Read Online The Mark of the Golden Dragon by Louis A. Meyer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louis A. Meyer
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you, good man.
I think that approximates what Ravi is saying as he dances about, passing the bowl and begging for small change. He is quite good at it, for some coins do fall—I am sure Rooster Charlie would have welcomed the lad into our company back in our old kip 'neath Blackfriars Bridge.
***
At our first port of call on that day of the shark, we went ashore and sold the fish we had caught. The locals seemed astonished at the size of our catch, calling us blessed by the gods of the sea, and I guess we were.
Thanks Poseidon, or whatever you are called here.
I know full well that the fishmongers cheated us, but so it goes. Ravi bargained the best he could, but at least we now had some hard coin.
So with our meager funds, we went to the small market we found in the town and bought a flint striker so we could start fires and cook our food. Then, to reward ourselves for our virtue and cunning, we bought two rice balls, all greasy and golden yellow with curry and
so
delicious. It was our first neither-clam-nor-raw-fish meal in days, and we devoured our purchase instantly and without ceremony.
Oh, so, so good...
And to top it all off, we bought what would prove to be a great little moneymaker—a simple wooden flute. It had eight holes and a fipple mouthpiece and a sort of bulb at the end, and though it was not tuned to the same scale as my beloved pennywhistle, I was able to make it work. Ravi sang some of the tunes of his youth and I was able to duplicate them enough to get us by. We are now an act.
I had some concern about my safety in all this, me being a helpless young girl practically alone in a foreign land, and had bounced the idea off Ravi of retreating into the protection of boy garb. After all, we had plenty of canvas that I could cut into sashes to bind down my chest, but my young Indian consort did not think that would serve.
"Forgive poor Ravi, for what I am about to say, Memsahib, but your bottom, though not round enough to please Burma man, still is too round to be boy. No, no. Also is abomination for girl to dress up as boy. Against the rules of nature. Ganesh not like and will bring us bad luck. Bad karma. And your face, though most dear to Ravi, is not pretty to India man—nose and lips too thin. Cheeks, too. Should be full and round like peaches. And your hair ... please ... is wrong color, like freak."
My hair, which had been shaved except for my pigtail at the back, was slowly growing back in. There was a light blond fuzz on my skull now, which had to look passing strange. My shiv, though sharp, was not a razor and could therefore not shave my head and keep it clean in the Chinese fashion.
"Your hair," the little rotter went on. "
Tsk!
You look like crazy woman, but maybe that is not a bad thing. Maybe we get more alms. Maybe mens leave you alone in ways of naughtiness."
For someone scarce eight years old, Ravi was certainly knowledgeable in the evil ways of the world. I'm thinkin',
Nothing like a few years spent on the street to hone up the old survival skills.
And so it was decided that we travel up to Rangoon as boy Ravi and his mute and hideously ugly sister, Sangeeta.
Couldn't have him call me Memsahib, now, could we?
Ravi informed me that Sangeeta means "maker of music" in Hindi and so it fit...
but hideously ugly? I know I am no rare beauty by any means, but still there have been more than a few gents in my past who thought I was passable handsome ... Geez...
We made up a crude canvas veil to hide my ugliness. It comes to below my eyes, yet leaves my lips free to play the flute.
Ravi went on, to elaborate, "If pushy man lifts veil, you make twisted face, and he will drop veil and not bother you. See? Is good, no?"
I suppose ... I do love being the center of attention, but not as a freak,
I'm thinking.
Oh, well ... Suck it up, lass. Sometimes a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do...
And so we progress up the coast, going from town to town—sailing for a day or two, then
I think that approximates what Ravi is saying as he dances about, passing the bowl and begging for small change. He is quite good at it, for some coins do fall—I am sure Rooster Charlie would have welcomed the lad into our company back in our old kip 'neath Blackfriars Bridge.
***
At our first port of call on that day of the shark, we went ashore and sold the fish we had caught. The locals seemed astonished at the size of our catch, calling us blessed by the gods of the sea, and I guess we were.
Thanks Poseidon, or whatever you are called here.
I know full well that the fishmongers cheated us, but so it goes. Ravi bargained the best he could, but at least we now had some hard coin.
So with our meager funds, we went to the small market we found in the town and bought a flint striker so we could start fires and cook our food. Then, to reward ourselves for our virtue and cunning, we bought two rice balls, all greasy and golden yellow with curry and
so
delicious. It was our first neither-clam-nor-raw-fish meal in days, and we devoured our purchase instantly and without ceremony.
Oh, so, so good...
And to top it all off, we bought what would prove to be a great little moneymaker—a simple wooden flute. It had eight holes and a fipple mouthpiece and a sort of bulb at the end, and though it was not tuned to the same scale as my beloved pennywhistle, I was able to make it work. Ravi sang some of the tunes of his youth and I was able to duplicate them enough to get us by. We are now an act.
I had some concern about my safety in all this, me being a helpless young girl practically alone in a foreign land, and had bounced the idea off Ravi of retreating into the protection of boy garb. After all, we had plenty of canvas that I could cut into sashes to bind down my chest, but my young Indian consort did not think that would serve.
"Forgive poor Ravi, for what I am about to say, Memsahib, but your bottom, though not round enough to please Burma man, still is too round to be boy. No, no. Also is abomination for girl to dress up as boy. Against the rules of nature. Ganesh not like and will bring us bad luck. Bad karma. And your face, though most dear to Ravi, is not pretty to India man—nose and lips too thin. Cheeks, too. Should be full and round like peaches. And your hair ... please ... is wrong color, like freak."
My hair, which had been shaved except for my pigtail at the back, was slowly growing back in. There was a light blond fuzz on my skull now, which had to look passing strange. My shiv, though sharp, was not a razor and could therefore not shave my head and keep it clean in the Chinese fashion.
"Your hair," the little rotter went on. "
Tsk!
You look like crazy woman, but maybe that is not a bad thing. Maybe we get more alms. Maybe mens leave you alone in ways of naughtiness."
For someone scarce eight years old, Ravi was certainly knowledgeable in the evil ways of the world. I'm thinkin',
Nothing like a few years spent on the street to hone up the old survival skills.
And so it was decided that we travel up to Rangoon as boy Ravi and his mute and hideously ugly sister, Sangeeta.
Couldn't have him call me Memsahib, now, could we?
Ravi informed me that Sangeeta means "maker of music" in Hindi and so it fit...
but hideously ugly? I know I am no rare beauty by any means, but still there have been more than a few gents in my past who thought I was passable handsome ... Geez...
We made up a crude canvas veil to hide my ugliness. It comes to below my eyes, yet leaves my lips free to play the flute.
Ravi went on, to elaborate, "If pushy man lifts veil, you make twisted face, and he will drop veil and not bother you. See? Is good, no?"
I suppose ... I do love being the center of attention, but not as a freak,
I'm thinking.
Oh, well ... Suck it up, lass. Sometimes a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do...
And so we progress up the coast, going from town to town—sailing for a day or two, then
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