Teatime for the Firefly

by Shona Patel

  “I am not going to Pappy Ginny. I am going to marry Uncle Jimmy and stay in Dega,” announced Emma.

  “Say, Emma, that’s not fair!” cried Peewee petulantly. “You said you’d marry me?”

  Emma looked a little guilty-eyed as she pulled apart a dandelion. She had indeed publicly announced her betrothal to Uncle Peewee.

  “Then I’ll marry both of you,” she said brightly.

  “That’s even better,” said Rob. “I can’t think of a more charming pair of sons-in-law.”

  Everybody laughed but me. I was beginning to get a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. All the familiar faces would be gone: Larry had applied for a transfer, the Ashtons and McIntyres were leaving. And then there was Holly Watson....

  “I’m going to the library to return my books,” I said to Manik, struggling out of my chair. I was getting big with the baby.

  I stepped gingerly across the main hall, where two men were polishing the wooden dance floor with rags and Mason’s polish. Molly Dodd waved to me from the doorway to the bar. She and another lady were putting up the decorations for the children’s Christmas party. A massive piñata was strung across the length of the dance floor and colorful crepe streamers hung from the ceiling fans.

  In the library I was surprised to find Raja shelving books. He gave me a big smile.

  “I didn’t expect to find you here,” I exclaimed.

  “I’m only here for a day, madam. I came to take my sisters back to Silchar,” Raja said. “When is the baby due, may I ask?”

  “In another seven weeks or so.”

  “You will return to Silchar, I suppose, for the delivery?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “I see,” said Raja. He thoughtfully stacked one book on top of the other. When he looked back at me, his eyes were serious. “You may want to consider leaving early, madam,” he said quietly. “My brother Dinesh has sent word there is going to be a big political rally in Mariani. He fears there will be violence and bloodshed. Which is why I came to take my sisters back to Silchar.”

  “When is this rally?” I asked, feeling slightly alarmed. “And what is it about?”

  “I believe it is next month. The Communist party is staging a demonstration to unite and unionize the labor in the tea gardens. They are planning a big uprising. Many activists are arriving by train from other parts of Assam. Mariani is going to be the hub.”

  “Is your mother leaving for Silchar, as well?” I asked.

  “Ma does not want to leave Baba here by himself. She will stay with him as long as she can.”

  “Is your brother Dinesh a member of the Communist party?”

  “Yes. He is one of the group leaders under Prasad Sen.”

  “Prasad Sen! Prasad Sen of Silchar?”

  “Yes, madam. He is the main Communist party leader in Assam.”

  Kona’s father!

  “Thank you, Raja, for telling me this,” I said, feeling bewildered at the news. “I will tell Manik and we will make a decision.”

  * * *

  Manik insisted I leave immediately for Silchar with Raja and his sisters.

  “We should not take a risk with the baby, Layla. Things can turn ugly very quickly in situations like this. I have to take over as Acting Manager after Mr. McIntyre leaves, and I won’t be able to leave Aynakhal until Holly Watson arrives. He is supposed to be here the first week of January. What if something happens in the meantime?”

  “There is no point in me going to Silchar six weeks early, Manik,” I said. “Raja said if he hears any further news he will pass it on to us through his uncle Bimal Babu at Aynakhal. If things get really bad, Raja’s mother is going to leave. I can leave with her.”

  “So Prasad Sen is behind it all!” Manik exclaimed. “This is the same Communist party that is creating all the problems at the Fertility Hill. I didn’t know he was the party leader. I really think he is out to take personal revenge on me.”

  “Or on Dadamoshai. He is not happy because Dadamoshai forced him to take Kona back.”

  “Well, he can’t do much to rile up Aynakhal labor for sure,” said Manik. “We have a very loyal labor force here. They got a big bonus this year, and they are not interested in getting unionized. Besides, they fully trust their managers to take care of them.”

  I was suddenly not so sure. I knew the quality of tea-garden management began at the top. The General Manager was the head—the mind and brains of a tea plantation; the assistants were his arms, and the Jemindars in charge of the chokri challans were the legs that moved the entire labor force. Good labor management was at the heart of all successful tea gardens. More than knowledge or expertise, it took integrity, sound judgment and excellent people skills to be a good Mai-Baap. The Mai-Baap had to be firm, fair and above reproach. Holly Watson had misused his power and kicked a coolie to death. I wondered if violence was inherent in his nature—like an elephant with a bifurcated tail?

  I believe from that day onward, everything began to change in Aynakhal.

  * * *

  Work in the tea plantation slowed during the cold season. There was no plucking, only pruning, fertilizing and maintenance work in the growing areas. The machinery in the factory was overhauled and new roads and labor lines built. Our bungalow was undergoing structural repairs.

  There were many changes in the weeks that followed. Manik was appointed Acting Manager and expected to “hold the fort” in the interim till Holly Watson arrived in the third week of December to replace Ian McIntyre. Larry Baker got his transfer and moved to another Jardines garden in Dooars, leaving Aynakhal to find a new Junior Assistant. Meanwhile, we moved temporarily into the McIntyre’s old burrabungalow.

  It felt strange living there. Audrey McIntyre’s well-ordered household and beautiful garden seemed to belong to somebody else: it was like stepping into another person’s perfectly tailored but ill-fitting clothes.

  I noticed a change in the borchee the very first day I arrived. He looked sullen and discontented and had an insolent air about him. No matter what menu I specified for the day, he cooked what he pleased, mostly bland and unimaginative food, hurriedly thrown together. One time we got mulligatawny soup three days in a row. When I questioned him, he gave me airs and acted as though it was beneath his dignity to take orders from an Indian memsahib. I also found out he hardly came into the kitchen anymore and the paniwalla was doing all the cooking. I finally had enough of him.

  I told him to take extended leave. “Report back for duty when the new memsahib arrives. I don’t need you in this bungalow any longer.” I made it clear he understood that he was taking leave without pay. The borchee was not one bit happy about it.

  The bearer was slipping up, as well. His uniform was dirty. The tea tray was left lying on the veranda long after it should have been cleared. When I rang the bell he took his own sweet time to answer it, and sometimes he did not come at all. I was heavily pregnant and often laid up in bed. One time he asked to take the day off, claiming he was sick. Later that day on my way to the Ashtons, I saw him at a political rally in an open field just outside Mariani. I gave him the “extended leave” ticket, as well. Halua and Kalua were temporarily assigned in the burrabungalow. It was much easier managing with the known devils. I did not want to bother Manik with my domestic issues. He had enough on his hands as it was.

  The Fertility Hill was causing serious problems. The devotees trespassed through Aynakhal using an illegal shortcut and created a nuisance. There were reports of petty theft, vandalism and opium trading. When Manik tried to block the shortcut, the Communist party landed up in Aynakhal and staged a protest outside his office. They were mostly hoodlums, and having entered the garden they tried to incite the Aynakhal labor. They declared India would soon be a free country, and there was no need to grovel and slave under foreign masters. Those servile d
ays were over. Workers now had rights and could set their own demands.

  The coolies were confused. They were a simple, tribal people; all they wanted was to be fed and taken care of by the Mai-Baap. Many were second-or third-generation tea pluckers: tea-plantation life was the only life they had ever known. They could not envision breaking free of the imaginary chain that bound them.

  * * *

  The evenings grew shorter, and night fell quickly after a brief and fleeting dusk. I missed our old Chung bungalow. I used to feel so much safer there somehow: it was like a fortress elevated off the ground, with only two entrances accessible by flights of stairs. You could see who was coming and going and observe animals at a close proximity from a safe place. In contrast, the Aynakhal burrabungalow was built on ground level and had several doors and tall French windows. At night the jungles seemed to creep inside. Most evenings I was alone in the big bungalow. Halua and Kalua left before it got too dark to get back to their own quarters in our old bungalow and Manik was often held up at the office dealing with various problems.

  One evening—it must have been around six-thirty or seven—I looked out of the living-room window and saw a civet cat wander casually into the veranda. It scratched its whiskers on the edge of the cane sofa, lifted its tail and sprayed the legs of the coffee table, and then just as quietly wandered out.

  I told Manik about it when he came home.

  His face tightened. “From tomorrow, Marshal will stay here with you,” he said.

  * * *

  I woke up to go to the bathroom and saw Manik’s side of the bed was empty. I found him smoking on the veranda, wearing his old hunting jacket over his pajamas, his gun resting on his lap. Marshal was crouched beside him, looking keenly alert.

  “What’s wrong, Manik?” I said.

  Manik looked startled. “Why are you up, darling? Please go back to sleep.”

  “Is it an animal? Why are you sitting here with your gun?”

  Manik was silent. The tip of his cigarette glowed as he drew deeply. “I thought I heard something,” he said softly.

  I did not say anything but I knew it was not an animal he suspected. Marshal had a sharp, excited bark to warn us of prowling animals but a distinct throaty growl when it was a human—the suspicious kind.

  I watched Manik’s profile in the dim light of the veranda. A muscle twitched in his jaw. Lately he had been remote and preoccupied. He did not discuss Aynakhal’s problems at home. Perhaps it was to keep me from getting worried, but this created an uncomfortable distance between us.

  “You must leave Aynakhal after the Christmas party,” he said finally. “Raja’s mother and Bimal Babu’s wife are going to Silchar on Monday. I want you to go with them. We got news today that the situation in Mariani is unstable. Riots have broken out around the railway station. Mariani has a big Muslim population, as you know, but now the Communist party is holding their rallies and touting Hinduism and this has the Muslims up in arms. Then to add to it all there is the Fertility Hill issue.”

  “I heard the Fertility Hill shrine is not even a Hindu shrine,” I said. “I don’t even know what it is. Jamina used to go there, and she is a Muslim.”

  “It’s a very ancient pagan shrine that’s been there for hundreds of years. The Communist party is claiming it as a sacred Hindu shrine. They are using this as an excuse to enter Aynakhal, only to stir up trouble.” Manik leaned forward to stub out his cigarette and rose to his feet. “Let’s go to bed, darling. Whatever was out here is gone.” He held out a hand to help me up. “Goodness! We are going to need a crane to haul you up soon.”

  We made our way back into the bedroom. Manik did not bother to take off his hunting jacket. He lay in bed with one arm flung over his eyes, his gun on the floor beside him. His breathing was short and sharp, the muscles in his body tense. Every now and then his eyes flickered open and I saw the whites move in the dark.

  Torn by nerves and concern, I just lay quietly beside him. How very different he was, I thought, from the Manik I once knew who slept blissfully spread-eagled on our bed and woke in the morning, his eyes clear and calm from sleep. The Manik who whispered in a teasing way and loosened my hair to feel it fall over his face. I hardly recognized this stranger with his flat, unseeing eyes, his fingers constantly twitching for cigarettes.

  In just another ten days, I would have to leave Aynakhal. I wished Holly Watson would hurry up and take over the garden. Manik was only the Acting Manager, and Aynakhal’s problems were ultimately the General Manager’s responsibility. I hated to leave Manik alone, but I had no choice. There was our unborn child to think of. As if on cue, the baby turned over and kicked in my stomach.

  CHAPTER 32

  The next day, Flint, the Kootalgoorie assistant, went missing. The company jeep he was driving was found abandoned on a deserted forest road close to Mariani. Three days passed and a wave of panic swept through the tea gardens. Just when people started fearing the worst, Flint showed up in Kootalgoorie riding a bullock cart and wearing women’s slippers. He described how hoodlums had ambushed his jeep on his way to Mariani and seized his gun. Luckily, it was an old blunderbuss, complicated to use, and Flint—being the street-smart fellow he was—always carried a small extra firearm in the glove compartment. He shot his way out, commando-style, hid in a bamboobari, crawled across rice paddies and landed up at Auntie’s, where the Sisters of Mercy took him in. He remained in hiding for two days, his head covered in a sari, before he could make it back to Kootalgoorie.

  Flint was hailed as a hero at the Mariani Club. The young assistants wolf-whistled, called him “sister,” threw a bar towel over his head and danced with him on their shoulders. Flint joked he had so much fun eating fish and rice and hanging out with the Sisters of Mercy that he seriously contemplated giving up his planter’s job to join Auntie’s establishment, in any capacity, he didn’t care what. The lahe-lahe life suited him just fine.

  But despite the jocularity, the grim reality of the situation was not lost on anyone. One thing became clear: the roads had become unsafe, and planters could no longer travel alone. Every trip had to be reconnoitered. Now the garden truck was sent ahead to check out the road situation, and sometimes coolies were posted along the way. But the disturbing news was that bungalow servants were often in cahoots with thugs, who bribed them with opium to pass the word when the sahib was headed out of the tea garden.

  The attendance that Monday Club night was spotty. Nobody played bridge or shot darts. Nobody got rip-roaring drunk. The men talked quietly around the bar to share the latest updates. There had been rumors of kidnappings and ransom demands in other parts of Assam. Now that the war was over, many planters were sending their wives and children back home to England. The risks were too high. Not even the ayahs and servants could be trusted any longer.

  “It’s our guns they are after,” Flint said. “Everybody knows planters own guns.”

  “Who are the ‘they’?” asked Peewee.

  “From what I gathered at Auntie’s, they are Communist hoodlums,” Flint replied. “Some are members of small guerrilla groups, others part of larger organizations. They are trying to collect arms in any way possible. Tea planters are easy targets because we travel alone on open jungle roads. Many of these hoodlums want to enter the gardens to incite labor to rise up against management. They call themselves union leaders but they’re just thugs.”

  “Just as well you have a high ranking with the sisters,” Larry laughed. “I must say your loyal patronage paid off this time.”

  “I have lots of insider tidbits to share, fellows. You won’t believe,” said Flint with a mischievous wink.

  “What?” said Peewee Williams, leaning forward eagerly. “Oh, Flinty, do tell!”

  Flint glanced slyly at Debbie and me. “Ladies, you may want to close your ears. This is strictly for the lads.”

  �
�Not a chance,” Debbie shot back. “I want to hear every bit. G’on, tell us, Sister Flinty. Pretend I’m a barstool or something.”

  “Larry, old chap, remember how you wondered about the ladies’ rosy derrieres? The sisters actually color them,” Flint said. “They sit in tubs of tinted water to make their bottoms pink. I am not joking, fellows. It’s a daily ritual with the sisters. They use some kind of red foot paste to color the water.”

  Alta, I thought to myself. How very curious I had never heard of this. The whole business sounded completely ridiculous. I did not say anything. The subject matter was too personal for my comfort.

  “And here I thought it was au naturel,” said Larry, feigning disappointment.

  “They must look like monkeys with their pink bottoms.” Debbie nudged me and giggled.

  “But I can tell you it’s very attractive,” said Flint. I got the feeling he was about to launch into seamy details. Mrs. Gilroy waved to me from across the room and I beat a hasty retreat.

  Mrs. Gilroy was sitting alone in the cushioned area. She patted the seat next to her and flashed a toothy smile.

  “Have a seat, dear. My, my, we are carrying quite a load, aren’t we! I am sure your feet could do with some rest. So, when is the little one expected?”

  “In another six weeks, Mrs. Gilroy,” I replied, thankful to be sitting down. The three-legged barstools were certainly not designed with pregnant ladies in mind.

  “I must say you are looking very well. Oh, I must tell you, I received a letter from Stella, a cousin of mine. She is a writer and lives in Cornwall. She said she knows your grandfather. He is also a writer, I believe. Now, isn’t that a small world?”

  “Stella? Estelle Lovelace?”

  “That’s right. Stella was the brilliant one in the family. She went on to study in Cambridge and I married Nathan and moved to India. But we have kept in touch. I invited her to visit us in Assam, although this may not be the best time with all the political problems going on. I think you would really enjoy meeting her, Layla.”