“I guess we could. You’ve already talked to her about cooking together, haven’t you? You’ve planned it all so well, Thakurma.”
Nina brought a sweet smile to her lips and held up her hand, as if to forestall any further protest. “There’s more to tell you. I want Sujata to take over the tea plantation when I’m gone. Her heart is here and tea is in her veins.”
Aloka sat back. “Are you sure Sujata will be willing to handle the responsibility?”
“She hasn’t said yes, but I’m optimistic. I hope I haven’t disappointed you too much, have I?”
“Only a little. I’ve always assumed the tea estate would belong to me. But then, I’ve never really been that interested in tea. In a way, it’s a relief.”
“I’m glad that you understand, sonamoni. Just as Sujata understands why I’m giving you the house.”
“Oh, Thakurma, that house holds so many memories of my growing up. It’s the most sacred place for me. You’re being very generous, but shouldn’t the house really go to Sujata as well if she’s going to live here?”
“No, it’s yours. Your grandpa and I had you in mind when we built that house. Your sister will merely be serving as your caretaker, but whenever you come back, which I trust will he often, Aloka Kutir will welcome you as the mistress of the house.”
“You’d do all this in spite of the fact that I’ve moved so far from my roots?”
Nina nodded, checking back a smile. In the next few minutes Aloka confessed how in these past several days she’d been visiting family and friends and making excursions to all her old haunts—Birch Hill, Observatory Hill, the zoo—with the hope that she would settle back into the familiar surroundings. But no matter where she went or whom she met, she was aware that something vital had been lost forever. People sensed the difference and treated her with a certain reserve. She was still miffed over an incident in which a store clerk inquired where she was from, even though she’d asked for Chandrika Soap in perfect Bengali. How different from the days when this town had been her playground and everyone an ally or next of kin, when she was Gupta barir meye, the girl from the beloved Gupta house. She couldn’t discuss this dilemma with relatives, for they envied her flight to New York, her “better life,” as they phrased it.
“Oddly enough,” Aloka continued, “it’s only after I came back and had been here a week did I realize how much I’d changed. The roles I’d held on to so long in New York were no longer valid for me. In fact, they’d become destructive. I’d submitted to Pranab far too much. I didn’t see him as he really was, I persisted in viewing him through those ‘ideal woman’s’ glasses.”
“Does that mean you’re finally going to let go of him?”
Aloka sighed and for an instant her eyes seemed mesmerized by the pulsating flames in the fireplace. “I’m coming to that conclusion gradually, Thakurma. Even though there’s still a longing in my heart every so often for him, I’ve found a new life and its call is strong. I’ll leave for New York right after your birthday. It’d be time for me to go. Thanks for your offer. I’m honored to accept it.”
With that Aloka made a motion to rise. As they walked leisurely through the vast lawn toward the exit, Nina mused about the irony of the situation. “You see, Aloka, somehow I have the feeling that if you chose to stay, you wouldn’t be a stranger to the old ways very long. Even when you’re far away, your roots are here. On the other hand, Sujata, I fear, would not have an easy time sliding back into the life in this town. That girl is still a bit of a rebel.”
forty-two
Densely planted rows of neatly pruned tea bushes clung to the steep slopes, imparting an odd formal garden accent to the wild mountain scenery. Clad in blue jeans and hiking boots and followed by Mreenal, Suzy climbed up a worn footpath that wound through the luxuriant foliage. As far as eyes could see, steep ridges covered with tea bushes snaked away to merge with snow-decorated peaks to the north. Suzy imagined herself a part of the naturally growing forest, the rough mountains, the grand open space, and the fertile earth. Thousands of feet below, the raging River Teesta, or “river of three currents,” was barely visible as a thin, twisted silver ribbon.
Suzy’s spine absorbed the sunlight filtering through the fanlike branches of the tall neem trees, which had been carefully interspersed with the low-growing tea bushes to protect the tender shoots from the sun’s glare and help control pests. A passing greenfinch chirruped as it winged by just above her head. Suzy turned to Mreenal who was lost in the splendor before him, seemingly unmindful of the engaging wisp of hair teased by the wind on his brow.
“I appreciate your showing me the tea plantation,” he said. “It’s your first time back. How special this must be to you. It’s magnificent. Now I see why it’s called a tea ‘garden.’”
“A forest is what it really is.” She pointed to a greenbelt of laurel, bamboo, sal, and chestnut trees along the top ridges. “We’ve allowed the original jungle to stay mostly intact. All sorts of animals make their home there. Cobras, panthers, and monkeys abound, and every now and then a tiger will come to look around. We’ve always believed as long as the animals live in balance and get enough food, they won’t bother us. And they never have.”
“From the way you hike,” Mreenal said, as they continued along the trail, “you must have practically grown up here.”
“Our bungalow is down below. You can see the red rooftop through the trees—just to the left. My mother used to bring me here when I was no taller than these plants. I learned about photosynthesis while I was learning to walk.”
“I envy you. I was brought up in the heart of Calcutta. I learned about trams, buses, processions, and street flooding. Here you feel the natural pulse of life beneath your feet and above your head, there you hear traffic noise and smell petrol. Do you miss this life, Sujata?”
She stood still for a second. “I more than miss it. When I stand on this ground, I feel one strong link to my ancestors and another to my own self. This is where I can really be myself. Look at the dewdrop on that leaf. How it glistens in the sun! The slightest breeze and it will slide of, but I have witnessed its beauty. For me every moment spent here is potentially full.”
As they kept walking, a pastel-hued modern three-story factory carved into the slope loomed before them. A flock of workers standing by the iron-grill gate caught Suzy’s eye. The moment they recognized her, they pushed the gate open—it took the strength of two men to do so—and rushed out with exclamations. “Sujata-didi, Sujata-didi, please come in!” She queried the workers about various family members and they inundated her with questions.
“What’s the exchange rate in Canada?”
“How much does it cost to buy a buffalo there?”
Along came a lamentation. “Our industry is in a slump—the Russians have switched to the cheapest Assamese tea. Who would have believed?” Then a hopeful word. “We’re eating more soybean, like you’d suggested, Sujata-didi.”
It was as if she had never left.
Suzy introduced Mreenal, who was standing shyly off to one side. He was soon mingling with the workers and questioning them about their work and life.
“You’ve got to love this place, Mreenal-babu.” And elderly man stepped forward. “We call the soil ‘red diamond’—it is our only wealth.” As Mreenal asked him more about his job, he replied, “Our days are long and difficult. Our only social life is with fellow workers and their families because the plantations are isolated from one another and from the town. We live with our jobs, as the saying goes, and we treat the plants like our babies. That is why the Darjeeling tea you drink is so special.”
In a few minutes Suzy led Mreenal up a well-worn teak staircase to a well-ventilated loft lined with long rectangular wooden trays and permeated with a fragrant leafy aroma. “Let me show you the operation here,” she said as she ran her fingers through the plump, freshly picked, still-damp leaves spread in a thin layer on one of the trays. Though she hadn’t been inside a tea factory for years,
the explanation came easily: The first step in making tea is known as withering. It took about fourteen hours to reduce the moisture in the leaves by about two-thirds, making them soft and pliable. In the adjoining room a rolling machine kneaded the withered leaves to break the cell walls and bring the aromatic oils to the surface. They returned to the ground floor and entered a warm, humid room where the kneaded tea leaves were allowed to ferment in low rectangular boxes for several hours to develop their flavor before being placed in a giant oven for drying. Finally the leaves were sorted into various grades for packing.
“Looks just like the tea I drink at home.” Mreenal crushed a few twisted dry leaves with his fingers. “What a great education for an urbanite like me. It takes commitment to produce tea of this quality. I saw that in your workers today. Do I see it in you, as well, Sujata?”
If there was a stirring inside her, she suppressed it for now. They walked through the long courtyard in silence. As they passed through the gate, Mreenal turned and gave one last, longing look back at the factory enclave.
“Let me walk you home,” he said, as he started back down the trail by which they had come. “I’ll miss all this in Calcutta. I have to leave tomorrow morning.”
“So soon?”
Then she came to her senses: Of course he would. His intended was waiting for him in Calcutta. She gazed up at the vastness of the hills, where streaks of sunlight backlit the vegetation with a flickering border of orange, and realized that neither despair nor envy was worthy of her when surrounded by such splendor.
He halted and gazed at a grove of cryptomeria set back from the path. “Would you mind if we sat down for a minute?”
“Not at all. I could use a break myself.”
He led her to a large flat slab of granite situated at the base of a particularly magnificent specimen, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and dusted off the block. She lowered herself down at one end. He left a discreet space between them as he sat down at the other end. In the soft silence and sunlight-dappled shade, she became keenly aware of everything around her: how a woman carrying a huge bundle of straw on her back appeared to merge with the hill as she worked her way steadily up the slope in spite of her heavy load. How Mreenal rolled up his shirtsleeves in neat, quick motions. How his shoe dislodged a pebble, which then made a tiny but distinct ting sound as it rolled down the slope.
“I didn’t sleep well last night.” He paused. “I was thinking about you.”
“Thinking about me?”
“Yes, you.”
“But you’re going away … .”
“I’ll be coming back soon. I need to straighten some things out in Calcutta. Fortunately, Thakurma has already done much of the work for me.”
He pronounced the word “Thakurma” with particular affection. Once again Suzy was reminded that Grandma had spun a wide web indeed. “What work?” she asked.
“For quite some time I’ve been questioning my mother’s desire to arrange a marriage for me. Having lived in Canada, I’m sure you understand that.” He leaned forward and clasped his hands around his knees. His college ring sparkled on one finger. She pushed down an urge to rub the gem at its center. “My mother’s heart is in the right place,” he said, “but she doesn’t know my heart.”
“You’re not getting married, then?”
His eyes momentarily fixed on the purple-shadowed hills that she so loved. “How can I? I simply can’t marry that girl, not now, not since I met you.” Tenderly he asked, “Do you feel the same way about me, Sujata?”
“Yes,” she whispered, then smiled in delight and drew closer. He leaned slightly toward her and took her hand with great care. She interlaced her fingers with his. The sun blazed brighter and the atmosphere around her, even the brittle leaves scattered on the ground at her feet, vibrated in the light. “I have to give credit to Thakurma,” she added. “She had things figured out even before we met. She was way ahead of me on this one.”
He said teasingly, “Even so, you resisted me at first.”
“There was a reason. I need to explain something … .”
“No explanation is necessary.” He turned to her a gentle, accepting way. “Let this be our moment together. Nothing could be more important than us and how we feel about each other. I’ll know of things in due time.”
She shifted her thighs to position herself more cozily on the rock, then leaned her head onto his shoulder, that bulwark of stability and assurance. What could be better? She could abandon her past now and allow her mind to weave a new pattern for the future.
Minutes later, hands clasped, they resumed ambling down the hill. Her eyes roved over to the far left, to a cluster of dwellings fashioned of wood, with corrugated tin roofs. She pointed out to Mreenal that they were the residences of the tea workers. She noticed some changes: The doors had been newly painted, though, as before, they were kept low as a sign of humility. Outside the homes, clothes dried on clotheslines stretched between trees, more pants and dresses now and fewer saris. A radio played a fast musical beat, an adhunik number that she recognized, a modern song rather than a traditional geet. Still, the scenery connected her to an earlier time.
Mreenal seemed a bit distracted. Soon he began to talk about his upcoming visit to Calcutta, the subway system he found so convenient, old college friends at the far end of the town whom he planned to visit. “I’ll have a talk, probably several talks, with my mother,” he concluded. “In the end I’ll be honest with her and refuse the marriage proposal, but it won’t be easy.”
“If Thakurma arranged a meeting between us, why didn’t she go one step further and contact your mother?”
His shoulders slumped a bit. “Actually, she did—but Mother rejected the overture even though it was pretty indirect.”
“Rejected? Why?”
“Mother had already heard the news about your sister’s divorce.”
“But—these days a divorce in a family isn’t that unusual.”
“My mother is of another generation. And she thinks Indian women living alone in the West are a wild bunch anyway. She’d rather that I married someone from here. Actually, I lived with a woman for a year in Seattle, but my mother never found out about that. I’m sure she suspected something—we’re quite close. Still, there are some things I could never discuss with her, and that happened to be one of them. On the other hand, I’m not totally free of my upbringing. I have enormous respect for my parents and have no wish to cause them anguish. But … something different is happening to me now.”
She understood his dilemma and how the ripening of their relationship had brought it about. Silently, joyfully, she acknowledged the changes inside her. In such a short time they’d become so close, it almost frightened her.
As they reached the gate of the family bungalow, he flipped his arm up to bare his watch from under his shirtsleeve. “I have to go home and pack. By the way, Thakurma once mentioned how much she liked scented candles. I’d like to bring her some from Calcutta for her birthday.”
“That’d be lovely. She loves the rose-scented candles the best.”
“I have another surprise. With the help of Tami-didimoni, I have located three feisty old college friends of Thakurma’s in Calcutta. I have made arrangements to fly them up here for her birthday and stay in a hotel. Tami-didimoni will give you all the details.”
“Oh, Mreenal. That’s most kind of you. Thakurma will bless you a thousand times.”
“I want to see the surprise on her face when they show up.” His tone turned softer. “It’s hard for me to leave you, Sujata, even to go visit my family. Wait for me, will you? I’ll be back as fast as I can.”
She gave him a happy nod. As she bade him farewell, gently turned, and entered the house, she felt a void. The imprint of his hand, like a tentative note on a piano, lingered in her mind. She’d begun to miss him already.
forty-three
This late morning interlude in Darjeeling’s Glenary Bakery wasn’t all that different from a c
offee break Aloka might have taken at her job back in New York. A maroon-coated, expressionless waiter came by, filled her coffee cup for the second time, and served her a wedge of freshly baked apple pie, fragrant with the lush scent of cinnamon. This happened to be one of the few eateries in town that specialized in the Western-style baked goods that Aloka had grown to love, and it served a genuine cup of coffee. Usually in this tea-drinking town, coffee was a noxious brew made from a domestic version of Nescafé, but this establishment actually took the trouble to prepare it properly using freshly ground beans. Munching on a mouthful of the crust, then washing it down with a leisurely sip of the hot liquid, Aloka looked up from her pen and postcards to contemplate the snow-cloaked spectacle of Mount Kanchenjunga visible through the window. The sight both uplifted her and helped her come up with short personal messages to each recipient more elegantly.
With an inward sigh of relief, she scribbled a final line on the last postcard, this one to her boss, informing him she would return in a few days, and stacked it along with the rest on the left side of the table. Her eyes fell on the framed silk embroidery resting next to the stack, depicting the face of a Tibetan man in traditional headdress. She had made this impulsive purchase only minutes ago from a local artist who hawked his work from table to table. A fitting memento it would be. She examined the finely worked colorful stitching, contemplating where this artwork would fit best in her rental in New York. Her conclusion: the creamy east wall of the living room. The flaming reds and yellows would show well there. In any case, the western wall was already well occupied with a vintage black-and-white street photograph of New York, of soldiers returning in 1941. In her mind’s eye she could picture it so clearly. It was as if she were standing in the room.
She gazed out through the window. An onrushing mass of purplish gray clouds rapidly obscured all but the tips of the mountains. Snapped out of her reverie by the changing light level, she concluded that she had better return home before the rain started. The weather gods in this mountainous region tended to be whimsical. Torrential rain followed by landslides often cut off the roads. As she bent down to grasp the chain of her purse, a familiar male voice jolted her.
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