"Heathens, every one of them. Godless heathens!" The governess hissed in protestant fury as their palanquin was born behind the Regiment of Foot in solid British scarlet. The harsh and heavy wool and brass seemed out of place in the opulent heat of Madhya Presh, even as the heavy boots and heavier guns dragged behind the column trampled the traditional freedoms and culture of the Hindu lands as the Mughal or Mongol had before them, and as the Muslim and even famed Alexander the Great had tried and failed to do.
The twin daughters of governor Ian Cavendish fanned themselves wearily. Their dresses reflected their station, a tightly laced corset over a bodice or chemisette, and paired them with a skirt adorned with numerous embroideries and trims; over layers of petticoats whose only concession to the hot climate was to be white rather than the darker tones more common to London fashion and the ever present cold and soot filled fogs. The wasp waist showed to great advantage the great swell of bosom that marked their Prussian ancestry, rather than the more common modest bosom of the few other English dependents marching with the Viceroy's troops to secure what was to be the Imperial Province, now that the East India Company had been forced to ask for Imperial aid in crushing the revolt of 1857.
Bernice Cavendish sighed and corrected their governess pedantically "They have hundreds of gods, and goddesses as well. They were building temples here before we were doing more than figuring out the skull we just took made a pretty decent soup bowl once you filled the eyes in" Tara Cavendish wiggled her fingers by her eyes suggesting leaking soup, and giggled prettily as Kate, the grey haired dowager cousin who was their governess fumed. When she giggled she looked more like an eight year old imp than an eighteen year old heiress of an ancient and noble house.
Kate replied angrily "They are Heathens because they worship idols. Christ denying dirty little brown people, worse than the damned Muslims. I hear tell they practice all manner of wickedness and perversion here, even in their temples"
Bernice and Tara both perked up and looked at the distant peak of Khajuraho, where their father, deep in his wine had related in lurid detail about the temple artwork to their uncle who commanded the Engineering battalion responsible for improving the roads and establishing Imperial post rider stations and telegraph lines for the new Imperial network. Perhaps this posting would not be as dreary as Kenya after all.
The palace occupied by Governor Cavendish and his entourage had belonged to the Chandelas dynasty, but fallen into disuse during the Mughal or Mongol rule. British Engineers had not only restored it to functional, but had put in such amenities and modern conveniences with an aim not only to making the seat of Imperial power more live able, but to show the material superiority of Britain's ruling house and race. With the intent to subvert the existing power classes into extensions of British Imperial power, staff had been recruited to run the house and town from the noblest houses of the area.
Vivek stood in Imperial House and smiled. He was a Brahmin, a twice born noble, raised to the disciplines of the priesthood, scholarship, the higher arts and mysteries medical, tantric, and martial. These British were a might and a power, more terrible than the Mongol at their peak, but they were Kshatriyas, warriors and even administrators yes, but always and forever requiring the rulership and direction of the Brahmin. These English did not know it, but they had come to the place where they will be the conquered people. He had argued with the Kshatriyas of his own people, those who looked upon the hirelings of the East India Company and knew they could beat them upon the field. Calling upon Kali they raised war upon the barbarian, and fell upon the field to the superior weapons and discipline of the English Redcoats.
He was Brahmin, he looked upon the temples at Khajuraho and bowed deeply three times. Parvati, who danced life as well as death, Shiva whose all seeing eye fortold the need, and to the forgotten Chandelas kings who heeded the word of the all seeing god and loving goddess to lay the foundation for English conquest where their Hindu children would one day need it. Indeed, the English Lion was unconquorable upon the field, but it was the Hindu bull who would tame the British Lioness, and restore these barbarians to proper Brahmin rule.
Turning to his wife Akshara, herself dressed in silk and gold saree that could have easily bought the elephants carrying the new governor's family to the Imperial palace Vivek whispered. "Like the Mughals, they sequester their women. This does not mean they are safe from temptation, this means they have no experience with it. I think you shall be the one to teach them their proper place. Do not tell it to them, allow them to discover it. Allow them to suspect it, to seek to test it, but do not ever offer it to them. They must walk each step to delivering themselves into Hindu submission on their own. I think first we will have to address their clothing, before the poor things faint. Then the bathing. The men smell worse than untouchables, and they wear far less than the women do"
Akshara smiled. "Dress and deportment, they move so badly. I think their father would appreciate seeing such upright posture if we taught them that women were not made by the goddess to march like toy soldiers, but to flow like a petal on the wind. I will teach them dance, and with it, their body." She laughed. "Once their body is awake, they will deliver themselves unto you, and their training becomes more interesting"
Governor Ian Cavendish looked down his eagle nose, sweat dripping from his great beak onto his handlebar mustache as his twin daughters Bernice and Tara were collapsed where they had fallen in the middle of their Latin class, decaiming verbs for their Governess and cousin Kate. "What ails them, do I have to summon the surgeon from the camp?" He roared, for Governor the General Sir Ian Cavendish was happiest speaking over the roar of his guns, and somewhere between confused and alarmed when dealing with any feminine issues. The death of his wife left him with two alien creatures to raise, and no understanding of how to do so.
With a whisper, Akshara entered smoothly, her temple trained grace making of her glide across the floor almost a formal dance, the only sound the whisper of her slippers upon the stone. Bowing deeply to the Governor, she said in richly accented English,
"A thousand pardons my lord, but I fear the rich wool and cotton layers that so well ward off the London fogs and Scottish winds trap the heat of Grishma Ritu, of Indian summer, where their pale and delicate maiden bodies may not resist it. I fear they may well not last to Monsoon if you do not allow them to be guided by the noble women of this land as to what fabrics to wear. We can indeed keep their outward modesty to your Christian standard, without leaving them prey to fever"
That last was a calculated barb, as it was a Kenyan fever that took the life of his late wife. Sir Ian was a Kshatriyas, a warrior born and bred, and acted with the decisiveness that had won him a thousand skirmishes and no small number of wars. He roared again, this time casting his eye over all the assembled women of the British Imperial Household.
"Now hear this, we will be in India for generations to come. We will teach these bloody wogs to be civilized if we need to slaughter half of them to do it. That being said, this isn't bloody Cornwall, and I will not lose half of you to fever every single season because you are wearing a cannon's weight in broadcloth like we were shivering in Whitehall at midwinter. You will take direction from Akshara in how to dress for local conditions. Her instructions are my instructions, and will be obeyed!"
The idea he had just delivered his daughters, and the wives and daughters of the whole British mission into Hindu slavery would be some years sinking in.
