Sara Crewe is enjoying her life with her guardian, Mr. Carrisford. She's gotten away from the horrible Miss Minchin, the witch who runs the boarding school, and the terrible girls who tormented her in it. Now, she flourishes in her new role as heiress to a fortune and has started an animal shelter for the waifs and strays of London. What could go wrong now?
With Sarah now in the throes of young womanhood, there was a palpable thickening of atmosphere around her. A disturbing, silent thickness that she felt more than heard. And it came in the form of Ram Dass, who, left alone with Sarah during Mr. Carrisford's frequent absences, began behaving rather strangely.
The first sign was his lingering gaze. It was no longer filled with the benign indulgence of a caring but distant uncle-figure. Instead, it held something disquietingly intense that made her feel like a butterfly pinned under a lepidopterist's scrutinising magnifying glass. He'd gaze at her a few moments too long, leave lingering touches on her shoulder, move a stray lock of hair away from her face with an unusual gentleness. Once innocuous, these gestures now felt fraught with an unspoken tension that made Sarah's skin prickle and her heart thump uncomfortably in her chest.
Beside the hearth, his exotic tales of far-off lands, once so captivating and comforting, were now laced with undertones that unsettled her. His stories seemed less about distant horizons and more about the allure of forbidden liaisons, love affairs soaked in the hues of moonlit Indian nights that made Sarah's cheeks flush and her palms sweat. And it wasn't just his gaze. It was also the way he spoke. The gentle respect in his voice had been replaced by an undertone that made her insides twist uncomfortably. It was a tone laced with hidden meanings that she did not want to decipher.
Sarah found herself under this oppressive attention all too often, and it didn't take long for her to notice the pattern. Every time Mr. Carrisford was out on business, Ram Dass would somehow find a way to be near her. His excuses were immaculate, and his reasoning unimpeachable; he wished to tutor her in Indian languages, or he desired her opinion on an intricate tapestry from the East. There was always a reason, a purpose which seemed plausible on the surface but left an unsavoury taste upon closer inspection.
And then one day she started finding notes left for her on her pillow or on her dressing table, all written in broken English and with terrible spelling, telling her how much the man who had written them was having intense fantasies about her.
Dear,
I hav not got the bravurry to tell you this to yor face, but you are bootiful girl, and your bobs are like melon froot, so I hev sexy thots of you and in them you are lying like bed and I lick in your vegana fastly and hard, and you say my name yes-yes-yes, and you will happy.
Another note:
I am often looking at you when you dance, and I see the sway of your hips and the shookling unduation of your breezy chest. It maks me very hot and hard, and I wish to touch you all over.
And yet another:
Each time your hair brushes against my skin, I feel a happy that make me wander what it would be like to have your whole body naked and pressed close to mine.
The letters were disgusting, vile, and unspeakable. As she read each message, Sarah's stomach churned and her breathing became short. She felt dirty, violated, and terrified all at once. She knew that if anyone found out about these letters, it would destroy her reputation - something that was of the utmost importance at the time. So, she kept them hidden away, her heart pounding in fear and shame. She tried to change her routine or avoid being alone with Ram Dass as much as possible, but it was impossible. He seemed to be everywhere she turned, always watching her with that intense gaze that sent shudders down her spine.
The next day, he sent her a scree of more disturbing letters.
Last nite I had very hot dreem of you, and you sit like in bath and you have me put hot water in and then you ask me to get open my cloth and get in the water and so i do and then you be vary bad girl and sit on my lap while we in bath place and I see the shookling of your bobs and you vary surprized when you see how big my beenis is and you want touch it becuz you vary bad gurl and I say no no and then you say please pleas and giv my good tugging on it and I say no no and then you say please pleas and start to suck it like a big lollypop and I put hand on your head and pull your hair and bend you down and put my beenus into your mouf and you hev to swollow it all up becuz I am master...
In another one, arguably the worst of the lot, he said:
I hev yet another sexy fantasy that I rub my lingam hard thinking of your naked ness and yootful vagene, I serv tee in your room and you tell me you are hot, and we must make the luv befor the Sahib returns and then I push into your flower and mak the luv with urjency and you scream my naym yes yes yes and I reach the grate hight of love inside you and your love tunnel is so tite for me. then we doo the needful until the sun come up and I give yoo my seed so yoo are a mother wile I shout your naym like a waryor. We make the babee and we are so very both happy but it is just a dreem. Wake up missee Sahib, lets doo this for reel. I want you bee my memsahib harlot and I will pay you in rupees, mak you be my white goddess and we mak you carry brown babee in yoor belly so we must go back to Punjab and hav mor luv and make many babee. Or mabbe I tell doctor he get muney if he say babee is not mine so no one will know of our sekret luv.
Is a notty dream but I hev it often now.
After Sara had finished deciphering these horrific proofs of Ram Dass' insanity, she knew she had to confront him before telling Mr. Carrisford. Sara felt like she was being violated by his thoughts, and it was becoming harder to hide the impact of these letters from him. Her heart was racing as she walked into the library, expecting to find Ram Dass waiting for her. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before opening it. The servant was dusting some of the tables. He looked up at her with his customary smile, but she couldn't return it.
"Missee Sahib," he began, his voice deeper than usual, "Would you care for some tea?"
She nodded mutely, her stomach churning with a mixture of revulsion and fear. She sat down in the overstuffed chair near the window, willing her trembling hands to stop shaking. Ram Dass poured the tea, his movements jerky and hurried now, as if he could sense her distress.
"I have been meaning to talk to you about something," he began hesitantly before pausing for what seemed like an eternity. "I have... developed feelings for you, Sara."
Her heart sank. She knew this wasn't going to end well. "Ram Dass," she began, trying to keep her voice steady, "that's not appropriate."
He looked at her, his mouth twisting.
"And," she continued, her fury rising, "The notes you've been sending me are the most disgusting, lurid, abhorrent pieces of 'literature' I've yet had the displeasure of reading! I wanted to talk to you before I bring them up with Mr. Carrisford, to plead for an explanation. Why, Ram Dass? Why? You've always been my friend and protector. Why did you give in to your sick fantasies?"
Ram Dass's face was a mask of confusion and hurt. "Fantasies? What are you talking about, child?"
"Don't lie to me!" she spat out, her temper flaring. She grabbed the pile of notes from her pocket and slammed them down on the table between them. "These are your words, your handwriting. I found them in my room!"
For a long moment, there was silence as he stared at the notes. Then his eyes met hers again, sadness and defeat warring with whatever emotion had prompted him to write them.
"Missee Sahib, I meant this only as a beautiful way to show my... affection," he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I never intended for you to see them."
Sarah couldn't find it within herself to forgive him. The betrayal was too great, the violation too profound. She stood up abruptly, knocking her chair over.
"Then WHY, did you leave them on my dressing table, my bed? You did TOO want me to see them, and it has made me positively ill. I trusted you, Ram Dass. Why, why did you turn on your mistress like this? You were like an uncle to me."
The servant gave her a small, sad smile. "You will report me to our master, yes? Mr. Carrisford?"
She set her lips in a firm line and gave a quick, tight nod. "I must. You have let this go too far. Much too far."
With trembling hands, she took the letters to Mr. Carrisford, hoping he'd understand and put a stop to this madness once and for all.
Mr. Carrisford hit the roof.
"I had my suspicions about that man," he fumed. "I will deal with him, Sara, I assure you. In the meantime, don't go anywhere alone with him, understand?"
Sara nodded, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders. Ram Dass was summoned and forced to sit in a chair while Mr. Carrisford harangued him.
"How DARE you treat your mistress this way, let alone an ENGLISH girl?" He screamed.
Ram Dass crossed his arms mutinously. "It is compliment for the missee sahib, how I want to worship her and make her my own. Also, this is my culture, sahib," he retorted.
Mr. Carrisford was livid. "Your culture or not, this is NOT acceptable behavior!" he thundered. "You will apologize to Sara at once. Then you will pack your belongings and leave the premises this instant! And if I ever catch wind of you harassing another woman again, subjecting her to your depraved delusions, I'll see to it that you rot in jail!"
Ram Dass's eyes widened with fear, now realizing the gravity of his actions. Reluctantly, he turned to Sara, his head bowed low. "Please, missee sahib, forgive a foolish man for his transgressions. I meant no harm, just a little, what is the word? Diversion. I would never hurt you." And with that, he salaamed and tried to leave.
"Just a moment," called Mr. Carrisford. "If I didn't think you had it in you to keep from being a complete menace to society, I would have you sent back to Punjab within the week. You are hereby demoted to a gardener. You will spend the rest of your days tending to the grounds, Is that clear?"
Ram Dass's arrogant demeanor crumbled. "Yes, sahib," he mumbled.
Sara watched Ram Dass leave the room, throwing a glance back at her. She looked away, feeling a mixture of relief and guilt. Mr. Carrisford patted her shoulder reassuringly. "It's alright, Sara. He won't bother you again. Now, let's have some tea and put this unpleasantness behind us."
As they settled down to have their hot drinks, Sara felt an unwelcome pang of pity. She was glad he wouldn't bother her again, but she felt she'd lost one of her closest friends. Despite his inexplicably lewd actions, there was still a human being underneath it all. She wondered if she'd ever get to interact with him as before.
Mr. Carrisford noticed her silence. "I understand your feelings precisely. I—I don't know what came over the man. He's been my trusted servant for years. I've lost a close friend as well." He dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief, sighing deeply.
Sara reached over and took his hand. "It's alright, Mr. Carrisford. We'll get through this together, just like we always do." She said, offering him a weak smile.
Outside, hidden in the shadows, Ram Dass listened to their conversation, plotting revenge. He would show them that he was not someone to be trifled with. He briefly considered kidnapping Sara, but decided that was flirting too close to the hangman's noose, in this country. London was not darkest India, after all. If word got around that a brown man was giving insult to a white woman, he'd be run out of town. No, he would think of a plan that would cause them untold misery and humiliation—one that would make him irreplaceable in their eyes once again.