Tell me About India
All concept of this story was taken from the 1995 version of A Little Princess with input from the original novel. I do not have a unique thought in my empty mind. Although I didn't like the way the film changed its ending from the original, the movie is still very visually stunning, enough to inspire me anyway. The clip can be found on Youtube under the same title through a general search of "A Little Princess." I own no rights to the 1995 film or novel and this story has not been beta read. Please excuse the mistakes.
One somber brick house stood amongst its austere kin in a row much like any other. Each structure lined its neighbors like domino bricks, seeming as if the slightest puff of wind could send the whole district come toppling down. Its only discerning factor was a brass plate that read: Miss Minchin, Select Seminary for Young Ladies.
A chill draft swept through the hallway, past the drawing room with its hard chairs much like its hard owner, up an opulent staircase that was the passageway to the second landing. Room upon room of girls, typically chatty and boisterous by day when they weren't being molded into the Victorian ideal, now slept soundly under their cotton bedcovers. Higher still, at the top of two flights of rickety stairs, covered with scraps of carpet so worn one could not tell what the original pattern was, the gust found its way to a small door to an even smaller attic.
Two girls shivered miserably curling close beside each other on a single hard mattress, covered with only threadbare blankets. The cold nights did away with Becky's awestruck consideration of Sara's former rank and station, and Sara's kind heart reached out to her fellow prisoner instinctively. Powerless to the world's whims, they could only merely huddle near each other for warmth. The fireplace, long rusted over held no crackling fire to comfort their misfortune.
No, there was one balm though.
"Tell me about it Sara. Tell me again about India."
Becky's lamented plea was a common one during London's wretched winter. Low hanging clouds covered the attic skylight, refusing to allow the frigid room the solace of the sun's warm rays. Worse still, the same clouds hid the pinpoints of starry light that normally littered the night sky from hopeful eyes.
Sara's voice though, there was nothing on this earth that could take that away - the worst of Lavinia's snide looks, cook's scolding, even the most back-breaking chores could not diminish her low, mystical voice.
And so the little princess whispered to her companion in her soft tone, managing to weave a fantastic tale despite her poor circumstances. The magical Scheherazade described her faraway homeland to a girl who had never even left the city she was born in.
Green… that was the color Becky pictured whenever her fellow prisoner spoke of her native country. That hue was not one commonly found in dreary London with its smog filled air that choked with every inhaled breath, where people walked around with their dark colors and even darker moods.
The scullery maid greatly preferred the dream to reality.
Becky closed her eyes.
Warm, spice laden air glided in cavorting arcs as if the spirits themselves were the ones teasing the carefully braided hair of the ayahs preoccupied with their charges. The breeze swept through the great mausoleum built in memory of a beloved wife and ruffled the colorful silks which made the British blacks and greys even bleaker. Past the tall stalks of bamboo trees, converging into a lush emerald forest where Sara's inspiration - the furry monkey from the attic next door – used to call home, a great, serene lake lay centered, beneath a sky iridescent in colors only found on a peacock's tail.
White lotuses converged in patches dispersed on the body of water, guarding its secrets with dense fronds. A sunken statue, centuries old, made it seem as if a great deity had departed from the sky, submerging itself in the cool water as a balm to the sultry heat.
Buddha, Sara had called him, a great philosopher, who did not distinguish between wealth and poverty, status or class, but simply preached of loving thoughts, kind deeds, and a giving heart.
Oh if the world would have listened to him, then there would be no such thing as orphaned little girls shivering in dark attics.
In her wonderful dreamscape, Becky, dressed as she had never been in the fine clothes of a proper girl, imagined standing atop the great statue's head, surveying the landscape like a royal king… or a princess.
Within the Magic's gentle hold, the impoverished servant girl didn't need to turn her head to know that the real princess was sitting before her, returned to her former glory. Contentedly, relaxed and carefree as she had never been in the waking hours, Sara gazed at her birthplace with a soft smile. Their surroundings paled in comparison to her vibrant green eyes.
The blazing sun, rich and golden yellow filled the air with its heated caress.
And so Becky slept, warm and happy.
This book was the very first novel I ever read when I was younger. I'm pretty sure it was because of the cover, but nevertheless, it has a special place in my heart. I'm trying to bombard the fanfiction page to push the non-related stories off to the second page. I hope more people post to this small fandom too.
Please review,
Grignard