As to her name: Eva had explained that she’d come from China via Europe and at the port of entry had been asked to adopt a Western name. To register it would cost a sizable sum, so she’d decided on the designation “Eva,” which, she later confided with a facetious grin, was cheaper than the longer, more pretentious “Natalie” or “Olivia.” The “Pavlova” part was never explained and Suzy had never asked.
“Today was crazy at work,” Suzy said. “Then 1 came home and found this letter waiting for me … .”
Eva cocked an eyebrow inquisitively.
Suzy could feel her face flush, the red shade spreading to her ears. Her emotion was a hodgepodge of shame and embarrassment and fierce pride that comes from having truly loved, even in vain. She dropped her eyes and rearranged her feet on the floor, ever conscious that her friend’s eyes were on her. No use trying to fool Eva.
Eva made a gesture of rising from her chair. “I didn’t mean to pry, Suze.”
“No, don’t go, Eva. I need to talk to somebody. It’s been so long, and still I can’t let go of the memories.”
Eva settled down in her chair again and turned a sincere, eager face toward Suzy. Slowly, haltingly, Suzy filled her friend in on events of eight years ago. “All these years,” Suzy poured out in conclusion, “I’d convinced myself I didn’t care, that he was my sister’s husband. I certainly never expected to hear from him. Then this letter came. It was like being together all over again.”
“But remember, you aren’t the same person you were then,” Eva said. “I react differently to my older sister now. When we were growing up, we didn’t get along. My younger brother and I used to gang up on her. But now we can really talk. It’s better that we didn’t have a perfect start. Our sisterhood is more meaningful now.”
“I wish I could say the same. Aloka and I used to be so close—we shared everything. Then, as we grew up, somehow a third person always seemed to come between us, whether it was Grandma, Father, or Pranab. I can only imagine how horribly she must be suffering because of her divorce. I’d like to help her if she’d let me, but this letter complicates things once again.”
“You should hold off writing to him. I would. Letters can be misleading. You can say things in a letter that might not hold true in reality.”
“I’ll see him when I go home. The moment our eyes meet, we’ll know how we really feel about each other.”
“Don’t be in any hurry to reveal your true feelings, even if they are ambivalent.” Eva tugged at the lapel of her vest. “You look worried, Suze. Worry is part of the travel package, I guess. When I get ready to visit my mother in Shanghai, I keep asking myself: Did I get the right presents? Have I gained weight? Will my mother like my shorter hairdo? Once I’m there, those considerations seem unimportant. My family reminds me who I really am at my core. I become my best self in their presence.”
“I’m not sure what I’ll become. I’m just glad to finally get my itinerary firmed up.”
“So that’s why you came home late tonight?”
“How did you know?”
The South Sea pearls on Eva’s ears shone. “I got home around six and saw a man dropping something into your mailbox. He looked Indian. When I turned around, he asked me courteously if I knew you. He said his name was Mreenal Bose.”
“Mreenal Bose? Damn him.” Suzy got up, fished through her mail, and located a card. Then, reclaiming her seat, she noted, “He’s from Seattle. I wonder what he wants. Is he a weirdo?”
“No. I assumed you were old friends, or he was your cousin.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Just that usually you came home around six-thirty.”
Suzy stomped a foot on the floor. “You didn’t really give out that information to a stranger, did you?”
Eva’s smooth appearance belied a loose tongue. Still, Suzy knew that was simply Eva.
“Look, Suze, I meet people all day. I can tell who’s up to what.”
“You size them up in a glance?”
“It was a tad more than a glance. We chatted for a few minutes. I’d have invited him over to my place until you got back, but my living room is such a mess with fabrics and patterns spread all over. I suspect he’s the kind of guy who’d overlook all that. In any case, he must have read my mind, ’cause he said he couldn’t wait.”
Her clenched teeth relaxed, Suzy held eye contact with Eva and willed her to furnish more details.
“He’s a neat guy. I can’t imagine him being evil.”
“Might he be looking for a donation for some cause?”
“His cause might be you.” Eva winked. “He seemed disappointed that you weren’t here. You never know—he might take you out.”
“I’m through dating another stranger from India. I haven’t told you the story yet. A client of mine, a nice married Irish woman, set up a blind date for me with a friend of hers. The man is originally from Bihar. He took me to McMorran’s. It turned out that he was very proud of his alma mater and his degrees and couldn’t stop talking about them. He was also very proud of his father’s and his brother’s degrees. He went on and on. When I got a chance, I brought up a topic of current interest—the spraying of the gypsy moth and how it could harm pets and older people. That was the biggest local news of the week and just happened to be on my mind, but he didn’t seem interested. He ordered the salmon, I ordered a vegetable platter. The food was delicious, but I couldn’t eat more than three bites and I really didn’t see the point of ever seeing him again. A week later, I showed up at McMorran’s with another colleague, and there he was, sitting alone at the next table, with the same salmon dish before him. Imagine my discomfort! Later, it was hard to explain to my Irish client that I didn’t click with her friend. She thought, because we both came from the same country, we would automatically find each other interesting.”
“This is a little different, Suze. You’ll know when you meet him. Oh, I just remembered Mreenal Bose saying something about catching the Clipper tonight to Seattle. Seems like you won’t be able to meet him this time.”
Suzy laughed. “Will you stop talking about Mreenal Bose?”
“I promise, I will. It’s just that I’m not involved with anyone right now. I’m sort of going through a dry period, you might say, and really I don’t want to turn into a desert. I’m living my romantic life through you.” With an eye to her wristwatch, Eva got off the recliner. “My, it’s almost ten. I’d better go and let you get some sleep.”
Suzy smiled a good-bye and watched her friend disappear down the hallway. Now it all fell in place as to why Eva had stopped by so late in the evening. She had come bearing a spark of hope that she would be able to experience the thrill and magic of connecting with someone, if only vicariously. And she could quite conceivably be interested in Mreenal herself.
Suzy closed the door. Loneliness was a prison from which she and Eva were both trying to escape. No amount of business success, no measure of easy living in this lovely city could make up for that nagging void in their lives. In, that they were equal, simpatico.
As Suzy shrugged her shoulders to chase the stiffness out, an image of Pranab showed up before her: Pranab, strong and powerful and complete as a galaxy; Pranab, with his forceful gaze and lively wit, the masculine vitality that swept away all her inhibitions.
At one A.M. Suzy awoke on the futon. In her dazed state she couldn’t remember when she had drifted off. As she got up to retire to the bedroom, she noticed a calling card lying on the carpet. She bent to pick it up.
Mreenal Bose’s card.
She tossed it into the wastebasket.
twenty-three
Nina reached out and grabbed the phone at its first twitter. Older people deemed the machine intrusive, but for her it provided a welcome reprieve from loneliness and boredom. She eagerly spouted a hello into the receiver.
“Tami speaking,” came the animated reply. “I’ll be right over. I have news about Mreenal.”
Nina’s heart began to b
eat so fast that she had to draw in a deep breath. Her doctor would have been horrified, but this telephone nudge had sent a surge of adrenaline coursing through her system, making her doubly alert. That it also aggravated her hypertension mattered not in the least to her.
Soon she and Tami were seated on the lawn. Tami gave a few enthusiastic details about her day: how she’d visited the Tibetan Self-Help Center and bought a beaded necklace for her granddaughter and didn’t have to bargain for it. Nina found herself disinterested in Tami’s adventure. Containing her curiosity, Nina casually asked, “So, have you spoken with Mreenal?”
“Several times. Needless to say, he remembered you from his high school days. The prominent Guptas of Darjeeling.”
“Never mind me. Does he remember Sujata?”
“Oh, of course. He told me what a pleasure it’d be to sit down and chitchat with her in Bengali over a cup of real Darjeeling tea. With the right people, he’s pretty social.”
“My Sujata is the quiet sort, you know, like a lot of Bengali girls. But just get her talking about tea and—”
“Better that she’s quiet. Mreenal’s last girlfriend, a Portuguese businesswoman, was too talkative. Whenever she got angry, she harangued him in Portuguese. He didn’t understand a word, of course, which was probably just as well.”
“How long were they together?”
“Two years.”
“Two years and he didn’t marry her?”
“No. Even though our boys act modern, they’re actually tradition-bound at heart. A Portuguese girl just wouldn’t have done for Mreenal. And his mother would have had a fit. I have a hunch he wants to marry a Bengali girl and raise lots of children. He once told me he spoke computerese all day at work. When he got home he’d like nothing better than to relax to the beautiful sounds of Bengali. The boy has so many talents. He’s picked up a new hobby recently—photography. He has sent me pictures of the Rainier. They’re quite good. He likes to photograph nature.”
“Sujata likes to trek the tea garden trails.”
“The boy is definitely lonely in Seattle. It’s a big city and he’s not used to approaching girls the way American men do. The good news is his company plans to open a branch in Bangalore, which will be their Asian headquarters. He’s very excited about the prospect of transferring there.”
“Do you think he actually might move back?”
“Let’s say it’s quite possible. His parents are all for the idea. They have five children and Mreenal’s the only one who lives abroad. He also happens to be the one most devoted to his parents. He has made it big in the States, but he misses our Indian ways. He gave me the list once—festivals, food, conversation in Bengali, respect for elders, and last but not the least, cricket matches. Every December he flies home for a month, but this time I’ve talked to him about coming earlier. At first he said he couldn’t, then it turned out he either had to use up all the overtime he’d accumulated or lose it. So, he’ll be here in a week.”
“Oh, my, the house isn’t ready.”
“Take your time, Nina. Mreenal will fly to Calcutta first to visit his parents. He won’t get here until the twenty-fourth.”
“That’s four days before Sujata gets here. I’ll have a chance to meet Mreenal first, then. It seems we share affection for the Bengali language. Bring him over for tea as soon as he arrives, will you? And give me a list of his favorite dishes. My maidservant Reenu is a superb Bengali cook. She’s very young, but she can make bhaja, pora, ghanto, chochchori, and all the tea snacks you can name.”
“I’ll call Mreenal’s closest cousin right away and get the list—his mother isn’t a good cook. Then we’ll both have to get busy.”
“How exciting it will be if I can pull it off.” Nina sighed. “In spite of the fact that I get calls from my ancestors more and more frequently these days that I’ll soon have to answer, I hang on to this fragile, precious life for opportunities like this.”
twenty-four
Inspired by the sun, the crisp morning air, and the cup of tea before her, Nina drew a box of stationery close to her on the desk. She felt tired already—she hadn’t slept well last night. Just before bedtime, she’d overheard banter and laughter coming from the back lawn. Must be the servants, at the end of their workday. She had gone to the open window and craned her neck, and sure enough.
On that moonlit night, at the far corner of the lawn, the servants, some five of them, sat in a circle, smoke of bidi rising. Their faces were barely visible from this angle, but Nina could identify most of them from their voices and manners of speaking: Reenu, the cook, the wispy gardener, and a few tea factory workers who’d dropped by. The servants and their guests were chatting freely. They did so despite differences in age and religious and cultural affiliations. Their occupation united them. And since little news of the outside world reached them, they usually talked mostly about personal matters.
“What I meant to say is—don’t you know there’s a ghost in this house?” It was Jyotin, a former tea worker, and a lazy old troublemaker to boot, with his characteristic speech pattern. He was teasing Reenu. “Aren’t you afraid to work for Mrs. Gupta?”
Nina, who had been raised on ghost stories, was amused by the tea worker’s comment and craved to hear the rest. She flicked off the light switch and edged closer to the window. For an instant she only heard the murmur of the night insects.
“Afraid? Why, no. She’s most kind.” Reenu had laughed a shaky, fearful laugh. “Whose ghost?”
“Manager-sahib’s. What I meant to say is, his soul isn’t at rest. He tried to kill Pranab-babu, who was our leader at the time. What kind of a creature would try to kill a good man? The very low kind, I guess.”
How dare that lunatic speak disrespectfully of her dead son? In her mind’s eye Nina could see her only child, the adorable baby boy, the naughty youngster, a dedicated tea merchant, a protective father, an overworked man who worried constantly and who often flew into rage. She could visualize the resignation on that face on his deathbed. A wealth of tears, from wherever they lurked, flooded Nina’s eyes. She slipped away from the window, crossed the cube of disturbing darkness, and tumbled onto the bed. Shutting her eyes tight, she hoped for peace to emerge, but it never did.
Since the morning was still bright, Nina decided that composing a letter might help erase the residue of weariness. She was renowned in her circle as a natural correspondent, one who could summon stories and gossips at a moment’s notice. She inscribed her letters painstakingly either on airmail flimsies or on light blue sheets. Her loopy handwriting wove connections, especially with her granddaughters.
This letter would be addressed to Sujata and tea would be the link. Nina sipped from her cup. The pungent taste loosened the grip of anxiety and once again gave her morning a direction. Mentally she reviewed a brochure recently released by the Darjeeling Planters’ Association. It had emphasized that antioxidants were the big concept in North America these days and that a gentle cup of tea contained plenty of them. The brochure had suggested another reason for the beverage’s popularity—an element called fluoride. Nina had instinctively known tea’s nutritional values for a long time. Hadn’t she repeated to her adolescent granddaughters the old folkloric advice about not reaching for a glass of water immediately after taking tea?
Nina squinted at the tall trunk of the poplar tree beyond the window and hovered over the letter pad:
So, now that our national drink is the trend in the world, the business at our estate needs to keep pace. We still believe in selling only pure organically grown tea, avoiding cheap blends that detract from the Gupta reputation for excellence. Unfortunately, both yield and sales have been stagnant for some time. The management team is eager to explore with you ways to stimulate business growth.
Nina moved her hand away from the pad. Was that enough of a hint to Sujata to get her to consider coming back here permanently for everyone’s sake? Tea was synonymous with life in this region. Elderly workers still measured dis
tance in terms of tea breaks. The town of Ghoom, for example, where many went for religious services on Sunday, was “two tea breaks away.” Both young and seasoned workers still set considerable store in the saying, “Sell the tea, bring home the gold,” even though the yield hadn’t brought much gold home lately. These workers would heartily welcome Sujata at the estate. Word of her successful company in Victoria had generated considerable excitement. Sujata, the girl they’d known since she was a baby in the crib, had taken a commodity so close to everyone’s heart and was helping make it the rage in Victoria. She had “conquered Canada with her tea,” they proclaimed.
A small noise caused Nina to swivel her chair around. In the opposite corner of the room, Reenu was folding and arranging saris in a wardrobe. Usually the girl darted through her duties, but at the moment her nimble fingers erased an imaginary wrinkle on a sari over and over, while she stared out the window, dreaming.
Darjeeling Page 15