“Krishan!” she screamed. she looked frantically about. She ran forward a few steps. She did not know which way the woman went, where the woman might have taken him. The reality of being in a strange place among strange people who spoke a language she only partially understood threatened to crush her. Her breathing grew stuttered and rapid, tears streaked her cheeks. Six months on a ship, six months of seasickness, six months of loneliness, six months of keeping a young child entertained and safe, only to lose the child on reaching his father’s country!
“Krishan!” she called again, this time her voice broken, hopeless. Fear clutched at her insides. How could she have lost him? Bringing him to England was to protect him!
She looked about her, turning in a slow circle. The air smelled of coal tar, wet wood, mud, and dead fish. No sunlight pierced the endless overcast sky. Everything appeared gray, brown, and black—quite unlike her home in Bombay. Krishan’s orange shirt would stand out in this sea of sameness. It was not to be seen. What was she to do? Fear and hopelessness weighed in her chest. She could scarcely breathe. She could not believe this had happened, that Krishan was gone. She must find him!
A scruffy older English child stood by their luggage, looking as if he would make off with a piece.
She couldn’t lose their luggage as well. It was all they had.
“No!” she yelled, running back to their things. The urchin who had been eyeing the alone luggage looked up. He turned to run.
“No, wait, please!” Rani yelled.
Uncertain, the boy stopped, but stood tense, ready to run, looking from her to the luggage and back.
“Help me, help me, please! I pay you. I have money!” she said, desperate for attention and help. She prayed he understood her accented English.
The child turned and ran off.
Rani collapsed against their luggage. “Krishan,” she cried. Huge, shuddering sobs wracked her slight frame.What should I do?The horror stymied her. She couldn’t think around the fact Krishan was gone.
She reached out to those who passed by, seeking help, seeking a connection with another person.
People glanced furtively her way and moved on. She dropped her head in her hands and wept.
* * *
“Excuse me,Miss. Can I help you? Do you speak English?”
Rani raised her head and turned to look over her left shoulder to see the man who’d spoken. His voice had been soft but infused with concern.
“Yes, I speak English,” she said, “but slowly.”
The man held out his hand to her. “Here, let me help you up.”
She looked at his hand, uncertain, then hesitantly placed hers in his, and with one hand on their largest trunk, pushed herself up. She looked at the man carefully. He looked much like the clerks who worked for the East India Company in Bombay. He was tall, but not perhaps as tall as she had supposed while sitting on the ground. His hair was a light brown, his eyes gray like the clouds above, though they glinted with specks of green. He wore a neat brown jacket and pantaloons, paired with a buff waistcoat.
“Can you help me?” she asked, clasping her hands together in front of her chest, daring to hope here was someone to trust. Inwardly, she wondered what choice did she have?
“I can try. What is the problem? Why are you crying over your luggage?”
“She took Krishan!”
“She?” the man asked.
“Yes, yes, a woman.”
“Do you know her?”
“No, no! She grabbed him up.” She pantomimed picking up a child. “And she run off with him. I chased them, but I fell and lost them.”
“Your son?”
“No, I am his ayah, his nursemaid, you understand?” Her expression twisted with anxiety.
The man nodded. “I understand. Where are his parents?”
“His mother, she is dead, and his father, he is dying. Or he might be dead now! I don’t know.” Her voice rose, shrill with panic. She swallowed, nodded to herself, and in a forced, calmer tone continued. “He have me bring Krishan here, to his brother. We must find Krishan! He will be so frightened!”
