The Lady Wife and the Clock

By: Sumaiya Matin

Calcutta, India, 1820

Rania lifts her head off the cot to peer between her knees. Omaja, with her head buried between them, in a cotton white sari, looks like a water lily floating in and out of view. 

“Tell me, do we know? Is it a boy or a girl?” Rania is shaking.

“Madame, think of water now. The ocean, the rain, on your face. Open your mouth wide and take it in.”

Rania turns to the lit fire and the pail of water by her head, both there to ward off evil spirits. “Water, water!”

A form soon tumbles out of her, jolting every nerve along the way, crying its lungs out.

Omaja rises from between her legs with a pale baby curved in her bloodied palms. With tenderness, she nods at its glowing face. “What a blessing. Madame, it is a girl.”

Rania shakes her head. “No, I don’t want this destiny, no! A girl will never see the face of England. Nor will she bring Sir John closer to me.”

“It is alright. It is alright.” Omaja caresses the child then places her on Rania’s chest. “The spirit you wish your child to embody is moulded by you. Madame, you have power in your hands.”

Rania shoves the baby back into Omaja’s arms and drags herself off the bed. She heads for the corridor. Bright blood slitters down her legs as she fumbles down the long hall in her stained beige sari. The scent of metals in the air. Candlelight reveals golden-framed white faces of soldiers, many, many soldiers, and then, the Queen. A loud chime ripples through the air as she glimpses at these strangers living in her home. The mahogany longcase clock at the end of the hall has struck at the hour. Common in the British household, Sir John had it especially shipped for Rania—it is the first and only one in Calcutta at this time, and Rania thinks it is nothing else than magical. A physical representation of potential. Singular. Powerful. Tonight, it sounds different. Between the chimes now, is the loud weeping of a little child.

Rania runs toward the clock, her feet trying to catch up to her quickening heartbeat. The chime sequence stops when she arrives. Rania reaches for the clock’s moon dial, traces her fingers along the side panels. Such rich wood for a Lady Wife, they probably say. It is true, Sir John desires the finest for her despite his growing absence in her life in recent years. They met when he was a dhoti-wearing, paan-chewing White Mughal, who was documenting his encounters with Indians. He was intrigued by her dusky skin and almond-shaped eyes then, and her lineage traveling back to the family of a great prophet. It was quite fashionable for him to have her in his arms like an embroidered shawl. Now her existence renders him questionable in front of his peers.

Rania shudders recalling those early days with Sir John. He was another man then. She turns her attention to the pendulum lyre swinging back and forth. It is then that the face of a small, pale, blonde boy begins to emerge. Disheveled curls, amber eyes, a quivering lip.

Rania steps closer to the glass and shifts lower to her knees, traces her palm across his face on the other side. He does not move.

“Who are you?”

The boy says nothing.

Sweat trickles down her neck as she traces the outer border of the clock’s glass with her finger and finds a keyhole. “Boy, don’t you worry. I will find the key and open this clock. I will set you free.”

Swiveling in the direction of the study where she imagines the key may be, and propping herself to unstable feet, a throat cracks behind her. She turns around.

“What is it that you want to tell me boy?” Rania taps on the glass.

The boy parses his lips. “Mother, it’s me.”

//

For the next few days, Rania remains transfixed by the clock.

When she peers into it, she notices that the little boy’s arms and legs are longer, and the hair on his head is thicker. He now coos and crawls about. The next day, he is walking across fields of tulips, with Rania trailing behind humming melodies, the sun spilling orange onto the acres of land. A few days afterward, Rania sits next to him at an oak gateleg table in Sir John’s study, neck stooped over books. He is learning to read.

The longer Rania stares into the clock, the quicker he grows. Weeks pass this way, Rania as an observer to moments from a fleeting life on the other side of the glass.

Soon, the boy is a young man preparing for an enemy's attack, learning the sword and politics of the land from various advisors. Rania, trained in the sword herself, passes her coveted maneuvers onto him like precious heirlooms.

Rania smiles at the boy’s evolving stature, how he morphs each day into a broader, stronger, human man. A diplomat warrior who occupies a large rank in the East India Company but speaks in the voice of the people.

The Rania staring into the clock shrivels into an old woman as night and day are blurred. Her eyes deepen into the folds of skin on her face. Her thinning hair grays. Her joints crack whenever she stirs, her twig-like bones wear down.

Omaja notices these outward changes too, but says little at the risk of upsetting Rania—Rania is stubborn more than ever, ordering her away, and barricading herself in the bungalow with the clock.

One day, however, a relieved Omaja barges in with news: Sir John is finally here.

//

Sir John wears a fashionable woolen suit by the bungalow door, despite India’s warm weather. Sunken eyes and raised nose, upright shoulders and a matter-of-fact business about him. His shoes are still on his feet, an act diabolical to Rania, so she gestures to take them off for him.

He thunders past her. “How is the child?” The sternness in his tone, his pointed look, the blonde moustache that is so neatly combed, all indicators to Rania that he might be displeased if he knew.

“I am not sure.” Rania mumbles.

“You are not sure? What rubbish!”

Omaja enters with the child in her arms before Rania can say more. “Sir John, you are blessed with a beautiful girl child.”

A knot forms in her stomach as Rania investigates Sir John. His face is stone, eyes calculating, as if examining a paper bill or receipt.

“They’ll call her a kutcha-butcha, will they not?” Rania finally blurts out to him. She knows what a burden it is to be half, being a half-wife herself.

And then, he speaks. “And so?”

Rania looks at Omaja, who nods at her. She looks back at Sir John. He is rocking the child now.

“Ah, the girl looks very much like me. And Rania, listen, I do not have much time. I’m leaving for England—there is much work to be done over there but I will return in a few years.” He returns the girl to Omaja.

Rania, shaking, dumbfounded, resorts to pleading. “Have I done something to displease you? Please do not leave me alone again.”

“My son has just started his education. I must see that all matters are right.”

“Your son? Well, what about our boy?”

 “What boy?”

Rania grabs his hand and pulls him down the corridor, past all the paintings of soldiers, and the Queen, to the grandfather clock. “There, he is there. Help me, please, help me get him out. You can take him with you, at least.”

Sir John grits his teeth and clears his throat. “Are you fiddling with my clock? Rania, this is one of the greatest creations. The clock brings order, creates purpose. Time is valuable and we must allocate it appropriately. Time, time…Is it broken?”

He inspects the clock with concern, runs his hands along the trunk, and bends down to feel the base.

Rania runs to the adjacent room, returning with a lit candle so he can better see.

Sir John turns his neck toward Rania, the veins under his skin draining, then he looks over to Omaja who rocks the girl child tenderly.

Rania looks back to the clock where, under the glass, she sees the boy again. His face is morphing further into distinct features. Rania puts the candle down, and it casts a shadow along Sir John’s jaw.  

“I do not know what you are talking about but I have wasted enough time already.” More mechanically than the clock itself, he grips her by the shoulders. “And you, you do not look so well. What happened to your face and your hair? You appear old. I cannot even recognize you.”

The girl child coos just then, her melodious voice rising as the boy behind the glass fiddles with parts of the clock. The clock hands begin to move. It strikes.

Sir John shakes his head. “I do not know what is happening but my time here is up.” He scurries to the bungalow door. “Omaja, please see she is well before she attends any other meetings on my behalf. An important official will be arriving soon.”

“Will you call the clockmaker?” Rania runs after him. “I want to speak with him. He will tell you what’s wrong with this contraption–”

//

The girl child is crawling about now, almost walking. Rania, however, brittle and ashy-skinned, refuses to eat. She is only hungry for her life inside the clock.

When the physician visits, prescribing her medicine, natural light, and proper bed rest, she refuses all three and instead orders the clock be moved to her chamber. The request is not granted by Sir John (who was made aware by a letter) so she spends night after night searching the house for its key.

It is during one of these nights, that she enters Sir John’s study and finds letters on his desk. One of them is from Sir John to Sir Taylor, a British businessman living in England and Sir John’s good friend. Sir John appears to be shipping some children off to him.

Dear Sir Taylor,

With respect to the young girl named Audrey in your care, I think with you, it would be wise to avoid discussions that might lead to enquiries about her parents. Although Audrey looks enough like a white child, British and all, I sent Audrey to you with the hope you will respect my request to keep her identity hidden. Poor James, her father has entrusted me with the task of protecting his reputation. He has lost his position at the Company already for being far too friendly with the locals. As you know, he does not have the same rank as I. Now, it is my discretion that during your life, you allow Audrey, say £70 a year. I shall also request you to let me know the estimated expense of renewing Audrey’s wardrobe, her bookshelf, and other provisions. It would be my wish you refrain from telling Audrey whose daughter she is, natural as it may be that she should wish to know, there are many considerations. There may be embarrassment of many kinds. I trust you will have the understanding.

Sincerely,

Sir John

The lighter girls can be sent to Britain. This is good news to Rania. If the children pass, they can secure provisions, perhaps even inheritance. It is all she wants for any child she has, and especially if she cannot have it herself.

Rania leaves the study, the wax from the candle in her hand nearly burning her skin on the way out. She returns to her chamber, where she picks up the girl child and looks at her properly for the first time. Her head, covered in its entirety with hair, wobbles. She kicks her legs, as if running for her life. This little kutcha-butcha, she might just have a chance. She can get her lot in life.

//

The next day, Rania retrieves her sword from the almari and treads to the large Victorian mirror by her bed. She watches herself swinging the curved hardstone, gripping the sword’s handle with her thin fingers and dainty palm. The memories whip her mind: of her seated on majestic horses, a turban wrapped around her head and its tail draped across her face, slashing the air to the rhythm of the horse’s gallop. She was—is—a warrior. She remembers, also, attending gatherings on Sir John’s behalf as a diplomat. With such ease, her tongue—versed in five languages—slithers into the worlds of others, and their imaginings of her gain her (and Sir John) many favours. A beholder of knowledge that only those in the in-betweens can acquire, she is a chameleon. A shape shifter. A negotiator. Her life before giving birth was never short of noble despite her being a Lady Wife.

Rania looks at the papers on the chestnut table across the spacious chamber. They are agreements between Indians and British officials she is yet to sign. And beside those, is a small trunk with coins she is to bestow upon a number of servants she oversees in the various estates Sir John owns. So much responsibility, yet her future is never certain. Her security is determined by his whim—or is it?

Rania smiles. She steps closer to the mirror. Where has the time gone? She does appear as if she has gained many, many years.

//

Rania returns to the clock with her sword in hand. She does not see the boy so she, at first, looks for him everywhere, not just in the clock but every corner of the bungalow. By the end of her search, Sir John’s study is upturned: all his books, the desk with the drawer full of letters, the lavish furniture, and the candles. The paintings of the soldiers and the Queen lay on the corridor floor.

She returns to the clock. All she sees now is her reflection on the clock’s glass: her decay in the present from searching too far into the future, and for far too long. Rania inhales a wave of water, as Omaja would advise, deep into the bottom of the ocean. She exhales the undercurrent, bring it to the shore. She cries.

The boy crawls out of the clock, an adult man now, with long legs, broad shoulders, and a head full of thick golden-brown hair. He wraps his thick arms around Rania as she weeps. She shuts her eyes.

“You are worthy, Rania. You were always worthy. You only see me because you believe otherwise. Do not be so scared.” The man’s baritone voice cascades across the room, fading as Rania opens her eyes.

Rania tightens her grip on the sword in her hand. She raises it, brings it to the clock. With a few ferocious hits, the clock’s front glass splits and shatters to the floor in pieces. She has an appetite for more, so she continues hitting the clock until its hands stop moving and the lyre stops swinging.

//

Rania holds her girl child tight against her chest. She sits on a rocking chair, swaying back and forth. All the moments before her and to come sink into the pool of water in the girl child’s eyes. The good place is here, she thinks. There is nowhere else.