Darjeeling Page 3

  This new man had jolted her out of the sheltered world in which her father had assumed the status of a demigod, This was where she drew her boundary.

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “My father sees to it that the workers are well treated.”

  “Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to discuss work with you.”

  The creased lips, the shadowed eyes had distracted her enough that she almost barged into a tree limb that hung across the road. Bending down to avoid being hit, she brushed against the sleeve of his blue-checked shirt. She stepped away in shyness. He glanced at her sideways. She admitted to herself that the proximity and the passionate air about him were impacting her physically, like a persistent knocking on a door. She became aware that they were totally alone on this winding road hemmed in by dense stands of fir, birch, and acacia. The trees muffled any traffic sounds.

  “You teach school, don’t you, Miss Gupta?” Voice smooth and easy, he had stepped again to her side.

  “Yes.” The change of topic was welcome. She matched his steps. “Please call me Aloka.”

  “You can call me Pranab.”

  Negotiating a steep downhill slope, Aloka only belatedly realized that he had stopped using aapni, the respectful “you” in Bengali with which he had started the conversation and had progressed to tumi, the familiar “you.” In her large circle of friends, such informality of address came only after several meetings. She looked up at him, at the rebellious lock of hair falling down over his forehead like a tassel, and challenged him with, “Do you always feel free to use tumi at the first meeting?”

  “Usually, yes. When you’re surrounded by plants, birds, animals, and insects all day long, you begin to see everyone and everything as equal. I don’t consider myself superior to my workers. And by the way, even if I am a few years older, you don’t have to do the Pranab-da bit. Just call me Pranab.”

  Again she marveled at how easily he became intimate. “My younger sister calls me Aloka, not Aloka-didi. Grandma scolds her, but she doesn’t really believe in honorifics, either.”

  “Who gave you the name, if I may ask?”

  She said with deference, “My father.”

  “I suspect your father’s face lights up when you walk into the room.”

  Her eyes followed his to the light of the setting sun that turned the mist of a cascading waterfall ahead into a shimmering veil of gold. She blushed as she silently acknowledged the compliment, recalling that in Bengali, “alok” meant light. From the Hindu myths and stories that Grandma had told her, Aloka had gathered that illumination in all forms signified truth, clarity, auspiciousness, and prosperity. Why, on the upcoming Laxmi Puja day that honored the goddess of hearth and home, she would light tiny terra-cotta lamps fueled by clarified butter. Simply lighting a lamp constituted a form of devotion.

  “I don’t think of myself as a source of light at all.” She forced a laugh to cut through the seriousness. “Oh, no. There are so few lives I touch—my family and close friends and the girls I teach.”

  She paused as they approached the gate of her family home. Across the fenced yard stood a two-story bungalow with a manicured lawn and a well-tended flower garden. Just above the entrance were engraved the words “Aloka Kutir.” The houses around here were usually named after the most beloved progeny. It seemed only natural for her to invite him to come in.

  “Wish I could.” Pranab’s eyes were wistful, even regretful. “But I have to get home. My nephews are waiting for their tabla lesson.”

  So, he was into music, as well. The hand drums were the instrument of the god Shiva and subsequently of his son Ganesh, Aloka had learned in her childhood. Music had always been a passion of hers and even now she practiced every week. Music helped her come in touch with her many emotions. Her mind went to work. She envisioned a soiree in which her own singing voice would be a delicate counterpoint to the insistent sound of that divine instrument emanating from a pair of sturdy, sensitive hands.

  “Perhaps some evening we could play music together.” Taking the flash in his eyes as consent, she added, “What about next Thursday?”

  “It’s awfully nice of you to invite me, but I have an engagement that evening. Maybe some other time.”

  With that, he waved, and with a “Cheerio” hurried off.

  It was far too sudden. She swallowed the aftertaste of disappointment and stood there. The man intrigued her, unbalanced her. She would have to find out more about him.

  She closed the gate softly, as though to keep the fragrance about him from blowing away, and entered the house.

  four

  For the rest of the afternoon, Aloka remained in an exalted mood. She opened the windows in her room and looked out at the wider world, even though the wind outside brought in coolness. Later, humming a classical tune, she drifted downstairs to the kitchen. There she squeezed a fresh lime into a glass of ice water, her father’s chosen beverage, despite the fact that the family cook was still around. Bearing a tray, she was about to step into the drawing room when she spotted her younger sister Sujata slipping in through the entrance. Sujata, who worked in Murshidabad, located south of Darjeeling and a long day’s journey by train, had come home for a brief vacation.

  “Hi, bontee.” Aloka used the diminutive for a little sister in greeting, though Sujata, four years younger, had grown taller than her. “Haven’t seen much of you today.”

  Sujata looked up briefly, wiggled the toes of her sandaled feet, and fidgeted.

  She hadn’t changed. Even in her late twenties, Sujata remained shy and withdrawn. Moving to another town, it seemed, had only reinforced her attitude. A sense of loss engulfed Aloka. In their youth they’d been inseparable, playing together in the house and sharing the same pillow in bed. They’d go to Laxmi Puja or to a mela, hand in hand, tagging along behind Grandma, dividing up a sweet, or asking a vendor to put two straws in a glass of sweet lassi. As a teenager, Aloka had even allowed Sujata to play with her lipstick.

  “Why don’t you join Father and I?” Aloka tried again. “This week we’re reading a novel and discussing its roots in the classic Bengali literature of the last century.”

  “Thanks, Aloka, but no. I really am more in the mood for a cup of hot tea and a pile of magazines. I don’t read novels, I wouldn’t contribute much to your discussion. Besides, it’s your private time with Father, so I will leave you to it.” With that, Sujata flounced away.

  “Let’s spend some time together tomorrow, then,” Aloka called after Sujata. Such long shining hair, still plaited in a tight braid like a schoolgirl’s. And that dull beige sari in a limp fabric did nothing to enhance Sujata’s dark, slender form. Aloka would have to shop for Sujata soon if she were to have any chance at attracting a suitor. The right outfit, jewelry, and a bright lipstick would make a difference, Aloka was sure.

  In the drawing room, Bir leaned back on a couch, eyes closed. He was a portly man with the somnolent air of one who woke at dawn, just as the roosters crowed, then after a light breakfast went to the office and labored till late in the evening. His last act of the day was a staff darbar, or court, that he held with his key personnel. As soon as he returned home, he sought Aloka. Her presence melted his cares, he was in the habit of saying. His wife had died when the children were young and he never remarried. Even when she was alive he hadn’t spoken much to her. Men of his generation didn’t consider their wives their companions.

  Aloka took another look at Bir. His coarse skin might befit someone of lesser upbringing, but his prominent nose bespoke an inner resolve. A gerua tunic did little to conceal the ample belly that told of advancing years and a shortening life, and which worried Aloka. She always found it curious that gerua, a shade of yellow associated with renunciation, was Bir’s favorite, for he was far from renouncing worldly pleasure. With little interest in religion, he didn’t bow before the bronze statuettes of gods and goddesses that Grandma had scattered throughout the house. And his appetite for fine Bengali dishes was legendary—he dem
anded double servings of fish fry, maach bhaja. He had read a treatise on Bengali cooking and memorized the preparation methods. “Did you change the oil?” he would ask the cook. “Did you turn the fish pieces four times?”

  At the sound of footsteps he heaved himself upright. “Ah, there you are, my dearest child. Did I hear you speaking with Sujata?”

  “Yes, Father. I tried to persuade her to join us, but she wasn’t in the mood. I wish she’d come home for good.”

  “It would surely help me. I could easily find work for her in the office. But no, she has to show how independent she is. She never did listen to me. I wonder if she’ll ever acquire any responsibility toward her folks.”

  Aloka glanced uneasily at Bir’s weary face, now mottled with angry crimson patches. “Father, you mustn’t get excited. Have you forgotten the doctor’s advice?”

  “Are you going to read for me?”

  Aloka reached over and picked out a slim volume from the bookcase, a Bengali novel entitled Mahaprasthaner Pathe by Probodh Kumar Sanyal, the true tale of a grueling Himalayan pilgrimage. She opened to the last chapter of the old classic and sighed when she realized there were only a few pages left. “‘I’ll give you my last words,’” she began to read aloud. “‘In this infinite journey I have lost friendships, love, illusion, and desire. I have dropped my arrogance. Yet the road insists I haven’t satisfied its hunger.’” As she warmed to her task, the words of the language with its musical sounds and poetic phrases flowed softly, easily into a fusion of images, meaning, and sentiments. Bir listened quietly, with his eyes half shut.

  Before long she reached the end. She snapped the book closed and reflected on the insights she’d gained, with a sense of premonition.

  Bir opened his eyes abruptly. “In ten years I’ll be ready for the same pilgrimage.”

  “That’s hard to believe. Thakurma can’t make you go to the temple even during Durga Puja.”

  “When you get older you realize the hardest thing to achieve is peace of mind. I don’t believe religion will give one that, so I seek it in my own way.”

  Might he be implying difficulty at work? Aloka grasped that managing a tea estate was no trivial task, even though Bir rarely shared his concerns with her. The weather had been unsettled lately, and as a result both the quality and quantity of the crop were substandard. Foreign demand for Darjeeling tea was down as well. The livelihood of over two hundred employees depended on how Bir dealt with this adversity. To make matters worse, from what Pranab had confided in her, those employees were discontented.

  “By the way, I met Pranab Mullick today.” Aloka tried to sound casual.

  “Ah! I have meant to invite him over but just haven’t gotten around to it, what with all the problems at the factory.”

  She fumbled with her sari border. “He walked me home today. He’s a rather interesting fellow, seems to know a lot about tea, and—”

  “Let me tell you a little about him, some things he may not have mentioned. He comes from a lower-middle-class family. His father works as a clerk at some trading company. They live in the older part of the town near the train station. For all that, he has a good education. His parents somehow managed to send him to Presidency College in Calcutta. The fellow is a born tea taster. We have a saying in the industry that”when it comes to tea tasting, you are as good as your palate,” and he has a brilliant one. He’s already the best in the region. But he wanted to be a field supervisor and so recently I decided to let him have a go at it. Otherwise I might have lost him to another tea estate. He seems to be developing rapport with the workers, spends a lot of time with them, I see a good future for him.”

  A tiny smile played on his lips, glowed his face. Eyes away from Aloka, Bir seemed to ponder his decision with some satisfaction.

  Aloka pushed herself from the chair. “It’s time for you to rest, Father.”

  She slipped out of the room, a chill stealing over her.

  Late afternoon the following Thursday, Aloka found herself in front of a tea worker’s residence, situated on a dirt road on the edge of the tea plantation. A longtime family servant whose brother worked in the tea factory had disclosed to Aloka the details of a secret conference between Pranab and the tea laborers and guided her to the location. The one-story brick house displayed a tin roof painted bottle-green. A tangled thicket of wild berries fenced the front, a gossamer prayer flag fluttered near the entrance, and a mustard field, waves of yellow and green, grew on the next plot. With darkness rolling in, the landscape was immobile, almost expectant. From somewhere a hen clucked as if to confirm Aloka’s growing feeling of unease.

  From her hiding place behind a window, she took in the bare, medium-sized room. Devoid of any furniture, it buzzed with tea workers and their families, nearly fifty of them in all, who sat squeezed together in the matted floor. Their weather-discolored faces and rough hands bore testimony to their hard toil.

  Eyes flashing, austere in his white dhoti, Pranab stood erect before them. Lost in his concern for others, unmindful even of himself, he appeared much larger. It was as though his head touched the ceiling. She was elated simply to observe him from afar.

  A hush fell. Pranab’s voice boomed, “Brothers and sisters!”

  The workers looked up prayerfully. And she responded by standing straighter. The idea occurred to her that he sensed her presence and was projecting a little extra with his performance. Despite the throbbing in her chest, she listened with total attention.

  “We have gathered together for the first time to address issues of grave concern. You who make Darjeeling tea possible have not received a salary increase in over a decade, not since the time your barababu, Mr. Bir Gupta, took over the management of the tea estate. You are still required to pluck a minimum of seven kilograms of leaves every day in order to get paid. Many of you can’t afford to buy medicine when you’re sick. Your children are poorly educated and thus doomed to a life in the field like yourselves. It can all be summarized in one word: injustice.”

  She recoiled. How dare he speak against her father in this manner? This was revolting. Yet the words were so full of power and promise and uttered with such sincerity that she was unable to step away.

  The workers rose from their seats as one, their clenched fists pummelling the air overhead. Their shouts came in waves. “Better pay! Free medical care!” They stomped their feet as they crooned their slogans in a rising crescendo.

  “Your management is unfair to you, but you don’t have to take it.”

  The workers chanted, “Long live Pranab-babu!” Their faces had changed from solemnity to fury.

  Pranab stood motionless before them, his gaze gleaming with zeal that at once exerted a pull on her and held her off. She wrapped the shawl around her shoulders tighter.

  Would they harm her father? She recalled how, just a year ago, the coolies in the neighboring Chameli tea estate had gone on a strike. They had done a gherao and trapped the manager in his office for a whole day. As night fell, he tried escaping through a back window, but was caught by the mob and beaten severely, before the police could arrive and save him from an even worse fate.

  “More rations! More rice!”

  As the voices receded, Aloka overheard a worker in the back whispering to another, “Is he sincere? What’s in it for him? Can we trust him?”

  How could they question Pranab’s trustworthiness? Now Aloka found herself siding with the man who stood against her father.

  Pranab began speaking again. Aloka hung on his every syllable. “The Plantation Labor Act was a conspiracy between the government and the wealthy landowners. The excise duty on tea is a poor excuse for ill pay.” He went on making more hackneyed political proclamations, then concluded with, “From now on, you will record all your grievances. I will petition the management. And I will personally present the case before the Darjeeling Planters’ Association.”

  Again came an exhilarating singing, this time, “Pranab-Maharaj ki jai!”

  They
had exalted him to the position of a great king. In the commotion that followed, the tea workers began to shriek out their demands all at once. Just as she began to shake in worry about where this frenzy would lead, he extended a hand majestically.

  What power that still, authoritative hand exercised. The noise subsided. A young woman stroked the white blossoms on her ponytail; a small child crawled up to Pranab’s feet; an old man began sobbing, overcome by the sensations of the moment; and the rest simply stared up at Pranab raptly.

  “I am here to serve you, not barababu.” He said so kindly, yet so firmly.

  Aloka tore herself away from the window, crammed with the conflicting emotions of terror, excitement, and guilt. She could never repeat this to her father, for the estate was his life, and in his own estimation he was managing it well. She must leave before someone noticed her.

  Had she betrayed him and her family this afternoon? The family she placed above all?

  Halfway home, as she passed a dense stand of silver fir and deodar and paused to admire their stately heights, she found her mind becoming lucid. She realized, much to her consternation, that in spite of what she’d witnessed she would seek out Pranab again, take another stroll with him. Her heart and soul would have it no other way. Only next time, she promised herself, she would steer the conversation in a safer direction—Sanskrit, perhaps. Yes, that was it. She’d dust off the old Sanskrit volumes in Father’s library and read the lyrics, the kavya, of the classic poet Kalidasa. It had once amused her to read about lovesick heroines, how they throbbed and itched and panted in private.