Rain

Visitors and Dinner Conversation

I liked India. It was beautiful. Heady scents of cloves, saffron and bay leaves stimulated one’s senses, all coming together in a tantalizing blend of cuisine. When we hired a local cook, we learned all of the food names—capati, beriyani, tandoori... each with a different taste, color and smell. Often I’d follow Uma to the market, just to watch the diversity and dynamics of Indian culture in one place. Listening to the bartering in a hundred languages, I’d be awed as I fingered the multitudes of saris, adorned in rich pinks, yellows and dark reds. Bangles and anklets of gold clinked among the hum of the crowd, as the merchants called out to boast of their wares. Wafts of steaming chai tea filled my nostrils, and I truly felt I was home, even in the face of foreign lifestyle. The only downside, I felt, to being away from England, was that white skin was always an image of peculiar and wealthy standards. Wherever I’d go, all eyes would fasten on me, watching as though I were a panda in England! Often, I’d feel gentle tugs on my long, blonde hair, as if they thought it was golden thread. I’d only smile—but deep down I felt like something was wrong with me.

My retreat was the waterfall a ways from my house. I’d found it one day when I’d been hiding from my mother’s wrath. Mama had been chasing me, so I burst out through the back door, running in no particular direction as fast as my young legs would take me. A while later; I dove into some banana trees to catch my breath. It was then that I turned around and found it—concealed beneath thick greenery, deep in the rainforest. The sound of water striking rock was deafening, but it brought an unspeakable peace. Airy breezes beckoned me to stay awhile, and so I did. I waded into shallow water, hiking up my heavy skirts, shivering slightly when the cold water hit my skin. Crawling up onto a dry rock just beside the roaring water, I laid flat on my back and drank in everything around me.

And so it became my sanctuary. A little pocket of me and only me. I never told a soul about it, wanting the waterfall to my secret hideaway.

When Mama sent me away, that is where I would go, to return when the beating sun would begin to set. So there I was, sitting by the waterfall, paper and pencil in hand, sketching a butterfly and pondering dreamlike ideas when I heard a noise. It was a thundering noise, like an ox cart. My pencil stilled, and I cocked my head to one side. I strained to hear the noise again, fighting with the sound of rushing water.

There. There it was again, louder this time. Stashing my drawing in a cubby beneath the rock, I left my hideout and ran to the path. The guests! It finally dawned on me. I raced to the house, careful that no one would see where I came from, and rushed to my room to change. But I didn’t, really—I peered out the window, which looked out onto our immense courtyard. It was then I saw the cart, thought it was actually a horse-drawn carriage, coming to a stop just before the door. The carriage door opened, and I strained to see its occupants...

 “Miss Fairfield! What are you doing in your chemise so close to the window? Come away at once!” a voice from behind made me jump. When I turned, Uma was staring at me, disapproving. Coming closer, she inspected my frock. “Filthy!” she cried in dismay. “What did you do to soil your dress?”

I kept silent, hoping she would give up and leave me to dress on my own. The quests would be inside soon! I just had to see them! I put my hands behind my back, fiddling with my fraying bow nervously, but Uma paid no heed. She was muttering something in Tamil, obviously about me, as she prepared to dress me for dinner.

Dismayed, I heaved a sigh. I would have to wait to see them at dinner.

**

The journey was a long one, stretching on for what seemed like years with each change of transportation. Admittedly, the scenery was fascinating—every strange tree, every foreign tongue—it was indeed unique and authentic wherever I looked. Aunt Gertrude did not see this, I suppose. Every time a hawker would pass by the train window to display his hand-woven baskets, bolts of cloth, or handfuls of spices, my aunt would turn away in horror, taking a strong whiff from her smelling salts. I can honestly say that I have no clue why she consented to accompany Uncle and me on this journey, for she was not enjoying a single minute of it. But, she chose to, and I begrudgingly gave her points for effort.