Like every other Raj party, James’s party was one where nobody mingled; after all, parties were thrown to show who stood where, immovable, the possibility of mobility a dangerous mirage. Stuck, stuck, stuck, Miss Gilby, defiant and different, had always thought. In her eight years in India, she had attracted a lot of attention and opprobrium — she had been called various things: ‘dangerous’, ‘unwomanly’, ‘unladylike’, ‘monstrous’, ‘unruly’, ‘unpatriotic’, ‘traitorous’, ‘unnatural’. If it bothered her slightly in the beginning, it didn’t now. She had refused to play their game, she had refused to live in a little England of these little people’s making in the heart of such a big, baffling, incomprehensible country. It didn’t come as a surprise that she was punished for breaking the rules, especially that central rule of the Raj — you didn’t treat the natives as equals. Of course, you were friendly with them, you worked with them (well, you had to), you invited them to certain parties, although not all, but you most certainly didn’t treat them as equals, not after 1857, not after Cawnpore. The natives inhabited a different world from their masters and governors and the space in between was, should be, unbridgeable. Rule set in stone, cast in iron. There was no deflection from that. If you swayed from it, you had to pay.
Miss Gilby made sure that she moved around, talking to as many people as she could manage, especially the Indians and their wives, at every party. James’s were no exceptions. She cast her mind back to the Ooty party of 1899 to place Nikhilesh Roy Chowdhury. He had been one of the men who had turned up not in the obligatory black tie but in his dhoti-kurta and a beautiful shawl, the colour of a young fawn, embroidered so delicately that she had wanted to run her hands over the stitches and the fabric. He had been talking to the Major General, or someone from the Indian Army. When she asked James who the Indian gentleman was, he said, ‘Oh, that’s Nik, Nikilesh. He’s a minor zamindar in Bengal. Jolly nice chap. Knows the Mertons and the Leigh-Fermors. Some sort of Harrow connection, I think, but I’m not sure. Jolly good sort, you know. Not a drunken idiot like the rest of the nawabs around here. Here, let me introduce you.’
Miss Gilby’s first impression of Nikhilesh was of gentleness and refinement. He spoke English beautifully, with none of the low louting and fawning and other affectations, which so afflicted the natives, and he spoke it in a soft, gentle voice. Miss Gilby was of the firm opinion that behind all the servile tics, the deep bowing and the ingratiating attitudes of most of the natives, they were mocking the Anglos all the time, in fact using the very customs of the English and distorting them in such a way that it could only be a type of insolent sarcasm. She had first had this feeling when the natives had carried the dinghies of English passengers over the unceasingly crashing breakers on to the beach in Madras, laughing all the time, as if they were having the time of their life, while the seasick, frightened and tired Englishwomen screeched, cried and prayed. She was convinced the men were enjoying their discomfort and behind their ‘haan, memsa’b’, ‘na, memsa’b’, their begging and their over-eagerness, they were tilting the boats and making it that much more turbulent for the English ladies.
The exchange of greetings was barely over when Miss Gilby had the unshakeable feeling that this was one Indian man, possibly the first in her eight years in this country, who was not secretly mocking her and her countrymen while keeping up an outward show of courteous, even flattering, behaviour. This may have had something to do with the fact that the nice gentleman did not have any of the twitches of false obeisance and ridiculously exaggerated manners the natives were so given to, thinking this would be of advantage to them. Not a trace of that in this calm, refined man: he held his head high when he spoke, enunciated clearly, balanced the teacup in his hand with poise.
Miss Gilby can only guess how Nikhilesh Roy Chowdhury knows of her move up north to Calcutta from Madras, hardly more than a year ago. For the last year, she has been attached to the household of the Nawab of Motibagh, in the capacity of governess to the Begum — funny how the upper class Indians seemed to call ‘companions’ to their wives ‘governesses’, as if they were little children in need of basic education in manners, speech and writing — and it would be surprising if that news did not travel fast in the enclosed world of minor Bengal royalty. An event such as having an Anglo-Indian in the household was like throwing a stone in a tiny pond — the ripples were bound to reach the edge.
If she is to take up this offer of being ‘governess’ to Bimala — she’s sure he means English Teacher and Companion — she will have to give up her position with the Nawab of Motibagh. It will have to be done with delicacy and tact so that the Nawab doesn’t think she is leaving them for the employ of a man he is certain to consider his inferior in terms of rank or title. She has not been making enormous progress with Saira Begum. Besides, Miss Gilby has the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that her presence in that household had caused not a few ruffled feathers, that she had been asked to join them in the first place because having a European in your employment was such a mark of distinction. In the face of such petty machinations, Miss Gilby feels soiled, her noble aim of enlightening native women compromised. She would like to make clear her aims and purposes in seeking positions in native Indian families as a teacher but that would only make the men even more suspicious than her race already did. In this, the English and the Indian men were alike and in complete agreement — women didn’t need to be taught vast amounts of things. If she were to outline her ideals about how the native womenfolk should interact with their English counterparts, there would be a minor revolt amongst the men, both Indian and English. And then she wouldn’t be able to do the very little on which she thinks she has just embarked. Best to keep quiet and get on with things, even give out the impression that she has no purpose other than employment in mind. Miss Gilby has learnt this lesson the hardway: if you want to get your own way, give away nothing, draw attention to nothing, indeed create smokescreens behind which you can hide while moving secretly, silently towards your destination.
She catches herself thinking about that old chestnut again and stops; she cannot dwell on it if things are to move forward. And move forward they will, if Nikhilesh Roy Chowdhury’s letter is anything to go by. Here is a different man, here is a peer, a fellow thinker, a friend, Miss Gilby dares to dream. Her decision is made.
She takes pen and paper and writes:
Dear Mr Roy Chowdhury,
How kind of you to remember me from James’s Summer Season Party in Ooty three years ago. And congratulations — very belated though they may be — on your marriage. I feel honoured that you should have thought of me in regard to Bimala’s Education in English. I shall be very happy to take up the position of Teacher and Companion to Bimala as soon as it is mutually convenient.
I look forward to meeting you soon.
Yours sincerely,
Miss Maud Gilby
She blows on the paper, puts it in an envelope, seals it and then writes his address on the front. She gets up from her desk, goes to the door, puts her head out and calls, ‘Koi hain? Mahesh! Mahesh! Yahaan aao!’ No answer. No sound of movement either. Where has that man disappeared yet again?
Miss Gilby descends the stairs and decides to take matters in hand. The envelope is held securely between her fingers.