Teatime For The Firefly. Shona Patel

Чтение книги онлайн.

      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