Teatime for the Firefly

by Shona Patel

  If we had no coolies we’d have no tea garden, I thought to myself. All our husbands would be out of jobs, boss or no. Labor management was a delicate balance of give and take. One side did not have more leverage than the other.

  “Our jeep hit a white owl once.” Molly blinked her bovine eyes. She leaned against the table, round-shouldered and pigeon-toed. “’Twas still stuck on the fender when we got home. The coolies blamed the low profits of the garden that year on that owl’s death. The owl is the goddess of wealth or something.”

  Laxmi was the goddess of wealth. The owl was her mascot.

  “So backward, these natives,” said Betsy bitterly. “I feel like giving them a good rattling sometimes. Even the educated ones are no better.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence and they all looked at me. I pretended not to hear but I wondered what these ladies would make of someone like Dadamoshai.

  “I see Jimmy O’Connor is here,” said Laurie, changing the subject. “What happened to his neck, I wonder?”

  Jimmy O’Connor. The name rang a bell. Then I remembered Emma’s giant in “Jack and the Beanstalk.” Now I could see why Emma thought so: the man leaning against the bar was massive, with flaming red hair. Jimmy O’Connor certainly looked as if he had fallen off the beanstalk, because his neck was in a brace.

  “Danny said he got hit by a goose,” Betsy said.

  “A goose? What on earth!” Molly cried, breaking into a honking laugh, sounding rather like a goose herself. “Bit by a goose, you mean. Oh, for heavens sake!”

  “No, darling, he was hit by a goose when he was out on shikar with that Alasdair Carruthers, from our garden.” Betsy shot a sly look at the group. “Y’know, the one who has that chokri girl. He’s s’posed to be an earl and all. I don’t believe a word of it—”

  “That Jimmy O’Connor also has, you know, one of those...” Molly whispered in a gossipy voice.

  “OPs. Yes, yes.” Laurie waved her hands impatiently. “Her name is Miss Shulai, if you must know. She’s a Khasi whore. She speaks decent English at least. G’on, tell us about the goose, Betsy. What happened?”

  “Well, anyway, they were out hunting and Jimmy O’Connor shoots a goose on the wing tip like he always does—”

  “Why does he shoot them on the wing tip?” asked Molly, blinking.

  “So that he can clip off their wings and keep them as pets. He always does that. Very odd man, that Jimmy O’Connor. He has big flocks of Himalayan geese wandering in his lawn. They are aggressive as any guard dogs and chase off intruders entering his bungalow. He is very antisocial and wants to be left alone, but he keeps getting bothered by that dodgy Indian Forest Officer from Mariani. Animals enter Dega from Kaziranga all the time and that man—”

  Laurie threw up her hands. “Betsy, you are not getting to the point, darling. For God’s sake, what happened to Jimmy O’Connor’s neck?”

  “Oh. He shot this goose and it came crashing down and landed on his head. They are huge. It almost broke his neck, so they say.”

  “How terrible,” Molly said, shaking her head.

  Laurie snorted. “Bloody funny, if you ask me. Anyway, I don’t care about his neck. I wish he would give me some of his heirloom-tomato cuttings.”

  “Why don’t you ask him for some?” said Betsy.

  Laurie looked at her scornfully. “Who even talks to Jimmy O’Connor? The only people he’s friendly with are the Ashtons and Alasdair Carruthers—that Carruthers is a dark horse, if you ask me.”

  “Have you seen his chokri? Ugly hag she is, short and dumpy,” said Betsy. “I don’t know what Alasdair sees in her. Danny says he’s very faithful, though.”

  “She must be a hot chutney in bed,” said Laurie.

  I was thinking about Jimmy O’Connor’s heirloom tomatoes. “What is special about the tomatoes?” I asked suddenly. They all stared at me, taken aback. I realized this was the first time I had spoken. All this while the conversation had flowed easily around me, like water around a river rock.

  “Jimmy O’Connor grows the best heirloom tomatoes in the district. They are unlike anything you have ever seen,” said Laurie. “He got the seeds from a gardener in some English castle. Jimmy O’Connor won’t share the seeds with anybody.”

  “Has anybody asked him for some? Those tomatoes would take the blue ribbon at the flower show, for sure,” Betsy said.

  “You try asking him,” said Laurie. “He’s a real unfriendly sort. I believe he got that way after his wife died.”

  “She was trampled by a rogue elephant. I heard that awful story,” Molly said.

  “Danny says he is an excellent tea planter but has a drinking problem,” Betsy said. “So talking about drinking, who is coming to my shandy brunch? Fiona Clayton is back and she’ll be there. Oh, Laurie, darling, you must bring your homemade mulberry wine for tasting.” Betsy looked around the group. Her eyes skimmed over me. There was an awkward pause. I guess I had not been invited.

  I looked for an excuse to get away. “I heard they have a library here?” I asked Molly.

  “Yes, through that small equipment office, toward the back,” she said. “There’s not much of a selection, though, I’m afraid.”

  I was grateful for an excuse to get away from those dreadful, gossipy women. I walked across the main hall still thinking about Jimmy O’Connor: his geese, his heirloom tomatoes, his missing finger and his wife trampled by a rogue elephant. What a strange man.

  The equipment office smelled of carbon paper. There was a typewriter, piles of foolscap and a small shelf containing sport supplies: Ping-Pong rackets, a box of balls, some darts and billiard chalk. In the neatly ordered library beyond, I found a young Bengali man behind the desk, poring over a ledger. He had a serious, handsome face and wore glasses. He reminded me of a very young Manik.

  The man looked up when I entered, capped his fountain pen and came around the desk.

  “Good evening, madam,” he said, smiling warmly. He walked with a polio limp. “You must be Mrs. Deb of Aynakhal. Can I help you find a particular book?”

  He introduced himself as Raja. His father was the caretaker of the Mariani Club, and his family lived in the quarters behind the clubhouse. Raja was a medical student, home on vacation, volunteering his time reorganizing the library, cataloging the books and creating a checkout system. Most times club members helped themselves to books, and left them piled up on the desk when they were returned. The club typist then stacked them randomly in the shelves. As a result it was impossible to find anything.

  “How do you like it here, madam?” Raja asked. “Mr. Deb always stops by the library. He’s an avid reader. My brother Dinesh and I visited Aynakhal last summer. Mr. Deb showed us his guns and drove us around the plantation and explained how tea is grown. We will never forget his kindness.”

  I asked him about his brother and a shadow crossed Raja’s face. He said his brother had dropped out of school to become a political activist. Dinesh hated the British and mocked his father for working as a mere clerk in a Planters Club, kowtowing to a drunken white population. Raja’s father and brother no longer spoke to each other.

  “Dinesh has cut ties with the family,” Raja explained.

  Before I could answer, Manik popped his head around the door.

  “Oh, there you are. I was looking all over for you,” he said. “I see you have both got acquainted. Fine young man, our Raja is. He’s going to be a brilliant doctor.”

  Raja flushed. He clearly hero-worshipped Manik.

  “Raja’s uncle is Bimal Babu,” said Manik, then, seeing my blank look, he added, “Bimal Babu, our head clerk at Aynakhal. He’s been there longer than Mr. McIntyre.”

  Babus were the Bengali clerks at the garden office, I learned. They were diligent paper pushers: townsfolk who maintained their townsfolk ways and had little involv
ement in other aspects of tea-garden business. It was fascinating how different classes of people lived together in a tea plantation yet maintained their compartmentalized lifestyles. I was reminded of multitiered tiffin carriers: people in separate containers but banded together tightly at the top by the General Manager.

  “Raja here is interested in shikar,” Manik said.

  “Better I stick to my malaria research.” Raja wagged his bad leg. “I couldn’t run very far if a leopard chased me.”

  “I have to get back to my bridge,” Manik said, turning to me. “Alasdair wants to speak to you.”

  “All right,” I said. “Raja, you must come by and visit me the next time you are in Aynakhal.”

  “Most certainly, madam.” Raja beamed. “And if there is any book you are looking for, please leave me a note and I will set it aside for you.”

  “No scratch marks?” Manik said as we walked back to the bar. “I saw you cozying up with the cat gang by the Ping-Pong table.”

  “Not sure I have anything in common with them,” I confessed.

  Manik gave me a warm appraising look. “They are jealous, that’s what. You are too damn beautiful. Makes them feel dowdy.”

  “Rubbish,” I said, but I felt a flutter in my stomach when he looked at me that way.

  We walked back to the bar area and found the club bearer mopping the card table with a cheesecloth jharan. Alasdair looked ruefully at Manik.

  “That was your whiskey, old chap.” He flipped his finger to indicate he had tipped the glass over. “I just ordered you another one.”

  Larry shook his soggy matchbox. “Cheesh, Ally! Look what you did to my deshloye, you bugger.” He skimmed his matchbox across the room, and landed it neatly inside a dustbin by the wall. He whistled softly. “Something tells me I am going to beat little Miss Debbie at darts tonight! Hey, Deb!” he yelled across at the bar. “C’mon, darling, let’s have a game.”

  Alasdair smiled his deep, warm smile. “It’s good to see you, Layla. Is Manik behaving himself?”

  “No complaints so far,” I said.

  “I’ve been waiting to talk to you,” said Alasdair. “To thank you.”

  “To thank me for what?”

  “For being a friend to Jamina. She is very shy and does not talk to anyone, y’ken. Your friendship means a lot.”

  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.”