Flame Tree Road (44 page)

CHAPTER

64

Biren’s heart almost stopped the first time he saw Layla. She was four years old and living with Mitra, who was now married and a schoolteacher in Dhaka with a daughter of her own. Moon, her daughter, was exactly six months older than Layla.

Biren’s granddaughter stared at him solemnly with big gray-green eyes the color of river fog. Something ancient and familiar stirred deep within him. They were Maya’s eyes looking back at him. Layla’s resemblance to Maya was eerie, from her straight shining hair down to her delicate arched feet. When she brushed her hand across her forehead Biren noticed her hairline met at the center of her forehead in a widow’s peak, exactly like his late wife’s.

His first impulse had been to embrace her, but Layla shied away, her eyes becoming anxious.

“Give her time,” Mitra consoled him. “She only opened up to me after weeks. I just let her and Moon play together. If anybody can draw her out of her shell, it’s Moon.”

The girls were building a tower with used matchboxes. Moon, the bossy one, did all the building while Layla stood watching with somber eyes.

“I am still shocked at her uncanny resemblance to Maya,” Biren said.

“I would never have thought that the first day I saw her, Dada,” Mitra said. She covered her eyes and shook her head slowly. “I could hardly bear to look at her. Her hair was all knotted, her skin lumpy and red with ant bites. I shudder to think how long she had been left out in the rain. Every night she would wake up screaming. Only recently it has stopped. After Moni’s cremation I did not want to leave Layla in Baba’s
basha
so I brought her back with me to Dhaka.”

“I wish I was there, Mitra. You should never have had to go through this alone.”

“We tried our best to trace you. We sent a telegram to you in Calcutta, but I suppose you had already left for Europe.” Mitra was silent for a little while. “I dread to think how much Layla saw of her mother’s suicide. I cannot imagine how traumatic is must be for a child to see her mother drown in front of her eyes and not be able to go to her because she is tied to a tree. No child should have to go through what Layla has been through.”

Biren covered his eyes, his heart lacerated with pain. “The poor child, the poor child,” he cried in a strangled voice.

“Don’t feel bad, Dada,” Mitra said, putting her hand on Biren shoulder. “It could have been worse. We could have lost Layla, as well. I am greatly encouraged by her improvement. Every day she seems to get better. I have to thank Moon for that. I try not to mollycoddle Layla. I don’t even reprimand Moon when she acts bossy with her. I let them work it out between themselves. It is an odd friendship. They are complete opposites. Moon is a rascal and Layla is soulful and sage-like. The wisdom of the universe is in Layla’s eyes.”

Biren remembered Maya’s peaceful eyes when she’d woken in the morning, and the luxurious way she’d raised her supple arms in a feline stretch. He had loved this soft, unhurried quality about her.

“Dadamoshai!” shouted little Moon. She skip-hopped up to Biren, her black curls bouncing, and tugged him by the hand. “Come and play.”

Layla stayed where she was. She watched them and twirled a strand of hair around her finger. Biren’s heart again skipped a beat. Maya had had exactly the same habit.

He got up from the chair and walked over to the matchboxes. “Shall we play a counting game?” he said. “Who is going to line up the matchboxes? All right, I will go first.” He pointed to the first matchbox. “One. Who’s next?”

“Two,” said Moon. She sat on her haunches and bounced her bottom.

“Next?” said Biren, looking at Layla. Moon gave her a little prod.

“Three,” whispered Layla, her voice barely audible.

“My turn. Four,” said Biren.

“Five!” shouted Moon, clapping her hands.

“Six,” whispered Layla.

And they went all the way up to stop at eleven, where the matchboxes ended.

“Game over,” said Biren.

“Again-again-again!” cried Moon.

Biren got to his feet and dusted his hands. “Now you two play,” he said, and walked back to his chair.

“You are good with children.” Mitra chuckled. “Remember how you taught me sums using peanuts?”

Biren grew sad thinking of all years he had missed out on with his own daughter.

“I never had the opportunity to watch Moni grow,” he said softly. “She slipped through my fingers.”

Mitra was thoughtful. “Now you have these two,” she said. “Maybe you can give them what you could not give her.”

“I don’t know if Layla will ever accept me as her grandfather. She is so painfully shy.”

“Give her time, Dada. She sees how Moon adores you. She follows Moon around and imitates everything she does.”

“I want to spend more time with the girls,” said Biren. “It will give me the opportunity to get to know Layla.”

“I have an idea,” said Mitra. “When school closes for the summer I’ll bring them to Silchar and we will spend the summer months with you. The change will do me good and the girls will love your big house. You can show them your school and teach them things.”

Their visit could not come soon enough.

* * *

That summer Biren studied Layla carefully. She was painfully shy. Often the girls wandered into his study. Moon, incapable of sitting still, ran around like a hurricane and then ran out, but Layla lingered. She ran her fingers along Biren’s desk and sometimes touched his books. Once she picked up Charulata’s bookmark lying next to his diary and stared at it for the longest time, running her finger over the bumpy pattern. She held the bookmark a few inches from her face, her tiny brow furrowed in puzzlement.

“B,”
she whispered to herself. Biren could hardly believe his ears. She had deciphered the first hidden alphabet symbol of his name!

There was something about her furtive curiosity that reminded Biren of the young fox he had befriended in the Grantham meadows. If he acted busy and preoccupied, Layla crept closer. Sometimes she stood so close he could feel the warmth of her small body against his arm. But she still did not speak.

One day she pushed a small hard object in his hand.

“What is it?” Biren muttered absently. He looked out of the corner of his eye and his heart took a tumble. It was Moni’s Russian doll!

A lump rose in his throat as he fought back the sting of tears. Afraid to trust his voice, he took the doll and turned it around, pretending to examine it. Something rattled inside.

“Is there something inside?” he asked nonchalantly.

Layla nodded vigorously. Her silky hair shimmered like a scarf. Biren smiled at her enthusiasm.

“You can open it,” she said, pushing against his arm.

Biren unscrewed the top half of the doll. Inside the hollowed chamber were several shiny oblong seeds.

Biren spread a few seeds on his palm.

“What are these?” he asked, separating the seeds with his forefinger.

“Seeds,” Layla said. Her eyes widened and she spread out her thin arms. “From a big-big tree.”

Biren thrilled to hear her voice. It was solemn and sweet, just like her eyes.

“Oh,” Biren said, feigning casualness. “I wonder what kind of tree it is.” He had learned by now if he directed a question at her, she would not answer. To trick her into a conversation he had to sound as if he was talking to himself.

“A big red tree,” she said eagerly, leaning into his arm.

He knew he had to proceed delicately. An inch in the wrong direction and she would curl back into herself like a sleeping fern.

“I used to have a doll like this once upon a time,” he said slowly to himself. “I wonder who gave Layla the doll.”

“My Moni-ma,” said Layla, clear as day. “Moni-ma told me to keep this doll because she was going away.”

Moni-ma. So that’s what she called her mother.
Biren eyes welled up; he had to look away.

Layla picked up the seeds one by one from Biren’s open palm and put them back inside the doll. She capped the top half and offered the doll to him.

“Take this,” she said solemnly.

“No, it’s yours,” Biren replied quickly. “Your Moni-ma gave it to you. You must keep it.”

“
You
keep it
for
me,” she pleaded, and pushed the doll into his hand. “Because—” she paused to look furtively over her shoulder “—Moon will break it.”

Biren smiled. He took the doll and rattled the seeds.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’ll keep it with me, and when you come again we will plant the seeds together, all right?”

Layla nodded. She turned and skipped out of the room.

* * *

They planted the seeds in mud pots the following summer. The girls watered them every day, and soon twenty-nine flame tree seedlings unfurled their feathery leaves to the sun. After the big rains in June the seedlings turned into healthy saplings with sturdy stems, and by the end of that summer they had all been planted at thirty-foot intervals along the road leading to Biren Roy’s house.

Today it is a shimmering avenue of flame trees: twenty-nine in all that meet in a glorious canopy overhead and provide a dappled shade to walkers below. It struck Biren only recently that Maya was twenty-nine years old when she died. There is one tree for every glorious year of her life. It comforted him to know the avenue of flame trees would be there to shower down blessings on future generations long after he was gone.

2nd April 1950

Mitra
maiyya
,

I write to you from beautiful Falmouth in Cornwall. Spring arrives here earlier than the rest of the UK and right now the Enys Gardens is resplendent with bluebells.

Estelle lives close to Gyllyngvase Beach. This is the perfect weather for long walks, plenty of good reading, pots of tea and cozy evenings.

We are both in our eighties now, although, if you count my actual birthdays on the leap years, it makes me nineteen years old. This was my age when I met Estelle. So in effect I am taking up from where I left off. Estelle tells me I have become rather juvenile in my old age. I was an old man in my youth, which surely entitles me to youth in my old age, don’t you think? Estelle, on the other hand, has mellowed like a rather fine wine. She is doing serious writing while I dabble in children’s stories. Right now I am writing the story of two ants, Elo and Jhelo, and their adventures on a boat, complete with pen and ink illustrations done by Nitin. Nitin—who inspired the book—is eager to get a copy for his granddaughter. He is retired and settled in Chandanagore and has made quite a name for himself as the cartoonist for the local paper.

My school in Silchar is running effortlessly. Estelle’s niece, Bridgette Olson—James’s daughter—has taken a keen interest. Our teachers’ training institute is one of the best in the country. We have a fine hostel and provide free accommodation to single women, mostly Hindu widows and spinsters who have enrolled in our teaching program.

Estelle and I plan to return to India in early fall. We will spend the Christmas season in the tea plantations of Aynakhal with Layla.

I am pleased to know you will visit Silchar to see the new vocation center. Chaya will take good care of you all. This is a splendid time of year when the flame trees are in full bloom. There are many dreams I have realized in my life,
maiyya
, but planting the flame trees have given me the greatest joy of all.

Yours,

Dada

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt from
TEATIME FOR THE FIREFLY
by Shone Patel.

A Note to Readers

I believe it is the land that shapes its people. My ancestors migrated from Sylhet in East Bengal—now Bangladesh—to Assam several generations ago. The Bengal and Assam settings for
Flame Tree Road
are entirely fictitious, constructed mostly from imagination and stories I have heard. I used the vast riverine delta of East Bengal with its ever-changing waterways, its monsoons, floods and famine to set the mood for this novel. The unpredictability of life in these parts creates a certain restlessness and a sense of fatality in the mind-set of the people. This is echoed in the lonely, haunting songs of the river boatman. As a child I learned these folk songs from my father. He hummed them in the morning as he laced his canvas boots getting ready for
kamjari
—field supervision—in the tea plantations where he worked as a manager. I have carried these river songs in my heart to distant worlds; they are embedded in my blood.