The Tea Gardens

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘They are so much stronger than they look,’ she assured and then nodded.

  I followed her line of sight and saw a boy – he couldn’t have been older than twelve – moving in the near distance carrying what looked like a bundle of rags on his back. The size of the bundle was, to my mind, not that much smaller than a heifer and while he staggered beneath it, he kept moving. I knew I was staring, perplexed, watching him progress down the platform as Lily turned to her colleague and exchanged some fast instructions, in their native tongue, I presumed.

  ‘I’m only in India for months. There seemed little point in bringing much at all,’ I finally said, looking at my two modest trunks.

  ‘Come,’ Lily said, in a proprietorial way. ‘Let us get you out of here.’

  I allowed myself to be led, not even caring to check over my shoulder at my belongings. ‘I noted you admiring Dip’s sari?’ Lily offered in conversation as we pushed through a tide of people moving against us. ‘This is called a Baluchari sari – and Dip’s family is originally from the region of Baluchar. The raw silk from the cocoon is boiled before being dyed and a curious method of stretching the yarn is used to make it crisp. Then begins the process of making the motifs for the edges.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  She smiled. ‘It’s a long process and these saris were considered worthy only of the aristocracy – they tend to depict scenes from the lives of the Nawab. This one she wears – in your honour to welcome you – is called swarnachuri. They are the most gorgeous because they’re woven with gold and silver thread to illuminate the pattern.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s just one form of sari, though.’

  I sighed dramatically. ‘Lily, this is terrifying. I’ve barely set foot on Calcutta soil and I’m already daunted by how much there is to learn. What language were you speaking just now?’

  ‘Simple Bengali,’ she replied, cutting me a grin of sympathy. ‘You’ll pick up what you need fast – instructions for nurses, bearers, all the helpers. I had to.’

  I swerved around a line of people balancing outrageously large bundles tied into blankets and balanced atop heads.

  ‘What are they carrying?’ I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘Their possessions. They’re travelling. You carry luggage, so do they, except they don’t have porters or people to help them . . . or leather trunks.’

  I don’t think she meant it to offend by accusing me of being privileged; I genuinely think Lily was trying to help me understand the world I’d entered. ‘It’s clever really. By carrying everything overhead they don’t cramp the space around them.’

  ‘It’s not just clever, it’s a feat of athleticism,’ I said. ‘But it’s like all their chattels – look . . . pots and pans are swinging off that one.’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s how the people move around.’ But I could see from her expression that she enjoyed the compliment. ‘I used to carry fruit and vegetables from the market on my head for my mother when I was growing up.’

  ‘What a skill! Where are you from, Lily?’

  ‘My mother’s originally from a village on the outskirts of Bangalore but she married my father, who was English. He worked on the railways and died when I was a teenager but he was determined I study and encouraged me to go into nursing.’

  ‘Was it hard to leave her?’

  ‘It was hard to leave all my family – my mother, sisters and aunts, all my cousins – but I’ve always wanted to nurse and there is more opportunity up here in the capital.’

  ‘So you’re Anglo-Indian? Is that the right term?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You sound so English.’ I felt instantly idiotic for the remark and wanted to drag back the condescending words.

  Dear Lily seemed to take no offence, though. In fact her pleasure shone in her expression. ‘Thank you. I was very well educated, Dr Fenwick. I studied at Bishop Cottons All Girls’ School in Bangalore.’ I knew I was meant to be impressed and so I gave back a look of soft awe and understanding. ‘And I’ve been nursing now for four years but I want to specialise in midwifery. I can’t wait to learn all the latest techniques and care coming out of England through you. I hope I’ll visit one day.’

  ‘We’re setting up a program for nurses from India’s north to study in London – Anglo-Indian women from the south are already travelling to Britain to learn. You should apply.’

  She looked at me with fresh delight. ‘Oh, I would definitely put up my hand for that, Dr Fenwick,’ she said, sounding excited as we emerged from the shadows of the station. I blinked against the startling sunshine. The space in front of the building was more peaceful than I’d anticipated but beyond the concourse of Howrah Station I saw more people moving than I could ever imagine in one place. London was no comparison to the road outside this major Calcutta intersection. It was, indeed, the jungle that Elmay had griped about – an entirely different sort of bewildering landscape to London and momentarily overwhelming. Just for a second, I felt unsteady.

  ‘Dr Fenwick? Are you well?’ Lily’s hand clutched gently at my elbow.

  ‘Yes . . . yes, of course. I was just drinking it all in,’ I said, hoping to divert her, but my voice was breathy and gave away that I might have just swooned slightly. I couldn’t believe how weak I was allowing myself to appear but Lily had me in hand. ‘Who is this gentleman?’ I asked, to deflect attention, and gestured towards a the frantic activity surging around him.

  ‘This is one of a dozen chai wallahs at the station.’

  I tried to repeat the word, frowning.

  ‘Wallah.’ Lily laughed as she said it again. ‘It means seller.’

  ‘And chai is tea,’ I said, nodding with understanding. ‘I learned that word on the journey here.’

  ‘Bravo. Chai wallahs have a special pride of place at all stations, and throughout India, to be honest. None of us can get through a day without our tea. If you take one of the regional trains, the chai wallahs serve drinks through the window yelling Chaa-ye . . . chaa-ye.’

  I grinned. ‘And so it tastes like the tea I drink at home?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, but please be assured that anyone who waits on you here knows how to make a good English brew. At home I only drink English-style tea – I was raised on it. However, the chai is delicious – it’s spiced milk tea and very sweet, as the Indians prefer. Recipes vary, of course, from place to place, but it comes from an ancient Ayurvedic beverage of the royals.’

  ‘What was that word?’

  Lily laughed. ‘Ayurveda is a form of healing . . . a way of life too because it consists of many disciplines relating to diet, herbal medicines, physical exercises, various therapies, and spiced tea was one of them.’

  ‘Gracious! What’s in this tea?’

  She shrugged as we walked. ‘Oh, good black tea from Darjeeling helps, plus additions like clove, cardamom, ginger, cinnamon, of course . . . And a large lump of sugar,’ she added archly, gesturing with her forefinger and thumb to exaggerate the size of the sugar lump. ‘I know some chai wallahs add peppercorns for extra heat. I suspect that is a special Himalayan recipe as they are always fighting the cold.’

  I nodded thoughtfully. ‘I can imagine that would definitely be warming to the belly. I’m intrigued to try it sometime.’

  ‘Not yet and not here. You must be overtired from the journeying. You need rest, food, sleep,’ she said, in the tone of a woman used to being listened to by people in care. I enjoyed her slightly singsong way of speaking; there was no mistaking her part-Indian heritage but her diction was precise, echoing her sound education. It was impossible not to fall under Lily’s spell, which was a mix of charm, respect and constant delight. She was capable of giving instructions to porters with a beaming smile, sending away the inevitable beggars who shuffled in our direction with a few tiny coins and some soft words so that they never fully confronted me, and signalling our driver all at once, it seemed. ‘Ah, here’s Banshi,’ she said. ‘The medical directo
r suggested we pick you up in the hospital car we use for dignitaries.’

  I sensed either my father or, more likely, Jove was behind the use of the car but said nothing. I smiled and thanked her while we got in. She spoke on, gently calling my attention to sights as we rolled by slowly, parting hundreds of people milling around the station concourse, inching around bullocks that lay in the road, ignoring the constant ringing of bicycle bells and the odd horns of ancient buses rumbling alongside.

  The assault of new smells captured my attention. I’d always possessed an ability to tease out flavours, whether I was sniffing at them or physically tasting, and right now I needed to make sense of my surrounds because everything smelled so foreign. I could latch on to a gritty taste of dust in my throat as well as a generally more earthy flavour all around me, and then it changed, becoming a more unpleasant savoury reek. There was no point in trying to hold my breath or avoid breathing through my nose. This was to be home for the next six to seven months; I had to force myself to confront the reality of my decision and get on with it . . . Breathe it, taste it, live it.

  I could smell men, their sweat pungent, and animal droppings clashing against the bright notes of fruit – orange particularly – and something I didn’t recognise on the stalls that had a fresh, applelike quality in look and texture. I watched men expertly slice through these mottled green fruits but not before dipping their fearsome knives into a red dust.

  ‘They’re guavas with salted chilli,’ my companion explained, noticing my frown. ‘You must try this fruit in this way but only when I’m around to make sure it’s not too fierce for you . . . and the knife is clean.’ She laughed.

  I’d never heard of a guava. I didn’t even know to spell it but I remained confounded that anyone would want their fruit dusted with a hot spice to burn the tongue, but this was instantly forgotten at seeing a man driving a cart that was being pulled by a zebra! Back home we paid to admire beautiful zebras at London Zoo. Here it was being used like any other mule. I must have made a sound of exclamation, pointing as I did so.

  ‘That is unusual, I’ll grant you,’ Lily admitted, ‘but anything goes in Calcutta. You need to be prepared for dozens of strange sights.’

  Smell gave way to the impact of sound and I became increasingly aware of the constant noise that we were nearly yelling over. Dark hands were regularly thrust into the windows of the car as it paused for bullocks or people or both. These hands belonged to children standing roadside in wait for cars like ours and, like a tiny horde of highwaymen, they’d rush into the fray of traffic, dodging bicycles and animals to offer us all manner of trinkets or foods. On each occasion Lily would calmly send them on their way as I found myself lost for the right words or tone. I felt churlish shooing at beggars and yet I wanted nothing of what anyone was selling.

  ‘You can’t be well mannered,’ Lily said, reading my concern. ‘But no need for rudeness, I say. Too many newcomers —’ I heard instead her masking the word ‘British’ ‘— are unnecessarily unkind, I feel. But in this situation if any of these waifs so much as spots a coin, you’ll be mobbed. So I say no to all and make donations instead to places where I know people can be fed or helped.’ She smiled kindly. ‘Sometimes, if there aren’t too many of them, I’ll give children a few annas as I did back at the station but you have to be careful, Dr Fenwick, or you’ll attract a crowd very quickly.’

  It sounded like sage advice.

  ‘This is the Howrah pontoon bridge we’re about to cross,’ she continued. ‘There is constant talk of a new bridge – a beautiful architectural cantilever structure has been spoken about since the turn of the century and we’re assured construction will begin in a year or two. The traffic on here is always congested and they have to unfasten it to let the bigger ships through. It’s quite lovely here at night actually,’ she admitted softly. ‘You see all these lights we’re passing?’ I nodded at the lampposts she pointed towards. ‘They’re lit in the evening and people come out to walk across the Hooghly River.’

  ‘Is this part of the famous Ganges?’ It was out before I could consider it. ‘I’m sorry, I’m a good doctor but I’m rubbish at geography,’ I admitted.

  ‘Don’t apologise. It’s confusing, I know. The Hooghly is a distributory of the Ganges but this water has made a very long journey before it reaches us here to stretch more than two hundred miles along the Bay of Bengal alone.’

  I gave a sighing sound of awe to make her grin.

  She toggled her hand in the air, a gesture I’d seen given by some Indians in London. ‘I won’t even try and explain all the other statistics that we learned in school but I think only the great rivers of South America and Africa have more water flow . . . but of course, the Ganges is the lifeline for so much of northern India and its people. It is the holiest of waters for Hindus.’

  ‘What is your religion, Lily?’ At her sideways smile, I baulked. ‘Forgive me – is that rude?’

  ‘No, not at all. I suspect we follow the same spiritual path, Dr Fenwick. I was raised in the Church of England. My mother’s people converted from Hinduism when she was an infant, so she was raised in the Anglican faith. After she married my father, we children knew no other, although both our parents taught us to respect Hindu spiritualism and culture.’

  ‘How marvellous,’ I breathed but was interrupted by Lily pointing.

  ‘And there you see the embodiment of the river’s holiness to Hindus. People bathe in its waters in homage and Hindus believe it can cleanse you of sin. Watch them. They’ll cup their hands to lift the sacred water; do you see that group of women doing just that?’ I nodded. ‘And watch how they let it fall back into the river. Ah, and there you see!’ She pointed, redirecting my attention. ‘Someone is scattering flower petals on the surface and sometimes you’ll see them floating tiny oil pots with wicks that are lit at night.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Any number of reasons. Perhaps they’re giving thanks for something good that has occurred in their life, such as the birth of a much-desired child, or possibly they are atoning, or most likely they are revering their dead by remembering them with offerings of rice or seeds.’

  ‘One of the Indian women who was training with me in London told me about Varanasi being the most holy of places. I thought it was called Benares but as she came from near there, I deferred to her. It sounds fascinating.’

  Lily nodded, waving away a persistent hand offering a fistful of petals not far from her face by a person selling garlands. The cooling scent from the bright flowers was welcome in the stale air of the car and the heat I was feeling increasingly wearied by.

  ‘I haven’t travelled the world,’ Lily continued, ‘but I doubt there is anywhere like Varanasi. It’s the spiritual centre of our continent. The great cremation ground is a difficult place – not the easiest of sights to witness. In my teenage years I accompanied a friend from school in a pilgrimage with her family to Varanasi. They were cremating a treasured uncle of hers. Perhaps it’s not so hard for a doctor such as yourself, or even a nurse as I am, but most visitors – especially the British and Europeans – would struggle to look upon the dead and not feel confronted.’

  ‘But they’re being treated with such respect, as I understand it.’

  Lily lifted a shoulder. ‘It’s the sheer numbers, Dr Fenwick. That’s what is so overwhelming.’

  I made a mental note to write to Jove about this place as it sounded like just the sort of adventure he might chase after. ‘Gosh, I don’t believe I’ve ever felt this hot before,’ I remarked, sitting forward, as I realised my flesh was sticking not only to my clothes but to the leather of the seats.

  ‘And this is only February. By early March you’ll think this was positively cool.’

  I cut her an appropriate look of dismay. ‘Then I had better make the best of February.’

  ‘These are the Calcutta flower markets.’ She pointed as we finally crossed the river and rumbled off the pontoon bridge. ‘Welcome to the city of Calcutta, Dr
Fenwick,’ she said with triumph.

  But to my sensibilities it was more of the same. In truth it was a crush of maybe three times more people jostling against wheeled vehicles, four-legged creatures among a new press of crowded streets and buildings that overhung narrow lanes.

  ‘We’re going into the older part. The European section, just entering Chowringhee. It’s quieter there.’

  I couldn’t imagine it, but I also couldn’t wait for some peace.

  7

  It was true I was weary. Whether it was a combination of being overtired and overwhelmed, I wasn’t certain, but I was confident I wouldn’t sleep and I was even more sure that I didn’t want to be alone immediately. So I’d accepted the invitation passed through Lily to join some of the English staff of the hospital for drinks.

  ‘You’ll be there, won’t you?’ I asked her.

  She gazed back at me and I thought I noted embarrassment. ‘No, Dr Fenwick. I’ve . . . I’ve got some paperwork to ready for tomorrow and as I’ve missed much of today —’

  ‘Yes, of course. Well, thank you so much for meeting me. How could I have possibly got here without your help?’ I said, gesturing around the new apartment that would be home for the rest of this year.

  ‘This is a lovely place to live,’ she admitted. ‘You can hardly do better than “just off Chowringee”.’ She smiled. ‘And you can ride the tram to the hospital with ease on wide streets. Or take a taxi . . . they’re cheap.’

  We’d opened up the painted shutters to reveal tall double windows that overlooked a narrow road. It was a quiet street, tree-lined, with gracious buildings opposite and surrounding my building, which stretched around the corner into busier, cosmopolitan Chowringee. I felt fortunate that this was a large, airy apartment, flooded by light once the shutters were pulled back, and I could smell from the polish that everything had been recently dusted and cleaned through the large bedroom and three other little rooms.