mutiny on the Ridge.

But she remembered that the city had been for nearly one thousand years one of the great historic capitals of Asia.

She longed to see again the fabulous Red Fort to which she had been taken as a child.

She could recall its red bricks glowing like rubies and how it had been built by Shah Jahan who had designed the Taj Mahal, the most romantic building in the world, in memory of his wife.

He mourned her for thirty-six years after she died, Orissa remembered.

‘I
f only I could be loved like that!’

Then because she knew it would never happen, she forced herself to think about Delhi.

‘I shall be able to explore the whole city while Uncle Henry is here,’ she thought excitedly.

She tidied herself before the train drew into the Station.

Fortunately the muslin dress had creased very little during the journey and she tried to brush away the dust from her dark hair before she put on a small cheap chip-straw bonnet which was the only summer hat she possessed.

The officers’ wives stepped out of the carriage first. There were three tall, bronzed men to meet them, smart and spruce in their uniforms and giving sharp orders to the coolie-boys to collect luggage.

The missionary swept away without a good-bye, and the fat woman who appeared still to be sleepy was met by a Bearer who escorted her away with an officious air which told Orissa that the lady was of more importance than she had suspected.

She stepped out at last onto the platform and looked around her.

The crowds were thick, but
the
First Class carriages were all in one section of the train, and anyone meeting her would know where to wait.

If her Uncle could not come himself she was certain he would send one of his officers.

She waited but no-one spoke to her, except coolies asking if they could carry her luggage.

Finally, because she was afraid
the
train might pull out of the Station, she instructed one to lift her baggage down from the rack.

He put it beside her on the platform and again she waited until at last she realised that once again Charles’s memory had failed:

He must have forgotten to send her Uncle a telegram and now she would arrive unannounced and unexpected.

‘Really, it is too bad of him!’ she murmured to herself.

But she knew that she had really suspected he had forgotten when there had been no-one to greet her at Bombay.

The trouble was that she did not know the name of the Barracks where the Regiment was stationed, having omitted to ask Charles such an important detail.

There were so many soldiers in Delhi and it was quite likely there would be more than one Barracks.

Then she told herself that all she had to do was to find someone British who could tell her where the Chilte
rn
s were stationed.

There were always officers on duty at Railway Stations. It would be easy to obtain such information. There was certainly enough military personnel about.

She could see in the crowds Sikhs from the North with their brilliant turbans, beards and long moustaches, Pathan warriors from the North-West Frontier, the uniforms of the 21st Bengal Native Infantry and the Madras Cavalry.

Each man was distinctive in himself, yet they all fused into a harmonious whole, from the stalwarts of the Rajput states to the Sikhims and Bhutans with a Mongol slant to their eyes, and the exquisitely fragile Dravidians from the South.

Then as Orissa pushed her way towards the railway offices followed by her coolie carrying her baggage, she saw the uniform of the Royal Chilte
rn
s.

It was worn by a Sikh, a magnificent man carrying himself with a pride that was a part of his noble history, his dark beard curling around his chin, his full eyebrows almost meeting across his hooked nose.

Eagerly Orissa went up to him.

“Have you been sent to meet me, Sergeant Major? I am Lady Orissa Fane.”

The Sergeant Major saluted her smartly.

“I’m waiting for a train, Mem-Sahib.”

“Then tell me,” Orissa said, “where in Delhi can I find Colonel Henry Hobart?”

“Colonel not in Delhi, Mem-Sahib.”

“Not in Delhi?” Orissa exclaimed in dismay, “but I am his niece. I have come from England to stay with him.”

“Colonel-Sahib and battalion of the Regiment sent Shuba, Mem-Sahib.”

As if he saw by Orissa’s expression that she did not know where Shuba was, he explained:

“Shuba on the Frontier, Mem-Sahib, beyond Peshawar. Talk of trouble. They left a week ago. I go now join them.”

Orissa stood staring at him in perplexity.

That Uncle Henry should not be in Delhi was something that she had not contemplated for a moment. .

Charles had said that they were to be stationed there for at least two months, and even deducting time spent on her journey from England, that should have given her over a month’s grace.

She wondered desperately what she should do. She knew there must be officers’ wives to whom she could appeal. The Commander-in-Chief, who had a house in Delhi, would obviously advise her where she could stay until her Uncle’s return.

Then she realised how embarrassing it would be to have to explain why she had come to India at a moment’s notice, and without even warning her Uncle of her arrival.

She could imagine the curiosity of the women. She could imagine how hard it would be to explain away the fact that she had travelled without a chaperon. How could she say?

“I pretended to be a married woman.”

And if she told the truth she knew how quickly news travelled in India, and it would be only a question of time before the General and Lady Critchley learnt how she had deceived them.

She felt everything going round in her mind like the jingling music of a hurdy-gurdy.

And then she said to the waiting Sikh:

“Did you say, Sergeant Major, that you were joining my Uncle?”

“Yes, Mem-Sahib, I been ill with denghi fever. Colonel Sahib instruct me join him soon as I better.”

“Then I will come with you,” Orissa said.

“With me. Mem-Sahib?”

“Yes,” Orissa answered firmly. “You will take me to the Colonel, Sergeant Major. He must have left before the telegram arrived to inform him of my coming, otherwise he would doubtless have left someone here to look after me.”

“But, Mem-Sahib
...
”
the Sergeant Major began.

“There is nothing else I can do,” Orissa interrupted, “and I know that t
h
e Colonel would not wish me left alone in Delhi. You can understand that.”

“Yes, indeed, Mem-Sahib, but surely ladies—friends of Colonel-Sahib would look after you?”

“I have to be with my Uncle,” Orissa said firmly. ‘It is very important, you understand, that I should reach him as soon as possible. What time does the train for Shuba leave?”

“In one hour, Mem-Sahib.”

“Very well,” Orissa said, “you will get me a ticket.” She took out her purse as she spoke, then hesitated. She was well aware it would not be cheap to travel to Shuba. It was a long way from Delhi.

“I am travelling Second Class,
Sergeant Major.”

“Second Class, Mem-Sahib?” he queried in surprise. Orissa of course knew that the British gentry travelled First Class in India, usually with a servant’s compartment next door. On some railways a little window finked them through which the Sahib could give his orders.

The Indian gentry travelled Second Class, the British “other ranks,” industrial and commercial men, went Intermediate, whilst squeezed, squashed, levered and pushed into the slatted wooden seats of the Fourth Class compartments travelled the ordinary Indians.

Journeys took a long time and the Sahibs took their own padded quilts and pillows with them, and always their own “tiffin-basket.”

When Orissa had travelled with her father he used to telegraph his requirements ahead, and as the train drew into the Station, out of the shadows would step a man in white carrying food on a tray covered with a napkin.

She could remember fiery curry which even when she was young she had not found too hot, and to wash it down there had been lemonade in the tiffin
-
basket for her and whisky for her father.

Now, Orissa thought, she dared not expend her precious money in case when she reached Shuba she could not afford to go any further.

She was not certain where Shuba was, but doubtless she would have to pay for a carriage on arrival.

“I will travel Second Class,” she said firmly, and handed the Sergeant Major her purse.

She had no hesitation in doing that; for an Indian who had reached the rank of Sergeant Major would be scrupulously honest and would never rob his employers, with the exception of the small bucksheesh to which he was entitled on every purchase.

She then went to the comfortable Ladies Waiting
-
Room where she found it possible to wash herself thoroughly and to rid her hair of the dust that had accumulated on the train from Bombay.

She was quite certain that the dust would be far worse on the Punjab Northern State Railway on which she was to travel now—but at least she would start clean!

When she came back onto the platform, it was to find the Sergeant Major waiting with her ticket, and looking so smart and authoritative that she was glad to have him with her.

She was half afraid that some officious British Railway Officer would enquire where she was going and why she was travelling alone, but when escorted by the Sergeant Major, Orissa knew she would arouse no curiosity.

The train came in on time and once again there was the same confusion, noise and frenzy that had taken place at Bombay.

British passengers in spotless white stalked the platform in a miasma of privilege, followed by convoys of servants and porters with bags and children, bedding and tennis-rackets, polo-sticks and cricket
-
bats.

It was a kaleidoscope of colour with turbans of every hue from pale pink to vermillion, scarlet uniforms, yellow priestly robes, and strangely-hued loin cloths.

Finally the travellers got aboard and once again Orissa found herself a comer seat, but this time the cushions were not so comfortable, there was less space and more people in the compartment.

They were all Indians with the exception of herself.

Opposite her was a pretty little woman expensively be-jewelled whom Orissa judged to be a Parsee.

Indian women always travel wearing their jewellery because they have nowhere to leave it when they are away from home.

The Parsee had flashing ear-rings, a profusion of golden bracelets, a necklace set with rubies and diamonds and several rings on her thin, artistic fingers.

Parsees were easy to distinguish. Followers of the Prophet Zoroaster, they were descendants of the Persians who emigrated to India to avoid religious persecution by the Moslems.

They had as a race grown very rich and mostly lived in Bombay, where the British complained they owned so many grand houses that it was impossible to compete with them!

The Parsee had a great number of suit-cases and as the train started she tried to arrange them more securely on the rack and in doing so stood on the hem of her rose-pink Sari and tore it.

She gave an exclamation of annoyance and Orissa said in Urdu:

“What a pity as your sari is so pretty! Let me mend it for you.”

The Parsee looked at her in surprise. Then as Orissa searched in one of her bags for her sewing materials the whole carriage began to discuss the slight mishap.

It was disgraceful, they said, how badly the coolies put the luggage on the racks; the racks were too high; it was impossible to expect a woman to lift down such heavy objects and anyway the train only catered for men
!

Everybody enjoyed expressing their views, and it was so unlike the austere silence in which Orissa had travelled from Bombay to Delhi with the English ladies.

She skilfully repaired the sari with such fine stitches that it was impossible when she had finished to see where the tear had been.

“You are very gracious,” the Parsee exclaimed.

‘It is nothing,” Orissa smiled, and soon they were all talking.

They talked about their children, their husbands, their difficulties in finding materials and the household appliances they wanted, the heat, the lack of water, their fears and frustrations, travel and every other subject which came into their heads—talking quickly in their sing-song voices.

They sounded like little birds in a cage making music.

Ori
s
sa learnt that the Parsee was the only one who could speak any English.

“I have a shop,” she explained to Orissa. “My customers are mostly rich Indian ladies, but sometimes the English Mem-Sahibs patronise me as well. They buy saris to take home to their friends.”

“We have nothing so beautiful in England,” Orissa said with a smile.

“Your gown is very beautiful,” the Parsee said in obvious sincerity.

“I made it myself,” Orissa explained.

There was a great deal of excitement over this, and the other ladies in the carriage asked her to stand up so that they could admire the bustle and they fingered the material. They paid her compliments. It was all very amusing and feminine.

Orissa had planned to alight at the first stop to buy
some food but the Parsee and the others would not hear of such a thing. They shared curries and chapattis with her, and the other food they had brought with them and Orissa found it delicious.