‘Your name?’
Eliza told her who she was and shaded her own eyes against the piercing afternoon sun.
‘Follow.’
The woman nodded at the guards, who looked disgruntled but allowed them both through. It had been eighteen years since Eliza and her mother had left India for England. Eighteen years of ever-decreasing possibilities for Anna Fraser. But Eliza had made the decision to be free. To her it seemed like a second birth, as if a hidden hand had brought her back, though of course there was nothing hidden about Clifford Salter. He might have been more attractive had there been, but a more ordinary man it would be hard to find. Thinning sandy hair and moist, myopic pale blue eyes reinforced the impression of dullness, yet she was indebted to him for arranging this job for her in the land of the Rajputs, noble warrior clans in this cluster of princely states in the desert region of the Indian Empire.
Before walking through a series of glorious archways, Eliza dusted herself down as best she could. A eunuch led her through a maze of tiled rooms and corridors to a small vestibule. She’d heard of these castrated men in feminine dress and she shuddered. The vestibule was guarded by women who stood glaring at Eliza as they barred her way through wide sandalwood doors inlaid with ivory. When, after some explanation from the eunuch, they eventually allowed her to pass, they left her to wait alone. She glanced around at the room, every inch of it painted in clear cerulean blue with the patterns picked out in gold. Flowers, leaves, filigree scrolls rose up the walls and trailed across the ceiling; even the stone floor had been carpeted in matching blue. Although the colour was bright, there was a delicate beauty about the overall effect. Wrapped up in the blueness she felt almost a part of the sky.
Was she expected to announce her arrival in some way? Cough politely? Call out? She wiped her clammy hands on her trousers and put down her bag of heavy photographic equipment, then, after a moment of uncertainty, picked it up again. Hair knotted at the nape of her neck, and drab khaki trousers with a crisp white blouse – now limp – only magnified her feeling of being out of place. She’d never fit in with so much alluring colour and pattern. She had spent most of her life pretending to fit in, talking about things that didn’t matter, feigning interest in people she didn’t like. She had tried so hard to be like the other girls and then other women, yet the feeling of not belonging had followed her even into her marriage with Oliver.
In a glowing orange room, beyond the blue vestibule, streams of sunshine from a small rectangular window lit the dust motes floating in the air. Beyond it she could see a corner of another room; that one deep red in colour and where the carved walls of thezenanaproper began. She knew thezenanasof the royal Rajputana palaces had long been forbidden to non-royal men. Clifford had explained how these women’s quarters – he called them harems – were steeped in mystery and intrigue; places of scheming, gossip and unbridled eroticism, he said, all the women having been trained in the ‘sixteen arts of being a woman’. Rife with multiple copulation and moral degeneration, he’d said with a wink, even with the priests, or maybe especially with the priests, though the British officers who preceded him had worked to eradicate the darker sexual practices of thezenana.
Eliza wondered what the sixteen arts were? Perhaps if she’d known them her marriage might have been more of a success, but, remembering the solitariness of her life with Oliver, she snorted at the thought.
A cloying oriental perfume, surely containing cinnamon, and maybe ginger, plus something intoxicatingly sweet, wafted from the red room, confirming everything she’d heard about thezenana. Because of it she felt trapped and longed to step forward to the window, pull back the white billowing curtain and lean out to breathe fresh air.
Her arms were beginning to ache and she bent down to place the heavy baggage on the carpet, this time against the wall where a peacock-shaped lamp sat atop a marble column. At the sound of a deep cough Eliza glanced up and then quickly straightened and smoothed down the strands of hair escaping her carefully placed pins. Her thick long hair, inclined to frizz, was a lifetime’s battle to keep under control. She swallowed a flash of anxiety at the sight of an extremely tall man standing in silhouette in front of the window.
‘You are British?’ the man said and she stared, startled by his impeccable English.
As he stepped forward the light fell across his face. The man was Indian and looked immensely strong. His clothing was covered in red and orange dust, and some kind of large hooded bird rested on his right elbow.
‘Should you be here?’ she said. ‘Isn’t this the entrance to thezenana?’
She stared at deep-set eyes the colour of amber, fringed by impossibly dark lashes, and wondered why he wasn’t wearing a turban. Didn’t all Rajput men wear them? His dark skin was gleaming and his shiny chestnut hair was pushed back from his face in a loose wave.
‘I think you should look for the tradesmen’s entrance,’ she added, wanting him to be gone and thinking he must be a merchant of some kind, though in truth he looked more like a gypsy or travelling minstrel. A trickle of sweat ran down under her armpits; now it was not only her hands feeling sticky.
At that moment an older Indian woman entered the room wearing the traditional garments: the long full skirt known as aghagra, with a neat blouse and a billowing scarf, ordupatta, that floated as she moved, the colours a clashing mixture of vermilion, emerald and scarlet threaded with gold, and yet together they worked beautifully. A cloud of sandalwood wafted around her, along with an air of hushed calm, and, as she pulled a rope behind the marble column, the peacock lamp sprang to life, showering blue and green light to glitter over her hands. Then she took a few steps towards Eliza, and made a slight bow with hands pressed together, palms touching and fingers pointed upwards, with dozens of jewelled rings, and the manicured nails polished in silver.
‘Namaskar, I am Laxmi. You are the photographer, Miss …’
‘I … I am Eliza Fraser.’ She bowed her head, not certain if a curtsey was in order. After all, this woman had been Maharani, or queen, and was mother to the ruler of Juraipore. Clifford had told her that the woman’s beauty and intelligence were legendary and that along with her deceased husband, the old Maharajah, she had been responsible for modernizing many of the customs of the state. Her hair was plaited and then wrapped in a coil at the nape of her long elegant neck, her cheekbones were pronounced, and her dark eyes sparkled. Eliza saw that the woman’s reputation for beauty was based on truth but wished she’d asked Clifford to explain more about protocol. All he’d said was keep an eye out for moths and white ants. The moths would eat her clothes and the ants the furniture.
Laxmi turned to the man. ‘And you? I see you have brought that bird in here again.’
With a shrug that had the look of familiarity, the man raised his brows. Eliza noticed they were dark and thick.
‘You mean Godfrey,’ he said.
‘What kind of a name is that for a hawk?’ the woman said.
The man laughed and winked at Eliza. ‘My classics master at Eton was called Godfrey, and a fine man he was too.’
‘Eton?’ Eliza said, in surprise.
Laxmi sighed deeply. ‘May I present my second and most wayward son, Jayant Singh Rathore.’
‘Your son?’
‘Do you only repeat what is said to you, Miss Fraser?’ Laxmi said with a rather arch look. But then she smiled. ‘You are nervous, so it is understandable. But I’m happy you are here to photograph our lives. For a new archive in Delhi, I’m told.’
At the mention of her work Eliza came to life and spoke with spirit. ‘Yes, Clifford Salter wants informal shots to show what life is really like. So many people are fascinated by India and I hope I might get some pictures into the better photographic magazines. ThePhotographic Timesor thePhotographic Journalwould be perfect.’
‘I see.’
‘A complete guide to life in a princely state over the course of a year. I’m so looking forward to being here. Thank you for inviting me. I promise not to get in the way, but there’s so much I want to see and the light is incredible. It’s all about the light and shade. You know, the chiaroscuro, and I hope to be able …’
