From The Prison
written by: Jackie Harvey
I write this alone on the veranda. Sunset shadows lengthen, creeping towards me. Soon I’ll be enveloped by them. Myriad flowers smell sweet in the humid evening air and it will be their fragrances, bombarding me from all directions, I shall miss most – if my days here should be numbered.
These words are for no one but me, so completely truthful. No need to heed the stifling conventions of our times including the infamous British ‘Stiff upper lip.’ To share feelings, show empathy and concern for the plight of others – or indeed oneself – is regarded as weakness. Our stiff upper lip must be maintained. We are British.
But I say damn the stiff upper lip. Damn those who sacrifice humanity on its altar. Should this be read by others, I address you now – be shocked by what I say. We live in a bubble; nothing, no-one, can touch us. England has ruled this perplexing country – usurping centuries-old dynasties – for decades and its rule must continue. Or so its masters believe, but they are wrong. Bubbles inevitably burst, as must the bubble of the Great British Empire.
I am only a woman – only a woman – I hate myself for using this description but am conditioned to do so. We women’s roles are supporting, ministering, indulging, satisfying in all manner of ways, men who command us. Whilst possible to command actions, to command respect is much more difficult. Respect must be earned. Few men, unfortunately, are considered worthy of my respect. Not among the countrymen I encounter anyway. Good men must exist though, or what shall the world come to? Every race has good and bad. It would be a naïve person indeed who believed all lived harmoniously here before our arrival.
Do I respect my own husband? Most definitely not. How can I respect someone who treats servants so abysmally, so cruelly? What is he after all? What does he do that is worthwhile? He moves papers from one side of his lumbering beast of a desk to the other. He believes, no doubt, that his business would be beyond female comprehension. Equally, I care little.
Business sits far below his other, private, interests. Double standards abound here. Appearance is all. He speaks to staff with contempt as he would a dog for whom he bears no affection. His stomach grows larger as they make the most of what little they have. They are chattels to him to use as he wishes, especially the females. And he does use them. He thinks I do not know. Upon return from the soirees at the Club, when I have sipped pink gin with other memsahibs – hiding our boredom behind well-practised smiles – I will retire with an empty mind. But my mind is far from empty. I know where he goes rather than to bed – where his cravings lead him.
It has been an age since we had sex. Yes, sex – not lovemaking. There is no love to make. Was there ever? Maybe, when I first arrived from England. Embarking on an adventure in a beautiful, exotic place far away from London’s greyness, hope filled me. But hope, like rain, evaporates in the oppressive heat.
He wanted – expected – to be provided with a child. A boy of course, to carry on his legacy. He has nothing worth continuing and will never have the legitimate son he desires. He used her – poor, innocent Rani. She believes I am ignorant of what happened. Why does everyone, even another woman, think I am blind to what goes on in my own household? I have eyes, I have ears, I have a brain. God knows I am capable of using them. Perhaps it is only God.
God also knows why I am about to go against his most solemn commandment. Nothing can redeem my detestable husband now and nothing can be done for Rani either. She is damaged. Both body and mind. The body will heal but her mind is scarred forever. He is responsible. If I do not stop him then more suffering will be inflicted upon other native girls. This cannot be. I will not let it be. He is out now. Whatever time he returns, my door and my eyes will be firmly closed.
We shall soon see whether my existence – just an existence, not a life – in India nears its end. Will I be discovered? I was careful; meticulous in my planning and research. He does, after all, indulge in substances whose provenance should not be trusted. A mistake. A bad choice. An accident.
The shadows’ fingers have touched me now so I go inside to light the lamp. I look around my room; the prison I escape only to visit the Club or the prisons of the other memsahibs. Are any of us happy? We have everything after all. Everything this country can give us, or rather what we take from it, but love and joy are elusive. They cannot be found in a closet with dresses shipped from Paris.
One way or another this bungalow will not be my prison much longer. If caught I will suffer the consequences. What sort of woman – what sort of Englishwoman – poisons the husband who provides for her, who keeps her in the manner to which she has become accustomed? But if not caught, what then? Return to England? There are whispers war in Europe may be coming so what would I be returning to? England is thousands of miles away yet recreated here in all its arcane ways whenever possible. Will it change? Has it changed?
I am finished now. I will hide the journal away until such time as it sees the light of day again – either by my hand when it is packed up ready for the long journey home as a grieving widow or discovered to condemn me at my trial. Which will it be I wonder?
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