She returned her attention to the letters.
I met a terrific woman at a delicatessen right across from my building.
Delicatessens replacing singles bars and dance halls? Aloka chuckled. She could relate.
She is higher than me in class and education, but she is kind. A mere glance at her beautiful face fills me with tenderness. I don’t understand her too well, average man that I am, but I love her completely. I have never felt this way about any woman.
Lately I am beginning to fear that she’ll leave me. Our worlds could never merge. She prefers high-end restaurants, theater, and art events, which are above my taste. I have given her all I have, happiness at home and my steady company but that doesn’t seem enough for her.
If I lose her, how will I pass my days? What will my future be then?
The letter was signed “J.”
The sheet of paper slipped out of Aloka’s hand, floated in the air for an instant, and fluttered to the floor. So, it was as she had suspected all along: Jahar was capable of making a deep commitment, but true to his Indian nature, he was holding the sentiments inside, preferring to give them expression through gestures and actions. What she hadn’t realized was that he saw the chasm between them so clearly. In his own honorable way he was preparing himself for the day when she would give him the last kiss and tiptoe away.
Aloka’s eyes begin to sting. She gazed at the plaza fountain across from her window, striving to hear its soothing splash down the wall, though the sound didn’t reach her ears. At this late hour the fountain was shut off.
Always she would look back wistfully at their time together, the care with which he sliced the cucumbers and served her sukhe aloo, how he’d freed her from the tyranny of divorce and led her toward brightness.
“Dear J,” she keyed in with fingers that didn’t cooperate very well.
If it’s time for her to go, let it be. Sometimes there’s no future in love, only the moment.
She pushed herself away from the keyboard and rose to stand at the window. Before her stretched the city, with its weary lights. Its smells, sounds, and features were gradually being stolen by the prowler of the night.
thirty-two
It had been a steep, winding four-hour ride from the Bagdogra Airport. The driver turned for an instant and reminded Suzy that the locals jokingly called this ride a “full-body massage.” The mountains were at first an indistinct wavy line in the horizon. Now, as Suzy gazed out the car window, Mount Kanchenjunga, shimmering above a sea of clouds like a massive temple carved out of ice, loomed ahead. Nestled below on a subsidiary ridge was Darjeeling, a jumble of red and black roofs interspersed with a dense stand of cedar, silver fir, cypress, and chestnut. Beyond the town she could discern the storied seven hills stretching to the horizon, their flanks webbed with tea plantations, some ninety of them in all. Somewhere on that emerald canvas was the hallowed Gupta tea estate and, down the hill from it, her home. She found herself leaning forward eagerly, trying to spot the house.
The family servant driving her was a new hire. Maintaining the deferential silence he’d retained throughout the trip, he pulled into the driveway of the sprawling bungalow where she had been raised. It was just as she remembered: the high brick fence, yellow-washed exterior, sunlit portico, a nightingale’s melodic chatter from the rooftop, even the damp smell of the mature sycamore’s leaves. The frame of the house seemed less stately, more aged, though just as endearing as it had been throughout her childhood. Some rain had fallen earlier and everything glistened under the afternoon sun. Her heart thumped as she reached for the car door.
The driver protested. “Please, let me help you, didi.”
But Suzy had already scrambled out the door. Aware that the driver had silently disappeared into the house with her valise, she hurried up the crushed-rock pathway bordered with lovingly tended flower beds on either side. The late-season marigolds, some as tall as four feet, splashed a yellow-orange shade on the luxuriant green plants. She bent down and touched the rich red earth that produced such wondrous bounty. The smooth, comforting sensation was not unlike caressing a lover’s skin.
She rose slowly. Her eyes fell on the entrance to the house.
It was empty.
Why no bustle on the porch with Grandma and a procession of relatives chanting, “Esho, esho,” welcome, welcome? Suzy had expected one of the woman kinfolk to blow a conch shell to commemorate her return, another to sprinkle sacred water on her head to cleanse the spirit after such an extended journey, a third with the traditional platter of fruit and sweet offerings. Belatedly Suzy realized that her expectation had been unrealistic.
A neatly dressed man, exuding an air of calm assurance, appeared in the doorway. “Please come in, Miss Gupta,” he greeted her. Keeping the door ajar with a hand that formed a dark contrast to the wood’s beige surface, he gestured her inside with the other.
Suzy was taken aback. Who was he? Definitely not a Gupta. That much was certain.
A hint of a smile flickered across his genial face. “I am Mreenal Bose.”
A jolt shot through Suzy. Might this be part of Grandma’s plan to bind her in wedlock? Already?
“So we finally meet,” she said as she slipped past him into the shadowed hall. She nearly knocked over a brass umbrella stand, but became careful as she brushed past a wooden planter from which the luxuriant vines of an ivy plant tumbled out. At the foot of the staircase she paused, viewing the drawing room on the right and a string of bedrooms with curtains strung across the doorways on the left. She smelled a turmeric fragrance wafting out of the kitchen at the far end of the hall and heard the customary rhythmic thump of stone on stone—the cook grinding fresh turmeric root for the evening meal. Nothing much had changed. Yet Suzy waited there like a voyager without a map.
“Thakurma!” she cried.
“Please.” Mreenal spoke in a hushed tone from behind. “Your grandma isn’t feeling well. Your aunt and my great-aunt are both attending her. Wait just a minute. I’ll fetch your aunt.”
With that he was gone, leaving Suzy bewildered. Grandma taken ill? Had Suzy waited too long to return? And why was this outsider acting as if he were in charge of the house?
Suddenly Aunt Toru, a swirl of white, flew out of a room on the left. She lived nearby and often came for a visit. She appeared more compact than before. Face creased, black eyes widened in warmth and expectation, she threw her arms out and embraced Suzy tightly. “My little girl.” The words came softly and in starts. “How are you? It has been so long …”
“I’m okay.” Suzy swiped at her own tears with the back of a hand to prevent them from wetting her aunt’s shoulder. “And you?”
“What does my life mean? I’m all right, but your grandmother has a fever.”
“Can I see her?”
“A little later. She’s sleeping now and she needs the rest.”
“But Thakurma knows I’m coming today. Hasn’t she asked for me yet?”
“Of course, she talks only about you, but—”
“Sujata?” queried a wispy voice, barely audible but definitely Grandma’s, from one of the rooms.
Suzy raced to the room, only to pause at the threshold. Grandma was resting on a plush bed covered with a jacquard comforter. She looked ancient, boyoshko, as Bengalis would say. Age had happened to her. Her skin, lips, scalp, and hair had turned into the same ashen color. But the eyes held the same compassion as before.
At the sight of Suzy, Grandma’s gaze flared with recognition. She made an attempt to rise. Suzy swallowed around the lump in her throat and rushed to help Grandma sit up.
“Look at you,” Grandma murmured, touching Suzy’s chin. “What a lovely face. Did you have a good trip?”
“Oh, Thakurma,” Suzy half wailed. “What’s the matter?”
“Hush, child, I’m not so terribly sick. Just a touch of a cold,” Grandma barked with a trace of her old imperiousness. She grimaced as she pointed to a bottle on the side table. “Oh, that
bitter medicine I have to take. The doctor has ordered bed rest for me, but how can I rest when you’re here?”
It struck Suzy that Grandma wasn’t wearing any jewelry, not even the few discreet pieces she customarily wore, not even the earrings, but she didn’t dare ask about that. Once you leave home, you lose the privilege of asking personal questions. “You must stay in bed today, Thakurma. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
An elderly woman charged in. Grandma introduced the new arrival as Mreenal’s great-aunt, Tami. Now Suzy gleaned the reason behind Mreenal’s visit. He and his great-aunt were good neighbors, helping out in a time of need. Suzy expressed her gratitude to Tami, who gushed, “Oh, Sujata, you look just like your pictures. And you still wear a sari. Most unusual.”
“You must be exhausted,” Aunt Toru said, intervening, “after the long trip from Canada and that terrible car trip from Bagdogra Airport. I’ll help you get settled.”
And suddenly Suzy was back in her tidy old quarters. She stepped to the window and parted the sheer georgette panels to take in the blue-purple shape of the mountains, the one constant she remembered from her childhood. She watched the ever-capricious clouds moving in and cloaking the peaks. Then she swung back to the room. At first glance the room was just the way she’d left it. The intermittent afternoon sun cast an intricate dappled pattern across her bed. The honey-gold bedspread, thick and heavy, promised skin-hugging comfort. The east wall was lined with black-and-white mountain pictures Aunt Toru had once shot. Pushed to one corner of the same wall was an old black trunk full of keepsakes. When she was eleven, Suzy had embroidered a pansy pattern on its lacy white cloth cover. She smiled at the childishly crooked design, done in ribbon stitch and French knots. She had never been proficient at needlepoint like Grandma was.
A large gilt-framed photograph on the nightstand attracted Suzy’s attention. Grandma, her coif still dark, her son and grandchildren fanning out before her, glowed with pride. A glance at that vibrant face and Suzy felt the pressure of tears behind her eyes. Was Grandma really ill? She couldn’t be sure.
After a hot bath, Suzy wrapped herself in an orange-printed crepe sari, braided her hair, and, after deciding at the last minute against applying any makeup, made her way to the living room. She fought her sense of uncertainty by focusing on a set of abstract terra-cotta murals on the wall above the staircase and listening to the cook’s heavy thumping in the kitchen. She would have to reacquaint herself with the goings-on in this house.
She heard the voice even before she recognized him. Mreenal was standing there, his back to her. She noticed the neatly trimmed hair blending into a distinct neckline that disappeared under his shirt. He was speaking to a young maidservant, who was dusting the books on the shelf with a feathery broom, updating her on the doctor’s visit this morning. “Dr. Malaviya specializes in heart disease,” he was saying. “That’s the most common ailment in this town.” He seemed more at home in this household than she was at the moment, not an encouraging notion. She cleared her throat to gain their attention and they both turned in surprise.
“Ah, we thought you were taking a nap.” Mreenal’s eyes radiated a mischievous sparkle. “This is Reenu. She works for your grandmother.”
“Sujata-di! Very good to meet you.” The girl’s lively gaze glistened with an amalgam of curiosity and respect. She smiled excitedly, then bowed her head and pressed her palms together in a namaskar, in what seemed like a genuine welcome. As a young girl, Suzy used to greet the arrival of a relative from another town with some of the same ebullience, but also more shyness.
“Would you like some tea?” Reenu turned toward Mreenal.
“Perhaps later.”
“But Sujata-di hasn’t eaten in several hours. Thakurma asked me to make puli-pithas especially for her, and they’re ready.”
Suzy smiled in bemusement. An older servant, more constrained by custom, would have taken Mreenal’s demurral in silence, or with the utterance, “As you wish, huzur,” but this young maid was practically dictating. Yet her spunky nature was endearing. Then, too, the mention of the canoe-shaped autumnal treat sweetened with khejur gur brought saliva unbidden to Suzy’s mouth. Swallowing, she gave her assent to Mreenal with a nod.
“Perhaps now,” Mreenal corrected himself.
“Please.” Reenu gestured toward the back lawn, then led the way.
On the veranda Suzy’s eyes fell on her favorite swing, moving gently to and fro in the breeze, where she’d spent many a carefree afternoon. Sloping gently downhill from the veranda was the neatly mowed lawn beneath a spreading magnolia tree with a weathered plaque nailed to its trunk. Just as Suzy deciphered her name on the plaque, a fairy bluebird began to warble from a low-hanging branch. The foliage had grown so dense that the bird was invisible until it hopped to change position. Come spring, the tree would burst into a profusion of velvety pinkish white blossoms. Suzy’s eyes roved over the valley beyond the fence where she used to romp amid lush grass and glades splashed with yellow, white, and red wildflowers. She heard crickets and spotted a grasshopper as it launched itself in a long arc, its wings clattering. Her eyes sweeping the horizon, she took in the splendor of the yellow light on the ramparts of Kanchenjunga.
When she turned back, Reenu had finished rearranging the chairs. Suzy sat down across from Mreenal. The small oval tea table between them had been laid with a homey blue-and-white-checked tablecloth with hand-sewn hems, a setup that invited relaxed conversation. “The view is stunning, just as I remember,” she remarked casually.
“Wish I had my camera with me,” Mreenal answered. “The backlighting is good.”
“So you’re a photographer.”
“I don’t know if I can call myself a photographer. I picked up the hobby when I was vacationing in Portugal a few years back. I didn’t speak the language, but I discovered that by shooting pictures I connected with the local scene better. People forgive you if you’re carrying a camera. They talk to you, they let you go ahead of them. I like connecting with people.”
“I’m sorry if I was rude to you earlier.”
“No need to be sorry. I realize you’re close to your grandmother. Her sudden illness must have been quite a shock. I know it was for me. I’ve become very fond of her over the last several days.”
“I’m not a naive nineteen-year-old anymore and I don’t need matchmaking, however well-intentioned.”
“I don’t understand … .”
“I might as well be blunt. I’m wondering if Thakurma is really ill or if she is feigning a fever. I mean, she’s been trying to get us together, hasn’t she?”
Mreenal exploded into a merry laugh. “Clever woman! If that was indeed her intent, she has succeeded famously. Actually, I was supposed to have flown to Calcutta this morning, but I postponed the trip when I heard she’d suddenly fallen ill. Now I can’t get a flight back for several days.”
“I should make it clear—I’m not interested in an arranged marriage. It’s a matter of principle.”
“Well, I’ll certainly respect your wishes. How do you think we should handle the situation?”
“We’ll have to be coconspirators in this and act like we’re getting along really well—as long as you’re in town.”
“Just a few more days. Now that we have this sorted out, we can relax, can’t we? You see, dating is not instinctive for me, or most Indians, for that matter, I think. I tend to act shy or silly on a date. An arranged meeting is even more inhibiting. But you seem so westernized.”
“I hate that word, ‘westernized,’” Suzy retorted hotly. “When applied to a woman, it means she is career-hungry or has loose morals. When applied to a man, it means he’s smart and well-adjusted.”
“I’m sorry if I have offended you. I simply meant that you seem so free and independent. You seem to know your way around. Can I call you Sujata?”
Suzy nodded as she collected herself.
“Here’s tea.” Reenu had reappeared, hoisting a large tray with a teapot surrounded by
platters of richly browned oval puli-pithas and glistening white rounds of coconut naroos. As she set the platters on the table, a rich aroma of ghee, thickened milk, and freshly grated coconut pervaded the atmosphere. Mreenal helped himself to a naroo. The tension dissolved as Suzy attacked a puli-pitha in all its crumbly, syrupy goodness.
Reenu, who was hovering at a distance, drew closer to Mreenal. In a low voice, she let out, “I just got the good news from my mother’s cousin who works for your sister-in-law in Calcutta. So when will you be bringing your new wife here?”
A chunk of puli-pitha still impaled on her fork, Suzy stopped eating. So, Mreenal Bose had found himself a bride. This confounded her. She felt terribly foolish and humiliated.
“It’s all up in the air. I haven’t consented to the marriage yet.” Mreenal sat quietly for a moment, then, perhaps feeling as perturbed as she was, folded his napkin into a perfect rectangle, eased back from the table, and stood up. “I really must be on my way.” Turning to Reenu, he said, “The tea was exquisite. By the way, is there anything you might need for Thakurma?”
Before Reenu could reply, Suzy broke in, “Now that I’m back, I can take care of what’s necessary.”
“I’m sure you can manage things, but please realize that in the long-term view Thakurma’s health isn’t good. I want to make sure—”
“Perhaps I’ll speak to her doctor privately.”
“Dr. Malaviya went to medical school with my father. If you like I can take you to his office tomorrow or whenever I can get on his calendar. He’s extremely busy, but I’m sure he’ll allow me a few minutes.”
“That’s kind of you—I’ll take you up on your offer,” Suzy relented, somewhat mollified by his suggestion.
“I’ll ring you tomorrow.” He turned and strode across the lawn to the gate and was soon lost from sight.
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