Teatime for the Firefly (25 page)

I wondered what Alasdair was talking about. I had never set eyes on Jamina.

“Jamina is really lonely,” Alasdair continued. “She can’t come to the club.... Nobody invites her anywhere. People act like OPs don’t exist. But Jamina is more than that to me. In all these years, you, Layla, are the only person who has befriended her. Thank you for that.”

I did not say anything, but I was beginning to connect the dots. The lady in the green sari came to my mind. She watched me from behind the hibiscus hedge outside our bungalow gate every morning. Was that Jamina? Why did she lie to Alasdair and tell him we were friends when we had not exchanged a single word? I once tried to approach her, but she turned and scuttled off as fast as her short legs could carry her as though she was being chased by a leopard. But now that I knew who she was, I had a plan.

CHAPTER 23

She was there again the next morning. The green of her sari blended perfectly with the color of the hedge. Betsy Lamont had described Alasdair’s
chokri
as short and dumpy. The hibiscus hedge was barely five feet tall: the woman in the green sari was shorter.

I walked up to the railing and called out. “Jamina!”

The woman jerked her head and ducked behind the bush. I beckoned but she started to hurry away.

I ran down the stairs. “Jamina, wait!” I shouted. “Alasdair told me about you.”

She turned around. I had expected Jamina to be a dusky nymphet, a hot chutney who had bewitched Alasdair and kept him faithful, but this was a homely girl with sad, drooping eyes.

“Come have some tea with me,” I invited, but she stood there, her eyes downcast, fingering the free end of her sari.

“Please,” I insisted.

Still there was no reaction. I gave up and started walking back to the bungalow when I heard the click of the gate latch open. She was following me. I waited in the veranda but Jamina never came up the stairs. The next thing I knew she was walking back toward the gate. She opened it and was gone.

The second day I called her again. This time she climbed the stairs, squatted on the veranda floor but did not touch the cup of tea I put on the peg table beside her.

The third day, Halua, on his own initiative, brought her a cup of salted tea in a chipped cup like the servants drank. Jamina drank the tea in noisy slurps and left without saying a word. I noticed if I paid her any attention she shied away, but if I ignored her, she lingered. Her behavior reminded me of a furtive jungle animal.

I was almost convinced she was a mute when on the fourth day Jamina began to talk. I could hardly believe my ears. Her whole story came tumbling out in a voice as high and thin as a mosquito, yards and yards of it in one whiny monologue.

She said her mother died when she was six and her stepfather, a poor Muslim fisherman, sold her to Auntie, where she worked as a servant girl while she awaited puberty. Auntie had big plans to auction off Jamina’s virginity. She had heard of the “English King” who had become a tea planter and imagined Alasdair Carruthers to be very wealthy. Jamina was dressed up like an Indian bride and presented to Alasdair. Auntie had instructed her to let her sari slip off her shoulders so Alasdair could see her budding breasts. But the English King had looked shocked and walked out. Auntie slapped Jamina because she thought she had displeased him. But Alasdair returned the following week and offered to buy Jamina with the money he collected from selling two “purdah” guns to a colonel in Calcutta. The offer was so generous that Auntie had thrown a farewell feast.

“Purdah guns,” I learned from Manik, were not religious Muslim firearms like I imagined but a pair of Purdys—heirloom hunting rifles worth a fortune that Alasdair had inherited from his grandfather. Manik commented that Alasdair must have cared a lot for Jamina, because no man in his right senses parted with a pair of Purdys.

“Alibaba is a good man,” Jamina said. She called Alasdair “Alibaba” after his nickname “Ally,” which Jamina mistook for “Ali,” a Muslim name. They had not been intimate till she turned sixteen, Jamina said. Ever since she had been trying to conceive a child.

“I go to the Fertility Hill but Ali think I come to see you,
didi
.” She addressed me easily as an older sister. “But you must not tell him where I go. He will be angry. He does not want me to go to the Fertility Hill.”

The Fertility Hill was a popular place of pilgrimage with a dubious reputation. It was located inside the Negriting Tea Estate, between Chulsa and Aynakhal. Whether the name of the garden had anything to do with a slave girl is not known, but there was a hillock with a pagan shrine that had existed there for centuries. When Negriting was first established, the Fertility Hill was included as part of the property under the tacit agreement that the public would be allowed free access to it. This created serious problems for the Negriting management as all kinds of people traipsed through the garden to the Fertility Hill: barren brides, opium dealers and tantric ascetics with ash-covered bodies and matted hair, carrying trident spears. It attracted a criminal element and troublemakers who looked for an opportunity to “fertilize” any hopeful bride who came down the hill and often this led to brawls and bloodshed. There was an illegal shortcut through Aynakhal to Negriting that the fertility crowd trespassed through. Every now and then, Aynakhal management had to contend with a theft or some other misdemeanor, and it was always the Fertility Hill people behind it all.

“But I will tell you a secret,
didi
,”
said Jamina, loosening her sari petticoat string. “Feel my stomach. I think I am expecting a child.”

Jamina’s stomach was protruding to one side. It felt hard like a grapefruit.

“It is the baby’s head,” she said.

“Does Alasdair know?” I asked, feeling a little alarmed. Jamina’s stomach did not look normal. “How long has this been...have you been pregnant?”

Jamina counted wordlessly on her fingers. “Eleven months,” she said happily.

“
Eleven
months! You must see a doctor, Jamina. Tell Alasdair to call Doctor Emmett.”

“Oh no,” said Jamina, quickly covering up. “I cannot let an English doctor look at me without clothes.”

She sounded like I used to.

“Jamina, you must see a doctor.”

“I want to wait,
didi
. I am going to the village. I will find out from the midwife if it is a boy or girl. Then I will tell Ali.”

I knew very little about pregnancy or childbirth but Jamina appeared to be completely clueless. She was naive and unworldly, and it was easy to see why. Alasdair had rescued her from the brink of low life when she was still very young and shielded her from the realities of the world. He was very protective and took full responsibility for her welfare. That, in my opinion, made Alasdair a very extraordinary and decent human being.

“Jamina, listen to me,” I said. “Whatever the village midwife says, promise me you will see a doctor as soon as you return. This is important.”

“There is no need,
didi
,” said Jamina haughtily. “Village midwife is very good. She is birthing babies all the time. Even bringing my own mother into the world. Then my brothers and me. All my aunties and uncles. No problem.”

I was losing my patience. I had no choice but to resort to blackmail.

I looked her in the eye. “Are you saying you are not going to see a doctor, Jamina? All right, then I am going to tell Alasdair you have been lying to him all these weeks and going to the Fertility Hill instead of coming to see me. How about that? You have a choice.”

Jamina stared at me as if I was the biggest traitor in the world.

“I am doing this for your own good,” I added lamely.

She got up and walked off in a huff.

Fearing I had jeopardized our friendship, I called out after her. “Jamina, please come again tomorrow.” And I was relieved when the back of her head gave a little nod.

Aynakhal

27th March 1946

Moon, dear sister,

Letters are my lifeline in Aynakhal—my window to the real world. You have no idea how I wait for them. Our mail comes twice a week (Tuesdays and Thursdays), and Manik brings my letters home in the evening. I wait for him at the bottom of our hill and watch him carefully as he walks toward me. I can tell by his exaggerated casualness when there is something for me tucked inside his shirt. He makes me chase him up the hill and extracts as many “favors” as he can before he parts with my letters, the rascal!

I miss you, dear sister. I would give anything to share a cup of tea with you! Not that I am lonely here, mind you. Manik is wonderful company and Jamina comes every day. She is a simple girl and talks nonstop! Debbie Ashton is probably the closest I have to a friend. Debbie is writing a romance novel—“chutney fiction,” she calls it.

Emma and Budni have become best friends. I made them saris by cutting up one of mine. The garden
dhobi
burned a big hole in the saffron paisley one you liked so much. Never will I give my expensive saris to the
dhobi
again. I even stitched the girls tiny matching blouses and petticoats. You should just see those two playing house! They chatter nonstop in Hindustani and English with a lot of gibberish and head shaking thrown in. It just makes me realize language is never a barrier when there is a genuine desire to communicate.

The younger wives at the club have no such desire where I am concerned. I will always be a misfit in their circle. The older ladies (Mrs. McIntyre and her friends) are gracious and very kind but there is an unspoken rule—I am expected to socialize with the Junior Assistants’ wives.

You were curious about the “fishing fleet.” Let me explain. The First World War, as you know, had wiped out a big section of the male population in Europe. The remaining men drifted to the colonies in search of jobs. India, as you can imagine, is the prime hunting ground for young girls and war widows. The “fishing fleet” are women who come to India every winter on the pretext of visiting a relative but more blatantly to hook a catch. I was surprised to learn the British government actually pays single women to travel overseas to find husbands. It’s one way to make sure the whites marry into their own, I suppose. The ladies come in droves every winter and make a beeline for hill stations like Shillong and Simla, where most of the romancing takes place. I am told there is close to a stampede from young bachelors to seek their favor. The top pick of fleet ladies are the men in civil-service jobs living in big cities (look what Manik missed!). Next come the military lads and at the very bottom of the barrel are our poor tea planters.

Tea planters don’t encounter much feminine company, as you can imagine—at least not the eligible kind. It takes a special kind of woman to make a good planter’s wife. Debbie Ashton is a good example. She is independent, free-spirited and revels in adventure. Other wives adapt best as they can. Some suffer and survive, some run away.

Larry Baker is going to Silchar tomorrow and will post this letter. He will also pick up our order from Paul & Co. I am hoping the cake tin I ordered from Calcutta has arrived. Mrs. McIntyre has shared with me a wonderful recipe for Scottish Whiskey Dundee cake. The cake has to be “fed” four tablespoons of Scotch after baking. This makes it exceptionally rich and moist. Manik says if he got fed Scotch, he’d be rich and moist, too!

I am delighted to hear little Aesha knows so many words already. I think this one will be a chatterbox. As for Anik, I am glad he has a new favorite color, although I am not sure black makes his mother any happier.

I must end here, dear sister. I am writing to Mima next. Mima’s letter to me is a long list of questions. It will take me three pages just to answer them all.

My love to you, Jojo and Anik & Aesha.

Layla

Manik ambled around to the back of the house looking for me. I was in the
malibari
instructing the
malis
to take down the trellis for the green beans they had spent all morning putting up in the wrong bed for the carrots.

“What? Is it lunchtime already?” I exclaimed.

“I’m home early,” he said. “What’s this bamboo crisscross thing?”

“For the green beans.”

Manik made a face. When I turned around he plucked a sprig of fox grass and tickled the nape of my neck.

“Oooh!” I jumped, swiping my neck, thinking it was a caterpillar. The
malis
stopped in their work to stare at me.

Manik turned his bespectacled face, full of fake concern. “Is something wrong?”

“Behave yourself, will you,” I laughed.

He flung the fox grass away, stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. “Jimmy O’Connor was at the office. He came to see Mr. McIntyre.”

“What about?”

“He shot a leopard in Dega and wanted to know about the one we killed. He didn’t even bother getting a permit from the Forest Department.”

“Won’t he get into trouble? Won’t that Mr. Sircar come after him?”

“Nobody comes after Jimmy O’Connor. That man is a law unto himself. Jimmy O’Connor says Sircar is a far bigger menace than the animals. He’d shoot Sircar on the wing tip, if he could. If Sircar shows his face at his bungalow, Jimmy sends his wild geese and dogs to chase him out.”

It sounded as though the Forest Department had enough reasons, legitimate or otherwise, to concern themselves with Jimmy O’Connor. Kaziranga, the neighboring wildlife sanctuary, bordered three tea gardens: Aynakhal, Chulsa and Dega, but the major portion fell on the Dega side. It was common to have large animals wander into the tea plantations—water buffalo, elephants or deer, mostly. They were easily chased out. Leopards were a bigger menace, especially if they became man-eaters and started prowling the labor lines.

“Is it true Jimmy O’Connor killed a rogue elephant?”

“Not one—goodness, he has killed several! He’s an excellent shikari. Jimmy is the only planter in Assam who can take down a rogue with a single shot. He never misses.”

Rogue elephants were a tricky target, Manik explained. A shikari
had only one chance to kill it by aiming at a spot precisely between the eye and earlobe. If he missed, most likely he was mashed meat. The demented fury of a rogue elephant is legend. Bloodcurdling stories
abound in
shikar lore. Typically a double-barrel .375 Magnum rifle is used with a four-inch bullet: powerful enough to stop a train. Not many tea planters owned such a weapon. Jimmy O’Connor owned not just one, but two Magnum rifles.

“Is that story about his wife true?” I asked.

“Yes, although the elephant did not kill her directly. Jimmy’s wife got chased by a rogue and drowned in a river. Alasdair knew Jimmy’s wife. They were just newly married, back then. He and Marie—I think that was her name—were fishing in Upper Assam when they encountered a rogue on the riverbank. The elephant backed Marie into the river and she was swept away by the current and drowned. The rogue came back to chase Jimmy up a tree. He spent a whole day with the beast trumpeting and shaking the tree. He escaped with his life but it became his obsession to kill this rogue. He spent months tracking it down. During this period, it was rumored he stayed with the Naga headhunters in a tree house, ate monkey meat and drank goat’s blood. Finally he shot the elephant deep in Naga foothills. Alasdair says Jimmy was unrecognizable when he returned with his matted hair and tattered clothes. He brought back the massive tusk and had it capped in silver. He keeps Marie’s ashes inside it, I believe.”