Teatime for the Firefly (30 page)

“There’s nothing in there. Lots of fish and maybe a few water snakes. They don’t bite.”

“I don’t know,” I said fearfully. I realized I must sound ridiculous.

“You are coming in, too. I can teach you how to swim.” He stripped off his underwear, threw down his glasses, then, without a thread on, he dived like a knife into the water and disappeared with barely a splash. I held my breath for what seemed like forever. Finally he popped up and flicked his hair, sending the water flying in a graceful arc. He looked at me with wet shining eyes. “Are you coming in or not?”

“I didn’t bring a change of clothes,” I said.

“You don’t need one. Take off your clothes, use that towel to cover up, if you like, then get in.”

“What about...?” I nodded toward the forest, indicating the men. “I don’t want them to see me—”

“Layla, the servants don’t pry where they are not supposed to. You are missing out. The water is wonderful.”

I inched up to the water’s edge and stuck my toe in. The cool water did feel good. Throwing modesty to the winds, I disrobed quickly and waded in, checking over my shoulder to make sure Halua wasn’t lurking behind a tree.

Soon I forgot my fears and became accustomed to the unfamiliar sensation of the water on my naked body. I began to enjoy the soft ripples caressing my skin, the silken mud yielding between my toes. It was deliciously arousing. After a while we toweled ourselves dry, lay on the grass mat and made love, our bodies still damp. I marveled at how ingeniously the tarp had been angled for our privacy. All I could see before me was the flat shining mirror of the lake reflecting a fathomless sky.
Aynakhal. Mirror Lake.

A crimson dragonfly hovered and settled on the end piece of Manik’s glasses lying on the grass mat.

“Never in a hundred years did I ever imagine making love under an open sky,” I murmured.

“I did,” said Manik drowsily. He looked me full in the eyes and traced the four-petaled rose between my breasts lightly with his finger. “I dreamed about making love to you right here by this lake. Just like this.”

“I dreamed about this lake, too, but it was a bad dream,” I said, waiting for that dark foreboding to envelop me, but it never came.

“Maybe I can change that for you,” Manik said, and kissed me deeply. “Maybe you will remember this dream instead.”

Halua and the
paniwalla
miraculously appeared around lunchtime to serve us boiled eggs, cold cutlets, bread and butter, followed by hot tea. Later, Manik dozed on his stomach while I occupied myself with stamping tiny leaf patterns all over his bronze back with small ferns I found with a white powdery underside. It reminded me of my childhood days with Moon. We were always decorating each other’s skin with powdery ferns.

“Manik!” I shook him awake. “Look, elephants!”

A whole herd had come down to the lake on the opposite bank. They were so close we could hear them snorting and harrumphing. We counted nine in all, a dominant male tusker, five females, two youngsters and a tiny baby walking right between its mother’s legs. The elephants played and rolled in the shallows for half an hour. Then they all lumbered back into the forest, as silently as they had appeared. All the time I was watching them, I could hardly breathe.

Manik burrowed his head into my armpit and went peacefully back to his nap. I loved the feeling of his arm across my chest, the easy weight of his leg draped over my body.

I breathed the deep aroma of his skin and felt suddenly overwhelmed with tenderness for the man I had married. A deep comfort settled on my sun-warmed body. I watched a puffy cloud elongate into a swan before sailing off over the ragged treetops and thought to myself, if Clive Robertson’s ghost could be laid to rest, maybe so could mine.

CHAPTER 28

4th May 1946

Maiyya,

I am glad I could be of help. The Jimmy O’Connor issue, as I understand, is a political one. I am sorry that this has caused so many problems at Dega Tea Estate. As you know, when two elephants fight it is the grass underfoot that suffers.

Sunandan Bakshi, the high court judge who is in charge of this case, turns out to be my junior. I know him well. He is an astute judge and a reasonable man. O’Connor will have to sign some papers that will be mailed to him. The case will be dismissed. The testimonies from other planters and his garden staff are greatly in his favor.

I received a surprising letter from Estelle Lovelace, my lady friend from my old Cambridge days. She is a writer of some repute and lives in Cornwall. Her niece Bridgette Olson (James Lovelace’s middle daughter) is planning a visit to India next spring, and Estelle says she may accompany her. Estelle is very keen to visit the tea gardens. She mentioned a certain Ginny Gilroy, a cousin of hers, who is married to a tea planter in the Mariani district. I wonder if you know of them?

I take great joy hearing about your life in Aynakhal,
maiyya
. I can tell you are happy.

My love to you and your dear Manik. May all good things be yours.

Your Dadamoshai

The packets of seeds I had ordered from the Sutton’s catalog arrived by mail. I turned each one over and read the growing instructions. Mrs. McIntyre had advised me what to plant and the planting order. Cauliflower, cabbage and lettuce first. Carrots and tomatoes next, chilies, parsley and cilantro last. The
malis
had tilled the ground in the
malibari
and created long rows. We were ready for the planting season.

A mud-splattered jeep honked at the gate. It roared up our driveway and a large man heaved himself out. It was Jimmy O’Connor. Two magnificent German shepherds leaped out behind him. The dogs shook their shaggy coats and scampered at the feet of their master. He snapped his fingers and pointed at the ground and they flopped down obediently at the bottom of the stairs.

Jimmy clomped up to the veranda. He was an impressive man with powerful shoulders and big corded arms. His mane of flaming red hair was covered with dust from the open jeep ride. His face was tanned a deep copper and his eyes a flecked and faceted emerald-green. He towered over me.

“Hello, Layla,” he said, extending a hand, big as a tennis racket. “I came by to thank ye.”

He said he had given up hope and had resigned himself to serving jail time when to his surprise the rhino case was abruptly dismissed. He had no idea why. At first he suspected foul play—a trap of some sort, so he called up the judge to find out. The judge said somebody called the Rai Bahadur had vouched for his innocence. The Rai Bahadur, it seemed, was a man of great integrity and the judge took his word seriously. Jimmy did not know who this man was and it had taken him a long time to trace it all back to me.

“I had me a narrow escape,” he said. “I am not sure I would have made it out of the Indian clink alive.”

“My grandfather says you got caught in dirty politics,” I said.

“That, plus I got me a sewer mouth, lass. I shouldn’t have brassed off the judge.”

“Well, I am glad it worked out.”

“Aye, thanks to ye,” he said quietly, his voice husky with emotion. “Dear Mother o’ God, I don’t know what I did to deserve a second chance.”

There was an awkward silence. He leaned forward and picked up the packet of tomato seeds from the coffee table and turned it over to read the back, tapping the edge of the packet with the stub of his missing finger.

“I am trying to get my
malibari
started,” I explained.

“My Marie—” He paused and a shadow crossed his face. “My wife used to love gardening,” he said quietly, putting the packet down. I saw the tug of memory in his eyes.

“I’m told your heirloom tomatoes are very famous.”

He gave me a crinkled smile. “Are they, now? Why don’t y’come to my bungalow and pick some, lass? Y’can have all ye want. What do y’say we stop by your man’s office and tell him I am kidnapping you for an hour, aye?”

“What—now?”

“Why, y’busy, then?”

“Well, no...”

“So what’re we waiting for, then? Christmas?”

* * *

Jimmy O’Connor lived in a
Chung
bungalow on top of a steep wooded hill. The winding road was lined with a tall plant with large red flowers that looked like a cross between a poppy and a dahlia. I had never seen anything like them. They grew thickly and blazed a fiery red trail all the way from the bottom of the hill up to the bungalow gates.

A convoy of enormous geese chased the jeep as it pulled up to the portico. Jimmy O’Connor shooed them away. His two German shepherds jumped out and trailed behind him, pointed and sleuth-eyed. I never once heard them bark, but they were sharply keen and watchful.

We walked to the
malibari
. The geese paddled around Jimmy’s feet, honking affectionately. How he walked without tripping over them is a mystery. They nibbled at his calves, looked eagerly up at his face, bobbed and ducked, and stepped all over his big boots. They seemed to have forgotten that he had shot them down in the first place. The dogs followed at a watchful distance. Every now and then a possessive goose stuck its neck out and charged off after one of them like a torpedo, and they cringed back, ears flattened. German shepherds, for all their intelligence and might, were no match for the aggression of a Himalayan goose.

A wooden stile to keep out the geese led into the
malibari
. We stepped over it and the whole gaggle set up deafening honks of protest on the other side. The dogs jumped easily over the stile fanning their tails, looking happy at last to be rid of the nuisance.

There was not much growing in the
malibari
besides chilies and tomatoes. But what tomatoes!
I had never seen anything like them. They were a deep reddish-purple like clotted blood, monstrously clumped and falling off the vine. Simply magnificent.

“Here, I’ll let ye pick,” Jimmy said, handing me an old pillowcase. “Take all ye want. I’ll ask my
mali
to put some seeds aside for ye.”

“Oh, thank you! I did not dare to ask you for them.”

“Hush, lass, why not? Y’saved my life, didn’t ye? Just don’t share them with anybody unless they save yours.”

“I have never seen tomatoes like this,” I said.

“Aye, it’s a rare variety,” Jimmy said. “They have a dense flavor and low water content.” A black-and-red-spotted ladybug was crawling up his shirtsleeve. He let it crawl on the stub of his missing forefinger and watched it fly away. “I got the seeds from Alan Hanks, the royal gardener at the Sudeley Castle. I give him Assam tea and he gives me seeds and cuttings. Did y’see the red flowers when we were driving up to the bungalow? He gave me those, too.”

“What are they? Some kind of poppy?”

“It’s a hybrid he’s developed from the Helen Elizabeth poppy variety. They grow only at the Sudeley Castle. But they seem to like it here in Assam. They’ve taken over the hill as y’see.”

“They are spectacular.” The pillowcase was getting heavy. “I think that’s all the tomatoes I need.” I set the pillowcase down on an upturned wheelbarrow.

He winked at me. “I know a secret spell to grow plants, lassie, that nobody knows.”

I was intrigued. “What do you mean? What kind of spell?”

He leaned forward conspiratorially. “It’s an old Celtic spell. What do y’know, my grandmother was a famous Irish witch. I can teach ye the charm, aye, if ye promise never to write it down.”

I laughed. “I promise I won’t.”

“Plant the tomato cuttings in early October and remember to water them with diluted milk and...”

“Diluted milk!”

“Aye, one cup to a pail of water. Say the spell over the young plants, lassie, when they are taking root and your tomatoes will overrun yer garden and grow plump as a milkmaid’s rump.”

“What do you do with so many tomatoes?”

“Oh, I give them to the servants, feed the cows—after I am done making my chutney, of course.”

“You make chutney,
too?”

He winked. “Does that surprise ye, lassie? I’m not called Chutney Jim for nothing, y’know.”

I looked at Jimmy O’Connor, this great big wall of a man with his fiery hair and kaleidoscopic eyes. He did not look like a Chutney Jim to me. The man was surprising in more ways than one.

“Let’s get to my pantry and get ye a bottle. I’m making more next week. Ye’ll want my chutney recipe now, as well, won’t ye?”

* * *

Aynakhal

16th May 1946

My dear Dadamoshai,

My pantry is full of chutney! The chutney is Jimmy O’Connor’s special recipe. The man is a genius if there ever was one. His
bottle-khanna
has been turned into a laboratory where all sorts of things brew, bubble, hatch and grow. There are jars of Kambucha mushrooms growing in tea solution; a homemade incubator with several dozen goose eggs hatching, and winemaking, and I don’t know what all. Jimmy has even invented his own pressure cooker—a rather untrustworthy device that sometimes shoots its contents up into the ceiling.

This man has opened his heart and home to me, thanks to you, Dadamoshai. He is not considered the friendly sort and is generally misunderstood by people. I wish you could meet him. He is the most interesting man, and you should see his magnificent library of scientific books and his antique gun collection. Best of all, he tells the most exciting shikar stories—all true.

Jimmy recently visited Alasdair in Dooars. Alasdair’s garden is in bad shape, he said. The new Indian owners have cut the tea pluckers’ pay and want to cut down one-third of the workforce. As you can imagine, the coolies have nowhere to go. They have been estranged from their old Adivasi way of life for several generations and tea plucking is all they know. So Alasdair is facing a lot of labor trouble in his garden.

Things are changing in tea, Dadamoshai. Many British planters are leaving Assam. I think the Dega rhino case was a wake-up call. Tea companies can’t do much to protect their planters anymore.

I was delighted to know you are in touch with Estelle Lovelace. Thank you for sending me a copy of her book. I will read it with great interest. Yes, I am well acquainted with Ginny Gilroy. She is a good friend of Mrs. McIntyre’s. Mrs. Gilroy is another avid gardener. But nobody can grow heirloom tomatoes like Jimmy O’Connor.

With my love,

Layla

Jimmy O’Connor’s famous chutney recipe called for a unique blend of spices: dry roasted chilies, coriander and mustard seeds, ground in a mortar-pestle with malt vinegar and sea salt and cooked with tomatoes in that unreliable pressure cooker of his. The day we made the chutney, the pressure cooker hissed and spluttered and my sari was soiled.

Manik came to pick me up from Jimmy O’Connor’s bungalow. I wanted to make a quick stop at the club store on our way home to pick up some baking powder. It was only minutes before the store’s closing time and I did not expect to find anybody there, but sure enough I had to bump into Laurie Wood. She looked curiously at my tomato-stained sari.

“Oh, I was just making chutney with Jimmy O’Connor,” I blurted out.

I immediately realized how it sounded, but it was too late.

A sly look crept into her eyes. “Making chutney with Jimmy O’Connor, eh?”

There was not much I could do. The cat ladies would have a good chinwag over that one, I could tell.

* * *

That year I took the blue ribbon at the flower show for both the heirloom tomatoes and the tomato chutney. Jimmy O’Connor, who was rather drunk, cheered noisily when I went up to collect my ribbon. In my little acceptance speech, I tried to give him credit, but just to embarrass me he yelled it was all hogwash and claimed not to know what I was talking about.

Later, I overhead Betsy Lamont in the ladies’ room saying, “I can only imagine what Layla Deb gave Jimmy O’Connor in exchange for those tomatoes. These native women are so desperate. They won’t stop at anything to get what they want.”

I pitied the cat ladies. They would never know the joy of true friendship between a man and woman. Jimmy O’Connor’s trust was a rare and precious gift, and it made me feel very special.