Page 55 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
A few handed out pamphlets detailing the rights of women to own property, and organizers talked about other issues like the care of orphans and improvements in housing, while others sent around a collection plate to gather money to bail out women who’d been jailed at recent protests.
It was easy to get swept up in their fervor about rights and freedoms as I blended into the back, trying not to be seen and wondering if they’d included me in their demands to the men of the government. As the night wore on, I couldn’t help but notice some speakers describing a London that applied only to them, wealthy and middle-class women who sought enfranchisement in the political sphere.
I wondered if they’d even considered what the world was like for those who didn’t share their station or skin color. If I’d had the courage to stand and ask, I wondered what they might say. Then Barbara announced the final speaker for the night.
“Before I get you over to the refreshments, we have a late addition to the agenda. Rohan Naoroji is a representative from the East India Association who will speak about the aims of his organization and provide a sneak peek at his upcoming lecture series. We must all better ourselves, ladies. We must remain one step ahead of them at all times.”
A murmur rumbled through the audience as a handsome Indian man strode to the small podium positioned at the front of the room. The women straightened, and many sat on the edge of their seats.
Tall, with umber-brown skin and a dark beard, he stood out from the crowd. I’d come to know that the white hat fixed on his black wavy hair was called a turban. It matched the bright-white fabric of the shirt skimming his body, so different from the dark and neutral-colored jackets and gowns worn by most in the room. We appeared nearly the same age, in our mid-twenties, even though I was well over 140 years old at that time.
“Ms. Hale, thank you for your kind welcome and opportunity to present to you tonight.” He spoke with a strong British accent, only the whisper of another language in his consonants. “I’m here as a representative of the East India Association, started in 1866 by my uncle, Dadabhai Naoroji. Our organization aims to represent the interest of Indians in Britain and India, and share the realities of living in India under British rule.”
With that, he dived into a brief history lesson of Indians in Britain, which prompted a memory of my readings of Dean Mahomet all those years ago in New Orleans.
Rohan continued, “Our sailors with the East India Company built up the British maritime presence, giving rise to this empire, yet we labor under the worst conditions, often for eight or nine shillings per week, unable to unionize. In the same way Britain rules over Ireland, so, too, it rules over India, allowing few opportunities in civil service for native-born Indians in our own country. Much like you, we believe in improving the position of women in this society and abroad. As I have listened to you tonight, seeking justice and freedom for yourselves, you must also acknowledge the desire of others of varied backgrounds, ethnicities, and hues for the same goal.”
Some attendees shifted uncomfortably—maybe at his gender, maybe at his color, maybe at both—but they couldn’t deny his points.
As he talked, I realized how little I knew about these groups of people. I’d seen them, true enough, often encountering Indians and other East and South Asians as they’d made their way to work in dockyards as lascars or to private homes to tend to children as ayahs, but I hadn’t had any meaningful contact. Perhaps there was a story there ... of different people making their way in a strange land, all united in the pursuit of opportunity.
He wrapped up, his narrative turning personal, each attendee enthralled by his words.
“I traveled here as a small child for education and opportunity. I have seen the advantages that the British Empire has to offer. As the sonof a cotton merchant, I was fortunate to claim many of them, but now, I also work to help others. I hope that with continued connection and understanding, I have helped broaden your perspective. I invite you to learn more in our regular meetings in Winchester. By identifying what connects us, I hope we will all reach our eventual goals.”
Recognition flared in me. Here was a man who wanted better for himself and his people, and was taking steps to make it possible.
Barbara clapped as he stepped back from the lectern. “My! You’ve certainly given us all something to think about, Mr. Naoroji. Thank you again for a wonderful evening,” she said before giving us a few more announcements and then dismissing us to the food.
I gathered my things as the crowd trickled out, my thoughts still on his speech. I had furiously copied down notes and ideas from his speech. I was debating whether I should thank him when I found him at my side.
“I couldn’t help but notice you,” he said. “I’m Rohan Naoroji. And I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” His name lingered on his lips, as if he’d managed to lace it with music. He smelled of cinnamon, sandalwood, and other fragrances I couldn’t name. “There aren’t many here who look like ourselves,” he said, his brown skin a touch darker than mine. “Miss ...”
“Bell. Arden Bell,” I said, shaking his hand.
“Well, Arden. I saw you with Barbara. Are you one of her students?”
“No, I attend lectures here and write.” I lifted my notebook.
“A writer?” He rubbed his dark beard. “Maybe I should’ve been more careful with my words.”
I laughed. “I’ll only report the good things.”
“So, now I know what you do,” he said, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. “But whoareyou?”
How unusual, I thought, to inquire about a person that way. How perceptive and curious. And that was how the first interview began, his words cracking open a dam I’d been holding up for so long. I detailed all that had enthralled me for the past few months, from the death ofQueen Victoria and the ascension of King Edward to the throne, to the architecture and art on display at the Glasgow International Exhibition and everything in between. I hadn’t let anyone close enough to me to speak freely in years, and yet this stranger had excavated what I’d hidden away with a simple question imbued with tenderness.
The conversation flowed as the crowd streamed around us. No sooner had I told him of my work with the repatriated to Africa than he followed up with a question about the clashes among the different ethnic groups who made their home in Sierra Leone.
His intellect was astonishing.
“You’ve seen so much of the world for such a young, beautiful lady,” he observed.
“I’ve found there is always more left to see.”
“And you have been in some dangerous places,” he added. “Were you not afraid?”
I’d beenborninto danger. Death had given not only an escape but a guarantee that I couldn’t die, even if I could still be hurt. Still, I wanted to answer as honestly as I could. “At times ...”
