Teatime for the Firefly (35 page)

“Don’t cry, my love.” Manik’s eyes were soft with sadness. “I’ll come as soon as I can get away. I’ll be with you when the baby is born. It won’t be too long now.”

On the morning of my departure, we waited silently on the cold veranda, me huddled in my shawl, my tea untouched. The taxi arrived and my suitcase was loaded. I covered my face to hide my tears. Manik held me wordlessly for a few moments. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, kissing the top of my head before I got into the car. I turned back to look at him one last time as he stood in the middle of that big circular driveway. He looked so utterly alone: a tall, thin man in a brown suede hunting jacket, hunched in the cold, his dog by his side. The trees behind him loomed pale and gray, and I watched through tear-blurred eyes as he disappeared from my view, swallowed by the morning fog.

We drove out of Aynakhal just as the fog was lifting and passed through Mariani, still shuttered with sleep. A black, sticky haze hung over the town, and there was the acrid smell of burning rubber in the air. The roadside tea stalls had not yet opened, and a few huddled beggars stirred at the railway crossing. The plywood factory appeared to be abandoned: piles of logs lay haphazardly in the yard and graffiti defaced the factory boundary walls. A few miles outside Mariani, the Assam-Bengal goods train looked as though it had been halted in its tracks. The hinged side door of a trolley car hung open and piles of coal lay strewn over the tracks. The rust-colored bogies had been scratched over with political slogans. As we drove through the main section of town, we saw that several shops had been gutted and burned. It was a relief to finally get out of Mariani into the peaceful Assam countryside. Here the world was unchanged. The mist trailed like a delicate chiffon scarf over the rice fields, and the frail winter sun was inching over the bamboo groves.

It was only in hindsight I realized how lucky we were to pass through Mariani unarmed that day. We got the news that violence had erupted only hours after we had driven through; the bloodshed and mayhem that followed carried on unabated for days. The local police had not been able to control the mobs, and several people were killed in the clashes. When I heard the news, all I could think of was there was only one road in and out of Aynakhal and it was through Mariani. Mariani was now a minefield and Manik was on the other side.

* * *

There was no news from Manik for the next ten days. Then James Lovelace sent a telegram from Calcutta to say that the situation in Aynakhal was still tense, but that Manik was safe. The only news of Aynakhal the head office received came through Charlie the pilot, who flew in and out of the Dega airstrip.

A few days later Bimal Babu, the head clerk of Aynakhal, arrived with a letter from Manik. He was a thin, earnest man with a receding hairline. The situation in Mariani was temporarily under control, he reported, but each day fresh hordes of political hoodlums arrived by train, and there were rumors of further clashes in the days to come. Manik had ordered the Aynakhal office staff to vacate the garden. Only Baruah, the Compounder Babu in charge of the hospital, had chosen to stay back to take care of the critically ill.

“I am sorry, madam,” Bimal Babu said, wiping his forehead with a white handkerchief. “I would not have left Aynakhal. But Sir insisted. Some of us have our missus and small children to think of, you see?”

“How bad is the situation in Aynakhal?” I asked. I found it difficult to breathe. I fingered Manik’s letter, dreading the contents, but I needed to get firsthand news from a reliable source. I knew Manik would paint a softer picture in his letter.

“The union has
gheraoed
the office,” said Bimal Babu. His eyes darted nervously. “They want to shut down the factory. The coolies are getting harassed if they report to work.”

“Have the coolies joined the union?”

“No, madam. The coolies have no such interest. These are just outside people who want to make trouble. They are calling themselves union leaders. Many are just the
goondas
from the Fertility Hill, madam. Troublemakers. They just want money. What can I say?”

“Is there any news when Mr. Watson will arrive?”

“No, madam. He is still on furlough. There is no definite word when he is joining Aynakhal.”

I was silent. I wondered if Holly Watson had heard of the trouble and was deliberately delaying his arrival.

“I think Sir is relieved that you are here in Silchar, madam. In your advanced condition, it was not safe to remain in Aynakhal. When is the little one due, may I ask?”

“In about three weeks. Do you think Mr. Deb will be able to come to attend the birth?”

“It difficult to say, madam. Sir may reach some settlement with the union soon. This
gherao
cannot go on forever. Also, Mr. Watson is expected any day. I don’t think Sir will leave Aynakhal unattended unless somebody takes charge. The
goonda
elements are looking for a chance to take control over the garden. I think the Jardines company people are trying to get the Mariani police involved. But the situation in Mariani is hopeless.”

“What is the latest in Mariani?” I asked.

“Oh, madam, I cannot even begin to tell you!” Bimal Babu was silent for a few moments. “It was with great risk we drove through Mariani. Several times we feared we were going to be attacked. All the shops were burning, madam. Near the plywood factory
goondas
threw kerosene on a man and burned him alive. I had to cover my children’s eyes, madam. There were dead bodies lying on the road.” He looked away. “In some respects, Mr. Deb is safer in Aynakhal than Mariani. At least the trouble in the garden is not Hindu-Muslim related. Union problems can be solved peacefully by negotiation.”

“But, Bimal Babu, you say the
goondas
from the Fertility Hill are the ones creating trouble. They have a religious agenda, do they not?”

“Yes, so they say,” said Bimal Babu, “but they are only troublemakers, madam. They are using the Fertility Hill as an excuse to enter Aynakhal. Sir carries his gun to the office and the dog is there at all times. Nobody dares to come near the dog.”

I thought gratefully of Marshal. Marshal would not let anybody get within ten feet of Manik; that much I knew. He would guard Manik with his life.

“I must take my leave, madam,” said Bimal Babu, getting to his feet. “I regret to bring you all this bad news, but I am hoping the trouble will be over soon, and then we can go back to our normal lives. I wish you a safe delivery, madam. May I come and visit you in the hospital? I expect you will be at the Welsh Mission?”

“Yes,” I said. “Thank you, Bimal Babu. I needed to get firsthand news of Mr. Deb. I feel better knowing what is going on than getting no news at all.”

CHAPTER 33

Aynakhal

2nd January 1947

Dearest wife,

I think of you and our baby all the time. I hope you are both doing well. I am thankful you left when you did because the situation in Aynakhal has deteriorated. The company has given me the choice to evacuate. This puts me in a dilemma because this is exactly what the union
goondas
are looking for. Our laborers are still on the side of management but they are powerless and cowed down. If we abandon them now they will feel betrayed and we will lose Aynakhal. But don’t worry, darling. It is now simply a matter of time before the union backs down. They have to because they are getting no support from our laborers. I just have to hold firm till this deadlock breaks.

This brings me to the sad news. I may not be there for the birth of our child. This grieves me more than I can say. Even if the union relents, I cannot leave Aynakhal without someone in charge. It’s uncertain when Holly Watson will join us. He is still in England, as far as I know. I am relieved Mima will be with you soon, darling. Silchar is still very safe from what I hear. Maybe it is because of the presence of the military there.

I don’t think we discussed names for the baby, did we? If it is a girl, will you please consider naming her Jonaki? The name came to me one evening as I watched the fireflies. It has a pretty sound, don’t you think? This child is a spot of brightness in my darkest hour. She is my firefly. On the other hand, if it’s a boy, please choose a name, darling. But something tells me I will have a daughter.

I end with my love to you, dearest wife. Please be well for our sake.

M.

The Welsh Mission Hospital in Silchar was built for expatriates. It had a residential feel to it and looked more like a Governor’s mansion, with its finely manicured lawns and sweeping marble stairway. From the windows of my room on the second floor, I could see the tall front gates and past the curved driveway that opened out on a busy street. The gates were locked and manned by armed military guards. I caught fleeting glimpses of passing cars, people and rickshaws. Once in a while a procession of people marched by, shouting slogans and carrying flags and banners.

Maria, the Anglo-Indian nurse, breezed into my room. Her starched uniform looked as though it had been ironed onto her flat-chested body, and a white cap resembling a small paper boat sailed gaily in her black, wavy hair.

“Oh, you are wakie-wakie, love,” she said. “Your grandfather and auntie came to see you but you were sleeping. Auntie came straight from the railway station.”

“Why didn’t someone wake me up?” I asked.

“They were talking to Doctor Hughes. Your auntie has gone home to change. She will come back in an hour, she said.”

I felt a small stab of worry. “Nurse, is something wrong? I have not felt the baby move since my water broke.”

“Hush, dear. Baby is ready to come out. Doctor Hughes will be here in a few minutes to talk to you.”

Just then Doctor Hughes walked in, snapping on a pair of rubber gloves. He was a tall, handsome English doctor, who looked like a faded movie star. “Well, well,” he said. “Let’s see what’s going on here. So, how do you feel, Mrs. Deb?”

“The same,” I said.

He examined me and said something to Nurse Maria. She looked at her watch and scribbled on a clipboard.

“I am afraid we will have to pull this little monkey out,” said Doctor Hughes. “I have to do a Cesarean, Mrs. Deb. The good thing is you won’t feel a thing. The bad thing is you will take a little longer to heal.”

“Can we please wait for my aunt to arrive?”

“I am afraid I can’t risk that,” said Doctor Hughes, pulling off his gloves. “Your aunt will be upset, and I am going to get the short end of the stick from her. She wanted to stay, but I told her we still had time. But looking at you now, I don’t think we should delay the operation any further.”

He turned to Nurse Maria. “Prepare OT. Doctor Harrison to assist.”

He patted my arm. “Try and relax now. When you wake up, you will have a brand-new baby.”

* * *

“Layla, Layla, wake up,
maiyya
.” Mima shook me gently. “Don’t you want to see your baby girl?”

“A perfect little angel, she is,” said Nurse Maria as she propped up my pillows and helped me sit up. I felt dull and heavy but there was no pain. It must be the medication, I thought.

A tiny bundle was placed in my arms. The baby’s face was a fiery red. A plume of black hair shot out from the top of her head like the tail of a comet. Her eyes were squeezed shut and the tiny pink fingers of one hand opened and closed like a delicate sea anemone.

“I wonder what color her eyes are,” I said, feeling a little strange holding the minuscule creature.

“They are dark brown, like Manik’s,” said Mima. She gently tickled the baby’s cheek. The baby turned her face toward the finger and opened a pink gummy mouth. “Little Jonaki is hungry.”

“Do you like the name Jonaki, Mima?”

“Of course I do. After all, I chose it, didn’t I?”

“I thought it was Manik...”

“Stop! That man is always trying to take credit for everything. Little Jonaki knows it was her Boro-mima who named her.”

“Has Manik got the news?”

“Yes, Calcutta Head Office sent word.”

“I wonder what his reaction was. He always wanted a daughter.”

“He said, ‘So what, who cares,’” quipped Dadamoshai, coming into the room. “Layla, what do you think of the name Jonaki for the baby?”

Mima looked at him sternly. “Dada, I came up with that name a long time ago.”

“Why,” said Dadamoshai, round-eyed with surprise, “I was the one who thought of the name. In fact, when we were talking on our way home from the station—”

“I suggested Jonaki—” said Mima fiercely.

I caught the twinkle in Dadamoshai’s eyes. He was teasing Mima of course. I had told him about Manik’s letter, and he liked the name. Between the time Mima got off the train and arrived at the hospital she was firmly convinced, the baby’s name was her idea. Who dared to argue with that?

I smiled at them and said softly to little Jonaki, “It is your daddy who named you, baby. You are every bit his little girl.”

Jonaki.
Firefly.

The baby gave a tiny little shudder and opened her eyes. She gazed at me peacefully with the fathomless wisdom of an old soul. The whites of her eyes were a silvery-blue, the pupils dilated and shining. How I wished her father could touch those tiny dimpled fingers and feel the velvet of her cheek against his own. She was the tiniest, brightest little thing in the universe, only my heart cried out silently because Manik was not there.

* * *

A week passed and there was still no word from Manik. This was getting worrying. Dadamoshai used the courthouse to make a trunk call to the Jardines Head Office in Calcutta. He came home with some disturbing news. I was giving Jonaki an oil massage before her bath when he walked into my room.

“The new manager is not going to join Aynakhal,” he said abruptly.

“Holly Watson? What do you mean?”

“The company found some serious corruption charges against him. He has been fired.”

My heart was pounding. This was extremely bad news. “So who is going to take over Aynakhal?”

“They don’t know yet,
maiyya
. The company is trying to sort that out.”

Dadamoshai said it sounded as if Manik was expected to stay on as Acting Manager until Jardines figured out a new game plan. The new assistant, Desmond Williams, who was going to replace Larry, had arrived from England only to land in Calcutta in the middle of a deadly political riot. He was holed up in his hotel room, and Charlie was unable to fly him out to Aynakhal until the situation calmed down.

It was just as well, I thought. A new assistant would be more of a headache than help to Manik, given the current situation in Aynakhal. New assistants took a while to adjust to a tea job. They had to be spoon-fed and mentored. Who was there now to show him the ropes? Manik had his hands full. Aynakhal at that moment was a headless entity, with one barely functioning arm and paralyzed feet. This was a very bad situation indeed.

There was also news that the trouble in Mariani had escalated. The police station was attacked and several policemen lynched by the mob. The army had been called out, but was unable to get to Mariani because the Dargakona Bridge had been damaged by a pipe bomb.

I looked away. The deep fear that was filling my body erupted in a silent howl. I looked down at Jonaki as she lay there, a tiny seashell curled on the white sheet. A tear rolled down my cheek and plopped on her little brown belly, where it trembled like a dewdrop. Jonaki looked up at me with her sweet, peaceful eyes, so bright and clear that I saw the sky from the open window reflected in them. They were Manik’s eyes looking back at me.

The next day Hindu-Muslim riots broke out in the Muslim village across the river. We were in the middle of dinner when the first flames licked up into the night sky. Soon long rows of houses lit up like a string of firecrackers and the entire village blistered and burned in a bloodred sky.

None of us slept that night. A feathery dawn had broken over the river. Tattered smoke spiraled over the treetops from the still-burning village. Panic now swept through the Hindu section of the town on our side of the river. Everybody feared a deadly retaliation. Shop owners barricaded their doors, the fish market did not open and not even a pariah dog ventured out into the deserted streets.

“Hai bhogoban!”
Mima cried.
“Such madness!”
“Why did they have to attack the peaceful village? They were such simple fisherfolk who never troubled anybody. Now the Muslims will want an eye for an eye. Didn’t Gandhi say, if Hindus and Muslims each took an eye for an eye, the whole country would be blind?”

I sat on the old plantation chair on our veranda as a fine silvery ash settled on the wooden armrests like a silent ghost. I was not thinking about what Gandhi said or the splintered politics of our country. I was thinking only of Manik. Suddenly he seemed so far away, so impossibly out of reach.

The turgid silence of the ashen dawn was broken by the lonesome sound of a
baul
plucking his
ektara
as he traversed between two hate-torn worlds divided by a river with no bridge across it. He sang of man’s betrayal and sorrow. Only a
baul
could rise above this madness, without judgment, powerless but unafraid.

* * *

Then the boats started coming across the river filled with half-dead, broken people; men with beaten bodies; women with vacant eyes; children with voiceless cries. They crawled across the rice fields, begged from door to door, sometimes with not even a rice bowl to beg with. One morning we found a small group huddled on our doorstep: an old man and a young mother with her two infant children.

“Save us!” the old man cried, falling at Dadamoshai’s feet. “Oh, save us! Our house is burned, everything gone. All gone!” He raised his upturned hands to the sky. “Hai Allah have mercy!” he implored. I gasped when I recognized the ravaged face: the old man was none other than Jamina’s father!

The woman covered the lower half of her face with the torn end of her sari. She stared straight ahead with unseeing eyes. A newborn infant, hardly a few months old, drooped listlessly on her shoulder and a small toddler clung to her legs. The woman’s name was Reza, we learned. She was Jamina’s brother’s wife. I recalled the menacing tattooed man with the sickle-shaped scar from Jamina’s wedding. Jamina’s brother had stormed out of the village vowing revenge on the Hindus. They feared he would never return.

Dadamoshai gave them shelter. It was risky harboring Muslims at that time, but who in his or her right mind ever dared to tell Dadamoshai what to do? After all, he harbored all kinds of people in full daylight: fallen Hindu women like Chaya, Russian communists like Boris Ivanov and even a bad-luck child like me. This confused people because nobody quite knew what he was about or whose side he was on.

“Why should these people hide like thieves? What have they done?” Dadamoshai tapped his umbrella furiously on the floor. “Let me see who dares to come after them. They will have to cross this threshold over my dead body.”

Jamina’s family slept on our veranda. I could hear them outside my bedroom window: the soft sucking sounds of a nursing child, the prattle of a toddler and sometimes late at night the muffled sounds of a woman crying.

Late one night I woke up and lay in bed listening: there was another man’s voice on the veranda. I parted the curtains and saw the shadowed back of a stranger. Reza’s husband had secretly come to visit her. At daybreak, when I looked out again he was already gone.

* * *

The next day the postman arrived with a telegram.

“It’s for you,” said Dadamoshai, handing it to me.

Telegrams were either good news or bad news. I had a sinking feeling about this one. I opened the pink sheet with trembling hands.

MANIK DEB INJURED
STOP
CONDITION SERIOUS
STOP
DETAILS TO FOLLOW

STOP

JAMES LOVELACE

I passed the telegram to Mima, left the veranda silently and went to my room. I lay facedown on my bed and everything started shaking violently all around me. I finally broke and my tears came in great hacking waves. Through the dense wall of my sorrow, I heard a thin, monotonous wail—persistent and forlorn. It was the sound of my baby crying.

* * *

Nothing could have stopped me that day. No riot, no earthquake, no flood—not even my five-week-old baby daughter. I had to get to Manik somehow.

The situation in Silchar had turned ugly. The violence had spread from the village to the town. There were reports of looting and killing. Very few vehicles plied the roads and gangs of young hoodlums had taken to the streets brandishing
khurpis
and sticks. There were rumors of mosques and temples being burned, women raped.