Teatime for the Firefly (9 page)

Yours truly,

Manik

Any sensible person would agree that throwing away the civil-service job was nothing short of impaired judgment on Manik’s part. What was more disconcerting, Manik had accepted the tea job “on a whim” without having a clue of what it entailed. As for signing the contract agreeing not to get married for three years...
three years!
Did he expect Kona to wait for him? I could sympathize with Manik when he said he felt he was being pressured into marriage and understand him needing more time to think, but his whole handling of the situation with the families was nothing short of dishonorable. I could never imagine Dadamoshai, for one, doing something so cowardly. But I found myself dismissing his shortcomings for my own selfish reason: receiving his letters made me so deliriously happy, nothing else really mattered.

CHAPTER 11

Manik and I continued to exchange letters over the next several months. The weather ceased to matter and I had only two kinds of days. Good Days and Waiting Days. April arrived and a subdued
dhola
drumbeat
pulsed through the bamboo grooves.
It was
Rangoli Bihu,
the spring harvest festival—the most joyous time in Assam, typically celebrated with a whole week of reveling and feasting. But that year the festivities were low-key because a thread of tension was running through our town.

In a surprise move, the Japanese Imperial Army had infiltrated India through Assam. They inched past the sawtooth mountains into Manipur and headed straight for the small Naga town of Dimapur, just northeast of Silchar. The invasion came on the heels of Britain’s crushing defeat in Singapore and its faltering hold on other colonies around the globe. It was a tactical move by the Japanese to overthrow the British in India. Dimapur was the hub of the Assam-Bengal railway, the only lifeline of food and military supplies for British troops stationed in Burma. If the Japanese captured Dimapur it would have devastating consequences for British troops and the British Empire and most likely tip the balance of power.

Suddenly Assam was no longer inviolable. The lights in Dadamoshai’s house stayed on all night as community leaders gathered on our veranda to discuss the Japanese situation. It was 2:00 a.m. and cups of tea remained untouched, dark rings forming on the inside rim. I sat quietly hidden in the shadows of the jasmine trellis, listening to the elders talk.

“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.

The only people who have not reconciled themselves to these events are my family. I got a telegram from them, as well. Two telegrams in one week. A record! I have been officially disowned. I guess it was expected. There is little I can do to make good on that front. Their views are not aligned with mine.

Mr. Eastwood’s visit went off without a hitch. To answer your question, a VA is a Visiting Agent. They are company directors from London who visit the gardens annually. It is a nerve-racking affair for us because we have to impress them. The plantation (especially the sections he will inspect) is spruced up. The factory looks spotless, the machinery running in impeccable order. Mr. McIntyre has been on edge and running us assistants ragged for weeks. He can be impossibly demanding. Not a single hair can be out of place.

The VA’s visit was topped off with a dinner thrown by the McIntyres for all the planters in the district. A very formal affair, it was. I realized to my dismay a mouse had chewed a hole in my only dinner jacket, so I had to borrow one from Alasdair. I have placed an order for a new suit from Calcutta.

You also asked about a gentleman by the name of James Lovelace, an acquaintance of the Rai Bahadur’s. I have heard of him. He is a director, I believe, at the head office at Jardines. I have never personally met him.

All else is well. I miss you.

With warm wishes,

Manik

Manik slipped as easily into his writing as he did his own skin. His letters were genuine and unhurried, never pretentious or seeking to impress. His life unfurled before my eyes. It was almost like sitting on the veranda talking to him. I watched for the faintest signs of interest buried in his words: a telltale giveaway to show his heart was leaning toward mine. Only once did he begin his letter with “My dear Layla” instead of just “Dear Layla.” Another time he ended with “fondly” instead of “yours.” Nothing besides that, from what I could tell.

Aynakhal T.E.

12th May 1945

My dear Layla,

I am still recovering from VE Day celebrations at the Mariani Club. It was a jolly if somewhat confusing affair. We planters are happy to celebrate anything at the drop of a hat. We sometimes celebrate when there is nothing to celebrate—in other words, we are a bunch of hopeless drunks. However, VE Day seemed a legitimate reason until we invited four British RAF servicemen to tag along. One of them is a fellow named Eddie. He is Flint Whitestone’s cousin. Flint is the Assistant Manager of Kootalgoorie, and my bridge partner.

The soldiers were hardly in a celebratory mood as they are being deployed to Burma. The victory in Europe seems unreal, they say, a farce, really. Hitler’s war may have ended but the war with Japan is far from over. Fresh troops are arriving in India and Burma every day to fight the Japanese. While the rest of the world celebrates VE Day with buntings and banners and dancing on the streets, it does not feel like the end of the war for these lads. Eddie said the soldiers of the British Liberation Army interpret the initials BLA as “Burma Looms Ahead.” As you can imagine, our hearts broke for these poor fellows, and planters being the sympathetic and hospitable bunch we are, we invited them to drown their sorrows at the club—all on the house, of course. We gave them a grand and sentimental send-off. Now all four of them want to become tea planters when the war is over.

On a more sober note, talking to the airmen made me realize how shielded we planters have been from the austerities of war. We have remained relatively untouched because tea gardens are so remotely located and cut off from the mainstream and we don’t depend on outside resources for our survival. The lads envied our big bungalows and lavish lifestyle. They were surprised to learn that we never had to deal with war rationing and shortages while the rest of the world suffered with five inches of bathwater, no heating and no bananas. I never realized how lucky I am, until I met those poor sods who are being shipped off to Burma.

I wish the war was over for all of us. It seems unfair that some celebrate, while others see no end in sight.

Yours truly,

Manik

Love survives in a bubble. It diffuses outer reality and reflects only what the heart wants to see. Looking back, I remember little of the grimness of war and the tumultuous events that were reshaping our world. I lived only for Manik’s letters and a single sweep of his pen could set me sailing on a daydream. The fateful day the A-bomb dropped on Japan was a rude wake-up call. It made me aware of how myopic my world had become and how far I had strayed from my own moral compass and it shook me to my core.

20th September 1945

Dear Manik,

We are still reeling from the news of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. These are surely the darkest of times and I believe morally mankind has regressed back to the dark ages. Japan may be thousands of miles away but how can any human being with a conscience remain unaffected by this horrific tragedy? Dadamoshai says he wishes he had never lived to see this day. He and I spend hours trying to understand how the barbaric act of dropping an A-bomb can even remotely justify winning the war and we come up with no answers.

We held a special session at the school today to answer the many questions the students have about it all. Dadamoshai, as you know, does not believe in shielding children from the truth. He thinks it is essential they understand the mindless cruelty of war and the importance of peace. As a show of solidarity the children are making origami paper cranes to hang in the school hallways. I am enclosing one for you.

Yours,

Layla

I don’t know when exactly Manik’s letters became love letters. His emotions were so carefully woven into his writing, they were hard to detect. They were like the subtle creeping of dawn that imperceptibly transforms night into day.

If I spread out his letters in chronological order, across my bed, on the floor, along the windowsill and over my desk—because yes, that is how much space they were occupying in my life at that time—I can distinctly see the emotional tilt: a nuanced word here, a small heart tug there and occasionally a tiny but unmistakable flicker of passion.

It took Manik a whole suitcase of letters and two and a half years to declare his love for me. This was the letter I received from him dated November 12, 1945. It was the first time he addressed me as “dearest.”

Aynakhal T.E.

12th November 1945

Dearest Layla,

I stayed up all night thinking of you. Sometimes I long for you so much, it hurts.

I don’t know when I will see you again. I wish there was an easy way. I could meet you in secret someplace. I choose not to. It would be disrespectful to Rai Bahadur—not something I am prepared to do, now or ever. I have decided therefore to play this game by the rules.

Enough water has passed under the bridge and I think it is safe for me to make my next move. Before that, I need to know how you feel about me. I am keeping my fingers crossed.

I have nothing much to offer you, Layla. Only myself and my rather unconventional life here in Aynakhal. If there is any woman I would love to share this adventure with, it’s you. I promise to take care of you with every inch of my being, my life and everything I have.

With all my love,

Manik

PS: How very absurd—I forgot my main reason for writing this letter. WILL YOU MARRY ME, LAYLA?

I thought a hundred times of what to write back. I needed to reply immediately. All I wanted to say was “yes” so I wrote YES in the middle of the page. Was it too big? Too small? Did it look hurried, overeager? Wobbly, unsure? I went over and over the three letters,
Y-E-S
, with my pen so many times that the ink cracked through the paper to the other side. I wondered what else I should add.

What do you say when you are given everything you have ever wished for, handed to you on a silver platter? So I wrote in pip-squeak letters, small enough to blind an ant, “That makes me very happy.”

* * *

There is thunder in the distance; the sky is a thick slate-gray. The lily pond reflects a broken moon, like cracked eggshells on dark waters. A thousand fireflies spiral down from the sky. They hit the water with a pop and spin in dizzying ripples of electric light. Manik is standing by the edge of the pond. He reaches down to catch the fireflies in his cupped hands but they spin out of reach. He takes a step forward, stumbles and falls. He clutches at the reeds but they give way. I see the long ropelike stems of the lilies unwinding from the muddy depths of the pond. They are muscular and strong. They twist around Manik’s ankles. They pull him down. There is something floating up from the murky depths of the pond. It’s a face: round, pale and placid as the moon. It’s my dead mother. Her eyes are open and staring. She stretches out her pale, white hands. Her fingers are curled like chrysanthemums. She grabs Manik. He kicks and splashes before disappearing in a dark swirl of thick water. Ripples of neon wrinkle at the reedy shore. The waters recompose and the moon rocks like a cradle.