Teatime for the Firefly

by Shona Patel

  “But all was not lost,” Dadamoshai said, “because just a stone’s throw across the Padma River there was a rich pool of qualified Indians—the Sylhetis of East Pakistan, many of whom were educated in universities abroad.” He looked at Manik. “People like your father and I. We were lured to Assam with nice salaries and fancy titles to work for His Majesty’s service. So here we are in Silchar—all because of Assam tea.”

  Dadamoshai did not mention his real reason for accepting the post as District Magistrate of Assam. He had shrewdly figured his dream to promote English as the medium of instruction in schools was in perfect alignment with colonial interests in India. As the powerful District Magistrate he would have the clout to make it all happen. But India’s struggle for independence skewed everything the wrong way. Dadamoshai had anticipated a shift in loyalties, but he had not counted on the blinkered view of our politicians or their narrow personal agendas. Before long he faced a tall embankment of opposition and found himself separated by an ideological divide that no amount of reason or common sense could ever hope to bridge. And he was left on the sidelines, an angry old man shaking his umbrella at the sky.

  * * *

  Darkness had fallen. Drums throbbed in the fishing village across the river. Manik Deb stirred in his chair. “Fascinating,” he said. “Funny how little I know about my own country. I have been gone for too long.”

  “Did you do your earlier schooling in England, as well, before Oxford?” Dadamoshai asked.

  “Yes. I went to Harrow. My father’s younger brother paid for my education. He lives in England—married an English lady, my aunt Veronica. They practically raised me.”

  “I knew your father well in Cambridge,” said Dadamoshai. “You may not know this, but at one time we were both in love with the same English girl, the beautiful red-haired Estelle Lovelace.”

  Manik laughed. “So what happened? Neither of you married her, obviously.”

  “We both came back to India to marry good Indian girls,” Dadamoshai said. “Like you are doing.”

  Manik fidgeted in his chair. “So you had an arranged marriage?”

  “No, I fell in love with my wife, Maya. She...she died very young.”

  Boris Ivanov came to life with a noisy harrumph. He had been listening quietly to the conversation.

  “When I first saw the Rai Bahadur’s wife—” Boris Ivanov gave a big flowery wave “—Maya was a famous beauty. Layla, the Rai Bahadur’s granddaughter, looks just like her.”

  I straightened at hearing my name.

  “So who arranged your marriage?” asked Dadamoshai, changing the subject. He still had a hard time talking about my grandmother, I could tell.

  “My oldest brother,” said Manik. His voice was taut. “He became the patriarchal head of our family after my father died. My marriage was arranged seven years ago. I was sixteen, too young to understand. I am committed now. If I break my engagement, my brother tells me I will ruin our family’s name. Sometimes I feel like I am bound hand and foot by pygmies.”

  Manik ground his cigarette into the ashtray, sighed and then got to his feet. “This has been a delightful evening, but I must take my leave.”

  “Wait,” said Dadamoshai. He grabbed a small flashlight from the coffee table and shook it awake. “Here, take this. Battery is low but it’s better than nothing. The road toward the river gets a little treacherous.”

  “Oh, I will be just fine,” said Manik.

  “No, no, I insist,” said Dadamoshai, pushing the flashlight into Manik’s hand. “I enjoyed talking to you. And please do drop by again.”

  I shifted my feet. I had been so engrossed in watching Manik Deb, I had fingered the small tear in the curtain to a walnut-size hole. But I was unable to pull myself away from the window. Just looking at him gave me immense pleasure. It was like watching a sunset: arresting, mesmerizing even, but distant and, ultimately, unattainable.

  CHAPTER 4

  Boris Ivanov left for Calcutta, and Manik Deb continued to come by to visit with Dadamoshai, often stopping on his way to the Sens’ house. They seemed to resonate on many levels and enjoyed talking to each other. He always sat on the same cane chair, the one with the defective leg. He skewed it a little to one side, facing the jasmine trellis, and lounged deep in the cushions, stretching his long legs past the coffee table. He dominated the floor space easily, as if it was his to occupy and own. He smoked constantly, lighting cigarettes with quick, easy strikes of his match, tilting his head back sharply to inhale. I noticed he had changed brands, downgrading from the fine English Dunhill cigarettes to Simla, an Indian brand. He had been in India for six weeks now.

  Once he showed up wearing Indian clothes—a long white kurta and loose slacks—looking elegant and princely. Was he becoming more Indian? I wondered. Whatever the reason, it suited him well. The starched cotton was creased around his sleeves and hung gracefully on his long frame. He did not wear an undershirt, and the dark hairs of his chest bled through the thin fabric. Wearing traditional Indian clothes defined him as a Thinking Indian. It was the dress code of the intelligentsia. Patriotism was at a fever pitch in our country and recent political events had sparked a heated debate among intellectuals.

  All over India people were deeply caught up in the current events of the day. The world was at war, and Bengal was in the throes of a devastating famine, but what worsened the catastrophe was a heartless and diabolical British policy of war.

  The Japanese had inflicted a crushing defeat on British forces in Singapore and were threatening to invade Burma, one of the strongholds of the British Empire, which bordered Assam in India. In a desperate and shocking attempt to stall the enemy, the British employed the merciless “scorched earth” policy. They destroyed crops, dwellings, infrastructure and communications—anything to inconvenience the enemy from encroaching into India. This was done with total disregard for human life. The effect was widespread, the horror unspeakable. Millions died of starvation.

  Educated Indians like Manik and Dadamoshai, normally staunch supporters of the British, were outraged and disillusioned beyond belief. It brought to glaring light the self-interest of colonial rule in India. There were agitations and uprisings all over the country.

  “We need our independence more than ever now,” Manik said, “but there is so much divisiveness among our leaders. Their ideologies are poles apart. On one hand, we have the followers of Gandhi touting nonviolence. On the other hand, militant leaders like Netaji are brandishing guns and conspiring with Hitler to overthrow the British by force. As for the millions who are dying like flies as a result of this famine, do you think they care a fig for freedom? All they want is their next bowl of rice.”

  “Our leaders are like rushes and reeds,” lamented Dadamoshai. “They will scatter to the winds if they cannot come together to be woven into something useful.”

  “That’s Rumi, isn’t it? What you just quoted?”

  “Yes. Jelaluddin Rumi. Sixteenth-century Persian mystic. Very wise man.”

  Manik was exceptionally well-read, I discovered. I felt hopelessly conflicted when I thought of him. He seemed so intelligent and progressive, and yet he was not resisting a traditional old-fashioned arranged marriage. It had to be about the money, I concluded. Kona Sen would bring a substantial dowry, which made Manik Deb, for all his enlightened talk, a typical money-minded Indian male. I needed to find a reason to hate him, just so I would not feel so bad about him marrying Kona Sen.

  My reverie was shattered when Dadamoshai called out to me from the veranda.

  “Layla! Where are you?” he shouted in his booming voice.

  I was so startled that my breath caught in my throat. I scrambled off the bed, straightened my sari, smoothed my hair and went out to the veranda.

  Manik was sitting in his usual chair, about to light one of his perpetual cigarettes. He looke
d up at me as I came in, sat up a little straighter and smiled. My throat was dry, and I must have looked a little panicked, thanks to my guilty thoughts.

  “Layla, there you are. Have a seat,” Dadamoshai said amiably, pushing the newspaper off the sofa and patting the cushion with the blue elephants next to him. “We were just talking about you.”

  “Me?” I asked incredulously.

  “Yes, Manik Deb wants to know your opinion. Manik, do you want to explain why we need Layla’s input on this one?” Dadamoshai tented his fingers and waited with eager anticipation, as if he was about to enjoy the opera.

  Manik leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs across the floor, leaving just three inches of space between his toe and mine. I quickly tucked away my feet and worried a piece of wicker on the armrest of the sofa.

  “Layla, your grandfather and I were talking about the changing roles of women in society.” Manik paused to see if I was listening. “Well, we were wondering if our society is ready for the change. Are we ahead of our time?”

  “Why do you ask me?”

  “Why not?” said Manik. “You are a bright young woman, well-read, well-bred and getting ready to conquer the world.”

  The roots of my hair felt hot and I could feel my ears redden.

  Nothing intelligent came to my mind. I pulled a sliver of wicker from the ratty old armrest and curled it into a small ball between my fingers. I uncurled the ball and curled it again. I looked up.

  He was watching me as he tapped his unlit cigarette on the arm of the chair. I realized both he and Dadamoshai were waiting for my pearls of wisdom. There were none forthcoming. My head was empty except for Manik Deb floating inside like a trapped balloon. Suddenly I felt uncontrollably crabby.

  “What does Kona say?” I blurted out before I could stop myself. I immediately felt like biting my tongue off. Oh, God! What a faux pas. I was talking of his fiancée as though we were bosom buddies.

  “Who? Oh, Konica.” He looked startled, just for a moment. “Well, I never thought of asking her,” he added, looking vaguely uncomfortable.

  I don’t know what got into me then—whether it was my nervousness, embarrassment, awkwardness or what—but once I got started, my tongue just took off. “Well, you should ask her, then. She is going to be your wife, you know.” I sounded unflatteringly shrill. “Or maybe it does not matter. Kona must be delighted to marry a civil officer, and anxious to boss around servants and have lots of children.” I staggered under the avalanche of my own words and felt sick to my stomach.

  Manik’s eyes popped slightly; his mouth fell open. He did not look very attractive, I noted with satisfaction. He recovered quickly enough, though.

  “Well, Layla, don’t you want to marry a civil officer, boss around servants and have lots of children, too? Is that not every woman’s dream?” Did I detect a hint of sarcasm in his voice? I could not be sure.

  I took a deep breath. I realized this conversation had gone seriously off track and wandered into a dingy and suspicious neighborhood. I felt disgusted with myself.

  “You did not answer my question,” Manik said softly.

  “Which was?” I had lost the thread of the conversation. I recalled only my embarrassment at blurting out things I should not have.

  “What do you want to do with your life, Layla?”

  I watched a dragonfly settle on a dry twig on the jasmine trellis. Its wings quivered slightly, catching a small rainbow of light. What did I want to do with my life? Suddenly I was not so sure anymore.

  “I want to do good for the world,” I said, hoping to sound noble and intelligent, but sounding more like a charity nun. “I don’t think I was ever meant to marry, or to have any children,” I added a little hesitantly. To my dismay, my voice broke. I quickly gathered my emotions. “I would really like to help other women...to carry on Dadamoshai’s work.”

  “You will be a great asset to the Rai Bahadur,” Manik said. “Careful, though, some nice young man does not come along and make you change your mind. That would indeed be a serious loss to womankind.” He smiled like an imp.

  “Oh, Layla is a very determined young woman!” piped in Dadamoshai. He looked at me gently and reached out to push back a strand of hair from my face. “She has made up her mind. Where would one find a man good enough for her, anyway? Most young fellows these days are duffers.”

  Manik tapped open his matchbox, but then changed his mind. He put the cigarette back in the pack, pushed back his chair and stood up. He was suddenly very serious.

  “Duty calls.” He tilted his head toward Kona’s house, looking resigned. “I am expected for dinner.”

  Dadamoshai and I walked with him to the porch. I hated to see him go.

  “Wait!” I said. I lifted my hand to tug his shirtsleeve, and then jerked it back. I felt reckless and out of control.

  “Yes?” Manik’s hands were in his pockets. He leaned back, looking at me curiously, his eyebrows slightly arched.

  “You never told me what you think about women’s education, and how it might change society,” I said.

  I needed to hear it for myself. I had to know Manik Deb was a typical Indian man, a blatant hypocrite. That way I could put him away, once and for all, like a shoe that looked good but did not fit.

  Manik leaned back on the balcony railing and tapped out a cigarette from his pack, lighting it in his cupped palm. He tilted his head back and blew a perfect smoke ring into the air. I noticed a small shaving nick on his chin. I wanted to touch it. He was so close. Again I was embarrassed by my thoughts. I watched the smoke curl from his nose.

  His eyes tightened thoughtfully. “Every human being should have the right to choose,” he said. “I don’t think women have a choice in our society.”

  I was stunned. Why, he sounded exactly like Dadamoshai!

  “For that matter,” Manik continued, “I don’t think men have much of a choice, either. We are pigeonholed by social expectations, but society is more forgiving toward men. Think of it—an unmarried man is a bachelor, and he is eligible till his dying day, but an unmarried woman...well, she becomes a seed pumpkin.”

  A seed pumpkin: the only pumpkin left in the patch. That was what our society called spinsters. Was Manik Deb calling me a seed pumpkin? But I had no need to worry.

  “Unless, of course, she is Layla,” he said, smiling down at me. “You see, Layla, you can have anything you want in the world. You are no flotsam drifting with the tide. You are making choices for yourself and that is enviable. Not many of us have that luxury.”

  “It’s funny,” I said, feeling a burst of joy for no earthly reason at all. “And here I thought you were a very traditional man with stereotypical views.”

  “What made you think I was so typical?” Manik looked surprised and puzzled.

  “You were educated abroad and are going into the civil service, for one. That’s typical for most educated, upper-class Indians, and...” I paused, hesitating.

  “And I am having an arranged marriage?” He took the words right out of my mouth. “I think I understand what you are saying.”

  I had not meant it to sound so crass.

  Manik glanced at his watch and quickly stubbed out his cigarette. “Which reminds me it is getting awfully late. You have no idea how terrified I am of my future mother-in-law.”

  I stood there with Dadamoshai on the porch stairs and watched Manik Deb walk away. In my heart there was a small, sad feeling as though I was missing the last train going someplace mysterious and wonderful.

  CHAPTER 5

  That summer I got to know Manik Deb. Those premonsoon evenings are etched in my mind in the melancholy strokes of an aching heart. Knowing that he could never be mine was, in a way, my release. Gone was the need to impress him with my wit and intelligence. I was free to slip into a more natural v
ersion of myself. We became friends. But despite the pleasant evenings we spent together, I was always aware of a wistful sadness that floated softly in the dregs of my being.

  Sometimes our talks on the veranda carried on late into the evening, and Dadamoshai would excuse himself and retire to his room. Left by ourselves, we often talked about books and authors: Tolstoy, Tagore and Dostoevsky. In all our times alone, never once did Manik overstep his boundaries as a guest in my grandfather’s house. He made no untoward advances. He was always polite, interested and attentive—the impeccable guest.

  On our last day together, Manik stayed almost until dinnertime. He would be leaving for Calcutta the next day. The monsoons were heavy in the air, the stillness of the evening hanging in dense folds around us. We sat in silence absorbing the faint sounds that penetrated the quiet: the small tinkling of a prayer bell, the bark of a faraway dog. A shaft of light fell sharply across Manik’s face. It hid his eyes but illuminated his chin and mouth. He looked poetic and thoughtful. The tall areca palms rustled with the approaching storm. Lightning whipped the distant sky, and thunder pealed across the dark river.

  The BBC news from my grandfather’s radio wafted through the waving curtains of the living room. Winston Churchill’s strident voice came on the air:

  “Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this Island or lose the war....”

  His voice faded out with the weak transmission, and then burst into clarity.

  “Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, this was their finest hour.”

  The news ended with “God Save the King.” Then the dulcet notes of a popular wartime song about the white cliffs of Dover trickled out to the veranda.

  How strange, I thought to myself. This was the first time I was hearing popular English music play on my grandfather’s radio. He usually switched the radio off after the news.