Mr Roy Chowdhury has kindly allowed me the use of one of his two horses, a beautiful grey and white dappled gelding whose name is Pakshiraj, which he tells me is the name for the Bengali version of Pegasus, or indeed, any winged horse of myth or folklore. I also have the use of Mr Roy Chowdhury’s saees when I go riding and in this delectable weather, I do so quite often, sometimes in the early mornings, when the mist is still on the ground and on the rolling fields, and sometimes in the afternoons, when the delicate autumn light gilds everything orange and gold. It is one of life’s more unalloyed pleasures being able to ride for miles and miles, the wind in your face, leaving behind people, houses, habitations, hamlets here and there, just you, the steed and the rush of air and open country passing you by. I pass by rivers and fields, occasionally I ride through villages consisting of no more than a few straggling huts. Everywhere people are polite and friendly, and in our own village, Nawabgunj, a band of young men, whom I often see coming into the offices on the ground floor on, I assume, business to do with the zamindari, have taken to wishing me ‘Good morning, memsa’ab’, ‘Good evening, memsa’ab’ when they see me in the village when I go out to take the air or when I set out riding.
Another no small joy in this mild season is Tea on the lawn, or garden, I should rather say, of ‘Dighi Bari’. I have been teaching Bimala some of our customs and sometimes I let her practise these during Afternoon Tea on the grass with little folding tables, chairs, parasols. She usually pours for everyone and serves the sandwiches and cakes with such poise that I can tell Mr Roy Chowdhury feels quite proud of her, as I do, too, and no doubt, you would have done as well had you been here, dear Violet. It is at these Teas I miss you most. I speak about you to Bimala and Mr Roy Chowdhury, although it seems he has heard a lot about you and your work from notable Bengali worthies who are his friends and also from the Rajah of Cooch Behar. He always refers to you as ‘your eminent friend, Mrs Cameron, who does so much for our country.’ I feel very proud of you when he utters your name with such respect.
And now, dear Violet, you will scarcely believe your ears when I impart to you the next bit of information — I have finally embarked upon my book. I have drawn up a general plan for the disposition of the chapters, the distribution of ideas and the unfolding of the arguments in the first five chapters — there will be twelve in all — and, what is more, I have already started writing the first and the third. I have tentatively entitled it
Essay on the Rights of Women
. What do you think of the title? I miss your guiding intelligence, our numerous conversations and debates about many of the subjects, which will, no doubt, eventually find their way into the book. I miss your generosity with ideas, your willingness to discuss, correct, argue, modify. When shall we have the opportunity to do that again?
I have written at length and now I think I should sign off lest this should become more prolix and tax your energies. Send me your news, dear friend, and let me know if you want me to talk to Mr Roy Chowdhury regarding any help you need for your school. My continuing best wishes for its success and smooth running and to you my love and affection. I remain ever
Yours truly,
Maud.
P.S.: Give my love to Jane and Christopher. They must have grown quite beyond recognition now. Are they doing well at school? Think of me.
There is a sudden great influx of men at all hours, but especially during the evenings, in the ground floor offices and study. There are important meetings, some lasting till very late at night; Miss Gilby can hear the murmur of departing voices and, sometimes, their coaches and traps, well after midnight. There are lots of heated, passionate exchanges, many of them in English, but she hasn’t been able to pick out a telling word or phrase to gather the specific nature of these debates. Bimala tells Miss Gilby that it would be better if the lessons were held in a different place, in Miss Gilby’s own study, or even in Bimala’s room in the andarmahal; the piano classes are best left to times when there are no visitors. When Miss Gilby asks who these numerous visitors are, Bimala grows vague and then confesses that they are all involved in business with her husband. Miss Gilby suspects that Bimala either doesn’t know the whole truth — for her answer has the ring of incompleteness to it — or she is hiding something from her. Miss Gilby doesn’t press her on this matter any further.
The men who attend these meetings all seem to Miss Gilby to belong to the babu class — English-educated, wealthy, perhaps even holding government positions. They are attired in dhoti and shawls, some carry canes. And where is the gentle Mr Roy Chowdhury in all this? She hasn’t seen him properly for over a week, and when she has (only briefly in passing — they have exchanged polite greetings), the time hasn’t been right for her to ask him about the sudden spate of late night meetings conducted in his offices. And on those brief occasions, he has had a troubled, preoccupied expression on his face, or has she just imagined it?
Afternoon Teas in the English style, complete with cucumber sandwiches, Victoria sponge, plum cake, scones, lead naturally to Bimala’s wish to make Miss Gilby a true lover and connoisseuse of Bengali food. If truth be told, this has been Miss Gilby’s secret wish for a long time, not so much the emphasis on the food and kitchen aspects as on the unobvious corners of another country that don’t reveal themselves unless one is taken by the hand and shown them by someone who lives and moves there with the ease of one born into them. Besides, the lessons with Bimala have fallen so imperceptibly into such a natural pattern of reciprocity, the two women teaching each other things about their own cultures in such a beautiful and harmonious exchange, that it would be inaccurate to call Miss Gilby tutor any longer. She started off as one but then shed that role to occupy more fully the other, companionate one. Could she have asked for any more? How fortunate she was that the very thing she desired, this immersion into the intimate India, which hardly any one of her countrymen knew or showed an interest in knowing, how serendipitous that such designs should be revealed to her. Maybe she will write a novel, a thinly disguised account of her days in this obscure corner of Bengal, and show her countrymen a true picture of this vast country, which they governed but didn’t understand.
So today’s morning lesson on Floral Arrangement — not a lesson, really, but just a pleasant way for the two women to while away their time, gossiping about Bimala’s jaas, the servants, Mr Roy Chowdhury’s MA years in Calcutta, Miss Gilby’s Club in Calcutta, Violet Cameron’s school, that infamous weekend at the Maharajah of Mysore’s palace, while the flowers lie around as neglected decoration — has been cancelled in favour of a trip to the kitchen.
Miss Gilby has never actually cooked anything in a kitchen before: orders were given to servants and they carried them out. In India, this is one thing she has played by the rules. In the morning, she summoned the cook, planned out the day’s menu, went into the pantry, measured out everything that was needed — if this duty was left to the servants, they stole from you without batting an eyelid — reiterated the orders and instructions and left everything to the cooks and servants. Bimala, too, worked along similar lines: the cook came to her in the morning, she specified what was to be prepared; another servant went to the market and bought fish, meat, groceries; she issued orders — informed the cook that the fish was going to be cooked in a mustard sauce, that Mr Roy Chowdhury felt like lobster, that it was the season for pancakes — and the cook did her bidding. Only occasionally, as a special treat to her husband or a guest, would she do the cooking herself.