KAJOLLOTA
1942, Assam, Colonial India
Through the narrow rambling trail by the dying river, ten-year-old Bapukan ran with all his might. Drenched in sweat, his discolored banian clung to his thin hunger-clad body. His frail naked feet bled from the torture of thorns and spikey stones. And yet, under the merciless July sun, he continued to sprint. He had no time to lose. “The package has arrived ” . That was the message from Jibon Kokai, the leader of Mrityunjoy Bahini, the local freedom fighter unit. Bapukan needed to inform rest of the group waiting near the old king’s tomb. His thirsty eyes scanned for some water in the river, but the muddy dying river had nothing to offer. He kept running….
Kajollota wiped the sweat from her forehead with the Aanchal of her blue-bordered Chador . The pounding in her chest matched the rhythm of her racing thoughts, her mind echoing John Keats’ verses. She felt a hot flash blood rushing to her head.
“What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
She took a deep breath trying calm her nerves.”
kuu…kuu…
The sound of the cuckoo resonated in her ears. It felt as if the spring festival of Bihu was around the corner. She imagined herself dressing up in traditional Muga silk Mekhela Chadar, with bright red vermilion Bindi on her forehead, just like the rising sun and purple and white Kapau orchid in her bun, dancing to sound of traditional instruments of Dhol, Pepa , Gogona.
Kajollota, come back to reality. This is not the time.
Her subconscious mind forcibly reminded her. But her heart ached to dream more. She hadn’t dreamt in a long time. She wanted to dream about him, to think about him, to imagine his soft touch on her hand. He was the long-forgotten dream she yearned to remember. Maybe soon, she thought.
Kajollota knew that in this part of the country, cuckoos didn’t call in summer. It was Monai signaling her to be ready. She had been prepared long before Bapukon brought the news of Assistant Commissioner Turner’s arrival from Kolkata. The entire country was in the throes of the British Quit India Movement. The small village in the remote corner of northeast India was not untouched. The British came as merchants and had become rulers. They had been systematically exploiting and looting the country’s wealth for almost 200 years now, treating people like slaves, collapsing the entire economy with heavy taxes, killing one industry after another, forcing people to take to the streets. But no more, Kajollota whispered as she picked up the binoculars lying next to her. The whole country was coming together to fight for freedom. No more slavery; we would be free, she assured herself.
The hillock behind the old king’s tomb boasted the most splendid view of the beautiful valley below. It had an undisturbed view of the spiral road running parallel to the dying river. So many memories here,she thought, as flashes of beautiful moments spent at that very spot made her restless. Kajollota adjusted her position behind the pile of rocks. Looking through her lenses, she could see the black Alvis Firebird racing through the village road, splashing dust all around. She could feel the arrogance oozing out of the car as if it owned the road, as if it owned all the people.
It is our land. You have to go back! Kajollota screamed in her mind. We will win freedom at any cost. She picked up the rifle lying next to her and aimed at the moving car, trying to calibrate the range. This is a bigger fight, bigger than any one of us, she assured herself. This is for the country. Maybe Gandhi is right from his perspective; ahimsa and peaceful protest may be the answer someday. But that day is not today, when British officers are mercilessly gunning down peaceful protests everywhere. This needs a tough response. She told herself .
Brushing her fingers through the trigger, fondling it, a satisfactory smile slipped through her lips. Once she pulled this trigger, history would change forever for Raibahadur Dwaraka Prasad Bezborua’s family. The family, which had been faithful to the British government for generations, now had rebellion running through its veins.
The car was now coming into range. Kajollota looked through the eyepiece, trying to zero in on her target. She could see his short golden hair dancing in the wind. Then she saw the blue eyes carrying the depth of the sea in them. In a flash, her life passed in front of her eyes. For a moment, she froze.
“‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever!’ What does it mean, Rob?”
“It’s just what it says, silly,” Robert giggled.
“Why do poets have to be so cryptic?” Ten-year-old Kajollota complained to her best friend Robert as they stood by the river, discussing poetry that she hardly understood.
“Otherwise, you wouldn’t value their words.” He held her hand and jumped into the river, splashing water everywhere. Their innocent laughter lingered in the air for a long time.
As the car barreled down the road, time seemed to slow down for Kajollota. She had mere seconds to act, but each tick of the clock was a drumbeat in her heart, echoing the painful memories of her brother’s disfigured, bruised face, and the lifeless bodies of her friends. The decision was stark, unavoidable, as clear as the sun in the sky.
She allowed herself one final glimpse of Robert, his face lit by the unburdened joy of youth, his smile as bright as it had been in childhood. She could sense his excitement, could almost hear his thoughts, echoes of their shared moments by the riverside. Yet, like the river that had once been the lifeblood of their friendship, their love too was ebbing away.
With a deep, resolute breath, she pulled the trigger. The world shifted. The roar of the gunshot gave way to a chilling silence, punctuated only by the car’s screech as it ground to an abrupt halt. A chilling trail of crimson blood snaked its way down the dusty road.
The driver sat motionless, paralyzed by shock, his world shattered in an instant. After a moment that stretched into eternity, a guttural scream ripped from his throat, echoing across the hillocks and the paddy fields, a chilling announcement of the tragedy that had unfolded.
The once deserted road would soon be swarming with people. The manhunt for the freedom fighters would amplify to a fever pitch. Undeterred, Kajollota retrieved her rifle, her steps unhurried as she disappeared into the cover of the dense jungle beyond the hillock. There was no rush, no urgency. She had just extinguished a life, a life intertwined with her own in ways no one else could fathom.She just shot her best friend, her soulmate, the man she loved. And she had no intention of fleeing from the consequences of her actions.
1930, Assam, Colonial India
Gagloorrrrr ..Gagloorrrrr…
The crescent moon hung timidly in the western sky, casting a cautious glow over the land below. From the gnarled branch of a solitary jackfruit tree that stood as a sentinel between the woods and the river, an owl hooted, amplifying the uncanny stillness of the night. The first blush of dawn was yet a couple of hours away, leaving the tranquil river waters in a quiet embrace with darkness.
Muluka took a long drag from his opium pipe. Entrenched in a fog of opium-induced stupor, he stared vacantly at the river, oblivious to the grand Rahu fish that had slyly nibbled the bait off his carefully crafted bamboo fishing pole. His pole bowed under the weight of the writhing fish, but Muluka was too far lost in his drug-induced haze to notice. His world was a whirlwind of colors — red, blue, yellow, purple — hues he could hardly name, weaving an enchanting tapestry around him.
Just as he was sinking deeper into this tranquil dreamscape, he was jolted back to reality by the unmistakable sound of a woman’s wail, echoing through the dense woods. Muluka looked around, his senses piqued by the faint rustle of dry leaves. Who could be out in the wilderness at this ungodly hour? The sun was yet a full prohor away from its grand entrance.
He’d heard tales of the Dainis — witches who prowled the woods, thirsting for human blood. He had always dismissed such stories as folklore and superstition. But now, as the comforting haze of opium began to recede, replaced by a looming sense of dread, he found himself contemplating the terrifying possibility of those tales holding some grain of truth.
“Koon ou xheiya? Bhodai neki?” Who’s there? Is it you, Bhodai? Muluka called out, his voice shaky yet filled with as much courage as he could muster.
Silence. The only reply was his own voice, thrown back at him, echoing through the dense woods in an eerie mockery of his fright.
“Oh, there’s nothing. How silly of me.” Muluka sighed with relief, chuckling at his own gullibility. He reached for his pipe, preparing for another soothing puff when the sound came again. This time, a soft murmur, like a woman whispering followed by a short, chilling giggle. It seemed to him as though the shadowy hand of fear and death itself was reaching out for him from the edge of the woods. With his heart pounding in his chest, he jumped to his feet and without a backward glance, dashed towards the safety of the village.
Kajollota struggled to suppress her laughter. Had she been alone, she would have derived even more pleasure from spooking Muluka. Emerging from the woods and into the clearing by the river — where Muluka had been savoring his tranquil moment before they scared him away — she took the opportunity to properly observe the boy she had just encountered in the woods.
Bathing in the soft moonlight, she noticed his skin was a pale white, unlike anything she’d seen before, accompanied by hair of a golden hue. She pondered how it might shimmer under the morning sun. She was intrigued by his blue eyes and the knickerbockers he wore, fastened with suspenders. Her cousin had worn something similar during his early years, but nobody older than nine wore such an outfit. Boys in her circle wore Dhuti, Paijamas, or Potloong. Judging by appearances, he was definitely 2–3 years her senior. Come Bihu she would turn ten, which would put him at around twelve/thirteen. After quickly performing this mental calculation, she couldn’t help but find him slightly amusing.
“Why are you laughing?” Robert’s patience was wearing thin due to her relentless stares and giggles. Ever since his arrival, everyone had been staring at him as if he was some strange spectacle, an exotic creature paraded for amusement at the zoo. Surely they had seen other white people before, given that all the tea estate managers were British officers. Then it dawned on him: perhaps they had never seen a British child before. Most British officers in this part of the country left their families back in England. This revelation helped him feel slightly more at ease with the people and his surroundings.
“What’s your name?” he asked her.
Kajollota smiled. Although she was yet to start her formal English education, she understood at least basic English words like ‘name.’
“Kajollota,” she replied.
Robert smiled. What an unusual name, he thought. He wasn’t even sure if he could pronounce it the way she did.
“Tumar naam ki?”What’s your name ? She asked him in Assamese, pointing to him as she tried to explain using signs.
“Robert,” he responded.
“Robak?” She laughed again. “Oh! You are the son of Bor Sahab they’re all talking about?”
Robert couldn’t understand what she said in the native language, but he kept smiling, trying to ignore the gross mispronunciation of his name. He liked something about her. He felt as if they were kindred spirits, venturing into the dark woods at this godforsaken hour.
She held his hand and almost flew towards the river, pulling him with her. She sat down by a large rock, soaking her feet in the water. Robert sat down beside her. He enjoyed the tickling sensation of the water on his feet.
He noticed the fishing pole lying nearby and asked her through gestures what it was.
“Boroxhi,” Kajollota said.
Robert didn’t understand. Kajollota pulled on the fishing pole and the weary fish at the other end of the line stirred once again. Her eyes lit up with excitement.
“Oh, it’s a fishing pole. My Uncle William used to fish a lot.”
Kajollota paid little attention to what he was saying; she was focused on bringing the fish up. She signaled for Robert to help her reel in the fish. Both children tugged on the pole to get the fish out. It continued to struggle. Suddenly, Robert pulled out a small knife from his pocket, cut the fishing line, and released the fish back into the river.
“Why on earth did you do that?” She shouted in Assamese. But watching the fish swim away, she couldn’t help but smile. In an instant, a bond of friendship had been formed between them. Both children sat down, silently staring at the stars.
Kajollota felt a wave of empathy for Robert; she had heard he had recently lost his mother. She never knew her mother, who had passed away when she was an infant. Occasionally, she missed her, but the pain wasn’t as intense, as she had never really known her. However, for Robert, she thought, it must be incredibly hard; perhaps that’s why he seemed so melancholy earlier. Her brother had told her that their mother was a star in the sky, so whenever she missed her mother, she would come to the riverbank, gaze at the sky, and attempt to find her mother among the stars. Maybe Robert was trying to do the same. Any one of those stars could be their mothers. She pointed to one of the brightest stars in the northern sky. “Ma,” she said.
Tears started streaming down his fair skin. She was at a loss for words; she had never seen a boy his age cry before, but she didn’t mock him. She knew this wound would take a long time to heal.
Rai Bahadur Dwarka Prasad Bezborua was known for his impeccable integrity, honesty, and strong business acumen. Being the eldest son of Mouzadaar Uma Prasad Bezborua, he was born with a silver spoon, but he didn’t take his family’s wealth and good fortune for granted. In the early 1800s as tea or cha (as the Chinese would call it) became popular in England and other parts of Europe, the European businessmen acquired tea from China and made tremendous profits by selling it in England and other European countries. It was believed that tea couldn’t be cultivated anywhere else but in China. The weather and the expertise required to cultivate it was only available there. Increasing prices of tea and demand for precious silver coins were making the trade with China increasingly difficult and the European businessmen were at the mercy of Chinese tradesmen. The British government was desperately looking for an alternative. In 1834, an enthusiastic British officer Robert Bruce made a pivotal discovery. He had heard that the Singphou tribe of Assam prepared a drink that was very similar to cha. Realizing the importance of that piece of information Robert immediately acted and with the help of an Assamese nobleman, Maniram Dewan, found tea in a remote area of Assam. Soon with the help of the government, tea gardens were set up,experts were brought in from China for mass-scale cultivation of tea and Assam became one of the prime locations for tea cultivation. Even though initially all the tea gardens were owned by the British Government,but later the local businessmen were allowed to set up their own plantation. Dwaraka Prasad’s father Mouzadar Uma Prasad, started a small tea estate near the historic town of Jorhat, the last capital of the glorious Ahom Kingdom. Uma Prasad had planted the seed of the business, it flourished with the hard work and business acumen of Dwaraka Prasad. For years he worked tirelessly to build up his company into an empire that made him one of Assam’s most influential businessmen.
The wooden swing made a crackling sound every time she challenged its limits. Its ropes were tied to the strongest branch of the old guava tree at the far end of the garden, yet she knew someday it would break. The bees attracted to the sweet smell of guava occasionally threatened her with a sting. I should tell Bipin da to change the location of the swing. Kajollota thought as she got down from the swing and lay on the dusty ground staring blankly at the clear blue sky. The pristine azure vastness engulfed her senses; she hardly cared about hearing an earful from her aunt Damayanti for spoiling her clothes.
She closed her eyes and listened to the chirping of birds that had gathered near a flowering Kadamba tree nearby. She could almost taste their song in her mouth; it was sweet like honey. A gust of wind rustled through her hair; it carried with it the fragrance of flowers in full bloom — jasmine, lily, hibiscus, marigold — and washed over her face like a cool shower on a hot summer day. Kajollota inhaled deeply and smiled contentedly; for her this was what life was all about!
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die
She tried to remember the poem her brother Bipin read to her a few days back. She had just started learning English; she could remember the words but had yet to understand what these words meant. She opened the English textbook Bipin had brought from Kolikata, and tried to concentrate. But her mind wandered towards the kitchen. She loved to watch the elaborate preparation that went on inside the kitchen when they invited anyone over for lunch or dinner. Kajollota decided to sneak a peek without her aunt seeing her.
The elongated L-shaped kitchen was on the right-wing of the bungalow: which was made of half concrete, half bamboo, Ikora, and mud. Kajollota crept up as quietly as she could until she found a safe spot behind the window on the left corner of the kitchen overlooking the bamboo woods, where her aunt would hardly notice her. She pushed the window to open slightly, just enough for her to peer through.
The kitchen looked like a busy beehive. Everyone was frantically running in and out, trying to complete their chores on time. Sitting at one end of the kitchen, her aunt Damayanti looked like the queen bee. Rangdhali bai was busy cleaning and cutting the big Rohu fish Muluka caught that morning, while Monimala was carefully grinding mustard seeds, chilies, garlic and pepper together in the stone mortar with a pestle to prepare the marinade for the fish. In a big pan Jonaki bai was frying Puthi fish. There were many varieties of fish on the menu that day: Rohu,Magur, Sol, Lasin Bhagun, Puthi, Kawoi .The smell of fried fish in mustard oil made her hungrier. Suddenly she felt a pinching pain in her ear. She looked up to find her brother Bipin twisting her ear.
“Did you complete your lessons? Why are you idling around here?”
“Bidya Xhopot dada, I swear dada, I was studying, but then I got hungry.” She almost cried.
“Well, come on then — let’s get some guava from the tree and talk about your lessons” Bipin smiled.
Kajollota jumped with excitement. Doing lessons with her brother was one of her favorite activities. She was always astonished by his versatility and command over different subjects — be it maths, literature, or politics. She was amazed by the thought-provoking discussions he brought up, her absolute favorite topic of course was the tidbits of his college life in Kolikata. Once he said that in Kolikata some girls were learning to drive motor cars. She wondered one day, if she would be allowed to drive her father’s car.
“Who’s coming for dinner tonight, Lota?” Bipin asked as he lay on the grass, watching Kajollota bury herself in a book.
“Don’t you know, dada? The Bor-Sahab from Kumaroni tea garden will come with his son,” she said, surprised that Bipin didn’t know this vital piece of information. She continued: “I saw his son; he is rather odd. He must be 12 yrs old but still wears knickerbockers.” She giggled.
“Where did you see him?”
“Oh… around,” Kajollota realized she had spoken too much, and now she couldn’t answer without exposing herself. But thankfully, Bipin’s mind was on something else.
“I have heard that Bor-Sahab is a very good man. You know he insisted that he would taste our native cuisine.” Kajollota tried to change the subject. “That is why Damayanti Pehi has been frantic since morning.”
“They are all the same, Kajol ..all the same. They think they are better than us. They think we are dark-skinned slaves.” Kajollota could see the rage in Bipin’s eyes.
Ever since he had gone to Kolikata for higher studies, he had changed. He argued with their father about everything. Kajolota didn’t care who was right or who was wrong. The two people she loved most were drifting apart, making her very unhappy and scared. Ma would have known how to handle them, she thought. For a moment, she felt that unknown pain in her heart again.
With the westbound sun,the elongated dinner hall lit up with kerosene lamps hanging from the lofty ceiling. Bouquets of Lotus , Lilies ,Orchids neatly arranged on the dark red mahogany dining table spoke of the excitement and importance of the dinner guest.
The West-facing window of Kajollota’s room had a good view of the pathway and the verandah. She ran to this window to get a glimpse of the car as it honked announcing guest’s arrival.The scarlet red Duesenberg Touring piqued her interest more than the people inside . As she was admiring the beauty of the car , a tall lean man in a black suit steeped out of it. He had a grave demeanor about him . Her father greeted him with ardent enthusiasm .
It was a great honor to receive the Bor-Sahab, such a high-ranking British officer, at their house. To mark the occasion, Rai Bahadur Dwaraka Prasad had also invited a couple of notable people of the local community to meet Bor-Sahab. As her father was busy making introductions, Kajollota’s eyes wandered, looking for the curious boy she met the other night.Then she saw him getting down from the car, wearing a black suit like his father; with his otherwise unruly golden hair tightly brushed, she was pleasantly surprised by how different he looked.
After almost half an hour which seemed like a lifetime, she was called into the living room. Kajollota was nervous about Robert spilling the beans about their little rendezvous by the riverside. But Robert’s astonished eyes assured her he had no prior knowledge of her being Rai Bahadur’s daughter. As her father introduced her, bemused, she followed through with the courtesy of the traditional greeting of Namaskar.
She was relieved when her father said, “Majoni, why don’t give Robert a tour of the house ?” Both the children were happy to get away from boring political and business discussions of the elders.
“You can call me Rob.” He said in broken Assamese.
Kajollota’s face lit up with childlike enthusiasm when he spoke in Assamese. She had no idea he could speak her language. But the mystery of his broken Assamese was solved when he pulled out a notebook with handwritten notes that contained basic conversation phrases.
“This is my father’s book,” he smiled, showing her the notebook. Kajollota noticed when he smiled; his exposed high canine teeth made him look unusually attractive.
As they walked through the elongated verandah infused with the smell of star Jasmin from the garden, Robert stopped for a moment to take a deep breath as if to inhale all the freshness of the air into his city-bred lungs. A group of fireflies greeted them with glee as they stepped into the dark pathway to the library.
“Do you know fireflies flash these lights to look for a mating partner? It is their love signal.”
Kajollota giggled, and Robert felt his ears grow hot with embarrassment. He cursed himself for his idiocy — the word “mating partner” and “love” had always been taboo in her world.
What a daft thing to say — he thought.
No spoke for a moment . The awkwardness of the moment faded behind the drapery of silence.
As Kajollota opened the opulent mahogany door that stood as the guard to her sacred sanctum — the library, where she spent most of her time — she smiled at the familiar sight of this place.
Robert was surprised to see the exotic collection of books. It was a treasure trove of knowledge across the world — from east to west, from poetry to mathematics, from Shelly and Keats to Omar Khayam; from Shakespeare, Dante, and Gorky to Sharat Chandra,Tagore, and Lakshminath Bezbarua; Illiad, Odissi, and Scandinavian Sagas to Ramayan, Mahabharata, Puranas; Travel stories from Marco Polo, Vasco Da Gama, and Ibn Battuta to Huwenchnag, Fa-Hien. Robert’s grandfather had a vast library, but that was nothing compared to this. It mostly contained books from western scholars but had a feeble collection of books from the east. He envied Kajollota with this easy access to such a treasure.
“Do you know Omar Khayyam was more of a mathematician than a poet ?” — picking a worn-out copy of Khayyam’s Rubai, he said.
“Yes,” She almost didn’t let him finish. “Not only mathematician, but also an astronomer. He invented a new solar calendar that was much more precise than the lunar calendar followed in Persia at that time.” She continued with a smitten voice “and what a mathematician he was. Apart from solving complicated mathematical problems, he figured out a way to translate geometry into algebra. ” Her eyes lit up with a magical sparkle as she spoke; her passion for science and mathematics and Khayyam himself was unmistakable. Robert knew he could listen to her for hours, but they were called for dinner.
The dinner table was set with exquisite care and attention to detail. Bell metal plates were arranged for eighteen guests, each one containing a heap of rice neatly shaped into a bowl, with a green chili on top. Five different kinds of pitikas — mashes — were arranged around the rice: potato, egg-plant, fish, gooseberry, and pumpkin.
Eight bell metal bowls placed in a semi-circle surrounding each plate contained Toor daal with green papaya, Khar-an alkaline vegetable curry, goat curry, Masor Tenga — a sour fish curry, sauteed green leaves, blackened duck curry with pepper and white melon, fish cooked with mustard and yogurt with jaggery. At the center of the table was a basket full of apples, bananas, and oranges.
A large bowl filled with rice pudding sat in the middle of the table, surrounded by small cups for guests to enjoy at their leisure during or after dinner.
Kajollota was amused to see the astonished look on Robert’s face. For a moment she couldn’t help but feel proud of her aunt’s meticulous planning .
All the men sat down at the dinner table. Robert sat next to his father. Damayanti called Kajollota inside and whispered to her.
“You don’t need to sit and eat with them; you can eat with us, women and workers, later.”
Kajollota felt deep anguish that she had never felt before; for the first time, she felt discriminated against for being a girl.
Rai Bahadur didn’t miss the sadness in his daughter’s eyes. “Majoni,” he said gently, “come sit next to me. You must be hungry.” His kind voice teared her up. Damayanti rolled her eyes at her brother as Kajollota sat down at the seat arranged for Bipin. This man would spoil the girl,she thought angrily. But she knew rebellious Bipin would never join the dinner honoring a British Official. He was probably in some local congress party meeting at this very moment, planning the next moves against the British Government.
Kajollota felt uneasy taking Bipin’s seat, his absence made her even more anxious. She could sense the slow brewing storm on the horizon that was about to hit the family.
Robert, sitting directly across from her, realized something was making her edgy; he didn’t know what. But he smiled at her to give some assurance. Kajollota smiled back briefly with the same uneasiness.
Bor-Saheb pushed away his cutlery and signaled that he would use his hands to eat. Bemused, Kajollota and Robert looked at each other. The other guests also looked confused, for they had never imagined a British Sahab to eat like a native Assamese. One of the servants rushed into the dining hall with a Ghoti — a brass container with water, a bowl, and Gamusa — a handwoven towel for him to wash and wipe hands. All other guests washed their hands as well.
“When in Rome….” he laughed heartily as he dug right into his pile of rice.
Later that night , Kajollota’s sleep was marred by the heated voices coming from a distance. It was a new moon night and the air was still. The owl’s hoot seemed ominous as Kajollota looked at the clock, it was almost midnight. She got up and followed the voices to find her father pacing up and down the living room. His anger and disappointment oozed through his eyes as he glared at Bipin standing against the blue wall defiantly. Hiding behind the flowery white curtain, she listened in:
“I sent you to Kolikota for education, not to join this senseless Rebellion. You are from a good family, and you have everything set for your future. What else do you need? ” His voice roared through the room.
“Deuta (father), what kind of future we will have under the Raj? Whatever we do, we will always be slaves in our own country. I don’t want my children to grow up in a country where they are second-class citizens. You might be happy bowing down to these white Sahabs but I will never do that!”
Bipin stormed out of the room. Rai Bahadur sat down on the sofa, looking defeated. Even from far away, Kajollota could sense the moisture in his eyes. She had never seen her father so helpless, and it broke her heart to see him this way. She came out of her hiding and sat next to him on the sofa. He hugged her tight and held her close as he said in a broken voice: “I do not disagree with him, Majoni; I just fear for him — and for you, as well.I promised your mother that I would keep you both safe from harm — but I am failing miserably. The path he is walking on is dangerous. I won’t be able to protect him”.She felt his tears on her cheeks; as if he was crying for both of them.
Despite all the turmoil that was threatening to change her world, that summer, Kajal felt a happiness that she hadn’t known before. The sole reason for that was Robert. The midnight trips to the riverside were much more exciting with him; they spent hours exploring the woods,chasing after fireflies, gathering night jasmine. Her English improved with each conversation with him, and so his proficiency in Assamese
In the heart of that magical summer, the unlikely friendship between Kajallota and Robert flourished, a beacon of hope against the backdrop of their changing world. In each other, they found kindred spirit, the missing piece that made their world a little less daunting, a little more enchanting. In that shared space of dreams and heartaches, two children found solace, and in the process, they found themselves.
In one of their expeditions, Robert discovered a small cave by the river, hidden under thick bushes , which became their perfect summer hideout. Hidden from the eyes of the world, they read Keats and Shelly, read and reread Khayyam, and shared their dreams. He talked about being a writer, and she spoke of her dream of running a country one day. Behind the innocence of her eyes Robert recognized the fierceness of grit and will . In each other’s company they found the way back to their broken families . Through their common pain , two motherless children found comfort in each other .
But all good things must come to an end.
Kajollota feared it might happen one day, yet she couldn’t believe that Robert was leaving. She stood motionless at the far end of the cave, like a statue. Her sad, piercing gaze rattled him to the core.
“Why couldn’t you study here? Why do you have to go back to England?” she asked him. “Doesn’t your father know how happy you are here?”
He had no answer; he was exhausted from arguing and pleading with his father. But nothing could change Bor-Sahab’s mind. He would not allow his son to discontinue studying in England, especially not for this isolated place where he could never meet any other children of his own society.
All day, Kajollota confined herself within the solitude of her room, her heart heavy with an anger that consumed her. She didn’t touch a morsel of food, her appetite stolen by the grief that gnawed at her soul — not even Bipin, her closest confidant, could coax her out. When she finally emerged in the evening, the traces of her sorrow were etched onto her face; her eyes were swollen and red, the silent witnesses to her tearful solitude. None of them, not Bipin, not Damayanti, nor Rai Bahadur, could fathom the depths of the tumult that was causing such erratic behavior in their usually cheerful Kajollota.
Beneath the vast, star-studded expanse of the night, by the gentle whispers of the river, two young hearts came together in earnest conversation.
“Promise me, Rob,” Kajollota’s voice wavered, her fingers tracing the river’s edge, “promise me that you’ll never forget me.”
“I could never,” Robert assured, his voice thick with the pain of parting. “And I’ll write, Lota, I promise. As regularly as the sun rises.”
A silent sigh escaped Kajollota’s lips, a resigned acceptance of their impending separation. In the dim moonlight, Robert unveiled a small gift — a locket, his photograph tucked inside it, a silent pledge of his enduring friendship.
“Whenever you miss me,” he murmured, placing it in her hands, “just look at this. Remember, I’ll always be there for you, no matter how far I am.”
A ghost of a smile adorned Kajollota’s face. She held out a lock of her hair, carefully tied together, and her most valued possession — a book of Khayyam’s Rubaiyat. “Take this, Robert. This is a part of me, a part of my world that you’ll take with you.”
That night, under the watchful eyes of the moon and stars, their friendship was tested and forged in the fiery furnace of separation.
One word is too often profaned
For me to profane it,
One feeling too falsely disdained
For thee to disdain it
Kajollota read and reread the magical words, first silently and then aloud, in all different ways she could. She spent endless moments trying to decipher why he chose this poem in particular. With every read, she felt a warm sun-kissed brook of emotion trickling from that beautiful cursive handwriting, tickling her heart. Robert’s letters always ended with a poem but this was different; for it wasn’t any ordinary poem; this is the poem Shelley wrote for Jane Wiliams expressing his deep love and devotion. Otherwise a seemingly usual letter from him suddenly had a different meaning to her. She wondered what was going through his mind when those words poured through his pen? Did his heart also thump like hers when she read it for the first time? She wondered if his deep blue eyes still carried that sadness that bound her wild spirit .
Four long years had passed since their parting, a void filled only by ink on paper. Robert remained diligent, his letters filling the miles between them with tales of his school, friends, and the void left by his father.
“The school is alive with a bustle, friends that surround me, a world that whirls in its own way. But in the quiet moments,my dearest Lota, I find myself missing the laughter that danced in our talks, the rustle of the wind through our woods, the tranquility of our river. “ He would write .
Kajollota’s response shimmered with her spirit: “Yesterday, Muluka brought a tortoise home. Imagine! Stubborn creature, just like him. Life is changing here, Rob. Bipin da and Baba, they argue more now. And my friends are getting married ,starting their own families. Amid all this, I find solace in Ramanujan’s theorems, they seem as uncharted and fascinating as our river under the moonlight.”
Her letters had the fragrance of the East, musings on Ramanujan’s astonishing mathematical theorems; his, on the other hand, carried the melancholy of the West, reflections on the dark romanticism of Poe’s verse. Through the magic of words, two separate worlds entwined into one.
Every time Robert’s letters arrived, they brought with them a cocktail of emotions — an unknown shyness, a bubbling excitement. They would grip her attention so tightly that she often forgot what she was about to do when she started reading them. Hours would slip away while she sat with his letter in her lap, lost in thoughts until dinner time or someone came along, questioning her odd behavior. This was a feeling new to her young heart, a feeling she didn’t quite know how to articulate.
Rai Bahadur often worried about his daughter’s future. Societal norms dictated that girls from respectable families should be married before they reached puberty, a custom that put Rai Bahadur in a quandary. . He knew his spirited, strong-willed daughter even though had turned 15, but she was not ready for marriage yet. She had been a free spirit all her life, running around the house with abandon and wandering into the woods exploring nature, she wouldn’t survive being cooped up at home like other girls being just a wife to someone. But he had to get her married sooner or later. That was his duty as a father . But with Bipin gone , he didn’t know how to live without her .
Did she really need to marry to be happy ? Would her free spirit be happy ? He always struggled to answer that.
“Kokaideu. I can understand your hesitation , she is your only daughter . But you have to do right by her . Motherless child , if we don’t think of her happiness , who will?” Damayanti tried to convince her brother about the new alliance she found for Kajollota. “She crossed 15 already, way over marriageable age, all the girls of her age are already married and some are even in the family way. You wouldn’t find such a suitable alliance for her.”
Rai Bahadur knew where his daughter’s heart lay. Her mind wandered in the world of numbers, and she got thrilled by complex mathematical problems. Her eyes lit up when she saw an unsolvable problem. He knew her brilliance when she pointed out errors in their accounting books when she was just nine .
She loved literature, argued about philosophy, and participated in political conversations with Bipin as if she were a grown-up. Her thirst for knowledge was unquenchable. That’s why Rai Bahadur wanted to send her to England for higher studies. But he knew that would be the end of her any hope of marrying into a good family. He missed his wife Nayantara’s support and wisdom at times like these. She would have known what would be the right thing to do.
“Dr. Shyamal Barua,” Damayanti began, trying to thread a needle to continue her needlework from her seat at the room’s far end. She spoke through a mouthful of betel nut, “He’s not just a doctor, but also hails from a highly educated and reputable family. They’re the sort who would understand our Majoni better than anyone. Perhaps their influence could even provide the wings she needs for her dreams.” As Damayanti stressed her point, Rai Bahadur took a deep puff from his hookah. Eyes closing, he grappled with the decision he was now reluctantly prepared to make.
The wind wailed as if it was trying to emulate the thunderstorm rising inside her. Typically placid river was dancing with turbulent waves ,but it was no match for the river that was flowing from her eyes . Her wedding was a mere week away, yet the idea of giving her heart to another was unbearable, even for a moment.The unexplained affection she harbored for Robert, she now knew, was love. Although love’s euphoria was intoxicating, she was getting an all-too-real taste of heartbreak’s bitter sting.She couldn’t believe that this boy had become her everything and without him, life seemed colorless and meaningless .She could hear his heart beating at the speed of a horse. Her tears dampened his shirt, but he didn’t protest. Instead, he encircled her with his arms, pulling her into a tighter embrace.
When Robert heard the news Kajollota’s impending marriage he couldn’t breathe. He felt as if the world under his feet was slipping away. Against his father’s wishes, he crossed oceans,seas,rivers to be with her and convince her to come with him. He had meticulously planned and charted out the journey: a train ride to Calcutta (Kolikata as Kajollota would say it) first, followed by a steamboat to England, where they could marry and live out their happily-ever-after.
“Imagine,Lota,” he pleaded as they sat under the partially starlit sky, “us strolling the bustling streets of Calcutta and London, free and together.” His words painted pictures of boundless possibilities, and Kajollota’s eyes sparkled with dreams yet unexplored.
He softly placed a kiss on her forehead. She wanted to lose herself in that moment forever . She wanted time to stand still . She wanted to go with him , follow her heart .
But she knew the cost of such a leap.It would shatter her father’s unwavering trust in her. Her aunt Damayanti probably would never want to see her face . She couldn’t bear to betray the ones who loved her the most. And her wise inner soul knew, it would equally devastate Robert’s family. The decision was painful, yet for her, there was an undeniable clarity in the path she had to take.
This was probably the last time they would ever meet alone like this. She thought . In a week, she would be a married woman, the pride and honor of another family , life as she knew would cease to exist.
“I will love you forever” choked with grief she said in a broken voice.
“Shhh,” Robert whispered, a soothing balm against her cascading sadness. His hand gently cupped her face, the intensity in his gaze mirroring her own. He leaned in, their breaths mingling in the sliver of space that separated them. With a delicacy that echoed the fragility of the moment, their lips met — the first real kiss, fraught with the realization that it could also be their last.
Time seemed to stand still as they savored the kiss, each sensation etched deeply in their hearts. The tenderness of the contact, the warmth that flooded their beings, the intoxicating sweetness that made her head spin, the love that hummed in the air around them. It was a connection that transcended the physical, a silent communication of their love for each other.
Pulling away, she felt an overwhelming ache constrict her chest. As the reality of their impending separation set in, the sweetness of their first real kiss turned bitter with the dread of losing her true love. Every beat of her heart echoed his name, every breath she took seemed to draw her closer to him, yet fate was pushing them apart. The pain was acute, cutting through her like the sharpest of daggers, a poignant reminder of the cruel twist of destiny that was forcing them to part ways.
The howling wind, the stormy river , the full moon hiding behind the dark clouds and the owl hooting over the branch of the tree nearby remained silent witness to the unblemished eternal love of two young souls .
ROBERT
Robert placed a soft kiss on her forehead. The vermilion from her forehead colored his lips red. He flashed a warm smile, and she returned it with a coy, timid one of her own. In her white bridal mekhela chador, she looked like an Apsara,a fairy descended from heaven. Her deep eyes, which usually carried so many questions, were calm today. It was as if she had all the answers, as if her quest had ended, as if she was exactly where she belonged.
The turmeric-infused scent from her body stimulated his senses. At last, she was his — only his, his bride, his wife, his partner. He held her as tightly as he could, vowing never to let her go again. But the escalating chaos outside shattered his peace. He could hear people chanting.
“She’s a murderer, hang her!! Hang her!!” The voices from the darkness grew increasingly loud. He looked at her. She was still smiling, but her smile morphed into a chilling laugh. Suddenly, Kajollota transformed into Goddess Kali, the ultimate destroyer of evil.
“You are the enemy, Robert. You must die,” she declared, and everything went dark.
Robert woke up with a throbbing pain in his arm. He was sweating profusely. It was just a dream — he felt relieved. As he sat on the bed, trying to recollect what had happened, his mind still felt foggy.
He vividly remembered the thrill of seeing the winding roads he had yearned for years to travel on again. His car roared along at full speed, kicking up a dust storm in its wake. Kajollota would certainly have chided him for showing off. For the first time in a long while, he felt at peace with himself and his surroundings. His heart fluttered with the prospect of seeing Kajollota again. He had learned that her husband had passed away, and that Kajollota, now widowed, had returned to her father’s home. He knew he shouldn’t rejoice over such news, but it had nonetheless rekindled a glimmer of hope in a deep corner of his heart.
They hadn’t written to each other since that fateful day when they decided to part. However, not a single day passed without him thinking about her. He hoped that maybe this time, he would be able to convince her to come along. That was the reason he accepted the post of Police Commissioner in Assam. He had heard about Bipin’s death and couldn’t even begin to imagine the pain it must have caused her. Robert didn’t believe in such brutality. He was determined to change those unjust rules; he was determined to fight to transform the system.
His dreams and hopes came to a sudden halt when a bullet pierced his left arm, dangerously close to his heart. Staring in disbelief at his shirt as it turned crimson, he felt lightheaded, his vision blurring. Darkness swiftly enveloped him.His driver’s screams seemed to echo from far far away .
Robert found himself in an unfamiliar place,a strong pungent smell told him that he was in a hospital. He saw his father walking through the door with a much relieved smile .
“My boy” his father hugged him tight . “They will pay for this, my boy, they will pay for this.” Borsaheb’s peaceful smile turned into a fierce anger . Robert could hear his father’s teeth clenched .
Robert was scared. He knew his father wanted blood .
“Father, I want to ask you for a favor?” He said knowing well that his ask was an impossible one for his father to agree. But he had to try .
Bor-saheb nodded gently , trying to calm himself down.
“Do you think I can meet her?”
As if he added fuel to the fire . Borsaheb’s eyes burnt in fury . “They will all pay for their sins . She especially will pay . You have no idea what she has done.”
Borsaheb told Robert what happened , who his shooter was. Robert couldn’t comprehend a single word that came out of his father’s mouth, as if his ability to process information had ceased. Otherwise, how could this be true that Kajollota, his beloved Lota , who promised to love him forever , could try to kill him ?
As days passed he thought more and more and it all started to make sense. There had to be an explanation he knew. How could she have known it was him? What if she didn’t know . His heart ached more intensely than the physical wound he bore.
The crescent moon was gliding through the eastern sky . The chilly,crisp air comforted him . The owl sitting on the tree hooted again . The scent of night jasmine reminded him of the countless walks through these woods with her. He sat down on a rock by the river . Each rock,each pebble on this river bank bore memories of countless moments they spent together. Today, all those moments amounted to nothing, he thought as he looked at the muddy puddle in front of him . The great river that once bore the witness to their immeasurable love was dry ,reduced to just a puddle. A sad smile flickered across Robert’s lips. He thought the fate of their love was just like the river; perhaps all that remained of that love was just the scar on his arm.
Lying in the grass, he felt the cold night air chill his skin. As he gazed up at the stars, he found himself wondering how many times he had been in this exact place before. Thoughts of Kajollota kept intruding, leaving him concerned,wondering if she was okay .
Hours passed and he began to drift off when suddenly he heard someone sobbing nearby. It wasn’t a wail; it was more like someone pouring their heart out. He saw a silhouette of a man sitting by the small bridge . Even in the thin light of the crescent moon he recognized Muluka . Just like Robert and Kajollota, this was Mukula’s happy place too . Robert slowly walked towards the bridge and sat down next to Muluka .
“Ki hol Muluka Kai?”
What happened Muluka Kai ? He asked in broken Assamese, his voice laced with compassion for this old man.
“Ses hoi gol , all finished , all gone “ he said. “ The river is gone, she is gone , Xhoru Deuta (Young master) is gone , Deuta (master) is gone. What do I do ? Everyone is gone” Mukluka spoke in a tone as if he was talking to himself, oblivious to Robert’s presence .
Robert smelled the opium,he knew Muluka had already drifted into another world.In that opium infused trance Muluka continued to talk about how the British government had conspired against his master’s family, how once the powerful affluence family was now reduced to dust.
Bipin, Kajollota’s brother, was the leader of the Mrityunjyi Bahini, a local freedom fighter wing in Assam. In response to Mahatma Gandhi’s “do or die” call, Bipin and other local leaders started satyagraha, the “non-violent resistance.” They disrupted operations in the tea estates with no cooperation from workers, and they even tried to hoist the National Congress flag on the police station. But they met with fierce resistance from the police . Many of the leaders including Bipin were brutally beaten and Bipin succumbed to his injuries later.A heart broken Rai-Bahadur didn’t survive the shock of losing his son.
Robert understood why Kajollota did what she did . Losing the only people she loved the most, must have triggered something in her. He felt her rage, frustration and desperation: combine that with her unfathomable grit and perseverance , he knew there was nothing she wouldn’t do. How he wished he was with her to hold her hand,and tell her that it would all be okay ; the pain would be manageable after a time; it would all heal. But she was in the wind . He hoped against hope that she was safe . The might of the entire police force of Assam was looking for her . But she vanished without a trace.
He used every resource at his disposal to safely look for her ,but all in vain. There were no signs of her anywhere — just like the river that once flowed there.
Rob-n-Lota
1980 , Calcutta (Kolkata)
Sunanda Ghosal was very impressed with the aesthetically pleasing designs and tasteful decorations of the room . The walls were a warm, subtle shade of yellow that had been painted with a heavy hand. The windows were large and let in plenty of natural light, which was a welcome break from the artificial lighting that often came with living in a big city like Kolkata, she thought. There was a comfortable-looking couch covered in pillows and throws, along with an armchair and coffee table. The furniture of the room was all white, except for a small red table in the corner. The art on the walls were mostly abstract , but the focal point of the room was the wall by the red table that boasted a huge Jamini Rai painting . It was hard to impress this young vivacious reporter from the Telegraph who prided herself in having an eclectic taste and been-there-done-that attitude, but Sunanda Ghoshal was impressed, very impressed indeed. But again she expected nothing less. She was always awestruck when it came to Malavika Banerjee who was her hero,role model. She finally had a chance to meet and to interview the renowned business woman,founder of TeaBox , a tea empire spreading across the globe.
So , I hear you write durdanto stories about life and people from unique angles.”
A strong yet warm voice greeted her with exuberance. Sunanda looked back to find Malavika Banerjee standing by the doorway . She had an image in her mind of Malavika, which she thought was unrealistically impressive , but she was wrong . Malavika Banerjee was much more impressive than Sunanda had imagined. In that soft Dhakai Jamdani saree with red,black Kalka work all over it , Malavika Banerjee looked radiant . The gold rimmed glasses complemented her sharp eyes and salt and pepper hair. Her aura oozed such a grandeur that Sunanda almost felt intimidated by it.
Malavika Banerjee looked at the window and at the city below them, that Sunanda was admiring before, as if she knew what Sunanda was thinking .
“Isn’t it beautiful?” she said, gesturing out the window with her hand. “Have you ever seen anything more beautiful than this city? So many stories are hidden in its bosom. This particularly must be interesting to you . You have an innate ability to tell human stories Sunanda .” She continued -“Your articles really help capture these untold stories. I am a big fan . So tell me what I can help you with. “
“Ma’am it would be a tremendous honor to be able to tell your story. Probably I consider this my life’s biggest opportunity . We all know the successful,driven Malavika Banerjee, who built the huge tea estate empire all by herself. But I want to know and tell the story that no one has ever heard . I want to know what made Malavika Banerjee, I want to know more about your Rob-n-Lota tea . Tell me the story behind it .”
For a moment, an old wound resurfaced in an unseen corner of Kajollota’s heart. She felt like an imposter; behind the tough facade of Malavika Banerjee, the soft and timid Kajollota was hidden. Perhaps, it was the right time for her to emerge.
She vividly remembered the day she arrived in Kolkata hiding under the darkness of night . She was lonely, scared and exhausted from endless travel.There was a reward for her capture; she was being pursued by authorities across the entire state of Assam. Desperate to escape the state, she knew Kolkata would be the perfect refuge. In the sea of people, she could easily blend in and be lost forever. But even in this time of extreme despair, she felt a sense of relief when she heard that Robert had miraculously survived. She took it as a divine intervention because she certainly hadn’t intended for that outcome.
Shubhanshu Banerjee , Bipin’s friend, arranged everything for her to travel to Kolkata . She needed a new identity and new name , like a phoenix Malavika Banerjee was born from the ashes of Kajollota . She needed to create a new life, an ordinary life where no one would ask questions . The best plan was to get married and be invisible. On a beautiful autumn day, just a day after Bijoya Dashami, in Kalighat, Malavika and Shubhanshu got married with Brahma Samaj rituals . On 15th Aug 1947 , the day of India’s independence, they welcomed their son, Swadhin. He was born into a free country — the country of Nehru and Gandhi . They couldn’t think of a better fitting name than Swadhin — which meant freedom. In this new world memories of the British Raj were reduced to stories of the yore. But in her heart Robert still lived . Sometimes in the stormy windy nights she found herself by the shore of Ganges trying to find some similarity of the river she left behind .
With the new found independence, young India was growing fast that not only brought changes in society, politics and economy but also in the hearts of people.In this rapidly growing economy, Malavika Banerjee saw new opportunities to rekindle an old dream. Her father was no more but he had left behind a dream which she knew would remain unfulfilled until she built a world class tea empire. She decided to make a go at it herself and started a small tea business in Darjeeling. But she was determined to make it big — and fast. Her first brand, Rishi Tea, was an instant hit across India and she never had to look back after that .Her company Teabox became synonymous with quality and taste when it came to tea. As her brands gained popularity she expanded operations globally ,pretty soon TeaBox became a household name not only in India but also across England and Europe. The logo of its purple orchid became so recognizable that people from all over the world knew what it meant when they see it on a package: “This is going to be good!”
With all this immense success and growth , Malavika still longed for reviving her father’s tea garden in Assam. When she heard the Assam government was auctioning some of the old government run,barely functioning tea gardens she jumped at that opportunity. Her happiness knew no bounds when she saw Disoijaan tea garden was one of them . She couldn’t explain to anyone the layers of emotion that she felt the day she signed final papers on Disoijaan.
Now after months of hard work they were ready to release their first brand out Disoijaan tea garden — Rob-n-Lota , She couldn’t find a more apt name to honor the love that was long lost ,but not forgotten.
As the sun prepared to hide behind the blanket of darkness , the city lights sprang to life. Sunanda Ghoshal stared aimlessly at the beautiful cityscape from the heights of Malavika Banerjee’s office , sipping yet another cup of Rob-n-Lota tea. She was awestruck with the magnanimity and the depth of the story she heard and realized the heavy load of responsibility on her shoulders . She knew it would take an immense effort to tell such a sensitive story the right way .
“Was your husband ever jealous?” She asked
Malavika turned away from the window and looked towards Sunanda . This breathtaking view always puts her in a pensive mood. Her mind was with Robert and the future that could have been. She imagined her walking in the streets of London with Robert , longed to feel his touch , to hear him recite Shelley or Keats . Sunanda’s question broke her chain of thoughts.
“Well , Shubhanshu was an extraordinary human being. I so dearly miss him” sincerity in her voice spoke of the immense gratitude she had for him.
“He was the perfect companion . He understood me like no one else. He gave me a safe space. There wasn’t any competition between Robert and him, he understood and respected that. Just like I understood that I could never replace Moumita Roy from his heart. We were the best companions ,we built a great life together. I do miss him terribly”. Her moist eyes spoke volumes about the depth of their extraordinary relationship.
Sunanda realized ,to tell this story, it would take so much more than the words she had . But she knew this was the story she was destined to tell;this was the big career making story she was waiting for.
ROBERT
It had been a while since the sun retired beyond the western horizon, but the sky was still ablaze with its vibrant colors. The cacophony of home-bound birds as they headed back to their nests made him feel at home. Robert took a deep breath to fill his lungs with the half-forgotten, half-familiar feeling once again. His heart felt an unknown excitement.
He slowly took a sip from his flask, savoring the hot, soothing goodness of the Rob-n-Lota tea. She had kept her promise, he thought — the promise that had brought him back, across seven seas and thirteen rivers, to where he belonged.
He vividly remembered the day this new journey began.After his retirement, he and several friends met regularly on Wednesday evenings for lively discussions on chess, poetry, and tea.
It was one such usual Wednesday Soiree, where Robert first tasted this tea. One sip of it made him nostalgic: the smell, the taste was so familiar.
“It is a new brand I discovered by accident and now it’s my absolute favorite,” Edward said passionately. “Actually read about it in one of Indian Business Magazines.”
Even after so many years of Indian independence, these British sexagenerians still held India, the country where they spent most of their childhood , close to their heart.
“Let me show that to you all. Robert might find it rather interesting.” He smiled .
The tea was called Rob-n-Lota — from the gardens of Assam .The purple and white tastefully designed orchid patterned box came with a note: “Rob-n-Lota- An eternal love story , you will fall in love with it too”.
Rob-n-Lota — Robert and Lota — the countless times they wrote and rewrote this portmanteau by the riverside , so many years ago. Robert felt a tingling sensation arise from his gut paralyzing his body .
“You said there was an article , do you have it ?” The impatience in his voice was unmistakable.
Looking through the piles of magazines , Edward finally found it . Robert saw the article — Malavika Banerjee, the love story with Tea.
Robert stared at her picture for a long time, trying to reconcile what he saw with what he knew. He thought about all those years of searching for his Lota,convinced that she was dead, he didn’t know what to feel at that moment . First reaction was to reach out to her immediately , but then he wondered if she would even want to acknowledge him now — especially after all this time. Would she even want to stir up past history?She changed her name,identity and everything to hide her past…
He read and reread the article, the beautifully crafted story of her past , skillfully hiding some parts creating a narrative that felt just right . It talked about love of tea and family, and the struggle of being an Indian woman in business . She had a good marriage , he thought , and she moved on unlike him. Good for her . His glance paused at a picture of her with her son at London Tower Bridge . She was here . It said Malavika with her son,Priyanshu Robert Banarjee. He instantly realized something: maybe she wasn’t hiding her past — maybe she was making an entirely new one. And maybe… maybe there was a flicker of a hope somewhere that they could do that together again?
He didn’t know why and when he decided to come. He had no plans. Did he want to meet her ? He wasn’t sure . But as if on autopilot he booked his tickets and set on the trip to Assam, the place where he found and lost everything, the place whose memory was the reason why at times he was so alive and so dead, the place whose influence still remained in every ounce of his being.
He knew Kajollota didn’t live there, he wasn’t even sure why he was here. But he decided to stay there for a couple of weeks. He went to see the old Borasaheb Bunglow where once he lived, and Kajollota’s old house — which was now in ruins. Every evening he spent by the riverside where he and Kajollota met , played , fell in love and parted ways . Whole place was familiar, but still strange. It wasn’t the same as he remembered it — but then again, how could it be?
The forest was silent, and the only sound that could be heard was the wind. He took another sip from his flask when he heard a rustling sound. He didn’t pay much attention to it. Then he heard footsteps that stopped near him.
“They said an old British Saheb has been staying here for the last month, making visits to Bor- Saheb bungalow, Rai-Bahadur’s house and the riverside. I had to see for myself”
He looked up. There she was , more beautiful than he ever remembered.
Her eyes betrayed her smile, as beads of tears rolled out as if there was no limit ,like a stoned bird he sat there looking at her as if it was a dream.
She sat beside him. There was an ocean worth of conversation and river worth of tears between them. But they sat silently on the bank of the dead river, their feet touching a small stream of water.
Is this a new beginning, she thought, looking at the small stream that now was flowing over the dead river. She glanced up at him and smiled, he smiled back and took her hand in his.
The last rays of sun shone through the trees onto their faces as they looked into each other’s eyes for what seemed like forever, then he leant forward and kissed her gently on the cheek before going back to staring into space with her hand still clasped tightly in his own.
