The walls were white, tinged yellow in some places by water stains and decorated with cinnibar coloured pillars, the cieling had blue silk scarves hanging from it, some attempt to makie it appear like the sky, but some of the scarves had fluttered to the ground and lay tangled around chair feet or, in one lone scarf's case, draped over the mantel. The floor was covered with a rich carpet that stretched almost the full length of the room, the wood beneath the golden tassels bordering it had the warm red hugh of mahoghany.
There was a bed of richly coloured pillows, covered with a fine layer of dust. The dust blew into the air like a mushroom cloud when she sat down in it. A few chairs were by the window, around a teakwood table where an ash filled incense burner lay, ash trickling over the edges and settled like mould in the inlaid mosaic table top. A shelf across the room from the window held an array of small trinkets from the vendors of markets in Bombay. A treasury collected from outdoor bazaar's under the blazing sun. A pair of expensive earrings on a hook, a copper jud, a stuffed elephant sewn with elaborately patterned scraps of cloth, a small drum with frayed edges of supple hide tied down with leather strings, a soft purple string purse and a silver spoon.
She took the spoon from the shelf and wiped it with her skirt, leaving a grey smudge on the hem. She held it up to the fading light of the setting sun, which had painted the room rosy gold through the white curtains. An oval of light appeared on the white wall beside the window.
A smaller shelf, set right below, held a line of shrinking ivory elephants, the largest the size of her palm. She reached for them gingerly, stroked the painted ridges of their backs, gold paint that chipped and floated down from her fingertips. They were smooth as the beads around her neck and their eye sockets were hollows filled with shadow that looked like caves. The smallest elephant, she noticed, was the size of the pad of her pinkie finger.
The wardrobe was shaped like a blossom at the top, petals that burst up then gracefully sloped into cradles at the end, and sat on clawed feet - like those of a tiger - at the bottom. The door protested as she opened it, the hinges groaning. On the railing inside hung many lacy dresses, some of pale blue and some of flimsy white material with engraved silver buttons. They were long and thin and below them sat a pair of mismatched shoes, one with a broken strap. She was surprised to find, after all the years they must have been in this room, they were not moth eaten.
The clothes smelled faintly of spices, paprika and mango chutney. There was a jewel box with only a thin bracelet inside, the clasp broken.
A mouse scurried across the carpet and siappeared under the wardrobe. She followed it with her eyes, then her feet, and knelt in front of the wardrobe, pressing her cheek to the carpet, rough fibbers tickling her eyelashes. In the shadows there was a small hole, barely larger than a thimble, in the baseboard.
A gold cobra sat on the edge of a writing desk, hooded and poised to strike, facing a crystal ink holder. A jar of seedpods sat on the other end, leaving a circle of damp on the white parchment under it. They rattled like a snake when she shook it. A decanter held the dregs of something that smelled strong and tickled her nose.
The papers were a mix of printed business forms with scrawled signatures, and personal letters, some with blotted words of endearment, some with shared memories of scholarly misadventures. One held a photograph of a woman, young with inky black lashes and a long neck, bouncing a child on her leg. A child dressed all in lace, ribbons in her hair, hands balled, face scowling in the sun. A torn envelope sprayed and smeared with navy blue ink, gilded in the corners with gold.
Pictures of couples and families lined the wall. A very proper english man and woman, each with hats casting shadows across their faces, before a cow led by a turban wearing merchant. A gang of children, shirtless and brown in the sun, running down a road lines with stalls, beneath black and white flags that, were the pictured in colour, would have waves like a rainbow ocean blocking out the blue sky. The same woman from before, wearing a half smile, clutching her hat as a wind blows past, a plume of smoke rushing up to meet her facec as she bends over a concoction in a pot in the shadow of a derb. A map was tacked to the wall, showing the labyrinth of alleyways in a medhina, traced with red lines lik the complex of veins in an eye.
Text by Lucie MacAulay
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