Читать книгу Teatime for the Firefly - Shona Patel - Страница 17

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 most joyous time in Assam, typically celebrated with a whole week of reveling and feasting. But that year the festivities were low-key because a thread of tension was running through our town.

In a surprise move, the Japanese Imperial Army had infiltrated India through Assam. They inched past the sawtooth mountains into Manipur and headed straight for the small Naga town of Dimapur, just northeast of Silchar. The invasion came on the heels of Britain’s crushing defeat in Singapore and its faltering hold on other colonies around the globe. It was a tactical move by the Japanese to overthrow the British in India. Dimapur was the hub of the Assam-Bengal railway, the only lifeline of food and military supplies for British troops stationed in Burma. If the Japanese captured Dimapur it would have devastating consequences for British troops and the British Empire and most likely tip the balance of power.

Suddenly Assam was no longer inviolable. The lights in Dadamoshai’s house stayed on all night as community leaders gathered on our veranda to discuss the Japanese situation. It was 2:00 a.m. and cups of tea remained untouched, dark rings forming on the inside rim. I sat quietly hidden in the shadows of the jasmine trellis, listening to the elders talk.

“New regiments have been deployed from South India,” said Amrat Singh, the Police Chief. He was an imposing man with a fine turban and beard, who still looked dapper at that unearthly hour. “The convoys are traveling night and day. But it will still take another ten days to reach Guahati. Meanwhile, the Japanese are advancing fast. Three divisions are marching toward Assam—over 80,000 Japanese soldiers, I am told.”

“I hear they have already blocked off the road between Kohima and Dimapur—is that true?” asked Dadamoshai. The crease lines on his forehead had deepened. He suddenly looked very old.

“So I hear,” Amrat Singh said. “We get news of the Japanese movements from a guerrilla force patrolling the Naga Hills. They keep the generals updated on the enemy’s advance.”

“The Naga Hills! That is the most treacherous jungle,” exclaimed Dadamoshai. “I can’t imagine British soldiers surviving those grueling conditions.”

“They are being assisted by the Nagas,” said the Forest Officer. “The Nagas, as you can imagine, are the only people capable of navigating that mountainous terrain. Also being a strong and hardy people, they run up and down as stretcher bearers. The soldiers are cutting their way through using machetes and taking extra doses of Benzedrine to stay awake. Grueling, as you say.”

I sat in the dark trying to imagine the British soldiers holed up in the rainy jungles with the Naga headhunters. I hoped to God they had ample food. The Nagas were known to be cannibals. They were a ferocious tribe who wore bushy loincloths and embellished their shields and earrings with the hair and bones of slain enemies. But the Nagas were also known to be an intensely loyal and moral people and they hated the “Japani.”

“Hundreds of Nagas have also joined the regular British Army in Kohima. People are coming together from all walks of life to stop the Japanese invasion. Even the tea planters—many planters have left their gardens to join the regiments.”

“Tea planters!” I exclaimed, unable to contain myself.

All heads turned toward the dark corner where I was sitting.

“Who was that?” asked Amrat Singh, squinting in my direction.

“Oh, just Layla,” said my grandfather dryly, “listening quietly as usual. Of late, Layla has a growing interest in the tea industry. I found one of my books in her room.”

I squirmed. “It’s a very interesting...history,” I muttered vaguely.

“I agree,” said Amrat Singh. “It’s fascinating. Many Assam tea planters are ex-army men, you know, from the First World War. So it is only natural that they rejoin British forces in this hour of need. I dread to think what will happen if Assam falls to the Japanese.”

Was Manik going off to war? I wondered. It sounded risky enough living with leopards and elephants in Aynakhal; then to march off to fight the Japanese with a bunch of Naga headhunters and armed with a blunderbuss that misfired sounded like suicide. I wanted to ask more about the tea planters and their involvement in the Japanese invasion, but Dadamoshai had smelled a rat and I did not want to draw any more attention to myself. So I excused myself quietly and went to my room.

* * *

As it transpired, the British allied forces defeated the Japanese only miles before they reached Dimapur. It was a precarious win. The colonial power teetered dangerously, only to upright itself in the end. Crushed and depleted, the Japanese Army crawled back over the border through Burma, thousands of Japanese soldiers dropping like flies along the way.

The news of the British victory came on a glittering spring morning. It was a beautiful jackal wedding day. A visible sigh of relief went through our town. The farmers came out with their dhola drums and pepa flutes and Assamese youth danced with abandon in the rice fields. Storekeepers threw open their shutters, dusted shelves and played cinema songs on their radios. The fish market reopened and rickshaws honked bulb horns and plied the red dirt roads carrying fat ladies with their shopping baskets. The Gulmohor trees on Rai Bahadur Road showered down blossoms and even the koels sang sweetly among the branches.

* * *

Aynakhal T.E.

30th May, 1944 2:45 a.m.

Dear Layla,

I am up at an unearthly hour, as you can see. The dryer in the factory broke down and I have been up all night battling with the mechanics to get it working again. Production got backed up. The leaf plucked today (and we are talking about 200 kilos of our best leaf of the season) has to be processed within six hours to avoid spoilage, so there was major tension until we got it running again. I probably went through half a bottle of whiskey and two packs of cigarettes.

We are in the middle of the second flush plucking season, the premium crop yield of the year, and we cannot miss a single cycle. The bushes plucked today will be ready to be plucked again five days from now. The sections are rotated. Tea grows at a furious rate this time of the year and Larry and I are kept on our toes to make sure the plucking schedules tie in with the factory production. The factory runs round the clock this time of the year.

Mr. McIntyre, our boss, is a legendary tea planter. Army man, brutal disciplinarian. Tea is very much a hands-on job and a good General Manager can make all the difference. Much as I grumble I am lucky to be learning from the best. There is so much to learn about tea growing and tea processing—I am not sure if I will pick it all up in one lifetime.

It’s difficult to sleep now, knowing I have to be up in a few hours, so here I am sitting on my veranda writing to you. I just got the night chowkidar to make me a cup of tea. It is almost dawn.

I just reread your letter. I guess I forgot to explain who Jamina is. She is Alasdair’s “Old Party”—OP as they are called in tea circles. In other words, his concubine or “kept woman.” Jamina used to be a common prostitute, till Alasdair took her under his wing. They seem to be quite compatible. She is a simple Bangladeshi woman, very shy. Unfortunately the tea crowd ostracizes her.

Alasdair is another story. He is quite an enigma. You will hardly believe this, but he is of royal blood. Alasdair is the direct descendant of Scottish nobility and the Earl of Carruthers. He is the only living heir to the Carruthers land and title. And here he is a tea planter hiding away in the jungles of Assam with Jamina. I suspect he is running away. His obligations make him claustrophobic. I can empathize with that.

I should try and get an hour of sleep at least. Tomorrow is another hellish day. I can’t wait for club night, Monday. I am getting to be an excellent bridge player.

Yours,

Manik

Manik’s letters came fast and furious. He wrote at least once a week, sometimes twice. His letters always arrived in a square, blue envelope, addressed to me in his elegant hand. The y of my name dipped flamboyantly as if doing a curtsy.

I devoured his letters from end to end, and then reread them slowly in private. I loved the flowing lines of his blue fountain pen. I dwelled on the curve of each stroke, the way he stretched his T’s across the word, the impatient dots of his i’s that flew in tiny bird shapes ahead of the letter. He had the most exquisite penmanship I had ever seen. Whenever his letter arrived, my stomach fluttered with butterflies and my mind floated like a brilliant scarf over my everyday reality.

Often his letters would smell faintly of tobacco. Once he enclosed a serrated tea leaf and another time the waxy petals of a camellia flower, satiny brown and smooth as a baby’s skin.

I kept his letters hidden under my mattress, where they formed guilty bumps that disturbed my sleep. Chaya was my coconspirator. She intercepted Manik’s letters before the mail got to Dadamoshai’s desk and put them under my pillow. She never asked any questions.

I was not sure what Dadamoshai would have to say about our alliance. Manik was still formally engaged to another woman. There were dos and don’ts in our society. I was secretly writing to another woman’s fiancé, and no matter how platonic our letters, there was something improper about the exchange. I was torn by the complicity of the act. Sometimes my guilt bled through the thin fabric of my deceit—a dark telltale stain, spreading for the whole world to see. But there was no turning back. I simply did not have the power or the will.