Teatime For The Firefly. Shona Patel
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3 of our tea plantation writing to you. I am on kamjari duty, which is the field inspection we assistants have to do every morning (we are expected to be at our designated sections by 5:45 a.m. come rain or shine). Today my job is to supervise the pruning of bushes of Division 3.
We have a small crisis here. A cow got stuck in the cattle trap last night. (You may not know what a cattle trap is? They are railing separators over culverts at the entrance to the tea-growing areas, mostly to keep domestic cattle out.) The cow had fallen in and broken both front legs. It took eight laborers to haul it out with ropes. What a job! All that kicking and bellowing and people shouting! They managed to push it onto the grassy bank on the side of the road. The poor creature is not going to survive, and we need to put it out of its misery, but that is not as simple as it sounds.
The laborers won’t kill the cow because they are Hindu. Willfully killing a holy animal according to their beliefs will bring bad luck. We management can’t do it either because if we shoot it, we risk a labor riot. This is a typical example of the peculiar problems we management have to deal with almost on a daily basis. Never a dull moment in Aynakhal.
From where I write I can hear the poor creature bellowing nonstop. I am keeping an eye out for our General Manager, Mr. McIntyre, who may show up here anytime. He is our slave-driving boss. There will be hell to pay if he catches me sitting on a log writing letters to a girl when we have a half-dead cow on our hands. Section 3 is under my jurisdiction and I am expected to troubleshoot any petty problem without involving him, be it a labor brawl, a cow with broken legs, snakebite or what have you. I am hoping Larry Baker, the other assistant, shows up soon. He may have a better solution to this bovine problem. He is a smart fellow and has been longer in tea than I have.
Enough about tea. (Oops, a raindrop ran the ink on this page—wait a minute, I need to get to a shelter....) Okay, now I am in the seedbari—which is the covered planting nursery. I am surrounded by hundreds of pots with tiny tea seedlings under a thatched roof. It has begun to drizzle slightly.
I just saw a single-seater British fighter aircraft pass overhead. A Spitfire, I think it was. It flew precariously low, rattling the malibari, and I could clearly see the face of pilot wearing his goggles. He was busy looking down at the cow. There have been quite a few plane crashes around here. Several years ago, I’m told, a wreckage was found in the thick jungle bordering Aynakhal and Chulsa. The Aynakhal assistant (Larry’s predecessor) made the coolies drag out the massive propeller and load it onto a garden truck and bring it to his bungalow, where it still graces the front garden as a lawn ornament.
I have to end for now, because I hear Larry’s motorcycle. This cow problem is hanging over my head. Mr. McIntyre will be here in 10 minutes. He is always on the dot of time.
My very best to you.
Manik
Alasdair mentioned he would be passing by our house again later that evening and if I liked he could carry a letter back for Manik from me. I penned a quick reply and a week later there was another letter from Manik.
Aynakhal T.E.
18th October 1943
Dear Layla,
I am so pleased you chose to send a reply back with Alasdair. Imagine my surprise when he told me he had met you! I must have driven him crazy with my questions!
Jamina’s father lives in the fishing village by the river, next to your house. I had no idea Alasdair had gone to see him. He said it made more sense to drop off the letter than to post it. He was very surprised to find you at home. I had not told him about you, so I am not surprised he thought you were my fiancée. I understand that caused some awkwardness between you two. I do apologize.
Now to answer your very valid questions. I am actually very glad you asked. Most people are itching to know, but dread the answers. It is as if I contracted some terrible disease and they fear the prognosis.
To get back to the point, yes, I gave up the civil-service job. Why? Because Layla Roy did not want to marry a government officer! Of course I am joking! The simple reason is the government job looked bureaucratic and boring. In a single word: soulless.
I actually applied to Jardine Henley on a whim, curious to see what the tea job was all about. An English friend of mine in Calcutta told me that Sterling Tea Companies were opening up managerial positions for the first time to Indians. I went for the interview and to my surprise I was offered the Assistant Manager job in Aynakhal Tea Estate. The Assistant Manager position is the lowliest rung of the managerial ladder.
They asked me some very strange questions at the interview. The first one was, if I had plans to get married in the next three years. I don’t think I even batted an eye when I answered, “No.” Many people would call me a blatant liar. Suddenly it was clear as day—I was not ready to get married. I saw this job as my survival. I need to buy some time to think things through more clearly.
The rest of my interview was equally odd. The Directors showed little interest in my academic achievements. They were excited to learn I played tennis and rugby. They asked if I liked to hunt, fish or play bridge. It felt more like an interview for a country club. Then came two of the strangest questions of all: Do you drink, and are you a vegetarian?
I answered “occasionally” to the first and “no” to the second. I later found that drinking is high on their list of credentials and being a vegetarian, an immediate disqualification. I figure what they really want to know is if I have the Westernized mind-set to fit into the tea culture. Everything else about the job can be taught.
Now that I am here, I understand this much better. Tea life is still very colonial. Social clubs, hunting, sporting events, formal dinner parties and so on. It is a whole different lifestyle, and I can see why most Indians would have a hard time adjusting.
But I digress: I don’t want to sound like I am avoiding your questions. So back to your very stern interrogation. (Your questions make me far more nervous than theirs....)
Yes, I gave up the government job. My family still acts like I committed murder. They are shocked and enraged beyond belief. I have not written to anyone or been home since I telegrammed them. I am waiting for the dust to settle before I face the firing squad—not something I am looking forward to.
Question number two, albeit a more delicate one regarding Kona. Yes, she is upset. Her family is upset. The whole world is upset. I have not written or seen them, either. Kona’s father had not bargained for his daughter marrying a junior tea planter and living in obscurity in the jungles. She was groomed for a cushy life in the city.
Everyone thinks I am throwing my future away, but strangely I have no regrets. I am happier now than I have ever been in my life. I think it is the freedom to choose that I love the best.
I hope you will not think less of me for making what many may consider a poor decision. Sometimes there are reasons only the heart understands.
Yours truly,
Manik
Any sensible person would agree that throwing away the civil-service job was nothing short of impaired judgment on Manik’s part. What was more disconcerting, Manik had accepted the tea job “on a whim” without having a clue of what it entailed. As for signing the contract agreeing not to get married for three years...three years! Did he expect Kona to wait for him? I could sympathize with Manik when he said he felt he was being pressured into marriage and understand him needing more time to think, but his whole handling of the situation with the families was nothing short of dishonorable. I could never imagine Dadamoshai, for one, doing something so cowardly. But I found myself dismissing his shortcomings for my own selfish reason: receiving his letters made me so deliriously happy, nothing else really mattered.
CHAPTER 11
Manik and I continued to exchange letters over the next several months. The weather ceased to matter and I had only two kinds of days. Good Days and Waiting Days. April arrived and a subdued dhola drumbeat pulsed through the bamboo grooves. It was Rangoli Bihu, the spring harvest festival—the