Title: Dark Horse: Chapter One, Contrived Serenity
Rating: PG-13 [mild drug use]

Summary: Sitara spends some time at home. George and Pattie spend some alone time at the ashram. Stopping by for another delivery, Sitara meets up with George and Donovan again.




Stretching as the morning light poured into her room, Sitara groaned and rolled away from the invading light. Her maid pulled open another curtain, filling the room with even more light. With another groan, she pulled the silk-covered pillow over her head.

“It’s too early. Go away,” she mumbled into the pillow.

“Mistress, you know I cannot do that,” she pulled the pillow out of Sitara’s hands. “You must make ready the day.”

“Just another hour. The day can wait another hour,” she rolled over, reaching for another pillow.

The maid snatched it up first, “It cannot, Mistress. Perhaps if someone was in bed when she pretended to be and not sneaking out, then she would be well-rested for the day.”

“You know this place is a prison!” she retorted.

She pulled back the blankets, “Yes, yes. A prison. Madame Manishi will be here within the hour, Mistress. You really need to get up.”

Sitara sat up instantly, “That’s today?”

“It is. Your father’s birthday is only a week away.”

She rubbed her eyes brusquely and pivoted out of the bed. After using the toilet, she dressed in the clothing pulled out for her by her maid and sat down to quickly brush out her hair. Forgoing any jewelry, Sitara hurried from her bedroom with a swish of her skirts. She needed to eat something before Madame Manishi arrived or else risk passing out during the session. Breezing into the kitchen, she ignored the cook, grabbed a mango and a cup of chai, and hurried off to find her father.

As expected, Geoff Amery Barlow sat at his large mahogany desk in his office, reading over the day’s newspapers. Every morning, without fail, he spent the early hours of the morning reading the major newspapers from around India and the world. Though his papers were often a day or more old from the rest of the world, Geoff devoured it all. As sheltered as he kept his daughter, he certainly made certain to have a wide worldview himself. It really was the only way to compete in a world market – which he desired to do, not for his own gain, but for his daughter’s. He could not save her mother; he would protect their only child with every resource available. Every shilling, every rupee, every penny was for Sitara. She would never want for anything, ever.

Setting her teacup on the edge of his desk, Sitara slipped into the large leather chair across from him and bit into her mango, “Daddy.”

His eyes rose over the edge of his paper. For a brief moment, he saw his beloved wife sitting across from him. Sitara resembled her mother so greatly that sometimes his heart stopped when gazing at her. Kala had been Sitara’s age when they married. Perhaps, if they had waited a bit longer, she would still be with them.

“Daddy, are you seriously going to spend all of the weekend locked up in here?” she asked, before reaching for her tea.

Watching his daughter for a moment, he shook the vision of her mother from his eyes, “Sita, you know well enough that business does not stop just because the week is over.”

She stared at him, blinking and chewing her mouthful of fruit before replying, “I know that life is not all business and whatever it is you think you need to do today can wait.”

“It cannot wait, Sita. It cannot.”

She sighed, “Won’t you come outside with me? I want to show you how my garden is coming along. The weather is looking beautiful today.”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” he turned back to the stack of newspapers in front of him.

“You always say that. And when tomorrow comes, it will be summer and too hot to go outside!” she complained.

“Sita,” he warned, “I have a lot to do.”

Before she could protest again, her young maid entered the office and meekly announced the arrival of Mistress Manishi. Getting to her feet with a huff and a glare, she turned and headed out of the office, leaving her teacup on his desk. His hazel eyes lifted from the paper and stared at the teacup before flitting to the closed door. He sighed and returned to the news in front of him. He was doing it all for her; everything was for her.



Sitting under the sheer tent, George turned his back to the monkeys, attempting to block them from jumping on the table and stealing breakfast from Pattie. Others drifted to and from the table, sharing food, sharing stories. George was completely at ease at the ashram. Everything about it seemed right. He would have to thank his wife for introducing him to such a concept.

Yet, he could not shake the feeling the green-eyed girl implanted into his soul. He could go hours without thinking about her but then she always drifted into his thoughts. It could be the touch of a silk scarf or the twittering of a bird. He could not escape her. Even meditation was often interrupted by a thought of her, though most often merely the color green. He knew it was her. Green was always her.

She had promised to return a week after they met. Yet, he had not seen her. Surely, it had been a week by now. He really had no sense of time. Each moment blended from meditation to music to food to more meditation. It must have been a week.

“George, darling?” Pattie spoke, breaking his thoughts.

He quickly smiled at her, “Yes?”

“Is everything okay?”

“Merely lost in thought,” he smiled again and kissed her gently. “I think a walk would do some good. Care to join me?”

“I would love to,” she got to her feet, slipping her hand into his.

Clutching hands, they headed away from the busyness of others, ducking into the shadows of trees. At first, George thought to head down to the river, to dip their toes in the cool water of the morning. However, after a brief conversation with Pattie, he turned and headed into the forest instead. They found a place to sit in the shade and meditate.

Time disappeared again in the meditation world. George easily cleared his mind, focusing on the pulse of the forest for a few minutes before it all escaped. Beside him, his wife smiled slightly as she breathed deeply and sought out her own peace. They sat, side-by-side, letting the forest sweep them away.

Serenity settled into their souls once more. George felt Pattie’s eyes open before considering rolling out of his meditative state. In that moment of letting up his concentration, his thoughts once more filled with brilliant emerald green. He took a deep breath, hoping to push it away with his exhale. Unable to shake it, he opened his eyes and looked to his wife. She smiled and leaned over, kissing his lips gently.

Pattie crawled into his lap, continuing the kissing. He did not protest at all, wrapping his arms around her back instead. Their kisses deepened. Within moments, Pattie laid back and pulled George down with her. They made love under the shade of the Indian forest, truly feeling a part of nature. Lying in each other’s embrace, post-coitus, was nearly as calming as meditation. However, it too could not last forever.

They re-dressed and headed back to the complex. Perhaps because their bodies were charged with the after effects of their lovemaking, both heard the sounds of other couples in coitus over the sounds of guitars, sitars, and flutes. Pattie flushed slightly when they joined up with John and Cynthia, as the woman gave her a knowing glance. The women parted and the men sat down to play music. Before long, their bandmates and other musicians at the complex joined them. Everything seemed to come naturally. Why had he lived such a contrived and scheduled life before? This was what it was all about.

At the end of another raga, Donovan got to his feet, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go visit a lady.”

The others paid no mind to the folk singer, probably presuming he meant his girlfriend, Jenny. Nevertheless, something about the way he glanced at George did not sit well. Rather than join in whatever John now played, he handed his instrument over to the nearest empty hands and headed to join Donovan.

“I thought Jenny went with Pattie,” he commented, falling in step with the folksinger.

“She did,” he confirmed.

“If you’re going to go see my wife, I might as well come along.”

“I did not say I was,” he commented, pausing to light a cigarette. “Is is true that John and Cynthia are no longer sharing chambers, much less a bed?”

“Maybe, but it’s none of your business,” George responded. “If you’re not going to go see Jenny and Pattie, who are you going to see?”

He merely smirked and said nothing. They reached one of the Maharishi’s buildings, stopped outside, and sat down. George did not need to speak to know exactly why they had come down there. She had returned.

As soon as that thought crossed his mind, the door opened and out stepped a vision of beauty. Attired in a deep sapphire sari instead of the emerald green one of the week before, she once again astounded him. He could not think, certainly could not speak. He had never been so stricken by a woman before. If Donovan had not gotten to his feet and casually waved at the beauty, George may have remained seated, dumbfounded. Instead, he scrambled to his feet and headed towards her with his friend.

“Hello again,” she greeted them as they approached. “You look well-rested.”

“And you are beautiful,” Donovan declared, reached for her hand, and kissed it again.

George instantly noticed the intricate patterns staining her hands. His eyes quickly glanced her over, noting a similar pattern on her feet. He yearned to know the meaning behind the henna, but still could not find the ability to speak.

“Why thank you, Donovan,” she flushed slightly, her eyes flicked to George but she said nothing.

He did not release her hand. Instead, the folksinger turned her hand over before reaching for the other. George’s eyes dropped down to the woman’s hands, viewing the intricate patterns covering all of her hands. He had not realized the henna would color palms as well, though it seemed foolish to think that.

“I do not believe I have ever seen hands so beautiful,” he commented softly.

The slight flush in her cheeks darkened, “They’re not done yet.”

“No?” his thumb traced over a line on her right palm.

“Not at all. But business called so they will be finished once I return home,” she responded softly.

“Ah. Your husband-to-be will surely appreciate such effort.”

“I am not to be married.”

George’s heart leapt and he spoke up, “Then what is the occasion for such art?”

Her green eyes went to his and she smiled, “Every year, there is quite the festival at my home. Such an extravagant party deserves such effort.”

“Ah.”

Donovan’s thumb still ran circles on her palm, sending shivers up her arm, “Perhaps you could help me.”

“Of course,” both men replied in unison.

She chuckled, pulling her hand free from the folksinger’s grasp, “I have a number of boxes to take to the kitchen. Will you help?”

“Yes!” the both responded with a bit more enthusiasm than necessary.

Biting her bottom lip briefly, Sitara led them down to her car. Inside the gate this time as she expected to be there longer and truly had a delivery for the ashram, the dirty car was protected from the crowd outside the gate. She vaguely knew why people wanted to get in, but had not paid it much mind as she was allowed to come and go at will. A part of her wondered if the two men walking beside her had anything to do with it, especially as she saw them play the week before, but she said nothing of it.

Instead, she stopped at the car and maneuvered to open the trunk. Both men looked over the 1954 Corsair, silently impressed at the condition of the old, two-door coupe. George noticed almost immediately that boxes with “Barlow Teas” imprinted on the sides filled the back seat of the vehicle and a small suitcase rested in the passenger’s seat.

“Donovan? Could you start with these, please?” she motioned to the boxes in the trunk, before moving to the passenger door.

“With pleasure,” he ground out his cigarette and moved to the trunk.

Opening the car door, she flipped up the seat, “I can hand these to you, George.”

“Nonsense. No need to ruin the artwork on your hands,” he declared.

Stepping aside with a slight smile, knowing manual labor would not change the stain on her hands, she allowed him to reach into the car unassisted. With two boxes in his arms, Donovan moved back towards her and glanced in the car. Seeing the tea logo on those boxes, he leaned back and looked at the ones in his arms.

He chuckled, “It all makes sense now.”

“Hmmm?” her eyes went to his.

“This would be why you turned down my offer of tea?”

She nodded, “Tea was in short supply last week. I would not want the guests here to go without merely to share a cup with you.”

“I–”

One of the Maharishi’s servants hurried over to the group. He quickly protested the group carrying any of the tea to the kitchen. Seemingly, from nowhere, two others appeared and swept the boxes out of the men’s hands. Letting the others take the tea to the kitchen, the three remained near the car, casually guarding the remaining boxes.

“So what did he mean by not allowing the Maharishi’s exalted guests from doing suchdifficult work?” she asked once they were left alone.

“I’m not sure…” George responded vaguely.

Her eyes went to Donovan, “Are you two the reason there is crowd at the gates?”

“Not me, love,” the curly-haired singer responded and pointed to George. “He and his mates.”

“Um,” George rubbed the back of his neck, “I’m George Harrison… of The Beatles.”

Sitara stared at him silently for a moment, “Well that doesn’t mean much to me, but apparently it does to a lot of people. I have never had so much difficulty getting in here before.”

“Wait. You don’t know who The Beatles are?” he asked.

“No.”

Donovan laughed, “Oh this is unbelievable.”

“What is?” her eyes pivoted to him.

“Love, The Beatles are the biggest band in the world. Are you sure you don’t know who he is?”

“No…” she replied cautiously. “I don’t listen to popular music.”

Both men fell completely silent, dumbfounded. A tense silence settled around the three, only disrupted by the three servants returning for the remaining boxes.

“There is such rich and beautiful music around me. I do not lack,” she declared.

Donovan placed a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, nodding, “That is true, mate.”

“Kumari? The Maharishi would like to see you,” a young boy interrupted, his eyes remaining on the ground.

Sitara nodded, “Take me to him.”

“Yes, kumari.”

Her eyes went to the men, “I hope to see you both again before I have to leave.”

“Can you not stay longer today?” George muttered softly, drawing both Donovan’s and Sitara’s attention.

“I wish that I could for I would like to hear you play again, but if I linger too long I will arrive in the city after dark and that is dangerous for even a man,” she responded.

Remembering her suitcase, he quickly replied, “Can you not stay overnight?”

“I cannot. My home is more than a day’s journey from here as it were. Lingering longer than I should would mean missing important appointments,” she replied. “But I will return again.”

“Kumari,” the boy spoke up again.

“Yes, yes. I’m coming,” her eyes flitted to the men. “I’ll look for you to say goodbye.”

The two men watched her walk away for a minute before coming to their senses. Both chuckled a bit uncomfortably and decided to head back to the others. The both rejoined the group of players, though George remained a bit distracted. His thoughts kept swirling around the brief interaction. She did not know who The Beatles were. There was no way she knew how powerful those words had been, but they had been.



“No,” she rose, her eyes on the Maharishi. “As I told your accountant, I cannot and will not make any adjustments to the contract. I do not care if Shiva was staying here and drinking a box of tea a night. Besides, I cannot fit any more into my car. You get what the contract says for the amount the contract says.”

He quickly got to his feet, reaching for her, “Child, you do not need to have so much anger. Sit and meditate with me.”

Sitara rolled her eyes, “No. Excuse me, Maharishi. I must leave.”

“But, you have more to do here.”

“No, I do not. I delivered the tea after receiving payment. I have nothing more to do here.”

His hand enclosed hers, tugging her gently closer. Feeling the exact opposite feeling that she felt when Donovan held her hand earlier, Sitara jerked her hand free from his grasp. Saying nothing, she whirled around and hurried away from the Maharishi’s dais. Avoiding everyone, she quickly put as much space between herself and the man as possible. Stopping near a tree, she leaned on it to calm her breath and soul back down. She was not entirely sure what had happened, but she knew it was not right at all.

A twig snapping forced her eyes to open. Her wild eyes quickly shot to the ground, focusing on the foot that snapped the twig. Not that she could recognize people by their shoes; she knew who stood in front of her. Taking a deep subtle breath, she lifted her eyes to his.

“Hi,” she breathed.

“Sitara… are you okay?”

She nodded slowly, “No one likes being told no.”

His fingers touched hers, “The Maharishi told you no?”

“No, Don, I told him no,” she attempted a little smile.

He noticed she dropped the formality of his full name and fully enclosed her hand in his, “Did he hurt you?”

“No, I’m fine. I just… sometimes… nevermind. Could you just… could you walk me to my car?”

“With pleasure,” he smiled.

Her hand pivoted in his as he turned towards the parking lot. They did not speak as they strolled towards the parking lot. He was feeling rather victorious with managing to get the Indian beauty alone; she just did not wish to be alone. It should not have upset her so much; it certainly was not the first time a man had suggested as much with her. He had not even been that forward at all. Perhaps she misinterpreted his intentions. Perhaps…

“Oh,” she stopped. “I need to say goodbye to George.”

“I’d be glad to pass it along to him,” Donovan offered.

“That’s sweet, but I’d like to in person.”

“Of course,” he nodded, changing their direction.

They approached where The Beatles sat around with wives, girlfriends, and others. Sitara instinctively released Donovan’s hand, not that anyone had noticed the two. Her eyes moved between the four playing, deciding their unspoken ease with each other meant they had to be The Beatles. Though her gaze danced over each of the four members, her attention fully focused on George.

Donovan stopped behind her, his lips near her ear, “That, my dear, is The Beatles.”

“Oh,” she breathed.

She watched the band play through one song and then repeat it, apparently working out something. Once the man with glasses seemed satisfied, George looked up. His eyes met hers and he smiled. Setting aside his guitar, he got to his feet and approached her, ignoring the looks from the others.

“That was unlike anything I’ve ever heard before,” she stated softly.

“Would you like to hear more? I’d love to play for you.”

A soft smile curved her lips, “I would, but I just came to say goodbye.”

“Oh,” he frowned slightly. “No chance of staying longer?”

“Unfortunately not. I need to get to Delhi before dusk. I will be back next week,” she stated.

“I look forward to seeing you again,” he muttered softly.

“I do too.”

“Can I walk you to your car?” he offered.

“I–”

“George! Come on, mate!” the one with glasses shouted.

“Go back,” she motioned to the band. “Don can walk me down. I’ll see you again soon.”

“I… okay. Drive safe.”

She nodded and turned away to force him to return to his band before he became distracted again. Without fail, Donovan fell instep next to her. His fingers found hers again once they were a good pace from the group and no longer watched by anyone. He chatted casually, telling her briefly of how he came to be at the ashram.

They stopped at her car, her fingers reaching for the door handle. Donovan’s hand covered hers, halting her actions briefly. Her eyes went to his and she smiled. He brushed her fingers from the handle and opened the door himself.

“See you next week?”

She nodded.

“I can’t wait.”