Teatime for the Firefly (33 page)

It was the old village method, Jamina explained. Villagers caught ducks simply by throwing a goat’s empty intestine into the marsh
where the ducks flocked
.
The ducks mistook the pink gut for a giant worm and gobbled it, but it was too long and stringy and came out of the other end. Then, disgustingly enough, the second duck gobbled it up and the same thing happened. Soon there were three or more ducks all threaded together from beak to tail, flapping around, tied up in a bunch. One had to simply pick them up and bring them home. No fuss: no guns, no decoys, no Beaters, no problem.

Manik grinned, hearing Jamina. He was sorting through a pile of cartridges on the veranda coffee table, putting the orange ones to one side. Marshal lay with his nose on Manik’s shoe, looking wretched and miserable. He knew he was not being taken to the duck camp. The other planters were bringing their dogs, mostly Labradors. Labradors were the perfect hunting breed: they were excellent swimmers and had soft jaws that never crushed a bird. Marshal’s jaws crushed everything.

“That can’t be true, can it?” I asked Manik. “Catching ducks with a goat bladder. Sounds too fantastic.”

“Actually, I’ve heard about it,” said Manik, tying up the sack with the orange cartridges. He turned to Alasdair, who had just come out of the living room. “What do you say, Ally, we forget about the duck shoot and just throw some goat bladder into the
bheel
?”

Alasdair laughed. “Aye, just think how brilliant that is. We make such a fuss about hunting and marksmanship when all you really want is a bird for dinner. We should learn from the natives, y’ken. They outsmart us in more ways than one.”

“The Assamese have an ingenious way of panning for gold, as well,” said Manik. “Ever notice how much gold they wear? Even the poor farmers? All the villagers do is float sheep wool in running streams to trap the gold flakes. They leave it there for days. Once during shikar I came across the wool in a stream. I thought some animal had died or something, then the tracker showed me how the wool was anchored through a stick in the mud and explained the whole gold-panning method.”

“How do they get the gold out of the wool?” I asked.

“Oh, they just burn the wool and collect a neat little nugget. It’s that simple.” Manik thumped the bag of cartridges on the coffee table. “So, Ally, old chap, all you really need in life is a few goats and sheep. No need to budge from your hut. Sit inside and drink your rice wine. Everything in life will come to you.”

“Aye, that sounds wonderful,” said Alasdair. “My heart yearns for the
lahe-lahe
life.”

Jamina whispered furtively in my ear. “When I go to Scotland, Ali’s mother give me
not even one
thin gold bangle. Just imagine,
didi
, and I am new bride.” She rolled her eyes theatrically. “Indian people not so stingy like Scottish people. Everybody know Scottish people most stingy people in the world. Wait till our husbands go then I tell you whole story of what happen in Carrots Castle.”

She put her finger on her lips and gave me a loaded look, as if it was all a big secret she could only share with me in private. Just imagining Jamina in the prim-and-proper “Carrots Castle” was enough to make me smile.

“Carrots” Castle was the Carruthers’ ancestral home—a gigantic turreted structure, with dusty rooms and cold drafty staircases. Jamina’s in-laws lived in one solitary wing. The rest of the castle was occupied by Sir Malcolm Edward Carruthers, the notorious family ghost.

Jamina’s mother-in-law, Alasdair’s formidable mother, was in her eighties, with papery hands and the complexion of a dead fish. Strangest of all, Jamina never saw the woman blink even once.

On her arrival, Jamina had mistaken the butler for an old uncle and bent down to touch his feet to receive her blessing as a new Indian bride. The man jumped as though Jamina was going to bite his toe. “No more feet touching,” Alasdair had told her after that. Just shake hands or kiss. The kissing business confounded Jamina. She did not know which cheek to offer first, and there was always the danger of noses banging or the kiss landing in the wrong place. Also, was one supposed to actually kiss or only make the kissing noise while pressing cheekbone to cheekbone?

As for the food, it was completely ghastly. The meat was pink and uncooked, the potatoes boiled with no spices. They had curry and rice in her honor. The curry was a sickly yellow stew. Completely inedible.

“So what did you eat?” I asked, hiding my smile. Jamina was still her plump little self, from what I could tell.

“Only cake,” said Jamina, “and pudding. And
toosth
with jam. Strawberry jam is very fine but
mamalaid
little bitter because lazy cook leave orange peel inside.”

Most days Alasdair would go off hunting with the lads, leaving Jamina stuck with the mother-in-law in the musty parlor. Conversation was minimal, since Jamina did not speak English. Out of boredom she had counted the stone slabs in the fireplace a hundred times and knew every crack by heart.

There was a banquet held in her honor with about fifty guests, all very fine and rich people. The mother-in-law wanted Jamina to wear a long dress with some kind of hard basket contraption inside. The maid had pulled the laces tight and Jamina’s breasts had almost fallen out. It also made going to the bathroom impossible. Jamina’s bladder had nearly burst.

Then with much fanfare she was presented with a blue velvet box. Inside was a glass pendant, which the mother-in-law clasped around Jamina’s neck. Then everybody clapped and made a bread, Jamina said.

“Made a bread?” I wondered what she was talking about.

“You know when the English people raise their glass and say ‘to your good health’ they are making a bread to you.”

“Oh! A toast,” I said.

“Bread.
Toosth.
I bring glass pendant to give your baby to play. But only give baby when big, otherwise he swallow and choke.”

Jamina undid the end of her sari and handed me the necklace. It was a glittering heirloom diamond the size of an almond. I was utterly speechless.

“Do you know what this is, Jamina?” I gasped, carefully holding up the chain. The diamond swayed, catching dazzling arrays of light. “This is a very, very expensive diamond. I don’t even know what it’s worth, but it’s more than what you and I can imagine.”

Jamina snorted. She thought I was pulling her leg.

“Listen to me, Jamina. Don’t carry this around tied to your sari, understand? Where is the box it came in?”

“The box is very fine. I am keeping the hedgehog needle inside.”

“Put this necklace back in the box and keep it safe. Don’t tell anybody about this. Someday you will be lucky you have this.”

“If only they giving me few gold bangles,
didi
. Even one or two.”

“This is worth a lot of gold, Jamina. A whole boatload of bangles.”

Jamina gave me a tired, disbelieving look and rolled her eyes.

“Didn’t Alasdair tell you anything? He should know better.”

“Ali does not care,” Jamina snorted. “If it does not shoot, he is not interested.”

CHAPTER 31

One mild November day, the prophecy came true: Rupali, the lumbering, sweet-natured Aynakhal elephant, in an act of goaded frenzy, killed her
mahut
—the same
mahut
who had lovingly hand-reared her from the time she was a month-old calf. For forty-one years, Rupali had lived outside his hut. The
mahut
’s babies crawled in the dust under her belly and played with her trunk; as toddlers they leaned against her enormous tree-trunk legs to take their first faltering steps into the world. Rupali was a part of the
mahut
’s family, and the mindless ferocity with which she murdered him came as such a shock to us all.

As the story goes, the three
mahuts
were bathing the elephants at the Aynakhal Lake. The gigantic beasts lolled in the shallows like miniature islands while the men traipsed up and down their backs, giving them a good rubdown with coconut husks, which they enjoyed greatly. Suddenly, without any warning, Rupali heaved herself to her feet, sending her
mahut
sliding into the water. The other two
mahuts
watched in horror as she grabbed the man
by one leg and dragged him over the river rocks and into the jungle. There she killed him with one deadly blow against a tree trunk, with such brute force it was rumored his brains had to be scraped off the tree bark. Rupali then proceeded to trample the
mahut
’s body before crashing off into the forest, trumpeting with demented fury.

Manik had gone to the lake where the incident happened. The sight of the
mahut
’s mutilated body was so ghastly he was sick to his stomach. He had been unable to eat lunch that day.

It made me sick to even hear about it. “Surely, there must be a reason why it happened,” I insisted.

Still shattered, Manik only shook his head dumbly.

I later wondered if it was something to do with the way young elephants are domesticated in captivity. The animals are captured and chained by their feet during their taming period and forced into servitude by being deprived of food and water. When they are broken and become submissive the heavy metal chain is removed from their feet and replaced by a rope. The elephant can easily break free of the rope, but by then they are psychologically conditioned to believe they are powerless. Rupali had reclaimed her power and freedom. She fled into the forest, never to be seen again.

This was not the first time an elephant had gone on a rampage and killed its
mahut
. Often there was no explanation as to why a domesticated elephant turned rogue. Some conjectured the
mahut
may have abused Rupali in fits of drunken rage, but this was soon dismissed. The only illogical conclusion one could come to was Rupali was a marked animal with a bifurcated tail and violence was inherent in her nature.

* * *

News traveled quickly in tea circles. Holly Watson’s notoriety preceded him like the stink from a rotting carcass. It was rumored he was a corrupt manager who left every tea garden bankrupt or embroiled in labor problems, that he took bribes from equipment suppliers and sold timber and bricks from the garden for personal profit. Jardine & Henley could not sack him because he had connections in the higher ranks. When things got tight they simply transferred him. And now the bad news was Holly Watson would be taking over from Ian McIntyre as Manager of Aynakhal Tea Estate.

“I heard about that bastard,” said Larry. “I am not going to survive a single day working under him.” They were at the Mariani Club. Manik had been playing tennis with Rob Ashton, Larry and Peewee. Debbie and I sat on the shaded club veranda, drinking fresh lime soda while little Emma ran around picking dandelions, which she piled on my stomach, “for the baby.”

“Is this the same Watson who beat a coolie and started a labor riot?” Rob Ashton wiped his face with a white towel. Emma was pushing dandelions into her daddy’s socks.

“That’s right,” said Larry, scribbling his order on a club chit. “Gin and tonic. Finger chips,” he said to the bearer, handing the pad back. “That incident happened in Baghpara Tea Estate when Watson was Manager. The coolie went into a coma and died. He was kicked to death, I believe.”

“Have you had something to eat, darling?” Manik asked me.

“I’m fine,” I said, still trying to digest the disturbing news about Manik’s future boss. Manik did not appear to be bothered, for some reason. I turned to Larry. “Do you know anyone who’s actually worked under Holly Watson?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” said Larry. “Do you fellows remember that tall drummer fellow who played with the band on New Year’s Eve? Lovely chap. I forget his name.”

“Are you talking about Mike Leonard?” said Rob. “Folks call him Lonnie.”

“That’s right. That’s the chap. Lonnie,” said Larry. “Lonnie was assistant at Baghpara during that riot. He said Watson’s a mean bastard. His wife’s a raving alcoholic—a closet gin drinker.”

“Aren’t you worried, Manik?” I said. “Watson is going to be your new boss.”

Manik shrugged, sprinkling salt and pepper over his finger chips. “I don’t know, darling. I haven’t met Watson and I wouldn’t jump to conclusions. Sometimes rumors are just that. Rumors.”

Larry shot him an exasperated glance. “Oh for God’s sake, get a grip, Manny. This guy is notorious. Ask anyone in Dooars. I’m not hanging around to find out, that’s for sure. I’ve applied for a transfer.”

“You are leaving Aynakhal?” I asked incredulously.

“I’ve put in my application. Whether I get the transfer is a different matter,” said Larry. “But I know for sure I don’t want to work under Watson. I have heard enough bad things.” He turned to Debbie and looked mournful. “Besides, my girlfriend Debbie is following her worthless husband to Papua New Guinea. How can I live without her?”

That made me even more depressed. Debbie had told me they were thinking of moving to Papua New Guinea. A new tea industry was opening up there and British companies were looking for experienced planters to run the plantations. Many Assam planters had opted to move there. The pay was great; so were the perks.

“When are you leaving for Papua New Guinea?” I asked Debbie.

“We don’t know yet, but Robby’s papers should arrive second or third week of January. It’s such a shame to be moving in January. It’s party season in Assam and raining cats and dogs in Papua New Guinea.”

“I wish you didn’t have to go,” I said. The very thought of the Ashtons leaving filled me with sadness.

“Oh, we don’t want to go, either,” Debbie said, giving my arm a little squeeze. “I will really miss you, Layla. But we have to think of Emma’s education. The company will pay for her boarding school in England. And Emmi will learn to speak with a la-di-da accent and marry a Greek millionaire, won’t you, my darling?” She winked at Emma. “Then she can take care of her mummy and daddy in their old age.”

“I am not going to Pappy Ginny. I am going to marry Uncle Jimmy and stay in Dega,” announced Emma.

“Say, Emma, that’s not fair!” cried Peewee petulantly. “You said you’d marry
me
?”

Emma looked a little guilty-eyed as she pulled apart a dandelion. She had indeed publicly announced her betrothal to Uncle Peewee.

“Then I’ll marry
both
of you,” she said brightly.

“That’s even better,” said Rob. “I can’t think of a more charming pair of sons-in-law.”

Everybody laughed but me. I was beginning to get a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. All the familiar faces would be gone: Larry had applied for a transfer, the Ashtons and McIntyres were leaving. And then there was Holly Watson....

“I’m going to the library to return my books,” I said to Manik, struggling out of my chair. I was getting big with the baby.

I stepped gingerly across the main hall, where two men were polishing the wooden dance floor with rags and Mason’s polish. Molly Dodd waved to me from the doorway to the bar. She and another lady were putting up the decorations for the children’s Christmas party. A massive piñata was strung across the length of the dance floor and colorful crepe streamers hung from the ceiling fans.

In the library I was surprised to find Raja shelving books. He gave me a big smile.

“I didn’t expect to find you here,” I exclaimed.

“I’m only here for a day, madam. I came to take my sisters back to Silchar,” Raja said. “When is the baby due, may I ask?”

“In another seven weeks or so.”

“You will return to Silchar, I suppose, for the delivery?”

“That’s the plan.”

“I see,” said Raja. He thoughtfully stacked one book on top of the other. When he looked back at me, his eyes were serious. “You may want to consider leaving early, madam,” he said quietly. “My brother Dinesh has sent word there is going to be a big political rally in Mariani. He fears there will be violence and bloodshed. Which is why I came to take my sisters back to Silchar.”

“When is this rally?” I asked, feeling slightly alarmed. “And what is it about?”

“I believe it is next month. The Communist party is staging a demonstration to unite and unionize the labor in the tea gardens. They are planning a big uprising. Many activists are arriving by train from other parts of Assam. Mariani is going to be the hub.”

“Is your mother leaving for Silchar, as well?” I asked.

“Ma does not want to leave Baba here by himself. She will stay with him as long as she can.”

“Is your brother Dinesh a member of the Communist party?”

“Yes. He is one of the group leaders under Prasad Sen.”

“
Prasad Sen!
Prasad Sen of Silchar?”

“Yes, madam. He is the main Communist party leader in Assam.”

Kona’s father!

“Thank you, Raja, for telling me this,” I said, feeling bewildered at the news. “I will tell Manik and we will make a decision.”

* * *

Manik insisted I leave immediately for Silchar with Raja and his sisters.

“We should not take a risk with the baby, Layla. Things can turn ugly very quickly in situations like this. I have to take over as Acting Manager after Mr. McIntyre leaves, and I won’t be able to leave Aynakhal until Holly Watson arrives. He is supposed to be here the first week of January. What if something happens in the meantime?”

“There is no point in me going to Silchar six weeks early, Manik,” I said. “Raja said if he hears any further news he will pass it on to us through his uncle Bimal Babu at Aynakhal. If things get really bad, Raja’s mother is going to leave. I can leave with her.”

“So Prasad Sen is behind it all!” Manik exclaimed. “This is the same Communist party that is creating all the problems at the Fertility Hill. I didn’t know he was the party leader. I really think he is out to take personal revenge on me.”

“Or on Dadamoshai. He is not happy because Dadamoshai forced him to take Kona back.”

“Well, he can’t do much to rile up Aynakhal labor for sure,” said Manik. “We have a very loyal labor force here. They got a big bonus this year, and they are not interested in getting unionized. Besides, they fully trust their managers to take care of them.”

I was suddenly not so sure. I knew the quality of tea-garden management began at the top. The General Manager was the head—the mind and brains of a tea plantation; the assistants were his arms, and the Jemindars in charge of the
chokri challans
were the legs that moved the entire labor force. Good labor management was at the heart of all successful tea gardens. More than knowledge or expertise, it took integrity, sound judgment and excellent people skills to be a good
Mai-Baap
. The
Mai-Baap
had to be firm, fair and above reproach. Holly Watson had misused his power and kicked a coolie to death. I wondered if violence was inherent in his nature—like an elephant with a bifurcated tail?

I believe from that day onward, everything began to change in Aynakhal.

* * *

Work in the tea plantation slowed during the cold season. There was no plucking, only pruning, fertilizing and maintenance work in the growing areas. The machinery in the factory was overhauled and new roads and labor lines built. Our bungalow was undergoing structural repairs.

There were many changes in the weeks that followed. Manik was appointed Acting Manager and expected to “hold the fort” in the interim till Holly Watson arrived in the third week of December to replace Ian McIntyre. Larry Baker got his transfer and moved to another Jardines garden in Dooars, leaving Aynakhal to find a new Junior Assistant. Meanwhile, we moved temporarily into the McIntyre’s old
burrabungalow
.

It felt strange living there. Audrey McIntyre’s well-ordered household and beautiful garden seemed to belong to somebody else: it was like stepping into another person’s perfectly tailored but ill-fitting clothes.

I noticed a change in the
borchee
the very first day I arrived. He looked sullen and discontented and had an insolent air about him. No matter what menu I specified for the day, he cooked what he pleased, mostly bland and unimaginative food, hurriedly thrown together. One time we got mulligatawny soup three days in a row. When I questioned him, he gave me airs and acted as though it was beneath his dignity to take orders from an Indian memsahib. I also found out he hardly came into the kitchen anymore and the
paniwalla
was doing all the cooking. I finally had enough of him.

I told him to take extended leave. “Report back for duty when the new memsahib arrives. I don’t need you in this bungalow any longer.” I made it clear he understood that he was taking leave without pay. The
borchee
was not one bit happy about it.

The bearer was slipping up, as well. His uniform was dirty. The tea tray was left lying on the veranda long after it should have been cleared. When I rang the bell he took his own sweet time to answer it, and sometimes he did not come at all. I was heavily pregnant and often laid up in bed. One time he asked to take the day off, claiming he was sick. Later that day on my way to the Ashtons, I saw him at a political rally in an open field just outside Mariani. I gave him the “extended leave” ticket, as well. Halua and Kalua were temporarily assigned in the
burrabungalow
. It was much easier managing with the known devils. I did not want to bother Manik with my domestic issues. He had enough on his hands as it was.