Chapter Twenty-Seven
The sun had barely crested the horizon when Aster and Amit set out for the cotton fields. The morning air was cool and heavy with dew, a brief respite before the heat of the day set in. As they walked, Aster noticed a change in Amit’s demeanour. Gone was the effusive pride of yesterday, replaced by a more reserved, almost cautious manner.
The path to the fields wound through the awakening village. Women in colourful sarees balanced water jugs on their heads, the metal vessels glinting in the early light. The aroma of wood smoke and cooking spices hung in the air, mingling with the earthy scent of damp soil.
As they crested a small rise, the cotton fields spread out before them, a sea of green dotted with white. The plants stood in neat rows, their leaves glistening with morning dew. Workers were already moving between the rows, their practiced hands plucking the precious bolls.
‘This is phuti karpas,’ Amit said, his voice quieter than usual. ‘It is special cotton, growing only here. The river and our soil, they create perfect conditions.’
Aster nodded, her eyes scanning the fields. The plants looked remarkably healthy, their leaves a vibrant green, the cotton bolls fat and plentiful. ‘How many harvests do you get in a year?’ she asked.
Amit’s pause was almost imperceptible. ‘Just one. The growing season is short, plants are delicate. But quality… quality is unmatched.’
They walked along the edge of the field, Amit pointing out various features - the irrigation systems, the experimental plots where they were testing new cultivation techniques. Aster noticed that whilst he answered her questions, his explanations lacked the enthusiasm of the previous day.
As they approached a group of workers, Aster smiled and greeted them in Bengali. Their faces lit up, and soon she was engaged in conversation, asking about their work and their families. Amit stood back, his expression unreadable.
‘How long have you worked here?’ Aster asked one woman, whose weathered hands spoke of years in the fields.
‘Since the beginning, Memsahib,’ she replied proudly. ‘When Hiverton came, everything changed. Now my children go to school, we have good food, good life.’
Aster nodded, touched by the woman’s sincerity. But as she spoke to more workers, a pattern emerged. Whilst they all spoke warmly of the changes Hiverton had brought, there was a wariness in their eyes when she asked about recent events or staff changes.
One young man, when asked if he knew anyone who had left recently, paled visibly. ‘No, no,’ he stammered, his eyes darting to Amit. ‘Everyone is happy here. No one leaves.’
She knew people had left, Aisha had told her as much when she spoke to her in London. Why were the villagers so keen to deny it? As they left the fields and made their way to the factory, Aster’s mind was buzzing with questions. The unease she had sensed in Amit seemed to have spread to the workers, but its source remained elusive.
The factory loomed before them, a large, modern building that stood in stark contrast to the traditional village architecture. As they entered, Aster was struck by the hum of activity - the whir of spinning wheels, the clack of looms, the murmur of voices.
Workers looked up as they entered, their faces breaking into warm smiles. ‘Namaste, Memsahib,’ they called out, some even standing and bowing slightly.
Amit led her through the factory, explaining each stage of the process. The pride was back in his voice as he spoke of the incredible fineness of the thread, the skill of the weavers, the quality of the final product. But his eyes kept darting about, as if expecting trouble from some unseen quarter.
Aster paused at one of the spinning wheels, watching in fascination as a young woman drew out an impossibly fine thread from a tuft of cotton. ‘May I?’ she asked, gesturing to the wheel.
The woman nodded, moving aside. Aster sat down, attempting to mimic the spinner’s movements. Her clumsy efforts drew laughter from the surrounding workers, breaking some of the tension.
As she chatted with the spinners and weavers, Aster tried to piece together the puzzle. They spoke enthusiastically about their work and the opportunities Hiverton had brought, but clammed up when asked about recent changes or absent colleagues.
One older weaver, his eyes clouded with cataracts, leant in close to Aster. ‘Things have changed,’ he whispered, his voice barely audible above the noise of the looms. ‘Not all for the better. But we mustn’t speak of it.’
Before Aster could press for more information, Amit appeared at her side. ‘We should move on, Memsahib,’ he said, a hint of urgency in his voice. ‘There is much more to see.’
As they continued the tour, Aster’s sense of unease grew. The quality of the work was undeniable - the muslin they produced was indeed incredibly fine, almost ethereal in its delicacy. But the numbers didn’t add up. How could they produce so much from a single, short harvest?
Moreover, the tension in the air was palpable. Workers smiled and nodded as they passed, but their eyes held secrets. There were whispered conversations that stopped abruptly as Aster approached, meaningful glances exchanged behind Amit’s back.
At the end of the tour, Aster thanked the workers, her mind whirling with all she had seen and heard - and all that remained unsaid. As they stepped out of the factory into the late afternoon sun, she turned to Amit.
‘Mr Choudhury,’ she said, her voice firm but kind. ‘I think it’s time we had a proper talk. There are some things that don’t quite add up, and I believe you might have the answers I’m looking for.’
Amit’s face tightened, a flicker of fear passing through his eyes before he composed himself. ‘Of course, Memsahib,’ he replied, his voice carefully neutral. ‘Perhaps we could speak in the office?’
Aster nodded, and they set off towards the Hiverton office, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy between them. As they walked, Aster steeled herself for the conversation ahead.
The sun was high in the sky beating down on her head and she could feel beads of sweat trickle down her nape. The shadows had been eradicated from the village. Dogs and chickens clung to the edges of the building or slept under bushes, trying to escape the relentless attack. Aster barely noticed the beauty around her. Her mind was focused on the task ahead. As Amit opened the door to the office, she took a deep breath. It was time to find out what the hell was going on.