brows. She knew Eshana to have a will of iron, but never to be foolishly obstinate. But it wasn’t just stubbornness. Eshana had never been evasive before.
Eshana opened her bedroll to make up her bunk. “We should be getting our rest now.”
She had been effectively told to mind her own business. But over the next three days on this train she had to convince Eshana to be reasonable. In the bathroom Laine changed into her nightgown and brushed her teeth. She unrolled her bedding in the top bunk, and after switching off the light, climbed in. But sleep felt eons away.
Just when she thought Eshana had drifted off, her Indian-accented English floated upward over the rattle of the train, like the smoke of incense, delicate yet tenacious. “I admit I am most determined to go back to Amritsar, but that is not the only reason I cannot join you in the city of Madras. Or anywhere in that entire district.” Eshana took a cleansing breath. “I have never told you that Madras was also my birthplace.”
Laine bolted up and stared into the dark. “All this time you’ve known I came from there, you’ve never said a word. Does Abby know?”
“Not even Abby. I kept my secret because I do not wish to remember the time I was cast from my home for being a widow.”
“I’m well aware of how a great many widows are mistreated in Hinduism. But do you know for sure your family wouldn’t want to see you? Gandhi is speaking out about that, as well as about other wrongs. Times are changing. Goodness, one of these days the Indian people may very well tell us Brits to get out.”
Eshana’s voice grew faint. “Perhaps things are changing in India. Until recently I had hoped to return one day to my childhood home, the Jasmine Palace. I desire with all my heart to see my family, most especially my mother. That was until...until this morning. No, I will be returning to Amritsar where I belong. That is God’s will.”
An unladylike snort escaped Laine. “Eshana, you’re as obstinate as a thicket of bamboo.”
“And you, my friend, remind me of prickly mimosa. Though it is fragrant, it curls inward upon itself when it is touched. I will confess to being persevering...or determined—”
“Persevering, my eye. The word you’re looking for is stubborn.”
Eshana’s bedding muffled her giggle. “It is time for sleep, my mimosa friend.”
The clatter of the train was the only sound after that, as well as Chandra’s soft snore. Laine flumped over on her back and laid her arm across her eyes. Mimosa, that curls up on itself when touched. Ridiculous. So what if she didn’t want her heart mangled like it had been? True, she didn’t go out with men much. Though she pretended to want a man, each time they made serious advances, she did curl up inside. They soon left her alone, assuming she didn’t care.
Two years ago she’d tried with Reese. She often wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t died. Would she have made it to the altar, or sent him on his way too?
She raised up on an elbow, gave her pillow a swift but sound thrashing to soften it, and lay down. It was all Adam’s fault. He’d ruined all other men for her. Blast him!
~*~
Only one more stop and they would reach Bombay on the coast of the Arabian Sea. Feeling braver than they had felt in days, the three women stepped down from the train. Eshana agreed that Laine should take Chandra for a stroll while she purchased their food. It must be as Maurice assured them. No one paid heed to the kidnapping of one girl of the untouchable class.
Eshana waved to Laine and Chandra down the platform that swam with passengers from all over India. Shorter dark-skinned Tamil people from the south milled around with those from the north with complexions like milky tea. Bengalis, Rajputs, Afghans, and tall Sikhs with black flashing eyes, turbans, and beards, reminded her of Jai. Father in Heaven, it is my prayer that you return me home that I may assist him again.
She reached the queue for the Hindu refreshment room when a man blocked her way. Uncle Harish. Her mind darted. Did he do business in cities beside Madras and Amritsar? Bombay? Because he must have left Amritsar on the Bombay Mail the day after they had left on the goods train. Her heart swayed one way and then the other. She did not stoop to touch his feet in respect. With all her soul she prayed Uncle would take no offense, but with the way he glowered at her this was not to be.
“What is this you are doing?” He nodded for her to leave the queue. He was her father’s elder brother, and she obeyed. Once they were away from those desiring Hindu food his taut words matched the quivering of his jaw. “Pavum! What shameful thing is this? As a widow you should keep yourself out of the way.”
“I am sorry, Uncle, I do not wish to offend anyone. But I no longer think of myself as something shameful.”
He stepped back from her. “You should be living in an ashram for widows or in a temple. To add to your sins, you flaunt yourself with clothing not fit for a woman whose husband is dead.” He winced as if her sari the color of eggplant caused him pain.
The longing to tell someone in her family of her joyful life would burst from her lungs if she held it in. All these years of her banishment since Papa and Uncle had left her at the ashram rushed upon her, an avalanche of Himalayan snows. Still, her gaze fell. “The Living God does not want me to live like dead carrion simply because the boy who was my husband died.”
“You would cast shame on your relatives in such a way?” Tears blurred his eyes. “Think of your mother and father. Think of the parents of your husband. I beg you to stop defiling our caste in this way. Think of the bad luck you will bring to our households, our businesses.”
His words crushed like spices ground by a stone pestle. Shaking her head, she backed away, but Uncle seized her by the elbow. “I must impress upon you to stop your sinful ways.”
She squirmed, looking over her shoulder for a glimpse of Laine, while her uncle’s grip remained a fetter of iron around her arm. Laine did not see her, her attention on helping Chandra to their train. Uncle followed her gaze and stopped on Laine and the young girl.
“Who are those females, and one of them an Englishwoman?” His gaze widened. “It could not be—the news and descriptions have been spread about Amritsar—an Indian woman of your age...and an English memsahib. You would not be so evil, surely?” His eyes grew black with comprehension. “It was you who stole the temple girl.”
Eshana risked another glance at Laine and Chandra. Her uncle did not see them climb aboard the goods train. They were safe. She raised her gaze to her uncle, her insides quaking.
He began to drag her away. “You have given me no choice, Eshana. It is only right that you be given to the police who are searching for you in Amritsar.”
“No, Uncle,” she cried.
Tears shone like oil on his cheeks. “I cannot be letting you cause such disruption to our people. Though, I cannot leave you, the child of my brother, to the police. You will come with me to Madras. One of our relatives will have a place in their house to keep you from shaming us.”
She tasted the salt of her own sorrow as she pulled at his fingers, hating to show him disrespect. But it could not be. She would not insult the free gift of God by going with her uncle and taking upon herself the dead existence of a Hindu widow.
Father God, help me! Gasping, she pulled, but to no avail.
A
