Teatime for the Firefly

by Shona Patel

  25th September 1946

  Dear didi,

  I now real memsahib in burrabungalow. Bungalow too big. Many servant keel-meel everywhere. Nobody listen. I tell borchee make chili omelet but he make fry egg with raw top like English eat. For Ali birthday I make Dondy cake like you teach, but it come out too hard like brick. I think I forget the bake powder. All tap in bathroom new. All room having fan. But I cry, didi. Silchar too far for Ali to take me to see my Abba. Also Ali busy. Mr. Botra, Indian owner, want to make too much tea. Not English quality, he say, but big amount for India people. India people not understand English tea. They boil too much and take strong. Mr. Lohia giving no bonus to coolie. So there is coolie trouble.

  No good shikar here for Ali. Ali go all day with gun and come home with only one hedgehog. Who kill hedgehog, I laugh. Didi, I dream you have girl. I make green sweater for baby, knitting with hedgehog needle. Green is lucky color. I make sweater little big, so baby can wear long time. You tell baby when she is understand Jamina Auntie who make her sweater with hedgehog needle. Didi, you must eat two-spoon ghee every day. It make passage slippery. Baby come out easy like magur fish. No problem.

  Alibaba want to take me to Scotland but I afraid of plane. But Alibaba say it safe like motorcar only going in air. But, didi, how to go to bathroom so high?

  My respects to your good husband.

  From your sister,

  Jamina

  15th October 1946

  Didi,

  My heart is burst, I come to see you. Every minute knitting knitting. Sometime not sleeping at night. I want to make two more sock, two more sweater and one blanket for baby. I already buy wool in Gauhati. Now I think I buy too many green. Inshallah, I finish everything in two more week. Ali say, “You make Layla baby look like green sheep.” I happy you having baby in cold season, sister, that way Jamina can make baby sweater. My finger fat like banana no good for embroidery but knitting no problem.

  Ali happy he going shikar with your good husband. He cleaning gun all day and talk about duck. Let me do knitting now so I finish.

  I happy I am Auntie soon. Your baby my baby. Same-same.

  My respects to your good husband.

  From your sister,

  Jamina.

  The autumn air crisped and the hills turned a foggy blue. Duck-hunting season arrived and Aynakhal was a shikari’s paradise. The giant marshland called the bheel—where Aynakhal bordered Kaziranga—was prime bird-hunting ground. Duck, geese and snipe migrated in large flocks all winter long.

  Jimmy O’Connor organized a duck-hunting camp and invited Alasdair and three other shikaris from Dooars. Together with Manik, Larry Baker, Rob Ashton and Peewee Williams there would be eight shikaris in all. Peewee Williams, to everyone’s surprise, turned out to be a crack shot, earning him Jimmy’s grudging respect.

  Duck camps were elaborate affairs. It took weeks of planning. The jungles were cleared, makeshift huts and an outhouse constructed. Shikaris took manpower, supplies and dogs, and camped out for days. Decoys—duck-shaped cutouts made from old tea chests—were floated in the bheel to attract the flock to land. When the ducks landed, the Beaters, who were hired help, whacked together bamboo slats to create a mighty racket and direct the birds to fly over the heads of shikaris camouflaged in the brush. Then it was a matter of skill and marksmanship as to how many birds you could down with a scattershot.

  Alasdair and Jamina were staying with us. Jamina arrived with three pillowcases full of knitted baby clothes. All in various shades of green. She was so emotional to see me that she cried nonstop the first day. Then she was back to her chatty old self.

  “English people make too much hoi-choi to shoot few ducks.” Jamina clicked her tongue disdainfully seeing all the paraphernalia strewn over the portico. Two vehicles were parked on the gravel driveway and several men scurried about, loading up supplies, guns and camping gear. “What’s there to catch ducks? My brother catch more ducks, with only goat bladder. No guns. No problem.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “They throw goat bladder in bheel. Ducks gobble-gobble. Next morning come and find duck nicely tie up like koi fish. Just pick and take home. No problem.”

  It was the old village method, Jamina explained. Villagers caught ducks simply by throwing a goat’s empty intestine into the marsh where the ducks flocked. The ducks mistook the pink gut for a giant worm and gobbled it, but it was too long and stringy and came out of the other end. Then, disgustingly enough, the second duck gobbled it up and the same thing happened. Soon there were three or more ducks all threaded together from beak to tail, flapping around, tied up in a bunch. One had to simply pick them up and bring them home. No fuss: no guns, no decoys, no Beaters, no problem.

  Manik grinned, hearing Jamina. He was sorting through a pile of cartridges on the veranda coffee table, putting the orange ones to one side. Marshal lay with his nose on Manik’s shoe, looking wretched and miserable. He knew he was not being taken to the duck camp. The other planters were bringing their dogs, mostly Labradors. Labradors were the perfect hunting breed: they were excellent swimmers and had soft jaws that never crushed a bird. Marshal’s jaws crushed everything.

  “That can’t be true, can it?” I asked Manik. “Catching ducks with a goat bladder. Sounds too fantastic.”

  “Actually, I’ve heard about it,” said Manik, tying up the sack with the orange cartridges. He turned to Alasdair, who had just come out of the living room. “What do you say, Ally, we forget about the duck shoot and just throw some goat bladder into the bheel?”

  Alasdair laughed. “Aye, just think how brilliant that is. We make such a fuss about hunting and marksmanship when all you really want is a bird for dinner. We should learn from the natives, y’ken. They outsmart us in more ways than one.”

  “The Assamese have an ingenious way of panning for gold, as well,” said Manik. “Ever notice how much gold they wear? Even the poor farmers? All the villagers do is float sheep wool in running streams to trap the gold flakes. They leave it there for days. Once during shikar I came across the wool in a stream. I thought some animal had died or something, then the tracker showed me how the wool was anchored through a stick in the mud and explained the whole gold-panning method.”

  “How do they get the gold out of the wool?” I asked.

  “Oh, they just burn the wool and collect a neat little nugget. It’s that simple.” Manik thumped the bag of cartridges on the coffee table. “So, Ally, old chap, all you really need in life is a few goats and sheep. No need to budge from your hut. Sit inside and drink your rice wine. Everything in life will come to you.”

  “Aye, that sounds wonderful,” said Alasdair. “My heart yearns for the lahe-lahe life.”

  Jamina whispered furtively in my ear. “When I go to Scotland, Ali’s mother give me not even one thin gold bangle. Just imagine, didi, and I am new bride.” She rolled her eyes theatrically. “Indian people not so stingy like Scottish people. Everybody know Scottish people most stingy people in the world. Wait till our husbands go then I tell you whole story of what happen in Carrots Castle.”

  She put her finger on her lips and gave me a loaded look, as if it was all a big secret she could only share with me in private. Just imagining Jamina in the prim-and-proper “Carrots Castle” was enough to make me smile.

  “Carrots” Castle was the Carruthers’ ancestral home—a gigantic turreted structure, with dusty rooms and cold drafty staircases. Jamina’s in-laws lived in one solitary wing. The rest of the castle was occupied by Sir Malcolm Edward Carruthers, the notorious family ghost.

  Jamina’s mother-in-law, Alasdair’s formidable mother, was in her eighties, with papery hands and the complexion of a dead fish. Strangest of all, Jamina never saw the woman blink even once.

  On her arrival, Jamina had mistaken the butler for an old uncle and bent down to
touch his feet to receive her blessing as a new Indian bride. The man jumped as though Jamina was going to bite his toe. “No more feet touching,” Alasdair had told her after that. Just shake hands or kiss. The kissing business confounded Jamina. She did not know which cheek to offer first, and there was always the danger of noses banging or the kiss landing in the wrong place. Also, was one supposed to actually kiss or only make the kissing noise while pressing cheekbone to cheekbone?

  As for the food, it was completely ghastly. The meat was pink and uncooked, the potatoes boiled with no spices. They had curry and rice in her honor. The curry was a sickly yellow stew. Completely inedible.

  “So what did you eat?” I asked, hiding my smile. Jamina was still her plump little self, from what I could tell.

  “Only cake,” said Jamina, “and pudding. And toosth with jam. Strawberry jam is very fine but mamalaid little bitter because lazy cook leave orange peel inside.”

  Most days Alasdair would go off hunting with the lads, leaving Jamina stuck with the mother-in-law in the musty parlor. Conversation was minimal, since Jamina did not speak English. Out of boredom she had counted the stone slabs in the fireplace a hundred times and knew every crack by heart.

  There was a banquet held in her honor with about fifty guests, all very fine and rich people. The mother-in-law wanted Jamina to wear a long dress with some kind of hard basket contraption inside. The maid had pulled the laces tight and Jamina’s breasts had almost fallen out. It also made going to the bathroom impossible. Jamina’s bladder had nearly burst.

  Then with much fanfare she was presented with a blue velvet box. Inside was a glass pendant, which the mother-in-law clasped around Jamina’s neck. Then everybody clapped and made a bread, Jamina said.

  “Made a bread?” I wondered what she was talking about.

  “You know when the English people raise their glass and say ‘to your good health’ they are making a bread to you.”

  “Oh! A toast,” I said.

  “Bread. Toosth. I bring glass pendant to give your baby to play. But only give baby when big, otherwise he swallow and choke.”

  Jamina undid the end of her sari and handed me the necklace. It was a glittering heirloom diamond the size of an almond. I was utterly speechless.

  “Do you know what this is, Jamina?” I gasped, carefully holding up the chain. The diamond swayed, catching dazzling arrays of light. “This is a very, very expensive diamond. I don’t even know what it’s worth, but it’s more than what you and I can imagine.”

  Jamina snorted. She thought I was pulling her leg.

  “Listen to me, Jamina. Don’t carry this around tied to your sari, understand? Where is the box it came in?”

  “The box is very fine. I am keeping the hedgehog needle inside.”

  “Put this necklace back in the box and keep it safe. Don’t tell anybody about this. Someday you will be lucky you have this.”

  “If only they giving me few gold bangles, didi. Even one or two.”

  “This is worth a lot of gold, Jamina. A whole boatload of bangles.”

  Jamina gave me a tired, disbelieving look and rolled her eyes.

  “Didn’t Alasdair tell you anything? He should know better.”

  “Ali does not care,” Jamina snorted. “If it does not shoot, he is not interested.”

  CHAPTER 31

  One mild November day, the prophecy came true: Rupali, the lumbering, sweet-natured Aynakhal elephant, in an act of goaded frenzy, killed her mahut—the same mahut who had lovingly hand-reared her from the time she was a month-old calf. For forty-one years, Rupali had lived outside his hut. The mahut’s babies crawled in the dust under her belly and played with her trunk; as toddlers they leaned against her enormous tree-trunk legs to take their first faltering steps into the world. Rupali was a part of the mahut’s family, and the mindless ferocity with which she murdered him came as such a shock to us all.

  As the story goes, the three mahuts were bathing the elephants at the Aynakhal Lake. The gigantic beasts lolled in the shallows like miniature islands while the men traipsed up and down their backs, giving them a good rubdown with coconut husks, which they enjoyed greatly. Suddenly, without any warning, Rupali heaved herself to her feet, sending her mahut sliding into the water. The other two mahuts watched in horror as she grabbed the man by one leg and dragged him over the river rocks and into the jungle. There she killed him with one deadly blow against a tree trunk, with such brute force it was rumored his brains had to be scraped off the tree bark. Rupali then proceeded to trample the mahut’s body before crashing off into the forest, trumpeting with demented fury.

  Manik had gone to the lake where the incident happened. The sight of the mahut’s mutilated body was so ghastly he was sick to his stomach. He had been unable to eat lunch that day.

  It made me sick to even hear about it. “Surely, there must be a reason why it happened,” I insisted.

  Still shattered, Manik only shook his head dumbly.

  I later wondered if it was something to do with the way young elephants are domesticated in captivity. The animals are captured and chained by their feet during their taming period and forced into servitude by being deprived of food and water. When they are broken and become submissive the heavy metal chain is removed from their feet and replaced by a rope. The elephant can easily break free of the rope, but by then they are psychologically conditioned to believe they are powerless. Rupali had reclaimed her power and freedom. She fled into the forest, never to be seen again.

  This was not the first time an elephant had gone on a rampage and killed its mahut. Often there was no explanation as to why a domesticated elephant turned rogue. Some conjectured the mahut may have abused Rupali in fits of drunken rage, but this was soon dismissed. The only illogical conclusion one could come to was Rupali was a marked animal with a bifurcated tail and violence was inherent in her nature.

  * * *

  News traveled quickly in tea circles. Holly Watson’s notoriety preceded him like the stink from a rotting carcass. It was rumored he was a corrupt manager who left every tea garden bankrupt or embroiled in labor problems, that he took bribes from equipment suppliers and sold timber and bricks from the garden for personal profit. Jardine & Henley could not sack him because he had connections in the higher ranks. When things got tight they simply transferred him. And now the bad news was Holly Watson would be taking over from Ian McIntyre as Manager of Aynakhal Tea Estate.

  “I heard about that bastard,” said Larry. “I am not going to survive a single day working under him.” They were at the Mariani Club. Manik had been playing tennis with Rob Ashton, Larry and Peewee. Debbie and I sat on the shaded club veranda, drinking fresh lime soda while little Emma ran around picking dandelions, which she piled on my stomach, “for the baby.”

  “Is this the same Watson who beat a coolie and started a labor riot?” Rob Ashton wiped his face with a white towel. Emma was pushing dandelions into her daddy’s socks.

  “That’s right,” said Larry, scribbling his order on a club chit. “Gin and tonic. Finger chips,” he said to the bearer, handing the pad back. “That incident happened in Baghpara Tea Estate when Watson was Manager. The coolie went into a coma and died. He was kicked to death, I believe.”

  “Have you had something to eat, darling?” Manik asked me.

  “I’m fine,” I said, still trying to digest the disturbing news about Manik’s future boss. Manik did not appear to be bothered, for some reason. I turned to Larry. “Do you know anyone who’s actually worked under Holly Watson?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” said Larry. “Do you fellows remember that tall drummer fellow who played with the band on New Year’s Eve? Lovely chap. I forget his name.”

  “Are you talking about Mike Leonard?” said Rob. “Folks call him Lonnie.”

  “That’s right. That
’s the chap. Lonnie,” said Larry. “Lonnie was assistant at Baghpara during that riot. He said Watson’s a mean bastard. His wife’s a raving alcoholic—a closet gin drinker.”

  “Aren’t you worried, Manik?” I said. “Watson is going to be your new boss.”

  Manik shrugged, sprinkling salt and pepper over his finger chips. “I don’t know, darling. I haven’t met Watson and I wouldn’t jump to conclusions. Sometimes rumors are just that. Rumors.”

  Larry shot him an exasperated glance. “Oh for God’s sake, get a grip, Manny. This guy is notorious. Ask anyone in Dooars. I’m not hanging around to find out, that’s for sure. I’ve applied for a transfer.”

  “You are leaving Aynakhal?” I asked incredulously.

  “I’ve put in my application. Whether I get the transfer is a different matter,” said Larry. “But I know for sure I don’t want to work under Watson. I have heard enough bad things.” He turned to Debbie and looked mournful. “Besides, my girlfriend Debbie is following her worthless husband to Papua New Guinea. How can I live without her?”

  That made me even more depressed. Debbie had told me they were thinking of moving to Papua New Guinea. A new tea industry was opening up there and British companies were looking for experienced planters to run the plantations. Many Assam planters had opted to move there. The pay was great; so were the perks.

  “When are you leaving for Papua New Guinea?” I asked Debbie.

  “We don’t know yet, but Robby’s papers should arrive second or third week of January. It’s such a shame to be moving in January. It’s party season in Assam and raining cats and dogs in Papua New Guinea.”

  “I wish you didn’t have to go,” I said. The very thought of the Ashtons leaving filled me with sadness.

  “Oh, we don’t want to go, either,” Debbie said, giving my arm a little squeeze. “I will really miss you, Layla. But we have to think of Emma’s education. The company will pay for her boarding school in England. And Emmi will learn to speak with a la-di-da accent and marry a Greek millionaire, won’t you, my darling?” She winked at Emma. “Then she can take care of her mummy and daddy in their old age.”