The Plunge (12 page)

It was at the end of her short visit to ammamma.

Ammamma had sobbed uncontrollably when Anjali was getting ready to leave. It was as if she knew they would never meet again.

Her own eyes had blurred with tears. She felt overwhelmed with sadness. It was the first time in years that she had hugged ammamma that day.

Anjali scolded her for behaving like a child. She arranged ammamma’s dishevelled hair as she held her close.

“Come, come, you will miss your train,” her father had called out, in his habitual rush. She looked back, one last time, while closing the gate. Ammamma was still weeping. The image of the feeble old woman who stood sobbing for her had haunted Anjali ever since. Why did she weep like that? It was the first time ammamma had done so, and it turned out to be the last.

Ammamma died three months later. She was bedridden for a month, but did not wait until Anjali could visit her.

“She often asked if you would come to see her,” amma told her when she had visited a month later.

Amma wrote to Anjali a week after ammamma’s death that her grandmother had left money for her.

“She wanted you to buy a house, anywhere you wanted,” she had written.

Anywhere you wanted, Anjali mused.

Shimla? Why not? Siddharth was also open to the idea of spending his retired life in Shimla. When she had once asked him about it, all he said was, “Not a bad idea.” She did not probe further. But what fun it would be if he did that, living so close to him, yet apart! She smiled at the thought.

Anjali clung to Siddharth, and closed her eyes, enjoying his warmth filter into her body.

She felt whole again.

.

13
    

CHAPTER

Love

A
njali was getting ready by the time Siddharth woke up the next morning.

She smiled at her image in the mirror. She looked beautiful in the light pink sari. She felt perked up when the soft silk briefly sparked static electricity as it brushed against her arm.

She smiled at Siddharth, pretending not to notice his intent gaze.

Anjali applied a grape-coloured lipstick,
kajal
to her eyes, and a dash of red
sindoor
on her forehead. She felt like a married woman. This time, she was mentally prepared for their union. It had made a difference.

The room-service boy looked at them with a friendly smile.

She felt a little nervous. Did he suspect they were not really a married couple?

Swapna had warned her, “People will think poorly of you. Even he wouldn’t have any respect for you. Don’t be such an easy catch. Think, think, think…don’t act in haste.”

Anjali shook her head of dismal thoughts.

“You OK?” Siddharth asked during breakfast.

She nodded to mean she was fine.

He pinched her cheek and grinned before he sipped his coffee. Anjali smiled shyly.

Siddharth unexpectedly drew her towards him, lowering his cup on the table. She closed her eyes and enjoyed his tight embrace. But she stopped his wandering hands with a mild protest. Not again, not so soon, she warned her body. She didn’t want to give in so easily, each time, every time.

“Not in a mood for love?” he asked with a wink.

“Not for lovemaking,” she corrected him.

“No worries. Let’s wait for the right time,” he said and winked again.

She felt a little irritated. Why was he winking? Was he just interested in sex?

Siddharth kissed her forehead as he walked to the bathroom.

On their way to Chail, steering the car up the access road, he said, “I discovered Chail while trekking with friends.”

Siddharth preferred the quiet Chail to the popular Shimla. Chail relaxed him, he had said when she asked him for the reason for his fondness for the place.

Anjali sat biting her nails as the car moved along the many blind curves. She shut her eyes tightly each time the car turned around a corner, her body swaying sideways.

The road followed a scenic route. The woods looked cool and tranquil even at noon. There was barely any traffic.

“This road is less travelled, even during weekdays,” Siddharth said.

There were long, deserted stretches. Later, a few women came along with firewood on their shoulders. Some men followed. They led tired horses or yaks down the steep hills.

Was their life boring or peaceful? She assumed it was more peaceful than boring, and maybe difficult.

Siddharth stopped the car at Naldehra to show her the famed nine-hole golf course.

“This course was laid by the viceroy, Lord Curzon, in the early nineties,” Siddharth said. “It’s said that he was fascinated by the spectacular view and named his daughter Alexandra Naldehra.”

They trekked to the picnic spot along a narrow path lined with deodars. The crisp air of the hills made the walk a heavenly experience. Huddled on one side of the path were the log huts rented out to tourists. These were maintained by the Himachal Pradesh Tourism Development Corporation, according to a signboard.

“It is nice and cosy here. We’ll come sometime for a night stay. He turned to her for a reaction as they sat on a solitary bench.

She smiled, though not very excited about the idea at that moment.

The surroundings were green and darker at a distance. It was straight out of a Thomas Hardy novel.
The Woodlanders
, perhaps? She tried to recall, then gave up and looked around, soaking up the serenity.

Her mobile flashed Swapna’s number. Anjali’s heart skipped a beat. She cut off the call. “Shall call you later,” she keyed in with cold fingers.

Surely Swapna would advise her to go back. Would she never give up? Every few weeks, she called up with pleas for her to abandon the “dangerous” track. While Swapna made emotional appeals, Priya was forthright in her reproaches.

A sigh escaped her heavy heart. Siddharth’s arm was on her shoulder. Anjali leaned on him.

But why did he appear emotionally misplaced? Anjali waited for him to say something about their immediate future. But Siddharth seemed to be interested in the surroundings and the few tourists walking towards the clearing. She lost patience, but did not want open the topic herself.

“Let’s walk,” she said. He agreed.

By the time they returned to the spot, the scene had changed. A group of picnickers who had arrived in the meanwhile and the vendors at the scene were creating an annoying ruckus. Locals set up makeshift eateries and played loud music that drowned out the silence of nature. What an abuse! How could anyone think of setting up businesses in paradise? But maybe when you are short of means to feed your family, it did not seem like such an outrageous idea.

Bulky urban men and women with bulging bums and potbellies plonked on aged horses that carried them up the hillock. The piteous creatures were barely allowed to rest for a few minutes before the tour guides hustled them down to cart more loads through the picturesque woods, along the winding river. The poor animals huffed and puffed, and trudged along, shuttling tourists up the rough path. Anjali feared some of them would collapse much before they reached the top.

Tour guides led visitors to the snaking Sutlej river and pointed to the distant snow-capped peaks, where the annual tribal festival was held. They were paid a measly sum for an entire day of hard labour.

“You want a ride?” he asked.

“Oh no.” She gasped almost instantly, her face turning pale. She stared at him with lips drawn apart, startled. He remained straight-faced hardly for a few minutes before breaking into a guffaw.

They sat down on one of the benches. Tourists were laughing and chatting among themselves. Photographers rented out costumes to tourists that were similar to the clothes worn by the hill tribes. The pictures they took would be slipped under thin plastic in family albums and fade into pale yellow memories over the years, she imagined.

“Let’s go,” he said, touching her shoulder. Anjali nodded, though she wanted to sit with him among the deodars forever. It was an ideal moment, the heavenly landscape and Siddharth by her side. She clung to him, head on his shoulder, an arm firmly around his, as if she feared he would leave her in the wilderness if she eased her grip.

“Hey, let’s move,” he said. She reluctantly followed him to the car.

They reached Chail by noon. She was tired.

The cottage was beautiful. The lovely log huts were much in demand during the tourist season, Siddharth had said.

Siddharth had told her some of the many tales associated with the architect of Chail, Maharaja Bhupinder Singh, who was eventually banished from Shimla in the late-nineteenth century. She had also read about many unbelievable, but mostly real, incidents during her research.

The prince’s father, Maharaja Rajinder Singh, had built a palace in Chail as a personal retreat. It was later converted into a hotel by the state government and opened to public.

There were plenty of anecdotes in circulation about Maharaja Bhupinder Singh. When the controversial maharaja ascended the throne in the 1920s, he charmed his subjects and British officers with ease. He impressed women and gained the confidence of top officials, including the British viceroy. His alleged exploits had inspired several authors.

Among the many legends was one that claimed that the maharaja had a motorcade of twenty Rolls Royce cars. According to a published story, the maharaja felt slighted by the British Rolls Royce Company when it rejected his order for a new Rolls Royce. Furious, he gave away some of his old Rolls Royce cars to be used for garbage clearing in Patiala.

Oddly, the maharaja was a good administrator, considering his contribution to his subjects. He had built a monorail system in Patiala. A well-known cricketer, he had constructed the Chail cricket ground, the highest in the world, to promote the game in those days, impressive.

He also fought in the First World War as an honorary lieutenant-colonel, and was later promoted to honorary lieutenant-general.

His personal life was equally colourful, if one was to believe the gossip. He married ten times and had eighty-eight children from his wives and concubines, according to one author.

The maharaja was seven feet tall and well-built. He had a handsome face, intense eyes, a prominent nose, and clearly defined features, not to mention a grand moustache to match his attitude. The images she had seen on some websites endorsed claims of his charismatic personality.

It was also said that the maharaja got so close to the viceroy that the commander-in-chief and other British officers became jealous. His rendezvous in Shimla were also turning into scandalous affairs involving British women.

Among the many stories, one said he charmed the viceroy’s wife with precious jewels and Benares silk. According to one author, the maharaja seduced the viceroy’s daughter, who then eloped with him. Some others disagree. They assert that he had actually seduced the wife of a commander-in-chief who was annoyed with his proximity to the viceroy.

One thing all authors agreed upon was his elopement plan with a British woman from a spot near Mall Road, which thereafter came to be known as Scandal Point. The plan was leaked to the viceroy by a confidant of the maharaja, which led to his banishment from Shimla. The announcement hurt his ego, and he transformed Chail, a beautiful village in his kingdom, into his summer capital.

Yet another version states that the royal lover was actually Maharaja Rajinder Singh, Maharaja Bhupinder Singh’s father, who had an English wife.

Maharaja Bhupinder Singh died at the age of forty-five in “unusual circumstances”, according to one author. Another wrote he died of cardiac arrest. A third claimed he was poisoned by an unhappy mistress.

The evening grew colder. They cuddled under the blanket and watched a movie adaptation of Anna Karenina. Anjali felt an instant connection with the heroine; it was similar to her story. Would destiny catch up with her too? Anjali snuggled up to Siddharth, with no desire to make love.

She was disturbed by his strange indifference at times. During those occasions, she was just a body to him, not a person anymore. Or was she imagining things? She had imagined that he would appreciate the huge risk she had taken. Instead, when they briefly discussed the topic in the evening, he said it was entirely her decision. He was jeopardising his reputation for their relationship. That did not sound quite right.

Siddharth brushed his cheek against hers. She turned to face the wall. He moved his hand to her waist. She grabbed it, kissed him softly, and moved away. She was in no mood for intimacy.

She worried whether their relationship was just a case of glorified adultery. Was it still possible that either of them could wriggle out of it? If Priya were to be believed, it was.

But how was she supposed to do it? Her mind refused to listen. She could not consider being emotionally separated from him, even for a short while. He completed her. Without him, she was lost.

The platonic relationship they had talked about during their initial bonding was long dead. It was perhaps a convenient lie, anyway. That is what Swapna said.

“You’re longing for a companion, a soul mate perhaps. So find someone similar in taste and temperament, but some guy not already taken. There are plenty of suitable men around, Anjali. Better ones. Don’t allow these Siddharths to take advantage of your desperation,” Swapna had tried her best to influence her decision that night.

That was her last attempt to stop her, the night before she had boarded the train for Shimla. If she was right, why was Swapna still living a lonely life? Why was she unable to find her soul mate? That reminded her that she had to call Swapna.

Tucked under the warm blanket with Siddharth in the beautiful isolation of the Chail valley, Anjali was suddenly grateful to destiny for turning him in.

She waited impatiently, and turned towards him. Siddharth kissed her on her forehead. She tilted her head, looked up, and smiled, loving the tenderness. He drew her closer, into a tight hug. She felt safe. How could such a wonderful feeling be forbidden? She settled in his arms, counting his heartbeats. Sometime in the middle of night, the last traces of doubt about the future of their love vanished from her mind as he throbbed within her.