in my work as manager of the garden, and the tea pickers again treated me with the esteem they had withdrawn. Maybe they laughed at me when I sometimes did not answer their questions, but often the only sound I heard were her songs floating in my mind.
For a long time I believed these melodic fragments surfaced from my unconscious. When I finally realized they were actually being sung by the women as they picked leaves, I asked Mr. Sen to translate the words.
Poor Mr. Sen looked embarrassed but at my insistence he mournfully translated,
"Which god is notorious In the neighborhood?
"Look! It is the god of fucking
Who is notorious in the neighborhood. "
The women noticed what we were doing and shouted with laughter as they changed their song.
"On the hill
See the peacock's feathers swayAs I am swaying on your lap, Sighing on your lap,
Smiling on your lap.
0, my handsome friend."
Then to my delight the women began singing the song Rima often sang to awaken me, and I wrote the words down as Mr. Sen translated.
"Bring me my oil and my collyrium. Sister, bring my mirror and the vermilion. Make haste with my flower garland. My lover waits impatient in the bed. "
For a year Rima came to me every night, sliding into my ebony bed to coil her limbs around me. Like a magician she drew me into a subterranean world of dream, her body teaching mine the passing of the seasons, the secret rhythms of nature, until I understood why my grandfather's books called these hills Kamarupa, the Kingdom of the God of Love.
The Chairman's telegram ended my delirium. "Head Office reorganizing Company. Proceed to Calcutta immediately to study innovations."
I tore the telegram in a rage, certain that Ashok had forced the Chairman's decision, but there was nothing I could do. The telegram was not a suggestion. It was a command.
Rima wept as if her heart were breaking when I told her I was leaving. Gratified by her tears, I made love to her with an ardor that surprised me, so exhausted by my exertions I almost didn't hear her ask "Should I return to my husband? He works as a coolie at the railway depot in Agartala. Should I join him while you are gone?"
Such was my enchantment with Rima's strangeness that I did not find it odd that she was married. And I could tolerate the thought that another man might embrace her. After all, who had I slept with all those years in Calcutta but other men's wives?
But that he should be a coolie. That I should love a coolie's wife. Waves of disgust engulfed me and I wanted to vomit with shame. At that moment the spell in which Rima held me was broken. For the first time I remained awake when she climbed out of the bed to wrap herself in her sarong. Her limbs were squat and ugly in the light of dawn.
How glad I was to return to Calcutta and the insouciance of my old life of clubs, friends, and betting.
The very superficiality of my colleagues dulled my shame. How hard I laughed at their jokes as they bought drinks for me at the bars of the Saturday Club, the Tolleygunge Club, the Calcutta Club, the Turf Club.
How lightheartedly I flirted with the sophisticated, husky-voiced women whose boredom I briefly diverted by the novelty of my presence. And when they took me to their bedrooms, I kept the lights on as I kissed their large eyes that did not slant upward like Rima's, until I buried the memory of Rima's body in their warm brown flesh.
I could no longer resist the excitement of Head Office. The international shipping arrangements and insurance problems, the constant deadlines presented by bids taken in London or Hong Kong, made my life in the tea garden seem primitive, governed as it was by the grinding slowness of the changing seasons. I did not want to go back to that isolated house or the demands of the bovine tea pickers. I did not want to return to Rima.
Encouraged by Ashok, the Chairman invited me again to become a director. This time I accepted eagerly and it was agreed that I would return to the
For a long time I believed these melodic fragments surfaced from my unconscious. When I finally realized they were actually being sung by the women as they picked leaves, I asked Mr. Sen to translate the words.
Poor Mr. Sen looked embarrassed but at my insistence he mournfully translated,
"Which god is notorious In the neighborhood?
"Look! It is the god of fucking
Who is notorious in the neighborhood. "
The women noticed what we were doing and shouted with laughter as they changed their song.
"On the hill
See the peacock's feathers swayAs I am swaying on your lap, Sighing on your lap,
Smiling on your lap.
0, my handsome friend."
Then to my delight the women began singing the song Rima often sang to awaken me, and I wrote the words down as Mr. Sen translated.
"Bring me my oil and my collyrium. Sister, bring my mirror and the vermilion. Make haste with my flower garland. My lover waits impatient in the bed. "
For a year Rima came to me every night, sliding into my ebony bed to coil her limbs around me. Like a magician she drew me into a subterranean world of dream, her body teaching mine the passing of the seasons, the secret rhythms of nature, until I understood why my grandfather's books called these hills Kamarupa, the Kingdom of the God of Love.
The Chairman's telegram ended my delirium. "Head Office reorganizing Company. Proceed to Calcutta immediately to study innovations."
I tore the telegram in a rage, certain that Ashok had forced the Chairman's decision, but there was nothing I could do. The telegram was not a suggestion. It was a command.
Rima wept as if her heart were breaking when I told her I was leaving. Gratified by her tears, I made love to her with an ardor that surprised me, so exhausted by my exertions I almost didn't hear her ask "Should I return to my husband? He works as a coolie at the railway depot in Agartala. Should I join him while you are gone?"
Such was my enchantment with Rima's strangeness that I did not find it odd that she was married. And I could tolerate the thought that another man might embrace her. After all, who had I slept with all those years in Calcutta but other men's wives?
But that he should be a coolie. That I should love a coolie's wife. Waves of disgust engulfed me and I wanted to vomit with shame. At that moment the spell in which Rima held me was broken. For the first time I remained awake when she climbed out of the bed to wrap herself in her sarong. Her limbs were squat and ugly in the light of dawn.
How glad I was to return to Calcutta and the insouciance of my old life of clubs, friends, and betting.
The very superficiality of my colleagues dulled my shame. How hard I laughed at their jokes as they bought drinks for me at the bars of the Saturday Club, the Tolleygunge Club, the Calcutta Club, the Turf Club.
How lightheartedly I flirted with the sophisticated, husky-voiced women whose boredom I briefly diverted by the novelty of my presence. And when they took me to their bedrooms, I kept the lights on as I kissed their large eyes that did not slant upward like Rima's, until I buried the memory of Rima's body in their warm brown flesh.
I could no longer resist the excitement of Head Office. The international shipping arrangements and insurance problems, the constant deadlines presented by bids taken in London or Hong Kong, made my life in the tea garden seem primitive, governed as it was by the grinding slowness of the changing seasons. I did not want to go back to that isolated house or the demands of the bovine tea pickers. I did not want to return to Rima.
Encouraged by Ashok, the Chairman invited me again to become a director. This time I accepted eagerly and it was agreed that I would return to the
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