Free The Maharajah's Monkey by Natasha Narayan Page A

the Maharajah will help us.”
    â€œCease your dreaming,” my aunt said, turning away.
    Prinsep was helping Miss Minchin into the Maharajah’s carriage, handling her as if she had still not recovered from her bath in the sea. Unlike all the other train compartments, which were dirty and crammed with people, the royal carriage was the height of luxury, draped in gold-embroidered curtains, the soft leather seats plump with cushions. It even had a small golden throne, which stood in the middle of the paneled room. Porters were attending to our luggage, which they loaded just in time, for the whistle blew and with much puffing of oily black smoke the train made its way out of the station.
    As the train chugged through a flat landscape of rice fields, palm trees and mud huts, a small boy dressed in the red and gold livery of the Maharajah pulled a flat fan made of palm leaves over our heads. This “punkah” did little to ease the stifling heat inside the carriage, merely moving the hot air around a little. I gazed out of the window. Squatting dangerously close to the sides of the rail tracks were hordes of villagers. They were stick thin, the women dressed in colored sheets called saris, many of the men wearing a garment I found hard to describe. It looked like a knee-length
skirt
. Wherever the trainwent, crowds watched.
    I watched them in turn, sipping the sugary, spicy chai. I felt lost, for India was blisteringly hot, crowded and so foreign. Even the chai, sweet though it was, tasted peculiarly different from my normal tea. For a moment I felt homesick for the rain and gray familiarity of Oxford.
    Mr. Prinsep, who had been talking in a low voice to Miss Minchin, suddenly cleared his throat, attracting our attention.
    â€œI say,” he said and abruptly stopped, his mouth hanging open. Prinsep was apt to behave like this, suddenly forget what he wanted to say in the middle of a sentence. Miss Minchin began speaking to him in an undertone, perhaps urging him on.
    â€œMaybe he’s going to declare his love for the Minchin,” Isaac murmured in my ear.
    â€œWouldn’t that be wonderful,” I muttered. “No more sums.”
    â€œHe saved her life. Maybe now he can save her from turning into an old spinster,” Waldo said meanly.
    I glared at him.
    â€œAt least it would let your father off the hook,” Isaac added.
    I switched my glare to Isaac.
    â€œI say,” began Prinsep again. This time he managed to get his words out—and sadly they did not concern ourgoverness. “I want to talk to you a bit about Baroda. You see, as I expect you all know, the last Maharajah, Malharrao, was a bad egg. A nasty chappie. Gambled, drank, spent the state’s gold like water; for example he had a carpet of pearls made for his bedchamber! Worst of all he wasn’t above chopping a head or two off just for the fun of it. Well, things really came to a head when he tried to poison the British Resident. A tad of arsenic in the poor fellow’s lemon sherbet.”
    â€œThe Resident was Mrs. Spragg’s husband,” I interrupted. “She told us all about it.”
    â€œWell, then, I see you know the background. Thing is, the Queen Mother, the Rani, decided they had to have a new Maharajah. So she had her spies find three humble village lads and bring them to the palace. The boys were scared stiff. I’ve been told they’d never seen a chair before, some of ’em, never mind a whole palace. Each boy was asked the same question—why had they been brought here? The first didn’t know, the second replied, ‘To see the sights.’”
    â€œOnly the third boy, Sayaji, replied, ‘To rule.’ He’s rather a bold little chap. Of course he became the new king!”
    â€œThat’s all very well,” Aunt Hilda cut in, “but my brother, Professor Theo Salter, and I have a special reason for visiting Baroda. That is why your offer to