WHERE THE
BULBUL SINGS by SERENA FAIRFAX
Blurb
The past and the present interweave - from the last days
of the Raj to the present day, and from the small railway town of Ajeemkot and
the princely state of Walipur to the cutting edge of the modern city of Delhi,
and Sivalik - a pine scented hill station in the foothills of the Himalayas.
In this
atmospheric, passionate and poignant account of a clash of cultures, caste and
creed, divided family loyalties, wealthy heartthrobs and the power of love, the
story is told through three women and an American Baptist missionary couple whose
lives entwine. Can they confront the
storms or are their dreams destined to shatter?
Hermie -
a headstrong and bewitching Anglo-Indian - turns her back on the Anglo-Indian
community and reinvents herself only to find that a dark secret threatens to
send her life spiraling out of control and cost her everything.
Sharp-witted
Edith, exiled in India from her native Germany by Nazi persecution, faces stark
choices in a future very different from that she envisaged.
Kay,
separated by more than a generation from Hermie and Edith, is haunted by a long-buried
family mystery and abandons a promising career in London to pursue a quest for
roots in India where fate hurtles her in an unexpected direction.
Excerpt
‘A ripened peach
and just seventeen, man. She’ll be
heartbreaker and trouble stirrer, yawl see,’
the railwayman muttered to a workmate their gaze locked on Hermie Blake
as she propped up her black Raleigh bicycle against a betel-stained wall of
Ajeemkot’s two-storied mustard and red brick station building and un-looped a
basket from the handlebars. Then,
tucking her broad brimmed khaki solar topi under one arm, she hurried, her
bronze tumble of hair lit by sunlight, up the dusty, stone steps to the arched
entrance. After a humid night that
promised the monsoon, the temperature had climbed. That June day in 1939 was cloudless with a
slight heat haze and above the raucous bustle of the station the chimes of the
town’s Victoria Jubilee Memorial clock danced across on a spice-spiked breeze.
Eight
o'clock! Hermie – christened but seldom
called Hermione - glanced across for confirmation to the station clock -
accurate to a second - courtesy of its German manufacturer, and gave a gusty
sigh. She wiped her damp forehead, grimly conscious that she was late again for
work and mentally hurled invective at Bishu, their absent chokra.
'Girlee. Wait! That jungly boy has hopped to the bazaar
forgetting Pa’s tiffin as usual.'
Hermie’s mother, Noreen, had buttonholed her as she was about to leave
home. 'And mind, yawl know Pa’s a picky
eater. So drop this in for him on your
way.'
Noreen was pin
thin, her frame that of a distant forebear – an English infantryman in the pay
of the East India Company, once a mighty London based commercial venture with
its own private army. Three hundred and fifty years ago in a battle waged in
Bengal mangrove swamps against a local ruler, he’d survived to marry his Indian
village sweetheart and stayed on, never to return to the green meadows of home.
To cement allegiance the Company tossed a gold mohur coin to every India born
child of an Indian mother and European father and from such beginnings the
hybrid Anglo-Indian Community evolved. This was the Community to which the
Blakes belonged, its distinct genetic footprints leading back to European
ancestors in the male line of descent who’d flocked to India to seek fame and
fortune – and found love.
Anglo-Indians
were English speaking and Christian;
skin tone ranged from fair to swarthy, hair colour fair to black, they bore
European names and adopted the customs
and traditions of the British. Most
inter-married within the tight – knit, mixed-blood circle; few married Indians.
After a
scandal-busting probe, the Company, whose trading crusades had led to
terror-ridden land-grabs, was ousted by the British government – the Raj - who
gained direct rule of India - its jewel in the Crown. Applying divide and rule,
it accorded Anglo-Indians preferential treatment in subordinate jobs on the
railways, tea and coffee plantations, mines, hospitals, schools, post and telegraphs,
customs, the police and government service.
The Raj turned India into its very own treasure-trove, and the
Community- a buffer engineered by the Raj between itself and its Indian
subjects- spurned its ancient Indian heritage yet won scant social acceptance
from its colonial masters who were scornful of its mixed-race. There were Anglo-Indians who yearned to go home –
to the Britain of which they were not born, did not know, had never before
visited, but which they considered, by virtue of tenuous links to long-dead
kinsmen, to be their natural homeland.
'Why should I do
Bishu’s chores, Ma? Tell me that, eh?
Hermie’s creamy-skinned oval face had sharpened with indignation. ‘It’s the second time this week and just
once more and I'll suffer. Yawl know the Bank's rule – three late days in a row
means half a day’s leave docked.' She
wondered why Ma tolerated the feckless chokra - who'd come to them bearing a
testimonial that read: Without any
reservations we can recommend him as a thoroughly useless servant.
'Just this once,
pet.' Light brown eyes peered anxiously
at her.
'All right then, as
a favor to you,' Hermie's resolve faltered and her voice softened
affectionately, ‘but mind, never again. There can’t and won’t be a third
strike. I’m fed up of making allowances for him.' Her singsong accent, like that of Noreen's
and characteristic of the Community, ended on a note of finality.
Noreen, who gave
the impression that she might disintegrate in a puff of wind, seized on the
grudging assent and hastened to the hot, soot-walled kitchen returning with a
large wicker-lidded country basket.
Muttering under her breath, Hermie had reluctantly borne it away. She knew what it contained - an aluminium, three tiered, lidded
tiffin-carrier containing wholemeal parathas, spicy pork bhoonie, a generous
helping of omelette-rice, Ma’s spicy
cucumber pickle, a portion of banana cream, and a thermos flask of
strong, condensed-milk sweetened tea.
Hermie slackened
pace along the crowded platform skirting passengers squatting on their bedding
rolls, eyeing, with a sharp twinge of envy, a European woman's smart cream
linen outfit, and gloomily comparing it with her own bazaar-made floral,
mid-calf cotton skirt, the matching pin-tucked blouse and plain brown Bata
sandals. Resentment resurfaced. Will I
ever savor the rich pickings? Everyone’s
talking about the winds of change and the call for Independence is as loud as
the call to Morning Prayer from the minarets. Even President Roosevelt supports
the exit of the Raj and then who knows what will happen? Beyond a huge hoarding that pictured a woman,
hair coiled into a big bun, flashing an impossibly white smile asking coyly Did You Maclean Your Teeth Today? Hermie passed the Ladies Waiting Room and the
European Refreshment Room and at last came to the Stationmaster's Office that
led to the Guards’ Rest Room.
About to push open
the door marked NO ADMITTANCE EXCEPT ON DUTY it was snatched from her hand by a
sandy haired English subaltern. Hot air poured in and the creaking ceiling fan
circled lazily bringing scant relief. Hermie’s heart leapt. Ooh, he’s handsome,
and she smiled encouragingly. The soldier’s eyes narrowed, liking the shapely legs and the nice
way Hermie’s skirt moved but immediately setting her down as one of those chee
chee Anglo-Indians who hung around outside the Europeans-only Devonshire Club.
He turned his head away and swiftly transacting his business with the wrinkled
chaprassi, swiveled out of the room dashing Hermie’s hopes that he’d introduce
himself to her.
Hermie eyed his
retreating back with some distaste, angry not only with him but also at her
own vulnerability. Just you wait and see. It’s not always going to be like this, she
promised herself. I won’t be excluded.
Thrusting the basket at the chaprassi who’d taken it all in with his usual
impassivity, she snapped in kitchen Hindi, 'mind you give this to Guard
Wilburt, ek dum.’
'Achha'. He nodded and Hermie, feeling virtuous at a
tiresome task duly completed, rewarded him with a smile that had turned many a
male head.
The sound of angry
bellowing made her spin round and she dashed outside, the door banging shut
behind her. 'Hello? What's the hullabaloo?' What’s all this tamasha?' It was the sort of commotion that rendered it
somewhat different from the usual station hubbub.
'Hey sonny! Where's your ticket? Come back here, mind!'
Hermie glanced
sharply up and down the platform and saw an angrily gesticulating ticket
collector and, further along, with startled recognition, the running figure of
a skinny brown lad, fifteen year old Frank Gannon, Anglo-Indian like herself,
an altar boy at St. Columba’s Church.
Frayed shirt tail flying, he dodged in and out of the throng of
jabbering coolies squabbling over luggage.
She paused, then put
on a burst of speed.
‘What’re you doing
here, eh? What's up, Frank?' Sweat trickling down into her collar, she’d
caught up with him and seized his arm.
'Mind, you ought to be at school.
Go on, what's happened?' She
stared at him disquieted. He stank; the spotty, unwashed face, with its hint of
black down was bitterer than she’d ever seen, the religious medallion, never
worn except at Mass, dangled from a long chain round his neck.
Frank’s gaze
dropped to his tattered sandals. 'I don't want to talk about it. I can't.
Not to you. Not to
Bernadette.' Bernadette, his sister, was
Hermie's best friend and like her worked at the Ajeemkot Central Bank.
'Come on Frank, I’m
like your big sister. Somebody ticked
you off and you’re running away, right?’ Hermie put an arm round his
shoulder. He stiffened, saying nothing
with such a blank look on his face that she wondered if he'd heard her.
'Pa can't afford to
buy me a watch. Pa can't afford
anything.' He rubbed his knuckles against red-rimmed eyes then went on in a
tight singsong, ' I'm always going to be poor, always going to be a chee chee,
blackey-white, anglo-banglo, off-white, half-caste, Eurasian....’ Hermie winced
a little as he woodenly parroted a litany of pejorative names that the British
called the Community behind its back. He stared miserably at the ground, his
features dissolving into uncontrollable sobs.
'There...Now mind,
you listen to me...' she said gently stroking his bowed head, adding reassuringly.
‘Things are set to change. The Raj needs us even more than ever. They can’t go
on without us. We’ve got the upper hand at last. We'll...' She raised her voice above the shrill whistle
and the hissing of steam from the approaching express, her muffled words borne
away on the wind.
Frank shook himself
free and his face froze. A large black
fly was settling on his head. Hermie
could hear his quick, hard breathing.
Then whipping round, with one swift, frenzied twist he pitched himself
onto the track and into the fury of the oncoming train. The driver hadn't a chance. The sickening screech of brakes tore through
Hermie. There was a clanging of wheels
as the footplate heaved and stilled. A
moment’s sudden hush.
'Hai Ram!' An
appalled gasp rose from those who’d witnessed what had happened. Instinctively they surged forward only to ebb
back with a low moan at the gruesome sight of mangled body parts scattered
along the line.
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Author Bio
Serena Fairfax spent her
childhood in India, qualified as a lawyer in England and joined a London law firm.
Romance is hardwired into her DNA
so her novels include a strong romantic theme. However, she broke out of the
romance bubble with IN THE PINK, which is a quirky departure in style and
content.
She has also
authored several short stories that feature on her blog
Fast forward to a sabbatical from
the day job when she traded in bricks and mortar for a houseboat which, for a
hardened land lubber like her, turned out to be a big adventure.
Apart from writing and reading (all
kinds of books), a few of her favourite things are collecting old masks,
singing (in the rain) and exploring off the beaten track.
She’s a member of the Romantic Novelists Association, which is a very
supportive organization. Serena and her golden
retriever, Inspector Morse, who can't wait to unleash his own Facebook
page, divide their time between London
and rural Kent. (Charles Dickens said: Kent, sir. Everybody knows Kent.
Apples, cherries, hops and women).
Author’s Links
Website http://www.serenafairfax.com/
Blog http://www.serenafairfax.com/serena_fairfax_author_blog/serenaf
Authorgraph http://www.authorgraph.com/authors/Sefairfax
SirenBookstrand: www.sirenbookstrand.com/serena-fairfax
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