Free The Sandalwood Tree by Elle Newmark Page A

sometimes wore masks to prevent them from inhaling microscopic insects; they weren’t even willing to kill hair lice. India was a spiritual carnival completewith sideshows, but whatever religion Gandhi had been born into, he had become a humanist espousing all religions and none.
    Everyone admired Gandhi for forcing the British out, but I secretly marveled at the backbone of the colonials who had managed to establish themselves in this land of conflicting taboos, killing heat, medieval kingdoms, and a plethora of fatal diseases. They had transplanted a pocket of England into one of the most confounding places on earth, with nothing but mules and determination. It must have been a terribly hard life, especially for the women, and I wondered whether any but the most dedicated empire builders were really happy here. They had grit—you had to give them that—but like all imperialists, they sowed the seeds of their own demise.
    It was all too complicated, the sun was too hot, and I’d been out too long. I felt drawn to the shadows and serenity of the Buddhist temple, and when I stepped over the threshold, a sense of calm came over me. The place transcended the Worthingtons, politics, even India. In the end, the pull of tranquility won out over caution. I left my shoes at the entrance and crept inside, pulling my sleeping munchkin in his red wagon behind me.

Demo version limitation

1947
    T he muted squeak of the red Flyer’s rubber wheels echoed in the vaulted silence of the Buddhist temple, and I was glad Billy had fallen asleep; his high, sweet voice would surely ricochet off the walls. The stone floor was cool under my bare feet, but I felt like an intruder and I suppressed an urge to walk on tiptoe.
    It was much smaller than Christ Church, more like the gaily painted little Hindu temples that I saw everywhere, but simpler. A calligraphy scroll hung on one wall, and a multicolored thangka depicting Indian myths hung on another. As in Hindu temples, there were no chairs, but instead of Ganesh or Hanuman, a massive stone Buddha sat under a gold cloth canopy, and at his feet, an array of butter lamps flickered amid a scattering of offerings: marigolds, a bowl of rice, browning apple slices, bidis, and the odd item—a curling leaf, a black-and-white photo, a beaded bracelet—whose significance was known only to the supplicant and Buddha.
    The relative emptiness of the place felt foreign. I was accustomed to stained glass and pipe organs, gilded saints, silver candelabra, and ceilings covered with naked cherubim. By comparison,the Buddhist temple felt stark, and there was a sense of waiting.
    A man in white kurta pajamas padded through a side entrance, his bare feet softly slapping the stone floor. I realized this was no tourist attraction and said, “Excuse me … I was just going.”
    His shaved head shone bronze in the candlelight, his eyes were coffee bean brown, and his skin was like dark honey. He was not handsome, not at all, but his face was likable—his forehead seemed too large, almost bulbous, and his features were compressed into the center of his face. His eyebrows slanted down at the corners, giving him a look of ironic patience. The man put his hands together in an attitude of prayer and said, “It’s quite all right, madam. I’m an interloper myself.”
    His British accent caught me off guard. “You’re English?”
    “Eurasian. Born in Delhi of an Indian mother and English father who, amazingly, didn’t try to hide me. That would make me a very fortunate Eurasian. I read law at Cambridge.”
    I felt excitement rise in my chest like bubbles in champagne. Here was an Indian who might be a bridge between east and west, a source of understanding. I said, “May I ask why you came back to India?” I thought he looked disappointed and hurried to say, “I don’t mean you shouldn’t have.”
    He smiled. “Many would wonder why anyone would leave the comforts of Europe. I came with some of my colleagues