From under her feet

“I need him gone — that beggar.” The Marchioness, Lady Barkleigh, stared through the window at the dirt-encrusted figure sitting near the entrance to the grounds, then looked round at the ayah, her lady-maid. “The Marquess arrives with the Viceroy in an hour. They cannot see this…” she pointed, “…thing.”

The ayah bowed with humility: “My Lady, he is no beggar. He is a sadhu — a holy man. I cannot make him go.”

Lady Barkleigh’s lips compressed. “Well, I can!”

She strode across the room, through the main entrance and out onto the driveway, ignoring the nervous, silent gesture of apology from the ayah, who followed, and knew better than to overstep her rank, despite her obvious discomfort. The Marchioness’s frustration was so intense, she forgot to remove her beloved party shoes. For that, and the dry Indian earth now chafing her toes, someone would pay!

Yet her pace, likewise her determination, lessened as she neared the seated figure. What she had taken for dust on his body looked like ash — but more disturbing were the eyes that held her; chilled her. For just a moment, she understood; felt the ayah’s inner conflict — the visceral, almost primordial fear and respect from which it stemmed.

It seemed both words and courage had deserted her. Instead, it was the sadhu who spoke; extending a hand towards her, one finger pointing. It took discipline, of which Queen Victoria would have been proud, to stand tall; not flinch from whatever curse, or invective, had been cast in her direction.

Now the hand turned, palm opening as the man smiled.

She had understood not a word. Learning the native language had never been a priority in her inner circle in colonial India. “What did he say?”  

“My Lady,” the ayah’s voice shook, “he will go if you give one hair from your head.”

“Ridiculous!” Relieved to rediscover the fuel of her anger, she turned back towards the mansion with such conviction, it surprised her to find she hadn’t yet taken a step. Again, she addressed the ayah. “But needs must. When we are indoors, fetch some scissors. Let’s be done with this.”

Once inside, the ayah brought scissors as instructed, but again raised both her hands, this time in a humble gesture of caution. “Madam, did you feel his power?” The ensuing silence spoke loudest. The ayah pointed downwards. “Your rug has some thick threads that are the same colour as your hair. Please forgive me, but I think we should give him one of those.”

“The Viceroy is due and I must change my shoes. Do what you must.”

Lady Barkleigh stormed upstairs.

****

By the time the Viceroy arrived, the sadhu had gone. By the next morning’s birdsong, so had the rug. With it went much of the Marchioness’s distilled rationality. Counterbalancing that was her sudden, far greater respect for, and awareness of, the endemic and the unknown.

All of which was accompanied by the occasional secret smile on the lips of the ayah.