by Shona Patel
“I know I will,” I said. “I’ve heard wonderful things about Estelle Lovelace.”
* * *
Mrs. Gilroy left and I, reluctant to abandon the comfort of the sofa, sat and waited while Manik finished his drink at the bar. The usual clique of ladies had gathered next to the empty card tables. Betsy Lamont was wearing a tight red dress that made her bottom stick out like a tom-tom. Laurie Wood, in stark contrast, was dressed like an English schoolgirl in a plaid skirt, black stockings and a turtleneck sweater. Then there was Fiona Clayton, a horsey-looking woman with enormous teeth, and finally Molly Dodd, the dreadful slouch. The four of them looked like mismatched cousins at a family reunion.
“D’you s’pose the Christmas party will be canceled this year?” asked Molly, lank-haired and doleful. She had a terrible pigeon-toed way of standing.
“Who cares,” said Betty. “I’m off to Manchester. Assam gives me the shudders. Danny sacked the chowkidar because he thinks he’s conspiring against us. Danny is getting more and more paranoid these days. Now he’s up all night thinking somebody is going to attack the bungalow, and he is miserable to be around in the daytime. I’ve just had it with this place.”
The others averted their eyes. Everybody knew—courtesy of the Jungle Telegraph—why Betty Lamont had “had it” with Assam. The Hullock apes must have reported her, because Danny Lamont came home one day and found his wife making hot chutney with Charlie the pilot.
“I don’t think I could leave my husband and just go off with a clear conscience,” said Molly virtuously. “After all, he needs me the most right now. It would not be the right thing to do.” She looked to the others for reaffirmation.
“Well, stay here, then,” Betsy snapped back heartlessly, “and good luck. India has obviously rubbed off on you. No doubt you will go down as the most devout wife in history. Next you’ll be covering your head and walking ten paces behind your husband. I have no such aspirations, thank you.”
“Well, I never!” cried Molly with an indignant squeak. “That was jolly unfair, Betsy. I just don’t think it’s—”
“Oh, stop your damn bickering, you two,” Laurie interjected, tossing her ponytail impatiently. “As far as I know, the Christmas party is still on, but I don’t think there will be many people attending it. Gemma and I are going back home. Johnny is making me nervous. He tells me to keep an eye on Gemma even if she is playing in the garden. I am so used to just leaving her with the ayah. It is quite nerve-racking, really.”
“Is Johnny still applying for a transfer to Dooars?” asked Fiona. Her eyes kept flitting to the bar, where her husband, Greg, was steadily knocking back his burra pegs. He was a notorious drunk, famous for falling off the three-legged barstools.
“No, we decided against it. We hear the trouble in Dooars is worse than Assam. We may move to Papua New Guinea or Kenya eventually. Gemma will enjoy the animals in Kenya, but she will soon be five and schooling is a problem.”
“That Alasdair Carruthers transferred to Dooars, didn’t he? And married his ugly chokri, did you hear?” Betsy said.
“And got kicked out by the company for it. Serves him right. He’s with some third-rate Indian tea garden now,” said Laurie. “Well, what did he expect? Why did he have to go and marry the chokri, for God’s sake. It makes no sense.”
“Maybe he got her preggers,” said Fiona.
Laurie snorted. “Oh c’mon, like that’s something new. Chokris get knocked up all the time. Nobody marries them. The half-breed runts are just packed off to Doctor Graham’s orphanage in Kalingpong. At least the little bastards get a decent education.”
“Maybe Alasdair Carruthers wants a legal heir,” said Molly, who seemed to have recovered from Betsy’s jab.
“Oh, I could have given him that, easy,” said Betsy. “I’d gladly give him an heir for a few heirloom diamonds. No problem.”
Fiona gave a neighing laugh.
“He’s a bit of an oddball, but a rather nice-looking chap, really,” said Laurie. “He seems to be only interested in his chokri, though. I don’t know what he sees in that ugly midget. She must be a witch.”
I was so enraged, hearing their spiteful talk, I wanted to heave myself out of the sofa, barge in with my big stomach and tell them a thing or two. But Manik was gesturing me over from the bar, indicating we should leave. As I got to my feet, I thought sadly about Jamina and wondered what the ladies would say if they heard about her heirloom diamond, how meaningless it was to her and how gladly she would have given it for a baby. Jamina didn’t care if the child was a legal heir or not. All she wanted was something soft to love and to hold.
* * *
The Christmas party was a nostalgic affair. For many planters it would be their last Christmas in Mariani, and for some, their last in India. The Ashtons, McIntyres and Larry Baker were all leaving. Despite the constraints, Mariani old-timers were determined to make it a Christmas to remember.
Father Christmas was late for the children’s party. He finally made his appearance wafting whiskey fumes with every “Ho, ho, ho,” and perched on top of a decrepit old elephant with a white star painted on its forehead. Emma Ashton stared at Father Christmas with angry blue eyes, punched him solidly on the arm and said loudly, “Uncle Jimmy, what have you done with Father Christmas?”
Father Christmas “Ho, ho, ho”ed in denial.
“Then take off your hand socks and show me your fingers at once,” Emma demanded sternly, pointing at his white-gloved hand where one finger hung empty. Father Christmas insisted a reindeer had bitten off his finger, but Emma remained unconvinced.
A big sausage-shaped piñata—a Mariani Club Christmas tradition—was filled with puffed rice, hard candy, copper naya paisas—new coins—and tiny toys. Father Christmas took a number of badly aimed swipes before the piñata broke open and the goodies rained down. Young folk engaged in the traditional puffed rice fights, shrieking and stuffing handfuls down each other’s clothes. They skidded and slid all over the floor pretending it was snow.
By late evening the tots were packed off with their ayahs and the real party began. No club party was ever complete without live music. The Mudguards, a rookie band made of young assistants with their homemade electric guitars and noisy drums, arrived just in the nick of time. Their microphones screeched terribly, but they belted out a hard beat and made the dance floor thunder. There had been doubts whether the Mudguards would make it this year, but Jimmy O’Connor drove the several hundred miles to Dooars, piled them up in his open jeep and brought them to Mariani. Little wonder Father Christmas was late for the children’s party.
A group of merry RAF fellows showed up, Flint’s cousin, Eddie, among them. The war now over for real, they had survived Burma and were finally heading home. Charlie the pilot swaggered in with three gorgeous air hostesses on his arm— Shireen, Maureen and Candy. There was something close to a stampede among young stags to bag dances and soon a brawl broke out amongst them. Somebody got hit on the head with the microphone. Lonnie the drummer cowered behind his drum set while the two guitarists dived under the Ping-Pong table. It all ended amicably with free rounds for all. To everybody’s surprise, Candy, the dark-eyed, pretty air hostess, got moon-eyed over, of all people, Peewee Williams. Peewee Williams—that baby face! I took a closer look at him. To my surprise, I realized in just six months Peewee had transformed dramatically into a tanned and strikingly handsome young man with windswept hair and all the debonair airs of a French Riviera lover boy.
After midnight the Mudguards packed up and the music was turned over to the club’s gramophone. The lights dimmed and Perry Como’s “Till the End of Time” swept over us in soft sentimental waves. Manik held me close, a little awkwardly, my big belly between us. A deep sadness like a desolate river fog was creeping over me. I will be gone in two days, I thought miserably, choking back a lump. Manik will be alone. The world felt preca
rious and close to a tipping point. I could see nothing beyond, but I got the feeling there was a deep, dark abyss, looming somewhere, waiting to swallow me whole.
* * *
Leaving Manik on that foggy December morning was by far the hardest, most painful thing I have ever done. I was traveling to Silchar with Raja’s mother and two other ladies in a private taxi. During our last days together, the thought of going away had consumed my every waking moment and tormented my dreams. The pain was almost physical. At night the tears came and would not stop.
“Don’t cry, my love.” Manik’s eyes were soft with sadness. “I’ll come as soon as I can get away. I’ll be with you when the baby is born. It won’t be too long now.”
On the morning of my departure, we waited silently on the cold veranda, me huddled in my shawl, my tea untouched. The taxi arrived and my suitcase was loaded. I covered my face to hide my tears. Manik held me wordlessly for a few moments. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, kissing the top of my head before I got into the car. I turned back to look at him one last time as he stood in the middle of that big circular driveway. He looked so utterly alone: a tall, thin man in a brown suede hunting jacket, hunched in the cold, his dog by his side. The trees behind him loomed pale and gray, and I watched through tear-blurred eyes as he disappeared from my view, swallowed by the morning fog.
We drove out of Aynakhal just as the fog was lifting and passed through Mariani, still shuttered with sleep. A black, sticky haze hung over the town, and there was the acrid smell of burning rubber in the air. The roadside tea stalls had not yet opened, and a few huddled beggars stirred at the railway crossing. The plywood factory appeared to be abandoned: piles of logs lay haphazardly in the yard and graffiti defaced the factory boundary walls. A few miles outside Mariani, the Assam-Bengal goods train looked as though it had been halted in its tracks. The hinged side door of a trolley car hung open and piles of coal lay strewn over the tracks. The rust-colored bogies had been scratched over with political slogans. As we drove through the main section of town, we saw that several shops had been gutted and burned. It was a relief to finally get out of Mariani into the peaceful Assam countryside. Here the world was unchanged. The mist trailed like a delicate chiffon scarf over the rice fields, and the frail winter sun was inching over the bamboo groves.
It was only in hindsight I realized how lucky we were to pass through Mariani unarmed that day. We got the news that violence had erupted only hours after we had driven through; the bloodshed and mayhem that followed carried on unabated for days. The local police had not been able to control the mobs, and several people were killed in the clashes. When I heard the news, all I could think of was there was only one road in and out of Aynakhal and it was through Mariani. Mariani was now a minefield and Manik was on the other side.
* * *
There was no news from Manik for the next ten days. Then James Lovelace sent a telegram from Calcutta to say that the situation in Aynakhal was still tense, but that Manik was safe. The only news of Aynakhal the head office received came through Charlie the pilot, who flew in and out of the Dega airstrip.
A few days later Bimal Babu, the head clerk of Aynakhal, arrived with a letter from Manik. He was a thin, earnest man with a receding hairline. The situation in Mariani was temporarily under control, he reported, but each day fresh hordes of political hoodlums arrived by train, and there were rumors of further clashes in the days to come. Manik had ordered the Aynakhal office staff to vacate the garden. Only Baruah, the Compounder Babu in charge of the hospital, had chosen to stay back to take care of the critically ill.
“I am sorry, madam,” Bimal Babu said, wiping his forehead with a white handkerchief. “I would not have left Aynakhal. But Sir insisted. Some of us have our missus and small children to think of, you see?”
“How bad is the situation in Aynakhal?” I asked. I found it difficult to breathe. I fingered Manik’s letter, dreading the contents, but I needed to get firsthand news from a reliable source. I knew Manik would paint a softer picture in his letter.
“The union has gheraoed the office,” said Bimal Babu. His eyes darted nervously. “They want to shut down the factory. The coolies are getting harassed if they report to work.”
“Have the coolies joined the union?”
“No, madam. The coolies have no such interest. These are just outside people who want to make trouble. They are calling themselves union leaders. Many are just the goondas from the Fertility Hill, madam. Troublemakers. They just want money. What can I say?”
“Is there any news when Mr. Watson will arrive?”
“No, madam. He is still on furlough. There is no definite word when he is joining Aynakhal.”
I was silent. I wondered if Holly Watson had heard of the trouble and was deliberately delaying his arrival.
“I think Sir is relieved that you are here in Silchar, madam. In your advanced condition, it was not safe to remain in Aynakhal. When is the little one due, may I ask?”
“In about three weeks. Do you think Mr. Deb will be able to come to attend the birth?”
“It difficult to say, madam. Sir may reach some settlement with the union soon. This gherao cannot go on forever. Also, Mr. Watson is expected any day. I don’t think Sir will leave Aynakhal unattended unless somebody takes charge. The goonda elements are looking for a chance to take control over the garden. I think the Jardines company people are trying to get the Mariani police involved. But the situation in Mariani is hopeless.”
“What is the latest in Mariani?” I asked.
“Oh, madam, I cannot even begin to tell you!” Bimal Babu was silent for a few moments. “It was with great risk we drove through Mariani. Several times we feared we were going to be attacked. All the shops were burning, madam. Near the plywood factory goondas threw kerosene on a man and burned him alive. I had to cover my children’s eyes, madam. There were dead bodies lying on the road.” He looked away. “In some respects, Mr. Deb is safer in Aynakhal than Mariani. At least the trouble in the garden is not Hindu-Muslim related. Union problems can be solved peacefully by negotiation.”
“But, Bimal Babu, you say the goondas from the Fertility Hill are the ones creating trouble. They have a religious agenda, do they not?”
“Yes, so they say,” said Bimal Babu, “but they are only troublemakers, madam. They are using the Fertility Hill as an excuse to enter Aynakhal. Sir carries his gun to the office and the dog is there at all times. Nobody dares to come near the dog.”
I thought gratefully of Marshal. Marshal would not let anybody get within ten feet of Manik; that much I knew. He would guard Manik with his life.
“I must take my leave, madam,” said Bimal Babu, getting to his feet. “I regret to bring you all this bad news, but I am hoping the trouble will be over soon, and then we can go back to our normal lives. I wish you a safe delivery, madam. May I come and visit you in the hospital? I expect you will be at the Welsh Mission?”
“Yes,” I said. “Thank you, Bimal Babu. I needed to get firsthand news of Mr. Deb. I feel better knowing what is going on than getting no news at all.”
CHAPTER 33
Aynakhal
2nd January 1947
Dearest wife,
I think of you and our baby all the time. I hope you are both doing well. I am thankful you left when you did because the situation in Aynakhal has deteriorated. The company has given me the choice to evacuate. This puts me in a dilemma because this is exactly what the union goondas are looking for. Our laborers are still on the side of management but they are powerless and cowed down. If we abandon them now they will feel betrayed and we will lose Aynakhal. But don’t worry, darling. It is now simply a matter of time before the union backs down. They have to because they are getting no support from our laborers. I just have to hold firm till this deadlock breaks.
This brings me to the sad news. I
may not be there for the birth of our child. This grieves me more than I can say. Even if the union relents, I cannot leave Aynakhal without someone in charge. It’s uncertain when Holly Watson will join us. He is still in England, as far as I know. I am relieved Mima will be with you soon, darling. Silchar is still very safe from what I hear. Maybe it is because of the presence of the military there.
I don’t think we discussed names for the baby, did we? If it is a girl, will you please consider naming her Jonaki? The name came to me one evening as I watched the fireflies. It has a pretty sound, don’t you think? This child is a spot of brightness in my darkest hour. She is my firefly. On the other hand, if it’s a boy, please choose a name, darling. But something tells me I will have a daughter.
I end with my love to you, dearest wife. Please be well for our sake.
M.
The Welsh Mission Hospital in Silchar was built for expatriates. It had a residential feel to it and looked more like a Governor’s mansion, with its finely manicured lawns and sweeping marble stairway. From the windows of my room on the second floor, I could see the tall front gates and past the curved driveway that opened out on a busy street. The gates were locked and manned by armed military guards. I caught fleeting glimpses of passing cars, people and rickshaws. Once in a while a procession of people marched by, shouting slogans and carrying flags and banners.
Maria, the Anglo-Indian nurse, breezed into my room. Her starched uniform looked as though it had been ironed onto her flat-chested body, and a white cap resembling a small paper boat sailed gaily in her black, wavy hair.
“Oh, you are wakie-wakie, love,” she said. “Your grandfather and auntie came to see you but you were sleeping. Auntie came straight from the railway station.”