Darjeeling Read online

  Shortly, the maidservant arrived, teak tray in hand, interrupting Sujata’s train of thought. She looked up at the pinkish white beverage and perfect little triangles of nimkees heaped on a platter. Envisioning a deeper conversation to follow, she started arranging the food and beverage on the table.

  Pranab glanced at the platter, sprang to his feet. “I’ll have nimkee some other time. I really must go now.”

  She lowered her eyes, not allowing them to reflect her disappointment, and, like a proper hostess, followed him to the door.

  At the threshold he hesitated. “Why don’t you meet me by Senchal Lake at four on Saturday? I’ll perform a dance I’ve been working on. I should have it mastered by then.”

  She averted her eyes. How could she possibly accept this audacious invitation from her sister’s fiancé? Tempting though it might be, it was at odds with the moral standards her father and grandmother had instilled in her since childhood.

  “I—I lead a Tibetan children’s hike on Saturdays,” she stammered, the lie stinging her tongue.

  “No, that’s on Friday afternoon.”

  A knowing smile spreading across his lips—or was it a smirk?—he turned without a backward look, as though he had perceived she was blushing three shades of mauve.

  “I can’t,” she replied to his back, a little louder this time, then watched him walk away confidently.

  Had he planned this encounter? She couldn’t be sure. Would it even matter?

  For the rest of the afternoon, as she wandered in a valley behind the house, a thousand bees buzzed in her ears, humming his name.

  six

  The next morning, immediately following breakfast, Sujata set out on the twenty-minute uphill hike to the tea field. She trekked a narrow winding path that ran along a mountain slope. Several brooks threaded their way through solid plots of glistening evergreen tea shrubs. This, to her, was no mere hike, for she considered the birds, plants, insects, and animals around her as manifestations of the earth mother. The quiet time in their presence never failed to leave her feeling purified.

  With the monsoon over, the weather had turned crisp and clear. The tea plants, many over a hundred years old, were eager to flush for the third and last time of the season, and gave off a delicate fragrance. According to a local maxim, smelling tea leaves had an effect similar to drinking tea. How true. Inside, Sujata glowed with a surge of calm energy.

  She looked up and saw the colorfully dressed female pickers, scattered in an irregular line across the slope ahead. Hair plaited in thick braids, huge pyramidal wicker baskets on their backs supported by woven trump lines across their foreheads, they waded up an invisible trail through the tightly spaced rows. Cold and glass bangles on their arms jingled rhythmically and glinted in the sun’s rays. The women deftly plucked the topmost inch, “two leaves and a leaf bud,” from the youngest branch tips, and, without looking up, tossed them over their shoulders into their baskets. It required twenty-two thousand such shoots to produce one kilogram of tea. Kripa, a young tea plucker, looked up at Sujata for a brief second and smiled a silent greeting. Then she went back to making the smooth, rhythmic arcing hand motion, branch to basket and back again. They would finish at around eleven, deposit their plucking in a bin, and take a leisurely communal lunch break. Not for the first time, Sujata contemplated the lives of these women, how routine their work was, how arduous, and yet how content they seemed. The secret, Sujata concluded, lay in staying close to the soil and believing in the work they did.

  “Sujata!”

  She stiffened at the familiar voice, at its eagerness. When she turned, she saw Pranab approaching her, a welcoming smile transforming his face. She hadn’t expected to run into him quite so soon. Though casually attired, he moved easily along the twisted, rutted pathway, as though he belonged right here in this natural surrounding.

  He bade her a casual “Good morning,” informed her that he was making his daily rounds to monitor the harvest, and, without waiting for a reply, began to discuss two crop pests, red spiders and green flies, as well as soil erosion problems. Finally he asked her if she had noticed anything in particular during her walk through the field.

  She felt flattered at being asked and mentioned that not all the tea workers had gloves on, the gloves they needed for safety’s sake. And she added, “I happened to pass by the women workers’ break area as I came up here. Their shack has only a bare cement floor. Not even a bench. Shouldn’t there be some benches?”

  “So you noticed.” Before she knew it, an hour had passed and he’d given her a detailed account of the workers’ living conditions, as well as his own suggestions for improving their lot. “This is what I think about in my spare time.”

  So he was dedicated to his charges’ welfare. A high regard for him bubbled inside her. Perhaps he was thinking in a similar vein, for when she looked up again, the warmth of his expression indicated that the feeling was mutual and strong. Then her eyes caught his sloping shoulders. His well-defined arms, outlined by thin, clingy cotton sleeves, looked as though they could crush her in an embrace at any moment. A shameful desire tugged at her, its pressure increasingly difficult to ignore. Fretful, she said, “I have to get home. I’m already late.”

  “When shall I see you again?”

  The gentle tone notwithstanding, it was not so much a question as a promise. She turned without answering and fled with as much dignity as her flustered state would allow. Once, she stumbled and barely caught herself. By the time she reached the bungalow, her hips had tightened from the unaccustomed pace and her ankles were crosshatched with scratches from brambles and weeds. She hurried directly to her room, where she flopped on her bed and remained there, eyes closed, head swarming with fantasies. She resolved to tell no one in the family about this chance encounter and she trusted that Pranab would not, either. The consequences would be grave indeed.

  The very next day she returned to the field. What harm would there be, she told herself, in meeting someone who was a fiery crusader for the rights of the oppressed, even if he happened to be her sister’s fiance? Their paths crossed. Once again, she experienced a rush of feelings.

  For the next two weeks, Sujata maintained the same routine. She would greet Pranab and they would end up in an animated conversation. He was someone she not only agreed with and esteemed, but also wished to help. On the way home one evening, she began silently blaming the attraction that had developed between them on her bizarre actions. How she had changed. All day long she had felt the pangs of a sweet, demanding pain. She realized that nowadays she had no interest in any activity and no appetite except to see Pranab. She skipped meals. She barely spoke to the family members, especially to Aloka. She had noticed changes in him, too. In her company he breathed heavier, his face took on a bright sheen, he laughed with abandon. Often it slipped his mind that he had duties to perform in the field. Worse yet, he acted as though he’d forgotten his engagement with Aloka. He never brought up the subject. Might that be due to Aloka’s lack of interest in tea? Her loveliness, her social graces, her generous nature couldn’t make up for such a lack. Aloka charmed Pranab in many ways, they played music together, but did she really share his deepest convictions the way Sujata did? Could Aloka ever be his partner in the full sense of the term? No. It was Sujata who had truly succeeded in touching Pranab in his core. A feeling of triumph danced in Sujata’s head, superseding her earlier fears.

  Today she’d happened to mention to him a news item about a tea workers’ strike on an estate in the Dooars area. She thought she was merely passing on some information of interest, but his eyes took on a manic intensity. He paused, as if considering whether to continue, then confided that he, too, was organizing a strike and peaceful protest march. He spoke in a whisper, gazing at her with trusting eyes. Did he realize how difficult it was for her to listen him elaborate a course of action that so clearly went against her father’s interest, her family’s welfare? Several times she experienced a panicky urge to turn ar
ound and flee for the safety of home, but then she gazed up at his standing figure, the intellect and masculinity he projected. He persisted in holding her captive with that manly stature. In the end he convinced her. She trusted his words and wanted to follow his lead, for the greater good of the workforce. When he paused again and peered at her intently, she could only nod in agreement.

  Satisfied, he moved to the next item: a written petition that the workers would present to her father following the protest march.

  Here was a chance to offer a helping hand. “Let me have a look at the draft,” she said. “I know how my father’s head works. You have to phrase the demands in such a way that they’ll be acceptable to him. He doesn’t take orders from anybody, as you know.”

  “I’ll leave the petition in your able hands.” He smiled in mischief.

  She shivered. She could not back out now even if she wanted to, even if it was in her best interests.

  Since the plans for the protest march had finally been completed, Sujata was in a celebratory mood. At home she hummed happily to herself as she packed a large maroon wicker basket with nimkee and fruit for their daily rendezvous at the tea garden. A short time later, she and Pranab sat on a rock gazing out over the green expanse of the tea bushes with the basket resting between them. In no time they finished the nimkees. Finally she picked a guava from the basket and held it out cushioned on a handkerchief. The jade-green fruit, the finest variety brought as a gift by a relative from Calcutta, was about the size of an apple and so ripe that a finger’s touch made an indentation. It was not merely a gourmet treat, but a fantasy.

  He examined the fruit. “It’s as lush as your lips.”

  She blushed. She wasn’t used to hearing words of flattery or intimacy. With alternating bites, they shared it, the flesh soft as room-temperature butter, except for the tiny, chewy seeds that occasionally got in the way. Then she discovered a black worm nesting at the center of the fruit and discarded a chunk of its flesh on the grass without Pranab noticing.

  “I want to thank you for the last few weeks,” he said.

  “Don’t mention. I have done very little … .”

  “You have much more power than you realize, Sujata. You touch my source, you help bring out a force in me. All parts of me come together. The only other time I feel this way is when I dance.”

  She sat savoring those words of praise, while inwardly bursting with delight. How intense these last few weeks had been for her, how transforming. In giving him power, she had unearthed her own. It had become clear to her what type of career path she would follow: one similar to his. Yet all through this she had been tormented by apprehension. However much they shared, she had been, as yet, unable to reveal those fears to him.

  A cracking sound caused her to look up. The sky, ever changing in this mountainous region, had assumed a blue-black cast. The air had grown still, thick. She could read the signs: A severe storm was brewing, and it would not do to be caught out in it.

  “I’d better be going.” She started to pick up the basket. “Thakurma will be worrying about me.”

  He reached out and clasped her free hand briefly, then released it gently. “I think about you during my dance practice. I want to perform for you sometime.”

  Her heart rejoiced at his admission. His dancing was her territory, not Aloka’s, another manifestation of the great camaraderie that had developed between two people wedded to a common cause.

  “Will you meet me by Senchal Lake at four on Thursday?”

  He’d asked before and she’d said no. What harm could there be in meeting him this time, even if the location was out of the way? For a moment, the weather was of no concern. Then a strong, gusty breeze whipped up and almost tore the basket from her hand as it blasted through the space between them. Full-blown, punishing raindrops struck their heads. Pranab stood there, staring at her.

  “Yes! Yes, I will meet you there, Pranab. Now go, the storm is upon us.”

  Thursday afternoon, two hours before she was scheduled to meet with Pranab, Sujata busied herself with her wardrobe. Only in the last few weeks had she been drawn to makeup and fine clothing, for whenever she exchanged a glance with Pranab, she saw herself radiantly reflected in his eyes. And nothing about her seemed to escape his attention. Just the other day, seeing her dressed in a black sari embellished with silver embroidery, he had composed a melodious Sanskrit verse, then translated it as, “Your beauty craves a thousand eyes. Alas, I have but two.”

  Had one of the boys in her college used such flowery language, she would have laughed: What a fool. But coming from Pranab’s mouth, those Sanskrit words sounded unique and exquisite.

  Now she chose the smart casualness of salwar-kameez in purple print. She figured that the color would have a cooling effect on her skin and that the tunic-and-pants set, rather than a sari, would be better suited for negotiating the wooded slopes around the often misty Senchal Lake. The notion of meeting Pranab at such a location late in the day gave her a thrill but also made her edgy. It amounted to an abhisar. That one Bengali word implied the journey undertaken by a heroine to meet her beloved and all the emotions that went with it. She slapped some talcum powder on her eyes by mistake and shed a few drops of tears because of that.

  Just before four, she struck off on a winding trail that descended toward Senchal Lake, beating pebbles with her feet. The prevailing wind from the southeast had brought moisture in the form of a light mist. Still she could view Pranab, outfitted in tight pants, a body-hugging tunic, and a headdress made of goat hair and cowry shells, waiting for her on the shore. His eyes regarded her with approval as she approached.

  “Oh, Sujata, you came after all. You don’t know how much that means to me. And you look lovely.”

  Flooded with excitement, but conquered by shyness, she could only manage, “Would you dance for me?”

  “Gladly! Come, sit down.” He pointed to a large rock with a smooth top.

  She settled herself, scanned the scene over the lake. A breeze flitted across the calm blue surface of the water, ruffling the backs of the swans and teasing the tall foxgloves lining the bank.

  When she turned, Pranab began to dance, slowly and stiffly at first. He struggled with an inner reserve, relaxing gradually, his motions becoming more fluid and vigorous. Soon the traditional movements gave way to a more frenzied, personal style. He kicked and bounced and created a ripple in the air in a dizzying demand. All the while his gaze carried an invitation. Bashful, yet unable to rip her eyes away, Sujata watched, bereft of any sense of time. By now the silver mountain light had transformed itself into a deep violet; evening was about to fall. Restlessness puffed up inside her. In what was clearly his final movement, he took a huge leap with his arms flung out and a blue gem ring, neela, slid from his finger onto the grass. He halted abruptly and, eyes on the ground, bent down from his waist.

  “My good luck piece,” he cried out. “Where did it go?”

  “I’ll find it.”

  She went down on her hands and knees. Trembling from the soft airy brush of his breath over her neck, yet maintaining the intensity of the search, she eventually chanced upon a glint of color among a clump of weeds. She retrieved the deep blue stone streaked in red. Her neck curved upward as she held the ring out for him.

  “What sharp eyes you have!” Gently, almost reverently, he took the ring. “Saved me from a disaster, you know that? I lost the ring once before and immediately came down with a case of flu. You see, it’s a raktamukhi.”

  Bloody-mouthed. She recognized with a quiver the legendary gemstone that according to folklore possessed the power to fulfill one’s desires, as well as to destroy.

  “Why don’t you try it on, Sujata?” He pressed the ring on her palm.

  Half playfully, half fearfully she slipped the ring onto her finger. The cool shining gold snugly wrapped her flesh. The gemstone gave off a halo. She stared at her finger from many angles.

  Like a new bride, hut one under a sentence of dea
th.

  “Will you take me home?” she implored.

  “It’s still so early. You know what the ancient poet, Jay Dev, would say? ‘Let us go to the bower steeped in darkness.’ In darkness, I believe, we find our true selves.”

  He offered a hand, lifted her up on her feet, and clasping her fingers, led her a few meters away to a grassy area nested by blue-stemmed bamboos. There he arranged a cloth over a bed of grass, drew her down beside him. His tender touch thawed her fear. She breathed audibly. Above her the open sky was flecked with early stars. Crowds of crickets began to trill. She looked into his eyes—dark, bottomless, and steady—examining her. A dampened leaf, from wherever it came, fluttered down and settled on her shoulder. The sudden coolness sent a shudder through her.

  “But Pranab—” she murmured.

  He reclined next to her, touched her lips gently with a finger. “Forget the past, the future, and other people, Sujata. All that matters is this place, this moment. The stars have decided we’re meant for each other.”

  He let his fingers run gently over her breasts. She closed her eyes, so as to feel his touch with her entire being. For the first time she grasped that he was, above all, a physical creature, not the scholar or the refined babu that everyone believed him to be. Then his lips were on hers. The kiss, soft at first, grew urgent, then demanded, and she surrendered.

  Much later, she woke. As they lay entwined, breathing in each other’s fragrances, Pranab nuzzled her hair, whispering his love for her in four languages—Bengali, Hindi, Sanskrit, and English.

  Words that she didn’t really hear, only the message of love in that voice.

  seven

  Thursday evening found Aloka sitting cross-legged on a floor mat with a harmonium, ready to begin her evening music practice. A sweetpea-scented candle flickered on a side table. On this warm summer evening, from her vantage point on the edge of the veranda, she could glimpse the first emerging stars as the alpenglow faded. Off on the eastern horizon a luminous radiance hinted at the imminent rise of the moon.