Teatime for the Firefly

by Shona Patel

  Halua’s eyes widened. He looked at me uncertainly.

  “It’s all right,” I said.

  Debbie clapped her hands. “Girls, get in the jeep, quick. No, Emma Ashton, we are not taking the goat.”

  “But, Mummy—”

  “Do you want me to get really cross with you? Come on, who wants to have a race? We are going to run to the jeep. On your mark, get set—GO!” She galloped after the girls. “Ta, Layla, I’ll see you Monday at the club.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Jamina was inconsolable. The village midwife told her she was having a white man’s devil child, a curse that would bring bad luck to her family, maybe even her whole village. The shaman gave her a tabiz to wear—a magic amulet inscribed with a spell to ward off evil.

  “That’s nonsense,” I said. “You have to see Doctor Emmett. You must, Jamina—this could be serious.”

  “But, didi, how can I allow English doctor to see me?” she howled. “What if he is taking advantage of me?”

  “He is a doctor, Jamina. He won’t do that. He needs to examine you.”

  “Where?”

  “There.”

  Jamina let out a shriek. “Why? Midwife only look at fingernail and say if it boy, girl or devil child. Nobody seeing me there, didi, nobody.”

  “Listen to me, Jamina,” I said a little sternly. “What you have growing inside may not be a baby. It could be a medical problem. You have to see a doctor because you may need treatment.”

  Jamina sighed noisily and a fat tear rolled down her cheek and wobbled on her chin.

  I tried to mollify her. “Doctor Emmett is an elderly man, Jamina. He’s very nice. He examined me. I will stay with you, during the examination, if you like.”

  Jamina blew her nose into her sari and looked at me balefully through puffy eyes. “I am letting English doctor see me, didi, only if you are staying in same room. I am coming to your house and English doctor see me in your house. I am not wanting Ali’s servants see I alone inside bedroom with English man and door close.”

  Doctor Emmett came to see Jamina on his next round to Aynakhal. Jamina clutched me with crablike claws, covered her face with her sari and shrieked through the entire examination.

  Doctor Emmett stared at her in exasperation. “I’ll never understand why these chokri girls make such a holy racket. This procedure is not supposed to hurt at all. They fight like wildcats and have to be held down the entire time. And all for a routine exam. It makes absolutely no sense to me.”

  He washed his hands in a basin of water and reached for the hand towel I was holding. “I don’t know if this is good news or bad news, but she is not pregnant. What she has looks suspiciously like a tumor. Carruthers must know she needs to see a specialist. He should not delay.” Doctor Emmett glanced at his watch. “I will go by Chulsa and tell him myself. I can give his girl a lift home, if she likes.”

  I translated for Jamina but she stared at me as if I was sending her home with her rapist.

  “I think she’d rather walk,” I told Doctor Emmett.

  * * *

  McNeil & Smith, the parent company of Chulsa Tea Estate, refused to pay for Jamina’s medical expenses.

  “It’s such a shame, really,” Manik said. “Jamina is not Alasdair’s legal wife, so she is not entitled to medical benefits. And because she is not employed by the tea garden, she can’t even get the basic medical care the coolie women receive. It’s terrible, really.”

  “So what will happen to her now?” I asked.

  “Ally wants to marry her. That way Jamina will at least get the medical attention she deserves.”

  “Doctor Emmett said it could be serious.”

  “Ally is aware of that. Jamina will need to see a specialist in Calcutta. Ally wants to get married this weekend. I said you’d organize the wedding.”

  “Organize a wedding this weekend!” I gasped. I wished Manik would consult me before making such sweeping offers. “I don’t know the first thing about weddings, Manik! Besides, what kind of wedding? Alasdair is Scottish. Jamina is Muslim....”

  “Ally just wanted a simple court registration, but Jamina says she wants to dress up like an Indian bride. I don’t think the religious part matters too much. Just throw something together, will you, darling? I told them not to worry—you’d take care of everything.”

  The wedding was a scramble. Alasdair and Jamina went to Silchar, where Dadamoshai got their marriage registered in the courthouse. Later that evening we had a small Indian celebration in our bungalow. I dressed up Jamina in my gold Benarasi sari and put flowers in her hair and painted red alta on her feet.

  Jamina’s father and brother had driven back with them from the fishing village to attend the ceremony. Her father was a foxy man with cunning eyes. I saw his gaze wander greedily around our bungalow, sizing up our meager possessions. Jamina’s brother was a towering hulk of a man with tattooed arms and a prominent sickle-shaped scar running across his cheek. He lurked in the corners and looked so thuggish, he was almost a caricature.

  Budni and Emma, dressed in their tiny saris, showered marigold petals on the bride. Debbie made a pineapple upside-down wedding cake and Kalua served his famous egg and chicken banquet, with a mutton curry thrown in. The goat was finally sacrificed for a good cause. The mishmash evening ended with the men getting hopelessly drunk. Irish, Scottish and Indian tea planters joined Muslim fishermen to sing ribald songs and do coolie dances around the veranda with their arms around each other’s waists.

  * * *

  Debbie Ashton sat cross-legged on the floor of our veranda with a notebook on her lap, tapping a pencil on her teeth.

  “Where’s that Jamina today?” She frowned.

  I glanced at the clock in the living room. “Goodness, quarter to eleven! That’s not like her at all!”

  Most mornings Debbie came to our bungalow to chat with Jamina. They would sit on the floor, drink salt tea while Debbie took copious notes. Sometimes I was called to act as interpreter, but mostly they managed without me, having devised their own creative ways of communicating that reminded me of Emma and Budni. Today I had invited them to stay for lunch. I was so busy in the pantry showing Kalua how to make Bengali fish croquettes, the kind Chaya made in Dadamoshai’s house, that I lost track of time.

  The latch of the front gate clicked open. It was the office peon on his bicycle. He had a note from Manik.

  Alasdair lost his job today. I am going with him to Dega to talk to Jimmy O’Connor.

  M.

  “That is unbelievable!” cried Debbie. “Alasdair is one of the best tea planters. I bet this has nothing to do with his job performance. I get the feeling it’s because he married Jamina. Tea companies have a very low tolerance for this kind of thing.”

  “Surely they can’t sack him for marrying someone,” I said.

  “Oh, you bet they can,” said Debbie with a trace of bitterness in her voice. “And they make no bones about it. As long as planters toe the line, tea companies are good to them. Step out of line and you’re buggered.”

  “I am sure Alasdair will find another job. There are other tea companies,” I said.

  Debbie shot me a skeptical look. “I don’t know about that, Layla. British companies are very clannish. They can boycott you. I’ve seen it happen. Once blacklisted, especially for this kind of thing, Alasdair can be out in the cold. What is so ironic—a planter can be unethical, steal from the company, even run the tea garden into the ground, but some desperate company will still hire him because he knows all about making tea. But marrying an OP—” she wagged her pencil “—that’s crossing a dangerous line.” She sighed. “I wish my jeep was not in the workshop today. We could have gone to Chulsa to see Jamina. The poor thing must be so upset.”

  Rob Ashton came to pick up Debbie that evening. Manik was
back home, and the four of us were drinking tea on the veranda. Alasdair’s news had shaken us all. As I listened to Manik talk, one thing became increasingly clear: tea planters were misfits in any other job but tea. No other profession demanded the same acumen, the grueling on-the-job training and adherence to a unique lifestyle, like tea. Where would Manik go if he did not have his tea job? He had drifted too far from the mainstream to fit elsewhere. He gave up everything for tea, yet the company could terminate his job for no fault of his. It was a scary thought.

  “McNeil & Smith’s official reason for sacking Ally is he broke the company rule and got married without giving his thirty-day notice,” said Manik. “That hogwash! The real reason is they don’t approve of Jamina. She is not considered appropriate.”

  “They were never happy about Ally’s association with Jamina to begin with,” Debbie said. “She was not just another chokri girl. He was too committed. He even visited her family in their village.”

  “Putting it crudely, Ally’s pecker went too deep,” Rob added.

  “Chokris are meant to be dispensable. You are not supposed to get too attached,” added Manik.

  “I find the hypocrisy shocking,” said Debbie. “Tea companies encourage planters to get involved with local women, use them as sleeping dictionaries, even father illegitimate children, but when it comes to marrying them, it’s a taboo.”

  “They are paranoid about who you marry,” said Manik. “You should have seen the way I got grilled about Layla, and she’s educated, English speaking, and her grandfather a Cambridge lawyer who personally knows James Lovelace.”

  “Otherwise they could have refused permission?” I asked a little incredulously.

  Manik looked at me. “Without a doubt. Kona wouldn’t have made the cut, for sure. So you see, either way, I would have got out of that arranged marriage.”

  “Who’s Kona? What arranged marriage?” asked Debbie.

  “Kona’s the girl I was engaged to before Layla begged me to marry her.”

  “Rubbish!” I laughed.

  “Now, if Layla was a white girl,” Manik continued, “even if she was of dubious character, there would be no scrutiny at all. That is how two-faced tea companies are.”

  “So what is Ally going to do now?” I said.

  “He will have to look for another job,” said Rob. “I doubt if he will find one with a British tea company, but things are changing in Assam. Jimmy O’Connor was saying many Sterling tea gardens are being sold to Indian businessmen. They’re looking for experienced tea planters to run them because Indians don’t have a clue about growing tea or plantation management.”

  “Any tea garden will be lucky to have Ally,” said Manik. “He’s an excellent planter. But the management style under Indian ownership is bound to be different. It will be interesting to see how the labor reacts to Indian owners. They are used to an all-white management.”

  Debbie gave Manik a poke in the ribs. “So how come you pass off as a peelywally, old chap?”

  “I hide my spots well, darling,” Manik said with a grin.

  “If the owners are Indian, maybe Jamina won’t feel so ostracized. She may even make a friend or two,” said Debbie.

  “I am not so sure,” I said. “In some ways Indians are more prejudiced about religion, caste and social status than white people. A blue-blooded Scot married to a Muslim prostitute is a tough fit anywhere.”

  “How long do you think it will be before Ally finds a job?” Debbie asked.

  “It’s hard to tell,” said Manik. “Jimmy O’Connor is making some inquiries. Ally has been given a week to vacate his bungalow. The company is coming down hard on him.” He turned to me. “I offered them our guest room, darling. They may stay with us for a while. Jimmy also offered his bungalow but Jamina says she wants to stay here.”

  “They can also stay with us,” said Debbie quickly. “Such a damn shame. Ally rakes in big profits for McNeil & Smith every year. All he wants to do is take care of the woman he loves. And what does the company do? Kick him out. Why? Because he’s a threat to the status quo. If planters start marrying their OPs the whole pukka tea culture would unravel, wouldn’t it? This is the kind of dishonesty that almost makes me ashamed to be British.”

  A silvery dusk was falling, and we fell into quiet introspection. The soft gray of the distant trees pulsed with the pinpricks of fireflies. They floated into the veranda and alighted on everyday objects to paint them with the strokes of a dream. We never saw their wings; all we ever saw was their light.

  * * *

  Jimmy O’Connor did indeed have connections. He made some inquiries and got Alasdair a job in a tea garden in the Dooars district of West Bengal, three hundred miles away. The tea garden had just changed hands to Indian ownership.

  Alasdair took Jamina to Calcutta for her treatment. Just as she had dreaded, her stomach had to be cut open and the tumor removed. It was a benign growth but unfortunately during the operation they had to remove her uterus, as well. The implications of that were lost on her.

  Jamina clung to me and wept. “There is no Fertility Hill where I am going, didi. How to have a child now? How to live so far from my Abba? He so old—what if he die? How to live so far from you?”

  There was little I could say to console her. Jamina would be unmoored and set adrift in an unfamiliar world. I knew that feeling only too well. But I also know this: even though water chooses the path of least resistance, it ultimately defines its own course. Rivers divide and merge, they braid and weave, they form complex wholes. They move apart only to rejoin at a different point. The geography of our lives would reconnect us again.

  CHAPTER 25

  In the spring of 1946, Percival Edwards Williams joined Chulsa Tea Estate as the new Junior Assistant. The pomposity of his name belied his tiny stature, so he was quickly nicknamed Peewee. Peewee looked not a day over twelve, though his official records claimed he was nineteen. He was a baby-faced lad, slightly built like a jockey, with a romp of golden curls and an enviable set of lashes. Peewee spent his first week recuperating from his mosquito bites and a terrible attack of diarrhea. Jimmy O’Connor’s eyes almost popped when he saw tiny Peewee tiptoe into his office. According to Rob Ashton, who was present, Jimmy O’Connor wagged the stub of his missing finger to intimidate Peewee and acted as if he would eat the poor fellow with a toothpick.

  Larry Baker took up the manly challenge of hand-rearing Peewee Williams. Barely had his mosquito bites subsided when Peewee, doused with whiskey, was marched off to Auntie’s for his primary education. Larry played with Peewee for his own amusement. He made sure Peewee got his vernacular nicely jumbled: he confused chokri (girl) with tokri (basket) and pisab (piss) with hisab (accounts) and unwittingly said the most hilarious things. He turned crimson when the coolie women shrieked with laughter. But he was a good sport overall and had a sweet milk-fed charm that endeared him easily to women.

  I was bottling my second batch of gooseberry jam in the pantry when I heard the wheezy honk of the Aston Martin coming up our driveway. Larry was at the wheel with Flint, the Kotalgoorie assistant, riding alongside while tiny Peewee bounced like a marble in the backseat.

  “Yo, Manny!” yelled Larry, as the engine spluttered down.

  He bounded up the stairs followed by Flint. Manik was in the living room reading peacefully on the sofa.

  “Oh, Man-ny boy,” sang Larry from the veranda. “The pi-pes the pi-pes are ca-all-ing. Where are you, old chap. Where’s Layla?”

  “She’s in the pantry,” Manik said, stirring from the sofa. “What’s up, fellows?”

  “Are you up for some bridge?” Flint asked. “Your old comrades eagerly await thee. We are playing at my bungalow and we need a fourth hand.”

  Manik shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’m really...”

  Flint held up his hand. His fac
e wore a pious expression. “Spare us the excuses, old man. Just so that you know, you are getting awfully antisocial these days. I understand you have domestic duties, being married and all, but forgetting your old friends is a real shame—that’s all I’m saying.”

  “Exactly!” agreed Larry. “Come on, Manny, just a few rubbers and we will drop you right back. Peewee here is keen to learn bridge. I told him you are a champion player.”

  “Is Manny coming?” called Peewee from the bottom of the stairs.

  “Not a chance,” Flint called back peevishly. “Manny is stuck to his wet nurse these days. What a crying shame.”

  “Wait, fellows,” said Manik. “Let me see what Layla is doing. Maybe I can play for a little while. But I have to be home for dinner, though.”

  Flint snapped his fingers. “Attaboy. Go ask the old lady, will you?”

  Manik sauntered into the pantry, hands in his pockets. Of course I had heard the whole conversation.

  “Go,” I said, waving him off, before he could open his mouth. “I don’t want to be called your wet nurse.”

  “They are only joking, darling.”

  “I know, but please go. I have things to do here.”

  Manik kissed my neck and grinned happily. “Only for a few hours. I’ll be home for dinner.” He hurried out of the pantry. “Boys, I’m coming!” he yelled.

  “Brilliant! No need to take your jeep, Manny,” said Flint. “We’ll drop you back. Oh, got a dram to spare, old chap? I am running low.”

  “Only some cheap whiskey.”

  “That’ll do.”

  Larry poked his head into the pantry. “You’re a brick, darling. We’ll make sure your old man is back home for dinner. Boy, that jam looks awfully good.”

  * * *

  It was past dinnertime, past bedtime, and there was no sign of Manik. The generator powered down, the lights went off, Halua and Kalua went home and Potloo reported for duty. In the distance the jackals howled, but still no sign of Manik. I must have fallen asleep on the sofa because when I woke the clock in the living room was striking twelve. Midnight! I sat up in panic. Where was Manik? Something terrible must have happened. Did Larry’s old jalopy break down in the jungle? Was there an animal attack? Kotalgoorie was only seven miles away. I could possibly drive Manik’s jeep, very slowly. I decided to take Potloo along and carry Manik’s gun.