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Paperback
First published January 1, 2003
I wake to screams each morning, dreaming that I am on the river at Ravenhill, the room full of the cries of drowning women, but it is only the sound of crows. (Or drowning women.) I open my eyes, and only then do I remember where I am. It is not unlike that feeling of deepest grief that miraculously abates while we sleep, only to return on waking- but not before we have been deluded for a moment or two that we are innocent of sorrow.
Halfway down the staircase, my hand gripping the rail, I saw a swirl of white below me- skaters gliding on a frozen pond, their hands clasped behind their backs, chins high in poised aplomb as they flew gracefully across the ice. I rushed down the stairs only to stop in astonishment when I saw they were not skaters at all, but servants with chamois leather tied to the bottom of their feet, giving a final shine to the white marble floor. They saw me and stopped abruptly; we stood there, stiff with alarm, as if the addition of my weight on the frozen ice would cause it to rack open and we would drown.
I can already see that in keeping with the gentleman's club atmosphere of Calcutta, women, while certainly not allowed inside the club, are encouraged to find a convenient place nearby where we may be worshipped at a safe distance as symbols of Purity, Empire and, not least of all, Whiteness.And there's the cautionary tale of ill-prepared, ill-considered British misadventures in Afghanistan. Quite apt, at present.