The Fire

The Raja’s coolies scurried along the dirt road, strangely uncluttered compared to previous days. Sarah sat back in the tottering litter, and held firmly onto the sides. There was no obvious reason for the streets to be so empty. She frowned in puzzlement. Every other time she’d ventured out, they had been teeming with people, even on her way to the Raja’s earlier in the day. Then, Indian and British residents sauntered in the Indian sunshine, taking the air, so to speak. Tonight, it seemed the only people moving anywhere were low caste Indians carrying out their duties. Even the omnipresent soldiers were absent from the fading watercolour scenes of the mock Tudor town.

She’d tried talking to Saptanshu, but whether he didn’t speak English, or was pretending not to understand, she wasn’t entirely sure.

After travelling at a brisk pace, Sarah noted the horizon shimmering with a fiery glow. Red shadows bounced off the hills surrounding the township, creating an alternative Northern Lights experience. Leaning forward, she addressed Saptanshu.

‘Driver, what is on fire?’

He ignored her, his breathing growing laboured as he struggled up one of Simla’s many verdant hills.

‘The fire, what is on fire?’ Sarah repeated.

Frustrated at his apparent lack of English, she tapped his shoulder and gestured towards the red glow illuminating the town.

Suddenly, they were passed by three riderless horses galloping past. Bridled and covered in sweat, they raced away from an unseen foe. The coolie stopped, his skinny turbaned head pivoting to follow the horses’ unchecked trail. Ignoring Sarah, he turned to the other coolie at the back of the litter, yammering in their guttural native tongue, their discussion rising in volume with every word.

‘What’s going on? I don’t understand,’ Sarah queried, looking at the agitated men.

Saptanshu dropped the handles of the litter, pitching Sarah forward in her seat. He came round to the side and, and started pulling her from her seat, shouting at her now. No matter how hard she pulled back, his starved frame was still stronger than her, and she fell forward into the road.

‘The Raja will not like this!’ Sarah yelled at him. ‘Get back here. You can’t leave me here. Saptanshu, come back!’

Leaving her abandoned, they took off with the litter, as if Kali, goddess of time, change, and war, were after them.

Stunned and winded, Sarah sat in the middle of the road, her gloves despoiled, her hat awry, and her ankle twisted awkwardly underneath her. Ugly sounds of rifle fire echoed around her, followed by shouts carried on the acrid smoke blanketing the beautiful town. She stood up, and limped off the road, into the shadow of the nearest building. The cobblestones cruelly grabbed at her twisted ankle with every painful step.

The vivid red sky gave off enough light for Sarah to consider retracing her journey back to the Raja’s house, but that would be heading towards the fire. Not ideal. It would be best to carry onto her house, she decided. Nirmala will know what is going on. Leaning on the buildings for support, she started the walk back home, away from the fire.

The sound of booted feet running on the cobbles saw Sarah shrink back into the shadows. She had no way of knowing whether the running feet were friend or foe. In addition, she had no idea what the conflagration was. Her mind puzzled over the possible explanations for the driver’s fear, the riderless horses, and the fire. She crouched down behind a large planter box in front of one of the Elizabethan-style shops – one advertising wares for gentlemen, its window a profusion of pipes, cigarette cases, and glossy walking sticks topped with carved ivory heads.

The design of the street served to funnel the noise of the fire, so the street seemed to crackle with energy, the sound of running feet slowly dissipating as they moved further away. Moving as fast as she could with a sprained ankle, Sarah stumbled home, looking fretfully over her shoulder, the fire reflected on her face.

The light hadn’t penetrated any further than the centre of town and, away from the main street, the roads were dark and abandoned. Windows were shuttered, as if the mere presence of a piece of wood would protect the occupants from whatever terror was approaching. Although Sarah didn’t know the residents in these homes, it was prudent to avoid them and concentrate on making her way back to her own house.

After leaving the relative protection of the buildings, she felt exposed on the open road. Although she was travelling away from the fire and the noise, the riderless horses had unnerved her more than she’d like to admit. The sooner she got back to the house the better. With daggers piercing her ankle every time she placed any weight on it, the going was slow. Soon the large façade of her home loomed ahead of her, its silhouette giving her more comfort than a down-filled duvet. Even her home was devoid of light, before there’d always been a glimmer of light leaking from the windows – now there was nothing. She hobbled up the wooden stairs onto the painted veranda. In the dark, the vibrant colours of the flowers filling the garden had vanished.

The front door was locked. Sarah hammered against the polished wood with both hands, coughing now from the effects of the smoke slinking through Simla.

‘Nirmala, let me in!’ she yelled in between hacking coughs.

Silence.

‘Nirmala!’ Sarah yelled again.

Nothing.

The silence was broken with rifle shotsclose by. Sarah limped around the boards, trying the numerous patio doors. Every one of them was locked tight, the drapes drawn. The house felt abandoned. Sarah slipped down the back steps and made her way to the servants’ entrance. It was ajar. The sliver of open doorway looked ominous; her desire to get inside hampered by sudden fear. Bile rose in her throat. Why was this door open when every other door was locked and the curtains drawn? Perhaps they’d left it open for her, knowing she’d be back soon. Why hadn’t anyone warned her about what was happening on the other side of town? What was on the other side of town? With a jolt, she realised the army barracks were there. Away from all the homes of the senior members of the Company, nowhere near the homes of the Indian aristocracy, and far enough away from the palatial lodgings of the Viceroy that he and his family would not be disturbed by troop movements and practices.

Was this the uprising they’d learnt about in school? If it was, Sarah knew the threat was real. The haunting images from her textbooks crowded her mind.

Putting those thoughts to one side, Sarah decided that being inside was preferable to being outside, so she approached the open doorway, her ears straining to hear anything. She’d hardly be able to surprise anyone if they were there, with all the yelling and hammering she’d done at the front of the house. She cursed her stupidity. She should have come straight to this door after finding the front locked.

Two steps led inside. Favouring her twisted ankle, Sarah made up way down the steps and into the kitchen. Empty. Sarah closed the door behind her, plunging the room into absolute darkness. She wedged a chair under the handle, hoping it would hold it shut should anyone try to enter the house that way. Using her hands as guides, she made her way through the kitchen, down a short narrow corridor, and into the main hallway.

Here, the moonlight made its way into the house via the intricate stained glass around the front door. Using that light, Sarah stumbled down the hall towards her room, leaning heavily on the panelled walls. Sweat from her palms marked her path, her gloves abandoned somewhere on the road between town and the house. Ruined beyond repair. She would love to be able to tell Patricia about her disastrous relationship with gloves. A useless item of clothing she’d decided, like men’s ties. Gloves should only be worn in winter or when skiing, she’d concluded.

She pushed open her bedroom door, shading her eyes against the sudden flood of light. Nirmala was sitting on the bed, holding Kalakanya silently. Perplexed, Sarah started into the room, leaning on the wall for support, her ankle dangerously swollen.

The door slammed behind her. There stood Simeon, his uniform encrusted with soot, black smears across his stubbled cheeks, his normally impeccable black hair in chaos, which matched his manner. His filthy hands were gripping the ornate hilt of his officer’s sword. Its honed silver blade sliced through the air like a pendulum. Slow and steady. Simeon’s consistent rhythm more terrifying than the fire and gunshots she’d just escaped.

‘Simeon, what is going on outside? There’s a massive fire and I heard gunshots. Shouldn’t we be moving somewhere safer?’ Sarah asked, looking wildly from Nirmala back to her brother.

Her heart thumped in her chest, the sound so loud she fancied everyone in the room could hear it. She realised it didn’t really matter what she asked him; she had to keep him talking, but it didn’t look good. His eyes had no soul.

The sword paused mid-swing.

‘What is going on outside? Sarah, I believe that has an answer only you can provide. When young women cavort with the local heathens, can there be but one outcome? You have disrupted the natural balance of God’s law. Hundreds of Englishmen will die tonight because you could not obey your brother and remain in the house. You have been whoring yourself out – with how many men, I know not. Your maids have told me of your behaviour. And it shall not go unpunished.’

Simeon drew himself up and raised the point of his sword until its tip was resting in the flushed hollow of Sarah’s throat.

She shuffled backwards until she hit the door.

‘I think you are very mistaken, Simeon. I was invited out for afternoon tea, and now I have returned home. Remove your sword right now.’

‘Afternoon tea!’ he sneered. ‘Do all your afternoon teas result in gifts of ruby necklaces?’

His sword danced over the rubies at her neck. Sarah flinched.

‘You are a whore, and therefore you shall be treated as one.’

Simeon stepped forward and slapped her before she knew what had even happened.

‘It is just as well our good parents will never hear of this shame.’

Simeon reached forward and wrenched the necklace from Sarah’s neck. A hammering at the front door interrupted his tirade. His red face, twisted with hatred, turned towards the sound. Sarah skittered past him, grabbing the hands of Nirmala and Kalakanya, pulling them up off the bed and towards the shuttered veranda doors at the end of the room.

‘Help me with this, Nirmala!’ Sarah instructed as she fumbled with the catch on the louvered shutters.

‘I don’t think so,’ Simeon growled, dragging her away from the doors. She slipped on the light matting by the door, falling painfully against the ottoman. Nirmala finally released the latch, and flung the doors open. Kalakanya caught hold of Sarah’s other hand, pulling her away from the Sahib.

He was torn between answering the incessant knocking at the door and punishing his slut of a sister. He was saved from making a decision by the appearance of red-coated soldiers appearing at the open veranda door.