Deanna Raybourn - Dark Road to Darjeeling

My host had seated himself nimbly upon a cushion and beckoned for me to do the same. I pondered the best way to do so, then created a sort of organised fall to my knees and thence to the side.

“Well done,” said my host. “Most ladies dither and dawdle. You have comported yourself as a very flower of gracefulness,” he assured me, although I was quite certain I had not.

If I had expected him to call a servant to serve us, I was mistaken, for the little chest was within reach and I soon realised he meant to do the honours himself. A small brazier heated the water, and in a very few minutes he had assembled his impedimenta.

He rocked back on his heels to wait for the water to come to the boil, and as he did so, I took the opportunity to study him. He was a very little bit younger than I had expected, perhaps sixty, with a full head of silvery-white hair, the locks falling to his shoulders. A single streak of black swept from one temple, giving him a faintly piratical look, and his brows were still firmly marked and dark. He moved with a supple grace that indicated a man of still-frequent activity, and his brown skin bespoke time spent out of doors. He might have been a soldier once, for I had often seen such weather-beaten looks upon the faces of those who had served Her Majesty in such a capacity.

He moved easily, as if the joints that rebelled against so many his age did not afflict him, and his hands, large and surprisingly gentle with the tea things, bore no trace of swelling or stiffness, although I noticed the tip of one finger was missing.

“Have you finished then?” he asked, his voice still gentle.

I started. “Finished?”

He turned and gave me a smile, revealing strong white teeth. He wore Oriental robes, but his beard and moustaches were neatly trimmed as any gentleman walking down Bond Street. “I have given you ample opportunity to take my measure. If you have not done so, I will be vastly disappointed in you, Lady Julia.”

“You know me?”

“Of course! It is my business to know all that happens in this valley. Does that sound sinister? Dear me, I do not intend for it to be so. But I have been in India a very long time, child. I have seen deeds that would make God himself weep. A man who does not know what folk are whispering into their pillows at night is a man who does not wish to live.”

I thought of the Mutiny of 1857, the atrocities committed. None had been spared, not women, not babies, and if the White Rajah had seen any of it for himself, it would have left its mark upon him.

He brought the tea things to the table then, a low bowl for each of us and the large closed bud of a flower. He moved with the deft gestures of a conjurer as he poured the hot water over each, and as the steaming water hit the petals, the flower bud twisted and writhed and burst into flower.

“How beautiful!” I breathed.

He smiled a magician’s smile. “Exquisite, is it not? The same thing happens in your teapot everyday, although I daresay you do not see it. The water touches the dry leaves, and in that moment, they dance and they struggle, and give themselves up to the water, yielding the gift of their fragrance, their essence. It is called the agony of the leaves.”

He poured his own water then settled himself upon his cushion.

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