The Familiar Stranger

By Book rivers and Hema Matalia

She Survived The Loss, But Will She Survive The Truth? Pamela is forced to revisit her past. The one she has buried and moved on. A photograph in a magazine turns her life as a wife, mother and art teacher into a nightmare. Her quest for answers takes her through the breadth of the country. From Darjeeling to Kolkata to Mumbai. In a novel that is filled with astonishing revelations and thrills, The Familiar Stranger is the story of a woman who must unravel the truth behind the incident that changed the course of her life. Just when everything seems to be settling down, life deals her a hand where she must play by her instincts, with no one to trust or fall back upon

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book rivers
• Release date: Feb 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9789355151391

Book preview

Dedicated

to my parents, who brought me into this world,

to Aaron and Dhanashri who are my world,

to Max, who took me around the world.

CHAPTER1

T

hevibrant red LaaliGurans (rhododendrons)growing on the slopes, paint a pretty picture of the approaching spring after a particularly harsh Himalayan winter. They seem to lay out a red carpet to welcome the season of joy and happiness.

The dried leaves in varying shades of yellow and dull green and broken twigs crackle under the pressure of my cycle in an otherwise quiet surrounding. I take a narrow uneven path thatopens into a breath-taking view of the Kanchenjunga range and the city of Darjeeling nestled in its lap.

I discovered this place quite by accident; during my early days of teaching art at St. Francis. Once,I lost my way and found myself in this piece of paradise, much like Alice who went down the rabbit hole to a Wonderland of her dreams. Sincethen, I often come down here,the watering hole of my soul that sustains me through the many roles I play in everyday life. I sit on the rocks, sometimes lie down on them and look at the sky above which is mostly clear and bright at this time of the year, though there is theoccasionalcarpet of clouds. The towering Himalayan peaks, the sentinels who guard my innermost secrets, frustrations and desires. This eloquence of shared silence purges and resurrects me from the abysmal depths of loneliness and despair that sometimes engulfsme.

I chose this life and am no one to complain about it now. Do we always make the right choices? Many a times the options before us leave no room for exercising our will. It is fait accompli. When life becomes too overwhelming,thepeace and tranquillity of this place is succour to my nerves.

Sometimes youcannot put a finger on the reason for the uneasiness within you. It is just there. Like a picture covered in haze, you cannot see it yet you can feel it. Is it a foreboding?

I rest under a tall pine tree and fiddle with the broken twigs and play with the pebbles, a little later, I perch myself on a large boulder and look around at nothing in particular.Soon, I give up on my efforts to sit still and enjoy the song of solitude. It is one of those days, I suppose, when you are out of sorts, and the day is not over yet.

It is 2 p.m.by my watch, time to go back home. I dust myself and my thoughts off before heading towards the Mall Road, where Samir, my husband, has his travel agency. I often stop by his office while returning from school to lend a helping hand during the tourist season and at other times I drop in just like that. Today it might just be the place to charge me up.

Pam, you are late today, Samir sayswhile helping me park the cycle on the curb.

Ah! Yes. I reply.

The office of Alpha Travels is not too big but it is warm and welcoming. The interiors are tastefully done with very functional pieces of furniture. The walls are bare except for a few pieces of Himalayan handicrafts displayed on them. Anoil painting of sunrise at Tiger Hillhangs on the wall behind his desk and is the first thing that catches your eye as you enter. It was my gift to him, on the occasion of our first wedding anniversary.

I make myself comfortable on the couch near the window and pour myself some tea which is kept brewing for the visitors and friends who drop in.Samir is busy on the phonewhile I sip the tea and watch the small groups of tourists moving around the Mall Road. It is early March and the tourist season has just begun. Soon the Mall will be teeming with people of different nationalities and honking vehicles in all possible sizes.Tourism is the backbone of the local economy here.Thelocalsset up makeshift stalls to sell woollens and handicrafts alongside vendors selling momos and thukpa (steamed wantons with broth) and the ubiquitous Darjeeling tea. It is a big hit with the tourists who visit this place to escape the heat of the Indian summer raging through the heartland.

I hate the crowds and their endless chatter; the pouts and poses for the cameras and the selfies. People are so busy getting the right angle for the pictures that they forget to enjoy the moment.  Their loud and garrulous behaviour irks me no end. I particularly resent the way some of them desecrate the environment. I long for the tourist season to be over, so that we can get on with our normal lives which is in sync with the nature around; quiet, peaceful and uncomplicatedwith a high quotient of happiness and satisfaction.

Darjeeling was founded way back in the nineteenth century by the British when India was under their rule. They developed this place as they found the climate suitable, unaccustomed as they were to the oppressive heat of the plains. This picturesque town nestled in the slopes of the Himalayas is covered with emerald green tea plantations and high mountain ranges. It is a boon for adventure seekers and mountaineers.  Mt. Kanchenjunga towers over the azure sky like a guardian angel. It has something for everyone, be it the world-weary spiritual seeker or the fun-loving traveller bitten by wanderlust.

The original inhabitants of this place were the Lepchas or Ronga tribe. However, now it is home to many immigrants from Nepal, Bhutan, Tibet and Myanmar. It has become the melting pot of many cultures. My ancestors are from Nepal but we have been residing here for three generations now. This is my home.Despite the unbridled urbanisation and unplanned growth of the town, it has retained its uniqueness. It is no longer the Darjeeling of my childhood days when traffic jams were not known and the Mall did not look like a shopping complex. Outings and celebrations were limited to a couple of hotels that were there and pizzas and burger stalls were never heard of. During the slack season the pace slows down and one can get a feel of what Darjeeling actually is -The Queen of Hills.

Samir is still busy on the phone, A little later I ask,Did you have your lunch? Where is Dorjee?

Dorjee has taken the afternoon off. He is taking his father to the hospital. Don’t worry I had my lunch on time, Samir says without looking up from the computer screen.

Samir looks a bit older than his forty-five years but the receding hairline and the rimless glasses add a certain charm to his lean frame. It is his disarming smile though, which wins people over. That little curve of his mouth has women swooning over him and he plays this to his advantage.

Hey, why are you staring at me? he asks.

Falling in love again, dear? he teases me.

When was I ever out of it, I wink and reply.

The tourists are early this year. Looks like a good season ahead.

Samir doesn’t reply. ALPHA TRAVELS is not just a business for him, it is his passion. He has built it from a scratch, from a rented table space in a dinghy office to this plush office onMall Road. It has been a tough journey for him. He put in all his savings and worked day and night to build this business. Not the one to rest on his laurels, he has big plans for the future. Diversifying into the hospitality sector is a dream he has been nurturing for quite sometime now.

My thoughts are interrupted as the door of the office opens and Dorjee saunters in. He is carrying a bundle of leaflets and rolled banners, collected from the printer perhaps.

The electricity bill is popping out from the shirt pocket along with a few cheques which he puts in a tray marked ‘job done’.

Good afternoon, Pamela ma’am, he greets cheerfully.

Good afternoon. How is your father,Dorjee?I inquire.

He will be fine in a day or two. The doctor said he is suffering from some allergic reaction it seems. he replies.

Well, wish him good health and a speedy recovery.

Sure ma’am.

I’d better go nowthe kids will be back soon.

Don’t wait up for me, I will be late tonight.There is a meeting at the Club,Samir informs me as he sees me out.

I stop over at theGole market to buy some cupcakes for the kids from Cherry’s Bakery. Cherry is in her late forties; she is the town’s gossip. She loves to talk and talk, but she is good at heart. You can count on her for help anytime.Her gregarious and vivacious personality can lift up the spirits of even the most morose person.I buy some cupcakes and indulge in some friendly banter. She tells me about her latest crush, a businessman from Assam.She hopes to finally walk down the aisle, after many failed attempts to do so.

On my way back home, I pick some magazines from the newspaper vendor and navigate my way through the bustling traffic and head towards Hill View Road, where we live. Our home is far from the hustle and bustle of the town. It was purchased by my father-in-law who was a manager at the Happy Valley tea gardens. The place belonged to an Englishman who sold it when he moved back to England, after India became independent. The architecture and design of the house is in keeping with the European style, the fireplaces and wooden façade,the living room on the ground floor and bedrooms on the first. Over the years we have modified a few things but kept the basic structure as it is.

I park my cycle in the shed behind the house and walk through the garden,on to the portico and into the house, just as the clock chimes four times. The kids will be home anytime now. Iput the cupcakes in the kitchen and leave the art books on the table in a tiny alcove in the living room which faces the garden and go to my room to freshen up and shrug off the nagging uneasiness that has been bothering me through the day.

Just as I am about to pour myself some tea the doorbell rings. The kids are back. Lily and Danny are six and eight years old respectively and a handful to manage. They barge into the room and plonk on the sofa looking exhausted. I snuggle between them and wrap my hands around, pulling them close. My world in a tight embrace.

Go and freshen up. I have got you your favourite chocolate cookies and pineapple cupcakes I whisper.

Their faces light up and they race up the stairs to their room, giggling and yelling at the same time. Half an hour later munching through the snacks they tell me about their day at school, thestudies, the pranks and their favourite story about the school bully Max and his antics of the day. Later I take them to the study,check on their home assignments and give them lessons to learn, keeping an eye on them, from the sitting room.

I pour myself some more tea and settle down to correct the art books. Art in all forms fascinates me; though I am an art teacher by accident, I like what I am doing. My students are a curious lot. Some of them are good at drawing and colouring while some are not interested and there are others who draw as they please, so I get blue apples and square grapes. I allow them this creative freedom and am surprised with what they come upwith. This approach is however not appreciated by my colleagues who have complained to the school Principal on several occasions regarding my radical ways of teaching. The principal, Mr.Lee has never reprimanded me nor suggested any course correction.So, I guess the red pineapples and purple oranges will grace the pages of the art books for now.

Stretching my legs on the footstool and looking at the beautiful roses and pansies that have bloomed in the garden helps me unwind. I pick up the magazine purchased earlier in the day and leaf through the pages absentmindedly.The articles on home décor and accessory designs areinteresting to read. They appeal to the jewellery designer buried somewhere deep down in me, covered with the years of neglect. I stoically refuse to revisit or revive that part of me.I continue to flip through the pages of the magazine and check out the photos of the latest events. A small photograph on the last page catches my attention. I peer closely, it was taken at a jewellery exhibition in Singapore, a few months ago.

The lady in the centre, raising a toast to the designer looks strangely familiar. A while later I put down the magazine and start correcting the art books but something about the photograph is disturbing.I pick up the magazine once moreand check out the picture. The lady in the photographis not very clearly visible as it is clicked from a distance and is small in size. I read the caption below the photograph which says she isMs. Ruby, a model. Not anyone I would be knowing.

I check on the kids, they are poring over their books; my mind wanders back to the photograph, I try in vain to recollect where I could have seen her before.

The uneasiness vexes me so, I pick up my mobile and type her name, thereare some twenty odd options but only one of them is a model. I clickon that option and then on images. Thereare only a few pictures of some fashion show and a model walking on the ramp. The outfits and elaborate head gear along with loud makeup make it impossible to recognise the face. Iclickon a few of them and finally get a close up of her face.

My hands are shaking as I stare at the picture non-plussed, inert and shaken to the very core. My eyes are transfixed on the mobile screen and the picture smiling at me.It is like seeing a ghost. How on earth is this possible? The lady staring back at me is Rose, my best friend,whohad met a tragic death, some ten years ago. Then who is Ms.Ruby? Is it a mere coincidence, a doppelganger perhaps!

I get a hold over myself and click to enlarge the picture and scrutinise every small detail, the face structure, her eyes, nose, lips and the smile. There is no doubt in my mind. This is Rose!

ROSE IS ALIVE! HOW?

***

CHAPTER 2

I

don’t know how long I have been sitting here.Around6p.m. the kids call out and I am jolted from my thoughts. I switch on the light of the living room and walk down to thestudy.

Mom, I am hungry,Lily says, holding her stomach.

Can we have noodles for dinner? Danny asks, pleading with his eyes.

Oksweethearts, let’s have noodles, I agree, not wanting to upset them. Samir will not be there for dinner so they will be disappointed, and I do not want to upset them further. Igo to the kitchen