episode 6
'Im done with these two crazy women!' muttered PPD to himself. Mata Hari and the Guest were giggling in a corner pod, their pink styrofoam blankets pulled till their chins. 'They have no sense of caution, they do whatever suits their fancy, and think they are out of a movie!' he swore to himself.
"I think we need to talk," he said to the Guest after mustering up some courage.
"Sure," she replied. "Sup?"
"I vood appreciate if you speaking littel slowly," said Mata. "My English not very gud."
"I want to talk to her," said PPD, pointing to the Guest.
"Well that was rude!" admonished the Guest when she entered PPD's isolation pod. "What's happening that's such a secret?"
"Do we really want to take Mata Hari around with us? I mean, she's kind of a celebrity and a bit conspicuous!" pointed PPD.
"OB!" said the Guest, her whisper turning into a soto voce. "She's only the greatest Spy that ever lived!! If anything, you are the conspicuous one with that wig of yours."
"Wig? Eh? What wig?"
"Well no one can have the exact same hair for 10 years!! It's so obvious. Even the colour hasn't changed!"
"It's NOT a wig!! I'm just blessed!!!"
The Guest gave the flick of hair falling over his temple a sharp tug. "Ouch! Do you mind!" shouted PPD.
"Everting ok?" asked Mata, in a sharp voice.
"Yes yes, everything's fine," placated the Guest. "I'm sorry!" she mouthed to PPD.
"If I didn't know better, I would have thought you two are.....you know . ...?"
"You know, what?" asked the Guest. "Well.....surgeon and anesthetist!" she replied.
"He never called me for a single case," said the Guest ruefully. "He was always devoted to the tall, lanky Star of Kashmir."
"Jealousy is a seeen," remarked Mata.
"It's not the worst of my sins," muttered the Guest.
"Vell, in my country they say, squabbling causes wrinkles of the forehead and de soul," offered Mata, in her sage wisdom.
The beetle train took several sickeningly sharp turns, before it screeched to a halt by the side of an large stone building.
"What is happening here?" peered PPD.
"Only one way to find out," said the Guest, already jumping out of the pod.
A huge group of women in white Victorian dresses stood shouting in unison. Their faces were red and angry, like tomatos that had stayed on the tree for far too long! "It looks like some weird cult," whispered the Guest to PPD.
The trio was jostled in the crowd, and PPD found himself next to an attractive girl holding a sign board saying "VOTES for WOMEN". He peered at her closely. She looked almost Rajasthani! She had South Asian features, on pale skin, with the most fascinating, piercing eyes.
"Hey there is a man in our midst!" shouted a fat English women with a purple boa feather wrapped around her neck. "Oo allowed 'im 'ere? Dirty scum," shouted another one, hands clenched like a Pitbull terrier.
The crowd started to throw taunts and jeers in PPD's direction and both PPD and the Guest began to turn a strange shade of ochre.
"Quick. This way!" said the Rajasthani looking girl, grabbing his hand. Mata Hari grabbed the Guest's hand and they ran through a small crack in the crowd, for cover.
They entered a pub in the alley way, panting for air. "Lord, please remind me why I do this again and again?" groaned PPD holding his knees. His face was flushed and the Guest and Mata actually felt a bit sorry for him.
"Because you secretly enjoy it," smiled the Guest.
"Danke for helping us," said Mata to the young girl.
"Don't mention it!" said the crisp English voice. "My name is Safiya. Safiya Dalip Singh."
"Are you from India?" Asked the Guest, curiously.
"My father was. My mother was Ethiopian," she replied.
They settled down on a table in the pub.
"Three bears for the ladies," said PPD. "One glass of lime water for me."
The Guest nodded at PPD appreciatively. He always knew what she needed!
Safiya pulled out a photograph from her bag.
A rotund couple stared back at them, almost amused to see the trio. "This is my father, Maharaja Duleep Singh, the Maharaja of the Punjab," she said softly, tracing his features with her finger tips. "And this is my beautiful mother Bamba Muller. Her father was a German banker and my Grandma was a Abyssinian slave. I haven't lived very much with them though. I have been in England with my sisters."
"What was the group that you were with right now?" asked the Guest, trying to distract the beautiful Princess from her sad reverie.
"We are suffragettes," she explained. "We want equal rights, as the men, and we want to be able to vote."
"Vimen voting?" asked an incredulous Mata. "Can that happen?"
PPD smiled, amused at where they had reached, in time. "Aren't you glad you came along, OB?" whispered the Guest. "We are witnessing history!"
"Where did a Punjabi prince meet Bamba Muller?" asked the Guest in amazement.
"My father was a ward of HRH Queen Victoria. She raised him like her own son. He was brought up in England on a charming family estate, with all the comforts of Victorian living. We had horses, a stable, several carriages and a thriving staff. My father was a devoted Protestant, and sometimes even attended the same church services as Her Majesty."
The trio leaned in, listening intently to the story. The ladies sipped the beer, while PPD munched on some potatoes.
"My father was an impulsive man, though. He didn't like any of the ugly Princesses, HRH the Queen would find as matches for marriage. He went all the way to Abyssinia, and found my mother, the product of a union of German man and his coptic slave. My mother lived in a nunnery, and was a woman of exemplary character and devout nature. She spent many hours deep in prayer and service of the Lord. I think this is what drew my restless father to her, and they had three daughters of this union..." her voice trailed off, as she looked wistfully into the distance.
"What happened after that?" asked PPD.
"Well he lost interest in her, I think. And he intermittently wanted to claim back his throne in the Punjab, you see." The girl had a troubled look on her face. "I have been in and out of favour with Her Majesty, because of this. We keep moving from place to place. When I visit the Punjab, they treat me like a Princess. My father still has a small loyal group of followers who bow and kiss my hand." she ran her hands over their dorsums. "It feels like an out of body experience for me. I feel like an imposter. Maybe I have more slave in me, than Princess."
The Guest put her arm around the teary girl. She was just a child caught in the middle of history.
"Well you have a close knit group of sister amongst the Suffragettes!" she consoled. "You are fighting for a cause that will outlive your time."
"Really? Will it ever happen?" asked Safiya. "I'm sure of it" assured the Guest.
"Can we take a picture of you before we part?" asked PPD. Gesturing for her to pose next to her sign board.
CLICK......went his Samsung Pro note 12344.
Safiya looked shocked to see the tiny contraption in his pocket. He flipped it around to show her the picture.
Her eyes lit up! "This is fantastic! Can I have it?" she asked eagerly.
" No, it is for us to have," said Mata firmly. "You have bigger battles to vage. Have a good day."
The trio left the pub with a mixture of emotions.
"I feel sorry for her," said the Guest. "She's a political pawn."
"She's a reech girl who can do vot she vonts," said Mata curtly.
PPD gave the Guest a firm glance, to shut her up, and they all locked arms and headed to the beetle train.
---------to be continued.