Authors: Sindhu S.
The Plunge (14 page)
They certainly lived a royal life, thought Anjali. She tried to imagine the place during the British Raj.
The museum in the building had a collection of old photographs of the viceroys and their wives, Queen Victoria, and Indian leaders, among others.
“This room used to be the billiard room during the British time.”
How did the guide manage to cram so much in her little head?
The photo of Jawaharlal Nehru seemingly laughing at his own joke, standing next to Lady Mountbatten was rather embarrassing. The strikingly thin Lady Edwina Mountbatten wore a floral frock and high heels. She held a vanity bag under her arm and stood with a sombre expression near her handsome husband.
Anjali lost much of her respect for the first prime minister of India. She admired the way Nehru presented his ideas in his books. The man in the photo was so unlike the image she had in mind.
The picture was misleading, certainly a case of careless misrepresentation. Siddharth would have agreed.
.
U
nlike during the last visit, this time, Siddharth looked cheerful.
Had he gained some weight? Maybe it was because she was seeing him again after almost three weeks.
“Let’s go to Prospect Hill,” he said as they walked towards the parked car. “We’ll get a captivating view of Shimla in the late evening,” he said enthusiastically.
“Do you know how the hill got its name?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Ajay told me. We visited a few temples last week. I have done quite a bit of wandering over the last two weeks.”
She surveyed his face for a response. The tense muscles suggested he could be suppressing a frown.
“I have come to like research,” she said and looked at Siddharth. Was he with her? He seemed lost in thought. Why did his mood change so abruptly?
She tried to engage him in conversation. “But research is also exhausting.”
He nodded in agreement. No smile.
“It’s fun to meet people and listen to their stories. Something like journalism, but without any deadlines or bylines,” Anjali said, searching for some interest in Siddharth. He was staring at the sky. There was still no comment.
“Only in research, you are free to reach conclusions. For example, from my experience so far, I can safely say that the native Himachalis are uncomplicated.”
The next minute, she remembered Siddharth’s wife was a Himachali. It made her somewhat insecure. She clung to his arm, and sniffed as if to make sure he was there with her, which brought a smile to his face.
“The first phase of research is also the most tiring, says Ajay,” she began excitedly until he interrupted.
“What kind of information did you need for your project from Prospect Hill?” His tone implied irritation.
“I was looking for the history of the temple, was curious about the name Prospect Hill,” she said. But why was she sounding apologetic?
It was the first time she had ever seen him irritated over something unrelated to his life. Was he being possessive? The thought made her feel valued.
She was five years older than Ajay. But they had common interests, which had drawn them closer. His slight build, beard, and glasses gave Ajay a nerdy look. At times, she suspected that he forgot to comb his hair. But there was nothing serious about their bonding that needed to be mentioned to Siddharth.
Anjali nudged Siddharth. She smiled joyfully as her arm rubbed against his hairy forearm. She felt a desperate urge to hug him as they walked past a group of tourists. She became just a human body in a crowd. When surrounded by an ocean of similar bodies, the only feeling a lover can have for a partner is perhaps lust.
When did she start regarding lust as an acceptable feeling?
Siddharth maintained his seriousness even after they reached the parked car. Anjali nervously bit her lower lip when Siddharth opened the door and took the driver’s seat. Anjali rubbed his shoulder. He looked at her startled, as if awakened from an unpleasant dream.
“Is this Ajay the same research fellow I had seen with you during my last visit?” he asked.
“Yes, the one with beard,” she said with a smile.
“Oh.” His response was more of a reproach.
“What is his research topic? Anything related to your project?” he asked, knitting his brows, as if trying to spot an important landmark at the farthest end of the road, steadying the steering.
Siddharth preferred to drive a rental car. He was not comfortable with taxis.
“It’s about how the older generation adjusted to the change in the hills over the years. Interesting, isn’t it?”
Siddharth shrugged. He did not seem as impressed with the idea as she was. The shrug meant that either he was not sure or he was not convinced. Anjali could not decide.
“Please drive slowly,” she said as they drove up the steep road leading to Prospect Hill.
Not the right time. Had he been in a better mood, she would have reached for his hand again.
The small temple of Kamna Devi was a favourite tourist spot. The goddess granted wishes, according to locals.
Siddharth parked the car.
The temple was pretty basic, like most others in Shimla. The stone idols were elaborately draped with garlands. The smell of burning oil lamps and incense sticks transported her into another world. She felt safe and calm.
Anjali knelt down before the priest. The old man mumbled some prayers for her and smeared the red holy powder,
tilak
, on her forehead. She offered some money to the frail man.
Siddharth was waiting for her outside the temple.
Leaning on the half wall, Anjali admired the breathtaking view of the distant town below.
“It looks better at night,” he said. “In fact, this spot offers one of the best night views of Shimla.”
“It really is the best place on earth at this moment,” she said, moving closer to him. He smiled and pulled her towards him.
.
A
njali turned around and smiled. It melted something within Siddharth. It always did; the furtive look was irresistible.
Why did she have to be so charming? She should not hang around with Ajay. She was too gullible. Anjali should be warned.
That night, Siddharth watched Anjali for a long time in the faint light of the night lamp.
Why did Anjali feel so insecure at times? Was she always like this?
The more he knew her, the more intrigued he became.
She looked much younger than her age. She could easily find a young husband. She said she didn’t believe in marriage. “Marriage is a huge gamble,” was her argument.
What if she meets her man one of these days? The idea made him uneasy. But, she, too, deserved a committed relationship.
Siddharth placed a protective arm around Anjali. She was sleeping on her side, facing him, vulnerable. She responded to his caress instantly and snuggled against him. He kissed her on her forehead, which woke her up. She yanked her
kurta
off and hurled it onto the chair near the bed. He enclosed her in his arms. He liked the way she moaned under his body.
“Indeed, slow eaters make good lovers,” she said in his ears.
“OK, that sounds like a compliment,” he whispered back.
She giggled. It brought a smile to his face.
“Have a look,” Anjali said with enthusiasm, handing over her notes to Siddharth.
Siddharth kept his morning tea on the side table and took the notepad from her.
“The British must have had great patience and taste,” she said.
Under the title ‘Colonial Exploitation’, she had scribbled: The difficult terrain did not hinder the British will to replicate familiar architecture. They were good planners, architects, and smart administrators, but certainly bad masters.
According to jottings in Captain Mundy’s
Journal of a Tour in India
, Indians were punished with lashes in public: in one instance, as many as 800 for a fight with a British official. Indian coolies were made to carry heavy loads from the plains since there were no roads. The “groaning coolies” were picked up from the villages and forced to carry heavy cargo, said the author.
In the 1830s, Emily Eden wrote in her diary
Up the Country
, “Every camel trunk takes eight coolies to carry and we had several hundred camel trunks.”
Ian Stephens wrote that the annual move to Shimla was romantic, but “rather horrifying”. Coolies pulled the rickshaws and the “terribly heavy loads” on their backs up the slopes.
Siddharth had read some of it before, but never felt a need for such detail. But Anjali had to for her research.
Appalling details of the sufferings of native workers engaged in the construction of road and rail links were recorded in some books.
“Why did it take us so many years to get rid of the British?” Anjali asked artlessly. He smiled. She did not expect an answer, he knew.
He flipped through the entries. Impressive, Anjali had read through many of the numerous private diaries in the institute library.
Under the heading ‘History’, she had noted facts regarding the colonial era.
Shimla was transformed into a heritage town after the 1840s. Today, looking around the town was like flipping through a history book or exploring a museum stocked with archaeological treasures.
Some records said that Shimla was given to the maharaja of Patiala for the help he had offered the British in the war with Nepal. Which royal it was, the writer could not say. The maharaja had initially used the hills as a sanatorium.
One author mentioned in his book about an English officer who commanded the Ghurkha troops in those days as the first Briton to realise the potential of Shimla.
According to another story, two Scots, the Gerard brothers, who were hired to survey the Sutlej valley in the early eighties, promoted Shimla among the English. British officers soon began moving to the hills during the summers on a regular basis, slowly transforming the Shimla village into a popular hill station and convalescent depot.
Shimla was officially declared the summer capital of the British India in 1864. Native chiefs copied this practice. The Punjab government started using the town as its summer capital from 1871.
Anjali had copied an amusing document in her journal, word for word, an announcement about the summer movement to Shimla during the period. She had titled it ‘Floating Population’, under which she had written:
Source:
Revised Heritage Report
“Should the Governor General and Commander-in-Chief come up next season, it will consist of British subjects, 200, and native 8,000. When the tributary chieftains and followers come in, it will be nearly 20,000. Again in winter, when but few remain, it will probably not exceed British subjects, 20, natives, 2,000.”
How did they manage to move up to these heights summer after summer? Shimla was initially only accessible from Kalka, forty three miles up the hills, by horse carts operated by the Mountain Car Company. The Kalka-Shimla railway line was commissioned much later, only in 1904.
Siddharth looked at Anjali with an approving smile. She had indeed taken her assignment seriously.
He was impressed that she had managed to make such detailed entries in her journal.
He looked out the window. The guesthouse was near the Ridge, and it gave a good view. The British Simla used to stretch along the Ridge between Jakhu and Prospect Hill; another century.
Many decades after the British had left for good, their descendants still visited Shimla in search of their roots. That was curious. Maybe he could develop the idea into a special story for his magazine.
“How about some mall walking?” she proposed the next morning.
Anjali looked fresh and eager to indulge in window shopping. Trinkets and books; he was familiar with her obsessions. What pleasure did she get in these mementos, as she called them?
“We call it comfort shopping. Indulgence is a real mood elevator,” she said. “It’s like pampering your ego, you see.”
“OK, OK, I see…,” he said, laughing, amused at her enthusiasm.