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Authors: Threes Anna
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the blade of the scalpel slowly sinks into the elephantâs neck. Then the head is quickly separated from the body, together with the accompanying loose ends. The maharaja puts his hand to his throat. With great precision, the razor-sharp knife slices through the thick grey hide.
THE GIRL MOANS softly. Doctor Harris finishes bandaging her neck. Gradually he becomes aware of the sounds from outside. He is thirsty. His trusted assistant is already at his elbow with a glass of water, which he downs in one gulp. Heâs done it. Chutki will never be an opera singer, but provided she doesnât whisper, cough, clear her throat, or drink too much water during the coming forty-eight hours, she will be able to speak without pain and her sore throat will be a thing of the past. The men sit down and watch as the little girl slowly wakes up. A daughter , Peter thinks to himself, thatâs what I want, too .
~~~
HE LONGS FOR the peace and quiet of his room. The interminable dinner is by no means over: new dishes filled with unfamiliar fare are continually being brought in. The punkah-wallah pulls impassively on the rope, and above their heads the enormous fans are doing their work. Peter Harris is not used to Indian food. His landlady in Delhi served only English fare, and the spicy dishes paralyze his taste buds and set his mouth on fire.
The maharaja, a bandage around his throat, claps his hands and the various conversations fall still. âHarris sahib,â he begins with a slight bow in Peterâs direction. âMy voice is still weak, but my happiness is great.â He snaps his fingers.
The man in the green turban comes forward. He is carrying a walnut chest, which he places at Peterâs feet. Softly the maharaja begins to speak, choosing his words with care. He praises Peter for his great expertise and the British people for their advanced developments in the field of medical science. Peter gestures deprecatingly and smiles in embarrassment. But the maharaja, clad in a silk suit, dismisses the surgeonâs modesty, stressing that he will be in his debt for all eternity and expressing the hope that their paths will often cross. While the gift that his youngest daughter has selected is in no way comparable to what the doctor has given him, he hopes that this token of esteem will be accepted.
Chutki, who is sitting next to her mother and for the first time in her life has been allowed to attend a dinner, points to the chest: âOpen it!â
Peter Harris, somewhat flustered by all the attention, lifts the lid. On a black velvet cushion lies a magnificent crystal lampshade. Sparkling rubies hang at a distance of one centimetre apart, each on its own fine gold chain.
1995 Rampur ~~~
HEMA DID NOT trouble himself with things that were beyond his field of vision. He never went near the top of a cabinet, did not like attics, and was not in the habit of looking up at the ceiling. Which explains why he never noticed that every once in a while a ruby disappeared from the lamp in the deserted music room. Charlotte, who had always acted in secret for fear someone would find out about her treasure, was no longer worried, now that she had cut off the last of the jewels. While she had to maintain the large house and pay the usual living costs, like all the other women who belonged to the New Rampur Club, she wanted a new dress for the upcoming festivities.
Hema helped her down from the wobbly structure, and as he picked up the photo albums from the floor and returned them to their plastic jackets, he inquired if she wanted her supper. The house search he had just carried out had not dulled his hunger. Charlotte shook her head and told him she wanted to get some sleep, which was not entirely true. She was still elated about the successful sale of the Wedgwood service and the costly ruby in her hand.
The dealer who had come to look at the Wedgwood had initially been uninterested, even condescending. Floral motifs
THE GIRL MOANS softly. Doctor Harris finishes bandaging her neck. Gradually he becomes aware of the sounds from outside. He is thirsty. His trusted assistant is already at his elbow with a glass of water, which he downs in one gulp. Heâs done it. Chutki will never be an opera singer, but provided she doesnât whisper, cough, clear her throat, or drink too much water during the coming forty-eight hours, she will be able to speak without pain and her sore throat will be a thing of the past. The men sit down and watch as the little girl slowly wakes up. A daughter , Peter thinks to himself, thatâs what I want, too .
~~~
HE LONGS FOR the peace and quiet of his room. The interminable dinner is by no means over: new dishes filled with unfamiliar fare are continually being brought in. The punkah-wallah pulls impassively on the rope, and above their heads the enormous fans are doing their work. Peter Harris is not used to Indian food. His landlady in Delhi served only English fare, and the spicy dishes paralyze his taste buds and set his mouth on fire.
The maharaja, a bandage around his throat, claps his hands and the various conversations fall still. âHarris sahib,â he begins with a slight bow in Peterâs direction. âMy voice is still weak, but my happiness is great.â He snaps his fingers.
The man in the green turban comes forward. He is carrying a walnut chest, which he places at Peterâs feet. Softly the maharaja begins to speak, choosing his words with care. He praises Peter for his great expertise and the British people for their advanced developments in the field of medical science. Peter gestures deprecatingly and smiles in embarrassment. But the maharaja, clad in a silk suit, dismisses the surgeonâs modesty, stressing that he will be in his debt for all eternity and expressing the hope that their paths will often cross. While the gift that his youngest daughter has selected is in no way comparable to what the doctor has given him, he hopes that this token of esteem will be accepted.
Chutki, who is sitting next to her mother and for the first time in her life has been allowed to attend a dinner, points to the chest: âOpen it!â
Peter Harris, somewhat flustered by all the attention, lifts the lid. On a black velvet cushion lies a magnificent crystal lampshade. Sparkling rubies hang at a distance of one centimetre apart, each on its own fine gold chain.
1995 Rampur ~~~
HEMA DID NOT trouble himself with things that were beyond his field of vision. He never went near the top of a cabinet, did not like attics, and was not in the habit of looking up at the ceiling. Which explains why he never noticed that every once in a while a ruby disappeared from the lamp in the deserted music room. Charlotte, who had always acted in secret for fear someone would find out about her treasure, was no longer worried, now that she had cut off the last of the jewels. While she had to maintain the large house and pay the usual living costs, like all the other women who belonged to the New Rampur Club, she wanted a new dress for the upcoming festivities.
Hema helped her down from the wobbly structure, and as he picked up the photo albums from the floor and returned them to their plastic jackets, he inquired if she wanted her supper. The house search he had just carried out had not dulled his hunger. Charlotte shook her head and told him she wanted to get some sleep, which was not entirely true. She was still elated about the successful sale of the Wedgwood service and the costly ruby in her hand.
The dealer who had come to look at the Wedgwood had initially been uninterested, even condescending. Floral motifs
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