Teatime for the Firefly

by Shona Patel

  I found it hard to imagine Kona, the pampered daughter of the richest man in town with her fine saris, delicate hands and gold bangles, now a beggar! What a tragic reversal of fortune.

  “Kona wept and told Spinster Aunt her in-laws had taken her children away,” Moon continued. “They drugged her unconscious and abandoned her in Vrindavan. Kona’s mother-in-law thinks she brought bad luck to the family because their only son, Kona’s husband, died so young. They don’t want her around anymore because they now believe that even her shadow falling on someone will bring bad luck.”

  “Does Dadamoshai know all this?”

  “Oh yes! Ma wrote to Dadamoshai about it. Dadamoshai confronted Kona’s father and threatened to take him to court,” Moon said.

  “But can he do that?” I asked. Domestic disputes were rarely addressed in court, as far as I knew. The court dealt mostly with criminal cases. There were thousands of widows in Vrindavan. Many put there by their families. Nobody went to jail for it.

  “Things are changing, Layla,” Moon said. “Now, with the women’s reform movement, there are new laws. Any unjust treatment of a woman is a crime. Widow discrimination, rape, dowry—they’re all coming to light. Of course, the woman has to testify in court against her family or in-laws and not many are willing to do that.”

  Kona, least of all, I imagined. She was so docile. She probably had never made a single decision of her own her entire life. But what Moon said next surprised me.

  “The good thing is Kona has agreed to testify in a court case against her in-laws.”

  “That’s very brave of her,” I conceded. “I can’t imagine what kind of courage it would take for someone like Kona to go against her family! But tell me, Moon, what will happen if she wins the case? Where will she go? Will her parents take her back?”

  “That is the sad part, Layla. Nobody wants the poor girl. She is a social outcast. Her father says his daughter seen as a holy widow in Vrindavan is better for his political image than a single woman trying to remake her life.”

  That did not surprise me.

  Moon laughed. “He is such a donkey! You should have seen Dadamoshai’s face. I watched the whole drama on this veranda from your room. Ma and Dadamoshai tried to persuade Mr. Sen to take Kona back, rehabilitate her, give her an education and all that. At first, Mr. Sen got nasty. He said, ‘Rai Bahadur, sir, please keep your nose out of our personal family business. Kona is my daughter, and we will do what we think is best for her.’ This sent Dadamoshai’s blood pressure skyrocketing! He told Mr. Sen Kona was going to testify in court and that would put him and her in-laws in jail. Then guess what that sly mongoose says?

  “He started to whine and says he is a true patriot and only trying to uphold traditional Indian values for the purity of our society. Then he made the fatal mistake of slipping in a snide remark—he said he would never for one minute think of harboring a Muslim’s whore in his house—he was talking about Chaya, of course. Dadamoshai’s eyebrows bristled so much I thought they would fall off his head!”

  I could well imagine that.

  “Dadamoshai!” Moon laughed and clapped her hands. “You should have just seen Dadamoshai. I was squirming for poor Mr. Sen. Dadamoshai gets dangerously quiet, as you know, when he is very, very angry. Dadamoshai said, ‘Mr. Sen, it was your traditional and patriotic Hindu brothers who threw acid on a sixteen-year-old girl’s face in the name of preserving the purity of our society. Muslim’s whore or not, I beg you, sir, please explain to me how is that under any circumstances acceptable human behavior.’ Mr. Sen changed tactics and started to grovel. ‘Please, Rai Bahadur, sir,’ he begged, ‘I beg you, this will be the death of my political career. I am only trying to do what is good for the country.’ Dadamoshai said, ‘I’ll tell you what is good for the country, Mr. Sen. You take your daughter back, get her back on her feet, otherwise I will make sure your political career is cow dung.’”

  I cheered inwardly for Dadamoshai but felt a twinge of apprehension. “Won’t Kona’s father mistreat her, if he is forced to take her back?”

  Moon shook her head. “He can’t do a thing, Layla, because by law Dadamoshai can send a social worker to check on Kona, and if there is even a single complaint, Mr. Sen will have to answer in court.”

  A twanging sound came from down the road, and a bearded man with long flowing hair and a saffron robe appeared outside our gate. He picked at an ektara—a one-stringed instrument made of a hollow gourd covered in goatskin. His bare feet jingled with ankle cuffs of tiny bells.

  “Joi guru hari bol!” the man called in greeting. His voice was clear and ringed with overtones.

  Moon and I exchanged smiles. “Nimai Baul!” we both said in unison.

  Nimai Baul was one of the many wandering minstrels of rural Bengal. We had known him since we were children. The bauls were spiritual freethinkers, without caste or religion, welcomed by both Hindus and Muslims as they wandered from village to village singing their devotional songs of life and love. They were songbirds, Dadamoshai said, pure of heart; their only quest was to seek personal salvation.

  Nimai Baul plucked his ektara meditatively, tapped his jingled feet before breaking into a song. His powerful voice soared to the sky, where the note held and trembled for what seemed like an eternity before plummeting to earth. This was followed by a lilting, joyful refrain. He sang a folk ditty about man’s ceaseless quest for inner peace. His simple words of wisdom were like a balm to my soul, and I was reminded of the essential human goodness that still existed in our broken, prejudiced world.

  As I listened I could not help but wonder about the irony of it all. Bauls had no possessions except the clothes on their backs and their ektaras. They had nothing to offer but their wisdom in a song, yet people opened their doors gladly and gave them food and shelter. They were welcomed in every home. But who would take Kona in? The only person I could think of was Dadamoshai, but it would be socially awkward for him, now that Manik was his grandson-in-law. Surely there was someone else? Aha, I thought. Yes, there was.

  * * *

  Martha, Miss Thompson’s housekeeper, was going senile. She forgot to use a strainer for the tea and the cups and saucers were all mismatched.

  “I don’t know what to do about her,” Miss Thompson whispered. “She is really getting on. I wish she would retire and go back to her family in Goa, but I think she worries about me living alone. She has always been that way, since Daddy died. Not that I can’t manage without her, mind you. I have a part-time maid who does all the cooking and cleaning anyway. Martha is really more a companion.”

  I asked Miss Thompson if she had heard the news about Kona.

  “Yes, the poor child lost her husband, I heard. And so young. What a tragedy,” she said sadly, handing me a cup of tea.

  It sounded as though she did not know the whole story, so I told her.

  Miss Thompson sat at the edge of her seat, her tea growing cold, her eyes wide with disbelief. “What a terrible, terrible thing,” she said. “To think her in-laws would treat her so poorly. As for her own father not wanting to take her back...my goodness, she is their only child!”

  “If Kona leaves her family she will need a place to stay,” I said tentatively. “Would you, by any chance, consider taking her in as a boarder?”

  “Oh of course, dear, without a question,” cried Miss Thompson. “I will do anything I can to help the poor girl. In fact, I will speak to Rai Bahadur myself as soon as he returns from Calcutta. Konica is welcome to stay with me at no cost. She does the most exquisite hand embroidery, did you know? I have seen some of her beautiful tablecloths. She can easily find work at the Sacred Heart Convent, if she likes. The nuns are always shorthanded in their sewing department and could use some help.”

  Martha hobbled in to clear the tea tray.

  Miss Thompson glanced at Martha’s retreating back. “Who
knows, this may even be a blessing in disguise. If Martha is reassured I am not alone, she may be convinced to retire.”

  Suddenly I felt lighthearted and joyful. “I am happy to know at least Kona has a choice.” I mulled over the word. “Isn’t that the most wonderful word, Miss Thompson? Choice?”

  “Yes, my dear,” Miss Thompson said, leaning forward to pat my hand. “It is the best gift a parent can give a child. It is what your grandfather gave you.”

  CHAPTER 30

  It was the end of July, and one pearly dawn, just like that, he was there. Manik crept into Dadamoshai’s house through the unlocked kitchen door, entered my room and crawled into bed with me. The sun was a smudge in the sky and the birds still had not woken. It was barely four o’clock.

  Suspended between dreams and wakefulness, I felt his body mold into mine. He kissed the nape of my neck. Manik had day-old stubble, and his hair smelled of dust from the road. He stroked my face gently. “Why did you go away?” he whispered. “Last night I missed you so much, I could not bear it a minute longer. I had to come and get you.”

  He kissed my throat and ran his hand softly over the curve of my belly.

  “Manik,” I said, covering his hand with mine. “Please wait...I have something to tell you. I’m pregnant.”

  I felt his sharp intake of breath followed by a rigid stillness.

  In the dim light, his face hovered over mine and I saw the question in his eyes. I nodded and his eyes filled with childlike wonderment and joy. He buried his face in my breast. I felt his breath through the thin material of my nightdress. “Oh, Layla,” he said, his voice cracked with emotion. “This is wonderful news.”

  “I don’t know how it happened.... We were so careful,” I murmured, running my fingers through the tangles of his hair.

  “We are having a baby,” Manik said softly.

  “Yes,” I said, suddenly thrilling at the thought, “our baby.”

  The sparrows were beginning to stir on the jasmine trellis, and the first slat of sunshine slipped through the curtain and fell diagonally across the bed, lighting the parrot print on my bedcover. Manik made love to me with a deep tenderness, a reverence almost. We were both acutely aware of the precious life inside me. The world seemed so much larger that day, expansive and fuller somehow. It had stretched beyond its normal boundaries, and it would never be the same.

  * * *

  Back in our bungalow in Aynakhal, Manik had a surprise waiting for me. The “surprise” was five weeks old and had just had a small accident on the veranda. Jimmy O’Connor had offered Manik the pick of the litter, and this little pup had attacked his shoelaces and would not let go, so of course he had to be the one. The puppy cocked his head from side to side as Manik talked about him. He was coal-black with a caramel smudge on his chest and caramel stockinged feet. His eyes were bright and curious and his ears pricked at the slightest sound.

  “Purebred, pedigree Alsatian. Prime stock,” Manik said proudly, tickling the puppy, who rolled over on his back and tried to chew his hand with tiny pointy teeth. “They make the best guard dogs in the world.”

  A mynah cackled loudly on the lawn and the puppy gave a panicked look and crawled under the coffee table. “Of course he will need some confidence building before that,” Manik said.

  “What will we call him?” I tried to entice the puppy out, but he gave a tiny growl and looked fierce. He was so droll I had to laugh.

  “I was thinking of naming him Marshal. But you can choose a name. He arrived only four days ago.”

  Hearing his name, the puppy pricked up his ears, gave a tiny woof and ran out from under the coffee table, wagging his tail.

  “I think he has decided for himself,” I said. Marshal sounded too serious for this tiny ball of fun, but hopefully he would grow into his name.

  The puppy tugged the bottom of my sari and ran around my legs, almost tripping me. Then he went off to fetch an old tennis ball from under the hat stand. It was too big for his mouth so he pushed it along with his nose, growling menacingly.

  “Alsatians are intelligent and fearless guard dogs. They protect you with their life.” Manik gave Marshal a little prod with his toe. “I’d feel better with him around, especially now with the baby. You’ll take care of Layla and the baby, won’t you, Marshal?”

  Marshal gave a small woof, which quickly turned into a sneeze. He rubbed a paw over his wet nose. Then he sneezed again and looked at us, bewildered.

  “I could watch him all day,” I laughed.

  “Someday he will watch you,” Manik said. “We have to be strict with him from the beginning. Alsatians need discipline and training. I got some tips from Jimmy O’Connor. Marshal must be kept in check and never allowed into the living room or bedroom. The veranda is his limit. If he tries to enter any other room, give him a smack on the nose and say ‘NO’ very loudly.”

  As I walked toward the bedroom, the puppy followed on clumsy feet, wagging his tail. He hesitated at the doorway; his ears drooped as he turned to look up questioningly at Manik, cocking his head slightly. Manik wagged a finger and barely mouthed the word. The puppy gave a plaintive whimper and flopped down outside the door. I guess in four days Marshal had already received his fair share of “nos” and nose smacks.

  Given Manik’s penchant for shikar, I was curious why he had chosen an Alsatian, a guard dog, over a hunting breed like a Lab or Retriever. Manik became thoughtful when I asked him. He pushed his glasses up on his forehead and rubbed his eyes. When he looked at me, a shadow quickly crossed his face.

  “Times are uncertain, Layla,” he said soberly. “There has been trouble in several gardens.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Labor trouble. Local politicians are infiltrating the gardens, waving communist flags and pushing the labor to get unionized. Bribing them with money and opium.”

  “Why aren’t the companies doing anything about it?”

  “British companies are changing hands to Indian ownership. This is a period of transition. Nobody quite knows what will happen.” Manik’s eyes were serious. A small muscle twitched in his jaw. “There may come a time when we tea planters have to protect ourselves. Guns and dogs are all we have.”

  The puppy scratched on the bedroom door and whimpered.

  Manik smiled. “But now with our trusty mastiff, we don’t have to worry, do we?”

  * * *

  Alsatians are one-man dogs, they say, and Marshal considered Manik his alpha leader. Marshal eventually grew to be eighty pounds of muscle and stealth. He had powerful sloping shoulders and long pointed canines. He was unmistakably a guard dog. Within the next few weeks he lost his puppy playfulness and became self-assured, razor sharp and quick as an arrow. His ears were always pointed, his brown almond-shaped eyes watchful. Any suspicious sound and the muscles in his body pulled back like a slingshot.

  With the arrival of Marshal, one more servant got added to our retinue: the Kutta-walla, or dog caretaker. Servants in bungalows had very specific and regimented roles. One person’s work never overlapped the other. The bearer would not care for dogs, and the cook would not cook for the animal. Animal care was deemed below their status.

  The Kutta-walla was a man called Montu. He was a morose-looking fellow with a long face and sad eyes. Montu’s job was to boil the beef for Marshal’s meal and pluck the burrs and ticks from his shaggy coat and hose him down if he got muddy.

  Marshal was a true aristocrat. There was a certain aloofness about him: no fawning, begging or greedy gobbling. When Montu dished out his food, Marshal cocked an ear and waited awhile before he sidled up to his dish. He never wolfed down his meal but ate always alert and watchful. The only attention Marshal sought was from Manik. It was not petting or a treat that he wanted but validation. If Manik said, “Good dog,” Marshal fanned his long sweeping tail slowly fr
om side to side. His jaw hung open and he smiled, his brown intelligent eyes acknowledging the tribute. He was modest, never humble.

  22nd September 1946

  Layla-ma,

  Are you eating properly, ma? You must take your egg in the morning and eat plenty of curds and drink milk twice a day. Good nutrition is most essential. This is not the time to think of yourself, but what is good for your baby. You have very poor eating habits since a child. I blame your Dadamoshai for this. He got you too much interested in books and should have never allowed reading at the dining table.

  As you can see from the newspaper article, your uncle Robi received a prestigious award from the Assam University for his Bacteriological research. But what can I tell you, maiyya! He is so absentminded he forgot to attend his own award ceremony! What a shame. He did not mention a single word about this to me, otherwise I would have made sure we attended the function.

  I am just back from Silchar. The Sacred Heart Convent had its annual fundraising fete and I saw some lovely hand-embroidered tablecloths in a stall and wanted to buy one for you. I was so busy choosing the tablecloth, I did not notice a girl smiling at me. When I went to pay her, I could not believe my eyes—it was Kona! You will never recognize her now with her skirt and her short curly hair. She looks exactly like an Anglo-Indian, but I must say she is looking very well.

  You may have heard Moon and Jojo are leaving for Uganda? Jojo has a 3-year contract with the petrochemical company. I have mixed feelings about this. I will miss the children, especially my little Aesha, but I think it is best for them to have their own life separate from Jojo’s parents. Jojo is too much a mama’s boy, if you ask me. My only complaint is, did they have to move so far away?

  You must be careful now, ma. There is no need for you to engage in rough activities like driving the jeep and shooting the guns. Manik should have had more sense than to teach you all this.

  With my love,

  Mima