Teatime for the Firefly (32 page)

I could well imagine that.

“Dadamoshai!” Moon laughed and clapped her hands. “You should have just seen Dadamoshai. I was squirming for poor Mr. Sen. Dadamoshai gets dangerously quiet, as you know, when he is very, very angry. Dadamoshai said, ‘Mr. Sen, it was your traditional and patriotic Hindu brothers who threw acid on a sixteen-year-old girl’s face in the name of preserving the purity of our society. Muslim’s whore or not, I beg you, sir, please explain to me how is that under
any
circumstances acceptable human behavior.’ Mr. Sen changed tactics and started to grovel. ‘Please, Rai Bahadur, sir,’ he begged, ‘I beg you, this will be the death of my political career. I am only trying to do what is good for the country.’ Dadamoshai said, ‘I’ll tell you what is good for the country, Mr. Sen. You take your daughter back, get her back on her feet, otherwise I will make sure your political career is cow dung.’”

I cheered inwardly for Dadamoshai but felt a twinge of apprehension. “Won’t Kona’s father mistreat her, if he is forced to take her back?”

Moon shook her head. “He can’t do a thing, Layla, because by law Dadamoshai can send a social worker to check on Kona, and if there is even a single complaint, Mr. Sen will have to answer in court.”

A twanging sound came from down the road, and a bearded man with long flowing hair and a saffron robe appeared outside our gate. He picked at an
ektara
—a one-stringed instrument made of a hollow gourd covered in goatskin. His bare feet jingled with ankle cuffs of tiny bells.

“Joi guru hari bol!”
the man called in greeting. His voice was clear and ringed with overtones.

Moon and I exchanged smiles. “Nimai Baul!” we both said in unison.

Nimai Baul was one of the many wandering minstrels of rural Bengal. We had known him since we were children. The
bauls
were spiritual freethinkers, without caste or religion, welcomed by both Hindus and Muslims as they wandered from village to village singing their devotional songs of life and love. They were songbirds, Dadamoshai said, pure of heart; their only quest was to seek personal salvation.

Nimai Baul plucked his
ektara
meditatively, tapped his jingled feet before breaking into a song. His powerful voice soared to the sky, where the note held and trembled for what seemed like an eternity before plummeting to earth. This was followed by a lilting, joyful refrain. He sang a folk ditty about man’s ceaseless quest for inner peace. His simple words of wisdom were like a balm to my soul, and I was reminded of the essential human goodness that still existed in our broken, prejudiced world.

As I listened I could not help but wonder about the irony of it all.
Bauls
had no possessions except the clothes on their backs and their
ektaras
. They had nothing to offer but their wisdom in a song, yet people opened their doors gladly and gave them food and shelter. They were welcomed in every home. But who would take Kona in? The only person I could think of was Dadamoshai, but it would be socially awkward for him, now that Manik was his grandson-in-law. Surely there was someone else? Aha, I thought. Yes, there was.

* * *

Martha, Miss Thompson’s housekeeper, was going senile. She forgot to use a strainer for the tea and the cups and saucers were all mismatched.

“I don’t know what to do about her,” Miss Thompson whispered. “She is really getting on. I wish she would retire and go back to her family in Goa, but I think she worries about me living alone. She has always been that way, since Daddy died. Not that I can’t manage without her, mind you. I have a part-time maid who does all the cooking and cleaning anyway. Martha is really more a companion.”

I asked Miss Thompson if she had heard the news about Kona.

“Yes, the poor child lost her husband, I heard. And so young. What a tragedy,” she said sadly, handing me a cup of tea.

It sounded as though she did not know the whole story, so I told her.

Miss Thompson sat at the edge of her seat, her tea growing cold, her eyes wide with disbelief. “What a terrible, terrible thing,” she said. “To think her in-laws would treat her so poorly. As for her own father not wanting to take her back...my goodness, she is their only child!”

“If Kona leaves her family she will need a place to stay,” I said tentatively. “Would you, by any chance, consider taking her in as a boarder?”

“Oh of course, dear, without a question,” cried Miss Thompson. “I will do anything I can to help the poor girl. In fact, I will speak to Rai Bahadur myself as soon as he returns from Calcutta. Konica is welcome to stay with me at no cost. She does the most exquisite hand embroidery, did you know? I have seen some of her beautiful tablecloths. She can easily find work at the Sacred Heart Convent, if she likes. The nuns are always shorthanded in their sewing department and could use some help.”

Martha hobbled in to clear the tea tray.

Miss Thompson glanced at Martha’s retreating back. “Who knows, this may even be a blessing in disguise. If Martha is reassured I am not alone, she may be convinced to retire.”

Suddenly I felt lighthearted and joyful. “I am happy to know at least Kona has a choice.” I mulled over the word. “Isn’t that the most wonderful word, Miss Thompson?
Choice?
”

“Yes, my dear,” Miss Thompson said, leaning forward to pat my hand. “It is the best gift a parent can give a child. It is what your grandfather gave you.”

CHAPTER 30

It was the end of July, and one pearly dawn, just like that, he was there. Manik crept into Dadamoshai’s house through the unlocked kitchen door, entered my room and crawled into bed with me. The sun was a smudge in the sky and the birds still had not woken. It was barely four o’clock.

Suspended between dreams and wakefulness, I felt his body mold into mine. He kissed the nape of my neck. Manik had day-old stubble, and his hair smelled of dust from the road. He stroked my face gently. “Why did you go away?” he whispered. “Last night I missed you so much, I could not bear it a minute longer. I had to come and get you.”

He kissed my throat and ran his hand softly over the curve of my belly.

“Manik,” I said, covering his hand with mine. “Please wait...I have something to tell you. I’m pregnant.”

I felt his sharp intake of breath followed by a rigid stillness.

In the dim light, his face hovered over mine and I saw the question in his eyes. I nodded and his eyes filled with childlike wonderment and joy. He buried his face in my breast. I felt his breath through the thin material of my nightdress. “Oh, Layla,” he said, his voice cracked with emotion. “This is wonderful news.”

“I don’t know how it happened.... We were so careful,” I murmured, running my fingers through the tangles of his hair.

“We are having a baby,” Manik said softly.

“Yes,” I said, suddenly thrilling at the thought, “our baby.”

The sparrows were beginning to stir on the jasmine trellis, and the first slat of sunshine slipped through the curtain and fell diagonally across the bed, lighting the parrot print on my bedcover. Manik made love to me with a deep tenderness, a reverence almost. We were both acutely aware of the precious life inside me. The world seemed so much larger that day, expansive and fuller somehow. It had stretched beyond its normal boundaries, and it would never be the same.

* * *

Back in our bungalow in Aynakhal, Manik had a surprise waiting for me. The “surprise” was five weeks old and had just had a small accident on the veranda. Jimmy O’Connor had offered Manik the pick of the litter, and this little pup had attacked his shoelaces and would not let go, so of course he had to be the one. The puppy cocked his head from side to side as Manik talked about him. He was coal-black with a caramel smudge on his chest and caramel stockinged feet. His eyes were bright and curious and his ears pricked at the slightest sound.

“Purebred, pedigree Alsatian. Prime stock,” Manik said proudly, tickling the puppy, who rolled over on his back and tried to chew his hand with tiny pointy teeth. “They make the best guard dogs in the world.”

A mynah cackled loudly on the lawn and the puppy gave a panicked look and crawled under the coffee table. “Of course he will need some confidence building before that,” Manik said.

“What will we call him?” I tried to entice the puppy out, but he gave a tiny growl and looked fierce. He was so droll I had to laugh.

“I was thinking of naming him Marshal. But you can choose a name. He arrived only four days ago.”

Hearing his name, the puppy pricked up his ears, gave a tiny woof and ran out from under the coffee table, wagging his tail.

“I think he has decided for himself,” I said. Marshal sounded too serious for this tiny ball of fun, but hopefully he would grow into his name.

The puppy tugged the bottom of my sari and ran around my legs, almost tripping me. Then he went off to fetch an old tennis ball from under the hat stand. It was too big for his mouth so he pushed it along with his nose, growling menacingly.

“Alsatians are intelligent and fearless guard dogs. They protect you with their life.” Manik gave Marshal a little prod with his toe. “I’d feel better with him around, especially now with the baby. You’ll take care of Layla and the baby, won’t you, Marshal?”

Marshal gave a small woof, which quickly turned into a sneeze. He rubbed a paw over his wet nose. Then he sneezed again and looked at us, bewildered.

“I could watch him all day,” I laughed.

“Someday he will watch you,” Manik said. “We have to be strict with him from the beginning. Alsatians need discipline and training. I got some tips from Jimmy O’Connor. Marshal must be kept in check and never allowed into the living room or bedroom. The veranda is his limit. If he tries to enter any other room, give him a smack on the nose and say ‘NO’ very loudly.”

As I walked toward the bedroom, the puppy followed on clumsy feet, wagging his tail. He hesitated at the doorway; his ears drooped as he turned to look up questioningly at Manik, cocking his head slightly. Manik wagged a finger and barely mouthed the word. The puppy gave a plaintive whimper and flopped down outside the door. I guess in four days Marshal had already received his fair share of “nos” and nose smacks.

Given Manik’s penchant for shikar, I was curious why he had chosen an Alsatian, a guard dog, over a hunting breed like a Lab or Retriever. Manik became thoughtful when I asked him. He pushed his glasses up on his forehead and rubbed his eyes. When he looked at me, a shadow quickly crossed his face.

“Times are uncertain, Layla,” he said soberly. “There has been trouble in several gardens.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Labor trouble. Local politicians are infiltrating the gardens, waving communist flags and pushing the labor to get unionized. Bribing them with money and opium.”

“Why aren’t the companies doing anything about it?”

“British companies are changing hands to Indian ownership. This is a period of transition. Nobody quite knows what will happen.” Manik’s eyes were serious. A small muscle twitched in his jaw. “There may come a time when we tea planters have to protect ourselves. Guns and dogs are all we have.”

The puppy scratched on the bedroom door and whimpered.

Manik smiled. “But now with our trusty mastiff, we don’t have to worry, do we?”

* * *

Alsatians are one-man dogs, they say, and Marshal considered Manik his alpha leader. Marshal eventually grew to be eighty pounds of muscle and stealth. He had powerful sloping shoulders and long pointed canines. He was unmistakably a guard dog. Within the next few weeks he lost his puppy playfulness and became self-assured, razor sharp and quick as an arrow. His ears were always pointed, his brown almond-shaped eyes watchful. Any suspicious sound and the muscles in his body pulled back like a slingshot.

With the arrival of Marshal, one more servant got added to our retinue: the
Kutta-walla
, or dog caretaker. Servants in bungalows had very specific and regimented roles. One person’s work never overlapped the other. The bearer would not care for dogs, and the cook would not cook for the animal. Animal care was deemed below their status.

The
Kutta-walla
was a man called Montu. He was a morose-looking fellow with a long face and sad eyes. Montu’s job was to boil the beef for Marshal’s meal and pluck the burrs and ticks from his shaggy coat and hose him down if he got muddy.

Marshal was a true aristocrat. There was a certain aloofness about him: no fawning, begging or greedy gobbling. When Montu dished out his food, Marshal cocked an ear and waited awhile before he sidled up to his dish. He never wolfed down his meal but ate always alert and watchful. The only attention Marshal sought was from Manik. It was not petting or a treat that he wanted but validation. If Manik said, “Good dog,” Marshal fanned his long sweeping tail slowly from side to side. His jaw hung open and he smiled, his brown intelligent eyes acknowledging the tribute. He was modest, never humble.

22nd September 1946

Layla-ma,

Are you eating properly, ma? You must take your egg in the morning and eat plenty of curds and drink milk twice a day. Good nutrition is most essential. This is not the time to think of yourself, but what is good for your baby. You have very poor eating habits since a child. I blame your Dadamoshai for this. He got you too much interested in books and should have never allowed reading at the dining table.

As you can see from the newspaper article, your uncle Robi received a prestigious award from the Assam University for his Bacteriological research. But what can I tell you,
maiyya
! He is so absentminded he forgot to attend his own award ceremony! What a shame. He did not mention a single word about this to me, otherwise I would have made sure we attended the function.

I am just back from Silchar. The Sacred Heart Convent had its annual fundraising fete and I saw some lovely hand-embroidered tablecloths in a stall and wanted to buy one for you. I was so busy choosing the tablecloth, I did not notice a girl smiling at me. When I went to pay her, I could not believe my eyes—it was Kona! You will never recognize her now with her skirt and her short curly hair. She looks exactly like an Anglo-Indian, but I must say she is looking very well.

You may have heard Moon and Jojo are leaving for Uganda? Jojo has a 3-year contract with the petrochemical company. I have mixed feelings about this. I will miss the children, especially my little Aesha, but I think it is best for them to have their own life separate from Jojo’s parents. Jojo is too much a mama’s boy, if you ask me. My only complaint is, did they have to move so far away?

You must be careful now, ma. There is no need for you to engage in rough activities like driving the jeep and shooting the guns. Manik should have had more sense than to teach you all this.

With my love,

Mima

25th September 1946

Dear
didi
,

I now real memsahib in
burrabungalow
. Bungalow too big. Many servant keel-meel everywhere. Nobody listen. I tell
borchee
make chili omelet but he make fry egg with raw top like English eat. For Ali birthday I make Dondy cake like you teach, but it come out too hard like brick. I think I forget the bake powder. All tap in bathroom new. All room having fan. But I cry,
didi
. Silchar too far for Ali to take me to see my Abba. Also Ali busy. Mr. Botra, Indian owner, want to make too much tea. Not English quality, he say, but big amount for India people. India people not understand English tea. They boil too much and take strong. Mr. Lohia giving no bonus to coolie. So there is coolie trouble.

No good shikar here for Ali. Ali go all day with gun and come home with only one hedgehog. Who kill hedgehog, I laugh.
Didi
, I dream you have girl. I make green sweater for baby, knitting with hedgehog needle. Green is lucky color. I make sweater little big, so baby can wear long time. You tell baby when she is understand Jamina Auntie who make her sweater with hedgehog needle.
Didi
, you must eat two-spoon ghee every day. It make passage slippery. Baby come out easy like magur fish. No problem.

Alibaba want to take me to Scotland but I afraid of plane. But Alibaba say it safe like motorcar only going in air. But,
didi
, how to go to bathroom so high?

My respects to your good husband.

From your sister,

Jamina

15th October 1946

Didi
,

My heart is burst, I come to see you. Every minute knitting knitting. Sometime not sleeping at night. I want to make two more sock, two more sweater and one blanket for baby. I already buy wool in Gauhati. Now I think I buy too many green. Inshallah, I finish everything in two more week. Ali say, “You make Layla baby look like green sheep.” I happy you having baby in cold season, sister, that way Jamina can make baby sweater. My finger fat like banana no good for embroidery but knitting no problem.

Ali happy he going shikar with your good husband. He cleaning gun all day and talk about duck. Let me do knitting now so I finish.

I happy I am Auntie soon. Your baby my baby. Same-same.

My respects to your good husband.

From your sister,

Jamina.

The autumn air crisped and the hills turned a foggy blue. Duck-hunting season arrived and Aynakhal was a shikari’s paradise. The giant marshland called the
bheel
—where Aynakhal bordered Kaziranga—was prime bird-hunting ground. Duck, geese and snipe migrated in large flocks all winter long.

Jimmy O’Connor organized a duck-hunting camp and invited Alasdair and three other shikaris from Dooars. Together with Manik, Larry Baker, Rob Ashton and Peewee Williams there would be eight shikaris in all. Peewee Williams, to everyone’s surprise, turned out to be a crack shot, earning him Jimmy’s grudging respect.

Duck camps were elaborate affairs. It took weeks of planning. The jungles were cleared, makeshift huts and an outhouse constructed. Shikaris took manpower, supplies and dogs, and camped out for days. Decoys—duck-shaped cutouts made from old tea chests—were floated in the
bheel
to attract the flock to land. When the ducks landed, the Beaters, who were hired help, whacked together bamboo slats to create a mighty racket and direct the birds to fly over the heads of shikaris camouflaged in the brush. Then it was a matter of skill and marksmanship as to how many birds you could down with a scattershot.

Alasdair and Jamina were staying with us. Jamina arrived with three pillowcases full of knitted baby clothes. All in various shades of green. She was so emotional to see me that she cried nonstop the first day. Then she was back to her chatty old self.

“English people make too much
hoi-choi
to shoot few ducks.” Jamina clicked her tongue disdainfully seeing all the paraphernalia strewn over the portico. Two vehicles were parked on the gravel driveway and several men scurried about, loading up supplies, guns and camping gear. “What’s there to catch ducks? My brother catch more ducks, with only goat bladder. No guns. No problem.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“They throw goat bladder in
bheel
. Ducks gobble-gobble. Next morning come and find duck nicely tie up like koi fish. Just pick and take home. No problem.”