Rani spent her first night back in Delhi alone. She had expected Rajinder to be waiting for her, saying how much he had missed her and how lonely he had been. This hadn’t happened, and instead she’d received a phone call.
‘It’s good you are back,’ he said. ‘Will you be going to bed early?’
‘Yes,’ Rani replied, and was about to say more when Rajinder spoke again.
‘I thought so. I have arranged to meet Manju at Sagar’s. Gopal has said he will come for an hour. You can sleep and I will see you tomorrow.’ He ended the call, saying he was already late after a meeting with a client had taken longer than usual.
Rani put down the phone and went to sit out on the balcony. During her two weeks in England, she had given a lot of thought to their relationship over the years, including when she was just sixteen and one of the ‘girls’ at Hope House. She had been the one in control for much of that time, Raj’s obsession with the beautiful and strong-minded young woman growing with every year that passed. When faced with jealousy or excessive demands on her time, she would throw it back at him stating that he was married, albeit to someone whose affection he had lost many years earlier.
Raj had been the one to come and see her after her return from London, and had barely left her side since then, apart from going to work and one evening a week spent at home, insisted upon by Rani to give her time to spend with Harish and George. He had asked her to marry him on quite a few occasions since she had come back, all of which were hastily met with a non-committal response.
She had missed him whilst she was away. If he left altogether, she would be deeply upset, although probably wouldn’t show it. He might even think she quite simply didn’t care. Nothing would be further from the truth. Her desire to keep up barriers was a shield of protection, Sister Monica once said. She was right, Rani knew that, but how to let the shield come down, and trust that all would be well? That was the question. Abandonment by Raj would be as devastating as when she had been left for dead in the ditch that skirted the city, after a savage and brutal attack by a group of young men. The fear from that time had never left her, despite her cool and calm demeanour and Raj’s devotion; her need to hold something back imperative, just in case.
She got up to lean on the stone ledge and look over the garden. It was almost dark, the usual riot of colour now subdued to shades of grey and black. In the far corner a tiny red light glowed, revealing the position of Sunni the gardener in his favourite sleeping place. Throughout the many years he had lived there, and despite repeatedly being offered a room in the house, this had been consistently refused; the traumas from his childhood making what he saw as confinement, impossible.
As she watched, every now and then tiny sparks flew from his black bidi cigarette, rather like a miniature firework, and irrespective of the distance, wafts of the pungent tobacco smoke drifted over. She liked it. It reminded her of her father’s cigars, each one cut into several pieces to relish throughout the week. She now knew that the cigar had been given as part payment for his teaching the girls at Hope House to read, write, and speak English. Harish would certainly have had his work cut out in trying to convince the proud man to take it in anything other than a fair exchange.
The trip to England had been a pleasant interlude in her usual routine, and she had enjoyed it, but Hope House and Delhi were her home. With Harish now at Wishanger, she would without doubt be going back again, and he would come here, but things would never be the same. She had seen it in his demeanour, and in the way he spoke about the place and everything associated with it. He was one of them, by that, meaning a Hope, a member of the aristocracy, and owner of a manor and considerable acreage that made him a member of the elite, whether he liked it or not. Despite all this, at times he had also seemed uncertain, angry even at his current situation, one that he said had been forced upon him. Her own frustration had unusually shown itself in a sharp retort.
‘And who has not had a situation forced upon them? Tell me this! Look around you, Harish Hope. You are in torment? Poverty? Benson and Charles are inflicting abuse? You are free to do as you wish. You are not in prison!’ She had quickly and quietly left the room, and a few minutes later he watched as she climbed the grassy slope, then walked across the top of the ridge towards the woods. She had apologised later, and he had too, his remarks in hindsight seeming childish and rather pathetic.
Remembering the moment now, she shook her head. She would call him tomorrow, but Rajinder…? If she wasn’t very careful, he would slip away like a thief in the night, her broken heart carried in a rough sack slung over his shoulder. She couldn’t allow that to happen. For once in her life, she must reveal herself, show her vulnerability and speak out.
The burning embers of the cigarette suddenly went out, and as though this was a signal to cement a decision made, she turned and went back inside. Within minutes she was in bed, although sleep did not come. She watched as the moon rose high enough to shine into the room, shapes of branches and leaves shifting restlessly across the walls in an ever-changing display. Despite her sadness and fear of loss, the beauty of it was not lost on her. Her only loss was that Raj was not beside her to enjoy it…
***
Rajinder walked slowly across the brightly lit, busy streets lined with a variety of stalls, each vendor calling to those walking past to come back and buy the things that would make their lives complete. He loved the vibrancy, the multiple interactions, false declarations, and eventual purchases made for half the original price asked. He was due to meet Manju in twenty minutes so was in no rush. He lingered, observed, and thoroughly immersed himself in the welcome assault to his senses.
One stall was laden with shawls of every type, from thick wool to gossamer silk, and in every colour of the rainbow. Carefully hung on the wall behind was one that caught his eye. It was made from plain black silk, but the border had been stitched with tiny crystals that caught and reflected the light beautifully. Noticing the lawyer looking at them, the vendor quickly decided that there would be none of the usual preamble before a sale, no flattery, no wild prices, which he knew would be drastically reduced, in fact, no debate whatsoever. The shawl hanging behind him was a one off. He had paid quite a bit for it himself, unable to resist and sure that someone, somewhere, would feel the same.
‘She is very beautiful, is she not, Mr Desai?’ he said, reaching up to take the hanger from one of the many hooks nailed to the whitewashed wall, the duplicity of his words making him smile. He had once seen the lawyer’s lady friend and had been spellbound. He placed the shawl on the stall in front of him. ‘Please touch, Sir. The beads are hand stitched, and the silk is pure and from Mysore.’
Rajinder did as he was told and touched the shawl. It was a medium weight, very soft, but not too slippery, as he knew some silk could be. Rani liked black and wore it a lot, but the beading would add an extra something which would be just perfect. The price stated was fair, and he paid it without argument. The stallholder had been to see him several times over the years and never quibbled about his bill, paying it immediately and with the greatest of respect. He could see no reason why he shouldn’t do the same.
‘Thank you. Perfect.’ He watched while the shawl was wrapped in tissue and then handed over.
‘A lucky lady,’ declared the vendor, studying his customer’s face for any reaction. Seeing none, he concluded the interaction. ‘I wish you much happiness. Please come again.’
Rajinder walked slowly on; the package tucked tightly under his arm. He knew that Rani had been hurt and disappointed by him not being there that evening. It had hurt him too. Staying away from her took all his willpower and made him miserable, yet despite that he also felt the beginning of some inner strength that up until now had not shown itself. He’d discussed his situation with Manju who had said little, but listened carefully, nodding his head, and making a few comments, reflections really of what his friend was saying.
‘Rani is a wonderful woman. I can see why you are so attached to her,’ he said.
‘Yes. She has been my life for almost twenty-five years now. From the moment I saw her, I knew there would never be any other woman.’
Manju had heard this statement many times, and whilst he heartily approved of a deep and lasting love, indeed, longed for it himself, he also knew of the torment that his friend had suffered over the years, with Rani having Harish’s baby, then disappearing to England for fifteen years, leaving him waiting in a state of semi-captivity. After Manju’s own divorce he had viewed every woman he met as a potential partner, scrutinising them carefully before finding them lacking in one way or another. He was happy as he was, he decided, had the company of one or more of his children often, and was surrounded by many friends. His work at St Monica’s and other charitable enterprises kept him busy, as did the maintaining of their old family home north of the city.
He’d also been to England twice in the past year to see his children there and his sister, Meera, to whom he felt a deep attachment. His life was full, yet despite his self-assurances that he was both happy and fulfilled, he was also acutely aware that something was missing. As he sat outside Sagar’s, he sipped his coffee and watched the people as they passed by, part of the colourful, noisy, and lively scene, yet separate somehow, on the margins with his mind elsewhere. Then came a voice that stood out amongst the many others.
‘Mr Sahni? Mr Sahni? Won’t you sit, please. I have news to impart to you.’
Manju looked up to see Sami standing in front of the fortune teller. They hadn’t arranged to meet, but he knew that Sami came here most evenings, the life in the square acting like a magnet to many of those who lived around it. He knew that Sami had spoken with the fortune teller once before, again at the man’s request, although that was some years ago now, and watched with interest to see what Sami would do next.
‘Only do I call those to me that I have information for. Already you know this, Mr Sahni. Please come. There is no fee. To share words with you that will assist your life is all I ask.’
Sami looked around him to see if anyone was watching. It was impossible to be unobserved in such a place, and anyone being called to the fortune teller would turn a few heads, some, the most inquisitive, stopping for a while in the hope of hearing a few words. Sami was good-looking, and always dressed well in fine linen suits handmade locally and therefore not expensive, but still beautifully cut and sewn. His dark skin was set off by the natural pale fabric, and it was impossible to not be drawn to the stylish man, or to stop and stare, which was happening now.
‘Hurry, Mr Sahni. Please come and sit.’
In an instant, Sami made up his mind to do as he was bid, and thirty seconds later was sitting in front of the fortune teller, legs crossed, his silk-lined jacket tossed to the ground in front of him.
At that moment Rajinder arrived, pulling out a chair and nodding to the waiter to come over.
‘Ah, here you are, Manju,’ he said, quickly deciding what to order. ‘Buttermilk please, with coffee to follow. I haven’t eaten and that should do the trick nicely, along with a few samosas and cakes! What would you like?’
‘The same!’ said Manju. ‘I have also eaten nothing. The life of a single man is not always good, although I suppose you would usually eat at Hope House. Why have you not eaten, and why are you not there to greet Rani from her trip?’
‘Oh, several reasons. The first was because I had a visitor, a Professor Arun Mistry.’
‘Who is this man? A business client?’ asked Manju. Rajinder never revealed the names of his clients, so to do so now was unusual.
‘No, no. He is from the university where Ania studied.’ At this point the food and drink arrived and Raj waited until the waiter had gone before continuing the story. ‘He telephoned earlier to arrange it. This is what he said. Just like this. “Mr Desai, Sir, I have come to ask for your opinion.” I said, yes, of course. What is it? Property? Something else? “No,” he said. “Not that. I have come to ask if I may register my interest in your daughter Ania. I wish to marry her.”’
‘Really?’ asked Manju. ‘I have heard of him. About forty, wealthy, I believe, from his family. Tall, a big man. Not bad though. I think the correct term is academic!’
‘That’s him. So, I asked if she was aware of his interest, and wished it herself? At this, he laughed. Laughed! “Yes, she is willing I believe, but out of respect, I thought I should come to you. I will make a good husband; I promise you this much. There is no shortage of money.” What could I say? He is educated, polite, and now you say rich. Older than her by twelve years or so. I must speak to her, but if she agrees I have no grounds to refuse.’
‘You seem unsure?’ observed Manju, noticing the fidgeting fingers and uneasy look on his friend’s face.
‘Not unsure really, it’s just that he’s a very serious man, and entirely without humour. She’s high spirited and full of dreams. How can the match be successful?’
‘I see. Have you asked Rani for her opinion?’
‘No. I think she was very tired. I shall go there tomorrow.’
‘Hmmm. You are playing hard to get, my friend? This is a term my British educated children have taught me.’ He laughed. ‘You hope to bring Rani to her knees?’
Rajinder laughed. ‘Ah, then my hopes would be smashed into a million pieces!’ He thought for a moment. ‘No, more I am trying to salvage what is left of myself, after so many years of being a slave to unrequited love.’
Manju raised his eyebrows, surprised at the use of words that seemed so quintessentially English. His friend’s English far exceeded his own in grammar and accent, which he admired. Raj was a gentleman in every sense of the word, and in comparison, he found himself rather lacking.
‘I am England returned unless you had forgotten,’ added Rajinder. ‘Shakespeare cannot fail to touch a young man’s heart, especially in Oxford.’
‘Ah yes. I had forgotten. Your education far exceeds my own, my friend. I was just thinking that.’
‘You do yourself a disservice. To grow up with a man like your father was an education in itself. Comparisons in this way are rarely helpful, is that not so? If I compare myself to you, then I too find much amiss. Perhaps that is how we should be?’
‘Maybe you are right. To be made humble when looking at another must surely be a good thing? My father would most certainly have said that, and did, I believe, on many occasions.’
‘A very wise man. Anyway, I plan to re-visit some friends there next year, when I go with Rani to see Harish.’
‘May I come too? I shall go at Christmas but was also thinking of going in the spring. It is very beautiful there then.’
‘You know the answer will be yes, but I shall confirm it tomorrow,’ replied Rajinder, glad that his friend would be coming with them. He was excellent company and Rani liked him a lot.
‘Thank you. I like to see my sister as often as possible, and the children too, but tell me more… I am intrigued. What will you do with the pieces of yourself that you salvage?’ he asked, sipping his frothy buttermilk from the frosted metal beaker.
‘Put them in a glass case to observe and remind me not to waste any more time!’ came the reply. ‘Enough of this! Do you see Sami sitting in front of the fortune teller? What words of wisdom will be imparted tonight, I wonder?’
‘Who knows? The fortune teller is an interesting man. The way he calls to those he wishes to speak with is very unusual!’
‘Indeed. He told me a man would come to take what I did not wish to give. He told me that, and then Professor Mistry arrives at my door!’
‘He really said that? Perhaps I should try him myself,’ said Manju, eyebrows raised and the hairs on the back of his neck prickling in anticipation.
‘He calls people to him when he has something to tell them. The request cannot come the other way around. Observe and you will see. You know, the other night I was watching from my balcony, and I saw him being driven away in a limousine.’
‘Surely you were mistaken?’ asked Manju.
‘Not mistaken at all. He saw me and waved. It was him.’
‘Then, I say it again. He is an interesting man.’
***
The following afternoon, Rajinder sat in the garden with Rani, a tray of tea in front of them. Sunlight glinted through the trees and the fountain splashed to create a pleasant backdrop of sound. He drew in a deep breath of fragrant flower-perfumed air, the petals already warmed by the rapidly rising sun. The almond cakes that had just been taken from the oven and left to cool under mesh by the open window also released their aroma, adding to the abundance of what Rajinder once described as ‘multi-sensory beauty.’ It was perfect, and glad to be there with the love of his life by his side, he gently kissed her cheek.
‘Raj? I must talk to you,’ said Rani, sipping her tea.
‘Then talk. I am listening,’ he replied. She sounded anxious and he turned to face her, cup poised in one hand, and a half-eaten biscuit in the other.
Rani took a deep breath. ‘For so many years now, we have been together,’ she began…
‘Well yes, but with rather a large gap in between,’ replied Raj wryly, his decision to say what he felt coming to the fore far more easily now than at any other time in his life.
‘I know. I was troubled. You know this, yet you are sarcastic?’
‘Of course, sorry. What do you wish to say? I will be quiet now.’
‘Yes, please do. This is not easy for me. Sister Monica used to say that since the attack, the ground continued to shake under my feet, even in England.’ She shuddered at the remembrance.
Having seen this reaction many times before, he reached over to hold her hand which was hastily pushed away.
‘No, no comfort, please,’ she said. ‘Not now. Just listen. Also, she said that I have built a wall around me. A shield.’
‘I should say! Of solid stone too,’ he commented.
‘Please! Let me speak!’
‘Sorry, sorry…’
‘I am trying to explain my behaviour, how I am with you, with everyone, I suppose.’ She put her hand in her pocket and pulled out a handkerchief.
Rajinder thought she was about to cry which was a very rare thing indeed. He waited, but no tears came. What did come was her reaching out for his hand, instead of the usual other way around.
‘Raj, I have made many mistakes…’
Who hasn’t, Raj thought? He wished she would get on with what she was trying to say. If she was going to end their relationship for good, then he wanted it over with. He’d suffered enough and prolonging the agony was both unkind and painful.
She went on to tell him about the letter that changed her parentage, stating that as far as she was concerned, her parents remained the same. ‘I am Rani Kapur, the English teacher’s daughter. I do need to ask some questions for Harish’s sake. Not now, but another time.’ She took a deep breath to calm herself.
Rajinder was shocked. How could he not be? He also felt a great wave of pity and love for the vulnerable woman by his side who, despite it all, was still trying to keep up the pretence of not caring, of things going over her head, when the very opposite was true. The one bit of stability she’d had, her parents, and in particular, her father, had now been turned to dust, and if the earth beneath her did shake, as Sister Monica in England had said, then surely it was shaking now. He could almost feel it himself! It certainly explained the colour of her eyes. He had seen pictures of the maharaja’s family, everyone in the city had, and quite a few of them had the same eye colour as Rani and her son. It was amazing that no one had thought about the connection before. Maybe they had and just didn’t want to say?
‘Also,’ she continued, ‘I have another question. This one is very difficult for me.’ She paused again. ‘I am wanting to ask, Rajinder Desai, son of a lawyer, if you will marry me, Rani Kapur, the English teacher’s daughter, not Rani Hope, nor Lady Hope, nor Rani who is the illegitimate daughter of a maharaja’s son?’
Rajinder was stunned. He had never, even in his wildest dreams about Rani and their life together, imagined anything that came even close. To learn of the letter and what was written inside was shocking enough, but this? Had she really asked him to marry her? Was he dreaming?
‘I must be still asleep that I’m hearing you ask me this. Pinch me, then I will believe it and respond.’
‘You are not asleep, and no pinching will be done.’ She slipped her hand into her pocket and pulled out a gold cygnet ring; the star carved into its centre set with a small ruby.
‘This belonged to Harish’s grandfather,’ she continued. ‘Harish gave it to me before he died. Please will you take it, and me also, to be your wife?’
Rajinder’s eyes filled with tears. For Rani to ask this must have cost her dear. The wall that she spoke about had truly come down, and even if only momentarily, it had fallen for him alone. He dropped to his knees in front of her and held out his hand.
‘I say yes to both Rani Kapur, daughter of the English teacher, and my wife to be. I say yes!’
***
From his bedroom window, George viewed the scene below him as though it were a play. He remembered many other performances with Rani in them from years past, ones that stirred a whole host of emotions and feelings. He liked Rajinder a lot and had great respect for him. His love for Rani was unwavering and had spanned decades, like his for his beloved but now dead partner, Harish Snr. Sometimes love was like that, lasting until the finality of death divided both them and their memories.
Despite what he had just witnessed below him, he had little fear that his own life would change. The three had virtually been living in the same house for many years now and would continue to do so. He watched as Rani slid the ring over Raj’s finger, then hurried downstairs to fetch Champagne from the fridge, always kept there in Harish’s time, and regularly used to celebrate any occasion, no matter how small.
Ten minutes later, he was in the courtyard with them. Leila and Manju were at St Monica’s that afternoon, and after a quick phone call, they and Indi, the home manager, came hurrying down the street to join in the celebration. They all raised their glasses, some filled with Champagne, and others, mango juice, to Rajinder Desai, son of a lawyer, and Rani Kapur, the English teacher’s daughter, to toast the couple’s happiness. The fact that it was the culmination and reward for steadfastness and much suffering was silently acknowledged by them all, relieved that the torn ends of the circle would join at last.
‘I will call Harish tonight,’ Rani said. ‘The priests are both there, and I can speak to them together.’
As she said this, Rajinder wondered how Father Ryan would take the news. His affection for Rani over many years had hardly gone unnoticed. At least he’d had his God for support over that time. He remembered the priest’s kindness to him when Rani was in England. He was a good man, and Raj hoped he would feel no pain at the announcement.
George also thought about Father Ryan, and what his reaction might be. He suspected that the priest would have mixed feelings, one of those being relief, and freedom from an unspoken promise to always be there if needed. Rani had asked for nothing, but as was so often the case, what had not been said was far more powerful and binding than a few words spoken in haste at a particular given moment. Language so often held less meaning than silence, and he thought that this had been the case for them both.
Father Ryan had also played a major role in the raising of Rani’s son, as had his colleague, Father Malachy. That the young man spoke English with an Irish accent also spoke volumes. Would Father Ryan leave India altogether, or would he find himself unable to let go and carry on as before? After all, Rajinder was as used to the priest’s presence as he was. A gain for one person had caused a loss for another, the fifty-fifty tug of all living things never more present than now. Harish going to England had left everyone around him searching for their new place. It rather pushed Rani to one side, although that was probably a good thing given her proposal to Rajinder. Good luck to them all!
Later that night, Rani and Rajinder lay in bed. Rani had fallen asleep, and Rajinder watched the nightly display of shadows on the wall opposite them alone. From the garden outside came the hoot of an owl calling to its mate. He had little doubt that Rani’s shield, as Sister Monica had called it, would rise again, but that she had lowered it for him touched him deeply. He had no intention of becoming the old Rajinder again, who had been at the beck and call of his mistress. Theirs would be a much more balanced relationship from here on. Still not tired, he carefully got out of bed and walked silently out onto the balcony. The night air was a little cooler, and leaning against the balustrade he glanced over the dark garden. The owl hooted again, and in the far corner the red glow of a cigarette told him that Sunni was awake and perhaps contemplating his own life, or the events of that day.
Rajinder was still outside when dawn began to peep over the high walls, its golden rays heralding the start of a fresh new day and another chapter in the story of their lives together. There was much to look forward to, and whistling quietly he got up from his chair, stretched luxuriously, then went downstairs to make his wife-to-be a celebratory, early-morning cup of tea.