Rhododendron Tea Estate-A rust laden azure blue plank with wan white letters in times roman read. We crossed the uphill driveway , treaded past a patch of wild daisies and reached the house. Another T shaped British styled bungalow, tall bamboo hedges encircling the entire plot and a high tin gate foreboding the gaze of onlookers on the settlement .It was a misty December morning, faint sunbeams already tripping through dense canopies of the Sal and teak trees. This is it, the end of all the leaving and arriving, moving in and out of tea estates. In the last twenty four years I had already moved across five estates, ample of wandering, unsettled friendships all coming to a halt here in Rhododendron just in a years time. Courtesy to father’s wilful retiral.

Two leaves and a bud, I will remember. For, I have known estates bustling with tea parties every fortnight , the lady of the house demystifying the recipe of a fruitcake everyone relished, someone sharing their guide on how to revive withered orchids, friendly tambola games , a quick vegetable garden tour. Estates where a monthly rendezvous to the uptown club was a norm with executives oversharing after a few gulps of fine wine. I have known ghost estates where the monotonous sound of the tea factory, spraying machines and water sprinklers were the only upbeat tone that reflected the residence of life there. Somewhere in the recesses of my memory hides more such stories that grapple to be picked up and acknowledged but I turned down that train of thought and moved past the green meshed verandah.White lace curtains fluttered in the rhythm of a feeble wind that floated through the long French windows as if reaching for the chandelier lined ceiling, there was a trace of taint in her touch that felt more like a farewell than a welcome.

Days rolled in, rice bland.

On afternoons I would take a stroll by the cathedral a fifteen minute hike from home, then head back to watch sunsets alchemise the living room in bright yellows.

I met him on one such walks, on the eve of Christmas dressed in a loose white shirt, an ochre sweater vest ,a pair of corduroy pants , there he stood and stooped down his umbrella when the clouds poured in unannounced, the forecast said a cloudy evening yet that rare December rain followed. We walked in comfortable silence. He had pretty champagne brown eyes hiding some sort of urgency I tried but failed to decipher .

‘Don’t you live there?’ his silvery voice inquired while he eyed our tall tin gate, already visible standing just a hairpin turn after. ‘Yes’ I answered. He might be a regular visitor I presumed. ‘Are you here for the cathedral prayer’ I asked.

‘Christmas is a loop of lights trying to sing a slow burn sonata for the dyeing year. I don’t celebrate ‘He said. Our hands brushed past but all I felt was air and vacancy.‘I am looking for a lost cat’ he chimed. Rain arrived in heavier droplets softly blurring the entire surrounding. For a moment all I saw was sycamore boughs ,smell of fresh cut grass muddled with moss and soil aroma.

It is June again .The itch of tall grass makes me conscious. I stand at my childhood play yard a decade away and watch a boy with champagne brown eyes sit by a perishing creek, his wrists are derailed train tracks he wants to change the topography of , he complains of the razor sharp summer heat and paper cut blunt static wind .He is bruises and band aids yet freckles and frolic dreaming minus the waking up part, he says how he is scared of the nights

of shadows

of thunderstorms

of people

of himself

A girl of fourteen sits beside him she wants to fasten storm to trees and thunder to the clouds and watch everything play backwards, let shadows wrap around themselves so that darkness never finds him even in the wisps of dusk, she wishes nights become fragile and she breaks them to starcrumbs .But she stays silent and instead puts lavenders in between the ringlets of his hair.

He smiles. An animated smile.

While June fades in the backdrop unnoticed.

I am at the edge of that patch of wild daisies, umbrella in hand .Alone. Reality is a pretentious gossamer I distort every time I try to get a grip on.

I skip puddles of mud water and reach home. Rainclouds clearing up the sanguine sky.As the setting sun losses to the night break I notice a cat on my room’s window sill .Cottonweed seed fur amplifying speckles of brown with a hint of gold, a calico cat.

They say calicos are four leaf clovers of their world. If that is even half true I wish I’ll stumble upon him. Again.

-Durabikhya Gogoi, Of estates and altered timelines.