By Ankita Tripathi
Dearest Lata,
I know I’m late in writing my first letter from England. But before I begin, let me ease the weight on my heart. I’m indebted to you, my dear friend. I wouldn’t have ever returned home without your aid. My journey was a little more difficult than we had anticipated. I blame it on my grief. But thanks to you, I had company. Your cousins were as kind as you. Stepping on English soil after so many years did not affect me. But as my brother-in-law drove me into Surrey, I began to feel at home. You were right; there is something about our motherland’s air.
As we already know, the tragedy has devastated my father. My arrival has raised his spirits. My two sisters have come to visit me. I’m so happy to be in their company. I had grown sick of their letters that took months to arrive. Now I can talk to them as much as I can, whenever I can. It feels good to be back.
There is something else. My father sent a letter to Jonathan’s family, hoping to hear from Jonathan himself. But we’ve only received a written apology. I had known, which is why I’m not surprised. My father talks about reputation and honor. But he will accept my fate sooner or later. I'm relying on time; as you said, time heals.
My friend, I will write you again when the days are better. Give my love to your little son and my namaste to the elders.
Violet.
Niyati laid the letter on her lap as her eyes rested on the garden. The heavenly-colored flowers mirrored the vibrant butterflies. The captivating sight calmed Niyati’s breath. But her thoughts remained shaken. Her dadi's refurbished jewelry box was lying on the coffee table beside her. Its red velvet covering gleamed brighter during the day. Niyati picked up all the letters and found the monochrome photographs underneath. She flipped one to read ‘Us. Turner Hill Cottage, 1941’. Two cheerful faces looked back at her. Young Jonathan and Violet. The second photo had Violet sitting alone in the verandah on the same cane chair as her. A hardcover on Violet’s lap. ‘Miss Violet Hill, 1949.’
Niyati lowered her hand into the box. A diamond ring touched her fingers. She hesitated. The six-claw coronet held a striking diamond on the gold band. She rolled it over her palm and found Violet’s initials inscribed on the inner side. Niyati could imagine the ring on Violet’s delicate finger. She wondered how it made her feel.
‘Madam. Tea?’
A voice cut her off from her thoughts. Niyati placed the photographs back into the box, followed by the ring and the letters. She locked the metal clip with a click.
‘Thank you.’ Niyati said as she sat straight up and realized she had been reclining for too long. She grabbed her cup of tea and began to reminisce about recent events. It has been quite overwhelming.
To think that all her life she has been unaware of this piece of her family’s history in India is upsetting. Had it not been for her uncle, Niyati wouldn't have returned for the project. She had blurred memories of her childhood in India and her family’s migration to Australia when she was six. Her project on unearthing and archiving family history made revisiting possible. Niyati and her project partner, Mitali, had similar stories to cover in India. Leaving her family’s story out was not even an option for Niyati.
But the journey had not been less than an adventure. She would laugh about it later. The panic before getting down at the right railway station was real. The strangeness of the old town was intimidating. The narrow lanes of the crowded bazaar were too much for her nerves. The dirt roads leading up to her uncle’s estate did not stop the taxi driver from being careless and rash. Being charged for hitting a buffalo in the middle of the road was the last thing Niyati would've wanted. Mitali, on the other hand, was sipping a cappuccino in a cafe in New Delhi. It was enough to annoy her.
Niyati had sighed in relief upon arriving at Turner Hill Cottage, her final destination. The wide paved driveway, with Ashoka trees on both sides, was welcoming.
‘Are you coming here for the first time, madam?’ The driver’s Hinglish had annoyed her. She had replied, ‘No! I’ve been here many times before.’
Somi, the tour guide of the estate, and Madhav, her uncle’s assistant, had greeted her at the steps of the verandah. The cane furniture and the jute blinds had given her a sense of comfort.
If the outdoors were peaceful, the drawing room would be distressing. Furniture and antiques occupied the room. A towering grandfather clock had caught her attention. A life-size portrait of an unrecognizable Englishwoman hung beside it. Three chandeliers clinked from the high ceiling. Two air conditioners sat camouflaged on the off-white walls. The floor-length curtains blocked most of the natural light. Niyati had to force herself to feel comfortable. After all, she was in this British-era building, which is now a guesthouse.
Niyati’s tea was almost over now. But her thoughts were still lingering in the past. On one of their walks, Somi shared a little history about the estate.
'Jonathan Charles Turner, a British officer from England, came to India in 1936. He received this property during his posting here. The construction of the bungalow was finished in 1940. After Mr. Turner left India in November 1947, your great-grandfather re-acquired it. Because this land belonged to your ancestors.’
Niyati was fortunate that her uncle had given her access to all the papers that proved this.
Finally, out of her reverie, Niyati realized her tea cup was empty. She had yet to begin writing her research paper. Also, she still had Violet's last letter to read. Others had told her that she and her grandmother were inseparable. They were of the same age. She wished she could hear everything from her dadi.
Niyati opened her uncle’s folder. She went through the court summons in the name of Jonathan. The reasons for his abrupt departure were plenty, but this was the most convincing. He had several cases against him, including the exploitation of the natives. She sighed and left her chair.
Pausing at the main door of the cottage, she noticed a guest in the drawing room, flipping through a magazine. She leaned in to view the inner structure she had not explored. She has been enjoying her time on the verandah.
Niyati then turned to walk down the steps and into the well-preserved garden. She attempted to look at the estate from an outsider's perspective. She could sense a harmony between the local and the foreign—the past and the present. Memories were scattered around the grounds like dead leaves.
She shifted her gaze toward the water fountain in the garden. The stone-carved birds on its sides and a pair of deformed cherubs at the foot of the fountain delighted her. It struck her that the narrow pathways around the garden might’ve felt the weight of Violet’s steps. She smiled. The loud banter of the gardenkeepers jolted her out of her thoughts.
Niyati shaded her eyes from the sun and looked back at the white building. She noticed the deep verandah that ran from the main door and around the building. It might’ve allowed the residents to step out into the open from any room. She looked up at the upper floor, which she now knew was her grandfather’s addition.
’And…the servant quarters in the backyard were the norm earlier. We use them as staff offices.’ Niyati could recall Somi’s words.
Time elapsed as she stood admiring the identical, arched windows. The plinth lifted the building. The sloping roofs—the old charm. The bougainvillea vine graced the entrance.
‘Niyati?’ Her aunt called. ‘I was going home. Do you want to come with me?’
‘I’ll stay back and work.’
Her aunt looked at the box. ‘I understand.’
‘Auntie, did Dadi ever talk about Violet?’ Niyati asked.
‘Yes. When she was well and we could rely on her memory, she would talk about her.’
‘What did she say often?’
Her aunt paused. ‘That Violet showed her that a woman’s life is full of miseries. Irrespective of her ethnicity or family background.'
Her aunt squeezed her hand gently and walked towards the car. ‘Don’t skip your lunch!’
Niyati called for another cup of tea and sat back in her chair. The last letter was waiting for her.
Woking, 1955
My dear Lata,
To rest your nerves, let me inform you that my health is improving. I’ve been wondering why I never invited you to Woking. It’s surprising. I miss your company. And I miss sitting on the cottage’s verandah, sipping tea, and reading my favorite books. Good times indeed.
Returning home was the right decision at that time. But things have changed. My home looks and sounds different now. My neighbors are bothersome. They pity me.
You know, an old friend recently said to me, “I keep you in my prayers, but I must not intrude.” I wanted to tell her that it would’ve been nice if she had sat with me without exchanging a word or worrying about intrusion. Sometimes, the mere presence of a fellow human is all I need. I know you would’ve sat by me. And then I might've asked you to put me to sleep like you always did. Yours was a mother’s comforting hand that I miss, gently tapping on my troubled head.
There is something I wish to convey. I’ll be moving back to India soon. The mere thought gives me new hope, without which I’m finding it hard to go on. I know it shocks you as well. It is rather abrupt. But I might finally begin to live. The time I spent in the cottage after he left had prepared me for a lonely life. You tried everything to fill that void. But I knew what my life was preparing me for. Why not live that life in India?
Tell me, do you think we forgive people for hurting us? I don’t see it coming to me yet—the courage to forgive. How sad that every memory of you brings along thoughts about him. I’ve heard that he lives in Canada now. Can someone run away from one’s past? I do not think so.
Well, there’s something else. An aunt has left me her exquisite pearl necklace. And it goes well with that pink dress that you got me stitched. It's funny, isn’t it?
Before I forget, let me confirm that I will stay at your cottage until I find a home. I hope it’s not too much to ask. I'll see you there soon. May this letter reach you in time.
Lots of warmth,
Violet.
Niyati plunged out of her chair. Did Violet return to India?
She left a note for her uncle. ‘Need to ask something. Are you free?’
As she waited for a reply, Niyati had her third cup of tea. Then she went on another walk around the estate with the letter in her hand.
‘A bit occupied. See you in an hour.’ The note from her uncle read.
She discarded it and trudged along the backyard. She ignored the noise of her uncle’s office and the intense aroma looming outside the kitchen. And the new guests in shorts and sunglasses. As she strolled into the drawing room, her eyes fell on the grandfather clock. Then she casually shifted to the large portrait of the Englishwoman in the pink dress.
It was as if the woman in the letters had reached out.
Niyati tilted her head and scoffed. Moving closer to the portrait, she scanned the woman’s face.
‘You.’ She whispered, and her fingers caressed the letter in her hand. ‘...all this time.’
She was stunned. The white pearl necklace shone through the glass. Then, like the last piece of the puzzle, a golden-brown metal label at the bottom of the frame glowed under the lamp. It gave her the message that would answer her question. ‘Miss Violet Hill, 1920–1955.’
By Ankita Tripathi
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