An Unrestored Woman by Shobha Rao Read Free Book Online Page A

would fall back to his side, uncontrolled, the limb plummeting as lifeless as a dead bird. And with that the whole gesture concluded lamely, hurriedly, and Abheet Singh would avert his eyes like a child caught misbehaving. The motion was slow, lazy, and lacked even an iota of the crispness of military movements.
    The first few times Jenkins had watched him he’d decided it was simply a sign of indolence. But that made no sense; he’d never seen Abheet Singh move so much as a pen without ensuring that it was laid straight against the edge of the desk. He then decided it was some form of insubordination. He’d wake at night, unable once again to sleep from the heat, and wonder at Abheet Singh’s gesture. Could it be mocking him? At Delhi Cantonment the other officers had complained constantly about the newly trained Indians. It was the tropical treachery inherent to the Indians and the kaffirs, they said, Sikhs and Muslims and Hindus alike. Look at how they’re killing each other off and the native police not doing a thing about it, they’d said smugly in the months leading to Partition. “Wouldn’t know proper regimental training and order if it bit them on the bum,” Smithson had said. They’d been in the canteen on a winter afternoon, the light of the sun yellow and inflamed, when Hughes had given Jenkins a sidelong glance and said, “Some here might even be keen on biting them on the bum.” The next day Jenkins had requested transfer, and reddened even now, as he lay in bed well away from Delhi, at the insult. Still, he hadn’t believed them, not completely. It was true that the Indians were slow learners and a bit smelly but they weren’t treacherous, Abheet Singh least of all. But there was something about him, so much, really. His beautiful skin, his strong, muscular forearms, and all that silken hair piled on the top of his head, hidden under his turban. His beard was trimmed but Jenkins knew that Sikh men—that husky, ancient race of warriors—were forbidden to cut their hair. How long was it? Did it fall in a great wash down his back when he undid his turban, or was it tied up in some way? How did it look, spread across his pillow? The questions kept coming and Jenkins grew even warmer from the rush of heat to his middle. He sat straight up in bed. Well. This was unacceptable; it simply had to stop. He came to a decision, right then in the middle of the night: he simply must talk to Abheet Singh. Such a gesture, such total lack of discipline was inexcusable. How could a country even hope to govern itself with such obvious lack of self-control?
    *   *   *
    The question of self-control—it had been a question of self-control, hadn’t it—recalled to him the piano lessons his mother insisted that he take well into his adolescence. So that while all the other boys were out playing cricket and looking at pictures in laddie magazines, Jenkins was stuck at home practicing piano. He’d been miserable at first—especially since his best friend, Toddy, was captain of the cricket team. But then Mrs. Bunting had retired and his mother had hired the new director of the church choir, Mr. Templeton, to give him lessons on the side. Before the first lesson Mr. Templeton, who’d read classics at Oxford, had knocked on the door and when Jenkins had opened it the sight of him had nearly knocked him off his feet. He’d never laid eyes on a man so perfectly formed: gray eyes as gloomy as the sea, hands and neck wiry yet formidable, thick dark hair that needed a cut fell over his ears and tickled his neck. He stood so erect, so blissfully unaware of his own handsomeness that Jenkins actually blushed. After that Jenkins didn’t once complain or miss his piano lessons. In fact it got so that he was downright promising at it.
    Of course, then came the incident in the church vestiary, when he and Mr. Templeton were found in what the