Page 110 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
‘Oh?’
‘So you wrote back to Libby?’ she asked.
‘I thought it polite ...’ Ghulam threw off his jacket. His shirt stuck to his torso. He had lived in Calcutta for years but he had never quite got used to the draining humidity of the hot season.
‘Tea?’ said Fatima.
‘I’ll go and wash first,’ Ghulam said, hastily plucking the letter from her hand.
He went to his room and stripped off his sweat-soaked clothes. Padding to the washroom, he scooped tepid water from the bucket and dowsed himself. He let out a sigh of relief as the water trickled over his hair and down his body. All the time, he savoured the thought of the unopened letter propped on the table next to his bed, wondering at its contents. Would it be a few polite lines confirming that Libby wasleaving for England? Or would she confide in him further? He had felt that in her first letter, Libby had held herself in check, unsure of the response she would get. Had she expected him to rebuff her? As it turned out, she had waited weeks for a reply. He had felt bad about that and had written at once to explain his silence.
So why had he replied? Since she had left for Assam, he had tried so hard to put the vivacious Libby from his mind by cramming his days with work and political lobbying. But come the long, unbearable nights, Ghulam had been unable to banish thoughts of her sensual beauty. He had not craved a woman like that since his passionate, tempestuous affair with Cordelia. But that had ended in bitter wrangling and her devastating accusation that he was a traitor to the cause of freedom for India. He had thought he would never recover from the hurt and certainly never imagined he would ever feel such attraction again. He had not wanted to; he had sworn to close off his heart to such pain and dedicate his life to his socialist ideals. Then Libby had burst into his life like a monsoon storm and knocked him over.
He gave a dry laugh at the irony of it. For over half his life he had fought the British for independence in any way he could: protests both peaceful and violent, boycotts, seditious speeches, imprisonment and passive resistance. Yet on the eve of graspingSwaraj– freedom – he had fallen in love with a Britisher.
If God existed then he had a sense of humour. But try as he did to overcome his desire, Ghulam was left sleepless by the memory of Libby in a green satin evening gown, with her auburn hair rippling over her bare shoulders and her mouth curving in a generous smile. Those kissable lips.
Ghulam dried his hair vigorously on a thin cotton towel. He retreated to his room and pulled on a simple white kurta and drawstring trousers. Then, with fingers trembling in anticipation, he reached for Libby’s letter and opened it.
Belgooree
Libby poured over Ghulam’s second letter.
My dear Libby
I was delighted to get your letter by return. I too wish I could climb on a magic carpet and be transported to the hills – the relief from the Calcutta heat would be welcome. We alternate between dust storms and a few listless drops of rain that can’t really be bothered to fall.
But more than that, it would be very agreeable to land on the lawn at Belgooree and take tea beside you. This would have to be done out of sight of your father who, no doubt, would be disapproving of his precious daughter consorting with such a Prodigal. I wonder, does he even know we are corresponding?
You are quite right in spotting my faults – a misspent adulthood of excessive toffee-eating and a weakness for tobacco have been my undoing. Those two – and perhaps a third: finding myself distracted from work by thoughts of a pretty Britisher with red hair and a taste for nimbu pani.
Manzur sounds a worthy young man. I suppose it was my own fault for asking about him, but little did I expect that he would take up over half your letter. Do you berate him for selling out to the capitalist system by accepting a managerial post in a tea company? I fear you are probably far too kind to him and offer him toffees instead.
Tell me more about Belgooree. I have never been to the Khasia Hills, though my brother Rafi tells me theyare beautiful and the people are good-humoured cattle herders.
My fond regards,
Ghulam
PS The India Independence Bill is to be introduced into the House of Commons in London next week. Assuming that the Indian-hating Churchill doesn’t try to sink it, then it should be full steam ahead.
Libby could hardly contain her glee at Ghulam’s second letter. It was so much more playful – even flirtatious – than the first and she wondered if he had written it after chewing paan. He didn’t drink liquor but she had heard how the betel nut narcotic could also have a stimulating effect on the senses. Whether he had or not, to Libby the words were intoxicating. Could it be that Ghulam was a little bit jealous of her friendship with Manzur? Or was he just teasing her with his jesting comments about capitalist tea planters and toffees? She traced her finger over the closing endearment: fond regards.
Libby sensed that a shift in their relationship was taking place, a deepening of feeling which they could express in writing but had been unable to say face-to-face. She kissed the letter and slipped it into the pocket of her dress.
Calcutta
As the city broiled in oppressive heat and the tension between communities rose daily, Ghulam took to sleeping on the flat roof of Amelia Buildings. Lying on the old lumpy bedroll that he had carried all over northern India in his campaigning days, he smoked and looked up at the sky. Sometimes the clouds cleared to show a scattering of stars. Onother nights the sky glowed an ominous red from distant fires – whether started deliberately or from the accidental catching fire of bleached-dry grass and timbers, he couldn’t be sure. If only the rains would come and bring relief – and cool off rising tempers too; this heat was enough to send the sanest of men mad.
Ghulam pulled out the latest letter from Libby. He didn’t like to keep re-reading it in front of Fatima. His sister didn’t approve of his corresponding with the Robson girl. ‘She’s too young for you – and it’s not fair to lead her on. Nothing can come of it. With the worsening situation here, she’ll probably decide to go back to England soon, just like Adela did. Don’t give her false hope, brother.’
Was that what he was doing: giving her false hope? Ghulam searched his heart. It was true that he was flattered by Libby’s attraction towards him. He had never thought of himself as handsome, unlike his brother Rafi who had been gifted the even features and white-toothed smile of a matinee idol. But Libby was the first woman since Cordelia who had excited his interest, not only physically but also because she shared so many of his ideals and a droll sense of humour.
Wasn’t that more important than them coming from the same background? It would be hypocritical, surely, to spout about freedom and democracy for India but refuse Libby’s friendship because she was British and he was Indian. She had once taken him to task for his reverse snobbery in dismissing the Anglo-Indian and European minorities as being of less importance than Indians. At the time, he had smarted at the accusation that he was being just as prejudiced as the British or Mahasabha Hindus, but later had seen the truth in it. Ghulam pulled on his cigarette.
Friendship? Was that what they were offering each other: purely friendship? He felt a familiar tug in his guts as he thought of her. He knew he wanted more, but what did Libby want? He remembered the way she had kissed him in the taxi; the supressed desire had beenpalpable, though he had denied it at the time. Would they ever get the chance to act on it? That was another matter.
Perhaps this letter-writing was all a pleasant distraction from worrying about the uncertain future and the imminent British handover. They were hurtling towards the August deadline and yet there was no clarity on where partition would be and there were still referenda to be held in Assam and the North West Frontier over their futures. In the light of such seismic shifts, what harm was there in a little intimate correspondence?
