Ramola’s gaze strayed to the serene mountains in the distance and she sighed contentedly. The lawn before her was strewn with cedar cones. Behind her stood the quaint colonial cottage wrapped possessively by a wide veranda. It had been a good life, quiet as it had been.
‘The trap has been laid and the bait dangled,’ she said, drawing a deep breath.
‘So, how many fish did you net?’ asked Tia, her eyes flashing mischievously.
‘The big fish refused to take the bait,’ there was regret in her voice. ‘Anyway, I managed to reel in two tiny ones.’
‘That’s a little disappointing, isn’t it? I was looking forward to meeting all the men mentioned in your memoir. It would have been a treat to see their reactions after the announcement.’
‘It’s a pity that the three most important players in the drama will not be present during the announcement. I guess I was too optimistic to expect the entire lot to accept the invitation.’
‘So, do we go ahead or cancel the party?’ asked Tia. Her eyes reflected disappointment at the prospect of cancellation. Ramola knew exactly how she felt.
‘There will be no cancellation. Let’s go ahead with our plans. Don’t you think we deserve some fun after all the slogging?’ she patted Tia’s arm affectionately.
‘Of course, we do,’ agreed the girl enthusiastically. ‘Completion of the project is worthy of a celebration.’
Ramola couldn’t remember the last time she had let her hair down. It was high time to do so now.
‘I’m thinking of including a few local friends to inflate the guest list.’
‘That’s an excellent idea,’ Tia agreed.
‘Let’s get cracking with the plans. You can work out a menu while I decide on the local guest list.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Tia. She sprang to her feet and went into the house. Staring at the disappearing girl’s back, Ramola smiled indulgently. Tia had always infused her life with a strong dose of laughter and energy. It had been a stroke of luck to run into her.
The wind rustled through the leaves, ruffling Ramola’s long hair. Gazing at the distant mountains, she marvelled at their immutability.
This is paradise, she thought. I could sit here forever, breathing this unpolluted cold air and listening to the trilling of these birds.
Two years ago, the actress had arrived at Ramsar to begin a new life. Now, soaking in the panorama of the landscape stretching before her into the horizon, Ramola realized it was the best decision of her life. Untouched by tourists, grime and greed, Ramsar was just what the world-weary star needed. The red-roofed bungalow surrounded by rhododendron, oaks and cedars, with an uninterrupted view of the magnificent mountains in the North, was a bonus.
The tiny town, nestled in the slopes of the mountains had just a few scenic roads emanating from the town centre. They radiated from a mile stone marked ‘RAMSAR “0” KMs’ next to the central bus stand. The bus stand, surrounded by the bazaar, was a clutch of shops that stocked things essential for a simple life. For the fancier stuff, one had to travel to Almora, which was about two hours by road.
In fact, there were just two major roads that zigzagged through the town. Sitting astride the road leading to the north towards Pithoragarh was a midsize hospital, school and a bustling community centre, while the other one veered off towards the south to Almora. This one was flanked by a nine-hole golf course, an inspection bungalow and a ramshackle movie hall along with an eatery called Tasty Bites. About two kilometres from the town centre stood a derelict Victorian Club House that had seen better days.
Perhaps it was the lack of good hotels that kept the tourists away. Hotel Misty Meadows and Hotel Paradise was the only hotels catering to the occasional wanderer that strayed into Ramsar, while Tasty Bites posed as a multi-cuisine restaurant but served only local fare. The thick clump of trees that surrounded Tasty Bites and the beautiful sight of the rolling slopes and snow clad peaks of the Himalayas, drew the residents of the town. The Victorian Club House was for those who wished to spend time in the company of owls and bats.
Brightly painted houses with wooden doors and windows lay pell-mell on the sides of the steep hill crowned by an ancient temple. These were connected by narrow streets that spread around the hillside like a network of veins criss-crossing a pulsating heart. The foot of the hill rested on the pebbly bank of an incredibly lovely stream set against a thick forest.
Charmwood Cottage lay at the end of a street that led to the ridge. It was one of the larger and better-designed cottages in the area, with six bedrooms, a latticed veranda partially covered with flowering creepers. Despite a sizeable driveway, lined with flowerbeds and a massive porch, there was enough space for a gazebo, which faced the snow-capped mountains. A couple of pine trees with a hammock strung between them flanked the right side of the cottage. The servants’ quarters at the rear of the cottage were shielded by a creeper-covered, wire-mesh fence.
Although buying the cottage had eaten into a sizeable chunk of her savings, it was love at first sight for Ramola. The pinewood ceilings, the ancient fireplaces and the polished wooden staircase at one end of the hall leading to the upper floor, seemed right out of a fairy tale with a happy ending.
The spectacular sunrises and sunsets made it worth every rupee spent on refurbishing the cottage. She revelled in the quaint splendour of Charmwood.
It had been a long journey. A very long one, indeed. And a lonely and difficult journey to boot. The decision to retire at thirty-five had not been easy. She was lucky to have detected the writing on the wall when the plum roles stopped coming her way. Ramola didn’t fancy going repeatedly under the surgeon’s scalpel for nips and tucks, getting the pout and nose job in place. She was over and done with all of it.
The dilemma of switching to minor roles had haunted her for a while, but better sense prevailed. She tried her hand at a few off-beat movies that offered her the scope to experiment with her talent, but the novelty soon wore off. Finally, at thirty-eight, after leading a quiet life at Mumbai, she relocated to Ramsar.
The past two years of her life had been the best ever. Ramola caught up with everything she wanted to do in her life. She read books, practised yoga and meditation, dabbled in paints or cooked fancy stuff, and sometimes she did nothing but gaze dreamily at the mountains and birds.
With no stress-inducing deadlines, late nights, parties or pressures, it was a charmed life. There was no starry image to protect, no pretences to keep up and no paparazzi to worry about, she wore faded denims and frayed shirts or lounged about in ill-fitting pyjamas. No one stared or cared. It was her life to live the way she wanted to live it. She didn’t have to wear a mask any more. She could be herself at last.
All she carried with her from Mumbai to Ramsar were her clothes, a lot of books and Durgabai. Masseur, beautician, cook, housekeeper, personal assistant, shock-absorber, accountant – Durgabai was a bit of everything. The crusty but efficient woman, who had been with her for more than twelve years, was her anchor. Now, almost a recluse, Ramola had very few friends in town and kept away from its busier parts.
And then, one fine morning, she ran into Tia.