Warm and sweaty, I throw the blankets off me. I toss and turn, hoping to find a comfortable spot, but find myself unable to settle. Understanding that sleep would come no more, I slip out from bed and walk towards my vanity table. My eyes fall on the hairbrush and a smile beings to form. As a child, whenever I had trouble sleeping, mama would gently comb my hair and sing to me.

Even though I was a long way from home, perhaps I could grab a tiny measure of comfort by brushing my hair and singing the song she sang to me? Lifting the brush, I close my eyes and try, desperately, to latch on to memories of that feeling.

Sighing, I put the brush back on the table. Nothing it seems, would settle me tonight. I look around the room hoping to at least spot a distraction. And I do. My wedding band glitters in the pale moonlight.

As I play with it, a thought circles in my mind. I was now officially, an Indian Bibi. The title made me giggle.

Well, perhaps, not? You see, the term Indian Bibi applied to Indian women who had married Englishmen. In my case, it was the other way around.

I am an Englishwoman who married an Indian man.

I look in the mirror and repeat the thought. I am an Englishwoman who married an Indian man!

A part of me was euphoric. Never had I imagined that after I lost my dear William, I would find love and happiness again. Being uprooted from my family, my city, culture and religion had taken its toll on me as well. The struggles I had, and continue to face in India, had helped me to grow as a person. I wasn't the wisest, but I did feel as though I had seen more of the world than most girls my age.

Brushing my fingers over the fine lines around my mouth and the wrinkles around my eyes, I knew I looked much older than my actual age. I feel just the tiniest bit of envy when I imagine the perfect skin other girls my age, living in high class society in England would have. I shake off the feeling; I wouldn't change how my life worked out if it meant losing my husband for better skin and the finer things in life.

My husband. The euphoric feeling was quickly replaced by sadness. I hadn't ever, paid much attention to married life when I lived with my parents. And while I did understand that any human relationship needed work, I had never imagined that my own wedded status would be the cause of my growing distress.

You see, my interaction with women, Indian and English, had enlightened me to the fact that for several years before my arrival in the country, the concept of interracial marriage wasn't one that left people uncomfortable. In places such as Delhi, Calcutta and Bombay – cities of British power and rule, Englishmen had married Indian women quite freely. It was also rumored that some Englishmen kept harems of Indian wives. The prejudice came with their children; while the brown skinned were raised in India, the white ones were shipped back to England, and to my surprise, easily accepted and integrated into main stream English society.

While the acceptance of intercultural marriage mellowed the Indians to English rule, political discomfort and questions about loyalty and identity forced a change. Changing religious scenario in England also facilitated this change; the rise of the Victorian Evangelicals brought lowered acceptance levels and a movement towards religious fanaticism.

Consequently, by the time 1868 arrived, the year after my nuptial, marriage between Indians and Britons was completely unheard of. And although it had been nine years since the British thwarted the Indian uprising of 1857, the English were still smarting over the revolt. They had put into place a number of new military, political, religious and economic strategies through which to continue to control the Indians.

In that I lived far away from British seats of power, I was lucky for several reasons. Father Thomas, who was not exactly an evangelist, was kind enough to wed us and bear witness to the ceremony. Another advantageous offshoot was that the North-Western Indian states had supported the British during the revolt. As a consequence, the atrocities committed by Indians on English women and children during the revolt, and the punishment the British meted out to Indians post war, hadn't been directly felt by the local people. The British also favored these states and employed a larger number of local men into their army. Thus the growing hatred between the English and Indians hadn't exactly touched my little world.

Hadn't exactly, however, were the key words here. While the ruling Indian classes felt safe in their perceived relationship with the British, the lower classes, did not. The revolt, however unsuccessful, had left a precedent. And the Indians were increasingly, distancing themselves from the British. Contempt brewed among the English as well. A movement similar to the Evangelists in Britain, began in India. The local community turned more towards religion, and began enforcing religious divides; including the much frowned upon Indian caste system. While the English were in agreement with the growing social distance between them and the Indians, the communities within India, particularly between the Muslims and Hindus suffered terribly. And even though Queen Victoria had accepted and advised religious tolerance, the greater Indian community felt otherwise.

Growing hostility towards English gentry, prohibitions on interracial marriages along with other social, political and religious issues meant that I couldn't publically claim an Indian as my husband. This growing turmoil and its implications on my marriage were hence, the causes of my distress.

In a moment of naivety, James and I had concocted a plan. You see he would live in one of the outhouses on the property as a tenant and continue his service to the British as part of the 4th Goorkha Regiment, while I would pretend to be his landlady. Outwardly for the world to see, that was the extent of our relationship.

However once the world fell asleep, safely within the walls of their houses, James would come to me and we would spend the evening together. Often we would walk in the forest, sometimes we would sit by a tiny bonfire. Mostly we stayed indoors; I played the piano while James listened, he taught me to read and write in Hindi and I returned the favor by teaching him English. We would also do other activities that married people often indulged in; and it was during these times that I would lie next to James and marvel at his chocolate brown skin. It was envying how his skin looked so full of life, while mine looked sickly and pale.

I placed a hand on my belly and wondered at the life growing inside me. I had yet to tell James. I didn't know how. It would tear him apart to learn that his role in his child's life would be so limited. Would our child ever call James, father?

Inwardly, I also knew that James wasn't the only parent who was going to suffer. How would I explain a brown skinned child to the world? I didn't consider myself a bigot; how could I be one? When my whole world had abandoned me, it was the Indian people who had given me a home. And it was while living with the Indians that I had found love. And a renewed sense of purpose.

Would our child serve to bridge the gap between the English and the Indians, or worsen it?

I shelved the thought; I had ample time to figure this out. In the meanwhile, there was something more important that needed to be done. I needed to tell James.

I left the vanity table and walked towards my armoire. Opening it, I push aside my many clothes in search of my little box of secrets. The metal box wasn't small by any means; in fact it was huge. In it I had placed safely, my wedding clothes, whatever little jewelry I had left, and all the letters James and I had exchanged.

Yes, letters. You see, James was no longer living on my property. His regiment had been enlisted to help the British with the Second Black Mountain Expedition. Although they hadn't left the country yet, preparations were in full swing. And James was needed with his regiment, not at home. I could still reach him by post. And I wanted to tell him about the baby before he left. What if he didn't return, like William? I would forever be haunted by the fact that I didn't take this opportunity to tell James. No, he had to know. No matter the consequences, I had to tell him!

I knew if I wrote to him in English, his superiors would be suspicious. After all where was the need for an Englishwoman to write to an Indian man? I needed to write to him in Hindi; and for that I would need the reference papers James had left for me.

As soon as my hand landed on the box, a scream tore me from my mission.