Rajah: A Short Story

Rajah woke up one hot afternoon. A boy of nine years old, he stretched his arms and yawned before he got off the trash heap where he usually slept. His dog Taj, an uncouth mongrel with bald patches in his fur, licked Rajah’s face affectionately. “Quit it, boy,” he pushed the dog and swatted away some flies, annoyed. Taj started scratching himself while Rajah looked over the offerings that had been brought to his pile of trash while he had slept. There was a garland, a pair of anklets, and a mango.

“See how the people of the slums help us with their gifts, Taj,” Rajah said.

Taj barked, then rolled over on his back.

As he rubbed the mutt’s belly, he thought of Vidya, his mother, who was not yet thirty but already had silver streaks in her hair. All Indians were despirited by the death of Rajah’s father, but none as much as Vidya. The officers had allowed Rajah and Vidya to live after he had sparked sedition among the Indian railroad workers, but they were forced onto the streets.

Taj jolted up all of a sudden. His tail straightened and his ears perked up.

“What is it, boy?” Rajah asked. He heard the gallop of a horse and knew that something important must be happening. The dog and young boy both rushed towards the market stalls where the people of the slums tried to sell whatever they scavenged from the dumps. Vidya was there. She grabbed Rajah’s hand defensively as his jaw dropped . Until now, he had never seen an Englishman. He wore a brilliant red coat the way army officers did.

“Where is Vidya? I wish to speak with her,” he demanded.

Many Indians had gathered to behold the spectacle of an Englishman in the slums. A hush fell over the crowd as they all turned to Rajah’s mother.

“You are the widow of Bharat the Revolutionary?” he asked, approaching her.

“Yes,” said Vidya. Out of all the Indians there, she spoke English the best.

The Englishman took off his hat and bowed low in greeting. “My condolences at the passing of your husband,” he said. He had cold, blue eyes. Vidya instantly disliked him, especially since he made it sound like Bharat had died of natural causes rather than get executed by the British. Rajah on the other hand couldn’t contain his excitement. He was only a child, after all. He was impressed by the foreigner’s style and mannerisms.

“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Oliver Randall. I am here to make you an offer,” he explained. He looked around at his surroundings disapprovingly. “I understand that you are living in… difficult circumstances. That’s why I wished to invite you to live in my home. You would have a lot of servants and I’ll give you everything you ask for. All I ask for in return is your company. I could use the presence of a woman, especially since my wife is still in England.”

Vidya was careful not to betray her fury. “Rajah,” she said, “leave us.”

Rajah reluctantly obeyed, Taj following.

“What about my son?” she asked.

“I’ll see that he’s given a good education,” Oliver assured her.

After Vidya asked a few more questions, the Englishman left. “I’ll give you time to think about my offer and return tomorrow morning to hear your decision,” he said.

That night, Vidya could not sleep. She was deeply disturbed. Rajah kept on begging to be told what the strange Englishman had said to her.

“Are we going to live in a fancy mansion, Ma?”

“Rajah, not now. Please.”

The boy noticed his mother’s distress and sulked away with his dog.

Other people from the slums came by, trying to comfort her. “That white bastard’s really got some nerve, humiliating the wife of a dead freedom fighter like that,” one old lady commented.

“It isn’t about that,” Vidya cried out, exhausted. “It’s about what’s best for my son. Rajah’s needs are more important to me than my dignity or my loyalty to my late husband.”

Rajah started playing fetch with Taj. He looked so much like his father. Yet he was malnourished. He did not go to school. Vidya realized that she would never be able to give her son the world the way she wanted to. Looking at him, she knew what she had to do.

The next morning, Oliver Randall was back with a horse-drawn carriage. He knew an impoverished mother would have been been crazy to say no to him.

Rajah scooped up Taj and was about to board the carriage when Oliver snapped at him. “That diseased, ugly mutt will absolutely not be allowed to come.” The boy threw a tantrum, but Vidya sternly told him to let the dog go. For the whole ride to Oliver’s estate, Rajah wept in his mother’s arms.

The house was big and beautiful, with a large garden and a tall sculpture of an elephant in the courtyard. Many Indian servants worked there, and Vidya eyed them with disgust for being traitors before she realized that in her present condition she was no better than them. Oliver introduced Rajah and Vidya to all the members of his household, which included a cartographer named Connor O’Malley who worked for Oliver. “Just to clarify,” said Connor, “I’m Irish, not English,” he told Vidya with a smile.

Oliver wasted no time in getting Rajah to put on a school uniform and then sending the boy on his way. Vidya looked at the chamber that had been reserved for her. She found it unsettling that there was such a large portrait of the queen in her room.

A few hours later, Oliver felt satisfied with his work and decided to have some tea with Connor.

“That Indian woman is quite attractive even though you found her in a miserable condition,” Connor said.

“That’s not why I brought her here, idiot,” replied Oliver, taking a long sip before he explained himself.

“The people were starting to think of Bharat as a martyr. By taking that man’s wife and son, I’m destroying their hope. Rajah will grow up to serve the Crown.”

“Perhaps I’m just not as knowledgeable as you on colonial strategy,” Connor admitted. But deep inside, he found the dehumanizing treatment of Vidya and the brainwashing of her son to be revolting.

“Her husband ended up as cannon fodder!” Oliver chuckled.

“Where is Vidya now?” the Irishman asked, a note of concern seeping into his voice.

“Oh, I told her how much I love Indian cuisine and would love to taste some made by her hands. As soon as she entered the kitchen, I bolted the door on her. The servants should be setting it on fire right now.”

Connor jolted out of his chair, letting his teacup fall to the floor and shatter.

“You’re murdering her?’

“The servants are. Those little bootlickers would kill their own mothers for money.”

The Irishman ran toward the kitchen, but it had already gone up in flames. Tears drenched his cheeks. “How could you do this?”

Oliver shrugged. “I’ll tell the boy about this tragic accident once he gets home from grammar school.”

“Oh my God!”

“Don’t worry about the Indians. They have a beastly religion and they breed like rabbits. I still wouldn’t consider them to be human.”

When Rajah finally returned from school, he was in a far better mood than before.

“Ma, I have to tell you about this poem I heard about a tiger-”

The only person there to greet the boy was the Englishman.

“Where’s Ma?” Rajah asked.

“My sweet child,” said Oliver, dabbing away some fake tears with a handkerchief. He started telling Rajah the sad tale he weaved about Vidya’s death.

“So Rajah,” he concluded “I’m afraid you have no one but us. Will you join us?” he asked. Oliver then realized that he was all alone and Connor was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s the red-headed bastard?” he barked at a servant.

“Sir, he told me he was running away to join a Buddhist monastery.”

“Fool!” yelled Oliver. He quickly composed himself and smiled sweetly at Rajah.

“So Rajah, will you join me?”

The boy looked around at the wealth opulence that surrounded him. He glanced back into the Englishman’s cold blue eyes.

“Yes,” he said.

End