Darjeeling

by Bharti Kirchner

  I confess to having my apprehensions about going back. How will my family react to me? How well will I fit in? Yet, right this minute, much as I know I’ll miss you all, I am seized with a delicious anticipation and a tremendous jubilance.

  I’ll look forward to chatting with you again upon my return.

  Love,

  Seva

  thirty-five

  As Suzy hopped out of the car, the late-day sun bathed her in soft golden light. Four o’clock, that enigmatic afternoon hour, had always been Pranab’s favorite time for a rendezvous at the secluded lake hidden in the jungled valley below, where he loved to picnic, and especially to dance. She instructed the driver to come back a couple of hours later and pick her up. He reminded her disapprovingly that they needed to leave promptly at five, since Grandma was visiting some relatives this evening and would need transportation.

  In her eagerness Suzy chose to ignore his insolence and headed for the trail without replying. Her heart beat faster as she descended the hill and neared the shore. At first glance the place hadn’t changed. A small fish shattered the limpid surface of the lake in a glistening spray to seize an unwary water bug, just as it would have done years ago. She wandered along the gently lapping edge of the water, searching for the man whom she had once seen as the sole reason for her being, occasionally casting her gaze to the sliver of road high above. Slowly she began to notice subtle changes. Vehicles cruised the road, amassing clouds of reddish dust in the air, far more often than she remembered. Three young boys scampered about at the far end of the lake. Eight years ago hardly anyone came here.

  Now she spotted the driver. Instead of taking off for an hour, he was waiting under a tree at some distance. He was obviously keeping an eye on her—on Grandma’s order. Still Suzy found herself grateful for the brief solitude. A chattering bird hopped excitedly from branch to branch of a once-tiny poinsettia that had flourished into a tree in her absence.

  Hearing the crunching of footsteps on pebbles, she twisted around and caught sight of a man working his way down the trail. Silently she willed him to hurry.

  The figure, draped in khadi kurta-churidar, was slightly heavier than it had been eight winters ago. As Pranab approached, his feet rolled unsteadily over a loose rock that seemed to shiver him to the bones. The forehead was lined and the eyes seemed drowned in their sockets. The broad white smile still dazzled, but the lips disclosed a tremor of hesitancy.

  Eyes brimming with pleasure, he cried out, “Sujata,” and reached out to take her hand. “You look wonderful.”

  In that moment of stunned happiness she wanted to reply, but her words had dissolved into a choke. Pranab broke the silence and her embarrassment with a burst of forced cheer. “Hard to believe I’m seeing you again after all this time. It felt like a century.”

  She gestured toward a bench, where they took their seats under partial shade, close but not touching. Once she resumed control of her voice, she chanted, “I knew we’d meet again.”

  “Hope kept me going. Sujata, please tell me everything from the day you left Darjeeling.”

  “I want to know all about you, too. What little I got from Aloka’s letters didn’t give me much to go on.”

  Suzy began recounting her life during the past eight years. At first she spoke haltingly, as she relived the shame of her departure; but once she was past that initial traumatic episode, it became easier for her to begin talking about settling in Canada. She grew animated as she spoke of her tea enterprise. He listened with a light in his eyes, as though he were discovering her anew. Soon the conversation shifted to that infinite topic of the triumphs and difficulties of adjusting to a new land. Pranab’s expression changed; his lips curled in bitterness. Purposefully she lightened the mood with a humorous anecdote: Her first encounter with a hamburger and how it reminded her of the spicier version, shami kebob, back at home. How in the past week she had been eating and eating, three full meals a day, including shami kebob, and still not feeling satiated. Pranab laughed, though not the same bright laugh she remembered, which used to go on and on, carrying the full force of his personality. This time it was a short, weak laugh, following which he collected himself and became solemn. He began narrating his own experience of waiting for the subway in a dingy station in New York at night. How, to make the wait bearable, he’d imagined the luxurious beauty of the tea garden and her meandering along ahead of him in a purple salwarkameez, only to be rudely elbowed back to the present by a passing hoodlum, who called him a “stupid foreigner” for being absentminded. As he finished telling the anecdote, he lowered his head, overcome by frustration. She hadn’t expected him to be so affected by a dark, urban incident that could happen to anybody.

  Two birds fluttered and dove in a frenzied ritual of courtship at the far end of the lake. She considered it a blessing that they hadn’t tried to verbalize their tenderness for each other quite yet. Those feelings required a gentler place to flourish, and more nurturing. Also, with the driver clearly in view and with the recent arrival of a swell of sightseers within speaking range, such confessions wouldn’t be appropriate.

  “Did you get my letter?” he finally inquired.

  “Yes, it was a big joy and a huge surprise.” She wrapped the end of her sari train around her index finger. “I found it hard to believe you and Aloka are divorced. It’ll be quite a shock for everybody. Is there no chance of a reconciliation?”

  “None. It’s time to move on with my life. I had to come back here to get my bearings, to get away from the chaos of New York. Aloka loves the bustle of that city. She sees energy and progress. I’m hopelessly un-New York.”

  “Is that the whole reason you split?”

  “No. You were in my mind all the time, Sujata. On cold nights I’d get your photo out and look at the star of my life. I’d recall what your skin felt like to touch, the fragrance of your hair, how you moved. I’d imagine I was dancing for you. I’d feel the rush of blood in my legs. You see, losing you did it to me. Then, too, I made another mistake. I’d believed that once I married Aloka I’d forget you, settle down to a new life in a new country, and be happy. But I was wrong, utterly wrong. I led a tortured existence. I called myself a coward a thousand times a day for not standing up to your family, for not eloping with you. Looking back, Aloka and I should never have gotten married. Poor Aloka, she loved me so much, she gave me all she had. In return I only hurt her.” He turned half away with a sigh and ran his fingers through his hair, as if to wipe away the shame of the memory.

  “I thought in all these years you’d been with her … you loved her.”

  “Had I never met you, I’d have said Aloka was the ultimate prize for a man. She has beauty, grace, manners, and kindness. She lets a man into her life so generously. But you’re the woman who helped me see my possibilities. When I danced for you, it was like my body and mind and spirit and other dimensions joined together. You took me to the inside of a dance.”

  His admission of her effect on him astonished her. Had she actually been that powerful, at such a young age, when she had considered herself shy and insignificant? A speck of fright mixed in with the joy of that realization.

  The driver signaled impatiently from the road above. That grated on Suzy. Once again they were being interrupted when they had barely gotten started. And yet a sense of family duty compelled her to rise. “It’s time for me to go,” she said apologetically.

  He rose, too. “As it turns out, I have to go visit a relative. Shall we meet again tomorrow?”

  He stared with a hungry eagerness as she promised to return the next day at the same time. She sighed as she walked up the trail. The atmosphere, like an old portrait, had taken on a sepia tint. The leaves at her feet were dried, crunchy.

  thirty-six

  Suzy stepped out of Dr. Malaviya’s office onto the sidewalk, with Mreenal just behind her. On this morning the sky wore witch’s colors of dismal gray-black. A sudden wind whipped down the street and cut through her sweater and cotton
slacks.

  As they walked slowly down the street, the doctor’s words still echoed in her mind. What was wrong with Grandma? Age and high blood pressure, coupled with an obstinate refusal to take her medicine and the walks that had been prescribed, were all contributing factors to her generally poor health. Her current cold wasn’t much of a problem.

  “You’re worrying too much.” Mreenal reached out, squeezed her hand fleetingly, then let it go.

  At the next intersection he seemed to hesitate. Her house and that of Mreenal’s great-aunt lay in opposite directions on this cross street, whereas the way ahead would lead to a high ridge looking out toward a range of hills.

  “Do you have to go back right away?” he asked. “Perhaps we could take a stroll?”

  Suzy hesitated. She wasn’t quite ready to show her reddened, moist eyes to Grandma. There were still several hours before she was to meet Pranab. She stole a glance at this solid man, who had accompanied her to consult with the doctor, then listened quietly as she aired her concerns. Only when he was sure she was finished had he asked his own questions, addressing points she’d missed. Belatedly she realized that despite their rocky beginning, his imminent wedding to a Calcutta woman, and her impending tryst with another man later in the day, she considered him something of an ally. And the sun was peeking through the clouds. “Why, yes, a stroll would be nice,” she said.

  She glanced up at the white feathers of a bird swooping over the trail’s steep incline, then, struck by an inspiration, suggested, “How about a hike up that hill? It’s pretty bare. It’s called the ‘Fallen Tree’ hill. There’s a great view of a misty lake in a valley with Kanchenjunga as the backdrop.”

  He gazed doubtfully at the steep trail. “I’d love to.”

  They started up the path dotted with poplar, oak, spruce, and fir, with friendly ferns lacing it all together. Soon the road angled up steeply. Her breathing was becoming labored and he had slowed his steps. A sadden harsh clattering startled her. She looked up and glimpsed a man rolling his fruit-laden cart down the slope.

  “Tangerines,” Suzy cried above the roar of a lorry somewhere below. “Darjeeling grows the sweetest tangerines.”

  “Shall we try some?” Mreenal stopped before the man, bought a pair of tangerines, and handed her one. Standing by the trail, she peeled the fruit, separated the sections, and bit through the thin membrane to savor the explosion of its delicate juice.

  “Exquisite.” Mreenal wiped his lips with a handkerchief. “This is the most time I’ve spent in Darjeeling. since high school, and I must say I’m enjoying myself. I only wish I could tackle these hills as easily as you do, you the mountain girl.”

  They passed several shacks made of tin and wood, with brightly hued doors, and paused before a decrepit shop that she remembered from childhood. A gaunt old man in a black turban crouched on a mat on the floor, shelling smaller-than-a-fingernail-sized green cardamom pods. Serenely, he exposed a cluster of tiny black seeds, which he then dropped into a container. Suzy paused and let the fragrance run through her. “There’s a saying here that we have three kinds of land—rice land, maize and wheat land, and tea and cardamom land. I still remember how Aloka and I used to shell cardamom at harvest time from the nearest cardamom land. We’d have a competition to see who could shell the most.”

  “My great-aunt always called cardamom the spice of kings,” Mreenal offered. “I’m not much of a cook, but I put in a few cardamom pods when I brew my morning coffee for a great flavor. Speaking of that, would you show me your tea garden sometime? I’ve never seen how tea is grown.”

  Suzy’s eyes fell on the wide-mouthed blossoms of a foxglove plant that was growing out of a hollow in a rock. She started to hike again. “I’ll see if I can arrange for someone to take you to the estate.”

  “I understand.” Mreenal caught up with her. “I’m staying a few extra days, by the way. Thakurma has asked me to.”

  Suzy frowned. Grandma and her constant interference irked her. Then, as she looked ahead at the summit and treacherous loose rocks leading to it, she realized it was time to concentrate, or she would slip and hurt herself. She flexed her knees and, with one foot firmly planted first, took one bold step after another, finally reaching the hilltop. It was a moment of utter exhilaration. She wiped the perspiration off her forehead and turned back. Mreenal, struggling over the same rocky terrain, grabbed hold of the branches of a bush for support and before long managed to plant himself next to her.

  He held up both arms in triumph. As his breathing came back to normal, he said, “We’ve met the challenge, it seems.”

  Suzy shared the jubilation. Together they peered down at the deep valley below. Sunlight filtered through the conifers in lambent green beams. A small lake shimmered aqua through the rising mist. The atmosphere was so still that it invited closeness and silence at the same time. A faint breeze, fresh and cool, tickled her face.

  She turned to Mreenal. “They have a saying around here that views don’t repeat themselves. If you spit, show up a second later, or don’t pay attention, you’ve forever missed a special sight.”

  “Looks like our timing was just right,” he replied.

  thirty-seven

  It was about four o’clock the same afternoon when Suzy returned to the shore of Senchal Lake, where the blue water rippled under the caress of a whimsical breeze. She perched herself on a rock by a clump of elegant broom grass. She suffered a twinge of sadness at the thought that such a splendid plant could be transformed into the crude broom used by maidservants to sweep the floor.

  Since seeing Pranab here yesterday, she had analyzed their relationship many times, though no matter how she approached it she came away feeling as if she had scraped an open wound. Finally she had realized it would be futile to reestablish their bond. The pain he had inflicted eight long years ago had callused her feelings and left her wary of permitting him into her life again. And quite naturally her perspective on what it means to love and be loved had changed. Yesterday Pranab inferred that he needed her to feel complete. Suzy had long since learned that need didn’t equate to love.

  Within minutes he arrived and joined her. He greeted her warmly and took her hand in his, seemingly blind to the barrier time and distance had put between them. His touch didn’t reassure her or form an attachment. She attempted a smile, but, feeling slightly restive, avoided his searching eyes and gazed off at the lake.

  He talked nostalgically about playing a little tabla music last night with his cousins. How rusty his fingers had felt on the drums, how off his beats were. Then he leaned toward her, as though picking up where he had left off yesterday. “Did you miss me in Canada?”

  “Yes, at first. For a long time I didn’t think I’d make it.”

  “But you did. I hear you’ve done very well.”

  “Yes, all those years I threw my life into my work. A small business is a constant struggle, but it also gives you a lot of satisfaction. This morning when I called my assistant, she asked me when I was coming back. She made me feel good deep down inside.”

  “I wrote many letters to you, Sujata. I just didn’t mail them.”

  “It’s just as well you didn’t. We both needed to put the past behind us. I thought about you on many occasions. I’d look back and wonder if I was a complete fool.”

  “But now you know the truth.”

  The silence between them rang with the hard edge of that truth. She stared as he squinted up at the sky. Once his expression would have reflected the vibrancy of the Darjeeling sun. Today his wrinkled forehead only betrayed pain and frustration.

  “You’re a career success,” he said abruptly, “but you don’t know your heart.”

  How presumptuous of him to say he knew her heart and she didn’t. At this juncture in life she was closer to understanding herself than she’d ever been.

  “My friend Eva says, ‘Truth, like software, has new releases.’ Jokes aside, Pranab, options, new truths come to you. You follow them and you’r
e changed.”

  “Oh, no, Sujata, you haven’t changed.” He forced a laugh, which ended up as a cough. “I know you inside and out. You’re the same girl you’ve always been, and I’m the same man who’s always loved you. Don’t worry. I’ll be patient. I have a few weeks here. We’ll see each other as often as we can.”

  It was as though he were dancing alone in a room long after the guests had left and the music had stopped playing. “But, Pranab, it’s not a question of seeing each other more often. We can never get back what we lost.”

  “Lost? The only thing we’ve lost is a little time. Look, the next couple of days I’ll be busy helping with my cousin’s wedding. Her father is ill and there’s much preparation left to be done, but I’ll be sure to stop by your house when I can. Just wait and see. In no time all things will be just like they used to be.”

  Eyes glittering, he stood up and clutched her hand. She felt her palm becoming clammy, rigid under the insistent grip. Her desire had gone cold. Like digging into an old excavation. Like touching tarnished gold.

  She stood with him. “It’s not going to work, Pranab.”

  He gave her a warm look. “You’ll change your mind.”

  Before Suzy could protest, he had turned and walked away, his silhouette little more than a few dark strokes in space.

  thirty-eight

  Aloka felt a rush of apprehension as the car pulled up in the driveway and saw a small congregation of people pouring out of the pastel-yellow house, her childhood home. Steeling herself, she climbed out of the car. There was a commotion at her presence. Her favorite aunt, Toru, came rushing out with a conch shell and blew at it. Three successive booms heralded Aloka’s initiation back home. Cousin-sister Kabita garlanded her with a marigold maala, a giggly young cousin-brother lowered his head to her feet, and a great-aunt gently pushed a tiny rectangular sandesh into her mouth, saying, “This is to sweeten your homecoming. Oh, Aloka! We’ve missed you so terribly.” The same great-aunt mentioned last night’s downpour and what a blessing it was for the crops, concluding with surety that it had something to do with Aloka’s arrival.