by Shona Patel
Manik had other appalling habits, as well. Most late afternoons when he came home from kamjari, he would leave his clothes strewn all over the house and expect Halua to pick up after him. Manik’s muddy boots would be lying helter-skelter at the top of the stairs, his socks flung on the veranda and his limp bush shirt draped over the backrest of the sofa in the living room. If you followed the trail of dirty clothes it would lead you right to the sweaty animal himself, who would be lying flat on his stomach under the fan in the bedroom, recuperating from his prickly heat. Manik would bemoan his pitiful life and bribe me to scratch his back and act peevish and demanding.
“You are missing a spot, wife. Left, left, a little more. Stop! Scratch right there. Ahhhh!”
“Manik, did you know Kalua is charging us for two dozen eggs every second day?”
“Damn scoundrel,” Manik mumbled dreamily into his pillow. “Scratch there...some more, darling, right there. Hmm...”
“He is robbing us blind. Don’t you want to do anything about it?”
“Who? Who is robbing us?” Manik did not sound alarmed at being robbed blind.
“Halua or Kalua. Maybe both.”
“I think YOU are robbing me. Hey, how many kisses are you charging me for this scratch? You are getting expensive.”
“Uf-hoh! Please be serious. Are you listening to me or no?” I gave his back a smack.
“Oww! I am thinking about it. Deeply, as we speak.”
“What do you want to do?”
“You are the memsahib. Stand them in a corner, shoot them. I don’t care.”
“Halua and Kalua have had a run of this place and here comes the new memsahib to curdle the milk,” I complained.
Manik snorted. “Don’t worry—the memsahib’s job is to curdle the milk. It’s time those two toed the line. I know what they are up to, but I am just too lazy to bother.”
“What am I supposed to do, Manik, if you are not bothered?”
“Try thinking like the big boss. Ask yourself, what would Mr. McIntyre do?”
“Well, you have not exactly been acting like Mr. McIntyre yourself all this time, have you?”
“I plead guilty. I am a man of simple wants, darling. Love me, feed me and scratch my back in the right place. That’s all I ask.”
Aynakhal
12th March 1946
My dear Dadamoshai,
I hope you are keeping well.
I am writing to you drinking my tea here on the veranda. It is midmorning, beautiful with the flowers and new leaves on the trees. Earlier this morning there was a small flock of barking deer grazing on the lawn.
The hornet bite is healing nicely. The pain is under control and the doctor says I am fine, Dadamoshai. Please don’t worry.
Manik left early for work this morning. On Wednesdays he has to attend what they call “Bichar” at the office. It’s a sort of judicial proceeding, if you will. Once a week, managers have to listen to labor grievances and resolve disputes. Usually they are petty domestic issues—like someone running off with someone’s daughter or stealing someone’s cow. Alcohol and drug-related problems are common, too. Opium is a big problem here. There is a lot of illegal trafficking across the Burmese border. The coolies take opium, get sluggish and don’t want to work, and then the management has a problem on its hands.
The coolies call the manager their Mai-Baap—mother-father—and he is granted a godly status. The manager is seen as the giver, the taker, the protector and the savior. He is expected to be wise, and mete out fair justice. The childlike trust these simple people have in their manager is naive and quite touching. Mr. McIntyre is superb in labor management. He is attentive to each and every case, no matter how minor, and is always firm and fair. Manik says he has a lot to learn by just watching Mr. McIntyre.
There are no rules. Most managers simply use common sense to solve disputes. This does call for an astute understanding of human behavior and the ability to come up with ingenious solutions. I must give you this one example, Dadamoshai, because being a judge, I think you will appreciate the cleverness of Mr. McIntyre’s judgment in this case.
There was this coolie couple, husband and wife, who were seeking separation. There is nothing called “divorce” among coolie couples—they simply part ways—but in this case there was an acrimonious dispute over the distribution of pots and pans. Aside from cattle, pots and pans are the only asset these poor people have. This couple could not come to an amicable solution, and so they brought it up at the weekly Bichar.
And here is how Mr. McIntyre solved the dispute: he first asked the husband to divide up the utensils into two lots. Next, he told the wife she could choose the lot she wanted. So you can imagine the poor husband’s anguish deciding which pot to put in which pile! When I heard the story, I told Manik that is exactly how my Dadamoshai would have solved the problem.
Our bungalow is large and comfortable but sadly in need of repair. We have quite a retinue of servants whom I have to learn to manage. I don’t even know where to begin or what I am supposed to do. Every morning a small crowd gathers outside our bungalow gates. It is humbling to know they are there to see me. I am finally getting used to the idea of being on perpetual display. There is one curious woman I see every day in a green sari who lurks in the same spot. She dresses differently from the other coolie women, and I still have not figured out who she is.
I will send you some pictures soon. Manik has a Brownie camera that he will teach me to operate.
I miss you, Dadamoshai, and worry about you. Please keep well.
With my love to you,
Layla
Manik was a surprising lover. He could be intense and consuming and then with no warning at all turn into a rambunctious puppy. He was so curiously two-sided he reminded me of a beautiful heirloom shawl I had inherited from my grandmother. It was a rich black on the outside but woven with brilliant colors on the inside.
I came to understand and accept the decorum that was expected of us in public. There was no easy familiarity, no demonstration of affection and not even a tiny hint of the intimacy we shared in the bedroom. The stark contrast between our private and public life was titillating in a way and gave our very legitimate marriage the delicious intrigue of an illicit affair.
Not surprisingly, our meals got shorter, our siestas longer. Often we left our lunch barely touched and Kalua walked around with a glum face, worried perhaps his cooking was falling short. At other times we played childish pranks, buffeting poor Halua between us for our own amusement.
One day I acted as if I did not know Manik was home. Soon Halua came looking for me with a note.
Where is my Dundee cake? Manik wrote.
I frowned reading the note and said to Halua, “Tell Chotasahib, no Dundee cake today, only sandwich.”
Halua went back with the message. Soon he was back with another note from Manik.
Let’s make sandwich, the note read.
“Ask Chotasahib, what sandwich?” I said, sneaking a grin behind Halua’s back as he scurried back to Manik.
Finally Halua returned looking very worried. The note read, Do you want a PISH-PASH?
I gave a noisy sigh and said, “All right, all right, tell Chotasahib I’m coming.” Then I took my own sweet time before casually sauntering past the bedroom. I peeped in and feigned surprise to see Manik lying on the bed. “Oh, there you are, and I was looking all over the bungalow for you!”
“Like hell you were,” Manik growled. “You are going to get a spanking for this.”
* * *
Halua and Kalua always needed money. They lurked around shifty-eyed, fidgeting. As soon as my back was turned they whispered furtively into Manik’s ear. Manik would absentmindedly rummage in the bedside drawer and give them handfuls of cash. Nothing was kept under lock and key, and loose chan
ge lay in crumpled stacks and piles all over the house. The next time you looked it would be gone.
By the end of the month, after paying his club bills and the Kiyah bill for his groceries, Manik would be scraping the bottom of the drawer for small change. Kalua, I suspected, ran a thriving chicken and egg business in our own backyard to feed his poultry-hungry boss. With Manik’s generous patronage it had undoubtedly grown into a cluckable fortune.
One thing became increasingly clear: Hal, Kal and Pots—as we now called them—were symbiotically linked to Manik, like the remora pilot fish to the shark. They stuck together and looked out for each other’s interests. I, on the other hand, was the new parrot fish trying to swim along, pretending to be a part of this happy entourage. Most of the time they ganged up on me—even Manik, in his own crooked way.
It was a well-known fact that when a young tea planter enticed a wife to his jungle lair—a major feat in itself—there was much at stake to keep her there. Bungalow servants knew their boss would quickly forget the times when he had been a helpless babe at their mercy. After all, who cleaned him up and put him to bed when he staggered home on whiskey-sodden club nights? Who covered up for the seedy companions he sometimes dragged home? Who cajoled the young master awake on cold kamjari mornings with hot cups of tea to save him from the wrath of the tyrant Burrasahib?
Soon enough, the new memsahib would get a whiff of the nefarious activities and embark on a holy mission to reform her man. The first order of the day was to sack the existing servants, the ones who were in cahoots with her husband and knew more than they should. That way it blotted out all evidence of his bachelor past. A fresh batch of menials were installed and trained to higher standards. It was a memsahib prerogative.
Yet, when I complained about Hal, Kal or Pots to Manik, he grew increasingly tenderhearted and acted as if I was trying to drown a batch of helpless puppies. Manik was not too concerned about the malis, paniwalla and other riffraff, but for the three primary remoras, he made impassioned pleas.
Frankly, their inefficiency did not bother me as much as the blatant thievery. I had no aspirations to be the lady of the manor, if you could call our ramshackle bungalow that, but I was aware of certain expectations for a memsahib. I was the first Indian wife in a very colonial tea culture. I would be under intense scrutiny. If I acted gauche and incompetent, it would only confirm the suspicion that “natives” were not up to par. Someday Manik would be the General Manager or Burrasahib, and I would be the Burramemsahib. I would have to learn the ropes of this new lifestyle.
* * *
Kalua appeared one morning with the pencil tucked behind his ear and a mangled khata notebook that looked as if it had been coughed up by a water buffalo. On the cover of the notebook was a faded sketch of Laxmi, the goddess of wealth, sitting atop a lotus and dispensing gold coins. Laxmi had indeed showered her fortune on Kalua. This notebook was where he wrote his shopping list for the Kiyah store. The Kiyah, I learned, was the local grocer, the only shop located inside the tea plantation that stocked basic supplies like rice, lentils, sugar and flour: mostly poor quality, weevil-ridden items, exorbitantly priced. The Kiyah was also a moneylender of sorts for the laborers, who were often up to their ears in debt, having drunk away their Friday pay.
I found Kalua had charged us again for another two dozen eggs. Expensive eggs they were, too.
“Why are eggs so expensive?” I asked.
Kalua looked like a smacked puppy. A small twitch appeared in his left eye. “Chotasahib eating only best-quality egg.”
“Does the Kiyah store have any vegetables?”
“No, memsahib, only potato and onion.” Then he added brightly, “I buy vegetable from local haat, tomorrow, memsahib. Tuesday, local haat day.”
“Why is the mali not growing any vegetables in the malibari?” I asked. There was a good-size kitchen garden at the back of the house. The soil was excellent. There was no reason why we should not be growing our own vegetables.
“Mali is lazy donkey, memsahib,” Kalua said viciously. He obviously had a grudge against the fellow. “He not doing any work. Only smoking bidi under mango tree and going home.”
Which mali was he talking about? I wondered. There were three of them. All three were monkey-faced and were seen puttering around the far reaches of the garden like gray ghosts in the early morning, but they vanished before the sun was fully up in the sky.
“I having a son, memsahib, making good mali boy...” Kalua said.
“I will speak to Chotasahib about the mali,” I said quickly, not wanting to get into a conspiracy with Kalua without knowing what the issues were. “So what else is on the Kiyah’s list?”
Kalua’s list for the day included a storage tin for sugar to keep out the cheetis (ants), potatoes, onions, kerosene, flour, cooking oil, rat poison and something that sounded like “figitin.” He pointed to the page in his khata and said we owed the Kiyah a balance of three rupees and four annas from the last time. Everything he had written on the page looked like cauliflower florets floating in space. Kalua had circled the owed sum, and signed his initials in English—KP—with a dainty flourish.
I looked at him in surprise. “Three rupees for what?” I thought we gave him enough money each time he made a Kiyah trip, which was every other day.
Kalua frowned, studying the torn page. “For potatoes, onions, kerosene, flour, cooking oil, rat poison and ‘figitin,’” he said.
I made him read the list for the week before. It was for kerosene, rice and “figitin.” And before that for rope and “figitin.”
“Figitin” seemed to be the most indispensable item on the list. What was even more puzzling was the price of “figitin” fluctuated wildly from week to week. One week it was three annas, another week one rupee and six annas.
“What is ‘figitin’?” I asked finally.
“I...figitin,” said Kalua, rolling his eyes dolefully.
“Flit?” I ventured. Maybe Kalua was talking about the mosquito spray. But as far as I knew, Flit spray was one of the items we picked up from Paul & Co., not the Kiyah store.
“I...figitin,” Kalua repeated, looking more wretched than ever.
I sighed, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. Manik had appointed me as the financial controller. Manik’s club bills were exorbitant, the dhobi’s charges made no sense, we always seemed to owe the Kiyah money for something or the other and now there was “figitin.” Keeping track of Hal and Kal’s slippery maneuvers was exhausting. It was impossible to verify any of their expenses. Their explanations were labyrinthine, meandering in circles and finally getting lost in a bog.
After some detailed questioning it turned out “I figitin” was Kalua’s attempt at English: “I’ve forgotten,” which was the balance left over after buying all the items on his list. It was Kalua’s way of rounding up accounts. No wonder we never got any change back. “Figitin” took care of that.
* * *
The kitchen was a small independent building set a little ways from the house. On one side was the malibari, or kitchen garden, fenced in by barbed wire. On the other side of the kitchen were the servant quarters, a row of three small houses where Halua, Kalua and Potloo lived. They each had their independent accommodation where they lived with their families and domestic animals. From the pantry, only the top of the three thatched roofs could be seen, the rest covered by clumps of banana trees and other vegetation. Sometimes I caught a glimpse of a small child, or a chicken pecking in a corner of a dusty yard.
One early evening after tea, I decided to check out the kitchen garden. I opened the back door to the pantry and almost tripped over a small girl child sitting on the stairs playing with empty shotgun cartridges. She sang in a tuneless voice as she lined them up. Some were filled with pebbles, others with sticks and marbles. The child could not have been older than three. She was brown as a berry and dressed in
a ragged pair of knickers with nothing on top. Her uncombed hair trailed a pink ribbon and fell over her eyes. She heard the pantry door swing open and turned around, staring at me with very big, very black eyes.
“Oye!” she greeted me happily.
She abandoned her playthings and followed me to the kitchen garden, touching my sari every now and then, but if I asked her anything she just sucked her dirty thumb and stared at me with her big, round eyes.
The kitchen garden was overgrown with weeds. A small hoe lay in one corner with a few rusted tin cans, an overturned bucket and a split rubber hose. There was not much growing in the garden except a small clump of sugarcane and a banana tree that had fallen on its side. There was, however, one neatly tended patch of healthy vegetation in one corner: a splayed leafy plant that I did not recognize. I broke off a leaf, and crushed it between my fingers. It smelled vaguely familiar, but I could not place it.
Weeds grew in profusion, proving the soil to be rich. We could easily grow our own vegetables, I determined. I imagined neat rows of tomato, eggplant, okra and green beans, and decided to speak to Manik about it.
Wanting to peek into the kitchen, I pushed open the netted spring door. Halua was sitting on a ratty cane ottoman in his undershirt smoking a bidi. Kalua was on the floor grasping the head of a skinned chicken with his feet. He had a butcher’s knife poised in the air and was about to hack its head off. When they saw me, both Halua and Kalua sprang to their feet. Kalua’s knife clattered noisily to the floor, and Halua threw the bidi butt to the side and flapped his arms madly to rid the air of smoke. They both looked horrified. They salaamed, then stood ramrod straight against the wall as though they were facing a firing squad.