‘You look different,’ she said to Jay, putting aside her thoughts, and pointing at his coat.
‘Ah, this. It’s called anachkan. Mughal in origin.’
She glanced up at the lacyjaliscreens carved from marble and experienced again the sensation of being watched.
Eliza spent much of the rest of the day immersed in her darkroom. In the heat of Rajputana undeveloped photographic plates would easily deteriorate, so her plan was to always develop the plates quickly. What she hadn’t bargained for was how the extreme heat of the afternoon sun intensified the oppressive atmosphere of an enclosed darkroom with no ventilation, especially as she wore gloves of nitrol and a face mask. The developing fluid was a mixture of chemicals, the most toxic being the white lustrous crystals of pyro, and that was the main reason she had insisted on there being only one key. Just a little pyro ingested or touching the skin could have nasty side-effects. But she loved working alone like this, and although the smell from the acrid, vinegary chemicals made her head ache, she carried on and ended up with a series of contact prints. These she’d show to Clifford, who would hopefully give permission for them to be sent on to Delhi with the plates for the final printing, along with Eliza’s marked-up instructions and notes about the desired size too.
5
Surprised by a knock at her door, Eliza called out to whoever it was to wait and that she wouldn’t be long. She had thought it must be a servant bearing some kind of refreshment, but when she opened the door she saw Indira leaning against the opposite wall.
‘Would you like to see my work?’ the girl said, her eyes darting about and looking as if her high spirits had returned. ‘We are both artists, if you can call photography an art.’
Eliza nodded politely. ‘Surely if pictures make people want to look that’s all that matters.’
She was quite keen to see Indi’s artwork, though if she had been asked she’d probably have said she was more curious about the girl herself. There was something about her. Something that didn’t quite add up. Who was she? Where had she come from, this young woman who appeared to enjoy the freedom of the castle with few of the constraints? And, at the back of Eliza’s mind, she continued to wonder what was the nature of this lithe young woman’s relationship with Jayant.
Indi’s diaphanous scarf floated as she sailed with liquid beauty through labyrinthine corridors and cramped rooms, but Eliza found it hard to breathe freely. The feeling was deepened by the darkly claustrophobic passages, shadowy recesses and countless narrow staircases. Thejaliscreens were everywhere and, having lost her way on two occasions, it was easy to understand why the British had described these palaces as rife with intrigue and gossip.
And yet the magnificence of the golden pillars when they arrived at an opulentdurbar, or reception hall! When Eliza gazed up at twenty-foot-high doors made of brass and beyond them a mirrored ceiling sparkling with light and inset with jewels, she gasped. Rubies. Sapphires. Emeralds. It was quite insane. There was a proud lilt to Indi’s voice as she pointed out each member of the family hanging on the walls. She had painted them all in the old Mughal style, and as Eliza took them in she marvelled at the girl’s talent.
‘You painted all these?’
Indira nodded, and with a touch of pride in her voice said, ‘Yes.’
‘You don’t see the need for a photographer, do you?’
The girl chewed her lip while Eliza waited for an answer. ‘Painting ismera pyaar,’ she eventually said.
‘Your love. I do understand.’
‘I feel as if I enter a secret inner world when I paint.’
‘That’s how I feel about photography. It’s all about how I see things,’ Eliza said, and held Indira’s gaze, weighing every word she was about to say. ‘I’m not here permanently. I promise I’ll be no threat to you.’
‘And that’s really all you’re here for? To take photographs?’
‘Of course. What else?’
The girl narrowed her eyes and something flitted across her face, but she didn’t speak.
‘And I’m certain not everyone approves. The Maharani, Priya, doesn’t seem to like me.’
Indi chuckled. ‘Priya doesn’t like anybody. She blames the way Jay is on his British education. You’re British.’
‘The way he is? What does that mean?’
‘On the one hand he avoids displays of emotions, which is very Rajput, and also he will never own up to any kind of vulnerability. On the other hand he’s self-reliant and wayward, often not listening to his family! He is a man who refuses all opportunities to marry a pretty young Princess and has friends who favour civil disobedience, especially since the salt tax and Gandhi’s march against it. As I said, Priya is no friend of the British, but there has been growing unrest and her fear of violent revolution is even greater than her anger at the British.’
‘She’s frightened, I suppose,’ Eliza said, thinking that behind Priya’s hard edges there might be an underlying fragility.
‘She’d never admit it, but probably yes.’
‘People who have a lot to lose often are. Maybe she’s scared of what will happen if India becomes self-governing?’
‘Maybe. But I think Anish will have already made plans to hide his wealth somewhere in one of the old tunnels under the fort.’
‘The wealth is incredible.’
