up another kite. Bah! He’d best forget women and concentrate on his kite. He was supposed to be one of the best kite-flyers in the land. Wouldn’t do his reputation any good if he lost this one as well.
Chapter Ten
R ACHAEL
Holding her hands over the fire, Rachael rubbed them together to warm them. It was late January. Winter was in no hurry to leave. Mother had pulled her armchair close to the hearth and was waiting patiently for her to begin. It was strange how the furniture, the curtains, the upholstery in the room did not match. What was stranger was that it never bothered Mother. She was so particular about everything else that it came as a surprise. But then Mother never did look upon this house as her home. For her, home was England. This stay in Lucknow was a pilgrimage she had to undertake before returning to her real home.
Rachael pulled up a stool. Sitting down on it, she opened her book and began reading. At the sound of footsteps she stopped and looked up. ‘Papa, won’t you join us?’ she asked.
‘Ah well … perhaps,’ he said, as he sat down heavily on a chair.
‘Pray tell me, is something the matter?’ Rachael asked as he let out a long sigh.
‘Not really,’ Papa replied. ‘It’s just that I have to leave for Calcutta tomorrow.’
‘How come? And so suddenly?’ Mother asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know for certain,’ Papa replied. ‘But some major changes are going to take place in Oudh soon. Dalhousie’s army has reached Cawnpore.’
‘What? An army? What for?’ Rachael asked.
Just then Ram Singh arrived, bowed slightly and gave Papa his pipe. Papa lit it and breathed out a curl of smoke.
Mother waved the air before her irritably. ‘Mr Bristow, you know how this smoke bothers me …’
‘There might be war,’ Papa said. He looked at Rachael. ‘I want you to discontinue your music lessons immediately. Is that clear?’
‘But why, Papa?’
‘Do as you’re told, girl,’ said Mother. ‘It never was a good idea to let our daughter be tutored by a native.’
‘Yes, Mother,’ Rachael replied morosely.
‘Good,’ said Papa as he slapped his thighs and got up. He turned to look at Rachael when he reached the door. ‘I hope I’ve made myself clear – I don’t want to see your teacher here again.’
Nodding her head slowly, Rachael walked over to the window. It was a moonless night and the garden was plunged in darkness. War? Whatever could that mean? Rachael could not comprehend. All she felt was an inherent sense of loss at ending the music lessons. She so looked forward to them each day. Why must they be stopped? It filled her with an inner rage. What did war have to do with music?
Rachael looked around the music hall. It looked different in winter. The khus mats had been replaced with thick padded curtains. Red Persian carpets woven with silk and gold threads covered the floor. Several charcoal braziers kept the room warm. She looked at Salim. He too looked different. He was wearing a colourful coat of brocade instead of the angarkha that he normally wore.
‘How did you manage to get permission to come to the palace today?’ Salim asked.
‘I didn’t.’ Rachael lowered her gaze as Salim looked at her. ‘Papa’s gone to Calcutta.’ She paused and licked her lips. ‘He thinks there might be war.’
‘That’s ridiculous. Rumours, that’s all.’
‘He doesn’t think it’s a good idea to be in touch with a … umm … Indians at this time.’
‘I see.’ Salim picked up a sarod and began tinkering with its strings.
‘Aren’t you going to say something?’
Salim kept quiet and continued tuning the sarod.
She looked at him, then spread her palm over the strings of the instrument so he could not play it anymore.
He looked at her.
‘Don’t be upset, Salim. Papa is away for a week. Let’s make the most of it.’
A small smile lifted the edges of his lips. He covered her hand with his and whispered, ‘You’re right.’
Rachael got up and
Chapter Ten
R ACHAEL
Holding her hands over the fire, Rachael rubbed them together to warm them. It was late January. Winter was in no hurry to leave. Mother had pulled her armchair close to the hearth and was waiting patiently for her to begin. It was strange how the furniture, the curtains, the upholstery in the room did not match. What was stranger was that it never bothered Mother. She was so particular about everything else that it came as a surprise. But then Mother never did look upon this house as her home. For her, home was England. This stay in Lucknow was a pilgrimage she had to undertake before returning to her real home.
Rachael pulled up a stool. Sitting down on it, she opened her book and began reading. At the sound of footsteps she stopped and looked up. ‘Papa, won’t you join us?’ she asked.
‘Ah well … perhaps,’ he said, as he sat down heavily on a chair.
‘Pray tell me, is something the matter?’ Rachael asked as he let out a long sigh.
‘Not really,’ Papa replied. ‘It’s just that I have to leave for Calcutta tomorrow.’
‘How come? And so suddenly?’ Mother asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know for certain,’ Papa replied. ‘But some major changes are going to take place in Oudh soon. Dalhousie’s army has reached Cawnpore.’
‘What? An army? What for?’ Rachael asked.
Just then Ram Singh arrived, bowed slightly and gave Papa his pipe. Papa lit it and breathed out a curl of smoke.
Mother waved the air before her irritably. ‘Mr Bristow, you know how this smoke bothers me …’
‘There might be war,’ Papa said. He looked at Rachael. ‘I want you to discontinue your music lessons immediately. Is that clear?’
‘But why, Papa?’
‘Do as you’re told, girl,’ said Mother. ‘It never was a good idea to let our daughter be tutored by a native.’
‘Yes, Mother,’ Rachael replied morosely.
‘Good,’ said Papa as he slapped his thighs and got up. He turned to look at Rachael when he reached the door. ‘I hope I’ve made myself clear – I don’t want to see your teacher here again.’
Nodding her head slowly, Rachael walked over to the window. It was a moonless night and the garden was plunged in darkness. War? Whatever could that mean? Rachael could not comprehend. All she felt was an inherent sense of loss at ending the music lessons. She so looked forward to them each day. Why must they be stopped? It filled her with an inner rage. What did war have to do with music?
Rachael looked around the music hall. It looked different in winter. The khus mats had been replaced with thick padded curtains. Red Persian carpets woven with silk and gold threads covered the floor. Several charcoal braziers kept the room warm. She looked at Salim. He too looked different. He was wearing a colourful coat of brocade instead of the angarkha that he normally wore.
‘How did you manage to get permission to come to the palace today?’ Salim asked.
‘I didn’t.’ Rachael lowered her gaze as Salim looked at her. ‘Papa’s gone to Calcutta.’ She paused and licked her lips. ‘He thinks there might be war.’
‘That’s ridiculous. Rumours, that’s all.’
‘He doesn’t think it’s a good idea to be in touch with a … umm … Indians at this time.’
‘I see.’ Salim picked up a sarod and began tinkering with its strings.
‘Aren’t you going to say something?’
Salim kept quiet and continued tuning the sarod.
She looked at him, then spread her palm over the strings of the instrument so he could not play it anymore.
He looked at her.
‘Don’t be upset, Salim. Papa is away for a week. Let’s make the most of it.’
A small smile lifted the edges of his lips. He covered her hand with his and whispered, ‘You’re right.’
Rachael got up and
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