Passion & Profession: Chapter 13
In which the Rev. St. John falls back upon the Crutch of Labour, takes his Final Stroll through Calcutta, meets a Charming Companion at a Kite Festival, and ponders the Nature of Providence.
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Realising one's own failings is always a painful activity; seeing them in the harsh light of the mid-day sun, having the leisure to sift through them methodically, and discovering the many ways in which they have caused unhappiness to one's own self and, far worse, to the people who are closest and most dear-that is not an easy way to spend an afternoon, let alone a month. Abruptly having all one's days and nights free, without the distraction of a dinner companion, the gaiety of a social occasion, or a single friend to give consolation and a listening ear-that is an even harder way to spend a month. The combination of these two misfortunes is a thing of singular misery. Some afternoons St. John could hardly bear it.
He took meals alone in his room at the hotel, eating in silence whilst he scanned texts or essays. He walked through the city, dreading and hoping to encounter Cpt. Aquilaine, if only for a single minute; dreading having to hear more harsh words, or-harder yet-hearing nothing but silence and a cold stare, hoping for a glimpse of his form and his smile and the shape of his hands. In the evening, when Evensong prayers had finished, he retired to a bed that now seemed far too large for one body. He slept fitfully, aching need without release; he woke to another empty morning of study, prayer, and self-recrimination. Entire days passed in which he never spoke a word, nor heard any spoken to him.
He recited his prayers, attended church, and read the day's verses dutifully, but without a single ounce of passion or devotion. It worried him, how little he actually spoke to God now. A mere twelve months prior, he had spent every night before bed on his knees, eager to pray and listen, full of respectful worship towards his Maker. If he had never quite loved the Lord, he had at least felt awe and respect; now he uttered only rote prayers, afraid to search out his true emotions. For St. John suspected, in his heart of hearts, that he carried about nothing but anger and hatred towards the God he served. Was it not the Maker Himself who had created him and cursed him with these terrible urges? And that same God promised never to burden men with more than they could bear. This shamed him as much as his hateful emotions; he should have been able to bear it-according to scripture, he was able to bear it-and yet he could not. He had not. One more defeat in an endless string of failures.
His dreams had stopped; thank the Lord for small mercies.
Finally he grasped in full what it meant to have happiness, to fall asleep looking forward to the next day. And now, each morning, his sorrows returned anew and taunted him with what could have been, what others could have but not him, never him. He wished to forget but knew he would not. His future stretched out into the distance and he shrank from it, shrank from a lifetime of past gladness mocking a dreary present. Likely he would hide behind duty and toil until all parts capable of feeling had withered. Others who saw his labours might say “there goes a true servant of God,” and feel dismayed that they could not dedicate themselves so fully as he did. But his dedication would be a sham.
It was if he were a slave, owned by some cruel foreign master, destined to remember with each passing minute what it had been like to be free, and to taste again and again the bitterness of that loss. How much better to have been born into servitude, to always wonder about the joys of freedom and never know!
Perhaps most cruelly of all, his needful flesh still did not understand that the affaire de coeur-which had awoken hitherto-undiscovered possibilities, which had given it sensation, awareness, and vitality-was done forever. His heart knew in full. His body, however, still roused itself every evening after dinner, impatiently demanding what did not come. St. John slept on his stomach, took cold water baths morning and evening, and sometimes woke in the middle of the night with a start, lying on his back and hands clutching the bed sheets as his hips thrust helplessly up into the coverlet. When that happened he would sit at his desk, swollen and sore, trying to focus on Hebrew tenses or trigonometry or the history of the Anglican Communion until such time as he could sleep. He never took himself in hand; the piercing joy of having someone else do so turned his feeble attempts into a mockery of pleasure.
Some days he felt he could not endure it for even one more hour, that if he did not soon feel the Captain's hands rubbing his back and soothing his weary mind, he would go altogether mad. But since he never went mad, St. John was forced to resort to what he always did best, what he could honestly claim was one of his very few virtues: he worked. Exacting, consuming, unceasing work could not make up for his multitude of sins, but it filled the time and gave a certain consolation. Whatever life and Providence brought, he would always have work.
He spoke to the Abolition Society and gave his regrets that he could not stay in town. For that he earnt a rare moment of genuine pleasure, to find that those regrets were mutual. Several of the members, both men and women, possessed a spirit so alike to his own that he realised-had time and circumstance been different, and had he ever managed to think less of himself and more of those around him-that they might have become friends. Even those whose religions had strayed so far from the Truth, particularly the Unitarians and Quakers, had a zeal for justice and a drive to see it carried out. The head of the Society, Lady Montague, gave him a bound copy of William Wilberforce's essays as a farewell gift.
He penned an anonymous pamphlet concerning the cruel sufferings of those natives enslaved by seemingly upright British citizens. Lady Montague published it with her own funds, and the Abolition Society circulated it amongst the Temperance Society, the Evangelical Missionary's Fund, and the Quaker Meeting Houses. His argument, written as a general critique and not directed at any specific person, lambasted a fictional Col. F-, who enjoyed close ties to the current governing administration, who had ensconced himself in an estate of corrupt oriental decadence only a few short leagues from Calcutta, who had a propensity for big game hunting, and who was rumoured to visit certain dens of vice whenever he came to town. St. John closed his pamphlet with a choice Latin phrase: Semper sub rosa et soli Deo gloria.
The work eased his sorrows to an extent, but no amount of effort could drive away the sound of Cpt. Aquilaine's voice, still ringing in his ears: you are a cold and unrelenting man. You have no room for mercy or forgiveness. He twisted inside, hot and humiliated, every time he recalled that accusation, which was unfortunately rather often. The Captain had also pointed out, quite correctly, that St. John concealed his own flaws by inflicting scorn on those who surrounded him, and made them suffer for his own weaknesses. He was forced to admit the truth in all this, even as the shame ruined his sleep and turned the food in his mouth to ash.
In particular, he could not cease thinking of his sisters and their return home after Jane had given them each a portion of her inheritance, the very money that allowed him to live so comfortably in Calcutta. It should have been a happy time; it nearly was. How he had looked forward to seeing them again! And when they at last opened the door, as he stood awkwardly and clutched at his pockets, not knowing how to move the words past his frozen tongue, they had beamed with joy and reached out their arms to hug-Jane. And laughed and smiled and embraced whilst he stood with his back to the wall, watching, finally understanding the vast difference between being loved and being liked. Eventually he made himself useful by carrying in their luggage. Later that afternoon, when he was in the kitchen trying futilely to make the wood stove draw properly, Mary had come to ask about tea and he had been short with her, wanting to say I have missed you so dearly-did you not miss me at all?, but instead he criticised her new gloves with the beaded wristlets, the finest pair she had ever owned. He lectured about vanity and Mammon until her face fell and she admitted to have spent too much money on something so worldly. She gave them away the following week, a wedding gift to a friend in the parish.
He would give anything to take back those words.
One day during breakfast, whilst idly scanning the semi-weekly broadsheet Calcutta Advertiser, St. John spotted an advertisement.
Final Notice: Kite Festival Today (5th of September)
located at Maidan Park
sponsored by the Tipu Sultan Shahi Mosque
It promised kite fighting competitions, demonstrations of scientific experiments conducted with kites, and exotic kite styles from as far away as Peking and Canton. His spirit leapt a little as he promptly thought How interesting that sounds. I would enjoy seeing it. I shall tell Marcus and enquire as to whether he would also like to go, and we could make a day of it and drink lassi and … O Lord, what am I doing? He realised what he had thought, and the misery and loneliness of his situation tumbled down about his ears once more. It had felt so natural, so comfortable being with Cpt. Aquilaine that one stubborn piece of his heart still-after a full month-refused to acknowledge their sad rupture.
It was intolerable. In less than a week he would step onto the Bonny Charles, kedge his way back down the Ganges and make for Hill Tippera. In the mean time, would he spend his last few days wandering the city, his throat leaping and stomach twisting every time he spotted a shako or a red coat?
No, I will not stew in this misery of my own making a second longer. I will shew a better sense of fortitude than I have this past month.
He finished breakfast, left his room at the Victoria Hotel-so similar to his quarters at the Officer's Club, which were in turn so similar to every place he had ever lived, small and dark and plain-and walk up to Maidan Park to see one last bit of the joys Calcutta had to offer.
He could see the kites from a far distance off, one colourful, billowing mass hovering over the southern end of the city. They shimmered against a sky scrubbed clean by a fortnight of monsoon. As he walked along the streets he could hear the age-old debate taking place about him: which God blessed the city's inhabitants with the day's fine weather? Moslems were arguing for Allah with some merit: they had all prayed the previous day, and their mosque was sponsoring the festival. Christians responded that the Lord had merely improved the roads on Saturday to encourage Sabbath attendance on the morrow. The Hindus were silent on the matter; they always enjoyed a good festival, no matter the cause or the god. Privately St. John thought the Moslems argument had the upper hand.
Maidan Park was far busier than when he had visited with Cpt. Aquilaine, a bustling horde of Moslems and Hindus and Christians, Indians and English, Chinese and Africans, Jews and Jains and Sikhs; he thought the people quite as interesting as the kites. And the kites themselves were beautiful, dazzling, their hues and shapes and movements making him almost giddy. The festival proved nearly enough to distance himself from his own unhappiness. He strolled back and forth, admiring the scientific displays-they promised to soon discover the prime mechanism behind all weather patterns-and wondering at the kites from China, fire-breathing dragons that danced and twisted their way through the sky. He became engrossed in the kite fighting, as boys on a raised platform battled for supremacy whilst the men below huzzahed the winners and consoled the tearful losers.
Finally feeling overheated, the Reverend drank a lassi at the same stand from which the Captain had purchased him one just over a month ago. It was as cooling and tart as the first one, and he felt momentarily glad to have that fond memory, if nothing else. Perhaps one day the emotions would fade enough, lose their sharp edge, and he could look back and smile at the brief joys he had discovered. Inspired, and carrying about a lighter heart than he had possessed in weeks, he strolled again under the Umbrella pines, past the statues of the Governors-General and the fields where the Indian school boys were wont to play cricket. He sat by a fountain, taking in the sights and remembering his last visit to the Park, when he and Cpt. Aquilaine had sat and talked of the future and the past, their hidden sorrows and-he understood it now, far too late-their love.
What did I say to him that day? Some fine words about how the future is in the Lord's hands, and we mortals must have faith that all happens as God intends. I proved correct, but not in a way either of us would have chosen, I think.
The recollection proved too painful. He stood and moved on, walking into the crowds, hoping the sheer volume of people around him would drive it from his mind.
Only one small detail of the festival stood out as odd-he could spot hardly a single woman. Perhaps it was the mosque's sponsorship that had frightened them off. The occasional British lady glided past, fanning herself under a parasol. But he did not see a single Indian woman, not even one of the lower-caste women who were forced to work for a living whilst their more privileged middle- and upper-caste counterparts remained in purdah. No Moslema wandered the crowd, but then he had not expected to see one; they appeared in public even less than Indian women. It was if he stood in the centre of a roiling sea of men and boys and kites. And one small girl, alone and crying.
He looked more closely; the girl wore a yellow shalwar kameez embroidered with blue flowers, but the fabric of the shalwar was torn on one leg and shewed a smear of blood, as if she had stumbled and cut her knee. Her skin was fair for an Indian, thick black hair spilt out of her braid and she wore small gold-hoop earrings and glass bead bracelets, but no shoes. Someone will step on her toes if they are not careful. Where is her mother? He did not see any adults paying special attention to her, and she continued to cry and rub at her knee. With a sigh, St. John jostled his way over to her.
When he crouched down next to her, placing himself at eye level, she gave him a watery glare; tears had left dusty smudges down her cheeks and her eyelashes stuck together in starry points.
“Ōhē, śiśu. Yēkhānē āpanāra pitāmātā?”
She simply sniffed loudly and wiped at her nose with the back of her hand.
“Āpani ki byāthā?”
“Abaśya hyām̐, āmi! Āmi hinsra ēbaṁ āmāra hām̐ṭu kāṭā ēbaṁ bartamānē āmāra hām̐ṭu byāthā karē.”
St. John sat back on his heels in surprise; he had not expected her to be so bold. Most Indian parents also held by the tenet that children were to be seen and not heard. She continued glaring at him, so he replied, lamely “Ēkhānē, āmākē sāhāyya.” He led her to a nearby fountain, washed off her face and knee and then bound up her leg with his handkerchief. “Ēṭā ki bhāla?”
“Ēkhanō byāthā karē!” she wailed.
The Reverend did not have the first idea of how to deal with small children and looked around frantically for a parent. Seeing none, he plunged ahead. “Āpani nārakēlēra ēkaṭi ṭukarā cāna?”
The girl brightened immediately, tears vanishing as she smiled up at him. “Hyām̐ āmi!” She paused, looked thoughtful for a moment, and then added, “Daẏā karē!”
St. John glanced around again; surely someone would claim her? But no one seemed to be searching, so he asked again, “Āpani yēkhānē āpanāra pitāmātā haẏa jānēna?”
She shrugged.
“Āpani hāriẏēchēna?”
Tears welled in her eyes once more and she nodded sadly, bottom lip trembling. “Āmi manē kari āmi. Āmāra bābā ēbaṁ khum̐jē nā āmāra dupatta hāriẏē āmāra shalwar ardhabr̥ttākāra pārśbacitrēra mūrti ēbaṁ māmā ki āmāra sāthē rāga yābē!”
“Nā, nā, a'i, krandita ābāra nā śuru. Anugraha karē.” He held up his hands helplessly, wishing he had a second handkerchief for her cheeks.
She scrubbed at her eyes with a grimy fist and gave him a calculated look. “Āpani āmākē nārakēla ēkhana kinatē yāba?”
Lord save me, I will never understand children. “Hyām̐, abaśya'i. Āmarā āpanākē kichu saṭhika bartamānē ha'ibē.”
So he took her hand and led her to a wagon where a native split coconuts with a machete, selling the chunks for two pies apiece. Whilst they waited St. John said, “Āmāra nāma Rev. Rivers. Āmi āpanāra pitāmātā pētē sāhāyya karabē. Āpanāra nāma ki?”
She turned unexpectedly shy and stared at her bare brown feet.
He took a deep breath and prayed that a nursemaid would emerge from the crowds, scolding her young charge. Nobody came to his rescue, so he made attempt with a different approach.
“Jānēna āpanāra māmā āpani ēkhānē ānā āja, mēẏē?”
She shook her head.
“Jānēna āpanāra nārsa āpanāra āsā?”
She shook her head again.
“Sutarāṁ āpani āpanāra bābā saṅgē āsēna, tārapara?”
She nodded and wiggled her toes.
They reached the front of the line, and the girl picked out the largest piece of coconut with a crafty smile. St. John frowned a little; he did not feel he had a good grasp on the situation. As he led her away, she exclaimed, “Nārakēla jan'ya āpanākē dhan'yabāda! Āmi nārakēla bhālabāsā ēbaṁ āmi itimadhyē tina ṭukarā ate āja!”
“Ōha priẏa. Āpani itimadhyē tina ṭukarā chila?” She just grinned at him, milky sweet water dribbling down her chin. Temporarily defeated, he sat on a corner of a nearby bench and asked, “Āmākē āpanāra nāma balatē pārabēna? Ēṭā āpanāra bābā yadi āmi āpanāra nāma jāni pētē sahaja habē.”
The coconut had done the trick, apparently. “Āmāra nāma Muniya.”
“Ēṭā āpanāra dēkhā bhālō, Muniya. Āpanāra bābā nāma ki?”
She just gave him a wide-eyed shrug. “Bābā?” she guessed; St. John groaned a little.
“Ki āpanāra bābā ha'ōẏā? Tini pātalā? Mēda? Ki tini dāṛi āchē? Tini … lambā?”
“Hyām̐, khuba'i um̐cā! Daśa phuṭa lambā, āmi manē kari.”
“Daśa phuṭa!” he exclaimed. He was beginning to enjoy the ridiculous situation. “Ēṭā khuba um̐cu. Tini sahajē'i khum̐jē pā'ōẏā yāẏa, kōna sandēha kara.”
“Āmi daśa thēkē inrēji gaṇanā pārēna, āpani śunatē cāna?” Without waiting for an answer she handed him the sticky coconut and held up her fingers as a reference, ticking them off as she went. “One, two, three, four, five, six …” she paused, gave the Reverend a long, worried glance, and then pushed on confidently, “… seven, six, seven, ten!”
St. John actually laughed as he handed her back the coconut. “Ēṭā khuba bhāla! Āpani manē prāẏa saba tādēra.”
“Āmāra bābā āmākē śikhiẏēchilēna.”
“Jānēna tini an'ya kōna inrēji paṛāna?”
“Ōha hyām̐, anēka. Please, Thank you, Yes, No, My name is Muniya and I am 4 years old, Hello, Goodbye, Goddamn it.”
St. John looked aghast. “Tini āpanākē śikhiẏēchilēna yē?”
She giggled. “Nā, tini nā. Kintu tini ēṭā pracura Māmā pāẏa tākē ē kṣipta yakhana tini tā'i, nā āmi ēṭā manē.”
He decided against responding, instead scanning the crowds for any panicked looking man. Certainly he hoped that her father would be in a state of concern over a lost daughter. But the Reverend saw only men and boys, cheerfully colliding and stepping on each other as they milled around, heads tilted back towards the sky. It was dawning on him how difficult the task might be.
“Āpanāra bābā ēkajana musalima? Ki tini āllāha ḍākā?”
She stared at St. John as if he were speaking French.
“Ki tini ḍākā, a'i-” he wracked his brain for a Hindu god- “nā tini Gaṇēśa ḍākā?”
“Nā, kintu Gaṇēśa thēkē Māmā ḍākā prati sakālē. Āmarā ēkaṭi Gaṇēśa jan'ya kamalā phāli chēṛē ēṭā tōlē tākē ānandita, ēbaṁ āmarā dina ēbaṁ Māmā balēchēna ēṭā tōlē aditi khuśi śēṣē dhūpa ēbaṁ pōṛā tārā saubhāgya āmādēra dēbē.”
St. John pursed his lips together tightly; there was no point in becoming impatient with a small, lost girl. Jane, how did you ever manage? How were you such a capable governess and school mistress? What is the secret to interacting with children? And why did I never speak with you about it?
“Ki āpanāra yē mānuṣēra mata saba bābā cēhārā?” He pointed to a fashionable Moslem man nearby, sporting a trimmed beard, fez, and western-style suit that would not have been out of place in Piccadilly.
“Nā, abaśya'i nā Bābā ēkaṭi inrēji!” she said proudly. “Ēṭā kēna sē śēkhāẏa āmākē inrēji.”
At this his eyes lit up; that made the task far easier. “Abaśya'i! Āmi bujhalāma yē ucita. Ēṭā kēna āpani ēta pariṣkāra, bhāla.”
“Māmā balēchēna tini khuba andhakāra, ēbaṁ yē tāra kadarya, kintu āmi camatkāra kāraṇa āmāra cāmaṛā phyākāśē haẏa ēbaṁ saba puruṣa āmāra mata habē.”
He coughed to cover his disquiet. What a terrible thing that is to teach a child. “Ki āpanāra māmā yē Iśbarēra bhitarē ē dēkhāẏa balabēna nā, āpanāra hr̥daẏa pariṣkāra dēkhatē? Tini āpanāra tbaka raṁ samparkē ki yatna nā.”
Muniya shrugged. “Tini balachēna āmarā camatkāra tā'i ārō puruṣadēra dēkhāra habē habē.”
“Ki āpanāra bābā yē puruṣadēra dēkhāra jan'ya āsē jānēna?” He should not have enquired into what was clearly a domestic situation, but could not help himself as shock piled upon shock.
“Abaśya'i! Āmarā ēkaṭā pānthanibāsa bāsa, ēbaṁ puruṣa sabasamaẏa haẏa dēkhāra jan'ya āsēna, ēbaṁ Bābā āsē prati ēkaka saptāha, śudhu āmākē dēkhatē.”
St. John groaned internally; the situation was rapidly becoming both clearer and more difficult. If her mother was a prostitute and her father a regular client, then-given the looser morality of the colonies-she had just described half the British men in India. He wracked his brain for what identifying features might stand out to a four-year-old. “Kichu āchē āpanāra bābā samparkē biśēṣa? Ki tini ēkaṭi majāra ṭupi paridhāna? Jāhāja bā pāla? Ki tini … kukura āchē?”
She laughed and clapped her sticky hands together. “Āmi icchuka tini ēkaṭi kukura chila! Āmi kukura prēma. Māmā balachēna āmi ēkaṭā kukura kāraṇa tārā gandha thākatē pārē nā.”
“Hyām̐, kintu … apanāra bābā, ēkhana. Ki tini biśēṣa kichu āchē? Kōna saba?”
She paused and screwed up her small face, clearly thinking hard. “Tini lāṭhi yē tini saṅgē sārā pēśā kāraṇa sabasamaẏa tāra khura tākē byāthā karē haẏēchē. Ēṭā biśēṣa?”
St. John's stomach dropped into his knees; he would scarcely have been more shocked if he had stumbled upon his sisters in the crowd. But it could all be coincidence, of course. Stupid, cruel coincidence. “Muniya, yā prakr̥tapakṣē adhikānśa biśēṣa! Āmākē āra'ō baluna; āmākē āpanāra bābā samparkē sabakichu baluna yātē āmarā tākē pētē pāri. Tini ēkaṭi sainika? Ki āpanāra mā kakhanō tākē 'Kyāpṭēna' kala?”
“Hyām̐ sē ki! Ēbaṁ tini ēkaṭi lāla kōṭa karēchēna, ēbaṁ diẏēchē āmāra janmadinēra jan'ya Mynah pākhi āmāra kāraṇa āmāra nāmēra artha 'sāmān'ya pākhi' ēbaṁ tini sigāra dhūmapāna, ēbaṁ Māmā pāẏa tākē ē rāga kāraṇa tārā gandha khārāpa ēkaṭi kukura nā, ēbaṁ tini parēna ēṭi ēkaṭi pālaka saṅgē lambā ṭupi. Ooh-yē ghuṛi tākānaē !” She pointed up at a brilliantly green, dancing Chinese dragon.
“O Christ, I am the biggest fool in Calcutta,” St. John muttered, as the realisation crashed down about him. “Of course he would be far too honourable to visit a prostitute whilst he and I were intimates. But little wonder he hit me; I intimated that you were a whore.”
Muniya smiled brightly at him. “Āpani ki śabda ēkaṭi Mynah pākhi tōlē jānēna? Ē'i mata yāẏa: breek breek breek fiiiiw.” She finished off her bird call with a little whistling noise, then started giggling for no reason the Reverend could discern.
He stood and took her by the hand so she would not vanish in the crowds, and she smiled up at him. St. John could have cursed himself for not seeing the resemblance earlier. She had her father's eyes, and his mischievous sidelong glance that, with the Captain, had always meant trouble of a sort.
“Ki jāni Bābā ēkaṭi sainika? Tini kēna bandhu? Āpani tākē jānēna?”
The image of Cpt. Aquilaine lying on top of him, gasping and spending between his thighs, floated through the Reverend's mind. He forced himself into a false, cheery smile. “Āsā, Muniya, ēbāra yāna āpani ānā phirē tākē.”
As they walked, his young companion indeed proved her worth as a conversationalist. Muniya told him about each and every kite she had seen that day, all the treats she had eaten at the festival-four pieces of coconut, two sweet lassis, an entire packet of pistachios and a piece of naan smeared with honey-and the reason for her separation from her father. Whilst they had stopped to rest he had got into a conversation with another army man. She was uncertain as to the details of the discussion, only that Baba was “yā'ōẏā ēkaṭi dīrgha samaẏēra jan'ya kōthā'ō dūrē, antata ēkaṭi māsa”, and he and the other man were talking about it. She found it tedious, naturally, and began to wish for yet another lassi, so she left hoping to find the stand on her own. Finally he teased out of her where Cpt. Aquilaine had been sitting when she wandered off-“Āmarā yud'dha ghuṛi chila paryabēkṣaka”- and he led her in that direction, mind swimming with the thought of how panicked the Captain must be.
When they reached the platform where the boys fought with kites, St. John stood on a bench to better see over the crowds, searching for a shako that dipped to the left. He saw nothing. Finally they began to search the pathways, looking and listening. Muniya fell silent and began to drag her feet; upon questioning, she admitted that she missed her father. They walked on.
After an eternity of searching-which St. John suspected must have felt far longer to the doting Captain-he heard, over the noise of the crowd, a faint but familiar voice. “Maina! Maina! Kōthāẏa āpani?”
Muniya heard it too and began to exclaim, “Tini nē'i! Āmi śunatē pārēna!” The Reverend had to grip her hand tightly so she would not slip away once more. They approached, the voice got louder, and St. John's stomach went tight with nerves as he wondered for the first time what, if anything, he would say to Cpt. Aquilaine. Perhaps the Captain would simply look past him, cut him out, and he would have to make an awkward exit. Perhaps the Captain would blame him for Muniya's disappearance. Perhaps-
With a sudden jerk Muniya pulled her hand out of his and ran forward, shrieking “Bābā! Bābā!” St. John could only watch, frozen, as Cpt. Aquilaine emerged from behind a Sikh and dropped to one knee to pull her into his arms. He turned, then, feeling he should give a measure of privacy to the clearly heartfelt reunion, as Muniya wept and laughed and clung to the Captain's neck, whilst the Captain scolded and kissed and hugged and kissed and scolded.
He decided it was time to leave when he heard Cpt. Aquilaine say, “Ki ēkhānē? Āpani kōthāẏa ni? Maina, āpanāra haẏēchē?” He did not want to interfere, did not wish to distract, and realised his presence would only diminish what should have been a joyful moment. But Muniya immediately piped up “Āpanāra bandhu āmākē ēnēchilēna!” and pointed at him. Cpt. Aquilaine followed the direction of her finger and St. John had to swallow in anxiety as he watched the Captain's face shift between shock, and confusion, and anger, and … something else; he could not discern what.
He tried to flee; his feet were rooted to the ground. Cpt. Aquilaine stood clumsily and advanced, and St. John flinched unconsciously, remembering how he had been hit. But the Captain merely held out his hand. St. John took it, unthinkingly, but had to glance away as his fingers were crushed in the soldier's grip.
“Reverend, I cannot believe it-you have brought her back! I am so grateful, more than you know. You cannot understand how worried I have been this past hour.” His eyes were damp.
“I'm certain anyone would have done the same under the circumstances.” St. John stared at the hand, still surrounding his. They both realised the handshake was lingering, and pulled their arms back too quickly. A silence fell between them, hardly interrupted even by Muniya's insistence that her papa pick her up and carry her, because her leg hurt, until the Captain tardily looked down at her and noticed that yes, indeed, her knee had been cut. He asked regarding the circumstances and she told him at great length, during which he glanced at the handkerchief, turned to St. John and mouthed a simple Thank you. St. John just gave a small shrug.
Then he felt he must either say more or go, and he did not particularly want to leave. He knew it was hopeless, but even after a full month apart he felt unaccountably better simply having touched Cpt. Aquilaine's hand. So he said, “I wish you had told me, Captain.”
“A significant part of me wishes I had as well, truth be told. You are so good with words, perhaps you could have convinced me to set aside my shame.” He sighed a little and rubbed his injured thigh, tipping his head towards a nearby bench that was being vacated. “Shall we sit a moment? My leg is quite worn out from the day.” So they sat, making very certain not to brush against one another, whilst Muniya scrambled around, overexcited by the chaos of the day and too many sweets. When she asked for another coconut the Reverend confessed that he had purchased her one.
“I cannot be surprised by that; she has a terrifically sweet tooth, and she is very convincing when she asks. But thank you for telling me. I shall endeavour not to buy her another this afternoon.” Muniya, clearly skilled at sensing weaknesses, continued to ask until St. John was filled with an idea. He bent down to speak to her.
“Ēkaṭi cuna khētē cāna? Tārā khuba'i bhāla, ēbaṁ London sabacēẏē kētādurasta mahilā manē karēna tārā saba krōdha, āmi balā yāẏa.” She nodded yes, temporarily shy once more-but it would pass quickly-so he stood and left to find a fruit peddler. When he eventually returned the Captain had her on his lap and was pointing out kites to her, whilst she stared open-mouthed up at the sky. St. John suspected he would make a wretched father, for all the many reasons Cpt. Aquilaine had stated at their last meeting-too overbearing, too judgemental, too lofty, too impatient-but it did not stop him from thinking that perhaps a child might have softened some of the sterner, harsher edges of his character. Alas, one more realisation come far too late to the Rev. Rivers.
He sat, the Captain offered him a pocket knife, and he carved the lime into 6 green wedges. Muniya squealed and puckered her lips at first, glaring at St. John as if he had played a trick on her. He gave an exaggerated shrug in return and said “Sambhabata ēṭā kichu śudhumātra atyanta sūkṣma mahilā bhōga karabē?” She lifted her chin at that small challenge to her femininity and promptly ate the entire wedge right down to the peel, crinkling up her eyes as she did. Then she demanded another. They all shared the lime until it had been vanquished-the finally tally was 1 piece to the Reverend, 1 to Cpt. Aquilaine, 3 to Muniya and 1 to the dirt, upon which she accidentally dropped her piece number 4-and then Muniya left to splash in a nearby fountain whilst Cpt. Aquilaine kept a very close eye on her.
Finally St. John could stem the tide of questions welling up within. “Did you think I would condemn you for having a child? Or was it because of who her mother is? Are you married to her mother? Is that it? Or … why?”
Cpt. Aquilaine laughed. “Good God, St. John, I am not as dishonourable as that!”
“No, I did not mean to imply-”
“I am not suggesting that you did! I only meant that if I had a wife, I would have been faithful to her. Men may have a little fun before they marry, but afterwards they had best behave themselves. Is that not why women tend to come with fathers and brothers and cousins?” He settled back to talk, and St. John did not dissuade him. “No, I met Harjinder shortly after I came to Calcutta. What can I say? I fell in love almost instantly, or at least I thought I did, and she seemed pleased to receive my affections. So I-ah, you will not like this part-I, that is, rented her exclusive services for some time. Set her up in the little room you saw, the one she still lives in. And before long she found herself in a certain condition, and that was that!”
St. John frowned a little at this narrative, but stopped his mouth before the inevitable question passed his lips. Nevertheless, the Captain's tone took on a dangerous undercurrent. “And if you dare suggest that she is not my child, I swear I will strike you again.”
“I would never question her patrimony,” St. John answered hastily. “You have named her and provided for her; that makes a good a claim to fatherhood as any. Besides which, the resemblance could not be clearer. She has your eyes, and your quick laughter.”
Cpt. Aquilaine brightened so greatly at the compliment that the Reverend realised he had found another private spot. “Is she not marvellous? I have never seen a child as bright and cheerful and inquisitive as she. You know how rarely I think of God, but whenever I look at her, she seems to me to be a miracle, and that is a paradox I cannot understand.”
“What is paradoxical about how miraculous children are? It is a great mystery, indeed, how the father's traits blend with the mother's to create an entirely unique life, with its own will, own mind, and own soul. But I cannot understand how it is a paradox.”
The Captain smiled again at this, but his eyes were grave. “Can you not see it, Reverend? I have spent my entire life trying to be a better man than my father, and trying to avoid the sins of the past. But when I came to India, attempting to repay all, I immediately did exactly what he had done. I took up with a prostitute and had a natural child. Every time I see her, part of me recalls how badly I failed. She is, in a way, my greatest shame. And yet … ” His voice faded, and his eyes grew damp. “Yet I cannot think of her as anything except a miracle. From the day she was born, she has been my light. The thought of seeing her again was aught that kept me strong in Afghanistan, when I nearly lost my leg. Some days Muniya seems to be my disgrace and my redemption; disgrace that I could not overcome my family's bad nature, and redemption because the God I never serve well must love me nevertheless, to give me something so wonderful in my foolish life. Thus, she is my paradox, as well.”
St. John ached to hear Cpt. Aquilaine speak thus. But he could not say what was in his heart, so he instead murmured “I do wish you had told me, Captain. It speaks only well of you, how much you care for her.”
“As I said, I wish I had too, at least in part. But as dearly as I love her, I am ashamed of her too, for she is a daily reproof of my bad character. And I feared what you might say about her, being as her mother and I are not married, and she is half-native to boot. People here call the children born from English-Indian unions 'half-breed creatures,' and I did not wish to hear such words coming from you.”
The Reverend let out his breath with a sharp gasp. The English were superior, of course-such an evident statement hardly needed proof-but four months in Calcutta had softened his beliefs in the inferiority, decadence, and foolishness of the natives. And he could not imagine how any form of slur could be directed at so charming a girl.
“Do people really say that? I cannot fathom it.”
“Neither can I, of course, and 50 or 100 years ago, such couplings between British and Indian were far more common here. But now it is scorned, much like everything else I seem to do.”
“And it is such a shame! We are all subject to the same God. How foolish, when fair skin and Anglican features are so prized that a single afternoon's tanned skin can lower an otherwise decent woman to the level of a Spaniard in society's eyes.”
“Exactly! Skin-colour means little. I cannot tell you how many Spaniards I have met, men and women, who are a credit to their race.”
St. John moved tentatively into his next question. “Do you know that her mother tells her it is important to be pretty, so men will want to come and visit?”
Cpt. Aquilaine winced as he nodded. “That does not surprise me greatly. If I had the means, I would find a better living situation and bring Muniya to live with me, and I think we would all be glad for it, even Harjinder. Unfortunately, I do not have the means, and she cannot stay at the Club! Understand, Reverend, that is the only life Harj has known. I paid off her debt-bondage before I shipped to Afghanistan and she promptly went back to the trade, even though I asked her to not to. She said she preferred not to depend on me, in case anything happened, and in truth I did not try very hard to dissuade her. By that time we were not on the best of terms.”
“Ah, so she was never your slave, then? She calls you Master.”
“That is her being stubborn. She does not appreciate having to be grateful that I once did her a kindness.”
“My sympathies lie with her on that; I too loathe being grateful, for nearly anything, no matter how minor.”
“You do not need to make me aware of that, Reverend,” he replied drolly. Muniya returned, splashed liberally with water, and Cpt. Aquilaine lectured her-but not very fiercely-on losing yet another dupatta, whilst Muniya just played with her bracelets and stared up at the kites. Then she clambered onto his lap and curled up there, suddenly weary. He turned to St. John and said, in a quieter voice, “It has been a long day. I think I ought to bring her back.”
“Before you do, can you tell me something?” St. John realised in a flash that this would be, truly, his only chance to ask. “She mentioned you are going away.”
Cpt. Aquilaine looked both sadder and cheerier all at once. “Do you remember how you once said, the last time we were here, that all things happen as God intended? I nearly believe that, now, and Providence has indeed smiled upon me! I met with Lord Elphinstone the day after … after our fight in Sonagachi, and it is indeed he who will take over the garrison in Kabul, in a little over six months. He is taking all willing officers, and so I am to lead my own troops again. Think: if you had not spoken to his niece, Miss Elphinstone, that one Sunday, I would never have approached him. But finally I can once more command troops like a man, and perchance I will regain my honour in some skirmish or battle as I did not do last time in Afghanistan. I shall make for myself a name she can be proud of, and will earn enough on full pay to keep her in greater comfort than she is now. God has guided my steps to this end, and I am grateful for it, although I will miss my little Maina-bird.” He kissed her softly on the hair, a gesture St. John knew well.
The Reverend tensed a little; he had enjoyed an unexpectedly pleasant half-hour with the Captain, and was now compelled to ruin it. But he could not hold back his tongue, nor his thoughts on the matter.
“Lord Elphinstone is a doddering old fool; even I know that, and I am no soldier! You yourself have said on several occasions that he is more fit to raise pigeons and fund temples than to run a military operation, even someplace as peaceful as Kabul. He is incompetent and infirm. Are you serious?”
The Captain's jaw tightened, but he kept his voice calm and low, not wishing to disturb Muniya. “I thank you not to speak that way about my superior officer. He has good men under him, and that will suffice. It has innumerous times in the past.” But even his steady tone could not disguise the excitement in his voice, and St. John wondered if, rather than mourning their lost affections, he had spent the past month looking forward to a new adventure and a chance for redemption. That pained him.
“And what of Muniya?” St. John also kept his voice steady. “What will become of her?”
“I have left instructions for her care, and will be sending back a portion of my salary every month. She will be well.”
“And if you should, by some sad chance, suffer a soldier's fate?”
The Captain faltered, slightly, before continuing, “Then I will die, it will be an honourable way to leave this world, and she will have a papa she can be proud of. She and Harj will live off the money I have sent, and my death-pay will go to her as well. I have written it all down, Reverend.”
St. John could not help but push on. “And when the money runs out, and her mother is gone …? Do not dissemble, I recognise the signs and have seen them many times before. Harjinder has consumption, and has had it for some while. What if she loses both mother and father? She will go to the only life she knows, just as her mother did!”
“This is not your place, Reverend. Not yours to interfere with.”
“But you love her so dearly; I cannot understand how you could leave her behind.”
“I hear your concern, Reverend, but you are not a father and will never understand a father's duties to his child.” Without another word, the Captain stood and helped a sleepy Muniya clamber onto his shoulders for the long walk back to her home. At that moment, St. John finally understood why Cpt. Aquilaine had always been so ill-tempered on Thursday nights; he could see the sorrow of having to relinquish his daughter for another week writ across the man's face. Then the Captain turned away, as if about to merge into the crowds, and St. John must have made a noise of distress-he feared they would never speak again-for the Captain paused and glanced back at him.
“As you are impassioned to serve God, I am impassioned to have a daughter who is as proud of her father as I never was of mine, even if it is only pride in his memory. Providence has given me this opportunity, and I will not let it slip through my hands. And consider: if this is God's will, and He Himself is offering me this chance, then He will not lead me into danger! Go and seek your passion in Hill Tippera, Rev. Rivers, and I will look to mine in Kabul.”
Cpt. Aquilaine held out his hand once more. “Many thanks again for helping her. Good luck to you, Reverend.”
St. John bade him farewell sadly. “Best of luck to you as well, Captain.” And please, Lord, please keep him safe.
A Charming Companion at a Kite Festival
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notes:
William Wilberforce - a prominent abolitionist and reformer. He was a Member of Parliament from Yorkshire, who had a conversion at age 26, dedicated himself to Evangelical Christianity, and met a group of abolition activists who convinced him to take up the cause of slavery. From 1787 until 1807, he fought against slavery in Britain, until finally Parliament passed the Slave Trade Act of 1807 (see the note on British slavery in Chapter 5). He championed British missionary work in India, helped found the RSPCA, and finally gained passage of the Slavery Abolition Act of 1833, three days before his death.
Tipu Sultan Shahi Mosque - Built in Calcutta in 1832, this mosque is a fine example of Mughal architecture (the Taj Mahal is another). It can hold up to 1000 worshipers for prayers, and is now a protected site that all are welcome to visit and admire.
shalwar kameez - This is an extremely common outfit worn by both men and women throughout India and South Asia. It consists of a loose pair of pants (the shalwar), and a long, flowing tunic over top (the kameez). They are a very versatile and functional option for labourers who cannot wear more restrictive clothes, small girls who have not yet graduated to wearing saris, and people of either gender who want a flattering and comfortable item of clothing in their closet. Women traditionally wear them with a dupatta.
Please do not worry that Muniya was barefoot. Even wealthier parents often chose not to purchase shoes for their children; shoes were a luxury item, one that children would simply lose, wear out, or grow out of in a few years. And it was not as if her toes might freeze.
dupatta - A dupatta is a long shawl or scarf worn by women in South Asia. Traditionally, they were not considered fully dressed or suitably modest without one (in many parts of the world, this still holds true); a dupatta covered the hair, shoulders, and breasts, or whatever combination thereof was considered proper by local custom. It was also a very stylish piece of every woman's outfit, and helped protect them from the sun, rain, and unexpected cold spells. Nowadays it is most-commonly worn hanging in front, under the neck, with both ends flung back over the shoulders. Muniya's constant inability to keep track of hers is very similar to that of a modern child who always loses his or her coat and hat.
consumption - tuberculosis.
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Realising one's own failings is always a painful activity; seeing them in the harsh light of the mid-day sun, having the leisure to sift through them methodically, and discovering the many ways in which they have caused unhappiness to one's own self and, far worse, to the people who are closest and most dear-that is not an easy way to spend an afternoon, let alone a month. Abruptly having all one's days and nights free, without the distraction of a dinner companion, the gaiety of a social occasion, or a single friend to give consolation and a listening ear-that is an even harder way to spend a month. The combination of these two misfortunes is a thing of singular misery. Some afternoons St. John could hardly bear it.
He took meals alone in his room at the hotel, eating in silence whilst he scanned texts or essays. He walked through the city, dreading and hoping to encounter Cpt. Aquilaine, if only for a single minute; dreading having to hear more harsh words, or-harder yet-hearing nothing but silence and a cold stare, hoping for a glimpse of his form and his smile and the shape of his hands. In the evening, when Evensong prayers had finished, he retired to a bed that now seemed far too large for one body. He slept fitfully, aching need without release; he woke to another empty morning of study, prayer, and self-recrimination. Entire days passed in which he never spoke a word, nor heard any spoken to him.
He recited his prayers, attended church, and read the day's verses dutifully, but without a single ounce of passion or devotion. It worried him, how little he actually spoke to God now. A mere twelve months prior, he had spent every night before bed on his knees, eager to pray and listen, full of respectful worship towards his Maker. If he had never quite loved the Lord, he had at least felt awe and respect; now he uttered only rote prayers, afraid to search out his true emotions. For St. John suspected, in his heart of hearts, that he carried about nothing but anger and hatred towards the God he served. Was it not the Maker Himself who had created him and cursed him with these terrible urges? And that same God promised never to burden men with more than they could bear. This shamed him as much as his hateful emotions; he should have been able to bear it-according to scripture, he was able to bear it-and yet he could not. He had not. One more defeat in an endless string of failures.
His dreams had stopped; thank the Lord for small mercies.
Finally he grasped in full what it meant to have happiness, to fall asleep looking forward to the next day. And now, each morning, his sorrows returned anew and taunted him with what could have been, what others could have but not him, never him. He wished to forget but knew he would not. His future stretched out into the distance and he shrank from it, shrank from a lifetime of past gladness mocking a dreary present. Likely he would hide behind duty and toil until all parts capable of feeling had withered. Others who saw his labours might say “there goes a true servant of God,” and feel dismayed that they could not dedicate themselves so fully as he did. But his dedication would be a sham.
It was if he were a slave, owned by some cruel foreign master, destined to remember with each passing minute what it had been like to be free, and to taste again and again the bitterness of that loss. How much better to have been born into servitude, to always wonder about the joys of freedom and never know!
Perhaps most cruelly of all, his needful flesh still did not understand that the affaire de coeur-which had awoken hitherto-undiscovered possibilities, which had given it sensation, awareness, and vitality-was done forever. His heart knew in full. His body, however, still roused itself every evening after dinner, impatiently demanding what did not come. St. John slept on his stomach, took cold water baths morning and evening, and sometimes woke in the middle of the night with a start, lying on his back and hands clutching the bed sheets as his hips thrust helplessly up into the coverlet. When that happened he would sit at his desk, swollen and sore, trying to focus on Hebrew tenses or trigonometry or the history of the Anglican Communion until such time as he could sleep. He never took himself in hand; the piercing joy of having someone else do so turned his feeble attempts into a mockery of pleasure.
Some days he felt he could not endure it for even one more hour, that if he did not soon feel the Captain's hands rubbing his back and soothing his weary mind, he would go altogether mad. But since he never went mad, St. John was forced to resort to what he always did best, what he could honestly claim was one of his very few virtues: he worked. Exacting, consuming, unceasing work could not make up for his multitude of sins, but it filled the time and gave a certain consolation. Whatever life and Providence brought, he would always have work.
He spoke to the Abolition Society and gave his regrets that he could not stay in town. For that he earnt a rare moment of genuine pleasure, to find that those regrets were mutual. Several of the members, both men and women, possessed a spirit so alike to his own that he realised-had time and circumstance been different, and had he ever managed to think less of himself and more of those around him-that they might have become friends. Even those whose religions had strayed so far from the Truth, particularly the Unitarians and Quakers, had a zeal for justice and a drive to see it carried out. The head of the Society, Lady Montague, gave him a bound copy of William Wilberforce's essays as a farewell gift.
He penned an anonymous pamphlet concerning the cruel sufferings of those natives enslaved by seemingly upright British citizens. Lady Montague published it with her own funds, and the Abolition Society circulated it amongst the Temperance Society, the Evangelical Missionary's Fund, and the Quaker Meeting Houses. His argument, written as a general critique and not directed at any specific person, lambasted a fictional Col. F-, who enjoyed close ties to the current governing administration, who had ensconced himself in an estate of corrupt oriental decadence only a few short leagues from Calcutta, who had a propensity for big game hunting, and who was rumoured to visit certain dens of vice whenever he came to town. St. John closed his pamphlet with a choice Latin phrase: Semper sub rosa et soli Deo gloria.
The work eased his sorrows to an extent, but no amount of effort could drive away the sound of Cpt. Aquilaine's voice, still ringing in his ears: you are a cold and unrelenting man. You have no room for mercy or forgiveness. He twisted inside, hot and humiliated, every time he recalled that accusation, which was unfortunately rather often. The Captain had also pointed out, quite correctly, that St. John concealed his own flaws by inflicting scorn on those who surrounded him, and made them suffer for his own weaknesses. He was forced to admit the truth in all this, even as the shame ruined his sleep and turned the food in his mouth to ash.
In particular, he could not cease thinking of his sisters and their return home after Jane had given them each a portion of her inheritance, the very money that allowed him to live so comfortably in Calcutta. It should have been a happy time; it nearly was. How he had looked forward to seeing them again! And when they at last opened the door, as he stood awkwardly and clutched at his pockets, not knowing how to move the words past his frozen tongue, they had beamed with joy and reached out their arms to hug-Jane. And laughed and smiled and embraced whilst he stood with his back to the wall, watching, finally understanding the vast difference between being loved and being liked. Eventually he made himself useful by carrying in their luggage. Later that afternoon, when he was in the kitchen trying futilely to make the wood stove draw properly, Mary had come to ask about tea and he had been short with her, wanting to say I have missed you so dearly-did you not miss me at all?, but instead he criticised her new gloves with the beaded wristlets, the finest pair she had ever owned. He lectured about vanity and Mammon until her face fell and she admitted to have spent too much money on something so worldly. She gave them away the following week, a wedding gift to a friend in the parish.
He would give anything to take back those words.
One day during breakfast, whilst idly scanning the semi-weekly broadsheet Calcutta Advertiser, St. John spotted an advertisement.
Final Notice: Kite Festival Today (5th of September)
located at Maidan Park
sponsored by the Tipu Sultan Shahi Mosque
It promised kite fighting competitions, demonstrations of scientific experiments conducted with kites, and exotic kite styles from as far away as Peking and Canton. His spirit leapt a little as he promptly thought How interesting that sounds. I would enjoy seeing it. I shall tell Marcus and enquire as to whether he would also like to go, and we could make a day of it and drink lassi and … O Lord, what am I doing? He realised what he had thought, and the misery and loneliness of his situation tumbled down about his ears once more. It had felt so natural, so comfortable being with Cpt. Aquilaine that one stubborn piece of his heart still-after a full month-refused to acknowledge their sad rupture.
It was intolerable. In less than a week he would step onto the Bonny Charles, kedge his way back down the Ganges and make for Hill Tippera. In the mean time, would he spend his last few days wandering the city, his throat leaping and stomach twisting every time he spotted a shako or a red coat?
No, I will not stew in this misery of my own making a second longer. I will shew a better sense of fortitude than I have this past month.
He finished breakfast, left his room at the Victoria Hotel-so similar to his quarters at the Officer's Club, which were in turn so similar to every place he had ever lived, small and dark and plain-and walk up to Maidan Park to see one last bit of the joys Calcutta had to offer.
He could see the kites from a far distance off, one colourful, billowing mass hovering over the southern end of the city. They shimmered against a sky scrubbed clean by a fortnight of monsoon. As he walked along the streets he could hear the age-old debate taking place about him: which God blessed the city's inhabitants with the day's fine weather? Moslems were arguing for Allah with some merit: they had all prayed the previous day, and their mosque was sponsoring the festival. Christians responded that the Lord had merely improved the roads on Saturday to encourage Sabbath attendance on the morrow. The Hindus were silent on the matter; they always enjoyed a good festival, no matter the cause or the god. Privately St. John thought the Moslems argument had the upper hand.
Maidan Park was far busier than when he had visited with Cpt. Aquilaine, a bustling horde of Moslems and Hindus and Christians, Indians and English, Chinese and Africans, Jews and Jains and Sikhs; he thought the people quite as interesting as the kites. And the kites themselves were beautiful, dazzling, their hues and shapes and movements making him almost giddy. The festival proved nearly enough to distance himself from his own unhappiness. He strolled back and forth, admiring the scientific displays-they promised to soon discover the prime mechanism behind all weather patterns-and wondering at the kites from China, fire-breathing dragons that danced and twisted their way through the sky. He became engrossed in the kite fighting, as boys on a raised platform battled for supremacy whilst the men below huzzahed the winners and consoled the tearful losers.
Finally feeling overheated, the Reverend drank a lassi at the same stand from which the Captain had purchased him one just over a month ago. It was as cooling and tart as the first one, and he felt momentarily glad to have that fond memory, if nothing else. Perhaps one day the emotions would fade enough, lose their sharp edge, and he could look back and smile at the brief joys he had discovered. Inspired, and carrying about a lighter heart than he had possessed in weeks, he strolled again under the Umbrella pines, past the statues of the Governors-General and the fields where the Indian school boys were wont to play cricket. He sat by a fountain, taking in the sights and remembering his last visit to the Park, when he and Cpt. Aquilaine had sat and talked of the future and the past, their hidden sorrows and-he understood it now, far too late-their love.
What did I say to him that day? Some fine words about how the future is in the Lord's hands, and we mortals must have faith that all happens as God intends. I proved correct, but not in a way either of us would have chosen, I think.
The recollection proved too painful. He stood and moved on, walking into the crowds, hoping the sheer volume of people around him would drive it from his mind.
Only one small detail of the festival stood out as odd-he could spot hardly a single woman. Perhaps it was the mosque's sponsorship that had frightened them off. The occasional British lady glided past, fanning herself under a parasol. But he did not see a single Indian woman, not even one of the lower-caste women who were forced to work for a living whilst their more privileged middle- and upper-caste counterparts remained in purdah. No Moslema wandered the crowd, but then he had not expected to see one; they appeared in public even less than Indian women. It was if he stood in the centre of a roiling sea of men and boys and kites. And one small girl, alone and crying.
He looked more closely; the girl wore a yellow shalwar kameez embroidered with blue flowers, but the fabric of the shalwar was torn on one leg and shewed a smear of blood, as if she had stumbled and cut her knee. Her skin was fair for an Indian, thick black hair spilt out of her braid and she wore small gold-hoop earrings and glass bead bracelets, but no shoes. Someone will step on her toes if they are not careful. Where is her mother? He did not see any adults paying special attention to her, and she continued to cry and rub at her knee. With a sigh, St. John jostled his way over to her.
When he crouched down next to her, placing himself at eye level, she gave him a watery glare; tears had left dusty smudges down her cheeks and her eyelashes stuck together in starry points.
“Ōhē, śiśu. Yēkhānē āpanāra pitāmātā?”
She simply sniffed loudly and wiped at her nose with the back of her hand.
“Āpani ki byāthā?”
“Abaśya hyām̐, āmi! Āmi hinsra ēbaṁ āmāra hām̐ṭu kāṭā ēbaṁ bartamānē āmāra hām̐ṭu byāthā karē.”
St. John sat back on his heels in surprise; he had not expected her to be so bold. Most Indian parents also held by the tenet that children were to be seen and not heard. She continued glaring at him, so he replied, lamely “Ēkhānē, āmākē sāhāyya.” He led her to a nearby fountain, washed off her face and knee and then bound up her leg with his handkerchief. “Ēṭā ki bhāla?”
“Ēkhanō byāthā karē!” she wailed.
The Reverend did not have the first idea of how to deal with small children and looked around frantically for a parent. Seeing none, he plunged ahead. “Āpani nārakēlēra ēkaṭi ṭukarā cāna?”
The girl brightened immediately, tears vanishing as she smiled up at him. “Hyām̐ āmi!” She paused, looked thoughtful for a moment, and then added, “Daẏā karē!”
St. John glanced around again; surely someone would claim her? But no one seemed to be searching, so he asked again, “Āpani yēkhānē āpanāra pitāmātā haẏa jānēna?”
She shrugged.
“Āpani hāriẏēchēna?”
Tears welled in her eyes once more and she nodded sadly, bottom lip trembling. “Āmi manē kari āmi. Āmāra bābā ēbaṁ khum̐jē nā āmāra dupatta hāriẏē āmāra shalwar ardhabr̥ttākāra pārśbacitrēra mūrti ēbaṁ māmā ki āmāra sāthē rāga yābē!”
“Nā, nā, a'i, krandita ābāra nā śuru. Anugraha karē.” He held up his hands helplessly, wishing he had a second handkerchief for her cheeks.
She scrubbed at her eyes with a grimy fist and gave him a calculated look. “Āpani āmākē nārakēla ēkhana kinatē yāba?”
Lord save me, I will never understand children. “Hyām̐, abaśya'i. Āmarā āpanākē kichu saṭhika bartamānē ha'ibē.”
So he took her hand and led her to a wagon where a native split coconuts with a machete, selling the chunks for two pies apiece. Whilst they waited St. John said, “Āmāra nāma Rev. Rivers. Āmi āpanāra pitāmātā pētē sāhāyya karabē. Āpanāra nāma ki?”
She turned unexpectedly shy and stared at her bare brown feet.
He took a deep breath and prayed that a nursemaid would emerge from the crowds, scolding her young charge. Nobody came to his rescue, so he made attempt with a different approach.
“Jānēna āpanāra māmā āpani ēkhānē ānā āja, mēẏē?”
She shook her head.
“Jānēna āpanāra nārsa āpanāra āsā?”
She shook her head again.
“Sutarāṁ āpani āpanāra bābā saṅgē āsēna, tārapara?”
She nodded and wiggled her toes.
They reached the front of the line, and the girl picked out the largest piece of coconut with a crafty smile. St. John frowned a little; he did not feel he had a good grasp on the situation. As he led her away, she exclaimed, “Nārakēla jan'ya āpanākē dhan'yabāda! Āmi nārakēla bhālabāsā ēbaṁ āmi itimadhyē tina ṭukarā ate āja!”
“Ōha priẏa. Āpani itimadhyē tina ṭukarā chila?” She just grinned at him, milky sweet water dribbling down her chin. Temporarily defeated, he sat on a corner of a nearby bench and asked, “Āmākē āpanāra nāma balatē pārabēna? Ēṭā āpanāra bābā yadi āmi āpanāra nāma jāni pētē sahaja habē.”
The coconut had done the trick, apparently. “Āmāra nāma Muniya.”
“Ēṭā āpanāra dēkhā bhālō, Muniya. Āpanāra bābā nāma ki?”
She just gave him a wide-eyed shrug. “Bābā?” she guessed; St. John groaned a little.
“Ki āpanāra bābā ha'ōẏā? Tini pātalā? Mēda? Ki tini dāṛi āchē? Tini … lambā?”
“Hyām̐, khuba'i um̐cā! Daśa phuṭa lambā, āmi manē kari.”
“Daśa phuṭa!” he exclaimed. He was beginning to enjoy the ridiculous situation. “Ēṭā khuba um̐cu. Tini sahajē'i khum̐jē pā'ōẏā yāẏa, kōna sandēha kara.”
“Āmi daśa thēkē inrēji gaṇanā pārēna, āpani śunatē cāna?” Without waiting for an answer she handed him the sticky coconut and held up her fingers as a reference, ticking them off as she went. “One, two, three, four, five, six …” she paused, gave the Reverend a long, worried glance, and then pushed on confidently, “… seven, six, seven, ten!”
St. John actually laughed as he handed her back the coconut. “Ēṭā khuba bhāla! Āpani manē prāẏa saba tādēra.”
“Āmāra bābā āmākē śikhiẏēchilēna.”
“Jānēna tini an'ya kōna inrēji paṛāna?”
“Ōha hyām̐, anēka. Please, Thank you, Yes, No, My name is Muniya and I am 4 years old, Hello, Goodbye, Goddamn it.”
St. John looked aghast. “Tini āpanākē śikhiẏēchilēna yē?”
She giggled. “Nā, tini nā. Kintu tini ēṭā pracura Māmā pāẏa tākē ē kṣipta yakhana tini tā'i, nā āmi ēṭā manē.”
He decided against responding, instead scanning the crowds for any panicked looking man. Certainly he hoped that her father would be in a state of concern over a lost daughter. But the Reverend saw only men and boys, cheerfully colliding and stepping on each other as they milled around, heads tilted back towards the sky. It was dawning on him how difficult the task might be.
“Āpanāra bābā ēkajana musalima? Ki tini āllāha ḍākā?”
She stared at St. John as if he were speaking French.
“Ki tini ḍākā, a'i-” he wracked his brain for a Hindu god- “nā tini Gaṇēśa ḍākā?”
“Nā, kintu Gaṇēśa thēkē Māmā ḍākā prati sakālē. Āmarā ēkaṭi Gaṇēśa jan'ya kamalā phāli chēṛē ēṭā tōlē tākē ānandita, ēbaṁ āmarā dina ēbaṁ Māmā balēchēna ēṭā tōlē aditi khuśi śēṣē dhūpa ēbaṁ pōṛā tārā saubhāgya āmādēra dēbē.”
St. John pursed his lips together tightly; there was no point in becoming impatient with a small, lost girl. Jane, how did you ever manage? How were you such a capable governess and school mistress? What is the secret to interacting with children? And why did I never speak with you about it?
“Ki āpanāra yē mānuṣēra mata saba bābā cēhārā?” He pointed to a fashionable Moslem man nearby, sporting a trimmed beard, fez, and western-style suit that would not have been out of place in Piccadilly.
“Nā, abaśya'i nā Bābā ēkaṭi inrēji!” she said proudly. “Ēṭā kēna sē śēkhāẏa āmākē inrēji.”
At this his eyes lit up; that made the task far easier. “Abaśya'i! Āmi bujhalāma yē ucita. Ēṭā kēna āpani ēta pariṣkāra, bhāla.”
“Māmā balēchēna tini khuba andhakāra, ēbaṁ yē tāra kadarya, kintu āmi camatkāra kāraṇa āmāra cāmaṛā phyākāśē haẏa ēbaṁ saba puruṣa āmāra mata habē.”
He coughed to cover his disquiet. What a terrible thing that is to teach a child. “Ki āpanāra māmā yē Iśbarēra bhitarē ē dēkhāẏa balabēna nā, āpanāra hr̥daẏa pariṣkāra dēkhatē? Tini āpanāra tbaka raṁ samparkē ki yatna nā.”
Muniya shrugged. “Tini balachēna āmarā camatkāra tā'i ārō puruṣadēra dēkhāra habē habē.”
“Ki āpanāra bābā yē puruṣadēra dēkhāra jan'ya āsē jānēna?” He should not have enquired into what was clearly a domestic situation, but could not help himself as shock piled upon shock.
“Abaśya'i! Āmarā ēkaṭā pānthanibāsa bāsa, ēbaṁ puruṣa sabasamaẏa haẏa dēkhāra jan'ya āsēna, ēbaṁ Bābā āsē prati ēkaka saptāha, śudhu āmākē dēkhatē.”
St. John groaned internally; the situation was rapidly becoming both clearer and more difficult. If her mother was a prostitute and her father a regular client, then-given the looser morality of the colonies-she had just described half the British men in India. He wracked his brain for what identifying features might stand out to a four-year-old. “Kichu āchē āpanāra bābā samparkē biśēṣa? Ki tini ēkaṭi majāra ṭupi paridhāna? Jāhāja bā pāla? Ki tini … kukura āchē?”
She laughed and clapped her sticky hands together. “Āmi icchuka tini ēkaṭi kukura chila! Āmi kukura prēma. Māmā balachēna āmi ēkaṭā kukura kāraṇa tārā gandha thākatē pārē nā.”
“Hyām̐, kintu … apanāra bābā, ēkhana. Ki tini biśēṣa kichu āchē? Kōna saba?”
She paused and screwed up her small face, clearly thinking hard. “Tini lāṭhi yē tini saṅgē sārā pēśā kāraṇa sabasamaẏa tāra khura tākē byāthā karē haẏēchē. Ēṭā biśēṣa?”
St. John's stomach dropped into his knees; he would scarcely have been more shocked if he had stumbled upon his sisters in the crowd. But it could all be coincidence, of course. Stupid, cruel coincidence. “Muniya, yā prakr̥tapakṣē adhikānśa biśēṣa! Āmākē āra'ō baluna; āmākē āpanāra bābā samparkē sabakichu baluna yātē āmarā tākē pētē pāri. Tini ēkaṭi sainika? Ki āpanāra mā kakhanō tākē 'Kyāpṭēna' kala?”
“Hyām̐ sē ki! Ēbaṁ tini ēkaṭi lāla kōṭa karēchēna, ēbaṁ diẏēchē āmāra janmadinēra jan'ya Mynah pākhi āmāra kāraṇa āmāra nāmēra artha 'sāmān'ya pākhi' ēbaṁ tini sigāra dhūmapāna, ēbaṁ Māmā pāẏa tākē ē rāga kāraṇa tārā gandha khārāpa ēkaṭi kukura nā, ēbaṁ tini parēna ēṭi ēkaṭi pālaka saṅgē lambā ṭupi. Ooh-yē ghuṛi tākānaē !” She pointed up at a brilliantly green, dancing Chinese dragon.
“O Christ, I am the biggest fool in Calcutta,” St. John muttered, as the realisation crashed down about him. “Of course he would be far too honourable to visit a prostitute whilst he and I were intimates. But little wonder he hit me; I intimated that you were a whore.”
Muniya smiled brightly at him. “Āpani ki śabda ēkaṭi Mynah pākhi tōlē jānēna? Ē'i mata yāẏa: breek breek breek fiiiiw.” She finished off her bird call with a little whistling noise, then started giggling for no reason the Reverend could discern.
He stood and took her by the hand so she would not vanish in the crowds, and she smiled up at him. St. John could have cursed himself for not seeing the resemblance earlier. She had her father's eyes, and his mischievous sidelong glance that, with the Captain, had always meant trouble of a sort.
“Ki jāni Bābā ēkaṭi sainika? Tini kēna bandhu? Āpani tākē jānēna?”
The image of Cpt. Aquilaine lying on top of him, gasping and spending between his thighs, floated through the Reverend's mind. He forced himself into a false, cheery smile. “Āsā, Muniya, ēbāra yāna āpani ānā phirē tākē.”
As they walked, his young companion indeed proved her worth as a conversationalist. Muniya told him about each and every kite she had seen that day, all the treats she had eaten at the festival-four pieces of coconut, two sweet lassis, an entire packet of pistachios and a piece of naan smeared with honey-and the reason for her separation from her father. Whilst they had stopped to rest he had got into a conversation with another army man. She was uncertain as to the details of the discussion, only that Baba was “yā'ōẏā ēkaṭi dīrgha samaẏēra jan'ya kōthā'ō dūrē, antata ēkaṭi māsa”, and he and the other man were talking about it. She found it tedious, naturally, and began to wish for yet another lassi, so she left hoping to find the stand on her own. Finally he teased out of her where Cpt. Aquilaine had been sitting when she wandered off-“Āmarā yud'dha ghuṛi chila paryabēkṣaka”- and he led her in that direction, mind swimming with the thought of how panicked the Captain must be.
When they reached the platform where the boys fought with kites, St. John stood on a bench to better see over the crowds, searching for a shako that dipped to the left. He saw nothing. Finally they began to search the pathways, looking and listening. Muniya fell silent and began to drag her feet; upon questioning, she admitted that she missed her father. They walked on.
After an eternity of searching-which St. John suspected must have felt far longer to the doting Captain-he heard, over the noise of the crowd, a faint but familiar voice. “Maina! Maina! Kōthāẏa āpani?”
Muniya heard it too and began to exclaim, “Tini nē'i! Āmi śunatē pārēna!” The Reverend had to grip her hand tightly so she would not slip away once more. They approached, the voice got louder, and St. John's stomach went tight with nerves as he wondered for the first time what, if anything, he would say to Cpt. Aquilaine. Perhaps the Captain would simply look past him, cut him out, and he would have to make an awkward exit. Perhaps the Captain would blame him for Muniya's disappearance. Perhaps-
With a sudden jerk Muniya pulled her hand out of his and ran forward, shrieking “Bābā! Bābā!” St. John could only watch, frozen, as Cpt. Aquilaine emerged from behind a Sikh and dropped to one knee to pull her into his arms. He turned, then, feeling he should give a measure of privacy to the clearly heartfelt reunion, as Muniya wept and laughed and clung to the Captain's neck, whilst the Captain scolded and kissed and hugged and kissed and scolded.
He decided it was time to leave when he heard Cpt. Aquilaine say, “Ki ēkhānē? Āpani kōthāẏa ni? Maina, āpanāra haẏēchē?” He did not want to interfere, did not wish to distract, and realised his presence would only diminish what should have been a joyful moment. But Muniya immediately piped up “Āpanāra bandhu āmākē ēnēchilēna!” and pointed at him. Cpt. Aquilaine followed the direction of her finger and St. John had to swallow in anxiety as he watched the Captain's face shift between shock, and confusion, and anger, and … something else; he could not discern what.
He tried to flee; his feet were rooted to the ground. Cpt. Aquilaine stood clumsily and advanced, and St. John flinched unconsciously, remembering how he had been hit. But the Captain merely held out his hand. St. John took it, unthinkingly, but had to glance away as his fingers were crushed in the soldier's grip.
“Reverend, I cannot believe it-you have brought her back! I am so grateful, more than you know. You cannot understand how worried I have been this past hour.” His eyes were damp.
“I'm certain anyone would have done the same under the circumstances.” St. John stared at the hand, still surrounding his. They both realised the handshake was lingering, and pulled their arms back too quickly. A silence fell between them, hardly interrupted even by Muniya's insistence that her papa pick her up and carry her, because her leg hurt, until the Captain tardily looked down at her and noticed that yes, indeed, her knee had been cut. He asked regarding the circumstances and she told him at great length, during which he glanced at the handkerchief, turned to St. John and mouthed a simple Thank you. St. John just gave a small shrug.
Then he felt he must either say more or go, and he did not particularly want to leave. He knew it was hopeless, but even after a full month apart he felt unaccountably better simply having touched Cpt. Aquilaine's hand. So he said, “I wish you had told me, Captain.”
“A significant part of me wishes I had as well, truth be told. You are so good with words, perhaps you could have convinced me to set aside my shame.” He sighed a little and rubbed his injured thigh, tipping his head towards a nearby bench that was being vacated. “Shall we sit a moment? My leg is quite worn out from the day.” So they sat, making very certain not to brush against one another, whilst Muniya scrambled around, overexcited by the chaos of the day and too many sweets. When she asked for another coconut the Reverend confessed that he had purchased her one.
“I cannot be surprised by that; she has a terrifically sweet tooth, and she is very convincing when she asks. But thank you for telling me. I shall endeavour not to buy her another this afternoon.” Muniya, clearly skilled at sensing weaknesses, continued to ask until St. John was filled with an idea. He bent down to speak to her.
“Ēkaṭi cuna khētē cāna? Tārā khuba'i bhāla, ēbaṁ London sabacēẏē kētādurasta mahilā manē karēna tārā saba krōdha, āmi balā yāẏa.” She nodded yes, temporarily shy once more-but it would pass quickly-so he stood and left to find a fruit peddler. When he eventually returned the Captain had her on his lap and was pointing out kites to her, whilst she stared open-mouthed up at the sky. St. John suspected he would make a wretched father, for all the many reasons Cpt. Aquilaine had stated at their last meeting-too overbearing, too judgemental, too lofty, too impatient-but it did not stop him from thinking that perhaps a child might have softened some of the sterner, harsher edges of his character. Alas, one more realisation come far too late to the Rev. Rivers.
He sat, the Captain offered him a pocket knife, and he carved the lime into 6 green wedges. Muniya squealed and puckered her lips at first, glaring at St. John as if he had played a trick on her. He gave an exaggerated shrug in return and said “Sambhabata ēṭā kichu śudhumātra atyanta sūkṣma mahilā bhōga karabē?” She lifted her chin at that small challenge to her femininity and promptly ate the entire wedge right down to the peel, crinkling up her eyes as she did. Then she demanded another. They all shared the lime until it had been vanquished-the finally tally was 1 piece to the Reverend, 1 to Cpt. Aquilaine, 3 to Muniya and 1 to the dirt, upon which she accidentally dropped her piece number 4-and then Muniya left to splash in a nearby fountain whilst Cpt. Aquilaine kept a very close eye on her.
Finally St. John could stem the tide of questions welling up within. “Did you think I would condemn you for having a child? Or was it because of who her mother is? Are you married to her mother? Is that it? Or … why?”
Cpt. Aquilaine laughed. “Good God, St. John, I am not as dishonourable as that!”
“No, I did not mean to imply-”
“I am not suggesting that you did! I only meant that if I had a wife, I would have been faithful to her. Men may have a little fun before they marry, but afterwards they had best behave themselves. Is that not why women tend to come with fathers and brothers and cousins?” He settled back to talk, and St. John did not dissuade him. “No, I met Harjinder shortly after I came to Calcutta. What can I say? I fell in love almost instantly, or at least I thought I did, and she seemed pleased to receive my affections. So I-ah, you will not like this part-I, that is, rented her exclusive services for some time. Set her up in the little room you saw, the one she still lives in. And before long she found herself in a certain condition, and that was that!”
St. John frowned a little at this narrative, but stopped his mouth before the inevitable question passed his lips. Nevertheless, the Captain's tone took on a dangerous undercurrent. “And if you dare suggest that she is not my child, I swear I will strike you again.”
“I would never question her patrimony,” St. John answered hastily. “You have named her and provided for her; that makes a good a claim to fatherhood as any. Besides which, the resemblance could not be clearer. She has your eyes, and your quick laughter.”
Cpt. Aquilaine brightened so greatly at the compliment that the Reverend realised he had found another private spot. “Is she not marvellous? I have never seen a child as bright and cheerful and inquisitive as she. You know how rarely I think of God, but whenever I look at her, she seems to me to be a miracle, and that is a paradox I cannot understand.”
“What is paradoxical about how miraculous children are? It is a great mystery, indeed, how the father's traits blend with the mother's to create an entirely unique life, with its own will, own mind, and own soul. But I cannot understand how it is a paradox.”
The Captain smiled again at this, but his eyes were grave. “Can you not see it, Reverend? I have spent my entire life trying to be a better man than my father, and trying to avoid the sins of the past. But when I came to India, attempting to repay all, I immediately did exactly what he had done. I took up with a prostitute and had a natural child. Every time I see her, part of me recalls how badly I failed. She is, in a way, my greatest shame. And yet … ” His voice faded, and his eyes grew damp. “Yet I cannot think of her as anything except a miracle. From the day she was born, she has been my light. The thought of seeing her again was aught that kept me strong in Afghanistan, when I nearly lost my leg. Some days Muniya seems to be my disgrace and my redemption; disgrace that I could not overcome my family's bad nature, and redemption because the God I never serve well must love me nevertheless, to give me something so wonderful in my foolish life. Thus, she is my paradox, as well.”
St. John ached to hear Cpt. Aquilaine speak thus. But he could not say what was in his heart, so he instead murmured “I do wish you had told me, Captain. It speaks only well of you, how much you care for her.”
“As I said, I wish I had too, at least in part. But as dearly as I love her, I am ashamed of her too, for she is a daily reproof of my bad character. And I feared what you might say about her, being as her mother and I are not married, and she is half-native to boot. People here call the children born from English-Indian unions 'half-breed creatures,' and I did not wish to hear such words coming from you.”
The Reverend let out his breath with a sharp gasp. The English were superior, of course-such an evident statement hardly needed proof-but four months in Calcutta had softened his beliefs in the inferiority, decadence, and foolishness of the natives. And he could not imagine how any form of slur could be directed at so charming a girl.
“Do people really say that? I cannot fathom it.”
“Neither can I, of course, and 50 or 100 years ago, such couplings between British and Indian were far more common here. But now it is scorned, much like everything else I seem to do.”
“And it is such a shame! We are all subject to the same God. How foolish, when fair skin and Anglican features are so prized that a single afternoon's tanned skin can lower an otherwise decent woman to the level of a Spaniard in society's eyes.”
“Exactly! Skin-colour means little. I cannot tell you how many Spaniards I have met, men and women, who are a credit to their race.”
St. John moved tentatively into his next question. “Do you know that her mother tells her it is important to be pretty, so men will want to come and visit?”
Cpt. Aquilaine winced as he nodded. “That does not surprise me greatly. If I had the means, I would find a better living situation and bring Muniya to live with me, and I think we would all be glad for it, even Harjinder. Unfortunately, I do not have the means, and she cannot stay at the Club! Understand, Reverend, that is the only life Harj has known. I paid off her debt-bondage before I shipped to Afghanistan and she promptly went back to the trade, even though I asked her to not to. She said she preferred not to depend on me, in case anything happened, and in truth I did not try very hard to dissuade her. By that time we were not on the best of terms.”
“Ah, so she was never your slave, then? She calls you Master.”
“That is her being stubborn. She does not appreciate having to be grateful that I once did her a kindness.”
“My sympathies lie with her on that; I too loathe being grateful, for nearly anything, no matter how minor.”
“You do not need to make me aware of that, Reverend,” he replied drolly. Muniya returned, splashed liberally with water, and Cpt. Aquilaine lectured her-but not very fiercely-on losing yet another dupatta, whilst Muniya just played with her bracelets and stared up at the kites. Then she clambered onto his lap and curled up there, suddenly weary. He turned to St. John and said, in a quieter voice, “It has been a long day. I think I ought to bring her back.”
“Before you do, can you tell me something?” St. John realised in a flash that this would be, truly, his only chance to ask. “She mentioned you are going away.”
Cpt. Aquilaine looked both sadder and cheerier all at once. “Do you remember how you once said, the last time we were here, that all things happen as God intended? I nearly believe that, now, and Providence has indeed smiled upon me! I met with Lord Elphinstone the day after … after our fight in Sonagachi, and it is indeed he who will take over the garrison in Kabul, in a little over six months. He is taking all willing officers, and so I am to lead my own troops again. Think: if you had not spoken to his niece, Miss Elphinstone, that one Sunday, I would never have approached him. But finally I can once more command troops like a man, and perchance I will regain my honour in some skirmish or battle as I did not do last time in Afghanistan. I shall make for myself a name she can be proud of, and will earn enough on full pay to keep her in greater comfort than she is now. God has guided my steps to this end, and I am grateful for it, although I will miss my little Maina-bird.” He kissed her softly on the hair, a gesture St. John knew well.
The Reverend tensed a little; he had enjoyed an unexpectedly pleasant half-hour with the Captain, and was now compelled to ruin it. But he could not hold back his tongue, nor his thoughts on the matter.
“Lord Elphinstone is a doddering old fool; even I know that, and I am no soldier! You yourself have said on several occasions that he is more fit to raise pigeons and fund temples than to run a military operation, even someplace as peaceful as Kabul. He is incompetent and infirm. Are you serious?”
The Captain's jaw tightened, but he kept his voice calm and low, not wishing to disturb Muniya. “I thank you not to speak that way about my superior officer. He has good men under him, and that will suffice. It has innumerous times in the past.” But even his steady tone could not disguise the excitement in his voice, and St. John wondered if, rather than mourning their lost affections, he had spent the past month looking forward to a new adventure and a chance for redemption. That pained him.
“And what of Muniya?” St. John also kept his voice steady. “What will become of her?”
“I have left instructions for her care, and will be sending back a portion of my salary every month. She will be well.”
“And if you should, by some sad chance, suffer a soldier's fate?”
The Captain faltered, slightly, before continuing, “Then I will die, it will be an honourable way to leave this world, and she will have a papa she can be proud of. She and Harj will live off the money I have sent, and my death-pay will go to her as well. I have written it all down, Reverend.”
St. John could not help but push on. “And when the money runs out, and her mother is gone …? Do not dissemble, I recognise the signs and have seen them many times before. Harjinder has consumption, and has had it for some while. What if she loses both mother and father? She will go to the only life she knows, just as her mother did!”
“This is not your place, Reverend. Not yours to interfere with.”
“But you love her so dearly; I cannot understand how you could leave her behind.”
“I hear your concern, Reverend, but you are not a father and will never understand a father's duties to his child.” Without another word, the Captain stood and helped a sleepy Muniya clamber onto his shoulders for the long walk back to her home. At that moment, St. John finally understood why Cpt. Aquilaine had always been so ill-tempered on Thursday nights; he could see the sorrow of having to relinquish his daughter for another week writ across the man's face. Then the Captain turned away, as if about to merge into the crowds, and St. John must have made a noise of distress-he feared they would never speak again-for the Captain paused and glanced back at him.
“As you are impassioned to serve God, I am impassioned to have a daughter who is as proud of her father as I never was of mine, even if it is only pride in his memory. Providence has given me this opportunity, and I will not let it slip through my hands. And consider: if this is God's will, and He Himself is offering me this chance, then He will not lead me into danger! Go and seek your passion in Hill Tippera, Rev. Rivers, and I will look to mine in Kabul.”
Cpt. Aquilaine held out his hand once more. “Many thanks again for helping her. Good luck to you, Reverend.”
St. John bade him farewell sadly. “Best of luck to you as well, Captain.” And please, Lord, please keep him safe.
A Charming Companion at a Kite Festival
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notes:
William Wilberforce - a prominent abolitionist and reformer. He was a Member of Parliament from Yorkshire, who had a conversion at age 26, dedicated himself to Evangelical Christianity, and met a group of abolition activists who convinced him to take up the cause of slavery. From 1787 until 1807, he fought against slavery in Britain, until finally Parliament passed the Slave Trade Act of 1807 (see the note on British slavery in Chapter 5). He championed British missionary work in India, helped found the RSPCA, and finally gained passage of the Slavery Abolition Act of 1833, three days before his death.
Tipu Sultan Shahi Mosque - Built in Calcutta in 1832, this mosque is a fine example of Mughal architecture (the Taj Mahal is another). It can hold up to 1000 worshipers for prayers, and is now a protected site that all are welcome to visit and admire.
shalwar kameez - This is an extremely common outfit worn by both men and women throughout India and South Asia. It consists of a loose pair of pants (the shalwar), and a long, flowing tunic over top (the kameez). They are a very versatile and functional option for labourers who cannot wear more restrictive clothes, small girls who have not yet graduated to wearing saris, and people of either gender who want a flattering and comfortable item of clothing in their closet. Women traditionally wear them with a dupatta.
Please do not worry that Muniya was barefoot. Even wealthier parents often chose not to purchase shoes for their children; shoes were a luxury item, one that children would simply lose, wear out, or grow out of in a few years. And it was not as if her toes might freeze.
dupatta - A dupatta is a long shawl or scarf worn by women in South Asia. Traditionally, they were not considered fully dressed or suitably modest without one (in many parts of the world, this still holds true); a dupatta covered the hair, shoulders, and breasts, or whatever combination thereof was considered proper by local custom. It was also a very stylish piece of every woman's outfit, and helped protect them from the sun, rain, and unexpected cold spells. Nowadays it is most-commonly worn hanging in front, under the neck, with both ends flung back over the shoulders. Muniya's constant inability to keep track of hers is very similar to that of a modern child who always loses his or her coat and hat.
consumption - tuberculosis.