by Shona Patel
“Breeze,” Miss Thompson said patiently. “Try it one more time.”
“Brij,” said the girl.
“That, dear child, is j like in bridge. You know a bridge, don’t you? The letter d coupled with a g has a j sound. Bridge. Badge. Badger.”
Badger! My heart went out to the poor girl. How many Indian children were familiar with a badger? A mongoose, yes, but a badger? I only happened to know what a badger was because, thanks to Miss Thompson, I had read The Wind in the Willows as a child. British pronunciation was completely illogical, I had concluded a long time ago. I remember arguing with Dadamoshai why were schedule and school pronounced differently. If schedule was pronounced shedule should not school be pronounced shoole? Dadamoshai said I had an intelligent argument there, but there was really no logic—besides, the British were not the most practical-minded people in the world. Americans were much more sensible that way: they said skedule.
There was silence in the next room, then a rustle of papers. I heard Miss Thompson say, “Never mind, dear. I think we’ve practiced enough for today. Now, no need to fret about this. It will come. Pronunciation is just practice. After all, your mother tongue is very different, isn’t it? I understand the letter z doesn’t even exist in your language, so how are you expected to say it?”
A chair scraped back. “Thank you, Miss Toomson,” a high girlish voice replied.
There were footsteps, and Miss Thompson held the door open. “You are most welcome, Konica,” she said. “I’ll see you next Tuesday.”
I had expected a small child to walk out of the study; instead it was a grown woman dressed in an expensive pink sari with gold bangles on her wrists, her hair oiled and fashioned into a formal bun. She looked strangely out of place in Miss Thompson’s modest English home.
“Oh, Layla! What a lovely surprise,” cried Miss Thompson, seeing me. The girl looked up and our eyes met. “I will be with you in just a minute, dear. Let me just see Konica to the door.”
Konica? Kona Sen!
Kona’s bangles chinked softly as she walked by with mincing steps. Her eyes stayed on the floor the entire time; she did not glance up even once as she passed by me sitting on the sofa.
I must have looked pale and in need of fortification, because Miss Thompson said, “You look exhausted, dear. Let’s have a cup of tea, shall we? Martha, some tea, please!” she called toward the kitchen then turned to me. “That was Konica Sen. She lives on Rai Bahadur Road, same as you. You must know each other?”
“I don’t think we’ve actually been introduced,” I said vaguely. “I’ve seen her around of course.”
“Her father came to see me. Mr. Sen is anxious Konica improves her spoken English. She is getting married soon, you know. The boy is Indian but has lived in England all his life. He walks and talks just like an Englishman, Mr. Sen said. The young man has joined the civil service in Calcutta. Konica will live there after they are married. Her father is worried she won’t be able to mix in her husband’s social circles if she cannot speak English.”
My brain was still unscrambling from the shock of seeing Kona. Did she recognize me? It was hard to tell because Kona’s face was expressionless, like a boiled egg. It did not give out much.
“To tell you the truth, I would have never taken on a new student her age,” Miss Thompson continued. “It’s an uphill task to teach spoken English to someone who comes from such a traditional Indian family. Learning to speak a language, as you know, calls for a lot of oral practice. Nobody in Konica’s family speaks English. Even her father can barely get by.”
“Ah, here we are...thank you, Martha,” she said as Martha, old and bent, hobbled in to set the tea tray down. Turning to me, Miss Thompson added, “I know Konica is having an arranged marriage, but I don’t understand why Mr. Sen would get his daughter married to someone she can’t even talk to.”
“He does speak good Bengali, you know—”
“Her fiancé does? Oh, so you know this young man, Layla?”
“No, no,” I said quickly. “I mean he probably speaks Bengali. If he is an Indian educated abroad, I am sure he is bilingual. Most of them are.”
“I hope so for Konica’s sake. The poor girl. Her father said to give her plenty of homework. ‘Mastering a foreign language is not a matter of homework, Mr. Sen,’ I told him. It’s a matter of practice.”
“She can practice her English with her fiancé, I suppose,” I said. Just thinking about Manik and Kona cozying up together triggered a stab of jealousy.
“I suppose so, dear. I am not sure how often they meet or how much they talk to each other, really. It’s all very formal, this arranged marriage. More between the two families, really.” Miss Thompson paused thoughtfully. Suddenly her face lit up and she clapped her hands. “Why, I just got me a grand idea! Why don’t you help her, Layla? She can practice speaking English with you. You are both the same age—I am sure you will find plenty to talk about. How very fortunate you are neighbors! May I suggest this to Konica’s father, if you don’t mind?”
“Yes, of course,” I said numbly. What else could I say?
Miss Thompson looked very pleased. “So that settles it, then,” she said. “Now tell me about yourself. The Rai Bahadur says you want to become a teacher? Marvelous! I am so proud of you, Layla. You were born to follow in your grandfather’s footsteps. I know he is counting on you to take over his school someday. You will do a brilliant job.”
“I hope so,” I said absently. All I could think of was how Kona had chinked past me with her musical bangles and the faint scent of jasmine that trailed softly behind her.
Of course, I knew I would never hear from Kona or her father, but how could I ever explain that to Miss Thompson? Although the Sens lived just a few doors down from us, our families always avoided each other. Dadamoshai was openly contemptuous of Mr. Sen’s narrow-minded politics, and the Sens probably thought my grandfather a loose cannon and disapproved of how he was raising me. They were both ideologically different—in fact, polar opposites.
Dadamoshai had plenty of inherited wealth but gave it all away to charity and chose to live like a monk. Mr. Sen, on the other hand, came from a trader class and had risen from frugal means to become the richest man in town. The joke in town was that he had built an entire mansion with bricks he pilfered from a construction site during his constitutional walks. This, of course, was just a manner of speaking, but he was known to be an unscrupulous businessman who accumulated his wealth slyly and at the expense of others.
But at the very heart of the matter the fact remained that I was an inauspicious child. Bad luck was viewed as something contagious in our society. It was believed one person’s luck rubbed off onto another. This was the reason why I was never invited to social functions like weddings and births. At funerals, on the other hand, I was always welcome.
Miss Thompson continued to puzzle over why her “grand idea” never took root. She mentioned that Kona’s father said he would practice speaking English with his daughter if that was what was required. Miss Thompson did not have the heart to tell him it would do no good. Mr. Sen’s own English was pretty dismal, she said, but she did not want to offend the poor man, so she let it pass.
Perhaps the best way I could have explained it to Miss Thompson was this way: Kona and I were like two separate rivers flowing side by side, but our geographies were so vastly different it was certain we would never meet. Hers was a course, smooth and predictable, leading straight to the ocean, while mine was uncharted and unknown, only to be determined by the invisible landscape of my destiny.
* * *
Sister Cecilia, the chinless nun with bristling whiskers and an ashen complexion to match her habit, was in charge of a small library of the Sacred Heart Convent. She beamed seeing me, hopeful perhaps, I was leaning toward the fold. Unmarried and educated, I was, after all, a perfect fit for the c
onvent. Why else would I be at her library every Tuesday to immerse myself in Bible studies? Little did Sister Cecilia know I would have headed for the same bookshelf by the window had it contained books on amoebic dysentery. Besides, my aspirations were far from holy.
The Sacred Heart Convent stood opposite Miss Thompson’s house. The shelf filled with books on Bible studies was by the window from where I could get a clear view of Miss Thompson’s front gate and see Kona every week. I only caught a brief glimpse of her as she emerged from the house and stepped into the rickshaw. I noticed how she waited demurely for the rickshaw to be brought up to her. How she stepped up daintily on the floorboard, arranged her sari pleats nicely and sat with her hands folded primly on her lap. I tried to see her through Manik’s eyes. She was very feminine and walked on delicate feet, I decided. I imagined she had beautiful, long hair, luxurious even, when left open. Maybe Manik liked demure women with long hair, delicate feet and gold bangles that chinked softly, and a soft voice that chinked softly, too. Not someone brisk and angular, full of inflamed opinions and sharp of speech. Which man liked an argumentative woman? It was grating and unfeminine. I began to steadily loathe myself.
I peeked over the top of The Book of Job I was holding. Sister Cecilia caught my eye and gave me an encouraging smile. I closed the book and slid it back into the empty slot on the shelf.
“Thank you,” I said to Sister Cecilia as I walked toward the door.
“See you again soon,” she called back in a cracked old voice. “God bless you, my child.”
I wondered what Sister Cecilia would say if she found out my real reason for coming to the library? She would be terribly disillusioned, no doubt. Not only was I pretending to be holy, I was secretly coveting a man who was formally betrothed to another. But thankfully, Sister Cecelia would never find out, because I, Layla Roy, was the self-proclaimed mistress of deceit.
CHAPTER 3
I returned home one evening and from the garden path I could hear voices on the veranda. My heart took a tumble, for there he was—Manik Deb. I felt instant panic. For some reason, Manik Deb could trigger a flight response in me faster than a house fire.
Boris Ivanov, Dadamoshai and Manik were engaged in animated discussion. I tiptoed past the jasmine vines, crept into the house through the back door in the kitchen and went straight to my bedroom.
My bedroom window opened out onto the veranda, and I had a clear view of Manik Deb through a slit in the curtain. I fingered a small tear in the fabric as I watched him. I admired the contours of his face and the easy way he inhabited his body. It was a trait common in animals, I thought, that unconscious intimacy with self, an unconditional acceptance of gristle and bone. His thumb absently stroked his lower lip as he listened.
“What our patriotic brothers don’t understand,” Dadamoshai was saying, “is that I am advocating English as the official language simply because it is the most practical solution. India has twenty-one different languages and each of those has several dialects. We are a culturally diverse people—Indians are not of a feather and we are not going to flock together. It’s like trying to get twenty-one different species of birds to talk to one another. Besides, who is to say which language is the best for our country? Some have proposed Hindi. The Bengalis are insulted because they believe their language is superior. The South Indians are ready to go to war. South Indian languages, as you know, are completely alien from all other Indian language. Can you teach a blue jay to coo like a mourning dove? You tell me.”
Manik laughed softly. He leaned forward to tap the ash from his cigarette. Tap, tap. One, two. He paused deliberately between each tap, as though he was thinking. “So you suggest we all become parrots and learn a different foreign language altogether. English, in this case,” he said.
Then Boris Ivanov’s voice rumbled like water running down a deep gorge. “The esteemed Rai Bahadur believes that the English language will, how do you say this...” He shrugged expressively, before turning to Dadamoshai to break off into Russian.
“Put India on a global platform. Connect us with the bigger world,” Dadamoshai said.
“Sounds sensible,” said Manik Deb. “So who is opposing English education?”
“So-called patriots. Morons,” said Dadamoshai. “It’s easy to be a rabble-rouser instead of coming up with a concrete solution. Our donkey leaders have no clue what they want.”
“Could be just bad timing,” said Manik. “It’s hard to advocate English when our country is hell-bent on throwing the British out.”
“They are throwing the baby out with the dishwater, are they not?” Boris Ivanov said.
Boris Ivanov meant bathwater, but he was right. Zealots seemed to forget that the British had done plenty of good for India. They built roads, railways and set up a solid administrative and judicial system. They exemplified discipline and accountability. But with the “Quit India” movement in full force and patriotic sentiments running high, anything and everything British was being rejected.
“Let’s not mix politics with education,” said Dadamoshai. “They are separate issues. I want India to be free just as much as anybody else, but I also want our country to survive as a democracy. I want India to have a sure footing in the world. I am proposing the English language as a conduit, not as an endorsement of British politics.”
Teacups tinkled down the hallway. Chaya entered the veranda and set down the tea tray on the table.
“Velikolepno!” Boris Ivanov cried, rubbing his hands with gleeful anticipation. “I cannot get enough of this Indian tea.”
“Think about it—none of us would be here, had it not been for Assam tea,” said Dadamoshai.
“What do you mean?” Manik asked. “What does Assam tea have to do with anything we are talking about?”
“Ah! You know it was tea that put Assam on the world map, don’t you?” said Dadamoshai, stirring his cup. “It’s quite a remarkable story.”
* * *
Not so long ago Silchar was just a small fishing village, with its slow, winding river, paddy fields and sleepy bamboo groves. It all changed, however, in 1905, when the British made it the seat of central government for three major counties in Assam. Before that, the British had hardly turned an eyeball for Assam.
“Assam is India’s most neglected and backward state,” said Dadamoshai. “It is disaster-prone and inaccessible. We have devastating floods every year. You can see why the houses are built on bamboo stilts and have boats stored on the roofs.”
“It does rain an awful lot here. More than England, it seems,” said Manik.
“Oh, much more—Assam gets triple the amount of rain compared to England,” said Dadamoshai. “And England is considered a rainy country. Sometimes there seems to be more water than land in Assam. Rivers spring up overnight and change courses all the time.”
“Also big earthquicks happening here,” added Boris Ivanov, shaking his massive fists at the sky. “One time, so much—shake, shake, shake—I think the world is end today.”
I smiled, remembering. Several years ago Boris Ivanov was on one of his visits when the tremors struck one sleepy afternoon. He got so disoriented he fell right out of the plantation chair and was jittery for days. Earthquakes were common in our state. Assam straddled a major seismic fault, and throughout the year mild tremors rocked Assamese babies to sleep in their bamboo cribs.
When I turned back to the conversation, Dadamoshai was talking about the Ahoms—the rice farmers who lived in the silt-rich valley of the Bhramaputra.
“They are a simple, pastoral people,” said Dadamoshai, “of Sino-Burmese descent. All they want to do is chew their betel nut, drink rice wine and live life lahe-lahe.”
“What’s lahe-lahe?” Manik asked, tapping his unlit cigarette.
“Slowly-slowly,” said Dadamoshai. “This lazy mentality of the Assamese has kept them i
n the dark ages while the rest of India has marched on. Of course opium has a lot to do with the lahe-lahe.”
But it seemed the Ahoms were not left alone to enjoy their salubrious lives. They were constantly harassed by marauding tribes who thundered across the Burmese border to ransack and pillage their villages, carrying off every slant-eyed, honey-skinned woman they could lay their hands on. All they left behind were toothless widows.
“I am not surprised,” said Manik. “Assamese women are delicate beauties. They remind me of orchids.”
I felt a pinch of jealousy. No wonder he likes Kona, I thought. She was dainty and feminine—like an orchid.
“The Ahom kings tried their best to fight off the Burmese invaders but they did not have the might or the mettle,” Dadamoshai continued. “Out of sheer desperation they appealed to the British for help.”
“But you say before the English are having no interest in Assam—” Boris Ivanov began.
Dadamoshai held up his hand. “Aha! But now suddenly the British were interested—oh, very interested in Assam.”
At any other given time the plea for help might have rolled right off the sola topees of our colonial leaders, but recent developments had piqued British interest in Assam. It was the discovery of tea. And this was not just any old tea—the most exquisite tea in the world had been found growing wild in the mist-laden hills of the Bhramaputra Valley. This accidental discovery smacked of commercial gain, so the British made a bargain with the Ahom kings: they offered protection against the Burmese invaders in return for developing a tea industry in Assam.
“I still don’t see what you, the Rai Bahadur, have to do with the tea industry,” Manik said.
“Let me explain,” said Dadamoshai.
The British needed to set up a central government to manage its affairs in Assam. They picked Silchar, a town strategically located close to the tea-growing belt. But when they looked to employ Indian staff to man their government offices, they discovered Assam had a surplus of rice farmers and toothless widows but not a single educated Indian to be found in the entire rain-drenched valley.