That Indian Woman | √

Chapter 1

Calcutta, India. 1899

"Anvesha, are you ready?" The rough voice of my father hauled me out of my thoughts.

"Almost ready, Baba." I answered him, silently packing my documents into a handmade paper folder.

This date of 11 August, 1899, was very essential for me. Today was the day I deposited my merit list to the admission center in Bethune College. The college was founded as a school by a man named John Elliot Drinkwater Bethune, but just some years ago, it was developed into the first as well as the best college for women who wanted to attain higher education.

Mahesh Jogi Anand, my father, is a respectable trader of cotton textiles and jute. He being a firm believer in education wanted me to join this college and attain a healthy knowledge of higher education.

Being under the British Raj for as long as I could remember, this college was the only key for an Indian like me to study. The gates of this education institution were only opened for the rich and elite of the masses of Indian population.

"Anvesha... are you listening?" My father huffed, yet again breaking my train of thoughts.

"I apologize for my lack of attention, Baba. What were you saying?" I answered my father, giving him an apologetic smile.

"I said that I'm going outside." My father repeated. "Don't forget to lock the door after you have gathered all the important documents you need today."

"Okay Baba. You wait in the car, I am coming." My father nodded and went outside. He is one of the few Indians who owned personal cars. Owning a car is a great deal here, because they have to be imported. The first appeared on the roads of India about two or three years ago. The newspapers were flooded with "The First Ever Car in India!" news. These motor cars are a funny thing. They are like a carriage with a motor instead of the horses. Sometimes, people visit us just to have a look at this amazing invention.

I went in my room and grabbed my carry bag, a beautiful satin bag made with the colours of blue and green. It was made by my mother, who was a master in creating beautiful bags with cotton, jute or satin. Her affection also provided me with sweet little dolls made with cloth, when I was a mere age of seven.

My mother passed away when I was fifteen years of age. After her death, my father took the role of both mother and father. He tried to give me everything he could but still sometimes I feel that the missing place of a mother and a wife would never be filled.

We had a painting of my mother and father which was made when they both married each other. I got up from the bed and went in the veranda. I stared at the painting, in which a young version of my father was standing beside my mother who herself was sitting in a regally styled chair.

My mother was a beautiful woman. She had jet-black hair which went below her waist and eyes so black that you would escape in their depth. Her lips were the colour of roses and she had a petite frame. My father was himself a handsome young man in the painting with dark brown hair and eyes, a thin mustache just above his lips.

With long black-brown hair which fall past my waist, eyes that are dark brown and lips a dull shade of pink, I inherited most of my features from my mother. Like every other woman in India, I always applied a layer of surma to my eyes before leaving the house.

I walked outside and saw that my father was seated in the back seat of the car. In front was our driver, who was dressed in a crisp uniform.
I locked the doors of our home and made my way towards my father.

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About ten minutes into the ride, we finally reached the buildings of Bethune College. It stood marvelously on huge white pillars, the design clearly Victorian.