When she finally regained her focus, she found Bir leaning toward her. “You don’t know how much it hurts to see you upset like this. And you have good reason to be. You’ve been grievously wronged. I feel your bedona.” He used the deeply felt, poetic word for sorrow. “I feel it every bit.”
She bent forward. “Oh, Father …”
“You will break your engagement with Pranab. He is not worthy of you or the family.”
“But Father.” She cried those words. “I love him. Even now I love him. 1 can’t see a life without him.”
“That will soon pass, my child. And remember, there’s more at stake than your feelings for Pranab. We have the Gupta reputation to protect, and we must be practical. The other day, your Thakurma reminded me that you are thirty-two years old. It’s getting late for marriage, at least in this conservative town. We’re behind Calcutta or Mumbai in that respect. Still, I get so many proposals. Mr. Mazumdar brought one the other day. His son is a chemist in Pennsylvania. Nice boy, thirty-four, doctorate in chemistry, good manners—”
“Please, Father. See it from my point of view, for a change. I know Pranab deep down where he dreams. That affair must have been a passing infatuation, with me being gone. I mean, what chances of a marriage does Sujata have other than a completely arranged one? She must have started it. Yes! That had to be it. Pranab loves me. I know he does. At heart he’s honorable. Difficult as it might be, I’ll forgive him. Once we’re together again, we’ll be back to where we started. Besides, who better to relieve your burden at the tea estate than Pranab? He has a brilliant future there. You said so yourself, Father.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“What do you mean?”
“There have been rumors for some time that he’s inciting the workers against me. Nothing has happened so far, and I haven’t worried too much or investigated. Besides, he’s valuable. He has tremendous ability to judge tea and market it. I need him. But now, with the recent strike at a tea estate in Dooars—you might have read about it in the newspaper when you were in Kalimpong—there’s reason to worry. The state government has intervened on the workers’ behalf and it looks as though the proprietor might lose the estate altogether. The government threatens to take over. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that our workers don’t get ideas from that precedent. That could be the end for us.”
Aloka trembled. She hadn’t been able to confide in her father or anyone else in the family about the secret meeting between Pranab and the tea workers she observed a couple of years ago. How could she? Pranab had begun courting her right after that. They’d vowed their love for each other, spent all their free time together. Now it flashed through her head that she’d been disloyal to her father. She’d not only put him at risk, but the entire family for Pranab’s sake. It wounded her deeply to see Bir gazing at her now with a caring expression.
“Will you do me a favor, Aloka? Will you find out if he’s indeed agitating the workers? Figure out a way of stopping him. Can you do it as soon as you can?”
“Of course I will. Tomorrow is my music night. Pranab will be coming over. I haven’t seen him in so long and we now have many things to clear up, but I’ll make it a point to feel him out on this matter. And stop such a terrible thing, if I can do so.” A yawn snuck out of her, one of deep fatigue. “Father, I’m so very tired. Could you please excuse me? This has been a long and difficult day.”
“Of course, my dear. We can continue this later. I’m just so glad that you’re back. This house doesn’t shine without you.”
Quietly Aloka got up. She returned to her room, where she flopped down on her bed, buried her face in a pillow, and surrendered herself to her bedona—her deepest sorrow.
eleven
The next morning soon after tea, Nina began preparing a shopping list for the servant. It was more for Bir and Aloka; she no longer cared much what she ate. Nor did she enjoy fighting the crowd at the market. Bir had to have freshly made curd with his meals; Aloka snacked on shoestring potatoes when she got home from school and she liked to dine on shukto. Tonight, on the occasion of Aloka’s return, Nina planned a big family meal that would include specially ordered aahu rice from another state, and a dalna. A few relatives would be invited.
She was halfway through making the list when she heard shouts from outside. At first she assumed it was a march for some political party, but then it occurred to her this was not the season for elections. And in any case, no procession ever came to her quiet neighborhood.
Nina rushed to the window and peered out. A swell of demonstrators, about fifty of them, clogged the street as they marched abreast from the direction of the town’s center. They turned to face the house, and now she recognized them. Oh, Ma Sarada. They were workers from her tea estate! The two women in the front row, Gayatri and Priya, their hair confined under rainbow-colored scarves, tea-gathering baskets hanging on their backs, thrust their clenched fists rhythmically in the air. Tenured male employees Jyotin, Bhim, and Nripen hoisted a slogan-emblazoned banner overhead and glared defiantly up at the house with fierce eyes. These were the same workers who’d always greeted her with the utmost respect, calling her “Gupta-maharani,” “Queen Gupta,” or “Owner-ji.”
Children trailed along behind the marchers, a baby began to scream. A mangy dog, wound up by the commotion, ran about snarling and yipping on the periphery of the mob.
What did they want?
Then a loudspeaker crackled. A portentous chanting assaulted Nina’s ears.
“Better pay, better medical care.”
Nina gripped the windowsill, feeling a flutter of humiliation, followed by the beginnings of fright. Curious eyes peeked out from neighbors’ doors and windows. The entire town would soon gossip. The marchers were lining up along the brick fence, their numbers increasing by the minute. Would they surge through the metal gate, smash the front doors, stream inside and attack her?
The slogans had barely died away when Nina heard screams. Khaki-clad police had rushed in from a side street and were throwing themselves on the crowd, wielding their willowy bamboo rods with relish. In the pandemonium that ensued, one woman slipped and fell, the skin on her arm laid open by a well-aimed blow. She must have grabbed a policeman’s leg, for he stumbled and slipped, too. Blood splattered on the pavement, a revolting red, a warning. Whose blood? Nina couldn’t tell. She felt as though she herself had suffered a blow. The marchers began to scatter at the onslaught. They fled down a winding path toward the tea garden.
Nina pushed herself away from the window, slouched onto a chair, and reached for the phone. Her fingers were too stiff to dial and her chest had the sensation of being squeezed in a vise.
Bir couldn’t be reached at his office, so Nina left messages with an orderly, then fell to pacing back and forth in her room, shopping list abandoned. She phoned Toru, a niece who visited her often, for advice. She was disappointed when given the news that Toru had left for Kurseong, the place of white orchids, on a photography outing and wouldn’t return till the next day. On reflection Nina realized this was just as well, for Toru, given to emotional outbursts, would be useless during this period of crisis. Nina would just have to handle this one alone.
Two hours later, Bir stomped in. He was possibly taking a break from work. His eyes obscured under a frown, his mouth forming a permanent pout, he inquired, “They didn’t do any damage here, did they?”
Nina noticed the pallor of his face, the hunch of his shoulders, how the head led the body, and replied, “No, my son.” Then, leading the way, “Let’s go to the veranda and get some fresh air.”
She grabbed a chair by a wooden planter containing double-petal black tulips. She paused to contemplate their striking color and their nurturing cavelike shape, as a way to compose herself. Bir squeezed himself into a chair opposite her. He thrust his chin out, a habit acquired as a child whenever events went out of his control.
“What was it all about?” Nina finally asked. Her head still throbbed with the ma
rching sounds and the slogans.
“The workers staged a walkout this morning. They’re making outrageous claims. 1 can’t say it caught me completely by surprise, so I didn’t hesitate to call the police as soon as I found out.”
“Nothing like this has ever happened before, Bir.” If there existed a hint of complaint in her tone, Nina tried to minimize it.
“It’s that Pranab rascal.” Bir’s words, seething with anger, had a brittle quality. “I know it’s him, spurring the workers on, telling them what they want to hear. And all of a sudden they’re making huge, unrealistic demands. They’re actually asking that I pay their weekly wage even if they don’t pluck the minimum quota. Can you believe it?”
“I can. Have you considered that Pranab comes from a poor family himself? His interest in their welfare might be genuine. Why don’t you try increasing the workers’ rations to defuse the situation, at least temporarily?”
Bir stared vacantly at the tulips. He had never noticed a flower in his life. “It’s not that easy,” he blurted.
Bir didn’t need to remind Nina of the difficulties he faced as the owner-manager of a tea plantation. Two straight years of drought had resulted in a smaller-than-usual crop, and earnings had fallen accordingly. Many of the tea bushes were nearly a hundred years old and needed to be replaced. Though the finest Indian tea was grown here in Darjeeling, the yield was lower than in Assam, so that even in a good year the profit margins were low. To make matters worse, unscrupulous manufacturers were passing off inferior tea as premium-grade Darjeeling, further cutting into Gupta profits.
Still Nina sensed that the tea workers had some legitimate complaints. Their daily wage hadn’t increased in years, even as the price for staples like dahl and cooking oil had doubled. And paying them a measly fifty paise for every extra kilogram of leaf they plucked over and above the normal quota constituted an insult.
“We have to keep labor happy, my son,” she counseled. “Our destinies are bound together.”
“I’ve been in contact with the Darjeeling Planters’ Association. They know the labor situation intimately and have dispatched a representative to speak directly with the tea workers. If necessary we’ll put a call in to the state labor commissioner in Calcutta. We’ll soon have this little uprising under control. But I may have to dip into the family savings in the interim, Mother.”
Nina ignored Bir’s money woes for now, as another urgent matter had popped into her head: Bir, who was an influential member of the business community here, appeared extremely distraught. In fact, she’d never seen him so maroon-faced, so agitated. Might he be on the verge of losing his self-control? It occurred to her in a flash of insight that things could go badly for Pranab if this protest went on much longer.
“How do you plan to handle Pranab?” she asked.
“I dismissed him today.” The blood vessels that tracked diagonally across Bir’s temple were pulsing visibly and his huge nostrils were flared. “First he disgraces my family, then he tries to ruin my business,” he growled. “He’s through around here.”
Nina’s own tongue felt coated with a distasteful slime. She had suspected as much: Sujata was at the center of this drama. Her departure must have caused Pranab to react in this fashion. The two men were gripped in a struggle for dominance, and that could adversely affect Aloka. It could only worsen Bir’s already poor health as well.
“Sujata’s gone.” Nina maintained a calm demeanor. “But do not forget Aloka’s still here and Pranab is her whole life. You need to think this through.”
“He’s not a part of this family,” Bir snapped, and thumped the chair handle with a palm for emphasis, like squishing a mosquito. Absently he examined the palm for damage.
“We have to keep him around for Aloka’s sake.”
“I am calling the marriage off.” His voice seemed to catch and he swallowed hard before continuing. “I want that shuar thrown out of town.”
Bir was calling Pranab a dirty pig. He had never used such profanity in Nina’s presence before.
By now Nina was taut in her body and so thoroughly alarmed that she began to fear the worst. “Aloka will go wherever he goes,” she countered.
“Not where I’m going to send him.”
“What do you have in mind, my son?” Receiving his only answer of a forbidding scowl, she insisted, “Answer your mother.”
Head down, Bir sprang up from his chair and trotted inside the house.
What audacity. Just as Nina stood up to follow him, she heard the front door slam with an enormous bang. He was going back to his office, for sure. She almost fell backward over the tulips.
Nina sank hack down into her chair, sick at the realization that events were twisting out of control. Bir, the child who had grown inside her a cell at a time, the boy she cherished more than her own life, was about commit an abominable act. She would have to stop him.
Later in the afternoon, Nina found herself hoping that Bir would reach some sort of compromise with Pranab and the tea workers. She left several messages for him. But hours dragged by and no reply came. Nina moved from window to window and checked the telephone to make sure it was functioning. She listened for the door. Anxiety tinged with disgust bloated inside her. For the first time in her life she realized it was possible to love and loathe one’s child in equal measure.
At last Nina decided to approach her chief servant, who had been part of the household ever since she could remember. He also served as an orderly for Bir and carried out many of his personal duties. Now that he had reached the age of sixty, this venerable retainer was soon to retire and return to Nepal where his five grown sons lived.
Nina found him sitting on the side lawn, puffing on his hookah. It made a burbling sound that matched the look of gratification on his face. The pungent smell of tobacco smoke turned her stomach, but she stood there, waiting for him to become aware of her presence. It took a few seconds. Eyes widening, he set the hookah down and scrambled to his feet as fast as his aged limbs would allow him to move. “Memsahib!”
She wouldn’t allow him to gain his composure. “What does Bir plan to do with Pranab?”
A tremor passed through the servant’s body. He dropped his gaze and shuffled to his feet. “It is a most serious situation, Memsahib.”
“Indeed. But that doesn’t answer my question.”
He began to wring his hands. “Please, Memsahib, barababu has ordered me not to say a word about this to anyone. If he finds out, he’ll be very angry with me. He’ll dismiss me and worse.”
“Barababu is my son. He will do nothing to you without my permission. Remember, also, I paid for your daughter’s wedding. When your wife died, I gave you a month off. Wouldn’t you like to go back to Nepal safely with pension and a big bonus?”
His head bobbed at the prospect, but his eyes informed her of his anxiety. He pondered; then, in a whisper, “Barababu has hired a couple of goondas.”
Bir had hired ruffians? Nina’s pulse quickened. “What for?”
“Tonight they will break into Pranab-babu’s house and take him away.”
“To where?”
“I’m afraid,” the man whimpered, “he’ll not be seen alive again. It is not unusual for a person to fall into the Teesta River, you know.”
“We have to stop that immediately.”
“That is all very well for you, Memsahib, hut 1 could lose my own life if I go against Manager-Sahib’s wishes.”
“No, you will not. Both this house and the tea plantation are in my name. I will deal with my son.”
Nina draped the train of her sari around her shoulders like a shawl in an imperious gesture of authority. Deep inside, she dreaded her son’s wrath almost as much as this servant did. Yet, what choice did she have? She must rescue Pranab—at this point his life was in her hands—and stop a crime from happening. Otherwise Aloka would sustain a destructive blow, one from which she might well never recover.
The man breathed audibly. “I will try, Memsahib
, but it will cost you lakhs, maybe crores of rupees. Those goondas will have to leave Darjeeling for good. Otherwise barababu will hunt them down.”
Nina realized with dismay that the family savings account couldn’t produce such a colossal sum. “Let me work on that. I may have to send you to the bank. Meanwhile, you must try to bargain the goondas down.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
By the time Nina returned to her room, she had settled on the only possible solution: to sell her jewelry. In the society she’d grown up, a married woman wore ornaments to indicate her status. Ornaments, a savings of sorts for her, gave her a measure of financial independence. The thirty or so pieces Nina possessed had been bequeathed by her parents, relatives, or by her husband. She had hoped to pass them on to Aloka and Sujata someday, but now there was a more pressing need.
Nina opened the iron safe hidden inside a dresser, extracted a blue velvet box, and snapped it open. In the top tray rested an emerald-studded choker necklace that her mother had worn at her own wedding. One last time Nina fastened the coolly luxurious necklace around her throat and admired herself in the mirror. For an instant, she was again a demure bride with a hopeful gaze and a soft smile. Next, as she pinned a gold-and-amethyst sapphire brooch on her left shoulder over the sari folds, her eyes dampened. The brooch was a gift from a favorite aunt on her deathbed. Then came a pearl-encrusted ring Nina’s husband had bought in Chennai on a business trip. Memories of him blazed as she slipped it on her finger. She stared at a thick hansuli necklace that Sujata had often eyed. And there was the haar, with a sunburst-shaped, minakari gold pendant, which Aloka had often borrowed on special occasions, believing it was just the right adornment for her.
Darjeeling Page 8
