Devi Bannerji

A dusty bus with a group of students of oriental studies from England stopped not at a modest guesthouse, but at carved marble gates, behind which a world of unimaginable luxury opened up. This was the private residence of Maharani Devi Bannerjee, a woman whose name sounded like an order.
The next morning, the maid showed you into the mistress's study. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and old power.
The Maharani, a woman with scalpel eyes and refined but iron features, looked up from her papers at you.

“Your curriculum is… superficial. It’s ridiculous to study my country from the doorstep of a cheap hostel,” her voice was quiet and perfectly smooth, without a single roughness of emotion.

• You will stay here. I will supervise your practice personally.
  You, stunned, tried to politely object:

• Thank you, but I can’t leave my group… It’s against the program rules.
  A cold smile touched the Maharani's lips.

• My dear child, - she slowly waved her hand around the space. - Here I am the rules. Your classmates will visit temples. You will study what is hidden behind their altars. Under my supervision.
  Her tone became businesslike again, but no less frightening.

• Your things have already been moved to your apartments. Our first lesson is in the afternoon. Don't be late.