When She Was Queen Read Free

every window. The couple enter, mingle in the crowd, the door closes.
    Father was never fazed by wealth; he accepted it as a matter of course that some people were born into it, others acquired it through a combination of cleverness and sleaze, and the rest didn’t have it. He had no regrets about his life, he would tell his wife, he would never have become a businessman. She thought he excused himself a little too easily. What made our family acceptable in such a group was his manner, and her beauty and style.
    The inside of the house was appointed with lush drapes and carpets, heavy dark wood furniture of the Europeanstyle; there were knick-knacks collected from every part of the world, paintings and curios, some marked with names of foreign cities, which the children would stare long at, imagining exotic places. Overseeing all the goings-on in the vast drawing room were two large framed photographs of John Chacha’s parents on a wall, his father urbane in a typical round turban and a suit, tricorn white handkerchief sticking out from his breast pocket, his mother with her head covered in the Gujarati-style pachedi, nose stud glinting, looking very ancient and grim. The old man had made his money in cashews and jam.
    It was the eve of John Chacha’s wife Khanoo Chachi’s departure for Mombasa to visit her family. Both children would go with her. Some of the guests had brought presents for her, there were parcels to take for relations. There was consequently a certain amount of nervous excitement in the air that night. The journey would be by train, taking two days, from the lake up to the highest station in Kenya, close to where father had worked in a sawmill, then down via Nairobi to the coast. Khanoo Chachi reminded all to look after her husband in her absence, and they assured her not to worry, they would do so and make sure he kept out of mischief. Mother knew all the stations on the line and went over them with Khanoo Chachi. Her father had worked on the railways—as an engineer, she always insisted; as a guard, my father would protest with equal force. His own father had been a ticket collector.
    Toward the middle of the proceedings, John Chacha, seated by himself with a drink at the card table, was served a brand new pack, which he stripped open, saying, “Who’ll make a foursome with me?”
    “I don’t mind winning some,” Dr. Patel muttered, coming over with a twinkle in his eyes.
    “Or losing some, Patel, welcome.”
    Ambalal came rolling over, whisky in one hand, soda in the other. “Just a few rounds, John, last time you took the pants off me.”
    Just then Father passed by.
    “Eh, Rashid, just the chap. Come and join us,” John Chacha beckoned him over.
    “Let’s strip the chap naked,” Ambalal whispered with a snicker.
    “Yes, let’s,” said Patel quietly.
    Father hesitated. Ambalal turned on his wheedling voice. “Arré, come neh, be a sport. Enough of chatting up the women. Join the men now. It’s time we rub John’s nose in the dirt.”
    Father took a seat, and started winning.
    As the pile of chips beside him started growing, the wives and other guests gathered around to watch. John Chacha was losing the most, and he had become tense and curt. He was not a good loser. Ambalal was his chirpy self, though far from a winner. Dr. Patel was a few chips down at most. Mother stood quietly behind Father, looking serene. Beside her loomed Dr. Singh next to the African intern he had brought with him to the party. It was about time to break up and leave, only the cue to do so awaited the initiative. It was then that John Chacha made his offer, bidding his palatial residence.
    Khanoo Chachi gave a gasp, saying, “You can’t!”
    Her husband raised a hand to quiet her, throwing her a sharp look, and said: “I have just done so.” He smiledexpansively at the players round the table, his edginess suddenly gone.
    “Don’t I only wish I had something of value to bid against that,” Father said,