by Shona Patel
The plantation area was divided into two out-gardens, Manik explained, manned by separate Assistant Managers. He was in charge of one, Larry Baker the other. The division under his jurisdiction bordered the thick forestland between Aynakhal and Chulsa Tea Estate.
“Aynakhal is so big. I had no idea.”
“You had no idea your husband was such a big shot, either.”
“That’s true.” I smiled. He sure talked like one.
Manik raked his fingers through his hair. His hand draped easily over the steering wheel; he hummed softly and tapped a beat. I smiled. Still Colonel Bogey. He was such a funny, handsome man.
“Koilapani River.” Manik pointed to a slice of water between two embankments with a rope bridge slung across. We drove past what looked like a brick-making facility.
“The river clay makes good bricks,” said Manik. “They are sun dried and pit fired in this plant. Mr. McIntyre set up this brick plant to build better housing for our laborers. He’s very farsighted that way. Excellent manager. Not many tea gardens have their own brick-making facility. But theft is a problem. The laborers sell off bricks to Mariani locals for booze, so we have to keep an eye on them.”
A parade of mud-caked water buffalo ambled ponderously down the middle of the road. They were massive beasts with short powerful legs, flat, wide foreheads and impressive forward-curving horns. A bare-bodied youth in ragged shorts clucked and yelled “Hoa! Hoa!” and swatted the buffalo with a bamboo stick to move them to the side of the road. As we inched through the sea of buffalo, the stench of putrid river mud filled the car. To my disgust, one buffalo stuck its ugly, wet nose into the car and snorted a big whoosh of snotty breath straight at me.
“Eeesh!” I cried, clutching Manik’s arm.
Manik grinned. “Sorry, that was unexpected. Now you know why most wives run away from the tea gardens.”
The jeep rattled over the rope bridge. I watched a fisherman standing in the river as he cast his net expertly in a graceful, sweeping arc across the water. The water shimmered with small diamond patterns as the net hit the surface. The fisherman gathered the folds and pulled the net toward him slowly, pausing with each draw.
On the other side of the bridge were long rows of huts with tiny yards and crooked cowsheds. They were the labor lines, Manik said, where the tea pluckers lived. Women sat on mud stoops tossing waves of rice on bamboo trays. Chickens pecked at husks on the ground and potbellied children, naked as baby birds, ran up to the dusty road to jump and wave.
“This is where I was the other night,” said Manik.
I stared at him. “You walked all the way here from the bungalow?”
He turned to grin at me. “Don’t be silly! I only walked to the factory to pick up the jeep from the workshop.”
“Oh,” I said. So he did take the jeep after all. Maybe Manik was not as reckless as I imagined.
“Here’s the infirmary,” said Manik, pulling into a small whitewashed building with a red-painted cross on its tin roof. A clump of sick laborers huddled around the veranda: men with bandaged limbs, bowlegged rickety children, gaunt women with infants drooping over their arms like half-empty sacks of rice. A round-faced man in a spotless white shirt was dispensing medicine over a counter through an open window.
“That’s Baruah, our Compounder Babu,” said Manik. “He runs this place. He takes care of broken bones, animal bites, gives shots, pulls out babies. He does whatever it takes to keep people alive. Running a hospital in a tea garden is rather like working in a combat zone. There is some calamity or the other, always.”
Baruah ran out from behind the counter to greet us. “Good morning, sir!” he cried. “Madam...” Then, overcome with shyness, he stood there and fiddled with his stethoscope.
The sick laborers milled around us, hacking, coughing. Runny-nosed children reached out to touch my sari. A skinny nurse in a papery white uniform peeped at me from an open door. I was suddenly aware of the duffel-size canvas boots under my sari, but nobody seemed to care.
Baruah led the way to the dormitory. There were thirty beds in all, each one occupied. My heart sank when I saw the boy lying in the corner by the window: a small crumpled body, one leg a thick-bandaged stump that ended at the knee. His eyes were closed; his hands, clutched into tiny fists, rested on his chest. A group of relatives squatted on the floor around his bed. Seeing Manik, they rushed forward and threw themselves at his feet, wailing. I heard the words bachao and baag. They were begging Manik to save them from the leopard. One woman clutched my feet and wet my canvas boots with her tears. Three children dead already, she wailed. The boy is her only son. The patients in the other beds lifted their heads; some held out imploring hands and others, deathly ill, turned feeble, yellow eyes in our direction.
It finally dawned on me the monstrous responsibility that lay in Manik’s hands. The laborers entrusted him with their lives. He was their Mai-Baap. They treated him like a god. I watched Manik’s face as he listened. I saw the solemn dignity of his stance, the gentle compassion in his eyes. He reminded me of Dadamoshai. Manik, I realized, was not only handsome and smart. He had integrity, courage and leadership. He was the kind of man I was proud to spend the rest of my life with. Whether I would, only fate could tell.
* * *
Manik left for the leopard hunt at dusk, and I spent another fitful night in Aynakhal. Only this time I did not sleep but sat up in bed, all night, fully dressed. Halua, Kalua and Potloo were camped out in the porch downstairs. I heard them talking softly in the night and caught whiffs of bidi smoke that wafted up to my bedroom window. Manik had instructed the servants to stay in the bungalow. He did not want me to feel frightened and alone. But I was more lonely and frightened than I had been in my entire life.
Murgi-daak was followed by a bleary dawn. Halua arrived with my second pot of morning tea. I looked at the clock. Seven o’clock! Surely the hunt was over? Was it possible the leopard was still prowling around in the daytime?
I decided to consult Halua. Oh no, memsahib, Halua said. Leopard only came at night. Had Chotasahib ever been on this kind of machan hunt before? Yes, he replied, but mostly in Chulsa with Alasdair Sahib so he did not know when they got home.
I fretted. So where was Manik? I could feel a pounding headache coming on.
My only consolation was Alasdair was with Manik. Good old Alasdair. I hadn’t seen him since arriving at Aynakhal, but I remembered his kind eyes and calm voice. There was something solid and trustworthy about the man.
A small crowd of laborers had gathered outside the gates. Squatting, chatting, smoking bidis, they looked suspiciously cheerful. Halua informed me they were there to celebrate because the hunt was going to be successful. Chotasahib had very prudently chosen a Thursday and the machan was built facing an easterly direction. It was all very auspicious.
Then I heard the sound of the beating drums and shouts of a crowd. The laborers outside the bungalow jumped to their feet and pelted down the hill. All the servants ran down from the porch and out of the gates, leaving it yawning open. The sound grew louder. Now I could hear the blaring of the jeep’s horn keeping time with the drums. What a din! Then they came into view: Alasdair at the wheel of the jeep, Manik half-out of his seat brandishing his gun. They were both covered with marigold garlands and followed by a big cheering crowd, beating dholas with bamboo sticks and dancing on the road. The golden langurs followed them in the treetops, swinging from branch to branch, shrieking. The carcass of the leopard was tied to the front grille of the jeep. The poor animal’s mouth hung open, and its big head bobbed sickeningly as the vehicle bumped up the rutted road. Laborers whooped and hollered, and the whole procession came to a halt as the coolie women broke into a writhing snakelike dance, their hands looped around each other’s waists. Forgetting all protocol, the whole crowd rushed inside the bungalow gate to get a closer look at the leopard.
“Layla!” Manik yelled, galloping up the stairs. He was filthy, sweat-stained with brown smudges of what could only be dried blood on his clothes. His face was animated and he walked with a new swagger. There was a primitive, wild-eyed look about him. Alasdair, by contrast, hardly looked as though he had spent the night up a tree. A little rumpled maybe, but still clean.
“Aye, that was a crack shot, Layla. Your man got him,” Alasdair said.
“No, no, it was Alasdair,” Manik said. “At such close proximity, this should have been child’s play, but I hit it on the shoulder. The leopard would have bolted but for Alasdair, quick as a flash, shooting it on the side of its head and sending it crashing into the shrub.” He pulled me by the hand. “Come see the leopard, darling. We brought it to the bungalow to show you.”
“I...I’ve seen it,” I said, feeling a wave of nausea.
“It won’t bite, I promise,” said Manik. He turned to Alasdair. “I think she’s squeamish.”
“I can understand that, Manik,” said Alasdair. “A dead animal is not a pretty sight. Jamina is in tears every time I shoot something. But you must understand, Layla, this animal was dangerous. It had to be put down. It’s already taken four lives.”
“It’s an aging male,” Manik said. “We found two porcupine quills festering in its foot. No wonder it became a man-eater. It can no longer hunt.”
The relief of seeing Manik alive and well was finally settling on me. “Of course it had to be put down,” I agreed. “I am glad you got it. What are you going to do with the dead animal?”
“We will drop it off in the labor lines. The skin will be pegged with six-inch nails and treated with wood ash and alum before the hide is dry enough to send to the Calcutta taxidermist. The laborers eat the meat,” said Alasdair. He smiled. “I’ve never tried it.”
Manik turned to me. “I’m going to drop Alasdair off at Chulsa,” he said. “I may be late for breakfast, so go ahead and eat, darling.”
I was suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue. “I think I’ll grab a quick nap,” I said.
“I’ll come back and nap with you,” said Manik eagerly, giving me his new jungle-man look. “All through that long night, when I was up on the machan, all I could think of was...napping with my darling wife, right, Ally?”
“Aye,” said Alasdair, and he looked away with a shy and secretive smile.
* * *
I have to admit my sudden and precipitous sexual awakening turned me into a bit of a moon head. I did things I am too embarrassed to repeat, things no sensible person would dream of doing. I gazed at the clouds, laughed at butterflies and floated around the garden feeling giddily and powerfully beautiful. If that was not bad enough, I went around without my brassiere. Abandoning my underwear had little to do with my newfound lustiness—although that would not be far from the truth—but because the hornet sting made wearing the undergarment quite unbearable.
A strange thing had happened. The wound healed, but the scar morphed, puckered and bloated around the edges, and to my utter astonishment shaped itself into a perfectly formed four-petaled rose centered deep in my cleavage.
“Damn,” said Manik in wonderment, touching the “rose” lightly with his fingers, “it’s a pure work of art. It reminds me of a tribal tattoo.”
It felt strangely erotic when he kissed it. The skin was raised and exquisitely sensitive.
I peered down my neck, feeling a little worried. “I hope there’s nothing wrong with it.” The scar had changed drastically.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not really.”
“I think Doctor Emmett should take a look at it.”
“Who is Doctor Emmett?”
“The district medical practitioner. He is an English doctor and he’ll be here on his hospital rounds tomorrow. I’ll tell him to pop by the bungalow.”
“No, no, please, Manik! I don’t want him to see me naked!”
Manik stared at me incredulously. “Don’t be ridiculous, Layla! He’s a doctor, for God’s sake.”
“Still.”
“Have you never been examined by a doctor before?”
“No, not like that.”
“Well, get over it. Doctor Emmett will come and see you tomorrow. He will be here late morning.”
“Maybe I can just describe the scar to him—that way I won’t have to take my clothes off?”
Manik glared at me. “Absolutely not,” he said sharply. “You will do as the doctor tells you. He needs to examine you. Do you understand?”
* * *
Doctor Emmett was an elderly man, with a thin, tired face, a receding hairline and kindly eyes behind half-moon glasses, which perched on the very edge of his nose. When he talked to me, he tilted his head back and squinted down his glasses with a faraway look, as if he was peering down a tunnel watching for a train.
One quick look at the bite and he told me I had nothing to worry about—it was only a keloid. A keloid, he explained, was a harmless skin scarification. It was the way certain types of skin tissue reacted and healed.
“Some tribes deliberately scar their bodies and rub in the juice of certain plants to form keloids. It is considered the ultimate beatification in tribal culture and marks the coming of age.”
I smiled to myself. The keloid “rose” had definitely marked the coming of age for me.
“Is there something I should do about it?” I asked, as I hooked my blouse back on.
“I would just let it be,” said Doctor Emmett, snapping shut his black leather satchel. “Unfortunately it is a permanent scar. A disfigurement or...enhancement, depends how you look at it.” He smiled, suddenly appearing a lot younger.
“The coolie women have the most interesting tattoos,” I said. “The designs must mean something.”
Doctor Emmett peered over his glasses and gave a wan smile. “I see quite a few tattoos, as you can imagine. Some in rather unusual places. In my twenty-five years as a tea doctor, I’ve learned a few things about Adivasi culture. The wife of the village sorcerer, I believe, does the job. The tattoo ink is made by burning black sesame seeds and mixing in oil before it is injected under the skin. For antiseptic, they use, of all things, diluted cow dung!”
“Cow dung!” I exclaimed. “That would make an open wound even more septic, I would imagine!”
Doctor Emmett threw up his hands. “Beats me, but it seems to work,” he said. “Most tea-gardens coolies are from the low-caste tribes in Orissa. Girls get their first tattoos as early as seven. Some designs are the special marking of their tribe. You may have seen the three dots on the chin or the V-shaped tattoos in the corners of the eyes—chiriya, bird tattoos those are called. Then there are also magic symbols that are supposed to protect you from a specific type of harm like drowning, fire, snakebites. I once saw a man suffer a cobra bite with no negative effect. He had a serpentine tattoo on his arm. Frankly, I don’t know what to make of this hocus-pocus. As a man of science, it baffles me.”
I wondered what a four-petaled “rose” tattoo would protect me from. This absurd thought made me smile.
“You’re smiling,” said Doctor Emmett, looking at me curiously.
“No, no,” I said quickly, feeling my ears turn red. “Thank you for your visit, Doctor. I feel a lot more reassured now.”
He left me some antiseptic ointment to help with the irritation and advised me not to wear tight undergarments until it healed fully. Because of the thinness of the skin tissue, the wound area would be ultrasensitive to touch, he said, probably for the rest of my life.
CHAPTER 21
Soon enough, my moon-head phase waned, thank God. I hooked on my brassiere once again, tied my hair back into my old ponytail and decided to take a good hard look around me.
Manik lived what I can only describe as a grandiose but ramshackle life.
The household ran like a big creaky factory with lots of faulty parts. Besides the majordomos Halua, Kalua and Potloo, I counted thirteen servants in all. There was the paniwalla, or kitchen boy; not one but three malis to take care of the garden; a bent old lady who came to sweep the portico and cut the grass—by hand, using a curved scythe; a one-eyed janitor; a cowherd, which made no sense because we had no cows; a bandookwalla, whose job was to clean the guns and sometimes accompany Manik on shikar; a boiler boy, whose job was to attend to the coal-fed boiler room and make the hot water for our baths; and a young round-faced ayah, newly hired, who was supposed to be my personal attendant.
“What do I need an ayah for?” I asked Manik.
He shrugged. “All memsahibs have an ayah, so I got you one. She can help you put on your sari, comb your hair, massage your feet, tweak your toes—whatever you want.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said.
“Then sack her,” he said.
“No, you sack her, since you got her in the first place.”
“How can I sack her, if you are her boss?”
I sighed at Manik’s facetiousness. It was impossible to talk sense to him sometimes.
On Wednesdays, the dhobi boy arrived with the clean laundry and took the dirty clothes to be washed. He was a rabbit-faced lad with big scared eyes and such an awful stutter that he could not speak a single sentence without collapsing into a babbling wreck. Halua’s yelling and the occasional box in the ear did not help as he tallied up the items in a moth-eaten notebook. Our clothes arrived after being bashed on river rocks, boiled in rice starch and baked in the sun. The folds of my saris crackled and popped open like crispy wafers, and in just two washes the bright summer colors faded to a bleak, wintry sadness.
Manik was shockingly lackadaisical about his dress. For morning kamjari, he rushed off wearing the first shirt and Bombay bloomers off the top of the pile in his wardrobe. As a result the top six items on his shelf got worn over and over again—they were old and shabby, while the bottom ones remained spanking new. It did not cross his mind to flip the pile over. Some days Manik even rushed off with mismatched socks. Thankfully, slipshod dressing raised no eyebrows on a plantation. An assistant could report for kamjari mismatched, sockless or even footless as far as Mr. McIntyre was concerned, but if the job he was assigned to was not up to snuff, forget the feet, because the assistant’s head was more likely to roll.