by Shona Patel
Manik had never encountered Clive Robertson. Potloo saw him all the time and said the ghost knocked on his watchman’s hut calling out “Koi hai?”—who’s there?—in a gruff terrifying voice on moonlit nights. This was Potloo’s legitimate excuse for staying stoned. Halua and Kalua had encountered him, as well, and I had most definitely seen him with my own two eyes.
“Ignore him, darling,” said Manik. He was lacing up his canvas boots, sitting on the bed of the guest room. “Just treat him like a useless servant who hangs around and won’t go away.”
Ghosts were no joking matter, as far as I was concerned. I told Manik that.
“Well, what do you want me to do? I can’t shoot him. I can’t sack him. Every tea-garden bungalow has a resident ghost, if you must know. The Dega burrabungalow has a violent ghost that tried to strangle the VA one time. Jimmy O’Connor got an awful garden report that year, because of that.”
It sounded as if Jimmy O’Connor could shoot rogue elephants with his powerful Magnum rifle but he was no match for a bungalow ghost.
“Ask Larry about the one at his bungalow. That ghost is a troublesome one. It steals whiskey and harasses the women. That’s the other reason why his wife, Janice, ran off. It seems the men have no problems cohabiting with ghosts, but the women fuss a lot.”
“The ghost has something to do with this room,” I said, looking around.
“Well, if you have to know, this is the room where Clive Robertson shot himself,” Manik said. He pointed his boot at the hole on the floor. “Maybe he comes up through that hole at night. You better watch out because he’ll grab your feet when you step down from the bed!”
“That’s not funny, Manik. I want to move back into our old bedroom.”
“Just wait another week, darling, and the roof work should be done. I will send the factory carpenter to do a better job patching up this hole in the meantime. Now that you have Clive Robertson in your head, you are going to start imagining all sorts of things. Can you get the sweeper to clear out the hole today? I want to make sure we are not boarding up any snakes. There will be a big stink otherwise.”
“There is something down there,” I said. “I told you I sometimes hear noises at night.”
“Well, make sure the sweeper fishes it out, whatever it is. I’ll send the carpenter first thing in the afternoon.”
* * *
That morning, the sweeper was prodding under the floorboards with a long stick when he hit upon a solid object. He pulled out a scuffed brown leather suitcase with rusty clasps. Inside was a brown leather diary, the pages filled with tiny writing, and several unopened letters addressed to a Miss Edith Blount in Sussex, England. They were all stamped Return to Sender. Wrapped in a powder-blue silk scarf were two photographs: a studio portrait of a young, dark-haired woman and another of a couple standing on a rocky beach. The woman was laughing as she clutched a flyaway scarf. Her other hand rested on Clive Robertson’s arm.
I opened the last page of the diary and read:
The sky is waiting to open.
Edith my love, I leave you now.
I was born with no purpose. I leave with no regret.
In these jungles do memories perish.
In these jungles I will remain.
The question was what to do with the suitcase. Manik thought it should be shipped off to Calcutta Head Office, but chances were, he added, it would just languish there because too many years had passed since Clive Robertson’s death and nobody had the time to dig up old records and ship it back to England. Nobody cared. I felt the suitcase contained secrets that Clive Robertson did not want to share. It bothered me to think of strangers prying into the life of this very private and sensitive man.
“I will have to report finding the suitcase to Mr. McIntyre,” Manik concluded.
“You don’t have to do that. Nobody really needs to know we found it,” I said.
Manik threw up his hands. “So what do you propose we do with it?”
“Bury it or burn it,” I suggested.
Manik contemplated that for a moment. “Well, it would certainly save Mr. McIntyre a lot of headache. To document the suitcase he will need to fill out paperwork, list its contents, get it shipped, maybe even make a police report. A big waste of time, if you ask me, all probably for nothing. There is nothing of monetary value inside that suitcase anyway.”
“Didn’t you tell me there was a grave site in the woods marked with his name? Maybe we could bury the suitcase there. Where is this grave?” I asked.
“On the way down to the Aynakhal Lake. We can take a walk down there, if you like. It’s a good three-mile trek through the forest. Let’s have a picnic. I’ve been wanting to take you to the lake. It’s a very pretty spot.”
* * *
The picnic turned out to be a family outing. It looked as though Halua, the paniwalla and the mali were going to accompany us. A lunch basket was packed; a large thermos, rolled-up mats, camping stools and an inordinate amount of paraphernalia piled up on the veranda.
The way to the lake was through the back gate in the malibari, past the servant quarters behind the bungalow. The mali led the way carrying a shovel over his shoulder and a long curved Khoorpi knife with which he whacked the undergrowth to clear our path. The paniwalla boy came next, piled to capacity, like a beast of burden, which made him even more cross-eyed. Halua had put the entire load on his skinny shoulders, including Clive Robertson’s suitcase, which nobody wanted to touch because it belonged to a ghost. Halua followed next, holding the picnic basket daintily over his arm like an old granny. Manik and I rounded up the party.
Manik whistled “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,” and carried his rifle slung over his shoulder. Seeing our approach, a troop of golden langur set up a deadly din. They shrieked and followed us, crashing from branch to branch. We walked past a large pile of elephant dung, fibrous and disintegrating. A week old, Manik said.
“Look at that butterfly, Manik!” It was the most enormous butterfly I had ever seen. It circled the treetop, flying on powerful wings.
Manik shielded his eyes, looking up. “That’s not a butterfly,” he said. “That’s a cardinal bat. It’s a magnificent creature and very rare. You don’t usually see them this time of the day.”
We found Clive Robertson’s grave overgrown with creepers. I sat on a log as the mali dug a hole beside the grave marker and we lowered the suitcase into the ground. I thought sadly of the mysterious young man who had died such a lonely death so far away from home. I said a quick prayer for him and we continued on our way.
The forest cleared and suddenly the lake was before us, full of lilies and shimmering with dragonflies on radiant wings. But a cold hand clamped over my heart. It was surreal. I looked at the lilies and the tall waving reeds and there was no mistaking it: this was the lily pond of my dreams. Visions of Manik, the fireflies and the floating face of my dead mother came into my mind. I gave an involuntary shudder.
“I know, it’s very creepy,” Manik said. He thought I was reacting to an engorged leech on his calf. He plucked it off. “Here, watch this,” he said, as he tossed the leech into the water. There was a silver flash as a giant fish jumped up to gobble it up.
“Ooh, it’s hot,” said Manik, peeling off his shirt.
The servants had already set up camp. A tarp was strung across the low tree branches, mats laid down, two pillows, two towels, a thermos of chilled water. Yet the three men were nowhere to be seen.
“Where did they go?” I asked, looking around.
“Oh, they’re somewhere around, having their own picnic, I suppose. They keep out of sight but they are within earshot.” Manik was pulling off his pants.
“What are you doing?”
“Going for a swim, of course.” Manik was down to his underwear. “Aren’t you coming?”
�
�No, Manik!” I waved my hands in panic at the reeds. “Not here.” The visions of him being dragged down by the lily stems flashed through my mind. “No, Manik, please no.” I clutched at his arm.
Manik looked at me curiously. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I had a bad dream, about this lake—”
“Layla, please don’t be ridiculous. I swim here all the time.”
“Isn’t it...dangerous?”
“There’s nothing in there. Lots of fish and maybe a few water snakes. They don’t bite.”
“I don’t know,” I said fearfully. I realized I must sound ridiculous.
“You are coming in, too. I can teach you how to swim.” He stripped off his underwear, threw down his glasses, then, without a thread on, he dived like a knife into the water and disappeared with barely a splash. I held my breath for what seemed like forever. Finally he popped up and flicked his hair, sending the water flying in a graceful arc. He looked at me with wet shining eyes. “Are you coming in or not?”
“I didn’t bring a change of clothes,” I said.
“You don’t need one. Take off your clothes, use that towel to cover up, if you like, then get in.”
“What about...?” I nodded toward the forest, indicating the men. “I don’t want them to see me—”
“Layla, the servants don’t pry where they are not supposed to. You are missing out. The water is wonderful.”
I inched up to the water’s edge and stuck my toe in. The cool water did feel good. Throwing modesty to the winds, I disrobed quickly and waded in, checking over my shoulder to make sure Halua wasn’t lurking behind a tree.
Soon I forgot my fears and became accustomed to the unfamiliar sensation of the water on my naked body. I began to enjoy the soft ripples caressing my skin, the silken mud yielding between my toes. It was deliciously arousing. After a while we toweled ourselves dry, lay on the grass mat and made love, our bodies still damp. I marveled at how ingeniously the tarp had been angled for our privacy. All I could see before me was the flat shining mirror of the lake reflecting a fathomless sky. Aynakhal. Mirror Lake.
A crimson dragonfly hovered and settled on the end piece of Manik’s glasses lying on the grass mat.
“Never in a hundred years did I ever imagine making love under an open sky,” I murmured.
“I did,” said Manik drowsily. He looked me full in the eyes and traced the four-petaled rose between my breasts lightly with his finger. “I dreamed about making love to you right here by this lake. Just like this.”
“I dreamed about this lake, too, but it was a bad dream,” I said, waiting for that dark foreboding to envelop me, but it never came.
“Maybe I can change that for you,” Manik said, and kissed me deeply. “Maybe you will remember this dream instead.”
Halua and the paniwalla miraculously appeared around lunchtime to serve us boiled eggs, cold cutlets, bread and butter, followed by hot tea. Later, Manik dozed on his stomach while I occupied myself with stamping tiny leaf patterns all over his bronze back with small ferns I found with a white powdery underside. It reminded me of my childhood days with Moon. We were always decorating each other’s skin with powdery ferns.
“Manik!” I shook him awake. “Look, elephants!”
A whole herd had come down to the lake on the opposite bank. They were so close we could hear them snorting and harrumphing. We counted nine in all, a dominant male tusker, five females, two youngsters and a tiny baby walking right between its mother’s legs. The elephants played and rolled in the shallows for half an hour. Then they all lumbered back into the forest, as silently as they had appeared. All the time I was watching them, I could hardly breathe.
Manik burrowed his head into my armpit and went peacefully back to his nap. I loved the feeling of his arm across my chest, the easy weight of his leg draped over my body.
I breathed the deep aroma of his skin and felt suddenly overwhelmed with tenderness for the man I had married. A deep comfort settled on my sun-warmed body. I watched a puffy cloud elongate into a swan before sailing off over the ragged treetops and thought to myself, if Clive Robertson’s ghost could be laid to rest, maybe so could mine.
CHAPTER 28
4th May 1946
Maiyya,
I am glad I could be of help. The Jimmy O’Connor issue, as I understand, is a political one. I am sorry that this has caused so many problems at Dega Tea Estate. As you know, when two elephants fight it is the grass underfoot that suffers.
Sunandan Bakshi, the high court judge who is in charge of this case, turns out to be my junior. I know him well. He is an astute judge and a reasonable man. O’Connor will have to sign some papers that will be mailed to him. The case will be dismissed. The testimonies from other planters and his garden staff are greatly in his favor.
I received a surprising letter from Estelle Lovelace, my lady friend from my old Cambridge days. She is a writer of some repute and lives in Cornwall. Her niece Bridgette Olson (James Lovelace’s middle daughter) is planning a visit to India next spring, and Estelle says she may accompany her. Estelle is very keen to visit the tea gardens. She mentioned a certain Ginny Gilroy, a cousin of hers, who is married to a tea planter in the Mariani district. I wonder if you know of them?
I take great joy hearing about your life in Aynakhal, maiyya. I can tell you are happy.
My love to you and your dear Manik. May all good things be yours.
Your Dadamoshai
The packets of seeds I had ordered from the Sutton’s catalog arrived by mail. I turned each one over and read the growing instructions. Mrs. McIntyre had advised me what to plant and the planting order. Cauliflower, cabbage and lettuce first. Carrots and tomatoes next, chilies, parsley and cilantro last. The malis had tilled the ground in the malibari and created long rows. We were ready for the planting season.
A mud-splattered jeep honked at the gate. It roared up our driveway and a large man heaved himself out. It was Jimmy O’Connor. Two magnificent German shepherds leaped out behind him. The dogs shook their shaggy coats and scampered at the feet of their master. He snapped his fingers and pointed at the ground and they flopped down obediently at the bottom of the stairs.
Jimmy clomped up to the veranda. He was an impressive man with powerful shoulders and big corded arms. His mane of flaming red hair was covered with dust from the open jeep ride. His face was tanned a deep copper and his eyes a flecked and faceted emerald-green. He towered over me.
“Hello, Layla,” he said, extending a hand, big as a tennis racket. “I came by to thank ye.”
He said he had given up hope and had resigned himself to serving jail time when to his surprise the rhino case was abruptly dismissed. He had no idea why. At first he suspected foul play—a trap of some sort, so he called up the judge to find out. The judge said somebody called the Rai Bahadur had vouched for his innocence. The Rai Bahadur, it seemed, was a man of great integrity and the judge took his word seriously. Jimmy did not know who this man was and it had taken him a long time to trace it all back to me.
“I had me a narrow escape,” he said. “I am not sure I would have made it out of the Indian clink alive.”
“My grandfather says you got caught in dirty politics,” I said.
“That, plus I got me a sewer mouth, lass. I shouldn’t have brassed off the judge.”
“Well, I am glad it worked out.”
“Aye, thanks to ye,” he said quietly, his voice husky with emotion. “Dear Mother o’ God, I don’t know what I did to deserve a second chance.”
There was an awkward silence. He leaned forward and picked up the packet of tomato seeds from the coffee table and turned it over to read the back, tapping the edge of the packet with the stub of his missing finger.
“I am trying to get my malibari started,” I explained.
�
��My Marie—” He paused and a shadow crossed his face. “My wife used to love gardening,” he said quietly, putting the packet down. I saw the tug of memory in his eyes.
“I’m told your heirloom tomatoes are very famous.”
He gave me a crinkled smile. “Are they, now? Why don’t y’come to my bungalow and pick some, lass? Y’can have all ye want. What do y’say we stop by your man’s office and tell him I am kidnapping you for an hour, aye?”
“What—now?”
“Why, y’busy, then?”
“Well, no...”
“So what’re we waiting for, then? Christmas?”
* * *
Jimmy O’Connor lived in a Chung bungalow on top of a steep wooded hill. The winding road was lined with a tall plant with large red flowers that looked like a cross between a poppy and a dahlia. I had never seen anything like them. They grew thickly and blazed a fiery red trail all the way from the bottom of the hill up to the bungalow gates.
A convoy of enormous geese chased the jeep as it pulled up to the portico. Jimmy O’Connor shooed them away. His two German shepherds jumped out and trailed behind him, pointed and sleuth-eyed. I never once heard them bark, but they were sharply keen and watchful.
We walked to the malibari. The geese paddled around Jimmy’s feet, honking affectionately. How he walked without tripping over them is a mystery. They nibbled at his calves, looked eagerly up at his face, bobbed and ducked, and stepped all over his big boots. They seemed to have forgotten that he had shot them down in the first place. The dogs followed at a watchful distance. Every now and then a possessive goose stuck its neck out and charged off after one of them like a torpedo, and they cringed back, ears flattened. German shepherds, for all their intelligence and might, were no match for the aggression of a Himalayan goose.