Under Oriental Skies

July 29, 1875

I have made a frightful mess of myself today. We were driven up to the Viceregal Lodge in the morning where Her Ladyship Dufferin was due to arrive towards noon. Knowing that I always feel nervous at these public meetings, James had cautioned me to hold my own in front of the dignitaries. I sat down near one of the grand intricately ornamented windows in the Ball Room glancing at the massive vacant spaces on the yellow ceilings, and the glimmering glasses of the chandeliers. There I remained for the greater part of the quiet morning, drinking in the Strauss, the Mozart, and the Beethoven that wafted towards me from somewhere behind the thick heavy red curtains.

I was woken up from my solitary reverie by the hustle and bustle in the courtyard just as the clock was striking twelve. There she was followed by a host of men in heavy polished boots and glittering blue coats. She walked down the aisle, with all the Lords and the Ladies bowing to her and giving her their best smiles.

When she came up to me, however, I felt so overwhelmed for a moment that I forgot all our time-honoured rules of courtesy and instead stared awkwardly at her hat festooned with roses and hibiscuses. Dear God, what a horrible taste in hats Her Ladyship has! It was one of the hats I had seen in '66 when Ralph had taken me to Brighton. Oh, why do I keep on writing about Ralph on these pages? I was standing on the pier when I saw one of these old overfed women from the North sailing away wearing a gigantic green hat whose frills came down to her powdered neck.

A frisson of laughter ran through me and for some reason, I know what, I remembered the Mad Hatter in Alice in Wonderland and blurted out, 'The Mad Hatter!'

Almost as immediately, I excused myself, desperately mumbling something under my breath, and frantically rushed out of the room, followed soon thereafter by James. James was once again very composed. For a few moments, he glared at me and then sat down beside me and stared through the window, slowly shaking his head. There was a vast wall of emptiness between us the whole afternoon.

I have let James down, and I feel horrible about it. This meeting was so vital for his wish to become the Viceroy's personal Surgeon and I have spoilt all his chances. Oh, how utterly stupid I feel now! I feel like wringing my head in despair!

Towards evening, David came in, half-drunk, I seem to think now. He was the last person I wanted to talk to, but I let him go on once again about some faqirs he had met in Gujerat last year. It seems he wants to dress as one of them and travel with them to the mountains of Afghanistan and the cold heights of Tibet.

I was still feeling so frustrated with myself that I blurted out the entire episode in the morning to him. He spoke nothing for almost half an hour. And then with the voice of a man on whose shoulders hung the weight of eternity, he began to speak, steadily and slowly.

'In England, a woman is free only during two stages of her life --- either when she is too young or when she is too old. In the former case, her parents will put up with all her tantrums, tantalise her with gifts and wait upon her demands. Her merest whim becomes their command. And in the latter, she sits down beside the fire and as the great matron pulls the strings of the marriages of the little ones, offers free advice to anyone who seeks it and with the full brunt of her experiences comments on how wayward the youth around her have become. But between childhood and senility, a woman has no independence, she is the unfreest of all beings on this planet : she can only put up a brave face as her husband goes about the ponderous task of his public service to God, King, and Country.'

I listened patiently to him, but did not know what to think or reply. He too remained silent for a long time, as if he had unburdened the unspoken afflictions of the centuries from his agonised heart and was now exhausted by the titanic effort.

After dinner, I sat down at the desk looking at the garden below, bathed in the most beautiful moonlight. How I wished I could talk to dear Mamma for a while! She has this heavenly way of healing me with her slightest touch, closing up the cracks that threaten to open up within myself with the mere sound of her kind voice!

My dear little one,

I hope you are keeping well, and you are safe and away from the heat and the dust of the Indian plains. I have just returned this Monday from Edwina and Robert, and their three beautiful children. Oh, they are three cherubims, these little ones! Their radiant smiles make you feel you are in the bliss of heaven, far away from the toils and the turmoils of miserable sooty-faced London! Oh, dear, how terribly the Thames stinks in summer! Would you believe it, they are thinking of shutting the windows of Parliament this year to keep off the horrible smell?

But let me come back to Edwina and Robert. They are now stationed in Cornwall, and it is frightfully beautiful country out there. They were all sorely missing you and remembering the Spring of '82. Iris sends you her love too, and hopes to see you very soon in Southampton. She is getting engaged this winter to Sir Arthur McIvor, you know? I think it will be an awfully good match, the two dear ones. They are so much in love, heads turn around when they go walking down the road! His grandfather served in India during the Mutiny and was a close friend of my granfather too.

Are you coming to England at all next summer, my little one? James, I know, must be awfully busy trying to get his promotion. Your father is very proud of him, you know. He says that the young man will get to high places that he himself was never able to reach. Your grandfather talks about him all the time too. The Empire needs robust young men like him, he keeps on repeating to himself, sipping his mulled wine near the grand fire in our house whenever he comes to visit us. And then he nods himself to a peaceful sleep.

But what do I care for all this talk of government and politics, of men and their armies, of kings and their battles! Our proper place is inside the home, to raise the next generation that will carry the flag of our brave country into new worlds that are yet untouched by our glories. And above all, what matters to me is that you should be happy, under whatever skies you may live, English or Oriental.

With lots of love,

Your doting Mamma

James came into the room just as I finished writing this letter in my own hand. He looked over my shoulder for a moment, twitched his lips for a brief moment, picked up a massive volume of the British Medical Quarterly and sank into his bed, his eyes riveted on the latest surgical procedures.

'Must you always be writing and reading this womanly stuff?'

Of course, he did not ask me that question. But somehow I knew that he was struggling with himself to keep it within himself.

How hard dear James tries to hide his contempt for me! And how terribly he underestimates the powers of a woman's intuition!

It makes him at once sorely pitiable and dearly lovable!