Ok, so I'll admit I'm hopelessly stalled on part 2 of my Benton/Rachel trilogy (I just haven't been in the mood), but this Hadji fic has been rolling around in my head for about a year now. So here it is, and I sure hope there aren't any typos; my eyes finally crossed while checking it and I gave up! Cheers----Daria ---------- Title: Forever's No Time At All (a Hadji TRAJQ story) Rating: G with angsty overtones Synopsis: Neela with huevos, unlike the Leopold version Errr...is that it?! ---------- [Disclaimer: All Jonny Quest characters are copyrighted and owned by Hanna- Barbera Cartoons, Inc. All rights reserved. This was written strictly for enjoyment and no profit is derived from it. This work of fiction may be reprinted with permission from the author provided it is not republished for profit and this disclaimer appears above the story.] FOREVER'S NO TIME AT ALL by Daria I have made up my mind: I am going home; well, at least it used to be home. I suppose this is home now, but it does not feel as if it is. The ornate decorations around the windows, the plush, multicolor pillows decorating the settees, the peacock feathers, the multitude of attendants. They are all so foreign to me that I sometimes wake in the middle of the night in fear, for I do not recognize my surroundings. Once or twice in my sleepy confusion I have even called out for my father or my brother, only to be surprised by the sight of handsomely-suited lancers who guard this place. Friendly, helpful, sympathetic faces, but not those of the ones I love, for those people---my family---are so far away. And that is when I remember that I am back in India in a palace in Bangalore, the place of my birth, or so I am told. It seems a horrid thing to say, but I fear I may never truly regard this as my home. "Hadji, are you decent?" she calls to me. Decent? What a strange question my mother asks of me. But then, there are women here, some who are to attend me, and the question is a polite way of trying not to find me in an embarrassing state of undress. This was never a concern back home...back on Palm Key, I mean. With four males living on a secluded island, no one worries about decency. My adoptive brother, Jonny Quest, and I used to bath together often when we were younger; it made it easier for Race Bannon, our bodyguard, and Dr. Quest, my adoptive father, to keep up with the two of us. In a house of men, no one cares much about being "decent;" it was never an issue for us. Besides, I was raised in India for my first eleven years, a country in which it is quite common to see people bathing and barbering in the streets. It is rather difficult to be judgmental coming from an uninhibited society, especially one with the unsavory reputation Calcutta has. "I am...covered...ummm...Mother," I call back to her hesitantly, with the word "mother" still seeming so foreign to me that it sticks in my mouth. We are, after all, relative strangers to each other, having lived separate lives for the last twelve years, with me having no knowledge of her existence and no memories of her. Nothing about our lives together as mother and young child seems to have stayed with me, nothing that didn't have to be artificially jarred back into my consciousness, that is. Her warm, soft caresses, her sweet, soft Bharati accent singing baby songs to me---I remember none of this, and I have seen the hurt in her eyes because she knows that I do not. She was a loving, caring mother to me; of that I am sure. If only I could remember that. I have lost my sense of routine since I was left behind here in Bangalore to "repatriate," for I would normally be up and dressed and would have completed my yogin exercises by this late in the morning. Instead, I sit here in a rumpled bed with a sheet pulled up to cover my bare body and my hair rippling around my chilled shoulders and down my uncovered back. My mother, a very kind and sensitive woman, has picked up on my discomfort. "I will ask the attendants to wait in the hall while you don a dressing gown, my son." The young ladies standing behind her giggle and bow as they exit the room, some of them blushing at my demure nature. I hear them chatter to each other in a dialect of a language I am no longer used to translating on a frequent basis, and my slowness at this frustrates me. As my mother hands a robe to me, I can feel the hot flush of a blush on my cheeks. "You do not wish me to leave as well...do you, my son?" my mother asks. She smiles at me hopefully, all the while seeming a bit tense. "After all, I held you naked every day as a baby; it is nothing I have not seen before." "MOTHER!" I scream, shocked that her memories of me are so....candid. "Oh Hadji, all mothers who care for their babies have seen them in states of undress! I recall your bath times with much fondness! Such a sweet little baby you were, too; so playful! And oh how you loved to splash the water all over the attendants! You always made sure that everyone around you had a bath as well!" Now I am dumbfounded! "Mother, do you mean to tell me that you and that horde of females bathed me as a child?!" "Oh do not be silly, Hadji, and do not shout," she laughs, covering her mouth in that overly polite manner that is taught in finishing schools around the world. "Those girls are not much older than yourself, so they are not the same attendants who helped bathe you as a baby! These young ladies have been in attendance only since the time of your cousin's rule. They have never seen you before. Is that what is worrying you, child?" "No, mother, though I am relieved. But I do not see why I cannot bathe alone, as I do back home...errr...back in the US." Too late; I tried to save it but my mouth was far more agile than my brain. "Home," I had said, and I saw her cringe and the expression change on her face from cheerful to one of chagrin. "We are your people, my son, and these are your customs. You are the son of a maharajah, and this is how you will behave. Now cover yourself and prepare for your bath; it is through that door. You may lower yourself into the pool and expect the attendants to be with you shortly." She has given these orders without looking at me, carefully diverting her eyes to an area just behind my bed. "Oh, and something more, my son," she tepidly continues, "Dr. Quest has sent word to me that he wishes permission to visit here to speak with me...about you. He will arrive tomorrow." As the joy this announcement brings to me spreads across my face, a frown shadows that of my mother. I again try to cover up my true feelings, to no avail. How could I hide my happiness? My father, coming here to see us...but how to explain to my mother how I feel about this man? To her, my father is someone else. He is a man I have only seen in pictures and do not truly recall from my first four years of life, for that is the last time I ever saw him. A tall, elderly, sickly-looking brown man, dressed in regal finery and many jewels and golden rings. That is the memory she has of Haresh, but one only a camera's image could give to me. In my mind, that man is not my father; well, he is, but only by biological reckoning, not by deed or action. No, my father, or the man who has acted as father to me, has red, unmanageable hair, a funny beard, soft hands, and a laugh that is infectious; he is as kindly and generous as he is wise and respected. He wears no jewelry, save the wedding band and a small cross on a chain with tiny links worn around his neck to remind him of the love he lost years ago. His clothes are few, mostly casual and often dotted with chemical burns. He could easily afford a spree at any boutique anywhere on Earth, but he cares little for such things. He is a man who never fails to ask me how I am at the beginning and end of every day and has been the only parent I have known, even though this has only been for the last four years. That man is my father. All of this, these wonderful thoughts, my mother has read on my face, but they do not amaze her. My disloyalty to the man who was once the husband she loved and the father of her only child, a man long dead and a mystery to me, has hurt her deeply, and her displeasure with me is as tangible as is any object in this room. Slowly she rises from my side, an air of pent-up frustration in her short steps as she begins to enter the bath chamber. Then, to my surprise, her head drops, her hand comes to her heart, and she supports herself against the doorway, then turns to leave via the hallway door. "Mother? Are you all right?" I call out to her, but she does not answer. As she reaches the bed chamber door, she turns as if to speak to me. Once again, any words she had for me fall short of her lips as she instead simply, gracefully, exits the room. Following a few hushed orders given in the hallway, two of the young women who have been patiently awaiting my bath come through my room, bow to me, cross into the bath and deposit some towels and soaps. As they reenter my room, they again bow, this time stopping just long enough for a puzzled look at me, then back out into the hallway. They appeared to be somewhat disappointed, and from this I assume that my mother has withdrawn from the idea of reenacting my baby bath scenes. I rise, taking the precaution of tying the belt of the dressing gown tightly around my waste, lest any one of these maidens finds she has forgotten something in the bath. As I bathe, I try desperately to wash away so much about myself: the guilt I feel for having upset my mother, the shame I harbor for being a little too western in my "Indianess," and my longing for the little Palm Key island home on which I fear I no longer belong.