The Plunge (11 page)

European Town: created for the European ruling class. A fire was lit to clear the Upper Bazaar of Indians to make space for the Town Hall. The eastern end was transformed into the European town. Indians were moved to the Middle and Lower Bazaars on the lower terraces down the Ridge.

Social Life: Shimla was the headquarters of the Indian Army and other government offices. Originally, the British officers’ wives and daughters had spent summers in the hills while the men worked in the plains. The elite Shimla society had mostly British soldiers, traders, civil servants and families of British officers. The unattached men and women on the beautiful hills inspired many scandals. Within no time, Shimla had earned a reputation for frivolity, according to a website.

She might just be adding another scandal to the many doing rounds in the hills, Anjali mused. She wrapped a shawl around her trembling body, with that thought. It was a freezing night. Why was she feeling so restless?

It was about four months since she had met Siddharth in Mumbai.

The mobile beeped. Siddharth’s message: “Shall be waiting at Barog by 10 a.m.”

“I’m nervous,” she keyed in with trembling fingers.

“Don’t worry, it’s going to be fine,” he messaged back right away.

She felt happy instantly.

The journey to Shimla the next morning opened Anjali’s eyes to a new world: from traveller’s notes to reality, just like the swing in her relationship with Siddharth.

The picturesque hills that made way for the tiny steam engine wove wonderful memories, keepsakes for her unknown future. So much splendour was so carelessly thrown away into the wilderness. More like a dream; it was difficult to believe she was living that moment.

The hills were majestic, but the depths of their valleys were terrifying. What if the train toppled into those depths? So much beauty and danger together; what a scary combination!

Weeks away from winter, the valleys were still in bloom. Shrubs laden with bunches of bright orange, blue, yellow, and other shades of flowers popped out of nowhere, fetching shrieks of excitement from the children. At times, an intimidating hill stared her in the face on one side, while another turn revealed a languid valley.

At certain points, the rail track ran parallel to the winding road. Vehicles, mostly cars, moved hypnotically towards or away from the tall hills in the distance. Drivers parked their cars outside unassuming food joints and shook off the fatigue from negotiating innumerable blind curves.

The narrow railway line that shouldered the train up the hills ran through the woods as if it were part of the spectacle, rather than a later addition.

The coniferous trees with the backdrop of the enchanting mountains looked like elements of a newly painted landscape. The shrubs almost spilled into the coaches. The broad-leafed oaks, stately deodars, and sweet-smelling pines offered a stunning landscape. Wild vines crept all over the cedars, flowing down their proud trunks. If she had been reading the description of these hills in a book, she would have probably dismissed it as exaggeration.

The train moved along lethargically, as if to prolong the journey. Anjali could feel every jerk, turn, and climb of the train. The ancient bridges looked tipped and ready to collapse, and it made her heart race each time the train crossed one.

Villagers made surprising appearances at sudden turns. A solitary man stood in the midst of the woods as if expecting someone to rescue him from the wilderness. He was bony and dark, wore faded clothes, and had an alarming expression on his face. His hair was unkempt, eyes sunken, and cheeks hollow. He looked lost and lonely. Anjali made a silent prayer. “God, let there be someone in his life to love, to be loved.”

The deodars stretched their branches grandly and with a singular grace all along the route. Anjali felt an instant liking for them. The dark green shade of the leaves and the way the trunk held out the branches set the deodars apart from the other trees. No wonder Indian poets were charmed by them, the
devdars
. Deodars had a different attitude toward the elements around, it seemed. They stood unaffected by the breeze that swayed other plants and shrubs. They remained unperturbed by the changing weather, commanding respect. They looked indifferent to their surroundings, as if they would remain unruffled by any circumstance.

Just like Siddharth.

Suddenly, the deodars faded, and the idea of meeting him again after a six-month gap dominated her senses, packing off the scenery to oblivion.

She still adored him, despite their many unpleasant arguments lately.

He said that her possessiveness was a turn off. But she had promised to change. So everything should be fine now.

Was she scared of him? Or was it only anxiety that put her on edge? Why should she be scared? After all, it was his idea that she work on the book: Shimla: The Culture Junction.

“Switch to writing books. Suits your temperament,” he had said. That thought eased her anxiety.

Barog was perched atop a hill at a height of about five thousand feet, overlooking the spectacular Solan valley. The station sat snugly against the hill, guarding the longest railway tunnel on the Kalka-Shimla route — 1,143 metres long, built hundred years ago — Anjali recalled details from her notes.

The ghost of Colonel Barog, a British engineer in charge of the construction of Tunnel 103, was believed to roam inside the tunnel. According to legend, the engineer, who had ordered digging the tunnel from both ends of a hill, realised his miscalculation only when he had reached the centre. The tunnels dug from the two ends wouldn’t meet. Slapped with a fine and embarrassed, he shot himself dead. The horse-mounted ghost of Colonel Barog chats with people, claim the locals.

He was not the only ghost to claim the charming hills. An unrelated female ghost who was said to scream down the railway line into the tunnel before disappearing into the walls was intriguing. Why did she do that? Searching for a lost love? Like her? No, she was never searching for love. It had just happened to her, by a divine design.

Anyway, these were all just tales, surely. But the damp and dingy tunnel must be a scary place at night, anyway.

It was around 10 a.m. when the train chugged into the tranquil Barog. The Scottish-style Barog railway station was perhaps the most picturesque old structure on the line. The romantic pine forests added intensity to the surroundings. The architecture of the station building was in perfect harmony with the charming landscape.

The train would halt for ten minutes, the conductor’s assistant had announced. Many passengers got down to stretch their limbs and to click pictures with the beautiful station or the train as the background.

Anjali was the only one to end her journey at Barog. The rest of the passengers were headed for Shimla. She noticed the curious gaze of some fellow passengers when she picked up her luggage. She ignored them and walked towards the station. She had to struggle with the two bags, which she suddenly felt were too heavy.

Then she saw Siddharth swaggering towards her from the other end. Her anxious gaze was quick to spot his sombre approach. Why had she not noticed his peculiar walk when they had met in Mumbai? He dragged his left leg slightly after the right.

Anjali tried to stay calm as he came up to her. Their meeting at the Marine Drive months back barrelled into her consciousness. But before it could come fully alive, there he was, in front of her, her Siddh.

Siddharth smiled, his expression changing from grave to tender. She noticed his slimmer figure while returning a shy smile. He grinned. Anjali bit her lower lip, hoping to disguise her nervousness, her head cocked to one side.

“Hi!” He grasped her trembling hand. His confident grip eased her nerves.

“Let’s go,” he said. He let go of her hand and plodded ahead with her luggage.

Already breathless, she struggled to keep up with him.

Shivalik Cottage, the only luxury chalet near the station, was apparently unoccupied most of the time. Siddharth had chosen it for its location; the seclusion minimised the risk of being spotted by his acquaintances. It was tucked into the lap of a hillock, away from the crowd. He had booked them as husband and wife. She was thrilled when he had told her that a few days back. Mr. and Mrs. Siddharth, cool, some progress.

A paved path led to the chalet, making the climb less strenuous. Siddharth’s bag was on the side table near the bed and some clothes were hung on the wall hooks.

She looked around. The cottage stood on a higher ground than the station. Its fence and wicket gate gave it an old-world charm. There was a small veranda at the back as well. Shrubs, pruned to perfection, marked the edge of the hillock on which the chalet was perched.

Anjali walked to the lone pine near the gate and scanned the valley. She could see the winding railway line until the sharp turn it took towards Shimla. She could also see the tunnel on the other end that led the trains from the hills to the plains.

The winding road she had seen from the train lay behind the station, stretched uphill in the direction of Shimla. The vehicles that moved along every now and then were the only evidence that other lives existed nearby, other than in the station building.

“You like the place?” he asked, standing an arm’s length from her, looking in the same direction as she was. She turned to him and smiled.

A friend had suggested the place to Siddharth as the ideal family retreat. She was glad to be there. It was a cosy place. They could spend a day and night in Barog in privacy. He would drop her off at her cottage in Shimla the following day.

It was a tastefully designed chalet, and well-lit. The porch opened into a spacious bedroom. There was a small sofa, a comfortable bed, clean sheets, and a dressing table, among other things. The bathroom was spotlessly clean. Large mirrors covered its walls.

The space was undoubtedly designed for honeymooners, to explore love.

He looked more relaxed inside the house, with no fear of being seen in the company of a woman. There were many tourists from Delhi on the train to Kalka, but not many to Shimla. He was needlessly worrying.

“Here we are, thanks to your desperation,” he said, turning towards her for a reaction. It sounded like an accusation.

“You never wanted this to happen?” she asked, her large eyes wide open and chin quivering.

“Come on, you must agree that your desperation made us think up this crazy move.”

“Maybe, but…” she fell silent, and sank into an armchair placed near the window.

“What? Don’t you know how much I am risking?”

He began to pace the room.

“It would be a scandal. I can’t be seen moving around with a mystery woman in a place like Shimla, where neither my family nor work calls me.”

He continued a monologue she did not want to hear.

“Shall we talk about something pleasant?”

He looked at her and stopped pacing. He walked to her. She was still stuck in thoughts, and the chair.

“I am sorry, dear.” He tipped her chin to face him. Her stress melted away when his warm hand caressed her face and neck.

Anjali smiled at him and briefly held his hands together before getting up to move away. She stood gazing through the window. Did he mean what he said? Or did he regret it now?

He turned on the television and sat on the bed switching channels.

After a while, she walked to the bed and stretched out, hoping the pain in her lower back would subside. It had been a long journey. She closed her eyes.

She felt his hand on her shoulder. With her eyes still shut, she turned towards him.

He kissed her. She kissed him back. They clung together, forgetting everything but the present. The future, all their fears, and caution faded into obscurity.

She felt a loving kindness towards her man. How starved he was, how greedy and uncouth.

Afterwards, while they bathed together, she noticed that he had broad shoulders. Sexy, she made a mental note.

“Let’s order food in the room,” he said.

She agreed. She wanted to enjoy every minute of privacy. She was with him after months of infinite longing. Anjali had worried that she would weep when she finally saw him again. Instead she was calm near him. It was as if they had been living together for years, so close and familiar.

They spent the evening loitering on the shady walks near the cottage.

Their next destination was Chail, his favourite town, a two-hour drive away. He had rented a taxi for the journey.

He drifted off to sleep, with her still in his arms. Anjali went into a reverie, resting her head against his bare chest. Ammamma came to her mind as if by special invitation. It had been more than a year since she had passed away. Was it true that the souls of the dead wandered on earth? If so, wouldn’t they be able to watch the living bathing, urinating, and making love?

Hah, what a thought! That tunnel ghost must be influencing her.

Anjali remembered her final meeting with ammamma.

Why was she thinking this now? Perhaps Siddharth’s arms around her gave her the quiet strength to revisit that painful time.