She laughed to herself once again, this time uneasily, as an icy uncertainty gripped her back. For the first time in her life, she’d lost a measure of her self-control. She was faring no better than those miserable heroines of yore.
five
1992
It was now three weeks since Sujata had returned home, this time for good. Six years ago, after graduating from college, she’d taken a job in a bank in Murshidabad to get away from her relations. Life in a joint family seemed confusing and full of compromises. She liked making her own decisions. And unlike her older sister Aloka, Sujata had been, in everyone’s opinion, a difficult child. She didn’t engage in small talk or sing like Aloka. Nor did she accompany older relatives to the temple or the children to the zoo. Aside from Grandma, no one objected much to her untimely departure.
The bank in Murshidabad had failed. Whereupon her parents, and especially Aloka, had asked her to come home, enjoy some time off, and consider taking a position at the family tea estate. The idea had appealed to Sujata. As a child she’d frittered hours roaming the tea garden. She still cherished what Grandma had told her years ago.
“You are a ‘tea’ girl, Sujata. Even before you were five years old you could pluck the leaves with just the right snap of your fingers. You had the knack of figuring out whether the morning mist was just right for the buds to be plucked. You even made an effort to pronounce tea’s botanical name.” Crisply and clearly Grandma would enunciate the Latin words, Camellia sinensis. “I believe a camellia tree bestowed its spirit on you in return.”
That spirit had stayed with Sujata even after reaching adulthood. While living in Murshidabad, she’d kept up with the news about the tea industry, a major revenue earner for the state of West Bengal. Her preferred daily newspaper, the Statesman, which routinely reported matters of importance to the industry, such as the mounting need for research and development and whether the auction system was still beneficial, kept her glued to the armchair in the evenings. In fact, she often turned first to the newspaper’s special “State” section that contained mostly articles on the tea industry. She read up on sprinkler systems that were best suited for irrigating tea plantations, the latest environment-friendly chemical to control tea mites, the ideal labor-to-land ratio, even approaches to controlling damage caused by rampaging elephants. She became increasingly interested not just in tea growing, but also in all aspects of its merchandising. It cheered her to know that giant conglomerates like Brooke Bond, Lipton, and Tata no longer had a monopoly in tea marketing, despite their fancy boxes and catchy marketing slogans. Smaller tea estates were making a mark on the national and international scene with their exclusive offerings.
Now that she’d returned home, she would be able to put her knowledge to work. At least she hoped so. She disagreed with her father, whose mantra was, “Crop, crop, crop.” She believed in pruning the bushes more often and fertilizing the soil better, thereby producing quality tea as opposed to expecting larger and larger output.
Toward late afternoon that Sunday, Sujata ambled into the house. The rest of the family had gone to Kalimpong, a hill town seventy-four kilometers to the east, to help with the wedding negotiations for Aloka and Sujata’s cousin-sister Kabita. They would iron out the remaining details and finalize the engagement, verbally in Bengali fashion, “ripening the agreement,” paka dekha, as it was called. The actual wedding date was still two months away. Ordinarily, Sujata would have accompanied the family. She liked Kalimpong all right, especially its yearly fair, but she’d been volunteering as a tutor for a Tibetan refugee boy who was preparing for school examinations. Since the family wasn’t expected back for another hour, she was looking forward to solitude.
She had barely stepped inside when the maidservant, who was sweeping the hallway, announced, “Pranab-babu is waiting in the drawing room.”
Waiting for Aloka, of course. Such patience, such devotion, all in all a trifle insufferable, even if the two had known each other for two years and been engaged for one. Relatives and friends considered them the perfectly matched couple. And from the family’s point of view it was heartening that when the. time came for Aloka to take over the tea estate, the experienced and capable Pranab would be there to see that the operation ran smoothly. What better person for the job? It rankled Sujata that there appeared to be no place for her in this blissful picture.
In the last three weeks Sujata had had glimpses of Pranab. With Aloka. He didn’t seem to notice Sujata much. Pretty Aloka, popular Aloka had him wrapped around her finger and he puppied along.
“I’ll be down in a few minutes,” Sujata replied to the maidservant.
She hitched up her sari and climbed the stairs to her room on the second floor. Did Pranab still remember the auspicious Bengali New Year’s day last April when they’d had their first long conversation? She’d come home for a week’s vacation then, missing Aloka, who had left for Patna to visit relatives. One lazy afternoon Sujata was lolling on the front lawn with Grandma when Pranab happened by. She’d already noticed how much time he invested in Grandma, joking and playing cards with her, and debating whether a cup of tea had enough “floweriness.” He addressed her as Thakurma, or “elder goddess,” like she and Aloka did. Obviously he was trying to impress the old matriarch.
“Namaskar,” Pranab had said to Sujata in greeting that day. “Ki khabar? Kemon achen?” The polite queries in the Bengali society: What’s the news? How are you?
He was glibly pleasant but not engaging. In her mind Sujata was already searching for an excuse to leave, when her gaze followed Pranab’s to the periodical Indian Farmers that was resting on the grass next to her. Her father subscribed to the magazine and she’d already read it. The cover story in bold letters read, “Is There a Cure for Protein Deficiency?”
“You can’t change taste buds,” Pranab declared as he took his seat, adding that the answer to the protein shortage lay in the more efficient cultivation of lentils, India’s traditional legume.
“No!” Sujata rejoined, relishing the prospect of pulling down this smug boy. “The answer is the soybean. It may be unfamiliar and it does have a strong beany taste, but it’s highly nutritious and more versatile.”
“Nevertheless, lentils have sustained us since the twelfth century, as you’ll know if you’ve studied The History of the Bengalis by Nihar Ranjan Rai.” As if considering the subject closed, he began evaluating the cup of tea before him. It was “high fired,” he commented, “and scorching-flavored. But interesting.”
Sujata fumed, but not for long. “Look at East Asia,” she countered, “how they’ve made wide use of soybeans. Tell me who’s better fed.”
“Do you always have to argue, Sujata?” Grandma broke in. “Have you forgotten our saying, ‘Lentils and rice make a Bengali’? I grew up mostly on dhal-bhat myself. Would you care for another cup of tea, Pranab?”
“This is more than an idle argument, Thakurma,” Sujata interjected. “It’s a matter of survival for the common people.”
“May I ask how you know so much about the common people?” Pranab inquired with a trace of sarcasm. Turning to Grandma, he said, “No more tea for me.”
“I’ve spent time in the tea fields talking to the workers and finding out all sorts of things. To them, belly first, taste later. Surprisingly, they’re willing to try new food crops, such as soybeans, if someone would show them how to use them.”
“It’s true, she’s always out there.” Grandma leaned toward Pranab.
“She does seem to have an inquiring nature,” Pranab allowed—grudgingly, it seemed. “I’ll have to ask my mother to cook some soybeans for me.”
With that lie smiled at her in a skittish manner. She got up and had started toward the house when she overheard Grandma whispering to Pranab, “You don’t seem to mind you lost the debate.”
Sujata gave a backward glance and caught Pranab smiling cryptically. “I’ve lost the battle only, Thakurma.”
He remained on her mind for the next
several hours—the words he’d uttered, how his shoes had made firm contact with the ground, how his body had made even that wicker chair seem grand. Later the same afternoon, Sujata wandered into Aloka’s room in her absence with the excuse that on such a hot day the sea-foam-green walls, Aloka’s color of choice, had a cooling effect. Aloka had studied color scheme and spoken of the harmony colors could create. Sujata had never paid much attention to the effect of colors or, in general, to the household. She was merely browsing through the room when her eyes caught sight of the red velvet book with a lock on its side that rested on a side table: Aloka’s diary. The book had always held temptation for Sujata, and it so happened that a careless Aloka had finally left the key out in the open. Sujata’s fingers reached out with a yearning. Reading her sister’s private musings was wrong, she discerned that, but she couldn’t help it. As she held the book in her hands, she admired the heft of the book, the smoothness of its cover, and the perfume of its pages. Eagerly she scanned the book for seductive secrets, finally stumbling on Aloka’s professions of love for Pranab:
The moment my eyes fall on him I become as receptive as a pansy opening its petals to the mounting sun. Whenever we are together I feel humbled by his presence and become a grain of dust at his feet, a mere vessel for love that is far greater than I.
How Sujata had snickered at that! She had dropped the diary on the table at that point and cleared out of the room.
In reality a feeling of lack had tormented her. Why didn’t she possess secrets worth storing in a bulky diary? Why did Aloka always snag the best? What made her so charming, so desirable?
Now, months later, Sujata pondered the same questions, as she checked. her image in an antique hand mirror one last time before going downstairs to receive Pranab. The reflecting surface talked back to her, repeating what Aunt Komola had so succinctly put long ago: “Sujata is just not as pretty as Aloka.” The pretty face of her sister flashed mockingly before Sujata: a fine profile, ivory complexion, eyebrows that arched like the gateway to a palace, and kajal-lined eyes that were mysteriously black like a reflective pool. Those peering back at Sujata now from the dulled mirror were amber-brown-the color of quality tea—warm and deep, with a spark of intelligence, but the skin was coarse and dark and the eyelashes were sparse. Sujata used very little cosmetics, as too much would only accentuate her homeliness. Yet without the patina of makeup she also appeared less polished. With a sigh she set the instrument of torture aside.
She stepped into the mahogany-furnished drawing room with its gleaming wooden floor and inhaled the piney fragrance of the recently applied furniture polish that still lingered in the air. The paneled walls were hung with fading portraits of past Gupta generations, as well as pictures of the living members of the family. She considered the silver-framed childhood photograph of her and Aloka: two adolescents, heads touching, their hair plaited in braids, posing against a background of mountains in Tiger Hill. Aloka, an index finger poking through the loop of her earring, had her other arm hooked around Sujata’s neck. The photograph almost captured the faint scent of the weeds, wildflowers, and leaves they usually gathered from playing outdoors. Sujata took her eyes away.
Above the mantel sat Grandma Nina’s photo, an eight-by-ten framed in natural wood. At birth Grandma had been given the name Nitya-Shobhona, “Eternal Grace,” but soon had acquired the less grandiose sobriquet of “Nina.” Always a diminutive creature, Grandma seemed to shrink in size over the years, but her inner strength and dignity remained apparent in her strong shoulders and a direct, penetrating gaze. In the photo the pear-shaped body was draped in a soft white sari with no trim. “White connotes simplicity and purity,” Grandma had always been fond of saying. From a center parting, her thinning gray hair cascaded down on either side to be loosely tied in a knot at the nape of her neck. Gold teardrop earrings, her only adornment, flashed like fireflies.
Sujata glanced out the window at the soaring ramparts of Mount Kanchenjunga. Only then did she peer down at Pranab. Ensconced on a couch by the window, he was leafing through the pages of an issue of Desh magazine. Unable to speak, she tugged at the train of her crepe sari.
At the rustling sound, he looked up and rose to his feet, simultaneously launching into the perfunctory litany, “Ki khabar, kemon achen,” and what a surprise it was to see her. “I thought you might be at the tea garden.” He half rose from his seat. “Looks like Aloka’s late. I won’t wait any longer. I’ll catch her tomorrow.”
She flopped into a chair across from him. “You don’t have to leave just because I came in.”
He sank back into his seat on the couch and removed his glasses. His eyes were large, steady, and imbued with a splendid light.
“What are you reading?” she asked.
“Oh, this? It’s an article on the Suez Canal. At various times in the past, the English, the French, and the Egyptians all fought over that passage between the Mediterranean and the Red Sea.” He described ships squeezing through a narrow blue passage, bloody in some places, carved out of a barren landscape. “Suez was most vital.”
Sujata was grateful that the family wasn’t hovering nearby except in portraits on the wall. “There’s also a port town by the name of Suez, as I recall. How fascinating it must be to watch the boats coming and going. To imagine that the most powerful nations on earth were all critically dependent on that little channel. History can be made in the most obscure places.”
“You have a lot to say, Sujata. I’ve been meaning to talk to you alone, but I never seem to get the chance.”
“Or maybe you just don’t notice me.”
He flashed a meaningful grin: a pair of full lips parting to show a perfect set of teeth. She took her eyes away, to the lace edges of the window curtain.
“My mother used. to say that as a youngster my eyes never went to sleep,” he said. “I knew everything that went on. She joked that I had eyes on all sides of my head.”
She simply said, “Oh?” But her thought was a sarcastic: So what have you noticed about me?
He must have read her train of thought, for he glanced at her slyly. “You like to stroll down Chowrasta. Your braid moves back and forth across your shoulders. You pay no attention to who’s watching from behind. You’re . quiet. You love to sit on the back lawn and keep your grandma company. You have many opinions, but you express them only to her.”
Her cheeks burned as it dawned on her that she’d been more than noticed. She lowered her gaze to the rug, to the chaos of black, maroon, and burnt orange hues, the interweaving of the leafy patterns, the knotted edges.
Pranab must have noticed her discomfiture. “We have a new hire at the tea factory. She’s from the south and barely speaks Hindi, so she constantly makes up words that are a cocktail of Hindi and Tamil. Her co-workers think it’s hilarious, but I find it fascinating. After all, what’s a language for, if not to mold the vocabulary to express our opinions and wishes? And express them we must, wouldn’t you agree?”
Glory to the goddess Durga that the family was late. As soon as Aloka returned, Pranab would be off with her and this stimulating repartee would end.
“Yes,” Sujata said, “but it’s not always for lack of words that we fail to speak, mind you. Some of us have thoughts or feelings dying to be expressed, but we can’t seem to find the right person, the right situation, or the right occasion.”
“How true. Take me, for instance. I have a secret hobby that I haven’t told a soul about—I’m learning to dance.”
Sanskritist, tea taster, and now a dancer? How unusual. Few educated Bengali men would even consider taking up dancing as a hobby. She leaned forward, her bemusement giving way to ill-concealed enthusiasm. “What type of dance?”
“Bhangra. Not even your sister knows about it. She’s so much into classical music and dancing that I can’t bring myself to tell her. What little music training I’ve had is also classical. But recently I have become interested in traditional village dancing. It’s less refined, to be
sure—even crude, some might say—but it’s honest and vibrant and speaks to me.”
He went on to describe how a master from Punjab had taught him the hand and foot movements of a five-hundred-year-old dance practiced by peasant men in honor of the new harvest and to please the earth. “When I am dancing,” he concluded, “I feel at one with the simplest of people. Too often we look down on them and forget that they’re essential to our prosperity; indeed, to our very own survival.”
She savored this glorious afternoon and the delicious feeling that by sharing his secret he had revealed a part of himself that even Aloka wasn’t permitted to see. Pranab belatedly seemed to realize as much, for his voice trailed off and he looked away.
Sujata made an attempt to get his attention back. “I won’t mention this to anyone.”
At this, the lurking maidservant, who was dusting a picture frame over and over again, gave them a curious sidelong glance. Sujata, suddenly heedful of the maidservant’s presence, ordered her to bring almond milk and a platter of nimkees, the puffy, triangular pastries she favored. Embedded in the request was an unspoken invitation for Pranab to linger. The shell of self-control she so prided herself on had begun to crack.
When the maidservant bustled off, Sujata continued, “Would you perform a Bhangra dance for me sometime? I’d really like that.”
The words had barely run off her lips when she began to regret her impulsiveness. What if he was clumsy? They’d both be embarrassed. On the other hand, if he was a bold dancer, and he could very well be, should she, a young unmarried woman, watch him alone? His loose-fitting shirt and trousers couldn’t conceal his well-muscled body. Grandma would call him jawan, using the local parlance for a vigorous young man. Sujata herself would call him a jawan.
Darjeeling Page 4
