by Taj63622
Chapter 23
The tea cabin was essentially a small roadside house, serving, quite rightly, only tea. Given the popularity of tourism in the country, the cabin was expectantly quiet, but not of that emptiness whereby a conversation could resound in silence. Iqbal advised his tour group to take their seating on the roof terrace overlooking the vast tea gardens, while he, Mayah and Dhadhi will re-join them upon collection of their ordered beverages. The tea took about half-an-hour to arrive, and in this free interval, he replied to Mayah’s questions.
His profession denied him to share information regarding the tea pickers’ earnings. He was aware of the danger he was attracting to his employment by discussing the sensitive topic. If any should overhear, or get the faintest whiff, that he was disclosing guarded details about the tea estate to someone beyond the estate manager’s authority, then he will lose his job. But Mayah and Dhadhi were outside his professional boundaries. They were family.
Seven years ago, the tea estates suffered much embarrassment due to an article in “Desh Bidesh”, which revealed the tea pickers’ deplorable income. Various governing boards and regulatory bodies did an investigation into the article’s claims. Few months later, the matter naturally settled, though no major improvement resulted from the commotion. Since then, the tea estates have increased their security, employing every method possible to prevent leakages into the media. Many estate managers have barred tourists from entering, lest they should be an undercover reporter. Others keep a strict logbook and appointment only entrance.
The tea-picker’s income depends on the total weight of the leaves they pick. An average picker can collect twenty kilograms a day. A very speedy picker can collect nearer to thirty kilograms. Each kilogram entitles them to earn approximately one-and-a-half taka. Mayah calculated the workers’ daily income to be at the best thirty-three pence. Yet, it was not necessary that what may appear insufficient to those who are accustomed to the higher standards of living, will be deemed insufficient to those who appreciate the humbler earning. Thus, she enquired after the value of thirty-three pence in this country, highly expecting it to be the average income needed for a stable living.
‘You see the leaves they pick,’ he replies, nodding towards the distant gardens, ‘it feeds many nations. But on their income, they cannot afford what their labour provides others.’
Recovering from this discovery, Mayah next enquires how the tea-pickers manage a living with their modest income.
They have no extra expenditure beyond these estate fences. When news of their true income was surfaced in the national newspaper, the estate owners and the local council, in their state of flurry, teamed together to bring about a solution and recover their reputation. The tea-pickers’ salary was slightly increased at the bequest of councillors, amongst other changes implemented to display proof of their humanity. The generous estate owners have built their house within walking distance to the tea estate, and established free primary schooling for their children. The highest benefit yet was the free medical check-up, to which each labourer was entitled. There was a doctor within each village, who makes regular trips to main town Sylhet to restock his medical supplies. With the generous bestowing of such conveniences, the tea pickers could not raise complaints.
He should have stopped here and refrained from sharing any further details regarding the labourers’ employment state. However, his suppressed anguish caught aflame from the encouragement this discussion ignited. Inadvertently, he brought more truth to Mayah’s attention.
To what purpose did the free schooling serve, when quality of education was very poor and limited? The tea estate owners have established schools here, but you cannot forget that it was free schooling. The quality of teachers is questionable. In this country, teaching was a not a respectable profession. Although last year the government has made schooling free for all those under ten, the harsh fact remains that education is better at private institutions – a luxury the tea pickers cannot afford. Government sponsored schools are a disregarded charity, where pupils and parents are expected to enjoy what they are offered and make no legible complaints in return, for they will insult the generous sponsor. There was a general scarcity of qualified teachers in the field, and the few moderately qualified teachers that are financially enticed to take up a position here, stay no more than six months. The incentive was disproportionate to the amount they were sacrificing. They were each men of family. If not the care of their own wife and children, then the care of their parents and sisters depended on them. The estate owners, in conjunction with the local council, lured prospective teachers by a handsome first payment. Scarcely a month into their job, that the truth of their income became evident. Their wages was poor and insufficient to develop a career here. They earn enough in those six months to risk seeking employment elsewhere. Some of them leave unsaid, lest the estate owners weaken their intention by use of threat.
‘Who suffers?’ Iqbal fiercely asks after a short pause.
The schoolmasters will doubtless find better opportunity, but in their absence, the few hopeful children that do attend school suffer a loss to their rightful education. Their parents’ income is not such that they can afford decent schooling. ‘You must know the importance of education, Mayah,’ he continued. One does not merely attend school for hope of financial return. It awakens ambition, encourages one to understand cause, and develops within them the ability to overcome problems. The tea-pickers are impoverished in all three aspects. The absence of education finds them feeding more mouths than their earnings can provide. When the compulsory period of attending school passes, sons take to the field to assist their fathers in farming, while daughters take to the home chores, attending their younger siblings, while their mothers fulfil their tea picking duties. Scarcely do girls reach their early teens that they follow similar suit as their mothers, taking to the tea estate to ease their household’s financial burden. Finally, when they become of age, they are married to a boy within the same village, and the whole cycle begins again. Until the government does not realise the ineffectiveness of providing charity to its people, this country will not progress. The government will forever confine the tea pickers’ descendants to these grounds. To improve young things, to instil betterment in the country, the government must invest accordingly into our future. But their greed comes before their duties. They take the share that they should distribute to us. Poverty obliges a parent to choose between education and employment. For parents, like these tea pickers, free schooling is only possible up to a certain age. After that, the institution is merely a venue, in which labour cannot guarantee its due return.
‘Lemony,’ one of the tourists of his group thoughtfully guesses the flavour of one of the seven layers of tea. ‘No, it’s gingery. I definitely taste strong citrus notes.’
Where others enjoyed the famous seven-layer tea, Mayah and Dhadhi’s glass stood on the table untouched. They had re-joined the others some fifteen minutes ago. The group was naming and debating each layer of the tea, taking various pictures of the shaded tea glass. Occasionally, Dhadhi submitted to their conversation, offering her suggestions in naming a tea layer in her attempt to prevent any further enquiries from the tour group, who willed to know the reasons behind their long silences. But Mayah remained unheard and unaffected by their enquiries. She half regretted on her insistence to obtain an answer to the tea pickers’ salary. The exposition came as a shock, despite the plight of the country being no secret. Every now and then, Iqbal looked at her, the regret of sharing the information also evident in his face.
‘What do you think, Mayah?’ he asks her, hoping to convert her lack of appetite.
‘Yeah,’ one of the American tourist remarks, having noticed her and Dhadhi’s untouched glasses, ‘you two haven’t tasted a drop. I thought the English were rather keen on their tea!’
‘The English part of me is,’ she answers, her gaze fixed on the shaded glass, ‘but my ethnic origins suddenly falter my han
ds.’
‘Then,’ Iqbal replies, ‘consider an ethnic depending on your other part. Don’t put their labours to complete vain.’
He said enough to have her and Dhadhi contemplate the meaning. Iqbal was right. The labourer and maker put much effort to the production of this tea. To leave it untouched and untasted will convey disregard, a charity. Payment is half the reward of labour. The other half is seeing another enjoying the fruit.
With this in mind, Mayah and Dhadhi put taste to their tea, tasting less the various flavours, and realising more the many hands that went into picking the leaves.
The tourist group eventually ended their visit for today, with Iqbal giving a tour of the famous tea resorts, in which tourists commonly accommodate. It was probably the quietest spot in the whole of Sreemangal, encouraging Mayah to reflect more on her former sights and thoughts. Where others made the pleasant comment about the resorts having an oasis feel, her heart yearned to learn of the elderly woman’s health. She deeply regretted not stopping the woman from exhausting herself further. She should have done something.
Afsana Chachi was defeated before her insistence to clear the dinner table, despite her strong objections. She needed to do something to keep her mind off disconcerting thoughts. The days’ proceeding has affected her more than she previously anticipated. She felt restless. She ate very little, and was beginning to feel homesick. Everything seemed out of place. Nothing felt right.
Nargis grew fearful of Mayah’s health. The mouth that could not tire of speaking, was chiefly mute throughout supper. If this trend follows, then she will only have herself to blame. For her cause, Mayah came here, and in that cause, she met the distressing truth. Yet, she kept herself consoled knowing that Mayah is a sensible girl. Her heart was heavy, but she was certain Mayah would recover quickly.
She was in the middle of washing the ceramic dishes, when Iqbal hurriedly comes into the kitchen. He informs his mother that he will not be long. Mayah considered it mannerly to keep out of their private affairs, but noticing Afsana Chachi suddenly overcome with distress, she asks Iqbal where he was going.
‘Sasi’s house,’ he informs her kindly. ‘To the house of that woman,’ he reiterates upon seeing her puzzled expression, ‘who fainted today. Heaven knows if she collated the required sum for the medicines,’ he says shaking his head, speaking more to himself than to those in the room. ‘If she hasn’t, then she’ll just overwork herself again tomorrow and risk deteriorating her health further.’
‘We thought it better to help her out,’ joins in Afsana Chachi, to whom Iqbal related the concerning events in the Oleson’s Tea Estate today.
Iqbal made a start towards the settling of this duty, when Mayah quickly stops him. ‘I also want to go,’ she volunteers. ‘Please, take me with you.’
Unknown to a reply, he exchanges a worrying glance with his mother and Dhadhi.
Iqbal’s expression portrayed a refusal to her request. She pleads him again, also seeking Dhadhi’s support.
After today’s experience, Nargis was unwilling to put the girl through further distress. But Mayah was insistent in her entreaties, desperately voicing her desire to see the elderly woman, and console her heart that the woman’s health has returned to some stability. Appreciating her genuine concerns, Iqbal kindly suggests taking her in the morning, for she has had trying day and should consider relaxing.
‘Dhadhi,’ Mayah attempts again, ‘I want to see her now that the opportunity has come. Please,’ she says with a small whisper.
Her solid determination had forced Dhadhi to relent, and at length she gains her approval.
Apart from the fading full moon up there, which filtered in and out of clouds, and an oil lantern in each of their hands, there was no other light to their assistance. She and Iqbal carefully tread their way through the narrow lanes of the passing villages, crossing the unlit but empty roads of Sreemangal. ‘You should see this place when the electricity goes out,’ Iqbal points out.
‘And how often does the electricity go out?’ she asks interestedly.
‘Oh, I’m certain you should experience it at least once before you leave.’
They briskly walk along. The elderly woman belonged to a group of housing alongside the Oleson’s Tea Estate.
They pass the many hut-like houses, which the estate managers have probably built in response of that article’s revelations. Given the hour, people were scarce about the streets. Few men walked passed, whom Iqbal cordially greeted. Tractors and other farming vehicles also drove passed them, ready to start on the fields tomorrow. The pulsating sounds of the crickets filled the oasis air as they lay secretly to rest. It was not entirely difficult to see, but her and Iqbal’s lanterns attracted many creatures to acclimatise in their presence. Moths and other night flies surrounded the oil lanterns with ecstasy, following them devoutly in this meekness.
The path she walked along also caused her much fright. Every so often, she stepped on something. By the sound of the crackling, the unseen object was probably a twig, ruffles of leaves or scattered stones. She started at the sounds. Thankfully, the ordeal was short-lived, when at length Iqbal points to the house of their call, prompting within her a secret relief. She lifted her lantern towards the pointed direction, finding small houses neighbouring each other, overlooked by inclined trees, on which the weeping leaves wafted with the gentle night breeze. As they drew closer, Iqbal warns her to be careful as they step over a raised ground. Her footing safe again, she lifts her lantern higher to gain a better inspection of the houses. Some had tin roofs, others had rustic ones, but generally, all were of modest size and simple design.
It was so quiet that the only sound audible was that of the crickets.
Iqbal quietly knocks on the doors, lest he should cause disturbance to those sleeping. A girl, whom she saw earlier today at the tea garden, answers their call.
She was not surprised to receive Iqbal, although did seem startled to see another person in his company.
‘Is your Mother asleep?’ Iqbal cautiously whispers.
The girl nods her head in reply.
The whole house was dark, save for her room, into which she led her visitors. Mayah ran her gaze through the room. It was big enough to meet one occupant’s needs. The girl’s little brother was also in the room, sat awake on his bedstead.
‘This is Mayah,’ Iqbal introduces her to the girl, ‘and this is Kolpona,’ he introduced the girl to her. ‘Mayah was concerned about your mother’s health.’
‘Amma is better,’ Kolpona reassures with a declined gaze. ‘But Baba is just the same. The doctor said we need to admit him in hospital.’
Her Baba needs a coronary artery bypass. This will be the fourth month he has been bedridden with the troubling chest pains. Medication has helped relieve the pain, but the root problem remains unresolved. Treatment is only available at specialist hospitals in Dhaka. These are not government hospitals. The treatment fee is beyond their capacity to meet. It takes three earners to keep the household running and cover the cost of her Baba’s medicines. They do not have the funds to admit him into hospital. Doctors have refused her Baba’s surgery without settling the initial deposit at least. Once they could at least save up for the deposit payment, then they could be in a position to hospitalise him.
It was in November, when the village doctor insisted to take her Baba to Dhaka for a consultation with another doctor. Further assessments and two weeks of restless waiting revealed that her Baba needs a bypass. It was an expensive operation. The tea pickers are out of employment between November and February, paralysing their ability to earn, and their hope of treating her father. The last four months have proved nothing less than a merciless ordeal. The whole family was entirely dependent on her eldest brother. His earning alone managed the household, including the cost of the medicines. With March’s arrival, she and her mother are making every effort to increase their income, working to the point of exhaustion to gather at least the deposit pay
ment. The last two months has seen her and her mother dedicate the majority of their time to the tea valleys in their effort to pick more leaves. Her brother too has been working twice as hard. If not working at the town’s post office, then he would tend the rice fields instead. But where their age could adapt better to the demanding toil, her mother’s was suffering greatly. She has neglected her own health in the desperate effort to increase her earning. She seldom takes a break, lest it should interfere with the weight of her basket. Her mother’s fainting today was one of many she has suffered in the past two months. Standing in the merciless heat all day, and giving no regards to water or food, made her unconscious. She was not only in danger of losing one parent, but fate is seemingly designing ways to make her an orphan.
‘Here,’ Iqbal says, bringing fourth his hand, in which there was the money for the medicines. ‘Settle the medicine bill first thing tomorrow.’
Mayah noticed the brief look of relief upon Kolpona’s face as her gaze descended towards her saviour’s hand, but her expression quickly converted to mark her hesitations. ‘No,’ she says, shaking her head vigorously. ‘If Amma finds out then she’ll scold me.’
‘If she finds out,’ Iqbal cajoles. ‘For the meanwhile, tell her you got an advance from the manager.’
‘Lie?’ Kolpona distressfully says.
‘What would you rather do?’ asks Iqbal, trying every possibility to persuade the girl. ‘Would you rather have your mother exhausted in the heat? Would you rather have both your parents unwell? Think of the little one at least,’ he gestures towards her little brother. ‘Take the money from me, and don’t worry, when I ask for repayment I shall be adding double interest,’ he humours, hoping to cheer the girl.
Kolpona still made no start towards the thoughtful gesture. Mayah began to fear the worse, convinced with the belief that Kolpona will keep firm on her refusal. Thus, she disburdened the money from Iqbal’s hand, and transferred it into Kolpona’s.
Her position became such that she could no longer decline. Greed had overcome her. She wanted to help her mother quickly. There was guilt at having betrayed her mother, but her need to secure her parents’ health was greater.
Mayah was relieved on seeing Kolpona’s acceptance. Tears slowly gathered along the rim of her dark eyes, as she thanked Iqbal with a wavering voice. In a brotherly gesture, he patted the girl on her arm, ordering her little brother to take care of his sister, and to stop wandering around the village like a vagabond. He managed to bring a smile on both their lips, before realising the late hour.
Mayah sincerely wished to console the tearful. Words of sympathy will be of little comfort, perhaps even an insult to her suffering. In the end, she bade her leave by wishing both her parents’ quick recovery.
The girl nodded her head appreciatively in reply, though Mayah noticed how helplessly dependent the girl felt.
