Summary of Alice Perrin's "The Anglo-Indians" 

Tags: Himalayas, Corruption of household staff, Meeting Maharajahs, Zenana, Illness, Indian superstitions, Challenges of colonial governance, Drag of returning to England, Romance of India, Romance fiction

The narrative of the Fleetwood family serves as a poignant exploration of the British colonial experience in India, contrasting the majestic landscape of the Himalayas with the structured social hierarchies of Anglo-Indian life. The story begins in the popular hill station of Pahar Tal, where Fay Fleetwood, a girl of sixteen with an unconventional "fellowship with Nature," frequently slips away before dawn to witness the sun break over the snows. This act highlights the spiritual and physical grandeur of the Himalayas, described as the "Roof of the World" and the "abode of the greater gods". The silence of these heights is punctuated only by the sounds of hill people, the call of barking deer, and the crashing of black monkeys through the rhododendron and pine.

Indian Social Structures and the Role of "Custom"

A central aspect of Indian culture depicted is the pervasive influence of "custom" (dastur), particularly regarding the relationship between Anglo-Indians and their domestic staff. Gunga, the family’s old Hindu bearer, embodies the traditional order; he is a "lynx" who has tended the Fleetwood children since birth. Here is a relevant passage describing Gunga: 

With a high yawn old Gunga, the bearer, came out of his little room and squatted on his heels before the open door. As he leaned over the brass water-vessel in his hand to wash, noisily, his mouth and teeth, the light from a primitive oil-lamp behind him silhouetted his shaven old Hindu skull and the curve of bare neck and bony shoulder.

Fay trusted he might not espy her. Gunga was a veritable old lynx, and she knew he would condemn her conduct. Previously she had escaped him by starting even earlier;—this was not the first time Fay had crept out in secret to meet the dawn. She fluttered furtively between the tree trunks. Then, once on the narrow track that cork-screwed up the hill-side, she mounted with the swift, confident activity of youth.

Through Gunga, the source explores the concept of "percentage"—the practice of servants taking a small commission on household grain and charcoal. Gunga argues that this is an immutable law of Hindustan, stating, "Custom is a hard master with us people and bad to disobey". Here is a passage where Gunga catches the protagonist Fay out at an hour when she is supposed to be home in bed: 
 

“Be silent, Gunga! I am not a child. I will do as I please,” she said in fluent Hindustani, “and if you tell the Mem-sahib that I came out to see the day break, will I also tell her about the wood, and the charcoal, and the grain—all the discount that goes on in the compound which is for you to oversee and prevent. Aha!” she concluded, with impish malice, as the old man betrayed discomfiture.

“Well, well,” he deprecated. “It is ever a hard matter to control others. But if a chittack of grain goes here, and an ounce of charcoal or a bundle of wood there, or a measure of meal finds its way into the stomach of the sweeper’s wife instead of into the crops of the fowls—what harm? The Sahib and his lady receive good service, there is no discontent in the compound, and all is well. Percentage is the custom of Hindustan, and custom is a hard master with us people and bad to disobey. Custom cannot be changed,” he added doggedly, “and the Sahib would say the same whatever was told him.”

This loyalty is reciprocal; despite his desire to follow the Fleetwoods to England, Gunga’s own family ties and his status as a landowner in his village eventually reclaim him.

The cultural landscape is further enriched by the folklore and superstitions shared between Fay and Gunga. They discuss hill-gods who call to their dogs through the valleys, and malevolent ghosts with bleeding eyes that haunt the roads. Gunga recounts legends of deities with a single eye in their forehead and demons that bay like hounds, illustrating a world where the spiritual and material are inextricably linked.

The Conflict of the Native State: Rotah

The narrative introduces the Rajah of Rotah, a young prince whose life represents the difficult "grafting" of Western education onto Eastern tradition. Rotah is described as an "Aryan" aristocrat, a handsome, deer-like creature who initially believes that self-indulgence and a retinue of a hundred servants are his royal prerogatives. Under the guardianship of Captain Somerton, the Rajah is forced to learn British notions of manliness, which he finds humiliating when they require him to walk unattended or wear English flannels instead of gold and purple brocade.

The Palace at Rotah, half-fort and half-modern dwelling, serves as a backdrop for the clash of cultures. Within its walls, the zenana (women's quarters) exists as a world apart, characterized by a "heavy atmosphere," sickly perfumes, and the tinklings of hidden women. The Ma-ji (the Rajah's mother) is the "real ruler" of this domain, exercising a "subtle, far-reaching" influence that often thwarts British progress. Here is a relevant passage describing Fay's first experience meeting women inside the Zenana: 
 

Fay had been into zenanas before, and Mrs Fleetwood was well used to such interiors. They were both familiar with the sickly perfumes, and the half light, and the airless, heavy atmosphere, the whisperings and tinklings and swish of clothing, and the excited faces that clustered from every corner.

The little Rani herself rose from a pile of rugs and richly-embroidered cushions heaped on an inlaid bedstead. She must have been rather younger than Fay, but her small oval face was dull and expressionless, her skin was pitted with smallpox, her solemn eyes, their lids painted with kohl, looked immense, out of all proportion to the size of her button nose and pouting little mouth. The parting of her glistening black hair was stained red, as were also the tips of her fingers and toes and the palms of her hands. A gauze veil embroidered with gold threads framed her face and enveloped her plump body.

Two clumsy English chairs with cane seats were produced for the visitors, and a swarm of women gathered around them, staring and listening and making remarks, as well as frequently taking part in the conversation. There were several children, too, odd, pulpy little creatures, silent and apathetic, loaded with silver ornaments, bangles and anklets, necklaces and charms.

Mrs Fleetwood conversed cordially with the Rani according to zenana etiquette. Fay permitted the women and girls to examine the blue enamelled watch that had been a birthday present from her father—it was passed from one to the other amid a chorus of interested admiration. A tray of sweetmeats was handed to the guests, and inquiries were made as to whether Fay were married or not—the answer causing a moment’s silence of puzzled disapproval. Then Mrs Fleetwood asked for the baby, and was surprised and concerned to see two large tears gather in the little mother’s eyes and roll, unhindered, down her cheeks. The elder woman leaned forward kindly and touched the small hand, hardly bigger than a child’s, that rested, quivering now, in the Rani’s lap.

Here, Fay and her mother learn that the Rajah's infant son is ill. The Ma-ji, distrusting Western medicine as a "foreign magic" designed to bewitch the child, insists on charms and remedies from bazaar fakirs. Despite the efforts of the English doctor, the child dies in convulsions, a victim of the "trammels of the zenana".

The "Royal Progress" of the Winter Camp

As the seasons change, the Fleetwoods move from the hills to the plains, embarking on a cold-weather tour that resembles a "royal progress". This administrative tradition involves a massive encampment of bullock-carts, camels, and tents pitched in mango groves. The Commissioner’s duty involves moving through mud villages, each with its own tank and temple, to hearken to the petitions of the headman and the peasants.

The source provides insight into the hardships of the Indian peasantry, who are often ruined by usury and litigation. "Custom" again plays a role here, as families spend a year's income on a single wedding or funeral to maintain their honor, falling into the clutches of village money-lenders. The British officials, like John Fleetwood, see themselves as protectors, yet they acknowledge that they are often "thwarted by these very people themselves" whose instincts contradict Western codes of morality.

The Contrast of Exile and the Suburbs

The latter half of the narrative shifts to the Fleetwoods' retirement in Norbledon, a London suburb. This transition highlights the profound nostalgia felt by those who spent their lives in India. For John and Fay, England feels "cramped" and "stuffy" compared to the vast, sun-soaked spaces of the East. Fay, in particular, finds herself "sick for India," missing the "smell of the East"—a mixture of dust, dirt, and spices that she finds "revolting yet attractive". Her longing is so acute that she often "dreams in Hindustani" and feels a deep fellowship with any Indian person she encounters in London.

The narrative emphasizes that the Anglo-Indian identity is one of perpetual exile. Having spent thirty years "governing and soldiering" in India, the Fleetwoods find that they have lost touch with the "cost of living" and the social nuances of England. They are "normal, self-reliant people, hall-marked with hereditary faculty for work in exile," yet they struggle in a land where they are no longer people of consequence.

The Return to the Dawn

The story concludes with Fay's marriage to Clive Somerton and her return to India, a resolution that brings her back to the Himalayan heights she loves. The final scene mirrors the beginning, as Fay and Clive stand together on the mountain path to watch the "glories of Himachal". This conclusion reinforces the theme that for those truly touched by the "mystery and occultism of the East," India is not merely a place of work, but a home for the soul. The majestic peaks, gleaming resplendent and majestic, serve as a final testament to the enduring "spell of true romance" that the land holds over its children.