The house was high up on the hill, although not quite at its summit. It had an unobstructed view of its surroundings, and what a view it was.
Loya had seen many beautiful places – she had spent enough time in the hills and forests of south India – but to have such a vista before one’s own home! This was picture-postcard land.
The Brahmaputra curved languidly along the base of the hill, its blue waters glimmering in the sunlight. Boats of all kinds floated on its seemingly lazy current. In the far distance – this river was wider than any she had seen – a blue-green blur of hills lined the opposite bank. To the west, there was a bridge – the Saraighat, named after, she had read, a famous battle fought in the area.
Pleased-to-meet-you. This time the bird was closer. She looked around, peering into the dark hearts of trees around. But she had been looking too long at the bright light over the river and all she saw was a green blur. She turned away to look up at the house instead.
It seemed harmless enough, this home her mother had been exiled from.
Up here, the narrower side of the building presented itself to her. From the gate below, she had seen the house stretching long and low along the shelf of the hill. But here, she looked at it end on. A pair of wooden double doors – the front door – was shut. The house was shrouded in silence. Windows were open, but curtained; there was no hint of human presence: no gush of water from a tap, or the scrape of a chair or even a cough. Only the bulbul was brave enough to sing out into the hush.
Despite the heat, Loya shivered. Her previous unease sharpened as she stood at the bottom of the few steps leading up to the entrance. Beneath the disquiet was also a bubbling anger. She was furious with herself. Never indecisive, not one to change her mind once she had made it up, she could not understand what the matter with her was.
Of course, so far all her decisions had fallen in line with Rukmini’s wishes and the one time it had not – when she chose to study elephant behaviour instead of going obediently off to medical college – she had been very sure of what she had wanted. This time she couldn’t shake off the feeling that she was making a terrible mistake, one that would lead her into grave danger.
Well, it was now or never. Polama, she said in Tamil. Let’s go.
The mammoth suitcase bumped against her ankles with every step she ascended. Ten steps, ten painful knocks, and Loya was at the door. She set the suitcase down and exhaled. In front of her, on the yellow wall beside the impressive door was a circular doorbell. Loya straightened up and pushed the knob.
A deep gong-like sound rose from the bowels of the house. The air seemed to shift a fraction. Loya strained to listen to any response from behind the closed door.
Nothing. Just an unwavering silence.
Loya waited. When five minutes had passed, she rang the bell again, this time twice, to make sure. Again, a silence. And then, the faintest scrape of bare feet on the floor and a rustling behind the door. A metallic latch was being pulled down and slowly one panel of the door opened, and a man stepped out.
“Who do you want?” he asked in Assamese.
Loya found herself speechless. She had expected her grandfather to answer the door. Whoever this was, it couldn’t be him, he was too young. Well, he wasn’t young, but he wasn’t old.
“Who are you?” she asked in return, in heavily accented Hindi.
The man straightened up and Loya thought she saw his thick moustache bristle. “Never you mind who I am, who are you?” he asked, his Hindi better than hers.
“I am Loya Alex,” she said, in English this time, standing taller. She matched the man head to head.
He appeared to understand her, but replied in Hindi again. “Well? Am I supposed to know you?”
“I am not sure,” Loya said, choosing her words carefully.
“I am Mr Torun Ram Goswami’s granddaughter. Rukmini’s daughter.”
The man’s mouth dropped open. He clapped hand to his open mouth. “Hey bhogoban,” he said, “Rukmini’s daughter!”
The man reached out and grabbed Loya’s wrist. He pulled her with such force she almost fell. “Come in!” he said. “Come in quickly.”
Loya squeezed through the half-open door. She found herself in a dark hallway. To her right was an old-fashioned mirrored coat stand and in front, an open door, leading to what looked like a formal sitting room. Her suitcase stood forlorn on the landing outside. The man caught her look and carried it in, surprisingly easily. The man would be fifty, at least, but he was sturdy belying his years.
“Come right in.” The man led the way into the larger room. “Sit, sit! I will call Deuta.”
The man switched on a ceiling fan and disappeared. Loya looked around warily. She was in a vast high-ceilinged room much like the rooms in Glenburn.
Glenburn’s dark rooms were heavily ornate, all rosewood furniture and velvet drapes. This room was furnished with pieces in mellow golden teak, the fabrics in refreshing green and cream colours. To Loya’s right was an elegant mossy green three-seater sofa. She sat down carefully on it and laid her bag on the seat by her side.
It was a relief to be indoors. With the thick curtains drawn against the glare and the ceiling fan at full speed above, it was almost cool. Loya felt herself relaxing.
Where had the man disappeared? Who could he be? Deuta, he called Torun. Deuta, which was father in Assamese.
Somewhere inside, a door creaked open. Footsteps shuffled and then the man with the moustache appeared followed by an older man, dressed in white kurta-pyjama, as if for bed. The younger man accompanied the older one up to the end of the long drawing room and then stopped.
Loya stood up as the old man approached. At five feet nine inches, she was taller than him and she did something out of character: she slouched a little. She remembered Rukmini saying Torun would be eighty-seven this year; her mother had been a late child, born when Torun had been well into his thirties. He certainly did not look his age. His pink skin was smooth, unlined and his chubby face looked a decade younger. His head shored up this illusion of youth. It was absolutely bald, and there was no grey hair to indicate his advanced years.
The old man looked confused as he walked up to an armchair opposite Loya. He raised his head and looked at her intently. Loya felt her face flush and she cursed this affliction that let her down in critical moments. She attempted a smile, but just then a shadow passed across the old man’s face and his previous look of confusion was replaced by a hint of irritation. Loya felt a quick little flicker of anger. Surely the old man as not contemplating evicting her from the house too. Well, he would find out then that she was not quite as docile as Rukmini.
“Romen says you are Rukmini’s daughter.” The old man spoke in a surprisingly clear voice.
“Yes, I am.” Loya’s voice was steady. “I am Loya.”
The old man nodded. “Music, melody, rhythm,” he said, “your name means music, do you know that?”
“Yes.”
There was a silence. Romen coughed gently.
“What is it?” Torun turned his head.
“Some tea, Deuta?”
“Yes, yes, good idea.” Torun turned to Loya. “Have you had lunch?”
“No.”
“Then something to eat too, Romen.”
“Yes, Deuta.” Romen disappeared swiftly in the direction of the kitchen.
Torun shifted in his chair. “Well.”
“Well,” he said again. “What brings you here to Guwahati?”
Loya’s face was on fire now. “I am going to Kaziranga to research elephants for my thesis.”
“Remarkable!”
Another brittle silence. From the kitchen came sounds of a tap opening and shutting, the clink of metal vessels, and the tuneless humming of a popular Hindi film song.
“Planning to stay in Guwahati long?” Torun smiled at Loya.
“A few days.”
“You are welcome to stay here...As long as you like.”
“Thank you.” Loya was furious. Where had he expected her to stay? In a hotel? Over the lunch of fried pooris – lusis, Torun explained they were called – and channa, Loya remained in a state of speechless anger.
“Get some rest now,” Torun said as Romen cleared the dishes. Loya followed Romen into a room. “Please let me know if there is anything you need.” He shut the door gently behind him.
Excerpted with permission from Undertow, Jahnavi Barua, Penguin Viking.
