Teatime for the Firefly (24 page)

The group of young women stood at the far end of the hall by a Ping-Pong table. They turned their heads to watch as we navigated the length of the dance floor. Laurie walked with exaggerated slowness by my side, taking tiny steps.

“Blimey, how do you even walk in that...?” she said, sweeping a hand toward my sari.

“I’m used to it,” I said. “Besides, I walk faster than this, you know. I don’t really have bound feet.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know, like the Chinese?”

Laurie gave me a blank look and shrugged. She turned to wave girlishly at her friends. The veiled look she exchanged with them seemed to say
listen,
this was not my idea.

“This is...” She turned to me, already forgetting my name.

“Layla Deb,” I said.

There was an awkward silence. The ladies regarded me like an exotic but potentially dangerous animal. After a few stilted introductions, they concluded I did not speak sufficient English and resumed their conversation as though I wasn’t there. Listening to them, I gathered they were an unsure lot, still struggling to come to grips with the oddities of Assam, the intricacies and challenges of playing the memsahib.
They spent a great deal of time complaining about the “natives” or gossiping about who was having an affair with whom. It seemed a fair amount of bed swapping took place with or without tacit permission.

It was hard to imagine what it must have felt like landing in Assam from some distant, foggy shore, halfway around the world. It must have hit new brides with the impact of a sledgehammer. Assam, in many ways, was like being trapped in a swamp, where everything clawed and bit, and cries for help were swallowed by the screech of monkeys. The very delicate ones would take it the hardest, I imagined. The extreme humidity made hair collapse like a ruined soufflé. Lipsticks melted, nails chipped trying to open bloated drawers and high-heeled shoes took a nasty beating they did not deserve. Even a short walk from the parking lot to the club could risk a twisted ankle or a miserable step in the mud. I gathered when the young tea wives returned home on vacation, they were light years behind fashion with their bad haircuts, homemade dresses styled from Butterick paper patterns and Indian Bata sandals. The men were feathered warriors, whereas the women had turned into dowdy sparrows. In every way it was grossly unfair.

Betsy Lamont was newly married and in her early twenties. She was the wife of Danny Lamont, the Assistant Manager of Chulsa Tea Estate, and a high-strung beauty, groomed tight like a neatly clipped hedge. The other wives did not have the heart to tell her she was fighting a losing battle. Betsy sported an ugly purple bruise over her left eye. I was wondering if Danny Lamont was a wife beater, when I learned otherwise.

Hullock apes were the bane of Chulsa Tea Estate. The assistant’s bungalow was in a deeply forested area, right in the middle of the monkeys’ den. Not only did the Lamonts have to contend with howls and shrieks at the crack of dawn, but the rascals peeped into their bedroom and wandered in at any given opportunity. Betsy found a monkey smashing her lipsticks on the dressing table. The brazen creature bared its awful teeth and flung a hairbrush, narrowly missing her eye, before jumping out of the window and crashing into the mulberry tree.

“How dreadful,” said Molly Dodd. She was a big-boned, flat-chested English girl with doleful eyes and terrible posture. “S’pose you have to keep the windows closed now all the time.”

“I hate those filthy monkeys,” said Laurie Wood, twirling the end of her ponytail with her finger. “Why don’t you get Danny to shoot the bloody creatures.”

“What, and have the servants blame us for killing their monkey god?” Betsy threw up her hands. “You can’t kill monkeys, you can’t kill cows and you can’t kill...God knows what else. Danny says it can start a labor riot. Anything can start a damn labor riot. Bollocks! They’re just damn coolies, for Pete’s sake. Take away their jobs. Make them starve to death. It’ll teach them who’s the boss.”

If we had no coolies we’d have no tea garden, I thought to myself. All our husbands would be out of jobs, boss or no. Labor management was a delicate balance of give and take. One side did not have more leverage than the other.

“Our jeep hit a white owl once.” Molly blinked her bovine eyes. She leaned against the table, round-shouldered and pigeon-toed. “’Twas still stuck on the fender when we got home. The coolies blamed the low profits of the garden that year on that owl’s death. The owl is the goddess of wealth or something.”

Laxmi was the goddess of wealth. The owl was her mascot.

“So backward, these natives,” said Betsy bitterly. “I feel like giving them a good rattling sometimes. Even the educated ones are no better.”

There was an uncomfortable silence and they all looked at me. I pretended not to hear but I wondered what these ladies would make of someone like Dadamoshai.

“I see Jimmy O’Connor is here,” said Laurie, changing the subject. “What happened to his neck, I wonder?”

Jimmy O’Connor. The name rang a bell. Then I remembered Emma’s giant in “Jack and the Beanstalk.” Now I could see why Emma thought so: the man leaning against the bar was massive, with flaming red hair. Jimmy O’Connor certainly looked as if he had fallen off the beanstalk, because his neck was in a brace.

“Danny said he got hit by a goose,” Betsy said.

“A
goose
? What on earth!” Molly cried, breaking into a honking laugh, sounding rather like a goose herself. “
Bit
by a goose, you mean. Oh, for heavens sake!”

“No, darling, he was
hit
by a goose when he was out on shikar with that Alasdair Carruthers, from our garden.” Betsy shot a sly look at the group. “Y’know, the one who has that
chokri
girl. He’s s’posed to be an earl and all. I don’t believe a word of it—”

“That Jimmy O’Connor also has, you know, one of those...” Molly whispered in a gossipy voice.

“OPs. Yes, yes.” Laurie waved her hands impatiently. “Her name is Miss Shulai, if you must know. She’s a Khasi whore. She speaks decent English at least. G’on, tell us about the goose, Betsy. What happened?”

“Well, anyway, they were out hunting and Jimmy O’Connor shoots a goose on the wing tip like he always does—”

“Why does he shoot them on the wing tip?” asked Molly, blinking.

“So that he can clip off their wings and keep them as pets. He always does that. Very odd man, that Jimmy O’Connor. He has big flocks of Himalayan geese wandering in his lawn. They are aggressive as any guard dogs and chase off intruders entering his bungalow. He is very antisocial and wants to be left alone, but he keeps getting bothered by that dodgy Indian Forest Officer from Mariani. Animals enter Dega from Kaziranga all the time and that man—”

Laurie threw up her hands. “Betsy, you are not getting to the point, darling. For God’s sake, what happened to Jimmy O’Connor’s
neck
?”

“Oh. He shot this goose and it came crashing down and landed on his head. They are huge. It almost broke his neck, so they say.”

“How terrible,” Molly said, shaking her head.

Laurie snorted. “Bloody funny, if you ask me. Anyway, I don’t care about his neck. I wish he would give me some of his heirloom-tomato cuttings.”

“Why don’t you ask him for some?” said Betsy.

Laurie looked at her scornfully. “Who even
talks
to Jimmy O’Connor? The only people he’s friendly with are the Ashtons and Alasdair Carruthers—that Carruthers is a dark horse, if you ask me.”

“Have you seen his
chokri
? Ugly hag she is, short and dumpy,” said Betsy. “I don’t know what Alasdair sees in her. Danny says he’s very faithful, though.”

“She must be a hot chutney in bed,” said Laurie.

I was thinking about Jimmy O’Connor’s heirloom tomatoes. “What is special about the tomatoes?” I asked suddenly. They all stared at me, taken aback. I realized this was the first time I had spoken. All this while the conversation had flowed easily around me, like water around a river rock.

“Jimmy O’Connor grows the best heirloom tomatoes in the district. They are unlike anything you have ever seen,” said Laurie. “He got the seeds from a gardener in some English castle. Jimmy O’Connor won’t share the seeds with anybody.”

“Has anybody asked him for some? Those tomatoes would take the blue ribbon at the flower show, for sure,” Betsy said.

“
You
try asking him,” said Laurie. “He’s a real unfriendly sort. I believe he got that way after his wife died.”

“She was trampled by a rogue elephant. I heard that awful story,” Molly said.

“Danny says he is an excellent tea planter but has a drinking problem,” Betsy said. “So talking about drinking, who is coming to my shandy brunch? Fiona Clayton is back and she’ll be there. Oh, Laurie, darling, you must bring your homemade mulberry wine for tasting.” Betsy looked around the group. Her eyes skimmed over me. There was an awkward pause. I guess I had not been invited.

I looked for an excuse to get away. “I heard they have a library here?” I asked Molly.

“Yes, through that small equipment office, toward the back,” she said. “There’s not much of a selection, though, I’m afraid.”

I was grateful for an excuse to get away from those dreadful, gossipy women. I walked across the main hall still thinking about Jimmy O’Connor: his geese, his heirloom tomatoes, his missing finger and his wife trampled by a rogue elephant. What a strange man.

The equipment office smelled of carbon paper. There was a typewriter, piles of foolscap and a small shelf containing sport supplies: Ping-Pong rackets, a box of balls, some darts and billiard chalk. In the neatly ordered library beyond, I found a young Bengali man behind the desk, poring over a ledger. He had a serious, handsome face and wore glasses. He reminded me of a very young Manik.

The man looked up when I entered, capped his fountain pen and came around the desk.

“Good evening, madam,” he said, smiling warmly. He walked with a polio limp. “You must be Mrs. Deb of Aynakhal. Can I help you find a particular book?”

He introduced himself as Raja. His father was the caretaker of the Mariani Club, and his family lived in the quarters behind the clubhouse. Raja was a medical student, home on vacation, volunteering his time reorganizing the library, cataloging the books and creating a checkout system. Most times club members helped themselves to books, and left them piled up on the desk when they were returned. The club typist then stacked them randomly in the shelves. As a result it was impossible to find anything.

“How do you like it here, madam?” Raja asked. “Mr. Deb always stops by the library. He’s an avid reader. My brother Dinesh and I visited Aynakhal last summer. Mr. Deb showed us his guns and drove us around the plantation and explained how tea is grown. We will never forget his kindness.”

I asked him about his brother and a shadow crossed Raja’s face. He said his brother had dropped out of school to become a political activist. Dinesh hated the British and mocked his father for working as a mere clerk in a Planters Club, kowtowing to a drunken white population. Raja’s father and brother no longer spoke to each other.

“Dinesh has cut ties with the family,” Raja explained.

Before I could answer, Manik popped his head around the door.

“Oh, there you are. I was looking all over for you,” he said. “I see you have both got acquainted. Fine young man, our Raja is. He’s going to be a brilliant doctor.”

Raja flushed. He clearly hero-worshipped Manik.

“Raja’s uncle is Bimal Babu,” said Manik, then, seeing my blank look, he added, “Bimal Babu, our head clerk at Aynakhal. He’s been there longer than Mr. McIntyre.”

Babus
were the Bengali clerks at the garden office, I learned. They were diligent paper pushers: townsfolk who maintained their townsfolk ways and had little involvement in other aspects of tea-garden business. It was fascinating how different classes of people lived together in a tea plantation yet maintained their compartmentalized lifestyles. I was reminded of multitiered tiffin carriers: people in separate containers but banded together tightly at the top by the General Manager.

“Raja here is interested in shikar,” Manik said.

“Better I stick to my malaria research.” Raja wagged his bad leg. “I couldn’t run very far if a leopard chased me.”

“I have to get back to my bridge,” Manik said, turning to me. “Alasdair wants to speak to you.”

“All right,” I said. “Raja, you must come by and visit me the next time you are in Aynakhal.”

“Most certainly, madam.” Raja beamed. “And if there is any book you are looking for, please leave me a note and I will set it aside for you.”

“No scratch marks?” Manik said as we walked back to the bar. “I saw you cozying up with the cat gang by the Ping-Pong table.”

“Not sure I have anything in common with them,” I confessed.

Manik gave me a warm appraising look. “They are jealous, that’s what. You are too damn beautiful. Makes them feel dowdy.”

“Rubbish,” I said, but I felt a flutter in my stomach when he looked at me that way.

We walked back to the bar area and found the club bearer mopping the card table with a cheesecloth
jharan
. Alasdair looked ruefully at Manik.

“That was your whiskey, old chap.” He flipped his finger to indicate he had tipped the glass over. “I just ordered you another one.”

Larry shook his soggy matchbox. “
Cheesh
, Ally!
Look what you did to my
deshloye
, you bugger.” He skimmed his matchbox across the room, and landed it neatly inside a dustbin by the wall. He whistled softly. “Something tells me I am going to beat little Miss Debbie at darts tonight! Hey, Deb!” he yelled across at the bar. “C’mon, darling, let’s have a game.”

Alasdair smiled his deep, warm smile. “It’s good to see you, Layla. Is Manik behaving himself?”

“No complaints so far,” I said.

“I’ve been waiting to talk to you,” said Alasdair. “To thank you.”

“To thank me for what?”

“For being a friend to Jamina. She is very shy and does not talk to anyone, y’ken. Your friendship means a lot.”