Authors: Sindhu S.
The Plunge (13 page)
When Anjali woke up the next morning, Siddharth’s arms were still holding her, as if she were a prized possession.
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“W
hy don’t we stay here till afternoon? You could go to the lodge by evening,” Siddharth suggested first thing in the morning.
Anjali nodded in agreement. She wanted to be with him as much as possible.
When she hugged him on a sudden urge, he grinned with a tinge of surprise.
“Finally, some initiative,” he said and grabbed her into an embrace. Siddharth kissed Anjali greedily on her neck just as she was about to take her arms off him. She felt her body crushed against his as he moved to the bed over her.
There was no reason to resist. She chided her cautious mind while he moved into her body with a sudden urgency.
“Perfect,” she said to herself as he aroused her passions with a lusty rhythm.
When he lay aside, breathing contentedly, she kissed his lips greedily.
“You will come to Shimla often?” she asked.
“Of course I will.” He kissed her as if to reassure her.
The drive to Shimla was pleasant. They stopped on the way for brunch.
Siddharth smiled at her, and occasionally whistled with the song playing on the car stereo. She felt content.
She would not think about morality for a while. Go with the flow, that is all she would do. That would remove stress from their relationship.
Shimla left her spellbound. The hill station lay scattered, like a toy basket emptied on a mat. There was hardly any level ground. They were forever either climbing up or moving down.
The climb to the Ridge was exhausting. The path leading to the popular tourist spot was the steepest stretch she had ever scaled.
“It’s because you are not used to the hills,” said Siddharth, watching her gasp for breath.
Once at the top, she looked with awe at the numerous houses and other buildings that dotted the slopes. The Ridge was quiet, though there were some tourists around. Maybe, with time, she would discover more such level surfaces, she mused as they sat enjoying the sun.
“Not many tourists are around, as compared to the numbers during the peak season,” Siddharth said.
The natives had Tibetan looks: round faces, tight noses, narrow eyes, high cheekbones, and broad foreheads. The hill people were simple, strong, hardworking, and kind. The men were handsome. The women moved about with poise. They had fair complexion and pink cheeks. Perhaps it was the climate.
They sat watching the crowd at the Ridge for a long time.
They did not have to spend much time with his publisher friend, as most of the research plan had been cleared much before. The elderly man briefed Anjali on the information that she had to collect for the book during her research at the Indian Institute of Advanced Studies.
“Let’s go to the institute,” Siddharth suggested in the evening.
An abandoned signboard of the institute lay on the sidewalk as the car moved towards the building.
Once Siddharth parked the car inside the complex, they got out and walked to the majestic structure. The winding path offered a breathtaking view of dark deodar woods, which gave the place all the romance she could dream of. She strolled along the path, absorbing the scene, as if preparing to relish it at a later date.
The majestic grey-tinted structure appeared before them, triggering sadness in Anjali. It was similar to the sinking feeling she used to have years ago when her parents dropped her off at the boarding school at the end of vacation.
The huge gate that led to the stately building spoke of its regal past, once upon a time. Could hundred-plus years be long enough to be called once upon a time?
The institute was secured by tall pines; rows of them gave the campus a picture postcard look.
“This place was originally built as the residence of the viceroy, Lord Dufferin. It was the only building to occupy a hill by itself,” explained Siddharth, more like a guide. “In the late 1880s, I think,” he added, eyes fixed at a distant point above his head, to the left.
The library had an impressive collection of books and research papers. Over the years, hundreds of research fellows had worked on various topics at the institute.
Anjali knew it was going to be an amazing experience. Her secret retreats with Siddharth would make it even more exciting. Finally, she had the ideal life she had wanted.
She filled out the forms and completed the formalities for her stay and work at the institute. Siddharth escorted her to her accommodations at the rear end of the institute.
The cottage was small, but warm and cosy. The Scottish architecture gave the place a dreamlike quality. It had a small porch, bedroom, washroom, and a tiny open kitchen in one corner of the hall. She would be happy here, she knew.
Siddharth sat quietly beside her on a bench outside. He appeared lost, perhaps thinking about his family or work.
After a while, he placed his hand on hers and said, “I’d better get going.”
As they returned to the row houses, he said, “Stay cheerful.”
Sadness filled her heart.
Siddharth hugged her tightly at the top of the steps that led to the cottages allotted to scholars. She held back tears, though sadness made her heart weigh heavier by the minute. She stood at the door of the cottage like a little girl, forlorn, with a sinking feeling.
“I’ll visit you as often as I can,” Siddharth said with concern as he disentangled his fingers from her grip. He arranged her unruly hair as a comforting guardian would before walking out of the complex.
She stood outside her cottage for a while watching him walk away unhurriedly.
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I
t was May already, three months since she had started work on her book.
Anjali locked her cottage and walked towards the institute. Some other researcher was walking in the same direction a little ahead of her. Or was it a staff member, or visitor? It was difficult to identify the figure from afar.
Now that she was getting the hang of it, Anjali felt more comfortable with research. Thanks to Siddh, she was in this dream world, pursuing a more fulfilling career. Suddenly she missed him.
Siddharth visited her once a month. She waited longingly for those days. Sometimes he came more often than once, depending on availability of excuses and commitments in Delhi.
She waited for him with her research updates. He shared interesting anecdotes from his weeks away. She perfectly loved the arrangement.
She had read a lot about Himachal Pradesh and the historical importance of Shimla during her initial weeks at the institute. A lot of effort had gone into the making of the city. It was not easy to recreate an English countryside in the Indian hills. It was undeniably an amazing job.
Anjali was in a dreamy state during the first few weeks in Shimla. There were endless stretches of dark woods or rows of hills that overlapped each other in every direction she turned.
Whenever she had spot interviews with local residents, she was either climbing a steep stretch or navigating down a slope. Roads connected only the main tourist spots. People were always walking, scaling heights, or disappearing into valleys. Perhaps that explained the fitness of the Himachalis.
“There’s a lot of legwork involved,” Binoy Chatterjee, her research guide, had warned her during their first meeting.
Anjali felt watched over by nature as she shadowed alone among the dreamy shades. She always felt protected.
Shimla had an unusual landscape that intimidated and charmed her at the same time. The Mumbai-Pune highway also had captivating scenery. But Shimla, at 2,100 metres above sea level, was altogether different: wild and whimsical.
The occidental architecture gave the place a classy look. Scottish, Swiss, English, or Scandinavian log houses were offered to tourists by Shimla hotels, inspired by the popular old models in the hills.
“Shimla has many names: Jewel of the Orient, Wonder of Colonial Era, and Town of Dreams among them,” explained Ajay Kapur, her fellow researcher, who was introducing her to her new town.
Fellows who did similar research drew close. Some encouraged her to seek out new perspectives while researching. Ajay was most helpful.
Ajay’s research was on the aspirations of the residents who lived in Shimla between 1940 and 1960. He had already completed half of his two-year project.
The occidental architecture gave the place a retro look. There were many majestic mansions, as well as small cottages, all over the hills.
Some dwellings sat precariously on the edges of hillocks, while others were tucked into clefts. Some old cottages perched on the edge appeared they would collapse any moment.
Most houses had gardens in the front yard and scenic ravines or wooded hillocks as the backdrop. The green frames of the glass windows blended beautifully with the greenery around. She considered herself lucky to be there.
English house names such as The Cedars, Winter Field, Green Gate, Woodville, Oakover, Strawberry Hill, and Eaglemount gave the place a dreamlike quality, much like her own life.
Shimla had ninety-one Tudor-style heritage buildings with wooden frames and shingled eaves, according to the municipal corporation records that she had referred to a week ago.
The sloping roofs were secured with tin sheets to withstand snowfall and the monsoon rains that lashed the hills. She had read in one of the books on Shimla that all roofs were painted red during the British Raj. Residents had to paint them every two years, by law. Now, the town, with its faded roofs, looked like a weather-beaten painting on a royal canvas, not a proud trophy. Sad.
The rich colonial past of Shimla would be a rage with European tourists if it were marketed well.
Siddharth had done his schooling in Shimla. He had published many articles exposing the poor administration and the missing political will to speed up the development projects.
Shimla made an inviting retirement destination. She could own a cottage here. And she could move to the plains during the freezing winter months, as many residents did.
“Can’t wait to have you in my arms,” Siddharth’s words that morning made her desperate for his embrace. He rang up twice every day.
Both Swapna and Priya were wrong. She belonged to Siddharth, without a doubt. And Shimla was their secret hideout.
Besides, research excited her. Why did she not think of this before? Anyway, better late than never. She stepped into the institute holding that thought.
“At least fifteen British viceroys had used this building as their residence till 1947, when the British left India for good,” Anjali heard the tour guide explain to a group of visitors.
Architect Henry Irwin had constructed an imposing baronet’s castle, a familiar style for the Scotsman, which was now used as the institute. It was set in the middle of a sprawling campus surrounded by deodar woods. The building was made entirely of stone and had a high ceiling, which made it a unique structure even in Shimla.
“Occupied by Lord Dufferin, this place came to be known as Viceregal Lodge. Later the building was named Rashtrapati Niwas after the second President of free India, Dr. S. Radhakrishnan, had come to live here,” the guide continued her narration.
“The institute opened its doors to researchers in 1965 to work on projects related to culture. The ballroom-turned-library has a huge collection of reference books. The upper floors are set aside as studies for scholars,” she added.
Scholars like her, mused Anjali.
The institute accepted requests from twenty scholars each year. With luck, she could continue research on some other topic and spend up to three years here. She smiled at the prospect.
“This display board you see above the fireplace used to exhibit arms and armaments during the British rule. You can see the imprints of the weaponry even now. The place where you see the Indian emblem used to have the British emblem before independence.” The guide’s shrill voice travelled through the room like a sharp frosty wind through the pines.
“The bell hung over there was gifted to the viceroy as a signatory by the King of Nepal.”
The girl continued her narration. The honeymoon couples among the tourists held onto their partners with unashamed desperation, familiar to love-trained eyes. Most of them appeared more interested in the geography of their partner than the history of the nation.
“This was the first building to get electricity in India.”
That was news! Anjali watched the girl take the tourists to the other end of the building. She sat on a spare chair in the administrative office and waited for the clerk to return from his tea break.
Siddharth will be back tomorrow. He kept his word. When he promised to visit, he did. He made some excuse: a conference, a meeting, an interview… She waited for him like an adoring wife.
She loved his surprise visits. Those were the days he was in high spirits. They would rent a car and go to interesting picnic spots. He would play her favourite music in the car, love songs from old Hindi movies, while they drove around. She was glad that he, too, enjoyed lazy walks through the woods.
The nights stripped them of all restraints, when their hungry bodies fed on lust. She had imagined their physical attraction for each other would decrease with time. Strangely, the pull grew stronger with each visit, even when it happened after a fight. He was rather more aggressive when they made love following an argument. That was exciting.
Why did he appear thoughtful at times? What was troubling him? He could discuss it with her! Was it some issue at home, or office?
He had looked restless during the last visit, two weeks ago. It was as if he was confused about something. She hoped he didn’t consider their relationship a mistake. It was too late to think along those lines.
The tour guide continued her narration in a monotonous tone, closer to where she was waiting, which brought her back to reality.
“This is the conference room where the details of the India-Pakistan partition were discussed. Now the room is used for academic discussions by researchers. The cloth that covers the walls of the room has been changed many times in the past. British viceroys who occupied the lodge got them changed to their taste.”
