The Glass Palace (27 page)

It was impossible to think of Outram House without Dolly; impossible to imagine Ratnagiri emptied of her presence. But better that than to see her waste away before his eyes. No, he owed her this. He kneeled beside her and raised his hand.

She was wearing a crumpled night-time sari. The cloth was white and it hung like a veil over her long slender limbs. He thought of the time when they'd sat together on his sagging rope bed, with his blood-stained langot draped over their interlocking limbs. Just as he was about to wake her, his hand froze. To think of being without Dolly: it was madness! He began to back away. But then again he stopped. No, he owed her this.

Suddenly she opened her eyes. ‘You!' She sat upright, folding her arms over her chest.

He put a finger to his lips. ‘Quiet. Everyone's asleep. Quick. Get dressed.'

‘Why?'

‘He's leaving. Your man.'

Her eyes widened, in dismay. ‘So soon?'

‘Yes.'

‘But there's no steamer. And at this time of year, I didn't think he would be able to go.'

‘He's hired a hori.'

‘But isn't it too late now?'

‘No. They won't be able to leave until the light's better.
Quick. You have to stop him. Too much has gone wrong for you, Dolly. Not again. Come. Quick.'

‘How?'

‘I'll harness the trap and take you down to Mandvi. Quick.'

By the time she was dressed, the trap was outside, ready to go. Sawant had harnessed it to his fastest horse, a grey mare. He held out a hand to help Dolly in and then flicked the tip of his whip over the mare's head. The trap lurched forward, and they went rattling down the hill, past the police lines, the gaol, the Cutchery. At the Jhinjhinaka bazaar, a pack of guard dogs ran howling after them as they went racing past. From a long way off they saw the hori, casting off its moorings and pulling away, under oar, into the bay.

‘Mohanbhai!'

He cracked his whip. ‘I can go no faster, Dolly.'

When they reached the jetty the boat was a long way gone, approaching the mouth of the bay. ‘Run, Dolly, run!' Sawant leapt off and gripped the mare's bit. ‘Run! Run!'

She ran down the jetty, waving: in the distance the boat was trying to manoeuvre its bows so that it would be able to slip through the shoals and currents ahead. Its stern bucked furiously as it approached the pounding waters of the open sea. In a few minutes it would be out of the bay. She waved again and just as she was about to give up the hori's bows began to turn, away from the bay's mouth. Circling all the way around the bay the heavy craft came back to the waterfront, pulling up at the end of the jetty. The hori sat high in the water and Rajkumar easily vaulted the distance between the boat and the jetty's outermost plank.

He walked up to her puffing on his cheroot. ‘Yes?'

She could feel herself flushing, the blood rising to her face. ‘Mr Raha,' she said, picking her words with care. ‘The currents are dangerous at this time of year and the Dak Bungalow has been booked for a week. There is no reason to leave in such a hurry.'

‘But it was you who said—'

‘Yes, but there is sometimes a difference between what one says and what one means . . .'

Rajkumar took the cheroot from his mouth with a hand that was moving very slowly, as though in stunned disbelief. Then he uttered a shout of laughter and threw his cheroot high into the air. They stood looking at it, side by side, laughing, watching as it rose circling above them. Suddenly the glowing tip disintegrated and a shower of sparks came floating down. It was as though fireworks were raining down from the heavens.

The Collector gave the appearance of being delighted when Uma told him that Rajkumar and Dolly were to be married. ‘Splendid!' he said. ‘Splendid!'

Uma explained that Dolly wanted to have a very quiet ceremony: she was sure that the Queen would do her best to stop the marriage if she got to know of it.

In the spirit of the moment the Collector offered several suggestions. Why not have the ceremony at the Residency? He would issue the licence himself and preside over their marriage in person. Afterwards, perhaps champagne; just for the four of them—Uma must make sure to be careful in husbanding the last batch of ice from Bombay . . . The enthusiasm in his voice was such that Uma couldn't help feeling that her husband was delighted by the prospect of seeing the last of Dolly.

The day came and Uma provided two garlands, of marigolds and jasmine. She wove them herself, with flowers picked from the garden. At the end of the civil ceremony, in the Collector's ‘camp office', Dolly and Rajkumar garlanded each other, smiling like children.

The plan was for the couple to spend their wedding night at the Dak Bungalow where Rajkumar was staying. Dolly had smuggled a few belongings and a bagful of clothes out of Outram House with the help of the First and Second Princesses. The First Princess had given her a pair of earrings and the Second a jade bracelet. They were happy for her and they were sure the other girls would be too. But for the moment in order
to keep the news a secret, they hadn't told the two younger Princesses. Later, when everything was safely signed and sealed, Dolly could go back to Outram House with her new husband to pay her respects.

Everything went as planned until it came time for Dolly and Rajkumar to sign the register. Uma was the only available witness and Dolly balked at asking the bearers. But just then, quite miraculously, Mrs Khambatta, a lady photographer from Bombay, drew up in a gaari, toting her bags and her camera. Rajkumar went running out to rope her in. She readily agreed to be a witness and afterwards they all went out to the garden. The Collector called for champagne. A gentle breeze was blowing in from the sea. The light was mellow and golden.

Mrs Khambatta's camera was an instrument of superb craftsmanship: a 1901 Graflex single-lens reflex, with a cube-like body, a bellows extension and a four-sided hood. It was fitted with a Globe wide-angle lens which proved perfect for the panorama deployed before the shutter. Before exposing her first plate, Mrs Khambatta spent a full half-hour working with a Hurter and Driffield Actinograph Exposure Calculator, peering at its slide rule and calibrating its rotary cylinder for the present time and latitude. Then, signalling her readiness with an upraised hand, she exposed several plates in quick succession, standing back from her camera to squint at the group before squeezing the bulb of her Guery Flap-Shutter.

At dusk Rajkumar and Dolly gathered up their belongings. Uma lent them Kanhoji's gaari. On the way to the Dak Bungalow Dolly changed her mind.

‘Let's go to Outram House now,' she said to Rajkumar. ‘Let's talk to the Queen. Let's get it over with.'

It was dark by the time they got there. A lamp was shining in the King's room and another in Sawant's by the gate. The Princesses would be downstairs, Dolly thought, sitting around a single light, to save oil. How surprised they would be!

The gates were locked, so she told Kanhoji to use the knocker. He banged hard for a full five minutes but there was no answer.

Dolly went to the gatehouse window and knocked on the wooden shutters. ‘Mohanbhai,' she called out. ‘Open the gates. It's me, Dolly. I've come to say goodbye. Open the gates.'

The lights in the room went out and a minute or two later, she heard Sawant's voice, whispering: ‘Dolly?'

‘Where are you Mohanbhai?'

‘Here. By the gatepost.' He was peering through the crack between the wall and the gate. ‘Dolly, Mebya knows. She's told me not to let you in, not to open the gates.'

Dolly gasped. How could she leave Ratnagiri without saying goodbye to Min and Mebya, to the Princesses? ‘But, Mohanbhai, it's me, Dolly. Let me in.'

‘I can't, Dolly. You know I would if I could. But Mebya is in one of her rages. You know how angry she gets.'

There was a pause and then a cloth bundle appeared at the top of the gate.

‘Mebya had us pack some of your things,' said Sawant. ‘She told me to make sure you got this.'

Dolly let the bundle drop to the ground.

‘Mohanbhai, let me in.' She was pleading now. ‘Just for a few minutes. Just to say goodbye.'

‘I can't, Dolly. I really can't. Mebya said she would sack me if I did; she said we couldn't ever say your name again in this house.'

Dolly began to sob, knocking her head against the gatepost. ‘Don't cry, Dolly.' Sawant looked through the crack. ‘We'll miss you, all of us. Look, the girls are waving to you from up there.'

The four Princesses were standing close together, at one of the windows upstairs. They waved and she tried to wave back too, but her legs buckled under her. She fell to her knees, sobbing. Rajkumar rushed to lift her off the ground. Holding her up with one arm, he picked up her bundled clothes with his free hand.

‘Come, Dolly. Let's go. There's nothing to be done.' He had to lift her bodily off the ground to get her inside the gaari.

‘Chalo, chalo, jaldi chalo.'

When they were trotting past the police-barracks, near the parade ground, some of the constables' wives and children came out to wave. They all seemed to know that Miss Dolly was going away.

She waved back, wiping the tears fiercely from her eyes. She would not allow herself to be robbed of this last glimpse of the lane: the leaning coconut palms, the Union Jack, flapping above the gaol on its crooked pole, the rickety teashop at the entrance to the lane. This was home, this narrow lane with its mossy walls of laterite. She knew she would never see it again.

She sat bent over in her seat, hugging her old clothes. A cloth bundle, once again: only this time she wasn't carrying it on her head.

With her hand raised to knock, Uma noticed that the door of the Collector's study was slightly ajar. She could see him through the crack. He was sitting upright in his straight-backed chair. His glasses were dangling around his neck and he was staring into space.

He turned with a start when she knocked. ‘Come in.'

She seated herself opposite him, in a chair that had no arms. This was where his stenographer sat, she guessed, little Mr Ranade, with a pad on his knees, taking dictation. They looked at each other silently across the broad, leather-covered expanse of the desk. A letter lay open in front of him; she noted, in passing, that it was sealed with a florid rosette of red wax. She was the first to drop her eyes and it was only then that he spoke.

‘You have come to tell me that you want to go home,' he said. ‘Am I right?'

She nodded. ‘Yes.'

‘May I ask why?'

‘I am useless here. There's nothing I can do for you that you cannot do better for yourself. And with Dolly gone . . .'

He cleared his throat, cutting her short. ‘And may I ask when you will be coming back?'

She made no answer, looking silently down at her lap.

‘Well?'

‘You deserve better than me.'

He turned his face away abruptly, so that she could see only one side of his face.

‘You can marry again,' she said quickly, ‘take another wife. I will see that my family makes no objection.'

He raised a finger to silence her.

‘Could you tell me,' he said in a coldly formal voice. ‘What did I do wrong? Did I mistreat you? Behave badly?' ‘No. Never.' The tears welled up in her eyes, blinding her. ‘You have been nothing but kind and patient. I have nothing to complain of.'

‘I used to dream about the kind of marriage I wanted.' He was speaking more to himself now than to her. ‘To live with a woman as an equal, in spirit and intellect: this seemed to me the most wonderful thing life could offer. To discover together the world of literature, art: what could be richer, more fulfilling? But what I dreamt of is not yet possible, not here, in India, not for us.' He ran his fingers over the letter in front of him, picking idly at the heavy wax seal.

‘So you'll go back to live with your parents then?'

‘Yes.'

‘You've picked a good time.' He gave her his thin, ironic smile. ‘You would have had to pack your things soon enough anyway.'