Darjeeling

by Bharti Kirchner

  Mreenal recoiled from her in astonishment. “Now, that’s quite the bit of news, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes! It was totally unexpected. I’m still in a state of shock.”

  “That’s a significant amount of property. Good fortune for you, no doubt.”

  “Yes, but it means I’ll have to move back here and look after the entire operation.” She paused as her voice was drowned by the squeal of a passing cart. Drawn by a saffron-robed priest, the cart carried a hibiscus-strewn temple likeness of the deity Ganesh. A passerby, trailing along behind the mobile temple, shook a holy bell once, twice, three times, as if skeptical of Ganesh’s hearing ability.

  “Do you intend to manage the estate full-time?” Mreenal asked.

  “It’ll be more than a full-time job, especially in the beginning. The estate hasn’t been well cared for since my father’s death. Thakurma believes it’s time to infuse some youthful energy into the operation or risk losing it to some multinational company. I haven’t accepted her offer yet. I told her I needed time to think it over.”

  Mreenal’s expression became sunny. “So, you have some reservations?”

  “I sure do. It’d turn my life upside down. I’ll have to leave my business and my friends in Victoria, a whole way of life I’ve grown to love.” She spied the tightness in his jaw, but pushed on. “Would it change anything if I were to accept Grandma’s offer?”

  She longed to hear that he loved her and that the power of their love would make it possible to work out an arrangement that suited them both. She would make a commitment right here in the town’s hub. She would clasp his hand tight. She would utter a promise of never letting him go.

  His eyes flickered. “Could you really be a tea planter? Darjeeling is a nice town to visit and for escaping the summer heat of Bangalore, but to settle here …”

  She winced and gritted her teeth as a boisterous little boy scampered by chasing a ball and stepped on her toes. Compounded with that pain was the inner ache of having reached a decision that, however right, was going to have excruciating consequences.

  “I know it must seem a bit strange,” she began, “but you have to understand I grew up with tea. It’s a religion in our household. Even though I’ve been away, it’s still who I am and what I do.”

  He sat in silence for a time, sighed painfully. “We seem to have different plans for our respective lives. You want to stay here and run the tea plantation—I can understand that. I really can. But …”

  A shoeshine boy was setting up his craft on the sidewalk, dragging chairs, and sprinkling water on the ground to suppress the dust. “Aashun, boshun,” he called out to bystanders in a shrill, youthful voice. Welcome, have a seat.

  “I don’t think a man should wait around the house for his wife.” Mreenal’s voice dipped into the palette of sorrow. “I’m forty years old. I have seen it all, done it all. Yes, I’m a bit of a homebody, and I won’t apologize for that. I don’t mind a home-cooked meal and clean laundry. As a plantation owner, you’ll leave the house early in the morning and get home late. You’ll move in a circle of businessmen, entrepreneurs, and wealthy investors. Tea planters, I’m told, are the kings and queens in this town. You’ll be invited to dinners and cocktail parties, and treated royally. That’ll be quite exciting for you, no doubt. But what would I do in Darjeeling?”

  “Do you really think Darjeeling is all that backward?”

  “I’m a city boy, Sujata. I can experience all that Darjeeling has to offer in three days. Then what? What would I do for a career? I’m a software guy and Darjeeling isn’t exactly Silicon Valley or Bangalore. And I’ve lived alone for too long. I want my wife to greet me when I get home and have dinner on the table for me. And, of course, 1 want children. If you’re willing to sell your business in Canada and move with me to Bangalore and work part-time, if at all, I’m sure our relationship will flourish.”

  “You mean much to me. When I wake up in the morning, I want to hear your voice. In the evening I want to sit by you. I can’t even imagine what it’d be like to go visiting places in Darjeeling without you. But I can’t just walk away from my family. They’ve given me life. You see, I’ve never taken any real responsibility toward them. I’ve always stayed a little apart. This is my chance to show how much I do care. I’m the only one who can save the ancestral line of work and our family’s reputation. That has to be my mission now.

  “Does Pranab figure into this?” Frustration had seeped into Mreenal’s words. “Is he, by any chance, going to work for you in the tea estate?”

  “No, I have no intention of hiring him. What gave you that idea?”

  He stared away, though Suzy caught the anguish in his eyes. He said, “My mother had heard some rumors … .”

  “So, she has reservations about a woman who—”

  “As I’ve said before, my mother is old-fashioned. And you have to admit that something like that happening in a family can cause concern in this society.” He turned to offer her a penetrating, almost accusatory stare. “Is it just a rumor, Sujata?”

  “It’s a mistake I made and for which I’ve paid a price. Do I have to go on paying a price for the rest of my life? Will this society ever forgive me? I’ve become a different person. Doesn’t that matter at all?”

  “I’m not judging you, by any means, Sujata, I’m just shocked. But then, I should have known. You’re pretty westernized.”

  “Cut out the ‘westernized’ bit, will you? I think the real problem, Mreenal, is you don’t want to be overshadowed by a woman who would, at least locally, be more prominent than you.” Suzy flipped her plaited hair back over her right shoulder in a gesture of defiance. “Your mother has chosen the right woman for you, after all. She can give you that tidy little house, children, and the feeling of importance that you crave so much.”

  Her mournful tone must have affected the little girl, who suddenly started crying. The old woman—calloused, perhaps—ignored the tearful face and the moaning sounds and sat staring into the space. However sympathetic Suzy felt, she couldn’t stay and console the girl. It was time for her to be on her way. She rose quietly and was turning to leave when she heard the rustle of paper behind her.

  Mreenal thrust a gift-wrapped package toward her. “Please give Thakurma my apologies for not being able to attend her party.” His words were edged with genuine regret. “Sujata, I’ll always remember you.”

  Her composure unruffled, Suzy took the package wordlessly and strode away without a backward look. The boisterous plaza seemed drained of life. The neon lights along a row of hotels twinkled through her damp eyes and the din of traffic seemed faint and far away. She walked aimlessly, unmindful of the warning whistles of the traffic constable and the curses of annoyed drivers, barely knowing where she was going, and caring even less.

  forty-five

  In the early morning hours, when dreams are fragmented like scattered pieces of a broken tile, Aloka heard the sound of soft rain and an exuberant laugh—Jahar’s laugh. Later, after breakfasting on suji halwa and tea, and visiting with Grandma, all the while thinking of that dream, she picked up the Hindusthan Standard and burrowed in on an expose on the suffering of the underclass in a village in Uttar Pradesh. “We want to be served tea in a cup like everybody else, not in a coconut shell,” a villager is reported to have said. “We want to be able to live without being constantly humiliated by our rich neighbors.”

  Aloka put the newspaper away and wandered from room to room, though she found nothing to put her mind at ease. Once again she pondered the meaning of that dream and found herself wishing to bring it to reality. Eventually, she sidled over to the phone. Given the time difference, she guessed Jahar would be in the kitchen, tending a fragrant pot on the stove and peeling a cucumber, a Hindi film song wailing in the background as his accompaniment.

  She picked up the receiver and punched the numbers from memory. A clear and wistful hello from another corner of the globe came through so clearly that Aloka silently thank
ed modern technology for it. But then she found herself unable to speak. She heard another hello, low and guarded, and managed to blurt out, “It’s Parveen.”

  “Parveen?” Jahar pronounced the name with gentleness. Like he was protecting a lit match with the cup of his hand. Then a stronger, “Where are you?”

  “In Darjeeling. I’ll be back right after we celebrate my grandmother’s birthday.”

  “Please give her my best. Grandmothers are most precious. So, is that the reason why I haven’t heard from you? Why you went away? Did I do something to offend you?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. I didn’t call you before because I felt foolish … and ashamed.”

  “I was very angry with you,” he admitted. “And I told myself I’d never speak with you again. But the funny thing is, as soon as I heard your voice I forgot all that. The anger melted into water, as my mother would say.”

  Aloka’s reserve melted, too. “I have some explaining to do … . I’m not a real estate broker and I invented that Parveen name. My real name is Aloka and I work for a newspaper.”

  Jahar chuckled, then began to laugh, the same carefree laugh she had heard in her dream. “And my dear whatever-your-name is, did you go to all that trouble because you didn’t trust me?”

  “I’m sorry, Jahar, there’s more to it than that. I enjoyed being with you. You brought out a new me. I could be livelier and more spontaneous … and look at the world differently.” She hesitated. “I just wasn’t ready.”

  Jahar’s voice grew thick with exasperation. “Do you realize I practically went crazy? I even wrote to Seva twice. That’s how desperate I was. You said you work for a newspaper. What do you do?”

  “I write an advice column under a pseudonym.”

  “What advice column?”

  “‘Ask Seva,’” she mumbled, and waited.

  “You’re Seva, too. How many names do you have?” Jahar laughed again. A small scraping sound indicated that he had pulled up the stool he kept by the telephone and was taking a seat. “Oh, my heavens, you’re Seva. Then you’ve read my letter. You must have, because you answered it.”

  “I was scared, Jahar. Your letter forced me to examine my feelings.”

  “Now I understand. I rushed things. I mean to apologize for having been so emotional … and falling in love so hastily—I just couldn’t help it, especially with someone as special as you. I found it so hard to hold back.”

  “Oh, Jahar, I missed you terribly. I thought about calling you, but … I wasn’t afraid, exactly. It wasn’t that—not with you. And I still want to see you again.”

  “But there’s too much hurt. I don’t open up like I used to anymore, Parveen. New York isn’t the same as my village. This city isn’t about feelings. I have shrunk the size of my dil, I don’t speak to strangers anymore.”

  “Sometime I’ll have to tell you about my whole life. Right now I’ll just mention that I’m finally over a marriage. I’d tried to forget him, but I couldn’t. I tried to go back to him, and that didn’t work. Only by rebuilding myself as Parveen have I survived.”

  “When I was a child I used to throw a coin in the air and if it landed on my palm, I felt richer. Every time I talk to you, I feel the same way. I feel rich. When you’re absolutely sure you’re over that man, call me. We’ll try again.”

  Now Jahar proceeded to fill her in on what had been going on in his life. How he had bought some weights and taken up lifting; would Parveen care to give the practice a try? How luscious the newly arrived black grapes were at their favorite delicatessen; wouldn’t it be nice if they lasted until she returned? How a freak storm had cracked his window; wouldn’t it be perfect if the repairman replaced the glass before she returned?

  As she listened, she pictured herself next to him and surrendered to a new kind of emotion; not what she had once felt for Pranab—gigantic, overwhelming, and dizzying love—but rather a gentle and deep caring, interwoven with life’s everyday details. She looked around the room and noticed how the ordinary furniture and knickknacks had sprung to life and become one-of-a-kind. It wasn’t as if the world had been suddenly set right, for the world never is, only that a streak of sunshine had managed to find its way through her window. She remained enchanted until she heard him saying that they should say good-bye for now to avoid horrendous telephone charges, and then she murmured, “Only four more days,” and hung up.

  forty-six

  With Grandma’s birthday only two days away, Aloka had given the family cook the afternoon off, so she could prepare the birthday dessert she had promised. Now, alone in the kitchen, she stared at the white mound of fresh cheese still steaming in its bowl on the counter, filling the room with a pleasant lemony aroma. The cheese, just drained of its whey, was the main ingredient of channer payesh, Grandma’s favorite finale to a meal. It was still terribly important to serve sweets of the highest quality at any Bengali gathering. The motto “Eat sweetmeat and you’ll speak sweet words” was uttered often.

  Channer payesh, a classic sweetmeat, was time-consuming to prepare and required much care and commitment on the part of the cook—enough so that the corner sweet shop no longer bothered serving it. Older Bengalis still considered channer payesh a welcoming symbol for special guests. Grandma had often lamented that it was becoming a lost art, disappearing along with many other aspects of the traditional Bengali way of life, so gradually that most people failed to notice its absence in the menu at home or in restaurants.

  Aloka had perfected her techniques years ago, enough so that whenever Grandma would take a taste of Aloka’s channer payesh, she would blissfully close her eyes and declare it an amrit. Coming from her lips, this reference to ambrosia didn’t sound like an exaggeration. “No one, not even the best mithaiwala in town, could prepare it as well as you do,” Grandma had often told her.

  It had been so long since Aloka had made the dish that she wasn’t sure she could measure up to Grandma’s exacting standards anymore. It would be a shame to disappoint the dear old lady on her birthday. Now Aloka prodded the cheese tentatively with a fingertip. To her immense relief, the spongy mass yielded and sprang back when she removed her finger, proving she had achieved the right texture. So she hadn’t lost her touch after all.

  Time to start thickening the milk. Sujata had promised to help, but there was still no sign of her. Aloka counted the days—only three more before she returned to the States—and still Sujata had made no attempt at reconciliation. In the back of her mouth Aloka tasted the bitterness of always having to be the responsible one. Sujata owed her the nicety of making the first move this time.

  Aloka shifted her gaze to the lowest shelf of the cupboard and selected a heavy, oversized pot that had served generations of Guptas and was thoroughly, endearingly blackened from use and age. It reminded her of those halcyon days when her uncles and aunts and Pranab’s parents would come over for dinner regularly, twenty-five or so people flowing in and out of the brightly lit house, the convivial bustle generating energy and warmth, and this same vessel had accommodated them all.

  With sure fingers she set the pot on the stove, then adjusted its position over the burner so it received an even distribution of heat. At the sound of flapping sandals with a hurried quality, she knew Sujata had arrived. She turned toward the door.

  Sujata rushed in, a trace of urgency enlarging her eyes, and headed straight for the kitchen counter, rolling up the sleeves of her tomato-colored sweater as she went. A silver bindi glittered between her slightly elevated eyebrows, but her lips were makeup-free, for a change. That was just as well, as the orange-shade lipstick she usually dabbed on didn’t do much for her looks. A cherry color would be much preferable. Sujata bumped into a stool kept in one corner, which caused her arm to slide on the counter, and she almost knocked the cheese over.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she mumbled.

  Aloka pushed the bowl over toward the wall for safety. A touch perturbed, she announced, “The channa is done. I’m just starting the pa
yesh part.”

  “Couldn’t you have waited for me?” Sujata grumbled in that direct curt manner of hers. “I’d liked to have seen how it’s made.”

  How like Sujata, to turn her tardiness into a shortcoming on her sister’s part. They weren’t exactly making the right start. Aloka pulled out a container of milk from the refrigerator. Trying to maintain her self-control, she clutched the container to her chest and stepped over to the stove. “You weren’t here on time and this takes quite a while to do it right.”

  “So, we’ve got the whole afternoon. What’s the next step?”

  “The milk has to be reduced.” Aloka poured twelve liters of milk and a dozen cardamom pods into the pot. Eyes on the frothy surface, she switched on the burner. “That’s the longest part of the recipe. Once the milk’s been thickened somewhat, I’ll add the sweetened cheese and some extra sugar and stir some more. The mixture will then need to be chilled. Finally I’ll garnish it with pistachio and rose petals. Are you going to stick around?”

  “You seem to think that I won’t.”

  Aloka swallowed. Was there any way of reaching Sujata?

  “How long does it take for the milk to thicken?” Sujata asked.

  “It has to be stirred for about an hour.”

  “An hour!”

  Grandma, shrouded in white, her dark eyes glittering, poked her head through the door. “Are you two arguing?”

  “We’re only trying to decide who’ll stir the milk, Thakurma,” Aloka tried to placate the matriarch, who might be trying to take a nap.

  Grandma waved a hand in dismissal. “Can’t you even agree on that?” She hobbled toward her room without waiting for an answer.

  Aloka picked up a cooking spoon. “Why don’t you stir for a while? Slowly, like this.” She demonstrated a clockwise circular movement interspersed with an occasional figure eight on the surface of the milk. “Get into a rhythm. And don’t forget to scrape the sides and the bottom every so often. Otherwise the milk will burn and we’ll have to start over.” Pausing, she held out the spoon to Sujata.