Travelers' Tales India by James O'Reilly

Author:James O'Reilly
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Travelers' Tales
Published: 2010-09-21T16:00:00+00:00

A wisp of the British Raj remained on the evening veranda of the rest house. After dinner I relaxed into a wicker chair, the night air cool and calm, and shared tea with two English couples. Joking, talking of England, it was easy to imagine that, for the moment, it was as it once had been: pretty memsahibs, gallant young British officers, confident in themselves, enjoying all that came with being an officer and a gentleman in British India.

—Jan Zabinski, “Walking the Length of India”

Her eyes were squeezed open, but she looked past me. She put her hand out, palm up, on the small table between us; it was an effort. I touched her hand with mine, and she took it and squeezed my fingers.

“I am a hilly-billy,” she announced. “I love these hills, I have lived in them all my life, and I will die in them. I have my place already. At Jalore. My grave.”

I said, “How old are you, Mrs. Montagu?”

She said with surprise, “I can’t remember.” She paused. “I’m sorry. I was here in Simla when I was a little girl. It’s changed.”

“Were you born in the eighteen-eighties?”

“I…think so. I’m very old, you know. I’m a hilly-billy.” She loved saying that word—it made her smile sweetly. I said, “What do you remember most?”

She said firmly, “There were so many dances then, and parties, nearly every evening. At Viceregal Lodge. And the Hotel Cecil. I was more beautiful then.” She squeezed my hand more firmly. She said suddenly, “Are you married?”

I said I wasn’t. “Should I get married?”

“Well, I expect it would be a good idea,” she said. “Then you and your wife could call on me more frequently.”

I pointed to the photographs. “Was one of those men your husband?”

She blinked at me. “No,” she said finally. I saw a memory cross her face like a cloud, but she let it pass out of sight. She said,“I can see you, but I can’t read anymore. I ruined my eyes. Have you seen my animals? I’ve got lots.”

I’d seen none but the parrot, and it seemed tired. When I felt it was time to go, I stood up. Mrs. Montagu, still holding my hand, leaned forward on the settee a few inches. She was waiting to be kissed, and when my lips brushed her cheek her skin was as soft as a flower’s petal.

“Perhaps I’ll see you again tomorrow,” she murmured.

Rada led me downstairs in the gloom, past the pictures of old India. Somewhere in the inner reaches of the house a clock struck once. It had stopped raining. Rada followed me nervously out to the gate and closed it behind me, giving a little wave.

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