1924 September – Shahpura, India.
Characters
Player Characters |
Non-Player Characters |
| Charles – English dilettante who has a predilection for art, the occult, doing nothing and duelling with pistols (Simon) | Anjuli, Rajkumari of Shahpura |
| Holmes, Monica – American, Doctor of Medicine from Crab Apple Cove, Maine (Jenny) | Ardra, Sher Singh – Commander of the Shahpura Royal Guard |
| Smirnoff, Nikolai – Ukrainian Cossack who has performed in an American circus for years (Mike) | Banh, Mohandur – Raja’s half brother and major-domo, an all-around villain |
| Trevelyan, Baron Tyson – British Army Major stationed in the Punjab region (Ben) | Bharmal – Rajah of Shahpura and his wife Catherine, the only child of the 10th Earl of Carmarthen and Rani of Shahpura (Anjuli’s parents) |
| Chani – Anjuli’s old maid | |
| Lalji – Anjuli’s dead elder brother, rumoured to have died by Mohandar’s hand | |
| Nandu – Anjuli’s younger brother and heir to Shahpura, outwardly confident but cream-puff on the inside | |
| Pran, Gunjit Ranwar – Mohandar’s yes-man | |
| Shushila – Anjuli’s younger sister, cruel bitch queen, mad-dog killer of kids | |
| Winstanley-Beckett, Colonel Sir Aubrey – British Resident in Shahpura |
Involvement
Anjuli is returning to Shahpura after her adventures in strange places. Monica is accompanying Anjuli and both women have heavy hearts over the loss of their loved ones. Sam, Anjuli’s lover, and Munroe, Monica’s brother, remain in Alternate America beyond reach, possibly forever.
GM’s Note: This episode originally started as one of Neil Fraser’s many play-by-mail (PBM) games. The original first move is included below.
Written by Neil Fraser
Anjuli stood eagerly at the rail of ‘A-Deck’ on the Gold Funnel liner, ‘Duchess of Skye’. In deference to the chilly weather, she wore western clothes and was wrapped in a luxurious blue mink coat. She tugged the matching hat down more closely over her icy ears. Few others were on deck with her, most preferring the comfort of the lounge or their cabins.
Her green eyes anxiously searched the dull grey horizon for her first glimpse of home after such a long time. She desperately wanted to see Shahpura again, despite the smallness of the old walled town. Even Paris had paled after a while. Above all she wanted Jumtiaha Palace to still be home, unchanged, impossibly huge and sprawling as it was with all its dark corridors, mysterious cupboards, bizarre rooms and abandoned wings. Anjuli sighed happily, then shivered again. Just as soon as she had seen India, she would go back to the warmth of the lounge.
On the very edge of her vision, a darker grey streak appeared along the horizon. Land! India at last. She watched for several minutes as the smudge became more substantial. The relief, joy and excitement of returning home flooded through her and memories of her family crowded into her mind. A sudden break in the clouds created a golden spear of sunlight which lanced down to impact silently on the waves ahead of the ship, pointing the way home. The first sight was only Bombay, but it was real, not the imagined city of a homesick heart.
Not unlike her namesake, the ‘Duchess of Skye’ wallowed majestically in the wake of the tugs as they rounded the point past Black Bay and the elderly hulk of Fort St. George. She was towed to her anchorage in the Bombay Harbour where a crowd of people awaited her berthing. There were soldiers and civilians, nearly all British, and patient native labourers squatting in droves, chatting idly and waiting for the verbal lash of their overseers.
Anjuli was glorious in shimmering silver-blue satins, silks and coarse woven cottons, all products of the native industry of Shahpura. Her formal sari was brilliant and shot through with threads of gold. The long end was draped artistically over her head and fell to below her waist. Her elaborate gold, pearl and sapphire necklaces, gold and bejewelled bracelets, tinkling anklets and snaking gold and diamond chains over the backs of her hands and fingers caused her to shimmer and flash in the bright sunlight.
The weather had changed. Whereas at sea it had been cold, windy and miserable, in Bombay the weather was hot, just as she remembered. Anjuli looked over the gathered crowd and felt very smug. These superior British had nothing to compare to her and her adornments. It had always puzzled her how the arrogant ones tended to end up in India, she had not found them to be so bad at home.
“Is that you, my Darling?”. The woman’s question had come from behind Anjuli, who swung about in a flutter of hummingbird colours to find her new friend standing a short distance from her. Anjuli had met Chastity de Vere aboard the ship after Rome and was immediately taken by the contrast between her name and her appearance. Chastity was one of the most ravishing and sensual beauties Anjuli had ever seen, so un-English, perfect of face and form and possessed of a liquid and seductive voice that stopped men in their tracks. Chastity was only four months younger than Anjuli and the two women quickly became fast friends.
“Yes Chastity, it’s me” Anjuli replied, taking in her friend’s black satin trouser suit, pale pink silk blouse and wide-brimmed, elegant satin hat. On seeing Anjuli properly Chastity’s mauve-blue eyes opened wide, giving her the look of an empty-headed doll. Anjuli now knew this to be an expression Chastity used to mislead people as to her wit and intelligence. The resulting confusion had given both women subtle enjoyment over the course of the voyage.
Chastity quickly embraced Anjuli and kissed her cheek-to-cheek. Despite usually being outshone by the Welsh woman, this time Anjuli was by far the more spectacular of the two. “That’s utterly super!” said Chastity, faint regret tinging her voice as she stared at Anjuli’s forehead. “A gift from my father on my fourteenth birthday” Anjuli answered with quiet pride. She knew why Chastity stared. Everyone who saw that particular jewel stared.
A woven electrum wire about Anjuli’s black tresses supported above her forehead a rosette of white diamonds, fourteen in all, surrounding a carved and shapely ten pointed star surmounted by a huge, fiery blue diamond. Below, in lieu of her usual painted caste mark, hung a bloody ruby with the fire of the gods in its heart. The warm metal against her forehead was a reminder of who and where she was. Rajkumari Anjuli, daughter of Bharmal, Rajah of Shahpura, granddaughter of the 10th Earl of Carmarthen by his daughter Catherine, herself now Rani of Shahpura and wife to Bharmal, noticed with cynical amusement the gap that had opened about her and Chastity, a court of sycophants drawing back from their mistresses.
What Anjuli liked best about Chastity and her husband, Rhys de Vere, was that neither had apparently noticed she was not the same hue as they. Neither seemed to care and, as far as she could tell, these vital and vibrant individuals accepted people on their own merits. Anjuli reflected sadly that they were likely to be shunned by the rest of the British community in India as a result.
Chastity sighed enviously as she touched Anjuli’s flowing robes. “Oh, I love this. I must wear some and you must show me how to wear it”. The hint of a challenge in her gaze deserved a suitable reply. Anjuli smiled and took Chastity’s hand. “Your hair is exactly the right black, Chastity. That’s unusual in Europe but perfect for here. But your skin is even paler than mine and mine is most un-Indian. I don’t think I want to have you seen in a sari, though. You outshine me invariable anyway!” Anjuli’s teasing worked and Chastity laughed gaily, eyes flashing. She kissed Anjuli again, oblivious of the disapproving frowns of the “pukka sahibs” about.
“What ho, ladies!” came the cheery cry of Chastity’s husband, Rhys. He pushed his way through the crowd, smiling brilliantly to all and sundry as an apology. His enormous and unaffected charm won him an effortless path. In his own way, Rhys was almost as stunning as his lovely wife. Tall, slim and broad-shouldered, his studiously careless blond hair and his dark blue eyes heralded bon viveur.
On first meeting him Anjuli had been quite shocked to see an Anglican dog collar beneath his square chin, she would never have thought him a minister. After learning more about him Anjuli discovered that under his individually tailored black suits and his languid upper-class drawl Rhys was a Welshman and a member of the superb 1924 Olympic British trap-shooting team. It was unfortunate he broke his hand just after qualifying for the team.
Rhys bowed extravagantly before Anjuli. “Dear cousin!” he exclaimed. Ever since he found out that an ancestor of his had married a relative of Anjuli’s British ancestors, he had insisted on calling her “cousin”. With a grandiloquent gesture, Rhys took Anjuli’s hand and bent over to kiss it. She suspected he would have been a magnificent actor had the Church not called him.
“Gosh, one could cut one’s lips on these baubles, couldn’t one poppet?” he appealed to his wife, waving Anjuli’s captive hand before Chastity’s laughing eyes. “Rhys!” she managed, seeing Anjuli’s attempts to break free and stop being the centre of unwanted attention from the surrounding British and natives. “They are not baubles!” She turned to Anjuli whose hand was still captive in Rhys grasp. “The silly thing has no taste. Baubles, dear Rhys, are one, usually worthless, two, invariably large, gaudy and in poor taste, and three, worn by large, gaudy and in poor taste matrons. Neither one, two or three apply to our Anjuli.”
Throughout this lecture, Chastity made no attempt to help Anjuli set herself free. Rhys threw one histrionic hand to his forehead and staggered in shock and dismay. Anjuli hurriedly reclaimed her hand.
“What?” the minister cried. “You are not a matron, dear cousin? How could you have deceived me so?” He turned to the gawking crowds about them. “Listen up, oh sturdy yeomen! She is not a matron!” Suddenly Anjuli was not the centre of attention. Everyone was looking pointedly elsewhere, everyone except one little girl who giggled in delight at the “funny man”. The girl’s nanny gave her a quick clip on the side of her head, causing the girl enough pain to start quietly crying. Rhys glared daggers at the nanny, causing her to back away looking upset, confused and a little contrite.
Chastity threw her arms about her husband, weeping with laughter into his shoulder. He patted her in the manner of an uncle and peered at her, as if over the top of imaginary spectacles. “Dear me!” he remarked to Anjuli. “Who is this young gel who continually drapes herself over me? Where do I pick ’em up from?” He lapsed into a series of senile mumbles, oblivious to Chastity’s tiny pounding fists against his chest.
“Beast!” she managed. “I’m going to have to do all my makeup again.” “Goo’ Lord!” he exclaimed. “You need to wear makeup?” She hugged him tightly, beaming. “Sometimes he’s an angel” she proclaimed. “Dash it then! Some cad has stolen me wings, harp and halo!” “Then he spoils it!” Chastity continued severely.
Anjuli had resigned herself to an interminable wait in customs, perhaps due to her mountainous baggage. Over to her right, Rhys was enjoying himself. The officials had no idea what to do with such a minister of religion. “The huntin’, the shootin’ and the fishin’, dear boy. Though I’m not too keen on the fishin’. That’s why I’m here. I’m disappointed though. Almost fifteen minutes ashore and I haven’t seen a single tiger yet. It’s not good enough, old chum” he continued, lecturing benignly. The official looked bemused. “Roll on the tigers! I say, with all these doors, surely there’s a tiger behind one of ’em. Let ’em get moving, then POW! A running shot!” Rhys made a rifle shooting gesture, nearly knocking off his wife’s hat. Chastity was trying unsuccessfully not to giggle.
Then Anjuli forgot the dog collared clown. Effortlessly gliding through the crowds towards her was the unmistakable form of Sher Singh Ardra, one of her father’s oldest friends and one of hers too, despite the disparity in age, gender and station. The Sikh was almost 6′ 8″ tall and must have weighed over twenty stone. He was built like a bull, handsome and impressive. Shimmering black boots were topped by crimson silk trousers and a turquoise silk jacket, gold-embroidered with carved sapphire buttons. His broad sash was butter yellow and scarlet, fringed with silver. His magnificent turban was snow white and immaculately wound, topped with a piece of carved jade backed with the eye from a peacock’s tail.
“Little Princess!” he boomed, his voice deep enough, but not as much as would be expected from his size. He swept down on Anjuli, picking her up and embracing her closely. Anjuli’s face was buried in his silky beard. “I’ve missed you, little Princess,” he said in English. His voice was tender and Anjuli thought she saw a tear in the warrior’s eye. The big Sikh disliked speaking Rajputani and Anjuli spoke no Punjabi. He put her down carefully, then gently put one huge hand on her shoulder and smiled. “Your father sent me to meet you. I’ve been looking forward to this moment since your telegram arrived.”
“I’ve missed you too, Sher Singh”, Anjuli said, slightly breathlessly. Despite the huge man being nearly twice her age, he had been like a brother to her. Sher Singh had been in the Rajah’s service since 1897 and had taught Anjuli’s older brother, Lalji. Anjuli and Lalji had always been Sher Singh’s favourites. Anjuli’s younger brother Nandu had never really liked him though.
As a Sikh and therefore without the Hindu caste and social system, Sher Singh felt it not unreasonable that he acted as the conscience of the family he served with devotion. Bharmal appreciated this and welcomed the giant soldier’s often blunt advice. Nandu, however, felt that the foreigner and unbeliever took advantage of his position. Consequently, Sher Singh had resigned himself to losing his job on his friend Bharmal’s death. Privately Anjuli had resolved to find a position for him. Such faithfulness as her father’s general and chief soldier had invariably shown, such friendship, should not be discarded like an old coat.
Anjuli noticed the relative silence. Rhys was observing this little tête-à-tête from his position, eyes bright and amused, head slightly on one side, like a roguish blond starling. The customs official took advantage of this respite to hurriedly stamp the minister’s papers and thrust them into his hands. Chastity took his arm and began to tug him in the direction of Anjuli and Sher Singh.
The latter spoke again, oblivious for the moment of the coming confrontation. “Mohandur Banh is fixing your papers, little Princess. Waiting outside I have servants, guards, elephants, carriages and my Rajah’s motor-car for your choice of travel.”
Anjuli nodded, comfortably slipping into the role of potentate surrounded by hordes of lackeys, though her heart sank slightly at the thought of Mohandur Banh, the major-domo. A tall, thin, cold man he was technically Anjuli’s uncle, though never referred to as such. Anjuli’s grandfather had eight wives, Bharmal was the son of the Rani, Mohandur the son of the junior-most wife. Though always very formal and correct, Anjuli had always suspected him of seeking more power than he already possessed, and of being a manipulator of the thoughts and deeds of others. Sometimes he made her feel like a stumbling girl. She smiled, slightly absently, at Sher Singh who swelled with pleasure. At least she had her guardian lion to protect her.
“Little princess, introduce me to your two friends,” Sher Singh asked gently. He turned, lightly for his bulk, and surveyed Reverend and Mrs de Vere with cool brown eyes. They had yet to prove themselves to him. “Oh, Sher Singh. This is … the Honourable the Reverend Rhys Owain Davies-de Vere and his wife Chastity, Mrs Rhys Davies-de Vere. I met them aboard ship and they are my friends. We are related, oh, way back, in Britain.”
“My Princess’ friends are my responsibility too” declared the Sikh. “My service is yours to command.” Now the de Veres were placed as friends and even as relatives Sher Singh’s eyes were warm and open. “Gosh! Do all of your countrymen come so big, dear cousin?” asked Rhys ingenuously. Anjuli smiled. “No, I believe Sher Singh broke the mould in which he was forged.” She patted Sher Singh’s arm. “He was forged. He’s solid steel with the heart of a marshmallow.”
The Sikh drew himself up very impressively. “Only to family am I soft, little Princess!” Then he relaxed, laughing. “And to family friends. Do all your countrymen make so merry a set of clergy?” he asked Rhys. “Oh gosh, no!” said Rhys, with every appearance of earnest honesty. “I had to pay a jolly lot of money for the duds.”
“Don’t listen to him Anjuli, Mr Singh” retorted Chastity. “He set out to become a minister and he worked awfully hard. Then he joined the army and when the War ended he studied some more. He loves the position and he’d never have stooped to pay.” Chastity seemed very sincere on Rhys behalf. “A hit! A palpable hit!” exclaimed Rhys. “Never marry a maiden (he grinned as at some private joke) who believes in one more than oneself does.” He hugged his wife.
“And please, Mr and Mrs … Reverend and Mrs Davies-de Vere, I am Sher Singh, not Mr Singh. I am a Sikh and every Sikh’s name is Singh.”
“In that case” Rhys responded and offered his hand to be shaken by Sher Singh, who did so firmly. “I am Rhys, and my wife Chastity, though she is but a poppet to me.” He nudged her in the ribs. “And we don’t generally use the Davies bit of the surname, y’ know. Just when we’re out to impress. One has a jolly funny feeling you’d be awfully hard to impress, eh what?”
Sher Singh led the way out, people scattering from his path. A small troop of mounted Sikhs armed with swords clustered about a large, Victorian-style horse-drawn carriage. “Everyone else is outside town, little Princess. We will join them there.” Sher Singh snapped his fingers at the laden porters who hastened to dump their loads on the vehicle. Pre-empting Sher Singh, Rhys handed Chastity and Anjuli into the carriage, then leapt in rather stylishly himself. The Sikh, now astride a huge black stallion, tapped the driver with his whip, then moved to a position alongside the carriage as it moved off.
“We’ll have to report to the North Barracks, little Princess. I have to collect the lances and our guns. The soldiers will also probably want to escort us to the border of Rajputana.”
“Band of desperados, eh?” remarked Rhys cheerfully, as he glanced at the immaculate lines of the troopers following.
“Absolutely Rhys” responded Sher Singh solemnly. “Cut your throat as soon as look at you. They’re just pretending to be disciplined to put you off your guard.” At first Rhys looked startled, but then he grinned appreciatively. “I think I like it here. Jolly interesting chappies in the neighbourhood, eh poppet?” Chastity didn’t respond as she was busy seeing scenes Anjuli didn’t bother looking at any more. Chastity’s interest rekindled Anjuli’s, who then began seeing things with a fresh eye.
The noise and bustle. British sahibs and memsahibs were followed by Indian servants, often liveried. There were the occasional khaki coated soldiers, native or British, and once, a group of four rifle-green and black-clad Ghurkhas. There were western dressed Indians, merchants perhaps, or businessmen or even clerks, plus natives dressed in all the innumerable styles of the subcontinent. Then there were the cows, the occasional chickens, dogs, cats and even a pair of yellow-grey furred ferocious-looking rats at the opening to a hole that could have been a sewer, save that no-one in the town seemed to use sewers, from the filthy state of the streets.
Amidst the noise and the sights, the stench and the filth the beggars lurked, and Untouchables engaged in menial and revolting jobs, cringing away from the possessors of caste. Children played in filth and in the back alleys, unseen by more gentle eyes, corpses no doubt lay to be collected eventually and buried.
“It’s like the East End of London, save for the heat and the clothes, and the buildings are so much finer, so British.” Chastity spoke after a long period of watching, wondering. “You British were ever good builders, Chastity” advised Sher Singh softly. “Builders of structures and builders of realms. To turn all into Britain. Bombay was for so long the home of the Company, and it is more British than virtually any other town.”
Anjuli picked up the thread. “In the end, though India will swallow Britain, and all this will be India. India is patient and huge and we will bury the little British attempts to change us. We are like China in that, though even more quiet and subtle.”
“You make all our attempts sound futile.” Rhys was solemn for a change. “Attempts to do what?” asked Sher Singh curiously. “India was already civilized before you came before you were in fact. What Britain wants from India is our wealth. The sometimes dubious benefits of your Western civilization are only a side effect of the Company’s and then the Empire’s attempts to take what is ours.” Sher Singh held up a large, calloused brown hand. “Please don’t think I dislike the British, especially not such intelligent and willing to learn Britons as yourselves. It’s just that the return we get from the Empire doesn’t justify the way things are done.”
“Even if India can’t rule herself, shouldn’t she be given a chance to try?” asked Anjuli. “You speak as if you are not part of this India” Rhys noticed. “I’m not” she responded promptly. “Sher Singh is, he’s a Punjabi. But I’m from Rajputana and am a member of one of the Princely Houses. We owe our allegiance directly to His Imperial Majesty. George V may be King of Great Britain, but he is Emperor of India, too. Independence such as the Congress Party wants will probably not be good for Rajputana and the other Princely States.”
“You sound as political as I, little Princess.” It was difficult for Anjuli to tell if Sher Singh sounded reproving.
They arrived outside the barracks. “I’ll go in, little Princess. Wait here.” Sher Singh swung off the big horse, then dismounted his troop. Followed by his sergeant, Khanzah Singh and half the troopers, Sher Singh made his impressive way past the sentries of whatever British regiment they were. The two of them glanced as surreptitiously as possible at the two beautiful women in the carriage.
“Yoo hoo!” waved Rhys. “Jolly interesting sights, eh fellows?” The two suddenly lost interest in the carriage. “If only I could work out how he does it,” his wife said wistfully. “I could make a fortune selling it.” She changed the subject, fanning herself with a pamphlet that was usually used to extol the virtues of the Gold Funnel Line. “Is it always this hot, dear?”
“Oh no, usually it’s much worse,” Anjuli said cheerfully.
“Oh,” said the other faintly. “Oh drat, now I don’t know if you’re serious or not. Do you pick it up from Rhys, or does it come naturally to you?”
“Yes,” Anjuli answered firmly. Chastity grimaced in reply. “Seriously Chastity, you should wear white to reflect the heat and use a parasol. There should be one here somewhere.”
Anjuli hunted around in the carriage fruitlessly until the driver divined her purpose. He handed back a long cloth wrapped pole from under his seat. Between Rhys and the Sikh corporal they soon had the brilliantly coloured, heavily fringed umbrella open and socketed.
Sher Singh reappeared, majestically leading his men who were burdened with lances adorned with fluttering sky blue pennons, and with rifles. The Sikh commander had already slung his rifle over his shoulder and stowed his two revolvers in their waist holsters. Armed, he looked more comfortable than hitherto. A broad, short, very ugly lieutenant of about thirty wearing khaki accompanied him, scampering slightly to keep up and casually returning the sentries salutes with an irritable wave of his swagger stick. Sher Singh made the salutation he reserved for formal occasions.
“Rajkumari, may I present Lieutenant Dobson of the 3rd Hyderabad Cavalry. Lieutenant Dobson, this is the Rajkumari Anjuli of Shahpura.” The squat Dobson managed a rather lackadaisical salute and his eyes slid sideways to roam over Chastity. He brightened up. “I’m pleased to meet you, Lieutenant Dogson,” said Anjuli, taking a slight pleasure in the needling. Sher Singh looked sideways.
“Dobson, ma’am” the Englishman corrected, his outraged eyes flicking back to Anjuli. “Oh, of course,” said Anjuli, waving the matter aside as if it was of no major importance. Dobson swallowed his annoyance, but at least no longer dismissed her as unimportant. Chastity ostentatiously shifted closer to Anjuli and draped a slim arm around her shoulder, then leaned to whisper in her ear. “We’ll show that the woman he admires thinks more of the “natives” than her own kind, shall we dear?” Anjuli felt grateful and turned to Chastity with a faint clashing of jewellery. “People like you and Rhys are rare. Thankyou, Chastity.”
The troopers armed themselves, relaxing and gaining in stature with the restoration of their weapons. A quiet, satisfied buzz ran amongst them until their captain glanced casually over their ranks. There came a clattering of hooves as a British sergeant led a saddled horse and twelve other mounted Indian cavalrymen to the gates. Dobson strode off to his horse without waiting for dismissal. Sher Singh looked ominously at him.
A little louder than strictly necessary Sher Singh explained to Anjuli “His Majesty’s Government has kindly agreed to allow Lieutenant Dobson and his men to accompany us to the border of Rajputana. There they will return to us the bullets for our rifles.” He slapped the carriage and the whole original part of the cavalcade moved off, to the discomfort of the Indian Army section left behind to wait as their Commander mounted his horse. One of the Sikh troopers made an apparently ribald comment in Punjabi until Sher Singh snapped a comment back. The trooper looked resentful, then grudgingly accepting.
The other troop finally caught up, Dobson fuming, his sergeant stony-faced and the other troopers apparently unconcerned. A general lack of communication ensued between the two halves of the party.
The fringes of Bombay were at last behind them. Lieutenant Dobson, at last, had his troop successfully pass the Sikhs and the carriage, a feat he’d been attempting for some time. Dobson had felt rather out of control when at the rear of the group he was trying to escort. The triumph was utterly ruined when Sher Singh, with a ringing Punjabi cry, wheeled his whole group off of the main road and onto a bumpy side trail.
For a moment Anjuli thought Dobson would draw and use his revolver, she could see the intent in his disappearing back. Reason prevailed, however, and he turned his men around and intercepted them. Dobson glared daggers at an unconcerned Sher Singh but didn’t miss the next turn or the stop.
An elaborate little camp-site was spread out beside a well near a farm. The area was well watered and the farmer well paid so no resentment was incurred. Naked and semi-naked urchins of both sexes gazed at the camp and the arriving notables. A number broke away from the crowd and clamoured towards the carriage, crying for alms. Off in the distance, under a tree, an almost wholly naked yogi raised his hoary head in mild disinterest at the noise, before letting his head drop again.
Mohandur Banh descended upon them, stalking like a crane but covering the ground rapidly. Accompanying him were a number of the burlier servants and a flutter of girls. He looked disapprovingly at the unexpected shapes of Rhys and Chastity, then let his cool, remote gaze slip masterfully to his niece. The major-domo nodded as the children scattered before the male servants. “Welcome back Rajkumari.” Mohandur Banh sounded not in the least sincere, and as cool as ever. “It is long since we have seen you.” He didn’t miss a breath but let his gaze slip off her and across the two Britons as though they weren’t there. Rhys and Chastity looked baffled at the Hindi but could tell a snub when they saw one, no matter how well concealed. Rhys helped his wife out as Sher Singh gave his Princess his massive arm.
“Where is Gunjit Ranwar Pran?” the major-domo gently enquired of no-one. “Here, here, here!” came the shrill response as the fat and greasy little protocol chief bustled up, rubbing scented hands together. He wilted at Mohandur Banh’s superior but subtle sneer. “Oh Rajkumari, Rajkumari!” Pran babbled as he attempted to get close and take Anjuli’s hand. Sher Singh “accidentally” interposed his bulk and was stabbed by a serpentine glare from Pran. There was no love whatsoever lost between the two men.
“Oh, welcome back to Rajputana” continued Pran. “I pray to all the gods I will be spared to welcome you back to Shahpura as well, Rajkumari! The whole realm will rejoice at your return. The birds will sing, the cows low, the very flowers will bloom again!”
“That will be enough, Gunjit” interposed Banh expertly, before the spring became a flood. “The Princess will desire a meal and rest and her companions will no doubt require accommodation. Will they be travelling far, Rajkumari?”
Anjuli was left with Banh’s distaste for the whole business ringing in her ears. Hastily she introduced the minister and his wife to Banh and Pran, then added “Reverend and Mrs de Vere will be travelling to Shahpura with me, then on to Ajmere where his sister and new brother-in-law now live. Reverend de Vere’s brother-in-law works for the Chief Commissioner there.”
“Indeed” was the lack-lustre response from Banh. “How very exciting it must be for Reverend and Mrs de Vere.” He switched effortlessly to his fluent and only moderately accented English. “Welcome to India, Reverend and Mrs de Vere. One trusts you will enjoy your stay in this alien country.” Banh’s tone left no doubt he rather hoped their stay would be brief and unpleasant.
Rhys lifted one of those expressive eyebrows of his. “Just here for the shootin’ and huntin’, old boy!” Mohandur Banh looked aggrieved at the appellation. With a sinking heart, Anjuli knew that Rhys would forever call the major-domo “old boy”. Chastity hung onto Rhys’ arm and giggled slightly, slipping into her dumb beauty role. Anjuli now knew that Chastity suspected something odd was going on.
Banh looked down his not inconsiderable nose at Chastity, then dismissed her as not worthy of further consideration. He turned to Anjuli again. “Come, if you please Rajkumari. I will show you to your tent and I will have instantly made available a tent for your guests.” The “your” of “your guests” was faintly but distinctly emphasized.
“I thank you for your welcome, Mohandur Banh” Anjuli responded formally. She would give him no more. “Come with me please Chastity, Rhys. I’ll show you around and introduce you later to everyone.” Anjuli switched back to Rajputani to speak to Sher Singh, a sure sign she was angry, upset and feeling ominous. “Please attend me too, Sher Singh. I wish to talk to you about various matters.”
The Sikh immediately looked worried and upset and Anjuli knew she had scored a hit. He understood Rajputani well enough though he preferred not to talk it, so he knew that for his little Princess to use the tongue on him was a bad sign. The formality of the request was ill, too. They knew he would attend her automatically. The request was to formalise and make an order of a pleasure. “I hear and obey, little Princess.” In a lighter moment, the general would have thickened and made comical his Punjabi accent, but not now.
Sher Singh trailed unhappily behind as Anjuli took the de Veres to the tent already erected for them. Anjuli reflected sourly that whatever Bahn’s other faults, he was efficient. She assigned three servants, a man and two women, exclusively to Rhys and Chastity. This was usually the major-domo’s job and Anjuli took some pleasure in stepping in over him. She left the de Veres to their own devices. “I’ll just freshen up, dear” Chastity had said. “So we’ll be seein’ you tomorrow, dear cous.. Ow! She hit me! Ow!” As she left their tent Anjuli’s humour was somewhat restored.
Anjuli sank down with pleasure into her own special chair. She had expected it to be here. She’d fallen in love with it when she first saw it at the age of five. It was made of ancient dark wood, inlaid with ivory now cracked and yellowed with age, and with small pieces of lapis lazuli. Exquisitely made, it was said to be ninth century Persian. Father had given it to her as a birthday present. When a passing Frenchman, an expert in such things, had offered Anjuli £1,000.00 for her chair she had said no. The cool silk cushions supported her and lay piled around her feet, resting on the ornate carpet. She sipped at the fruit juice drink that had been provided for her and let the silence grow, along with Sher Singh’s discomfort.
At last, she decided the veteran warrior was not going to crack. She spoke, still in Rajputani. “Now, Sher Singh Ardra. I have arrived back in India and have been met and most faithfully escorted. I have been in the company of an old and trusted friend for hours now. When we first met again you told me my father had sent you to meet me.” Sher Singh shifted uncomfortably and his eyes, so honest with the family he served, shifted completely from hers. Anjuli knew then that it was bad news. “Since then, Sher Singh Ardra, noble and faithful servant of my father, the Rajah Bharmal, and my friend too, you have not mentioned the Rajah, the Rani, the Yuveraj, my sister Shushila or my nephew or niece! Jhoti is in England still, so I expected to tell you about him, but my whole family otherwise Sher Singh! Why have you given me no word at all on them? What is wrong? Think not to cozen me, Sher Singh. Speak the truth and if there is blame, attach it fairly, but I must know! I will know!
Anjuli looked very impressive at that moment had she known it. Eyes flashing fire and the dancing ruby on her forehead winking in bloody counterpoint. The very picture of a potentate, far more so than her brother Nandu, as Sher Singh realised later on reflection on this scene. Had he known, apart from her gender Anjuli was the image of her adventurous great-grandfather, the Russian Sergei Vodvichenko, one not possible to refuse. The Sikh bowed to the inevitable, pulled himself together and the knelt in submission before his suddenly great little Princess.
“Ah, my little Queen!” he appealed brokenly. “No, no” he corrected as Anjuli started, her eyes appalled and wide. “None have died except some of the commoners and some soldiers. Some of them may yet live as they have vanished. My job, my role in life is to care for you … to care for all of you” he corrected. It was the closest Sher Singh had ever come to saying that Anjuli was the most important of his charges. “What care do I give if I give this burden to you? Yet I must, as you must make decisions.” He drew a deep breath and steadied himself, his lips moving briefly in one of his Sikh prayers.
“The Rani is very ill, some say insane. She will not come from her room or receive anyone. What she says is often incomprehensible. The Rajah is sunk in depression and lethargy and vanishes from the palace often. He seeks in vain for something that seems to be hidden from him when he is still to be found. Shushila has grown cruel and arbitrary. I …” he hesitated carefully, then resolved himself. “I suspect her of having something to do with some of the disappearances of children. Nandu attempts to rule Shahpura, but he is dominated by Colonel Sir Aubrey Winstanley-Beckett, who became British resident and adviser just before you left. Gunjit Ranwar Pran runs about agreeing with everyone and anyone. Mohandur Banh acts as though there is nothing amiss. One of the servants went amok just a week ago, raped two others and murdered three more before he was shot. There are strange smells and sounds in the halls of Jumtiaha.” He stopped momentarily in this litany of disasters. Anjuli gazed at him, motionless, wide-eyed and stricken.
“Border tensions with our old enemy and neighbour Amwar are increasing. Our spies say they are having similar, though lesser troubles than we are. In the hills is a strange thing.” He drew a deep breath and looked even more troubled. “I was scouting in the hills trying to find what is happening. I am sick too, little Princess. Sick with worry and sick with fear for it seems there is nothing I can do. Near the abandoned hill village of Deiskhun, I found a woman. She was tall and may have been beautiful but she had been living very rough. She wore men’s clothes like a uniform in mottled browns and tans but tailored to her. Her English was very fluent but with a peculiar accent, though she spoke some Rajasthani too. I challenged her, as she was wearing a gun, a big revolver. She said nothing of importance but she came closer. I did not worry as I had her covered, but she attacked me despite this! I shot her, though I must have missed as she did not act wounded, but I seem to remember blood, perhaps mine. I could not use my katar properly.”
“Little Princess, I am humiliated. Taller, heavier and stronger than her as I am, she beat me. She punched me, kicked me and threw me to the ground. As I lay stunned she argued to herself, one part of her arguing for my death, the other my survival, for to kill me this one said, would be an evil thing. The other said I was dangerous. As you can see my Princess, the side who wished not my death won. I lost her trail and haven’t seen her again. That was eight days ago. She was a white woman though, little Princess, and no native as she was badly sunburnt. Her eyes seemed yellow, or perhaps the colour of amber. Her hair was red-brown and she was dirty, torn and smelly. She is perhaps thirty. No other persons admit to knowing her, seeing her or hearing of her. Condemn me, little Princess. Tell me my fate and I will carry out the sentence on myself for my grievous failure”. Sher Singh lapsed into silence, grief on his face. Anjuli sat silent, mentally reeling. What was happening? What would … what could she do?
GM’s Note: After Neil’s death, I ran this episode with Neil’s regular players. As I had no knowledge of what Neil intended, I didn’t include some of the original play-by-mail’s themes or characters in our live play sessions. The episode as described below is told from the viewpoint of Baron Tyson Trevelyan.
Written by Ben (Tyson)
Monica, Charles, Nikolai and Anjuli arrive in India on a trip to Shahpura. Charles tries a drug and has a “trip” where he sees a Rakhasa (demon – blue-skinned, red-eyed, multi-armed) who is after me!
Cavalcade is halted by a sword-wielding outcast who speaks in tongues and who shrugs off being shot. I blast him with a couple of critical hits but then he appears to be hit by lightning from a clear sky and explodes.
Arrive at Shaphura and the Jumtiaha Palace to find the Raja and Rani crazy as loons – no-one knows what to do. We follow up a story of a strange woman who trashed Sher Singh a while ago.
It’s called a tiger hunt, but when we are a day away from the Palace, we are led away from Anjuli and all the guards and elephants are killed with blood and bits everywhere (just like the Somme – oh the humanity) – but Anjuli lives! We trek back through tiger country covered in blood but untouched.
Us guys break into Mohandar’s apartments, I get bitten by his snake-spirit guardian – everyone investigates the secret tunnels underneath where ceremonies and sacrifices have been held – we fight a statue of demon come to life – I take the statue’s crown and find no-one wants it.
Info from my Brahmin friends leads to Anjuli sacrificing some Special Sea Shells to Vishnu’s wife, Kali-Ma. Raja is cured but Kali-Ma appears to have come to stay within Anjuli.
Breaking into Shushila’s apartments gives us a map to Mohandar’s and Shushila’s hideout – after going there and see more Kali than Anjuli – wild dogs get killed – Shushila gets killed.
We kill a giant snake and get to a cavern with a ring of fire around a Banyan tree – I walk through and get purified – everyone else waits for Kali to put the fire out – I touch the tree and we’re all transported to the demon’s realm – I freak out and think I’m Vishnu – visit Demon’s palace and Kali kicks Demon butt – we return and kill the giant snake (who turns out to be Mohandar) again.
Back at the palace, Brahmins and Raja turn Kali’s visitation into a circus, and I mortally insult (according to the Hindus) Kali by sitting down on the throne (hey, I’m Kali’s husband, remember) but of course Kali doesn’t mind.
Kali does nothing except strange clouds gather centring over Kali. I track down Sher Singh, needle him out of his depression and tell him what to do and he sacrifices his faith and his honour and almost his life to get Kali to leave Anjuli. I have to lead him away and fuss over him while everybody else is all over Anjuli.
Anjuli’s previously arranged marriage is cancelled as she now has much greater value – a living avatar of Kali-Ma. Maharaja Ganga Singh of Bikaner, one of the 21-gun salute states of Rajasthan, arranges to marry Anjuli. Sher Singh is no longer a Sikh, and Charles is befriending Nandu.
We all travel to Bikaner for the wedding, but Anjuli disappears (in plain sight of everybody) from the Wedding Howdah going to the ceremony. Monica also disappears in the same instant. Kali gets the blame.
GM’s Note: Anjuli was transported to the 1990s and into Sam’s arms after Sam “wished” her to him. A Swan May granted his wish as a reward for rescuing her from a tribe of dog-headed monsters.