The Satapur Moonstone Read online

  Perhaps the maharani wasn’t as confused in her mind as Perveen had believed when they were talking about the moonstone. “And how old is Mr. Basu?”

  “Almost eighty years. He has a lifetime of wisdom.”

  This made her uneasy. Mr. Basu would probably be good on Indian history, including the Maratha Wars. But what about current thinking in science and the humanities? “He sounds very experienced. But how is he keeping up with modern knowledge that is expected for young men today?”

  Maharani Putlabai looked sternly at her. “It is not only information that makes a good tutor. It is love of family. Do you know about the death of my son two years ago and my older grandson last year?”

  “Yes. I was very sad to hear about the tragedies, Rajmata.” Perveen felt she should say more but didn’t know what wouldn’t be twisted by the wily dowager. “May I know how long it has been since your own husband died?”

  “Ten years,” she said. “That is a portrait of him taken five years before he passed.”

  Perveen looked at the wall and saw a hand-tinted photograph in a heavily gilded frame. He was a white-haired gentleman with a curling mustache, a different maharaja from the one in the guest room portrait. At the maharaja’s feet was a slain tiger. The so-called curse caused royal men to die early, but it appeared that this one had lived a long life.

  Pointing a small, arthritis-gnarled finger at Perveen, the dowager maharani said, “Today, his two grandchildren are all Satapur has left. And they come to me every day looking for the love and companionship their mother denies them.”

  Perveen remained silent, not wishing to sound as if she was taking sides.

  Even though Perveen hadn’t contradicted her, Maharani Putlabai continued. “There was no need for you to come. Everything could have been settled if my letter had been read by that new gora in the circuit house.”

  “Mr. Colin Sandringham,” Perveen said, disliking the maharani’s use of the derogatory word for foreigner. “He read the letter after it was finally delivered, but he cannot respond without confirming everyone’s feelings about the matter. As you know, without a ruling maharaja on the throne, this entire family are wards of the government. The Kolhapur Agency has requested I carry out this protection.”

  “So you, a lady, are appointed to protect us?” Maharani Putlabai sounded shocked.

  Trying not to appear argumentative, Perveen told her, “They sent me because I am an Indian who speaks Marathi, because I have experience practicing law, and I will not violate your purdah custom. I will listen closely to you and to the choti-rani because we can sit at the same table.”

  The white-dressed servant had come back into the room. With head bowed, he whispered, “Rajmata, they are here.”

  “Very well.” Maharani Putlabai nodded at him, then said to Perveen in a contemptuous tone, “Tomorrow you will meet Basu-sahib. Then you will understand the children are learning all that is necessary from him.”

  There was a sound of running feet, and Perveen’s attention jerked toward the doorway. A little girl wearing a lacy pink frock raced straight into the room, clutching something tightly to her chest. A taller boy wearing a navy brocade coat embroidered in gold was in pursuit. He stopped short when the girl had reached the rajmata’s outstretched arms.

  “She took my binoculars!” the boy accused, his face contorted with irritation. “She’ll smudge them up with her fat fingers.”

  “They’re not his—they’re ours. It’s my turn.”

  “Children, they don’t belong to either of you. They’re mine.” Maharani Putlabai held out the binoculars to the buffoon. “Put these away in my quarters.”

  The maharaja and his princess sister were beautiful, with golden-brown eyes; fair skin; dark, curly hair; and a manner as lively and mischievous as that of any children Perveen might see in Bombay. She was amused to learn the old queen cared so much for her binoculars. She was probably busy spying out from the line of tall arched windows of the old palace. No wonder the dowager didn’t want to move to the new palace; it would deny her a front-row seat on the world.

  “But I want them!” the boy whined.

  Maharani Putlabai hesitated. In a softer tone, she said, “Wagh, it is dark now. Kindly wait to play with them until tomorrow morning.”

  Perveen’s head swiveled between the grandmother and grandson. Even though she had addressed him with a nickname that meant “tiger,” her verb tense had been formal. She was speaking to the child as her king.

  Aditya rose to take the binoculars from the dowager, but from his quick steps and tossed head, he seemed annoyed to be sent off to put them away. However, Perveen was glad to have one less person in the room. An audience could influence Maharani Putlabai to hang a bit tougher in order to save face.

  “Who’s the lady?” Princess Padmabai looked shyly at Perveen.

  “Yes—who?” Prince Jiva Rao echoed in a more imperious tone.

  “The British sent her to us. You will call her Perveen-memsahib,” the dowager said, standing up as if to assert her power over the boy. As she did so, Padmabai was bumped off her lap and giggled.

  As the maharani reseated herself with the assistance of two bearers, she said dourly to the maharaja, “Perveen-memsahib wants to decide your education.”

  “Perveen-memsahib, are you our new teacher?” Prince Jiva Rao looked at Perveen suspiciously.

  “No, don’t worry about that. I actually am a lawyer—have you heard of this job?” When he shook his head, she said softly, “My job is to listen to everyone and help them find ways to agree. My full name is Perveen Mistry. If you like, you can call me Perveen-aunty—”

  “They must call you memsahib,” insisted the rajmata. “Because you are working for the British.”

  Was this a dig? Perveen imagined the royals weren’t happy with the British because of having to tithe so much of their state’s wealth. It was a shame she couldn’t tell the rajmata her private feelings about British rule. Looking at Jiva Rao, Perveen said, “I am very new to palace life. Your Majesty, what would you like me to call you?”

  Padmabai piped up. “Everyone calls him Wagh. When he was young, he cried as loud as a tiger!”

  “And the tiger is part of our coat of arms. However, that is a nickname just for family. To say, ‘Maharaja’ is respectful,” the dowager maharani told Perveen.

  “Maharaja Jiva Rao?” Perveen asked, trying to find a way to connect with the boy.

  “No! To say his name to his face is disrespectful! Simply say, ‘Maharaja.’ And for his sister, say, ‘Rajkumari.’”

  “Actually, Mr. Basu calls them Prince and Princess. That is another appropriate choice.”

  Perveen turned at the sound of a pleasant low voice speaking a mixture of Marathi and English. The tall woman walking toward the table in quick, athletic steps wore a lemon-yellow sari as demure as Maharani Putlabai’s, but made of fashionable French chiffon, just like Vandana Mehta’s. There the similarity between the women ended. Maharani Mirabai’s skin was darker, and had a slightly weathered look that was unusual for an upper-class woman. The princess’s large dark brown eyes were magnetic, but there were fine lines around them, just as there were lines on either side of her thin lips. She was not a classical beauty, but she was slim and looked strong, which surprised Perveen. She had imagined Mirabai would resemble the maharanis in miniature paintings, who spent their days lolling in bed or at tables laden with delicacies.

  Perveen’s attention was distracted by Mirabai’s companion, a tall snow-white hound with a bright pink nose. The dog was a virtual copy of Desi, the guard dog at the circuit house. But unlike Desi, who was a fast-running outdoor dog and not particularly social, this one had a house pet’s manners, walking confidently to Perveen and nosing around her.

  Perveen put her hand out for the dog to sniff, and he wagged his tail as she scratched under his neck. His fur was silky
soft and had a faint perfume. Was it sandalwood? Close up, she saw that his collar was studded with what looked like real rubies.

  “Ganesan likes you!” Padmabai chirped. “See his tail going quick-quick!”

  Most dogs approved of Perveen—even the skittish ones. She reasoned that animals could identify the humans who wished them well. Bowing her head to the junior maharani, she said, “I am Perveen Mistry, the lawyer who’s come on behalf of the government. Thanks to both you and your mother-in-law for your welcome into the palace. I believe we will be able to resolve any conflicts if we work together.”

  Mirabai gave Perveen a nod and went to sit in the chair next to her daughter. Perveen noticed that Jiva Rao had bounced into the chair on Putlabai’s left. The pecking order was clear. Even the dog knew his place. He lay down on the marble floor on the open side of Mirabai’s chair.

  A series of bearers entered, first carrying finger bowls. When Perveen’s bowl was set before her, she dipped her fingers with pleasure in the warm water, which had a floating slice of lemon and a tiny rose in it. Elegant, indeed.

  After the finger bowls were moved, the bearers returned carrying steaming plates. Perveen closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the rich smell of saffron and sweet onions that wafted in the air. She was so hungry. She wondered who would be served first: the maharaja or the dowager maharani. She was startled when one bearer placed a large steel thali plate on the mosaic marble floor, and each bearer holding a tureen squatted down to leave a small scoop on it. The dog began moaning, but Mirabai sternly told him to stay. At last, she gave him the command to eat, and he sprinted to the plate.

  “Parsis say to always give the first bite of food to the dog!” Perveen was determined not to show that she was taken aback.

  Maharani Mirabai’s eyes widened. “You also fear poisoning?”

  Perveen felt jolted. Was there a reason to fear poison in the palace? She’d thought such stories of treachery were only historical. Tongue-tied, she failed to come up with an answer.

  “Your people also have enemies near them?” Mirabai persisted.

  Perveen knew she’d better explain the custom. “Actually, we offer food to the dog first as a kindness toward animals. That is part of our religion.”

  “The poison worry is silly, just as the slobbering dog is,” muttered the dowager maharani. “It used to be that dogs stayed outside. She took him in just after my son died.”

  “Ganesan looks like the South Indian breed called Rajapalayam,” Perveen said, trying to distract the senior maharani from further disparagement of her daughter-in-law. “The Satapur agent keeps a dog that looks similar at the circuit house.”

  For the first time, Mirabai seemed to really look at Perveen. “It is correct that my dog is a Rajapalayam. He was gifted to us by the last agent at the circuit house after my husband’s death.”

  This meant it was probable that Ganesan was related to Desi—very likely a brother or son.

  “Ganesan means ‘one who watches and keeps guard,’” said the maharani Mirabai.

  “He is like an older brother!” Perveen said, then realized how thoughtless that was given Prince Pratap Rao’s death.

  Mirabai scowled, and the dowager maharani said, “As if a dog could take the place of a child!”

  In the short time they’d been talking, Ganesan had quickly cleaned the thali of every scoop of food. He looked up as if asking for more.

  Mirabai nodded at the bearer standing silently by the table’s edge. “Go ahead.” To Perveen, she said, “Normally, I wait a few more minutes—but the children and I will eat this food.”

  The bearers moved first to Mirabai and stood with the array of dishes, ready to serve. “Only rice, dal, and yogurt for him today,” Mirabai instructed the bearer. “He is not well.”

  “Again? He needs meat for strength,” the dowager objected, but Mirabai shook her head. Perveen noted that neither of the women took meat, and guessed it was because they were widows. Princess Padmabai was allowed everything. She chose lamb curry, potato curry, paneer kofta, saffron pilaf as well as plain rice, dal, cucumber raita, and stir-fried fenugreek leaves. Sweets were served at the same time, in little bowls; she took a rice pudding and gulab jamun balls.

  Perveen ate all that was offered to her and used her right hand, following the lead of the dowager maharani, although silver was set around each place. The food was excellent, showing the signs of a careful cook who spiced things on the lighter side.

  Mirabai ate in the British fashion, as did her son, who was using his fork and knife in a slapdash manner. Princess Padmabai used both methods interchangeably, spearing potato curry with the fork in her left hand and mixing rice and yogurt together with her right. Perhaps it was to appease both her mother and her grandmother, who ate elegantly, not a bit of food coming past her knuckles.

  “What a delicious meal. It’s hard to pick a favorite, but the lamb curry is especially tasty,” Perveen said after she’d sampled all.

  “Is that so?” the dowager shot back. “Do tell us, what is the Bombay standard?”

  “There are many different cooking styles in Bombay,” Perveen said, sensing that she was being told she hadn’t the right to make pronouncements about the palace food. “My ancestors came from Persia hundreds of years ago, and some of the old recipes are still cooked. We eat rice with raisin and nuts, and we put sugar in our curries.”

  “The royal cuisine uses upward of forty or fifty spices per dish,” boasted the dowager maharani.

  “In rainy season, any food can become sickening,” Mirabai said, looking at Perveen. “It’s probably due to the rains that Wagh fell ill. That is why his diet is limited today.”

  “When was that?” Perveen asked, tearing off a bit of paratha.

  “I was in bed all of last week,” Jiva Rao said with a yawn that revealed half-eaten rice in his mouth. “It was so boring! And only soup to eat.”

  “Soup I made for you,” Mirabai said, giving Perveen a significant look. “His stomach is still not ready for rich food.”

  “It was bad soup,” the maharaja continued in his whining tone. “Then old Basu kept telling me to read, but I could hardly see the words. And my head hurt.”

  Perveen focused her attention on Maharani Mirabai, who was urging her daughter to finish her dal. “Was a doctor called to see the maharaja?” Perveen asked.

  The younger queen shot a sideways look at the dowager. “It was not her wish.”

  Putlabai swirled yogurt and rice together as she spoke to Perveen, not looking up. “Dr. Andrews only comes too late. Calling for him is as good as wishing the person dead. My priest can take care of ailments.”

  “I hope to meet your priest,” Perveen said evenly. It was appropriate for her report to include whether the prince had access to reliable medical care. Some Hindu priests were experts in Ayurvedic medicine, but others knew very little and as a result could do quite a bit of harm.

  The dowager ate noisily and took a long drink of water. “It is a shame, but that cannot be. Our priest has gone on his village tour—he gives blessings to people at temples in small towns once the weather is good enough to travel.”

  “The citizens must be grateful for the special visitor.” Perveen wondered if the dowager had sent the priest away in order to avoid his being interviewed by her. Turning to the prince, Perveen said, “Maharaja, are there any books you enjoy reading?”

  “The Mahābhārata,” Jiva Rao mumbled in a flat tone. Since he’d lost hold of the binoculars and been served the plain meal, he seemed less lively.

  “And, of course, the history of every Maratha ruler—not just of our state, but of the dozens of others.” The grandmother reached out and pinched the boy’s cheek approvingly.

  Watching the prince squirm, Perveen asked, “Do you study the Mahābhārata in Hindi or Marathi?”

  “Sanskrit! The original language
come down from Brahma,” said the dowager maharani Putlabai sharply.

  “There is very little English teaching,” muttered Maharani Mirabai, as if this displeased her.

  “Just because you came from Bhor, it doesn’t mean you are better than us!” snapped her mother-in-law.

  “I never said such a thing.” There was a clattering sound as Mirabai’s fork dropped to her plate. “We both know the maharaja wished to have his sons speak fluent English. Only then can they advocate with strength.”

  “But Basu teaches English very well!” The dowager maharani thumped a tiny fist on the table, making a fork rattle and the grandchildren snicker. “Are you saying that your late, esteemed husband didn’t learn to properly speak?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Mirabai spoke crisply. “He was the most intelligent man I ever knew. But he did not have the right accent for those English people. When he spoke, they would laugh behind their hands. He might have been able to get more if he’d sounded like this lawyer lady does.”

  How quickly a stiffly uncomfortable situation had turned into an all-out argument. Perveen realized both of them were looking at her, as if she should become a third warrior. She needed to defuse things. “Actually, I haven’t spoken a word of English to anyone here. I did study at Oxford, but I have never tried to affect an accent. There are so many accents in England, anyway, that it is pointless to say one is best.”

  “That is not true in our case. There is only one accent for men in the ICS. That is the one my son needs to learn.” Mirabai took up her fork again and began picking at her food.

  “I speak English! The weather is raining.” Princess Padmabai spoke English in a stilted but sweet voice. “When rain falls, I take umbrella. Who has taken umbrella from me? The dog has taken!”

  Despite being the youngest, Padmabai already had the skills of a peacemaker—as well as the confidence to try out her English. Perveen felt a flash of admiration, which was just as quickly followed by regret. The rajkumari’s destiny was to marry a man of royal blood.