her. He was the one who told her that it wasnât her father who killed the deer, but two Indian boys. âWith their bare hands,â he had added with a chuckle. The pages that followed were filled with photos of her mother in evening dresses or on the tennis court, and occasionally there were photos of her father with his men, in the mess or out hunting. She also found two of her brother, Donald. One, with Sita, bore the caption junior with the ayah , and the other was a formal portrait, of her brother together with her parents in front of the house, which had hung over her bed in England for years. There was no photo of her or the ship that had brought her to England. Charlotte could not remember ever examining the album so carefully. She had always assumed that somewhere there was a photograph of the large black ship. She took another album down from the shelf: the war . A beetle scurried away and moths circled the candle. These photos were much smaller, and featured men in uniform who meant nothing to her. They were seated around tables, smoking cigarettes, or shaking hands. And there was one of her father, which showed someone pinning a medal on his chest. Not until the last page did she find the sole photograph of herself, taken the year after the war. The caption read wedding peter harris and charlotte bridgwater october 1946 .
HEMA LAY ON his mat in the kitchen. He had collected kindling and lit the coals, since there was no more kerosene. He had already prepared the meal and done various other chores. It had been dark outside for hours. He looked hungrily at the small pan with rice, dal, andvegetables. He wondered why memsahib didnât call him. In many of the houses at the bottom of the hill the lights were already out. Perhaps something had happened and she wasnât feeling well. She was getting on in years, and such incidents were becoming more and more frequent. He jumped to his feet. Why hadnât he thought of that before! Perhaps sheâd taken a fall, hurt herself, and was unable to get to the bell. The bell had been out of order before, probably because the general gave the rope such an almighty jerk. Hema ran across the grass in his slippers, heading for the big house. The moon had just begun to rise. He could have kicked himself. He didnât want to admit that he had fallen asleep, and he had no idea how long heâd been napping. Maybe she had called and he hadnât heard her. Hema had been hired all those years ago because it said in his letter of reference that he never slept and always answered a call immediately. Since there were no longer any other servants and he was well over seventy, he often nodded off. His cousin on his motherâs side had told him it was simply part of growing old, but that was something Hema wouldnât admit to.
By order of memsahib the side door was open, because it was better for the circulation of air. The salon was empty, and she wasnât in her fatherâs old study either. Hema rushed up the stairs, his knees creaking as loudly as the steps. He stopped in front of her door and coughed. He knew that she hated being disturbed. The thought that she might have fallen or had another attack of malaria â or something worse â made him knock softly on the door. Not long ago he had awakened her: she had merely fallen asleep, but he thought sheâd stopped breathing. She was furious and told him never to wake her again. If she was dead, it wouldnât make any difference anyway. With the image of her lying on the floor in the back of his mind, he knocked again. There was still no sound. He walked over to the old nursery. The door was locked. He took the key from the nail, inserted it in the lock, and cautiously turned the handle. He listened. It remained still. He carefully opened the door and crept in. He didnât like the sour odour that hung in the room, but memsahib had forbidden him to open the large windows. Quietly he
HEMA LAY ON his mat in the kitchen. He had collected kindling and lit the coals, since there was no more kerosene. He had already prepared the meal and done various other chores. It had been dark outside for hours. He looked hungrily at the small pan with rice, dal, andvegetables. He wondered why memsahib didnât call him. In many of the houses at the bottom of the hill the lights were already out. Perhaps something had happened and she wasnât feeling well. She was getting on in years, and such incidents were becoming more and more frequent. He jumped to his feet. Why hadnât he thought of that before! Perhaps sheâd taken a fall, hurt herself, and was unable to get to the bell. The bell had been out of order before, probably because the general gave the rope such an almighty jerk. Hema ran across the grass in his slippers, heading for the big house. The moon had just begun to rise. He could have kicked himself. He didnât want to admit that he had fallen asleep, and he had no idea how long heâd been napping. Maybe she had called and he hadnât heard her. Hema had been hired all those years ago because it said in his letter of reference that he never slept and always answered a call immediately. Since there were no longer any other servants and he was well over seventy, he often nodded off. His cousin on his motherâs side had told him it was simply part of growing old, but that was something Hema wouldnât admit to.
By order of memsahib the side door was open, because it was better for the circulation of air. The salon was empty, and she wasnât in her fatherâs old study either. Hema rushed up the stairs, his knees creaking as loudly as the steps. He stopped in front of her door and coughed. He knew that she hated being disturbed. The thought that she might have fallen or had another attack of malaria â or something worse â made him knock softly on the door. Not long ago he had awakened her: she had merely fallen asleep, but he thought sheâd stopped breathing. She was furious and told him never to wake her again. If she was dead, it wouldnât make any difference anyway. With the image of her lying on the floor in the back of his mind, he knocked again. There was still no sound. He walked over to the old nursery. The door was locked. He took the key from the nail, inserted it in the lock, and cautiously turned the handle. He listened. It remained still. He carefully opened the door and crept in. He didnât like the sour odour that hung in the room, but memsahib had forbidden him to open the large windows. Quietly he
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