Teatime for the Firefly (34 page)

The Fertility Hill was causing serious problems. The devotees trespassed through Aynakhal using an illegal shortcut and created a nuisance. There were reports of petty theft, vandalism and opium trading. When Manik tried to block the shortcut, the Communist party landed up in Aynakhal and staged a protest outside his office. They were mostly hoodlums, and having entered the garden they tried to incite the Aynakhal labor. They declared India would soon be a free country, and there was no need to grovel and slave under foreign masters. Those servile days were over. Workers now had rights and could set their own demands.

The coolies were confused. They were a simple, tribal people; all they wanted was to be fed and taken care of by the
Mai-Baap
. Many were second-or third-generation tea pluckers: tea-plantation life was the only life they had ever known. They could not envision breaking free of the imaginary chain that bound them.

* * *

The evenings grew shorter, and night fell quickly after a brief and fleeting dusk. I missed our old
Chung
bungalow. I used to feel so much safer there somehow: it was like a fortress elevated off the ground, with only two entrances accessible by flights of stairs. You could see who was coming and going and observe animals at a close proximity from a safe place. In contrast, the Aynakhal
burrabungalow
was built on ground level and had several doors and tall French windows. At night the jungles seemed to creep inside. Most evenings I was alone in the big bungalow. Halua and Kalua left before it got too dark to get back to their own quarters in our old bungalow and Manik was often held up at the office dealing with various problems.

One evening—it must have been around six-thirty or seven—I looked out of the living-room window and saw a civet cat wander casually into the veranda. It scratched its whiskers on the edge of the cane sofa, lifted its tail and sprayed the legs of the coffee table, and then just as quietly wandered out.

I told Manik about it when he came home.

His face tightened. “From tomorrow, Marshal will stay here with you,” he said.

* * *

I woke up to go to the bathroom and saw Manik’s side of the bed was empty. I found him smoking on the veranda, wearing his old hunting jacket over his pajamas, his gun resting on his lap. Marshal was crouched beside him, looking keenly alert.

“What’s wrong, Manik?” I said.

Manik looked startled. “Why are you up, darling? Please go back to sleep.”

“Is it an animal? Why are you sitting here with your gun?”

Manik was silent. The tip of his cigarette glowed as he drew deeply. “I thought I heard something,” he said softly.

I did not say anything but I knew it was not an animal he suspected. Marshal had a sharp, excited bark to warn us of prowling animals but a distinct throaty growl when it was a human—the suspicious kind.

I watched Manik’s profile in the dim light of the veranda. A muscle twitched in his jaw. Lately he had been remote and preoccupied. He did not discuss Aynakhal’s problems at home. Perhaps it was to keep me from getting worried, but this created an uncomfortable distance between us.

“You must leave Aynakhal after the Christmas party,” he said finally. “Raja’s mother and Bimal Babu’s wife are going to Silchar on Monday. I want you to go with them. We got news today that the situation in Mariani is unstable. Riots have broken out around the railway station. Mariani has a big Muslim population, as you know, but now the Communist party is holding their rallies and touting Hinduism and this has the Muslims up in arms. Then to add to it all there is the Fertility Hill issue.”

“I heard the Fertility Hill shrine is not even a Hindu shrine,” I said. “I don’t even know what it is. Jamina used to go there, and she is a Muslim.”

“It’s a very ancient pagan shrine that’s been there for hundreds of years. The Communist party is claiming it as a sacred Hindu shrine. They are using this as an excuse to enter Aynakhal, only to stir up trouble.” Manik leaned forward to stub out his cigarette and rose to his feet. “Let’s go to bed, darling. Whatever was out here is gone.” He held out a hand to help me up. “Goodness! We are going to need a crane to haul you up soon.”

We made our way back into the bedroom. Manik did not bother to take off his hunting jacket. He lay in bed with one arm flung over his eyes, his gun on the floor beside him. His breathing was short and sharp, the muscles in his body tense. Every now and then his eyes flickered open and I saw the whites move in the dark.

Torn by nerves and concern, I just lay quietly beside him. How very different he was, I thought, from the Manik I once knew who slept blissfully spread-eagled on our bed and woke in the morning, his eyes clear and calm from sleep. The Manik who whispered in a teasing way and loosened my hair to feel it fall over his face. I hardly recognized this stranger with his flat, unseeing eyes, his fingers constantly twitching for cigarettes.

In just another ten days, I would have to leave Aynakhal. I wished Holly Watson would hurry up and take over the garden. Manik was only the Acting Manager, and Aynakhal’s problems were ultimately the General Manager’s responsibility. I hated to leave Manik alone, but I had no choice. There was our unborn child to think of. As if on cue, the baby turned over and kicked in my stomach.

CHAPTER 32

The next day, Flint, the Kootalgoorie assistant, went missing. The company jeep he was driving was found abandoned on a deserted forest road close to Mariani. Three days passed and a wave of panic swept through the tea gardens. Just when people started fearing the worst, Flint showed up in Kootalgoorie riding a bullock cart and wearing women’s slippers. He described how hoodlums had ambushed his jeep on his way to Mariani and seized his gun. Luckily, it was an old blunderbuss, complicated to use, and Flint—being the street-smart fellow he was—always carried a small extra firearm in the glove compartment. He shot his way out, commando-style, hid in a
bamboobari
, crawled across rice paddies and landed up at Auntie’s, where the Sisters of Mercy took him in. He remained in hiding for two days, his head covered in a sari, before he could make it back to Kootalgoorie.

Flint was hailed as a hero at the Mariani Club. The young assistants wolf-whistled, called him “sister,” threw a bar towel over his head and danced with him on their shoulders. Flint joked he had so much fun eating fish and rice and hanging out with the Sisters of Mercy that he seriously contemplated giving up his planter’s job to join Auntie’s establishment, in any capacity, he didn’t care what. The
lahe-lahe
life
suited him just fine.

But despite the jocularity, the grim reality of the situation was not lost on anyone. One thing became clear: the roads had become unsafe, and planters could no longer travel alone. Every trip had to be reconnoitered. Now the garden truck was sent ahead to check out the road situation, and sometimes coolies were posted along the way. But the disturbing news was that bungalow servants were often in cahoots with thugs, who bribed them with opium to pass the word when the sahib was headed out of the tea garden.

The attendance that Monday Club night was spotty. Nobody played bridge or shot darts. Nobody got rip-roaring drunk. The men talked quietly around the bar to share the latest updates. There had been rumors of kidnappings and ransom demands in other parts of Assam. Now that the war was over, many planters were sending their wives and children back home to England. The risks were too high. Not even the ayahs and servants could be trusted any longer.

“It’s our guns they are after,” Flint said. “Everybody knows planters own guns.”

“Who are the ‘they’?” asked Peewee.

“From what I gathered at Auntie’s, they are Communist hoodlums,” Flint replied. “Some are members of small guerrilla groups, others part of larger organizations. They are trying to collect arms in any way possible. Tea planters are easy targets because we travel alone on open jungle roads. Many of these hoodlums want to enter the gardens to incite labor to rise up against management. They call themselves union leaders but they’re just thugs.”

“Just as well you have a high ranking with the sisters,” Larry laughed. “I must say your loyal patronage paid off this time.”

“I have lots of insider tidbits to share, fellows. You won’t believe,” said Flint with a mischievous wink.

“What?” said Peewee Williams, leaning forward eagerly. “Oh, Flinty, do tell!”

Flint glanced slyly at Debbie and me. “Ladies, you may want to close your ears. This is strictly for the lads.”

“Not a chance,” Debbie shot back. “I want to hear every bit. G’on, tell us, Sister Flinty. Pretend I’m a barstool or something.”

“Larry, old chap, remember how you wondered about the ladies’ rosy derrieres? The sisters actually
color
them,” Flint said. “They sit in tubs of tinted water to make their bottoms
pink
. I am not joking, fellows. It’s a daily ritual with the sisters. They use some kind of red foot paste to color the water.”

Alta
, I thought to myself.
How very curious I had never heard of this.
The whole business sounded completely ridiculous. I did not say anything. The subject matter was too personal for my comfort.

“And here I thought it was au naturel,” said Larry, feigning disappointment.

“They must look like monkeys with their pink bottoms.” Debbie nudged me and giggled.

“But I can tell you it’s
very
attractive,” said Flint. I got the feeling he was about to launch into seamy details. Mrs. Gilroy waved to me from across the room and I beat a hasty retreat.

Mrs. Gilroy was sitting alone in the cushioned area. She patted the seat next to her and flashed a toothy smile.

“Have a seat, dear. My, my, we are carrying quite a load, aren’t we! I am sure your feet could do with some rest. So, when is the little one expected?”

“In another six weeks, Mrs. Gilroy,” I replied, thankful to be sitting down. The three-legged barstools were certainly not designed with pregnant ladies in mind.

“I must say you are looking very well. Oh, I must tell you, I received a letter from Stella, a cousin of mine. She is a writer and lives in Cornwall. She said she knows your grandfather. He is also a writer, I believe. Now, isn’t that a small world?”

“Stella? Estelle Lovelace?”

“That’s right. Stella was the brilliant one in the family. She went on to study in Cambridge and I married Nathan and moved to India. But we have kept in touch. I invited her to visit us in Assam, although this may not be the best time with all the political problems going on. I think you would really enjoy meeting her, Layla.”

“I know I will,” I said. “I’ve heard wonderful things about Estelle Lovelace.”

* * *

Mrs. Gilroy left and I, reluctant to abandon the comfort of the sofa, sat and waited while Manik finished his drink at the bar. The usual clique of ladies had gathered next to the empty card tables. Betsy Lamont was wearing a tight red dress that made her bottom stick out like a tom-tom. Laurie Wood, in stark contrast, was dressed like an English schoolgirl in a plaid skirt, black stockings and a turtleneck sweater. Then there was Fiona Clayton, a horsey-looking woman with enormous teeth, and finally Molly Dodd, the dreadful slouch. The four of them looked like mismatched cousins at a family reunion.

“D’you s’pose the Christmas party will be canceled this year?” asked Molly, lank-haired and doleful. She had a terrible pigeon-toed way of standing.

“Who cares,” said Betty. “I’m off to Manchester. Assam gives me the shudders. Danny sacked the
chowkidar
because he thinks he’s conspiring against us. Danny is getting more and more paranoid these days. Now he’s up all night thinking somebody is going to attack the bungalow, and he is miserable to be around in the daytime. I’ve just had it with this place.”

The others averted their eyes. Everybody knew—courtesy of the Jungle Telegraph—why Betty Lamont had “had it” with Assam. The Hullock apes must have reported her, because Danny Lamont came home one day and found his wife making hot chutney with Charlie the pilot.

“I don’t think I could leave my husband and just go off with a clear conscience,” said Molly virtuously. “After all, he needs me the most right now. It would not be the right thing to do.” She looked to the others for reaffirmation.

“Well, stay here, then,” Betsy snapped back heartlessly, “and good luck. India has obviously rubbed off on you. No doubt you will go down as the most devout wife in history. Next you’ll be covering your head and walking ten paces behind your husband. I have no such aspirations, thank you.”

“Well,
I never
!” cried Molly with an indignant squeak. “That was jolly unfair, Betsy. I just don’t think it’s—”

“Oh, stop your damn bickering, you two,” Laurie interjected, tossing her ponytail impatiently. “As far as I know, the Christmas party is still on, but I don’t think there will be many people attending it. Gemma and I are going back home. Johnny is making me nervous. He tells me to keep an eye on Gemma even if she is playing in the garden. I am so used to just leaving her with the ayah. It is quite nerve-racking, really.”

“Is Johnny still applying for a transfer to Dooars?” asked Fiona. Her eyes kept flitting to the bar, where her husband, Greg, was steadily knocking back his
burra
pegs. He was a notorious drunk, famous for falling off the three-legged barstools.

“No, we decided against it. We hear the trouble in Dooars is worse than Assam. We may move to Papua New Guinea or Kenya eventually. Gemma will enjoy the animals in Kenya, but she will soon be five and schooling is a problem.”

“That Alasdair Carruthers transferred to Dooars, didn’t he? And married his ugly
chokri
, did you hear?” Betsy said.

“
And
got kicked out by the company for it. Serves him right. He’s with some third-rate Indian tea garden now,” said Laurie. “Well, what did he expect? Why did he have to go and
marry
the
chokri
, for God’s sake. It makes no sense.”

“Maybe he got her preggers,” said Fiona.

Laurie snorted. “Oh c’mon, like that’s something new.
Chokris
get knocked up all the time. Nobody
marries
them. The half-breed runts are just packed off to Doctor Graham’s orphanage in Kalingpong. At least the little bastards get a decent education.”

“Maybe Alasdair Carruthers wants a legal heir,” said Molly, who seemed to have recovered from Betsy’s jab.

“Oh, I could have given him that, easy,” said Betsy. “I’d gladly give him an heir for a few heirloom diamonds. No problem.”

Fiona gave a neighing laugh.

“He’s a bit of an oddball, but a rather nice-looking chap, really,” said Laurie. “He seems to be only interested in his
chokri
, though. I don’t know what he sees in that ugly midget. She must be a witch.”

I was so enraged, hearing their spiteful talk, I wanted to heave myself out of the sofa, barge in with my big stomach and tell them a thing or two. But Manik was gesturing me over from the bar, indicating we should leave. As I got to my feet, I thought sadly about Jamina and wondered what the ladies would say if they heard about her heirloom diamond, how meaningless it was to her and how gladly she would have given it for a baby. Jamina didn’t care if the child was a legal heir or not. All she wanted was something soft to love and to hold.

* * *

The Christmas party was a nostalgic affair. For many planters it would be their last Christmas in Mariani, and for some, their last in India. The Ashtons, McIntyres and Larry Baker were all leaving. Despite the constraints, Mariani old-timers were determined to make it a Christmas to remember.

Father Christmas was late for the children’s party. He finally made his appearance wafting whiskey fumes with every “Ho, ho, ho,” and perched on top of a decrepit old elephant with a white star painted on its forehead. Emma Ashton stared at Father Christmas with angry blue eyes, punched him solidly on the arm and said loudly, “Uncle Jimmy, what have you done with Father Christmas?”

Father Christmas “Ho, ho, ho”ed in denial.

“Then take off your hand socks and show me your fingers at once,” Emma demanded sternly, pointing at his white-gloved hand where one finger hung empty. Father Christmas insisted a reindeer had bitten off his finger, but Emma remained unconvinced.

A big sausage-shaped piñata—a Mariani Club Christmas tradition—was filled with puffed rice, hard candy, copper
naya paisas—new coins—
and tiny toys. Father Christmas took a number of badly aimed swipes before the piñata broke open and the goodies rained down. Young folk engaged in the traditional puffed rice fights, shrieking and stuffing handfuls
down each other’s clothes. They skidded and slid all over the floor pretending it was snow.

By late evening the tots were packed off with their ayahs and the real party began. No club party was ever complete without live music. The Mudguards, a rookie band made of young assistants with their homemade electric guitars and noisy drums, arrived just in the nick of time. Their microphones screeched terribly, but they belted out a hard beat and made the dance floor thunder. There had been doubts whether the Mudguards would make it this year, but Jimmy O’Connor drove the several hundred miles to Dooars, piled them up in his open jeep and brought them to Mariani. Little wonder Father Christmas was late for the children’s party.

A group of merry RAF fellows showed up, Flint’s cousin, Eddie, among them. The war now over for real, they had survived Burma and were finally heading home. Charlie the pilot swaggered in with three gorgeous air hostesses on his arm— Shireen, Maureen and Candy. There was something close to a stampede among young stags to bag dances and soon a brawl broke out amongst them. Somebody got hit on the head with the microphone. Lonnie the drummer cowered behind his drum set while the two guitarists dived under the Ping-Pong table. It all ended amicably with free rounds for all. To everybody’s surprise, Candy, the dark-eyed, pretty air hostess, got moon-eyed over, of all people, Peewee Williams.
Peewee Williams
—that baby face! I took a closer look at him. To my surprise, I realized in just six months Peewee had transformed dramatically into a tanned and strikingly handsome young man with windswept hair and all the debonair airs of a French Riviera lover boy.

After midnight the Mudguards packed up and the music was turned over to the club’s gramophone. The lights dimmed and Perry Como’s “Till the End of Time” swept over us in soft sentimental waves. Manik held me close, a little awkwardly, my big belly between us. A deep sadness like a desolate river fog was creeping over me.
I will be gone in two days
, I thought miserably, choking back a lump.
Manik will be alone.
The world felt precarious and close to a tipping point. I could see nothing beyond, but I got the feeling there was a deep, dark abyss, looming somewhere, waiting to swallow me whole.

* * *

Leaving Manik on that foggy December morning was by far the hardest, most painful thing I have ever done. I was traveling to Silchar with Raja’s mother and two other ladies in a private taxi. During our last days together, the thought of going away had consumed my every waking moment and tormented my dreams. The pain was almost physical. At night the tears came and would not stop.