left),
76
that he had been seen crossing a street without his shadow, and
that he would do anything for the old bitch. Even the most shameless of gossips
can inadvertently hit upon truths. He would do anything for her, and had
done, many times.
Pranjivan was his name, which meant "life," and Estella
had given him both: his name and his life. She had carried him out of
the Fire in her arms when he was a tiny brown child too young to follow on his
own two feet. He alone knew all her secrets, and aside from his household
duties, he spied for her. He sent out his shadow across the land -- she had
taught him how when he was a boy -- and he maintained detailed lists of the
wicked. He helped Estella decide who would die, in order that children might
live. And when she emerged from Hell each day through a trapdoor in the shade
of a massive peepal tree, he was there waiting for her with the rickshaw men,
ready to take her home.
On the day of the earthquake, he knew something was wrong as soon
as she came up blinking into the light of day. "What is it,
Memsahib?" he asked.
"Take me to the Agent's Residence," she said quietly,
and he did.
Jaipur was a Rajput kingdom ruled by warrior princes, not a part
of the British Empire. There were no officious governors or magistrates here,
only the Political Agent, a mustachioed former cavalryman whose military career
had come to an end when he lost an arm to a tigress in the Himalayas. Now he
had to hold the reins in his teeth when he hunted jackal with the native
princes, which was one of his primary duties, and for which service he was
rewarded with a palatial home and a small army of servants. He even kept a
hookah-burda just to light his pipe.
77
When Estella appeared uninvited at his gate, the party was in full
swing. It was a christening for the Agent's third daughter, but it looked like
any other party -- bright gowns billowing in a garden, gentlemen lolling about
with drinks sweating in their big, hot hands. There was a table laden with
gifts, and there was a pink iced cake, but the baby's bassinet seemed like an
afterthought at the edge of things, and the baby within lay silent and
composed, gazing up at the fringe of neem trees with solemn gray eyes.
"What's the old bitch doing here?" murmured the
Political Agent to his wife, and they both cringed. At the best of times
Estella had a way of robbing them of amusement at their own vapid talk, and she
looked particularly grim on this occasion. The usually neat coils of her silver
hair were frayed from the drafts of hellfire she had passed through, and her
heart was heavy with the curse she had come to deliver.
She went straight to the bassinet and looked down at the pretty
baby. Silence fell over the merrymakers. It struck them all like a scene from a
fairy tale, and Estella a witch come to spoil their fun. "She looks like a
madwoman," someone whispered. Estella didn't even look up. She reached
toward the baby, and the baby grasped her finger and smiled up at her.
Estella's heart clenched. She couldn't change her mind. Twenty-two
children in Kashmir lived and Vasudev wouldn't hesitate to take them
back again; he was no doubt dreaming up awful accidents at this very moment. So
she did what she had come to do. She said, "I curse this child with the
most beautiful voice ever to slip from human lips." She looked up and
peered around at the partygoers. Their faces were flushed with laughter, with
liquor. They seemed to be waiting for her to continue, so she did. "But
take care that you
78
never hear it. Anyone who does shall fall down dead on the spot.
From this moment forward, any sound this child utters will kill"
There were gasps across the garden, and then a titter of
incredulous laughter. Someone cried out, "A curse! How rare!"
"Capital fun!"
"It's too, too divine!"
Estella stared at them. Delight gleamed in their eyes. They didn't
believe her. Of course they didn't. Her Majesty's subjects didn't go around
believing things
76
that he had been seen crossing a street without his shadow, and
that he would do anything for the old bitch. Even the most shameless of gossips
can inadvertently hit upon truths. He would do anything for her, and had
done, many times.
Pranjivan was his name, which meant "life," and Estella
had given him both: his name and his life. She had carried him out of
the Fire in her arms when he was a tiny brown child too young to follow on his
own two feet. He alone knew all her secrets, and aside from his household
duties, he spied for her. He sent out his shadow across the land -- she had
taught him how when he was a boy -- and he maintained detailed lists of the
wicked. He helped Estella decide who would die, in order that children might
live. And when she emerged from Hell each day through a trapdoor in the shade
of a massive peepal tree, he was there waiting for her with the rickshaw men,
ready to take her home.
On the day of the earthquake, he knew something was wrong as soon
as she came up blinking into the light of day. "What is it,
Memsahib?" he asked.
"Take me to the Agent's Residence," she said quietly,
and he did.
Jaipur was a Rajput kingdom ruled by warrior princes, not a part
of the British Empire. There were no officious governors or magistrates here,
only the Political Agent, a mustachioed former cavalryman whose military career
had come to an end when he lost an arm to a tigress in the Himalayas. Now he
had to hold the reins in his teeth when he hunted jackal with the native
princes, which was one of his primary duties, and for which service he was
rewarded with a palatial home and a small army of servants. He even kept a
hookah-burda just to light his pipe.
77
When Estella appeared uninvited at his gate, the party was in full
swing. It was a christening for the Agent's third daughter, but it looked like
any other party -- bright gowns billowing in a garden, gentlemen lolling about
with drinks sweating in their big, hot hands. There was a table laden with
gifts, and there was a pink iced cake, but the baby's bassinet seemed like an
afterthought at the edge of things, and the baby within lay silent and
composed, gazing up at the fringe of neem trees with solemn gray eyes.
"What's the old bitch doing here?" murmured the
Political Agent to his wife, and they both cringed. At the best of times
Estella had a way of robbing them of amusement at their own vapid talk, and she
looked particularly grim on this occasion. The usually neat coils of her silver
hair were frayed from the drafts of hellfire she had passed through, and her
heart was heavy with the curse she had come to deliver.
She went straight to the bassinet and looked down at the pretty
baby. Silence fell over the merrymakers. It struck them all like a scene from a
fairy tale, and Estella a witch come to spoil their fun. "She looks like a
madwoman," someone whispered. Estella didn't even look up. She reached
toward the baby, and the baby grasped her finger and smiled up at her.
Estella's heart clenched. She couldn't change her mind. Twenty-two
children in Kashmir lived and Vasudev wouldn't hesitate to take them
back again; he was no doubt dreaming up awful accidents at this very moment. So
she did what she had come to do. She said, "I curse this child with the
most beautiful voice ever to slip from human lips." She looked up and
peered around at the partygoers. Their faces were flushed with laughter, with
liquor. They seemed to be waiting for her to continue, so she did. "But
take care that you
78
never hear it. Anyone who does shall fall down dead on the spot.
From this moment forward, any sound this child utters will kill"
There were gasps across the garden, and then a titter of
incredulous laughter. Someone cried out, "A curse! How rare!"
"Capital fun!"
"It's too, too divine!"
Estella stared at them. Delight gleamed in their eyes. They didn't
believe her. Of course they didn't. Her Majesty's subjects didn't go around
believing things
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