Teatime for the Firefly

“New regiments have been deployed from South India,” said Amrat Singh, the Police Chief. He was an imposing man with a fine turban and beard, who still looked dapper at that unearthly hour. “The convoys are traveling night and day. But it will still take another ten days to reach Guahati. Meanwhile, the Japanese are advancing fast. Three divisions are marching toward Assam—over 80,000 Japanese soldiers, I am told.”

“I hear they have already blocked off the road between Kohima and Dimapur—is that true?” asked Dadamoshai. The crease lines on his forehead had deepened. He suddenly looked very old.

“So I hear,” Amrat Singh said. “We get news of the Japanese movements from a guerrilla force patrolling the Naga Hills. They keep the generals updated on the enemy’s advance.”

“The Naga Hills! That is the most treacherous jungle,” exclaimed Dadamoshai. “I can’t imagine British soldiers surviving those grueling conditions.”

“They are being assisted by the Nagas,” said the Forest Officer. “The Nagas, as you can imagine, are the only people capable of navigating that mountainous terrain. Also being a strong and hardy people, they run up and down as stretcher bearers. The soldiers are cutting their way through using machetes and taking extra doses of Benzedrine to stay awake. Grueling, as you say.”

I sat in the dark trying to imagine the British soldiers holed up in the rainy jungles with the Naga headhunters. I hoped to God they had ample food. The Nagas were known to be cannibals. They were a ferocious tribe who wore bushy loincloths and embellished their shields and earrings with the hair and bones of slain enemies. But the Nagas were also known to be an intensely loyal and moral people and they hated the “Japani.”

“Hundreds of Nagas have also joined the regular British Army in Kohima. People are coming together from all walks of life to stop the Japanese invasion. Even the tea planters—many planters have left their gardens to join the regiments.”

“Tea planters!” I exclaimed, unable to contain myself.

All heads turned toward the dark corner where I was sitting.

“Who was that?” asked Amrat Singh, squinting in my direction.

“Oh, just Layla,” said my grandfather dryly, “listening quietly as usual. Of late, Layla has a growing interest in the tea industry. I found one of my books in her room.”

I squirmed. “It’s a very interesting...history,” I muttered vaguely.

“I agree,” said Amrat Singh. “It’s fascinating. Many Assam tea planters are ex-army men, you know, from the First World War. So it is only natural that they rejoin British forces in this hour of need. I dread to think what will happen if Assam falls to the Japanese.”

Was Manik going off to war? I wondered. It sounded risky enough living with leopards and elephants in Aynakhal; then to march off to fight the Japanese with a bunch of Naga headhunters and armed with a blunderbuss that misfired sounded like suicide. I wanted to ask more about the tea planters and their involvement in the Japanese invasion, but Dadamoshai had smelled a rat and I did not want to draw any more attention to myself. So I excused myself quietly and went to my room.

* * *

As it transpired, the British allied forces defeated the Japanese only miles before they reached Dimapur. It was a precarious win. The colonial power teetered dangerously, only to upright itself in the end. Crushed and depleted, the Japanese Army crawled back over the border through Burma, thousands of Japanese soldiers dropping like flies along the way.

The news of the British victory came on a glittering spring morning. It was a beautiful jackal wedding day. A visible sigh of relief went through our town. The farmers came out with their dhola drums and pepa flutes and Assamese youth danced with abandon in the rice fields. Storekeepers threw open their shutters, dusted shelves and played cinema songs on their radios. The fish market reopened and rickshaws honked bulb horns and plied the red dirt roads carrying fat ladies with their shopping baskets. The Gulmohor trees on Rai Bahadur Road showered down blossoms and even the koels sang sweetly among the branches.

* * *

Aynakhal T.E.

30th May, 1944 2:45 a.m.

Dear Layla,

I am up at an unearthly hour, as you can see. The dryer in the factory broke down and I have been up all night battling with the mechanics to get it working again. Production got backed up. The leaf plucked today (and we are talking about 200 kilos of our best leaf of the season) has to be processed within six hours to avoid spoilage, so there was major tension until we got it running again. I probably went through half a bottle of whiskey and two packs of cigarettes.

We are in the middle of the second flush plucking season, the premium crop yield of the year, and we cannot miss a single cycle. The bushes plucked today will be ready to be plucked again five days from now. The sections are rotated. Tea grows at a furious rate this time of the year and Larry and I are kept on our toes to make sure the plucking schedules tie in with the factory production. The factory runs round the clock this time of the year.

Mr. McIntyre, our boss, is a legendary tea planter. Army man, brutal disciplinarian. Tea is very much a hands-on job and a good General Manager can make all the difference. Much as I grumble I am lucky to be learning from the best. There is so much to learn about tea growing and tea processing—I am not sure if I will pick it all up in one lifetime.

It’s difficult to sleep now, knowing I have to be up in a few hours, so here I am sitting on my veranda writing to you. I just got the night chowkidar to make me a cup of tea. It is almost dawn.

I just reread your letter. I guess I forgot to explain who Jamina is. She is Alasdair’s “Old Party”—OP as they are called in tea circles. In other words, his concubine or “kept woman.” Jamina used to be a common prostitute, till Alasdair took her under his wing. They seem to be quite compatible. She is a simple Bangladeshi woman, very shy. Unfortunately the tea crowd ostracizes her.

Alasdair is another story. He is quite an enigma. You will hardly believe this, but he is of royal blood. Alasdair is the direct descendant of Scottish nobility and the Earl of Carruthers. He is the only living heir to the Carruthers land and title. And here he is a tea planter hiding away in the jungles of Assam with Jamina. I suspect he is running away. His obligations make him claustrophobic. I can empathize with that.

I should try and get an hour of sleep at least. Tomorrow is another hellish day. I can’t wait for club night, Monday. I am getting to be an excellent bridge player.

Yours,

Manik

Manik’s letters came fast and furious. He wrote at least once a week, sometimes twice. His letters always arrived in a square, blue envelope, addressed to me in his elegant hand. The y of my name dipped flamboyantly as if doing a curtsy.

I devoured his letters from end to end, and then reread them slowly in private. I loved the flowing lines of his blue fountain pen. I dwelled on the curve of each stroke, the way he stretched his T’s across the word, the impatient dots of his i’s that flew in tiny bird shapes ahead of the letter. He had the most exquisite penmanship I had ever seen. Whenever his letter arrived, my stomach fluttered with butterflies and my mind floated like a brilliant scarf over my everyday reality.

Often his letters would smell faintly of tobacco. Once he enclosed a serrated tea leaf and another time the waxy petals of a camellia flower, satiny brown and smooth as a baby’s skin.

I kept his letters hidden under my mattress, where they formed guilty bumps that disturbed my sleep. Chaya was my coconspirator. She intercepted Manik’s letters before the mail got to Dadamoshai’s desk and put them under my pillow. She never asked any questions.

I was not sure what Dadamoshai would have to say about our alliance. Manik was still formally engaged to another woman. There were dos and don’ts in our society. I was secretly writing to another woman’s fiancé, and no matter how platonic our letters, there was something improper about the exchange. I was torn by the complicity of the act. Sometimes my guilt bled through the thin fabric of my deceit—a dark telltale stain, spreading for the whole world to see. But there was no turning back. I simply did not have the power or the will.

CHAPTER 12

News of Kona Sen’s broken engagement sent a tremor through our small town. Rickshaws clogged the narrow roads as garrulous housewives stopped each other on the way to the fish market to exchange gossip. Their mustard greens wilted and their fish spoiled, but these were but small woes compared to the misfortunes of the Sen family.

An outrage, they said, shaking their heads. The poor girl, after waiting so many years for that worthless cad! What will happen to her now? She was getting past her prime. She could easily become a seed pumpkin.

Toothless dames sat on four-poster beds, suffused by the scent of cloves and mothballs. They rolled acacia nuts into betel leaves and clucked sadly about the waywardness of youth. The big mistake parents make, they reminded one another, is to send their boys to study abroad in the first place. So many temptations! Who is to blame when the boys make poor choices? Look what happened to the District Commissioner’s son—untarnished ancestry, fine lineage and everything, and what does he do? Marry an English waitress—a common peasant girl with man-size hands and ankles thick as tree trunks! The son is a qualified doctor. He should know better! Who will feel sorry for him when his wife runs off with one of her own kind?

Maybe Mr. Sen with all his money could still find someone for Kona. Marrying Manik Deb would have been a grave mistake. He had no sense of family honor. And who did he think he was, pretending to be an Englishman? He would expect his poor wife to wear small skirts, drink and behave in unbecoming ways. Oh yes, Kona Sen was better off without Manik Deb, that was for sure.

My tongue burned with the secret. From Manik’s letters I did not once get the impression he was a misfit. Rather, he seemed to have slipped into the tea lifestyle easily and quickly, without a wrinkle. As for Kona’s problems, I’m ashamed to say, it was hard for me to feel sorry for her. When I heard of their broken engagement the first thing I felt was a tiny shoot of joy followed by zero qualms. Kona’s plight was the last thing on my mind. I was now dwelling on the fragile possibility of my future with Manik Deb.

* * *

Just as well I did not waste my guilt because fortune soon smiled on Kona Sen. Through an obscure but lucky family connection, Kona’s father found a rich landlord’s son as a replacement groom and—oh, miracles—the horses were switched smoothly in midstream. Even luckier, the wedding date did not have to be changed; the caterer’s order did not have to be canceled. Even the print shop agreed to reprint the cards at half price. They waived the extra charge for a rush order and in a fit of generosity threw in some glitter for free.

Mr. Sen was a happy man. Manik Deb may have taken the starch out of him temporarily, but now he was back to his old form. He smiled broadly as he went door to door, personally delivering the wedding cards. He expounded the merits of his new son-in-law and left behind a trail of gold dust that glittered as brightly as his optimism.

Rumors floated in the fish market that Kona’s wedding was going to be the grandest occasion the town had ever seen. Despite the wartime rationing and shortages, nothing would be compromised. The shenai maestro—no less than the grand Ustad Palit himself—would be arriving from Calcutta with his entourage of musicians. An elevated two-story platform was being constructed for their performance. A twelve-course feast was planned. The very best rui fish, famous for its size and flavor, was being shipped in from across the Padma River. Guests would have their own silver finger bowls with scented rose water to wash their fingers. As for the mouth-freshening paan served at the end of the meal, it would be coated in real gold leaf.

Nobody talked about Manik Deb. He was the fallen son, the tainted seed. He had gone from being the most eligible bachelor in town to a nonentity. For the townsfolk, Manik Deb had ceased to exist.

* * *

Shortly after the broken engagement, I received a letter from Manik Deb. I expected it to be filled with his thoughts on what had happened, or more wistfully, his declarations of love for me. It was neither. It was all about a leopard hunt.

How odd. Surely he knew his own marriage had been called off? Why was there no mention of it in his letter? I decided to bring it up.

Aynakhal T.E.

10th October 1944

Dear Layla,

You make me laugh! Of course I know my own wedding has been called off! As for how I received the news, it was a telegram. Short and sweet.

You offered me your condolences. All I can say is that you are a terrible liar! In all honesty, I am happy, and I suspect you are, too. Don’t deny it! My biggest relief comes from knowing that Kona has found a more deserving husband. In all sincerity I wish her well. If my decision to take up this job had negatively affected her future, I can’t say I could have lived the rest of my life guilt free.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

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