an excerpt from annabelle’s work in progress novel ‘ayah’

Preface

Bay of Bengal, 1905

Puti

She was used to the water. 

She knew its movements, its textures and hues. 

Since childhood she had trod the familiar path by the Hooghly river with her mother on their way to work. It felt like they walked miles, back and forth across the canal from where they lived in Khidirpur, down to the river’s edge towards the fortified enclave of Fort William where the wealthy British lived. It took longer to walk that way, but her mother agreed to it, knowing her daughter wanted to see the river. There, she would focus on the water lapping on the banks. How it became still where the water was deeper in the middle of the river and then the wide expanse that stretched away from her, south towards the sea. 

She loved the sea. They’d visited her father’s brother four times, that she could remember. He lived on Sagar Dweep where the Ganges met the Bay of Bengal. Where the air smelt salty and the sun kissed the horizon way out beyond India’s reach. Uncle had taken them to see the villages in the Sundarbans once on his fishing boat and though her little sister was frightened to be on the tiny wooden vessel in the crocodile infested waters, she had been mesmerised. She reached out to pull on the tough root of the mangroves as they brushed past the boat and her mother slapped her hand away. 

“There are snakes! Be careful.”

She kept her hands to herself from then on, but kept watching the water. Trying to get a glimpse of the Hooghly she knew in the rich waters of the wetlands. She swore the waters were the exact same shade of green-grey as the water in the dock at Calcutta. And when a stray ripple splashed against the side of the boat with a wink, she swore it recognised her too. Water had a way of doing that - of making you feel home wherever you were.

Now, standing on the deck of the passenger ship as it left the Hooghly river - her last trace of Home - and joined the waters of the Bay of Bengal, she took a deep breath to steady herself. 

I’ve made the right decision, she repeated. I’m not a child anymore. 

Well, she was 18, and not as old as she’d claimed to be to get this job. A chill wave of uneasiness flowed through her and she shivered, although it was still a balmy Spring afternoon. She gripped the railing and focused on the water crashing against the side of the huge ship as it cut through the water. She prayed that Mother Ganga would bless her journey, bless her family and forgive her, though they were moving further from the holy Ganges with each minute that passed. Her heart seized again and she gulped down the dry lump in her throat. It would all be fine - brilliant, even.

She was going to witness the world. 

A small hand reached up and slipped into hers, squeezing a little. 

It was hot, soft and distinctly sticky. 

“Hello,” she said in English, trying to smile. “Enough fresh air. Let’s get back to the cabin.” 

As they turned to leave, she took one last look at the sea. The glitter on the water sparked renewed hope in her heart. She was on an adventure, like Behula – the brave woman in the folktale she’d heard since childhood. She would return as a heroine. Her mother and father would be thrilled – the fears and anguish she’d left them in would be replaced with glowing pride. Suddenly, the wind smelt sweeter and the tightness around her chest eased. She had always felt, from the first moment she glimpsed the ocean, that this was the place from which all creation emanated and to which all life would return. It was reality itself.

But as they descended into the lower floors of the ship, she couldn’t help but notice the faint bitter smoke of the ship’s exhaust hanging in the air. 

The winds had changed.