Rose Cottage: Shimla, 1802

I put on an old white linen dress and a well-worn, old fashioned cape of a rather dull brown colour which had a hood that kept slipping down from my head. Annie carried an umbrella “just in case” it began to rain again. We set off the rather long walk to the mall road. It was wet but pleasant. We met several people that I knew along the way. They, too, appeared happy to get out of their houses. There were quite a few people in the library. I exchanged my library book and went outside. I could see Annie on the other side of the little road by a black wrought iron railing that ran the length of the winding road. There was a small crowd gathered outside. I looked at them curiously, for usually there were very few people about. Two tall English officers stood next to a large black horse. There was a fat woman in local attire, wearing a lot of silver jewellery. A small, fluffy dog ran between these people, clearly of the opinion that they were there for his entertainment. A rickshaw stood in the middle of the road, its driver staring at the group of people. A little further away, a few street urchins were whispering and nudging to each other, staring at someone who stood in the centre of this little group. I was standing just outside the door of the library, at the top of the three-four steps, adjusting my cape that the wind threatened to blow away at any moment. I looked to see what everyone was looking at. He stood, arms folded across his chest, talking to two officers: a tall man with broad shoulders wearing riding breeches and knee-high boots, his shirt unbuttoned near the neck. He wore no jacket. He appeared oblivious of the crowd around him and the stares directed at him. I looked curiously. He turned just then and glanced in my direction, just for a second. Then he turned away, as if there was nothing of any interest there. “Miss Emerald.” It was Annie, nudging me. She had come up to me without my noticing. “It’s the Maharaja,” she whispered. “Oh!” I said, still staring at the broad back in the distance. “Do come,” she urged. “We should not stare. It is most unbecoming.” She was echoing one of my mother’s most favourite statements. “Yes, of course,” I mumbled. She put an arm on my elbow as I almost stumbled on the stairs. I looked up instinctively, embarrassed, towards the Maharaja, somehow not wanting to make a fool of myself before him. He appeared not to have noticed, still talking to the same officer. I walked away, a little irritated. Just before we went round the turn, I glanced over my shoulder once. It was then that I saw him turn his head away, rather hurriedly, from my direction.