A Bottle in the Smoke: A Tale of Anglo-Indian Life

by Janet Milne Rae

The dingy dining-room was transformed, lit up by tall candelabra; the candles all shaded by glass. The table glittered with exquisitely kept old English silver plate, flowers artistically arranged, glancing cut-glass, spotless English damask; "no country tablecloths my master having," Moideen was wont to boast to the other boys of the station. "I making list to best shops in London, no bazaar bobbery here."

But not all the handsome table appointments, the perfect cooking, the faultless waiting of Moideen and his satellites could banish from the young Assistant's mind the thought that his chief was a weary, disenchanted man, and all the talk of the evening only served to deepen that impression.

Next morning, when he stood in the writing-room, into which the drawing-room of the house had been converted, and where Mr. Worsley always sat, he noticed that on the shelves for books there was an entire absence of any kind of literature, only a few old magazines and newspapers, and some rows of blue books, though according to his avowal on the previous evening, these were his special detestation. Some books on sport there were, but not a single volume of poetry, history, or even a novel. Mark felt glad to remember that his own boxes were bringing a fairly liberal supply of mental food, and that he had arranged for the due arrival of his favourite magazines. How good it would be if the Collector came to find in his bungalow a source of pleasure which was certainly absent from his own! What a happiness that would prove, thought Mark, as he paced up and down the verandah after early tea!

Moideen presently appeared with soft tread and searching eye to bring him the unwelcome news that "Master not done sleep last night, fever coming, not able to get out of bed this day." He also brought the suggestion that the young Assistant should find his own way to the Government Offices. This Mark was nothing loth to do, though he felt sorry to be without his chief on his first day of initiation.

The inevitable office-bandy was in attendance, and after five minutes drive he stood within the grey portals, and was welcomed by the Judge, who showed him round, and introduced him to the subordinates of his department. Soon he was seated at his table ready to begin work.

Several Hindus were waiting for an interview. All of these seemed to wish to see the Collector, and showed disappointment at his absence. One visitor was announced, however, who, Mark noticed, showed no regret at the chief's absence, but looked with keen interest at himself such as none of the others had evinced. Glancing at his card, he read the name "Zynool Sahib." Surely, thought Mark, I have heard that name before! Yes, he was the Puranapore client whom Rayner had mentioned. The man had evidently heard of him from that source also, and was now come to take the measure of the new Assistant. Beady twinkling black eyes peered out from bulging flesh, the coarse red lips were so thick that they showed each curve in spite of the dense bushy beard and moustache. Over one colossal shoulder was flung a green cashmere shawl, richly embroidered. The folds of his white turban looked a work of art compared to the swathes of muslin which enveloped the heads of the Hindu visitors. He was evidently a person of importance in his own eyes, a man of substance probably, but not seemingly a favourite, Mark decided, observing that the Hindus, who still lingered in the hope of seeing the Collector, exchanged ominous glances on his appearance, and one after another made their exit by another door, showing that they declined any contact with the new-comer.

There was a malicious twinkle in Zynool Sahib's eyes when he remarked that after all they were obliged to re-enter by the main door through which he had come to secure their sandals, which native courtesy demanded should be left at the entrance.

Mark's quick eye noted that the present visitor's feet were encased in white stockings and shining patent leather shoes, which he retained. It was a very small bit of dumb show, but the young man felt immediate sympathy with the humbler owners of the sandals, and turned with a slight sense of prejudice to listen to the owner of the plethoric voice.

Zynool Sahib expressed himself in pompous English of a sort, and made polite inquiries as to "His Honour the noble Collector," begging that expressions of his regret for his illness should be conveyed to him, and hoping that he would be well enough to grant his "humble slave" an audience one lucky day before long. He then assured Mark in flowing periods that he was desirous of becoming, from this day henceforth, the "humble slave of the present company," as he designated the young Assistant. Mark thanked him rather coldly, and began to wonder what the man's morning mission really was, when suddenly it was revealed to him.

"What am I saying?" jerked Zynool, shaking his bushy beard. "I am stoopid as an owl! This truly is my best lucky day, and not another! For does not this lucky day give me the acquaintance of one who it is revealed to me is the friend of my patron, my guiding star, who but the La'yer Rayner, Pleader, High Court of Madras? I humbly beg on my bended knees," he added, which expression, be it understood, was symbolical, as Mark perceived with relief, fearing that otherwise it might fall to him to assist to raise the mass of flesh from the ground.