Flame Tree Road (34 page)

He slipped into his clogs and ambled down the garden path to talk to the bullock-cart man.

The bandy-legged bullock-cart man was standing under the shade of the mango tree wiping his face with a dirty rag. “Jatin-babu told me to wait here,” he said. “He is sending two coolies to unload this thing. I don’t know what it is,
babu
, but it weighs like a small house.”

The coolies arrived and the dressing table was maneuvered with some difficulty into the master bedroom, where it was placed facing the window with a leafy neem tree outside. Once unveiled, it turned out to be a monstrosity with three angled mirrors of curlicue patterns of etched glass, exaggerated moldings and enormous claw feet. Set against the Spartan simplicity of the room, the dressing table was a shocking assault to the senses.

For the next few days both Biren and Maya could only stare at it and burst out laughing. After a while Biren got used to its ponderous presence and even began to regard it with a certain fondness. Ostentatious and cumbersome, the only purpose the dressing table served was to remind Maya of her father’s overwhelming love and gratitude—emotions too large and unwieldy to express in words.

Often Biren would lie in bed and watch Maya comb out her hair with her ivory comb. In the three-way angled mirrors every subtle aspect of her beauty was reflected back to him, manifold.

Silchar

16th May 1897

How quietly she slipped into my life. Like spring slips into summer. Her lovely presence is all around me—delicate, whisper soft and almost invisible. I find her in the hairpin tucked inside the pages of a book, the sandalwood scent on my pillow, the jingle of the silver key chain hooked in the waistband of her sari.

I think back to the time we first met. We had a soul connect even before we set eyes on each other, in another lifetime perhaps. There is an old knowing, a place of comfort and familiarity, that transcends time. I have never felt this way about anyone. Sometimes in the quiet evening when the throb of a busy day stills, we dwell on the wonder of how we found each other.

Two years passed, and the pages of Biren’s diary remained empty. He felt no desire to record the bounty of his life. Pen, paper and words were inadequate to capture the magnitude and delicacy of his days with Maya, and any attempts to record it had the danger of sounding ornate, flowery and ultimately redundant—like Maya’s dressing table.

It was not that they spent all their time together. They both had their work. Biren’s travels took him away from home, but Maya was so deeply embedded in his being that he never felt they were apart. Initially he had misgivings about leaving Maya alone for long periods, but it turned out she was immersed in her own interests. She did not try to manipulate his attention or make him feel guilty for not spending time with her. She was the most self-contained person he knew.

In another six months the old century would be ushering in the new. There was something momentous about the turning of a century. If years could be compared to pages, decades to chapters, a century was like an entire history book. There was the nostalgia of closure, and at the same time the anticipation of new beginnings.

“Imagine, beloved,” said Biren. “This is the only turn of the century we will ever witness in our lifetime. I wonder what the twentieth century holds in store for us, don’t you?”

They were lying in bed, fingers entwined. The moonlight filtered through the neem tree scattered like delicate lace on the bed. Maya pulled his hand and laid it wordlessly on her belly. She did not have to say it in words, but Biren knew. He imagined he felt an imperceptible tremor of the life they had created together. His tears of joy wet her breast, and when he reached out to touch Maya’s face he felt her smile curl around his fingertips.

CHAPTER

51

Estelle was trimming back the rosebushes in Daddy’s garden. She had pulled on a waterproof canvas jacket and a pair of gardening gloves a size too large, which made handling the pruning shears rather awkward.

After his heart attack Daddy tired easily. The rose garden, his pride and joy, had fallen into disrepair, although the hollyhocks along the garden wall bloomed carefree and tall with no attention.

Estelle used the garden shears to lop off all the dead wood and crossing branches, then deployed a pair of sharp secateurs to make angled cuts above the outward-facing buds. Her father’s garden tools were always honed and sharp, as he insisted it was important to keep the cuts clean, because a frayed cut would leave the rosebushes open to pests and fungus.

She could feel a head cold coming on, the sniffles just starting. She reached into the pocket of her woolen skirt for her hanky and came across the letter she had received from James a few days ago. It had been folded and unfolded so many times the creases had become soft and tired, and now she felt compelled to read it again. She rested the tools on the upturned wheelbarrow and went into the kitchen.

Estelle filled the teakettle and put it on the stove. On the small kitchen table was the gift tea caddy that James had sent from India. It was fashioned out of polished wood with an exquisite enamel inlay of lotus motifs. Estelle ran her fingers over the design, admiring the beautiful workmanship. Inside the brass-hinged box was a foil-wrapped packet of tea. She found an empty canister in the kitchen cabinet and emptied the tea into it. A heady smell filled the air, and she stood there with her eyes closed, inhaling deeply.

While she waited for the water to boil, Estelle pulled out the letter, smoothed it on the kitchen table and began to read.

Calcutta

17th March 1900

Dear Sis,

I hope you enjoy the Assam tea. This is second-flush orthodox, a top-quality tea from our company’s gardens in Assam. Jardine Henley, our company, owns nineteen tea estates in the Assam Valley. Recently I had the pleasure of visiting the Chulsa Tea Estate in the Mariani district, where I picked up this tea. I look forward to my garden visits. That is the most rewarding part of my job, although I can’t say life in Calcutta is ever dull.

Bridgette is growing up quickly. She will turn two in another month. I wish you could see her, sister. She has red hair and quite a little temper. Aha! I wonder who she reminds me of?

I did make inquiries about Biren Roy, since you asked. He is married and has a child. From what I hear, he is very well respected. Biren has established the first all-girls school with government funding in Silchar. Many of the townspeople are against it and they keep trying to shut it down. But he is a force to contend with, I would imagine.

I am grateful to you for looking after Mother and Father, and I sometimes feel guilty for leaving you with the responsibility. Hopefully I can make it all up to you.

Your brother,

James

Estelle folded the letter back into its well-worn creases and slipped it into her skirt pocket. She smiled, remembering how adamant Biren had been about not getting married. It must have taken an exceptional woman to get him to change his mind. She imagined his child to have dark eyes and curly hair just like him.

They had lost touch around six years ago after she volunteered as a nurse for the Red Cross and left for South Africa. She was gone for a year and half and returned when she got the news Daddy had suffered a heart attack. Now she lived at home and took care of him and led the quiet life of a writer. Estelle often wondered about Biren, which had prompted her to ask James to find out about him. Now knowing he was married and settled, she would not attempt to renew contact with him. It looked as though they had both found their own paths in life after all.

CHAPTER

52

Moni was a delicate child with a poor digestion. She cried often and refused to go to bed unless she could hold a fistful of Maya’s hair, which she played with and pressed against her tiny cheek. Only then would her eyelids flutter like tiny butterflies as she drifted off to sleep.

She liked to go down to the river. On summer evenings when a strong river breeze drifted through the house, she would get restless. “Wa!” she would demand, and point in the direction of the river.

Biren put her on his shoulders and took her down to the water’s edge. He sat on his haunches and pointed out to her the stealthy blue-gray heron hiding among the clumps of vegetation looking like a piece of driftwood.

“Shh, look!” he whispered as the heron’s long neck darted out and its javelin-like beak speared a large frog. The heron threw back its neck and swallowed the frog with jerky movements, the lump pulsing its way down its throat.

Moni looked at him with big puzzled eyes. “Oh?” she asked.

He showed her the small silver fish caught in tidal pools, and stood around as she poked sticks in the mud and drummed her little feet, creating small splashes that seemed to amuse and delight her.

One day a solitary figure approached them. It was a tantric holy man, his bare body covered in ash, his dreadlocks gathered into an enormous pile at the top of his head. He walked as if he was in a trance. His bloodshot eyes, fierce and staring, were fixated at a point just above the horizon.

As he passed, he lifted his hand. “Take heed, brother,” he said in a low, throaty voice. “Keep that child away from water. It is waiting to claim her.”

Biren quickly snatched Moni into his arms.

The man walked by like a shadow. Even the river breezes stilled as he passed. He became a shimmering haze swallowed up by the sky. Moni screamed and struggled. When he set her down, the first thing she did was to grab a handful of filthy river mud and stuff it into her mouth.

“Moni. No!” Biren cried, grabbing her hand. She broke into a wail and struggled as he tried to clean her mouth out with the end of his shirt. He carried her screaming all the way home.

Maya was sitting on the plantation chair on the veranda reading. She stood up when she heard the screams coming from down the road.

“What happened?” she called. “Did she hurt herself?”

Moni was twisting and writhing in Biren’s arms. Her head hung down and she kicked her legs against his stomach, emitting an awful scream.

“I’ll take her,” said Maya. “Shh, baby,” she said softly, wiping Moni’s eyes with the end of her sari and pushing back her damp hair. “Shh. Everything is all right. Shh.”

Moni lay limp in her arms. Her screams subsided into hiccupping sobs. She leaned over and tried to grab the end of Maya’s long braid. Maya gave it to her, and she rested her cheek against Maya’s scented hair and closed her eyes. Maya took her inside.

Later Biren walked into the bedroom to find his wife and child asleep, side by side, Maya with a book open beside her. He touched Maya’s shoulder and she opened her beautiful eyes, smiled and gently pried her hair out of the baby’s fingers. They both tiptoed out of the room, closing the door behind them.

“At last,” she whispered. “Peace and quiet.”

They drank their tea sitting on the veranda, Biren with his feet propped up on the railing, Maya with her legs folded like a lotus. On soft dusky evenings like these Biren’s heart was so laden with thankfulness that he did not have much to say.

Maya tried to detangle her hair with her fingers. “Eesh,” she said. “The end of my braid is all ratty. I tried giving her my Kashmiri shawl instead, the black one with the long tassels, but she would not have it.”

Biren stroked her cheek with the back of his finger. “I wish I could help,” he murmured. “I would grow my hair if I could. I would do anything for you, Maya.”

“Then you’d look like a holy man.” She laughed. “And I would have to do
puja
to you.”

Biren remembered the
tantrik
. He sat up and debated whether to tell Maya about the strange encounter. Perhaps there was no need. It would unnecessarily worry her. There was something eerie about how the man had appeared out of nowhere, said his ominous words and vanished like a mirage. Biren quickly dismissed it from his mind.