Flame Tree Road

by Shona Patel

  Biren sat up with a jolt and shook his head. Had he really succumbed to such imaginings? It was all Estelle’s fault. Her dreamy mood was contagious. He snatched his pen and wrote with a furious scrawl.

  Forgive me, dear Estelle, but I suspect your romantic notions are a reflection of your own state of mind. In your last letter there was a fleeting mention of a certain gentleman by the name of Luke Adler. I daresay I caught a suspicious whiff of coyness in your words. The Estelle Lovelace I know is by no means coy. Perhaps you would care to explain?

  Selfish as it sounds, I am building this house for my own personal pleasure to enjoy in peace and solitude. I remain a confirmed bachelor to date.

  Calcutta

  18th March 1895

  Dear Dada,

  You will be pleased to know I got the posting as the assistant medical officer of Chandanagore Hospital I had applied for two months ago. As an added bonus I will be given staff quarters inside the hospital compound. I have one month’s leave before I join and I am leaving for Sylhet tomorrow to get Bela and Ma.

  I have convinced Ma to move to Chandanagore. I cannot leave her alone in the basha without Bela. She is now almost completely blind and very dependent on Bela to take care of her. Ma, as you can imagine, does not want to leave the old basha because she will miss Apumashi.

  Chandanagore is a much smaller and quieter town even though it’s only thirty kilometers from Calcutta. I hope on your next visit to Calcutta you will come to visit us in Chandanagore.

  Your brother,

  Nitin

  Biren returned from a month-long trip to Calcutta to find the construction site of his house abandoned. Not an inch of progress had been made in his absence. The foundation had filled up with rainwater and the Chinese mistris were absconding. He later learned they had taken off to work on some other project in town.

  Back at his office, he was greeted by a towering pile of paperwork and a curt note from Thompson sternly reprimanding him for failing to submit certain judicial council documents by the due date. Biren frowned. Surely this had to be a mistake? There were no such documents that he was even remotely aware of.

  He slumped down in his chair, feeling utterly exhausted. This was not how he had envisioned his life. All he seemed to do was government paperwork, manage local squabbles, ferry documents up and down to the high court in Calcutta and build a house that was becoming unmanageable. These activities were taking up all his time, and he was losing sight of his dreams.

  The last meeting with Samaresh and the group at the coffeehouse had turned out to be deeply frustrating. To Biren it had sounded as if their proposal was gathering dust in the education department and it was unlikely George McCauley had even glanced at the file. The group, meanwhile, had talked animatedly about starting another completely unrelated project. Listening to their intellectual arguments, Biren had became irritable and restless. He’d left the coffeehouse and wandered around the secondhand bookstalls of College Street with their precarious towers of mildewed books, all the while wondering what was going on with his life.

  On the riverboat back to Silchar, it had suddenly struck Biren he was falling into the same trap as his father. His father had been a diligent, hardworking man, and the British had used him to their advantage only to further their own interests. Now he was being used in exactly the same way.

  Reginald Thompson had dangled the carrot and fed Biren’s dreams, but he had done nothing to further the school project. It was impossible to discuss anything constructive with him; he was always in such a murderous mood. Thompson’s intentions were no doubt honorable, but unless one demanded fairness, one was likely to be sidelined. They need me more than I need them, Biren thought. I can do without this job, but I am not going to give up my life’s purpose. Biren made up his mind to confront Thompson—bad mood or no—and hold him to his word. If Thompson ignored him, he would quit his job.

  He was pondering this serious question when the peon boy rushed in with a letter marked URGENT & CONFIDENTIAL. It was from Ganesh Pain, the sweetshop owner, demanding “immediate punitive action” against the same “nuisance-making” neighbor, Nimai Das. The complaint was so ridiculous Biren furiously balled up the letter and flung it straight at the dustbin across the room, narrowly missing Griffiths, who had just walked in through the door. Griffiths nimbly dodged the paper missile as it whizzed past his ear.

  “God almighty!” cried Griffiths, throwing up his hands. His eyes darted from the balled-up papers on the floor back to Biren. “Is that a temper tantrum I see, Roy boy?”

  Biren sank into his chair and glowered.

  “Come on, old chap, tell Uncle Griffy what is wrong.”

  “Everything,” said Biren wearily, squeezing his forehead with his fingers. “My whole life.”

  “I think we need to talk, old man,” said Griffiths in a soothing voice.

  Without giving Biren a chance to answer, he pointed his thumb toward the door and jerked his head. “Come on, off we go to the polo club. Social hour. You take everything too seriously, old chap. For God’s sake, shake out those feathers once in while, will you? Learn to live a little.”

  * * *

  At the polo club, Griffiths snapped his fingers at the bearer and pointed to Biren. “Burra-peg whiskey for sahib,” he ordered.

  “No!” protested Biren.

  “Yes!” Griffiths insisted.

  And from there onward it was all downhill.

  * * *

  Things took a sinister turn that day, and alcohol had plenty to do with it. It was one day Biren wished he could blot from his life, and it was just as well he remembered so little. Neither did Griffiths. When they compared notes the next day at Griffiths’s bungalow, their recollections were different. They both remembered walking down to the river singing, “Here we go ’round the mulberry bush,” with their jackets slung over their shoulders. At one point Biren vaguely remembered Griffiths removing his fine leather shoes and tossing them into the river, which was probably true because Griffiths’s feet were shoeless and blistered the next morning.

  They both recalled getting into a boat. The boatman’s face was only half-visible behind the deep cowl of his reddish-brown shawl. He had red-stained teeth and the cunning eyes of a rodent.

  “You swallowed a coin,” said Biren. “And you insisted I do the same.”

  “Did I?” said Griffiths in a faint voice. He looked a wreck, lying in bed, his feet bandaged by the bungalow bearer. The room smelled strongly of disinfectant. To add to his woes, Griffiths had a terrible attack of dysentery and had to hobble to the bathroom every ten minutes.

  “Oh, now I remember,” he added weakly. “That boatman looked exactly like Charon, the ferryman of Hades. Awful-looking fellow.” He sighed, sitting up. “I have to go to the bathroom. Give me a hand, will you?”

  Biren shuddered at the memories of the evening before. It came back to him in snatches: the dark moonless night, the thick churning river. The lantern on the prow of the boat that swayed and creaked, throwing a glow on the dark water, turning it to blood.

  “I hope you realize we had a narrow escape,” said Griffiths, emerging from the bathroom. “A very narrow escape. We could have passed into oblivion by now.”

  Biren nodded grimly. “I feel responsible,” he said quietly. “I put your life in danger.”

  “Nonsense,” said Griffiths, waving him off. “You got drawn to my dark side. I encouraged it.” He sat on the edge of the bed and waggled his feet. “I think I am going to be a cripple. I can’t believe I threw my shoes into the river. At least you were not that foolish.”

  “Foolish enough,” said Biren. “I don’t even know what to say about yesterday.”

  “Do you think I should have some tea? Or will it upset my stomach more?”

  Biren got up. “Tea is all right. Stick to tea and toast. No
butter. I’ll tell the bearer to get us some tea.”

  When he got back, Griffiths’s face was buried under a pillow.

  “Are you feeling rough again?” Biren said, peering at him. “Maybe the doctor should take another look at you.”

  Griffiths ignored him. “That place, Roy... That cremation ground was something else. All that fire, the drums, the dancing—who were those awful banshee women harassing us?”

  “I don’t know,” said Biren miserably. His stomach churned remembering the putrid stench of a woman in a coarse sari and scaly hands. “I don’t even know what happened.”

  “We smoked something. Out of a clay pipe,” said Griffiths. “You were screaming your head off.”

  “I?” Biren said, sitting up. “Screaming my head off? I don’t believe it!”

  “Yes,” said Griffiths soberly. “And not only that. You wanted to throw yourself into the fire like some Hindu widow doing suttee. I had the hardest time holding you back. I had to slap your head to bring you to your senses. Then you started bawling like a baby.”

  Biren did not remember a thing. The blackout was terrifying, and made his stomach tighten with panic. He wondered what else he had done. Maybe it was better not knowing.

  “And all those burning human bodies, crackling and spluttering like pork rind.” Griffiths groaned. He covered his face with his pillow. “I think I am going to throw up,” he said in a muffled voice.

  Biren felt very close to throwing up himself. Snatches of what happened came back. They had strayed into the forbidden part of the Damaru River and landed up at the cremation grounds. He remembered the tantriks with their bloodshot eyes and ashen bodies, the fire spitting ashes like dead moths into the sky. He remembered faceless lepers, hideous women with no noses and rotting teeth. Naked children playing with bones. After that his mind was a blank.

  Who had brought him home? He had woken up around midday in the veranda of his house, his new jacket purchased recently in Calcutta gone, his shirt torn, buttons missing. The bile had risen in his throat because everything—his hair, his clothes, his skin—had smelled of burning human flesh. The stench was lodged deep in his pores. His first thought when he’d woken had been, Where is Griffiths? He’d cleaned up hurriedly and rushed to Griffiths’s bungalow to find him tucked in bed like a baby, his feet bandaged in soft white cotton. How? Who had gotten him there? Griffiths had no recollection, either.

  “That’s it!” said Griffiths, flinging his pillow against the wall. “I’m going back to Calcutta and I’m getting married. A man can’t trust himself. Every man needs a wife to keep him out of trouble.” He quickly added, “You better find yourself one, Roy.”

  Biren paced up and down the room. He ran his hands through his hair, stopped and sniffed his fingers. “I am going to the barber to shave off my hair,” he said. “I am going to do penance and I will never get married. If I can’t keep myself out of trouble, nobody can.”

  With that, he walked out of the room.

  * * *

  Finding Thompson in a rare mellow mood the following day, Biren broached the subject of the school.

  Thompson, for all his ferocious bark, was a shrewd and canny man. He saw the steely determination in Biren’s eyes and quickly realized he could lose a valuable employee if he did not take him seriously. Roy was the most unusual young man—he did not care for the prestige of his job; he did not care about the perks; he was polite but not intimidated by authority. He seemed to be an idealist and a visionary, a trailblazer in many ways. Roy reminded Thompson of another Bengali gentleman he had heard about whose name was Jatin Nandi.

  “Have you met this gentleman Jatin Nandi?” Thompson asked Biren. “He is from your Bengali community. The babus in the office first told me about him. He is an excellent teacher, I am told. I had half a mind to meet him at one time. Nandi started an English girls’ school in town. I don’t know if it is still running. Perhaps you can find out? I will ask our senior babu to give you the details.”

  “Does that mean we will not be submitting a separate proposal to McCauley?” Biren said tersely. He had not meant it to sound like a veiled threat, but it probably came across as one.

  “No, no, Roy, don’t get me wrong.” Thompson sighed, rubbing his eyes wearily. “I am not trying to shunt you off. I am only suggesting you meet this gentleman because it might be interesting for you both to exchange ideas. Jatin Nandi already has the support of the Bengali community. He is very well respected, I understand. Whether you choose to work with him or not, rest assured, we will still present your proposal to the education department. I know George McCauley well, so I do not envision a problem getting it approved.”

  Hearing that, Biren relaxed.

  “Meanwhile, to give you more time to concentrate on this venture,” continued Thompson, “I will cut back your office duties. We will still count on you to manage community affairs and you will have to attend high court hearings in Calcutta as and when they come up, but I will take all other office paperwork off your hands. How does that sound to you?”

  Biren could hardly believe what he was hearing. “Th-that sounds very good, sir,” he stammered. “Thank you.”

  “Very well, then,” said Thompson. He stood up and gave Biren’s hand a surprisingly warm shake. “I’ll count on you to work out a plan, and let’s see where we can take this.”

  For the first time in many months, Biren’s chest felt lighter. Now he could finally breathe.

  CHAPTER

  43

  Jatin Nandi’s school was a small hut set deep in the folds of a shaded mango grove full of chattering parrots. The classroom was empty and the door unlocked. Biren peeped through the cracked windowpane. Inside were two rows of benches, a small blackboard and a potbellied water pitcher in the corner with a brass tumbler covering the top. He walked around to the caretaker’s hut at the back of the building. A woman sat on the mud stoop cleaning rice. She jerked a U-shaped bamboo tray and flipped the rice in a graceful arc without spilling a single grain. A fat brown hen pecked at her feet surrounded by a brood of newly hatched chicks that cheeped and tumbled over one another like cotton balls. The woman looked up as Biren approached.

  “I am looking for Jatin Nandi, the schoolmaster,” said Biren.

  “Jatinbabu is not here today,” said the woman. “He broke his arm. He slipped and fell in the fish market yesterday. He is at home.”

  “Where does he live?” asked Biren.

  The woman pointed to a bamboo grove. “On the other side of the bamboobari. Channa, my boy, can take you to his house if you like.”

  Without waiting for Biren to answer, she turned toward the house and shouted, “Channa! Aye, Channa!”

  A small boy peeped out from behind the door, winding a string around a wooden top.

  “Take this gentleman to Jatinbabu’s house,” she said. “And come right back. I don’t want you playing in the rice fields.”

  The boy jumped off the stoop and took off around the schoolhouse, running into the bamboobari. His mother yelled after him, “Channa, don’t run! Wait for the gentleman!” but he was gone.

  Following his erratic path was like following the flight of a bumblebee. The boy climbed over a fence, squeezed through a hole in a hibiscus hedge, wobbled across a log straddling a muddy ditch and arrived in somebody’s backyard, where he jumped over jars of mango pickle drying in the sun. A caged mynah with a yellow beak cocked its head and called after them in a cracked voice, “Hey, mister! Hey, mister!”

  Biren was beginning to regret the idea of following the boy when he suddenly found himself in the same road he took as a shortcut to get to his plot. The small girl who had thrown a plum at his horse was playing under the tree. She came running up to him.

  “It’s you again!” she cried. “Where is your horse?” She tugged him by the hand. “Do you want to see a mynah eg
g?”

  “No, no,” said Biren, disengaging her hands. “I have to go somewhere.”

  He looked around for the small boy but there was no sign of him.

  “Did you see a small boy?” he asked the girl. “I was following him to someone’s house.”

  The girl shrugged and rolled her eyes.

  “Mitra! Where are you?” a female voice called from inside the house. A young woman appeared in the doorway, casually twisting her hair back into a bun. She wore an orange cotton sari with a green embroidered border against which her skin glowed a warm honey brown. She leaned a slender shoulder against the door frame and stood there idly looking at her fingernails. When she looked up, she gave a gasp to see Biren. Her hand crept to her mouth and then slid to the hollow in her throat.

  Biren stared her, transfixed. He was immediately transported back to the sunset river. He saw again the lovely woman with her flower-braided hair flowing past in the delicate strokes of a painter’s brush. It was the woman in the boat! She was even lovelier than he remembered her.

  “Excuse me,” she said in a soft, husky voice. For a second her eyes were curious before a veil of politeness dropped over them.

  Biren cleared his throat, still feeling a little disoriented. “I am trying to find someone’s house,” he said, looking around him. “But I seem to have lost my young guide.”

  The woman’s eyes strayed to the bottom of his trousers.

  He followed her eyes and saw his trouser legs spotted with spiny cockleburs.

  “I arrived here via a rather adventurous shortcut.” He laughed, bending down to pluck off the burs. They made small ripping sounds as they pulled away from the fabric.

  “Whose house are you looking for?” the young woman asked. A delicate frown wavered on her lovely brow—a crease in a rose petal. What is it about her eyes? Biren wondered. There is something different about her eyes.