Work Text:
Diary Entry - Tom Helmer’s Journal
Wednesday, May 29th, 1867.
Calcutta, India.
O! What a day today has been!
My eyes have been blessed and so has my heart! At last I understand the poetic waxing of romanticism that I have for so long misunderstood! For when I saw her there, glowing in all her exotic grandeur, my mind was enraptured. It has been long since I have seen beauty even comparable to hers; quite possibly since I first ventured to the colonies.
‘Twas just this morning in possibly the most unsightly location imaginable that I laid eyes on this treasure. My work had brought me to the outskirts of Calcutta to oversee paperwork for construction on behalf of the East India Company. I must say, even the destitute capital exudes splendour when compared to these ramshackle slums. I was all set for a grotesque experience as I stepped onto the steam engine’s English compartment.
It’s truly unpleasant to go anywhere outside the cities in this colony, but one must do as he is told if he wishes to gain the favour of his superiors.
O! How I miss the motherland: My dear Britannia, my every journal entry is a love letter for you! She is the world itself. The sweeping rains, cobblestone streets, moral behaviour-- how strong my case of homesickness is. Nonetheless it is as my father taught me: There is much growth to be had in the colonies, and if I am patient, I will reap what I have sown.
And while I am on the topic of morality, there was concrete lack of any such presence in my vicinity. Despite the separate compartments on the train, I could still hear the ruckus from the Indian side. Like cockroaches to a biscuit tin, the natives crowd their allotted spaces, sitting in the corridors, bringing in pungent food and wailing infants.
It is truly infuriating. It is my firmest opinion that the government ought to instil a compulsory course of proper conduct, in the least one to be implemented when in the presence of gentry such as myself.
I attempted to maintain strained focus on the usual melodramatics of the Indian newspaper, although their boorishness was a strong contender for my vexation. Luckily, not two stops after, my good friend, Edward Rank, entered the compartment.
Rank is a doctor, but is first and foremost a gentleman to his very core. While I hold no reservation of admitting my respect for him, I do find certain aspects of his character to be disconcerting. That might not be the exact word to describe this aura I sense in him, although I can think of no better replacement. At times during our discussions, particularly in those pertaining to matters of politics and culture, he makes these odd remarks. At no point does he outwardly say that which he so clearly believes, although in a way that makes it all the more apparent.
He sympathises with the Indians. In all likelihood, he sees their way of living just as appropriate as ours, and is in turn fascinated by it. Just during our company on the train today, he made one of his most daring comments to date.
We were talking of trivial things -- affairs of the National Football Association of Britain-- when a young porter came in to check that our valises were in order. This visibly drew away Rank’s attention, and he quite unexpectedly began an entirely different conversation.
“Say Tom, what do you think of the compartments on the train being segregated like so?”
Brushing past the initial indignation at being cut off, I answered honestly.
“You should know this by now, Edward. I believe it is for the benefit of us all. For us, we get to at least partially avoid the utter savagery of the accompanying compartments -- though they still hardly compare to those back home. As for the Indians on board, well they should be thanking us for providing their nation with such advanced methods of transportation. Yet look what they do. They behave so untoward -- hardly better then one would expect to see at a local communal latrine.”
He looked out the window, his brow furrowed in thought.
“Perhaps…” He said, although it was evident he was unconvinced.
With this, our conversation abated for the remainder of the trip.
We arrived at a station nearly as populated as the one we had come from, regardless of it being a less densely populated region.
We crossed the busy street and I turned to wave over a horsecar. The damned vehicle passed us entirely without a care, skirting so very close to us that had my friend not pulled me back, I fear my feet would have been trampled. In spite of the past five months I had spent in this blasted colony, I still hadn’t grown accustomed to the Un-British etiquette of the masses. I bring back up my earlier sentiment: It would do them all remarkably well to be disciplined in some politesse.
Cursing under my breath, I gazed around for another cab, only to set my eyes on a sight that would haunt me for the rest of the day: A sole skylark amongst the common pigeon.
It was an alluring Indian beauty seen only in the likes of fantasy novels. The many bangles and jewels adorned on her red, Indian-style garment gleamed through the ground-dust kicked up by the ill-mannered cabbie. She was unlike any other woman I had seen since my arrival in this godforsaken hovel.
“By Jove!” I exclaim, Rank looking to me in surprise.
“Why, what’s the matter, Tom?” Rank asked.
“Look there! Next to the post office--- do you see her? The one in red?”
“Oh, yes I do. What about her? Has a lady at last taken your fancy?”
“Come, come. Let’s get closer.”
“Oh Tom, weren’t you just going on about the business you had come here for? You mustn’t let yourself so easily get distracted--”
I set across the street disregarding all caution. Rank hurriedly caught up with me, all the while struggling for breath. My friend was as sickly as ever, yet I had no time for his complains of poor health.
“Now really, Tom!” Rank heaved behind me. “You’re acting like a schoolboy!”
Yet I had not a care in the world. From this new vantage point, I could see that she was talking to an elderly, upper-class Indian man. At once, I recognised him to be Prasad Sarna, the work acquaintance of mine that I have mentioned a handful of times throughout these entries. I had always thought of him a rather scrupulous fellow, always looking every document thrice over before submitting it. He was one of the few Indians I had no qualms working with, owing to his esteem for the British being evident in his every action.
“Prasad? Is that you my dear fellow? What are you doing so far out in Bagbazar?”
“Oh, Tom it is you!” He said in his thick accent. Now that I was seeing him from closer up, I could see that he was in a right state. His hair greasy and receding, his temples moist with perspiration not owing to the heat, his hands wringing together.
“To be entirely truthful, I am not here of my own volition. A cursed man, Kaushik Das, has spouted slander and libel of me in the newspapers. Yet when I try defending my image, my pleas are ignored! So I have been relocated here to North Calcutta.”
“What a harrowing tale,” I say, tapping him on the shoulder. “Who, if I may ask, is this fine young lady standing next to you?”
“Ah! This is my daughter, Niru. She has been so downtrodden about this troubling business. How bad I feel for putting her in this situation.”
She looked up at the mention of her name and when our eyes met, I pledged a vow to myself that someday, I would marry this woman. She gazed at me in the way a doe would the first rays of spring sunlight.
“Do you think you could in some way help us find a way out of this, Sahib Helmer?”
I realised then that this was my chance. If I only sorted out her father’s predicament and courted her with all the English charm I could muster, I would have her father’s blessing for her conversion to Christianity. Giddy in a way I had not been since my Cambridge days, I responded briskly.
“I see you have heard about how altruistic we British are, my dear. I will do all in my power to ensure you and your father escape this plight. You have my utmost word.”
“Oh, Tom! Do you really mean what you say? I cannot thank you enough for this. You are the kindest man I know.” Sarna offered many such expressions of gratitude, shaking my hand in both of his, although my eyes paid mind only to the girl next to him. The glow of unbridled joy in her eyes -- it set my heart ablaze.
“Oh, you must not thank me, and I ask for nothing in return,” I assured him. “My only wish… Well it would be your daughter's hand in marriage, although that is a wholly separate business entirely. That is of course only if she accepts.”
They both looked taken aback at this request. Prasad quickly recovered and was as enthusiastic about the whole affair as any Indian man would be at such a beneficial prospect.
“What an honour that would be, Tom! I can think of no man more suitable for my little Princess. We shall have to speak more of the matter soon!”
As he spoke, Niru gave me a slight smile with a faraway look in her eyes.
I could imagine our future together. Me and this little songbird in our own home. I will read my newspapers as she chirrups along, bathing my every moment in the melody of her youth. Our children play by the Christmas tree in our beautiful Calcutta home.
Entranced by this vision, we arranged another meeting in a nearby meeting spot just two days from now. I concluded our conversation and joined Rank, who had been waiting nearby.
“She will be mine, Edward,” I muttered under my breath, looking at her retreating form reflected in the shop glass fronts.
“Sorry?”
“I won’t have it any other way.”