by Shona Patel
I woke up to what sounded like a prayer bell in my ear. Manik was tinging the side of his empty teacup with a small silver spoon. He looked fresh and rested.
“‘I don’t sleep in the afternoon,’” he mocked. “You are a big fat liar. I sat here and drank my tea. You were snoring. Snoring. I could not believe my ears.”
“What time is it?” I was stiff and grouchy. I uncurled my legs, and they splintered into a million pins and needles.
“Ouch,” I grumbled. My head felt like a brick.
“Quarter to three. I’m off. I will be back six-thirtyish. Cheerio.” With that he thundered down the stairs without even a kiss.
So there I was on my own again. I pulled on my slippers and floated around the garden staring at the dahlias, especially the droopy ones, seeing nothing but sadness. Maybe I would die a virgin, I thought. Maybe this cigar was destined to remain unlit, and Manik Deb would go back to Auntie’s to smoke a bidi or two.
Back in the veranda, I made myself a cup of tea, picked up War and Peace and curled back on the chair again. But the page kept blurring with my tears, so I closed my eyes. I breathed in the scented afternoon to calm my mind. Wait, what was that? The sleepy hum of the bees had turned into a sharp zzzt zzzt noise. I opened my eyes, and to my shock, I saw a monstrous black-and-yellow hornet heading straight at me. I shot out of the chair and flapped at it with my book. The hornet whipped around and came right back. It landed smack on my neck, and to my utter disbelief, it crawled down my blouse and stung me right between my breasts.
The pain was intense and I shrieked so loudly that both Halua and Kalua ran out from the pantry in their undershirts. They saw the new Chotamemsahib flinging off her sari and tearing madly at her blouse like a madwoman. Thankfully, without too much disrobing, the hornet fell out with a buzzing plop on the wooden floor. Kalua jumped up and crushed it with his bare foot. It made a sickening crunching noise and left a yellow splat, big as an egg yolk.
That was it. I threw up my egg-curry lunch all over the veranda floor. The pain was like a burning knife tearing through my chest, the agony so terrible I thought I would surely die.
Halua and Kalua were beside themselves. They flapped around like agitated ducks, fetching water, fanning me with a newspaper and shouting at one another.
Halua went scooting off to fetch Manik. I sat with my head in my hands, in a daze. The pain was fast spreading all over my body, shooting spasms. I staggered to the bathroom to take a look. There was a big angry welt in my cleavage and it was swelling fast. I found some Dettol in the small medicine cabinet and dabbed a little on a piece of toilet paper, applying it gingerly to the wound. It stung horribly. Then, not knowing what else to do, I just crawled into the bed and lay down. Nausea came over me in big sweeping waves.
Manik rushed in, hair flying, glasses askew. His hair was tinged faintly blond with tea dust from the factory. He looked so horrified that I had to smile.
“Oh my God, Layla. What happened?”
“It’s not too bad now. The pain is less,” I said, lying through my teeth. Actually, the pain was worse.
“Let me take a look.”
“No, no, I am okay, really,” I said quickly.
“Layla, this could be serious. You could have an allergic reaction. If the stinger is still in there, you will need to take it out. That hornet is the most poisonous variety. I just saw it.”
“I feel much better. I put some Dettol on it.”
“Let me see.”
“No, no. I’m fine.”
“You are being ridiculous.”
“You are being ridiculous. I’m fine, really. Stop worrying.” The thought of my legally married husband seeing my bare breasts was worse than dying of a hornet bite.
“Dammit, Layla!” said Manik. He almost yelled. He sat on the edge of the bed and pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked very tired. “Please understand, I can’t leave you here and go back to work without seeing how serious this is. If the hornet stinger is still inside, the pain will be ten times worse tomorrow.”
“What is the worst that will happen? I will die.”
“Most likely,” he said dryly.
“You are joking?”
“Then stop asking idiotic questions,” he snapped back. “What I am telling you is this could become septic and quite serious. It is better to take out the stinger before the area gets too swollen. It is much harder to locate it if the skin swells up.”
“Then I will have bigger breasts,” I quipped, trying to make him smile.
“I don’t get to see those beauties anyway, so who gives a damn,” Manik said irritably. He was not amused, that was for sure. “Bloody hell, Layla!” he yelled suddenly, his eyes flashing. “Grow up, for God’s sake. I am getting fed up with your ridiculous, prudish behavior.”
I sighed, unbuttoned my blouse and unhooked my brassiere. “Okay, go on, then, take a look.” I shut my eyes tight with embarrassment.
Manik adjusted the glasses on his nose, leaned down and studied the bite. I peeked out of the corner of my eye. He looked very much like a doctor. Serious, intense and clinically detached. He smelled good, too. Tea dust, clean sweat and skin. He ran his finger lightly over the welt.
“There it is. I can feel the stinger. I can get it out. I know how to do this. Wait, I will be back.”
Halua and Kalua must have been hovering outside the door, because I heard him tell them everything was all right and to go home.
Manik returned a few minutes later and my eyes almost fell out when I saw what he had in his hands. It was a butter knife and half an onion.
“My God! What are you going to do?” I exclaimed, sitting up in bed. Suddenly aware of my nakedness, I grabbed my sari to cover myself.
“Lie back down, Layla. It’s a very simple procedure. I know how to do this.”
“Do what? Kindly explain, doctor....”
“Trust me, darling.”
“Not with a knife and an onion. Looks like you plan to make a stir-fry out of me.”
“Maybe later,” he said, “but first I must try and get the stinger out. Lie down, will you? You can usually locate the stinger with a blunt, flat surface. A butter knife works fine. I am going to run the blade lightly over the skin to find it. Then I will just pull it out. Simple. You will need to put some onion juice on the wound to bring down the swelling.”
It sounded convincing, so I lay down.
Manik pushed his glasses up on his forehead. He ran the butter knife slowly over the area, first in one direction, then the other, while I tried to peer down my chin to see what he was doing.
He frowned. “Can’t see the damn thing, but I can feel it, all right.”
Then he looked me. “I have to do this the unconventional way, Layla. Bear with me.” Without explaining any further he bent down and ran his tongue over the welt between my breasts very slowly. I could hardly breathe. He focused on a spot. Then, using his front teeth, he gripped something delicately and pulled it out. He transferred it from his tongue to his fingernails and held it up for me to see.
“There. It’s out.”
“Where?” I propped up on my elbows. I squinted, trying to see what he was holding between his fingernails, but I could see nothing.
“See that tiny curved, hairlike thing?”
“Where?”
Our faces were inches apart. Since he was such a handsome doctor, who had just saved my life, I had to thank him. So I leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. Then, if that was not bold enough, before I could help it, I kissed him again. Slowly. Oh, it felt so good. I had the hardest time pulling away. Manik looked slightly cross-eyed.
“Layla?”
I did not answer. I just lay down and shut my eyes tightly, shocked by my own brazenness. My head was thundering, and I thought, Oh my God, wha
t am I doing? I think I am going to pass out.
He bent down and brushed his lips gently over the welt, right between my breasts. Back and forth.
“Does it hurt much?”
I felt a deep warmth course through my body. The sensation was almost unbearable.
When I opened my eyes, he was looking at me. I realized his eyes were not black at all, but a very dark, rich, molten brown. He looked dead serious.
“So what will it be, Layla?” I felt his warm breath course down my neck. “Yes? No? Maybe?” he asked slowly, softly.
I barely heard his words. I waited for the familiar trip-up, the eventual shutdown. But nothing like that happened. All I felt was the most powerful longing, torrential and searing.
“Tell me.” He breathed his words into my mouth. “I need to hear it from you.”
“Yes,” I whispered, and closed my eyes. This time I had not one iota of doubt.
Dear Mr. McIntyre,
My wife, Layla, has been stung by a hornet of the most venomous variety (Vespa Mandarinia or Giant Asian Hornet). She is doing poorly and needs my attention.
I would be grateful if I could be excused this afternoon. The water-pump estimate is not due till Wednesday, so I still have a few days to complete it.
Unfortunately Layla will have to decline Mrs. McIntyre’s invitation to tea tomorrow. She has asked that I convey her regrets. She is looking forward to meeting her as soon as she is better.
Sincerely,
Manik Deb
Mr. McIntyre sent back a note excusing Manik for the rest of the day. Audrey McIntyre sent us a delicious Dundee cake and a sweet commiserating note via her driver. Kalua and Halua were banished from the bungalow for the day. The chicken cutlets prepared for our dinner were sent home with them.
We stayed in bed for the rest of the day. For Manik’s entertainment, I wore Mima’s Goldilocks apron and served him Dundee cake. We lopped off big pieces with the butter knife and fed them to each other. The knife was discovered buried in the covers, aimed straight at Manik’s back.
“This could have been fatal, you know,” Manik said, brandishing the knife. It flashed in the dark. He ran the blade softly over his lips. “But I would have died a very happy man.”
“I would surely have died a virgin if it had not been for the hornet.”
“Damn hornet—” Manik scowled fiercely. “It had no business getting inside my wife’s blouse before I did. It deserved to get squashed.” He propped up on his elbows. “Here, pass me that onion, will you? You need to rub some juice on the bite. It will really help with the swelling, believe me.”
“I’d rather swell than smell.”
“Onion-flavored breasts would be an interesting variation to my diet.”
Manik sang “You Are My Sunshine” softly as he ministered the onion. My husband could carry a tune and had a nice singing voice, I discovered. I lay in bed feeling like the one and only sunshine in Manik Deb’s life. I knew I could make him happy, gray skies or blue, and nothing in the world would take me away.
CHAPTER 20
It was barely murgi-daak when Halua marched right into our bedroom with the morning tea without so much as a teeny knock, making me desperately scramble for the cover sheet.
Manik took Halua outside to instruct him of his new protocol. Henceforth he was to knock on the door, remain outside and enter only when permission was granted. Halua looked bewildered. Nobody had ever asked him to knock before. He was used to barging into the bedroom. He looked at Manik with hurt eyes as though he was being scolded and nobody loved him anymore.
Ten minutes later, Manik was pulling on his clothes for kamjari. He laced his boots, and I sat next to him on the bed, my head leaning on his shoulder, my arms entwined under his shirt, enjoying the delicious warmth of his bare skin. My husband, I discovered, was a noisy morning whistler with a penchant for bouncy military tunes. Today it was Colonel Bogey’s march.
“Why do you have to go so early?” I grumbled.
He buried his face in my stomach and blew Colonel Bogey into my navel like a trumpet.
“Stop!” I cried, squirming.
Suddenly he was serious. “How is that bite coming along? Here, let’s take a look.” He pulled off the sheet covering my body. He kissed the welt between my breasts with great tenderness. Then seeing me naked, he was hopelessly distracted.
“You naughty, naughty girl,” he said, jumping to his feet. “I am going to report you to Mr. McIntyre for getting me late, wife.”
“I’ll see you at breakfast, then?”
“Yes, Mrs. Deb. Breakfast is called chota hajri around here. After that I can show you around Aynakhal if you are feeling up to it.” He paused at the door. “We will stop by the hospital to see the boy.”
“What boy?”
“The one who was attacked by the leopard. Poor fellow, they had to amputate his leg yesterday. We can also go and see the machan being built in the jungle. The laborers are working on it today. Wear your Bata boots, darling—you will need them. Big leeches and whatnot in the jungle. Snakes, too. Cheerio, lovely wife!”
With that he clomped off and thundered down the stairs. I heard the jeep start, then roar down the driveway. The front gates squealed open then clicked shut. Manik was gone.
I lay in bed. The small scrabble that started in my stomach was turning into a claustrophobic dread. I had forgotten all about the leopard hunt. Was Fate waiting to deal her final blow? The thought of Manik up on a bamboo platform in the dark jungle with a man-eating leopard on the loose had all the makings of a catastrophe. All I could imagine were guns misfiring, Manik falling off the machan, the leopard choosing him over the goat. Unchained and wounded, Manik would be the perfect meal served on a platter. The leopard would carry him off into the jungle to relish him at leisure, and I would be left lonely and forsaken in this old bungalow.
For all his charm, Manik had a reckless streak that worried me. But was it not that same free spirit that had attracted me to him in the first place? Closing my eyes, I crushed my face into his pillow, remembering the passion of the night before. His mouth had explored my body, arousing me gently as if from a deep slumber. We woke in the morning, our limbs still entwined. Manik was gone, yet he was everywhere. I could still smell him on my skin. He had ingrained himself in me forever.
Suddenly I was overcome with self-pity. A tear leaked out of the corner of my eye, and I watched it spread on the cotton pillowcase. What kind of husband was he? Running off and risking his life without a single thought for his new wife? Was I that unimportant? A devious thought crept into my mind. Maybe I could seduce him. Distract him; make him forget about the leopard hunt. But would he succumb? Something told me otherwise.
Manik was married to his job for three years before he was married to me. He had left his virgin bride on the brink of being deflowered to take care of his Mai-Baap duties. Talk about job commitment! How many men would do that? Tea companies were very clever, I decided. It took three years of intense brainwashing to make a tea planter, and the training was carried out in isolation without wifely distractions. It was almost like indoctrination into the priesthood. Cloistered. Intense. Focused. The difference was, with tea planters, celibacy was discouraged and marriage held at bay. They figured it took three years to cook the goose. Between the time I met and married Manik Deb, he was a fully cooked goose. It was just my luck, because this goose was now going to be fed to the leopard.
* * *
When Manik returned, I was sitting on the veranda with a boot on my lap wondering how to thread the laces through the complicated eyelets.
“Here, let me help you,” he said, pulling up a chair. Just the nearness of him made me light-headed. Manik lifted my foot onto his knee and hummed happily as he pulled on the monstrous boot and laced it up with military efficiency.
“Hup, two, three, four!” He pulled me to my feet, drawing me into an intimate embrace, followed by a scandalized look. “Shame on you, Comrade!” he scolded sternly. “For your unprofessional behavior you will do double time.” With that, he grabbed my hand and galloped me down the stairs.
* * *
Manik let me steer the jeep as we drove down the hill. A family of golden langurs with coal-black faces loped across the road with long swinging tails. One big fellow sat down in the middle scratching his head. I veered off the road to avoid him, almost landing us into the bushes. Manik grabbed the steering wheel out of my hands just in time.
“Never give way to monkeys,” said Manik, straightening the wheel. “They are canny creatures and jump out of the way an inch before you think you are going to run them over. It’s a game they play. Especially that one. That big male monkey.”
He pulled over and we traded seats. The whole pack was back in the middle of the road watching us. “That one walks with a limp,” I observed.
“I know. He probably got kicked by the wife. Or several wives.”
“For good reason, too, no doubt.”
Manik grinned as he turned toward a dirt road. He jerked his thumb in the opposite direction. “Factory, office, manager’s bungalow, staff housing, that way. Hospital, tea plantation, river, this way.”
We drove past a long bamboobari with paddy fields on the other side. The ground was being tilled for the new planting season and plow marks furrowed the earth. A young lad traipsed along the narrow dividers separating the fields. He wore a conical japi sombrero, his arms draped loosely around a bamboo pole slung across his shoulders. A small pariah dog with a curled-up tail ran ahead on dancing feet.
“Who owns these rice fields?” I asked.
“Our laborers do. They cultivate their own rice. They raise their own cattle. Besides the tea-growing areas, the bamboobari, forests, rivers, everything—” Manik waved his hands expansively “—belongs to Aynakhal. The tea garden covers over two hundred hectares.”
