Teatime for the Firefly. Shona Patel

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СКАЧАТЬ he told me he was engaged...?”

      “He still is, as far as I know.”

      “I beg your pardon—I do apologize!” Alasdair exclaimed, flustered. “Manik never told me a thing. Of course he didn’t expect me to meet you in person. He only asked me to drop off the letter at the post office.”

      “That’s quite understandable,” I said and decided to change the subject. “Please tell me more about the tea gardens.”

      The term tea gardens, I realized, was misleading. They were not small tea farms as I had fondly imagined, but large-scale, sophisticated plantations, averaging 600 to 3,000 acres, some with over 1,500 residents, most of whom were coolies, or tea pluckers. Besides the tea-growing area itself, each plantation was a fully self-contained entity. It had its own tea-processing factory, forestland, rice fields, water and power supply, brickworks, housing and medical facilities. They were like mini townships and run like autonomous entities under the helm of the General Manager. Assam, I learned, had over 700 tea gardens dotting the river valley and most of them were located far beyond the reaches of civilization.

      “Strange why such a large-scale industry was set up in such inhospitable terrain,” I mused.

      “Aye,” said Alasdair. “It is not quite so incomprehensible, if you think about it.” He was stuffing sprigs of tobacco from a round, flat tin into the bowl of his curved Dunhill pipe. “You see, the tea plant, this particular variety, is very fussy. It will not grow anywhere else.”

      Alasdair explained that the shy and reclusive Camellia assamica grew where it wanted, not where it was planted. Any attempts to relocate the plant outside its natural habitat caused it to wilt and die. Even transporting the seeds affected germination. This plant simply refused to budge.

      “So, if tea could not be brought to civilization, civilization had to be brought to tea. The mountain to Muhammad, so to speak, aye?” Alasdair said. There was something utterly likable about Alasdair: he had the well-worn solidity and comfort of aged mahogany. “We British want to shape everything in the world to fit us, don’t we? Aye, but only a fool tries to tame Assam. The harder we try to change the land, the more it will change us. Assam has untamed the white man and made junglees out of us.”

      Did I detect a hint of cynicism? Alasdair Carruthers was a curious man. I had never heard anyone speak so disparagingly of his own kind.

      “What made you become a tea planter?” I asked.

      Alasdair shot me a glance. He flicked open a gold lighter and drew in the flame to his pipe. Then he clipped the lighter shut. I noticed a crested emblem of a C etched on top.

      “It’s a long story,” he said, pulling thoughtfully on his pipe. “Some would say I ran away.”

      “From what?”

      “Tyranny.” Alasdair smiled deeply and his eyes crinkled. He did not elaborate.

      The more Alasdair talked about tea planters, I got the impression that “running away” to join tea plantations was more the norm than the exception. Planters were an odd medley of characters, and many sounded as though they were absconding from something or the other: Brits ran away from the gloomy weather of their homeland, soldiers ran away to forget their war demons, Alasdair was running away from tyranny and Manik from his arranged marriage. Tea gardens were the perfect place to shut out the world, and ferreting somebody out of those malaria-ridden jungles was as difficult as extricating a flea from a warthog.

      Manik Deb was a canny fellow. He knew what he was doing.

      * * *

      After Alasdair left I tore open Manik’s letter.

      

      

      Aynakhal T.E.

      14th October 1943 6:15 a.m.

      Dear Layla,

      I must have read your letter a hundred times!

      As you can see, our postal service is not the most reliable. It took your letter twenty-seven days to get here. I had given up all hope of hearing from you!

      I am replying immediately as I want to send this letter through Alasdair Carruthers. He is going to Silchar today and will post it in town so you should get it tomorrow.

      I am sitting on a log in Division 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 СКАЧАТЬ