Teatime for the Firefly (26 page)

I could just picture Jimmy O’Connor holding aloft the bloody tusk of the slain elephant. There was a primitive caveman quality about the man.

“I don’t understand how he can pull the trigger of a gun, let alone kill a rogue with a single shot, if he is missing his forefinger,” I said. “How did he lose his finger, anyway?”

“I have no idea. Some say he lost it in the war. Larry thinks it was bitten off by a rabid dog. Jimmy O’Connor is not the kind you can ask such questions. Coming to think of it, I am not sure how he fires a gun, but he is a crack shot, and I don’t believe he is left-handed because Alasdair borrows guns from him all the time.”

“Such a curious man, with his geese and tomatoes.”

“The geese, I know about, but what tomatoes?”

“The ladies at the club were saying that he grows some kind of heirloom tomato and won’t share the seeds with anyone.”

Manik laughed. “That sounds like Jimmy, all right. That man’s a genius. He is undoubtedly one of the best tea planters in Assam. He invented a cloning method for tea bushes that yields a premium leaf grade, and he won’t share that secret with anyone, either. Dega Tea Estate has always had an edge over other gardens because of him. But he is a bit unpredictable with his drinking problem.”

“That’s because his wife died so tragically,” I said, feeling sorry for the poor man.

Manik snorted. “A nice story to butter up the ladies, if you ask me. Jimmy O’Connor is Irish—alcohol is in his blood. He was a tippler long before his wife died.”

“So, how did he know it was the same elephant—the one he shot—that killed his wife?”

“It had a bifurcated tail—”

“A what?”

“A tail split in its extremity. Tea-garden coolies believe an elephant with a bifurcated tail will one day take human life. Coolies are very superstitious. I think that’s nonsense, really. Rupali, our garden elephant, has a split tail, but she is gentle as a lamb and
saves
human lives.”

“She’s female, though. They are more docile than males, aren’t they? Rogues are the male elephants in heat, right?”

“‘In
musth
,’ they call the condition. You can tell when a male elephant is in
musth
by a dark secretion that oozes just above their eye. In that condition they are extremely dangerous and will destroy anything.”

“So how do they deal with domesticated male elephants when they are in
musth
?”

“The
mahuts
, their trainers, know how to handle them. They mix small amounts of opium in their diet and stand the elephant in a river for several hours a day to calm it down. The
musth
only lasts for a few days, but sometimes rogues get permanently deranged. When that happens, they have to be killed. The one that killed Jimmy O’Connor’s wife was a permanently deranged one, I believe.” Manik looked at me seriously. “I can show you a domesticated elephant in
musth
, if you like. They are not dangerous or anything.”

I swiveled around. “Really? Where?”

“We have one here in Aynakhal. Now if you will kindly follow me to the bedroom...”

“Ufff!”
I said, slapping his arm.

I suppressed a smile. Lately I noticed my ears no longer turned red when Manik teased me. His innuendos titillated, but they no longer embarrassed me like they did before.

Aynakhal

7th April 1946

Dear Dadamoshai,

I am sending this letter through Jamina, who is going to her village. I am also sending you some fresh cauliflower from my garden and a bottle of homemade marmalade. This is an old Scottish recipe shared by Mrs. McIntyre. She is a wonderful mentor and has been helping me to plan my garden. I was a little late with the flowers this year, but I am redesigning the flower beds to get them ready for next season. I have three new
malis
. The old
mali
was a hopeless opium addict and his two helpers complete duffers.

Kalua and Halua are so set in their bad habits. I have to do periodic kitchen inspections to make sure it stays clean. Kalua still can’t cut a chicken without gripping it with his dirty toe and using some kind of hatchet. It is an uphill battle with those two. That goes, too, for their master, who views anything remotely green on his plate with suspicion. I finally got sick of our poultry diet and asked Kalua to buy mutton at the local
haat
. The next day I heard a loud commotion and here comes Kalua pulling a young, knock-kneed goat right into the living room to show me. The goat dropped pellets all over the house and almost made lunch out of my curtains.

But I must admit Kalua is picking up some nice recipes from the Mung
borchee
at the
burrabungalow
. The
borchee
is not happy about sharing his secrets but Mrs. McIntyre has ordered him to give cooking lessons to Kalua every Wednesday, so he has no choice. The
borchee
tries to slyly leave out some crucial ingredient or the other to throw Kalua off track, but Kalua, being a canny fellow, catches on or improvises. The other day, to our delight, he turned out a chicken Kiev fit for a king.

Among my other accomplishments: I have learned to drive the jeep and shoot a gun! Manik insists they are both basic requirements. When I asked him why, he said for the same reason one needs to know how to swim if one lives on a boat. Imagine my surprise when I shot a jungle fowl! I think the poor creature died of a heart attack, because we could not find a single bullet wound.

I hope you can visit us in Aynakhal soon, Dadamoshai. There is so much I want to show you. Please give my best wishes to Boris Ivanov. How long will he be staying with you?

With my love,

Layla

The topless Willys jeep careened to a halt and out jumped a windblown and dusty Debbie Ashton.

“Who was that short girl in the green sari?” she said, nodding toward the gate.

“That’s Jamina,” I replied. When Debbie looked blank I added, “Alasdair’s...”

Debbie’s eyes widened. “You know Alasdair’s OP?”

“Well, yes.”

Debbie gave a little jump. “Oh, I’d love to meet her. Can I?” she cried. “Do you think she’ll talk to me?”

“I don’t know,” I said doubtfully. “Jamina’s awfully shy.”

I told her briefly about Jamina’s life.

“Fantastic fiction material,” Debbie said meditatively. “Will you introduce us?”

“Of course,” I replied, “but don’t be surprised if she clams up.”

“I’ll wear a sari, if that helps. Every time I see Emmi in her sari, I want to wear one.”

I laughed. “I’ll put one on for you.”

“When do you suppose I can meet her?”

“Jamina is going to her village tomorrow. She’ll be back after two weeks. Usually she’s here every day around nine. She sits and drinks her salt tea on the floor—don’t ask me why. Maybe she is more comfortable that way.”

“I will wear a sari, sit on the floor and drink salt tea, as well. Also, can I go home wearing the sari? Imagine Robby’s surprise when he sees Emma and me waiting for him like maharanis on the veranda! Talking about that rascal, is she here?”

“She’s out in the back playing with Wendy.”

“Goodness, I have been all over the place looking for her. First to Jimmy O’Connor’s, where I got nipped by a damn goose.” She twisted her ankle to show me a cut above her shin. “Those geese bite everyone except Emma. She orders the dogs, the geese and even Uncle Jimmy around, bossy little thing that she is.”

“Do you want some Dettol for that cut?”

“Nah, it’s nothing,” said Debbie. “I better go and get Emmi. I forgot today is her best friend Shirley’s birthday. They adore each other. We better not forget to take our present. It’s in the bathtub.”

“What is it, a fish?” I asked.

Debbie laughed. “No, a guinea pig. Emmi wanted to give her best friend a brown-and-white guinea pig exactly like her Chico. So she goes crying to Uncle Jimmy, and Uncle Jimmy sends someone scooting off God only knows where to get a brown-and-white guinea pig. What that man won’t do for Emma Ashton, I tell you. No wonder she wants to marry him.”

“Why is the guinea pig in the bathtub?”

“I tried to put it in the cage with Chico but they’re both males and almost killed each other. Who knew guinea pigs can be so aggressive.”

We walked around to the back of the bungalow, where I found, to my chagrin, Emma and Budni feeding nubs of carrots, picked from my
malibari
, to the goat. The goat wore Budni’s pink ribbon around its neck, and from the spoiled look on its face, I had my doubts we would see goat curry on our table soon.

“Emmi, c’mon darling. It’s Shirley’s birthday. Don’t you want to go to her party?”

Emma stared back at her mother, a big mud streak on her cheek. She played absently with the goat’s ear. It flicked her fingers away. “Can we go tomorrow?”

“Don’t be silly, darling. Her birthday is today. Hurry up now. We have to put the guinea pig in a box and get ourselves cleaned up, don’t we?”

“Can Wendy come to the birthday party?”

Debbie sighed. “Why are you being so difficult, darling?”

“
Please
, Mummy!” Emma pleaded, stamping her foot.

Debbie turned to me. “Actually, I don’t see why Wendy can’t come along to Shirley’s party. I’ll make her wear one of Emma’s dresses. Where is Halua? Let me ask him.”

“Are you sure?” I said. The children of servants never played with bungalow children, let alone went to their birthday parties.

“Oh, absolutely,” laughed Debbie. “I don’t suppose you’ve met Jill Melling of Tarajuli Tea Estate, have you? Shirley’s mother? Jill is wonderful. All the servant children are invited for Shirley’s birthday party. They are given pretty new clothes to wear and share Shirley’s birthday gifts. None of this elitist baba-bibi nonsense with Jill, thank God.”

Halua appeared at the pantry door.

“Halua!” Debbie said. “I am taking Wendy to a baba’s birthday party in Tarajuli, all right?”

Halua’s eyes widened. He looked at me uncertainly.

“It’s all right,” I said.

Debbie clapped her hands. “Girls, get in the jeep, quick. No, Emma Ashton, we are not taking the goat.”

“But, Mummy—”

“Do you want me to get really cross with you? Come on, who wants to have a race? We are going to run to the jeep. On your mark, get set—GO!” She galloped after the girls. “Ta, Layla, I’ll see you Monday at the club.”

CHAPTER 24

Jamina was inconsolable. The village midwife told her she was having a white man’s devil child, a curse that would bring bad luck to her family, maybe even her whole village. The shaman gave her a
tabiz
to wear—a magic amulet inscribed with a spell to ward off evil.

“That’s nonsense,” I said. “You have to see Doctor Emmett. You must
,
Jamina—this could be serious.”

“But,
didi
, how can I allow English doctor to see me?” she howled. “What if he is taking advantage of me?”

“He is a doctor, Jamina. He won’t do that. He needs to examine you.”

“Where?”

“There.”

Jamina let out a shriek. “
Why?
Midwife only look at fingernail and say if it boy, girl or devil child. Nobody seeing me
there
,
didi
, nobody.”

“Listen to me, Jamina,” I said a little sternly. “What you have growing inside may not be a baby. It could be a medical problem. You have to see a doctor because you may need treatment.”

Jamina sighed noisily and a fat tear rolled down her cheek and wobbled on her chin.

I tried to mollify her. “Doctor Emmett is an elderly man, Jamina. He’s very nice. He examined me. I will stay with you, during the examination, if you like.”

Jamina blew her nose into her sari and looked at me balefully through puffy eyes. “I am letting English doctor see me,
didi
, only if you are staying in same room. I am coming to your house and English doctor see me in
your
house. I am not wanting Ali’s servants see I alone inside bedroom with English man and door close.”

Doctor Emmett came to see Jamina on his next round to Aynakhal. Jamina clutched me with crablike claws, covered her face with her sari and shrieked through the entire examination.

Doctor Emmett stared at her in exasperation. “I’ll never understand why these
chokri
girls
make such a holy racket. This procedure is not supposed to hurt at all. They fight like wildcats and have to be held down the entire time. And all for a routine exam. It makes absolutely no sense to me.”

He washed his hands in a basin of water and reached for the hand towel I was holding. “I don’t know if this is good news or bad news, but she is not pregnant. What she has looks suspiciously like a tumor. Carruthers must know she needs to see a specialist. He should not delay.” Doctor Emmett glanced at his watch. “I will go by Chulsa and tell him myself. I can give his girl a lift home, if she likes.”

I translated for Jamina but she stared at me as if I was sending her home with her rapist.

“I think she’d rather walk,” I told Doctor Emmett.

* * *

McNeil & Smith, the parent company of Chulsa Tea Estate, refused to pay for Jamina’s medical expenses.

“It’s such a shame, really,” Manik said. “Jamina is not Alasdair’s legal wife, so she is not entitled to medical benefits. And because she is not employed by the tea garden, she can’t even get the basic medical care the coolie women receive. It’s terrible, really.”

“So what will happen to her now?” I asked.

“Ally wants to marry her. That way Jamina will at least get the medical attention she deserves.”

“Doctor Emmett said it could be serious.”

“Ally is aware of that. Jamina will need to see a specialist in Calcutta. Ally wants to get married this weekend. I said you’d organize the wedding.”

“Organize a wedding this weekend!” I gasped. I wished Manik would consult me before making such sweeping offers. “I don’t know the first thing about weddings, Manik! Besides, what
kind
of wedding? Alasdair is Scottish. Jamina is Muslim....”

“Ally just wanted a simple court registration, but Jamina says she wants to dress up like an Indian bride. I don’t think the religious part matters too much. Just throw something together, will you, darling? I told them not to worry—you’d take care of everything.”

The wedding was a scramble. Alasdair and Jamina went to Silchar, where Dadamoshai got their marriage registered in the courthouse. Later that evening we had a small Indian celebration in our bungalow. I dressed up Jamina in my gold
Benarasi
sari and put flowers in her hair and painted red
alta
on her feet.

Jamina’s father and brother had driven back with them from the fishing village to attend the ceremony. Her father was a foxy man with cunning eyes. I saw his gaze wander greedily around our bungalow, sizing up our meager possessions. Jamina’s brother was a towering hulk of a man with tattooed arms and a prominent sickle-shaped scar running across his cheek. He lurked in the corners and looked so thuggish, he was almost a caricature.

Budni and Emma, dressed in their tiny saris, showered marigold petals on the bride. Debbie made a pineapple upside-down wedding cake and Kalua served his famous egg and chicken banquet, with a mutton curry thrown in. The goat was finally sacrificed for a good cause. The mishmash evening ended with the men getting hopelessly drunk. Irish, Scottish and Indian tea planters joined Muslim fishermen to sing ribald songs and do coolie
dances around the veranda with their arms around each other’s waists.

* * *

Debbie Ashton sat cross-legged on the floor of our veranda with a notebook on her lap, tapping a pencil on her teeth.

“Where’s that Jamina today?” She frowned.

I glanced at the clock in the living room. “Goodness, quarter to eleven! That’s not like her at all!”

Most mornings Debbie came to our bungalow to chat with Jamina. They would sit on the floor, drink salt tea while Debbie took copious notes. Sometimes I was called to act as interpreter, but mostly they managed without me, having devised their own creative ways of communicating that reminded me of Emma and Budni. Today I had invited them to stay for lunch. I was so busy in the pantry showing Kalua how to make Bengali fish croquettes, the kind Chaya made in Dadamoshai’s house, that I lost track of time.

The latch of the front gate clicked open. It was the office peon on his bicycle. He had a note from Manik.

Alasdair lost his job today. I am going with him to Dega to talk to Jimmy O’Connor.

M.

“That is unbelievable!” cried Debbie.
“Alasdair is one of the best tea planters. I bet this has nothing to do with his job performance. I get the feeling it’s because he married Jamina. Tea companies have a very low tolerance for this kind of thing.”

“Surely they can’t sack him for marrying someone,” I said.

“Oh, you bet they can,” said Debbie with a trace of bitterness in her voice. “And they make no bones about it. As long as planters toe the line, tea companies are good to them. Step out of line and you’re buggered.”

“I am sure Alasdair will find another job. There are other tea companies,” I said.

Debbie shot me a skeptical look. “I don’t know about that, Layla. British companies are very clannish. They can boycott you. I’ve seen it happen. Once blacklisted, especially for this kind of thing, Alasdair can be out in the cold. What is so ironic—a planter can be unethical, steal from the company, even run the tea garden into the ground, but some desperate company will still hire him because he knows all about making tea. But marrying an OP—” she wagged her pencil “—that’s crossing a dangerous line.” She sighed. “I wish my jeep was not in the workshop today. We could have gone to Chulsa to see Jamina. The poor thing must be so upset.”

Rob Ashton came to pick up Debbie that evening. Manik was back home, and the four of us were drinking tea on the veranda. Alasdair’s news had shaken us all. As I listened to Manik talk, one thing became increasingly clear: tea planters were misfits in any other job but tea. No other profession demanded the same acumen, the grueling on-the-job training and adherence to a unique lifestyle, like tea. Where would Manik go if he did not have his tea job? He had drifted too far from the mainstream to fit elsewhere. He gave up everything for tea, yet the company could terminate his job for no fault of his. It was a scary thought.

“McNeil & Smith’s official reason for sacking Ally is he broke the company rule and got married without giving his thirty-day notice,” said Manik. “That hogwash! The real reason is they don’t approve of Jamina. She is not considered appropriate.”

“They were never happy about Ally’s association with Jamina to begin with,” Debbie said. “She was not just another
chokri
girl. He was too committed. He even visited her family in their village.”

“Putting it crudely, Ally’s pecker went too deep,” Rob added.

“
Chokris
are meant to be dispensable. You are not supposed to get too attached,” added Manik.

“I find the hypocrisy shocking,” said Debbie. “Tea companies encourage planters to get involved with local women, use them as sleeping dictionaries, even father illegitimate children, but when it comes to marrying them, it’s a taboo.”

“They are paranoid about who you marry,” said Manik. “You should have seen the way I got grilled about Layla, and she’s educated, English speaking, and her grandfather a Cambridge lawyer who personally knows James Lovelace.”

“Otherwise they could have refused permission?” I asked a little incredulously.

Manik looked at me. “Without a doubt. Kona wouldn’t have made the cut, for sure. So you see, either way, I would have got out of that arranged marriage.”

“Who’s Kona? What arranged marriage?” asked Debbie.

“Kona’s the girl I was engaged to before Layla begged me to marry her.”

“Rubbish!” I laughed.

“Now, if Layla was a white girl,” Manik continued, “even if she was of dubious character, there would be no scrutiny at all. That is how two-faced tea companies are.”

“So what is Ally going to do now?” I said.

“He will have to look for another job,” said Rob. “I doubt if he will find one with a British tea company, but things are changing in Assam. Jimmy O’Connor was saying many Sterling tea gardens are being sold to Indian businessmen. They’re looking for experienced tea planters to run them because Indians don’t have a clue about growing tea or plantation management.”

“Any tea garden will be lucky to have Ally,” said Manik. “He’s an excellent planter. But the management style under Indian ownership is bound to be different. It will be interesting to see how the labor reacts to Indian owners. They are used to an all-white management.”

Debbie gave Manik a poke in the ribs. “So how come you pass off as a
peelywally
, old chap?”

“I hide my spots well, darling,” Manik said with a grin.

“If the owners are Indian, maybe Jamina won’t feel so ostracized. She may even make a friend or two,” said Debbie.

“I am not so sure,” I said. “In some ways Indians are more prejudiced about religion, caste and social status than white people. A blue-blooded Scot married to a Muslim prostitute is a tough fit anywhere.”

“How long do you think it will be before Ally finds a job?” Debbie asked.

“It’s hard to tell,” said Manik. “Jimmy O’Connor is making some inquiries. Ally has been given a week to vacate his bungalow. The company is coming down hard on him.” He turned to me. “I offered them our guest room, darling. They may stay with us for a while. Jimmy also offered his bungalow but Jamina says she wants to stay here.”

“They can also stay with us,” said Debbie quickly. “Such a damn shame. Ally rakes in big profits for McNeil & Smith every year. All he wants to do is take care of the woman he loves. And what does the company do? Kick him out. Why? Because he’s a threat to the status quo. If planters start marrying their OPs the whole pukka tea culture would unravel, wouldn’t it? This is the kind of dishonesty that almost makes me ashamed to be British.”

A silvery dusk was falling, and we fell into quiet introspection. The soft gray of the distant trees pulsed with the pinpricks of fireflies. They floated into the veranda and alighted on everyday objects to paint them with the strokes of a dream. We never saw their wings; all we ever saw was their light.

* * *

Jimmy O’Connor did indeed have connections. He made some inquiries and got Alasdair a job in a tea garden in the Dooars district of West Bengal, three hundred miles away. The tea garden had just changed hands to Indian ownership.

Alasdair took Jamina to Calcutta for her treatment. Just as she had dreaded, her stomach had to be cut open and the tumor removed. It was a benign growth but unfortunately during the operation they had to remove her uterus, as well. The implications of that were lost on her.

Jamina clung to me and wept. “There is no Fertility Hill where I am going,
didi
. How to have a child now? How to live so far from my Abba? He so old—what if he die? How to live so far from
you
?”

There was little I could say to console her. Jamina would be unmoored and set adrift in an unfamiliar world. I knew that feeling only too well. But I also know this: even though water chooses the path of least resistance, it ultimately defines its own course. Rivers divide and merge, they braid and weave, they form complex wholes. They move apart only to rejoin at a different point. The geography of our lives would reconnect us again.