The sinister silence suddenly surrendered to the ferocious growl- the sound approached us lurking closer, while we remained hidden within the darkness of the nightfall amongst the bushes. Our hearts were throbbing in fear. It was about a fortnight before we could welcome the month of fabulous February. The air of the jaali kamra was thick with the scent of coffee which sat prettily in a white china cup with a gold rim, cocoa powder sprinkled on delicate milky foam among the pale brown. We wrapped our fingers around the cups, enjoying the heat that spread through our palms. This was dalgona coffee- a rage now a.k.a. pheta coffee which we had been enjoying in tea estates for ages due to the kind courtesy of skilled cooks and bearers.
After savouring the drink as well as the sisterly moment, both my cousin (who was visiting us from overseas) and I, set out for our evening walk. The cold river breeze blew right through our sweaters. We wrapped our arms tightly pulling our jackets closed and tucking our chin downward into our pullovers. The laces of my sports shoes trailed on the ground. With each step, the shoelace flapped in some random pattern. “Di you need to tie your laces”, nudged my cousin, admiring the pathway which was of many hues of browns and greens, mingled with some stones and bricks, giving it a bright tinge. Our conversation revolved around the incident narrated by my husband over lunch. The manager Pradeep and his team had found the wounded cubs of leopard amongst the scorched heap of Guatemala grass next to the deep drain while tilling the land. They had tried to dress the injuries of the cubs with cotton wool. Just then the mother leopard with her giant paws had padded soundlessly with her lithe muscles, protective towards her cubs. They had all managed to save themselves and had been warned not to venture into that area until further notice. Chatting, we ambled on, admiring the beauty of nature. My sister’s aesthetic sense had come alive. She was dazzled by the splendour of the yellow ball of fire changing colours to orange, merging with the sky; silhouette of birds flying home. The land itself was a steep incline, the kind that makes one feel the efforts of the muscles to climb and feel joyous after that. We admired the green shades of the tea bushes as it deepened and lightened in the sun rays and I beamed with pride when Manjari mentioned, “it’s heaven you all stay on.” The faint evening glow was diminishing as darkness consumed the estate.
We trudged along the muddy and somewhat mossy alley. Every view seemed unique but the same all at once. Perhaps we had lost our way. Had I paid more attention to those narrow pathways on many a walk that my husband and I had been on, I could have picked our way back by an eye but right now in the rapidly approaching twilight, there was not an iota of a chance. Now I was concerned about my husband’s wrath as he had warned us not to venture far off.
We could fathom that help would be at hand if both of us followed the tapered trail towards the shimmering lights which probably could be the Chhota bungalow. Our saviour- the torchlight of the only cell phone shone dimly as we sauntered. Suddenly the fading light of the sky around me swirled and clouded my vision and my fate was known. The branch which acted as a bridge gave way creaking and I fell screaming. My feet faltered and I was in the drain. Along with me my cell phone with a thud!
We were glad for the pale light of the moon streaming through the canopy of trees. Was the sound of the wild real or just our imagination? “Were we in the same vicinity as the feline creatures now?” we wondered. We were hypo ventilating, trying to hold on to our breath. Fighting through the very air which hung cold and misty, we groped through the blackness.
As we strutted through the wild, piercing the sound of the night and the throbbing of our hearts, there was an unanticipated whirring noise that completely captured our brains
We were all ears towards the sound and then the approaching light swarmed over the darkened space. Our hearts were racing and all we wanted to do was stay put and wait for someone to rescue us. "Oh dear God!" a choked cry for help was forced out of my throat. I hobbled with my twisted ankle as Manjari helped me along. Our sprinting form flicked through the headlights of the garden tractor, flailing our arms. The driver and the khalasi stared at us open-mouthed. We maintained our equanimity in this dark hour of peril. Through the flashlight, the khalasi pointed out towards the ploughed land where the baag had been spotted but now it seemed, we had been way off from the leopards’ territory. Looking back at the moment when the echo of each growl had played on forever we could have sworn that the leopard was next to us, as we stood perfectly still, listening to the sound. We felt like royalty on the tractor- on top of the world! The tractor drove through Arica Avenue which was breathing and lively, towards the factory. There was a hustle-bustle of people as it was a darma day (wages for the pluckers). They were all ready for the haat (farmers market). They gaped at us disbelievingly, in awe and were in strange conversations of sorts. It was as if the walk, the sunset, the darkness, the growl, the quiet space were all weaved in moments- both transient and real.
Euphoric, we wrapped up the day! When my sister wound up her visit, she expressed that the aura of tea estates of thousands of helpful and good souls will remain etched in her memories. Her senses scaled to newer heights, one that comes to the heart rather than the eyes!
