Teatime for the Firefly (27 page)

CHAPTER 25

In the spring of 1946, Percival Edwards Williams joined Chulsa Tea Estate as the new Junior Assistant. The pomposity of his name belied his tiny stature, so he was quickly nicknamed Peewee. Peewee looked not a day over twelve, though his official records claimed he was nineteen. He was a baby-faced lad, slightly built like a jockey, with a romp of golden curls and an enviable set of lashes. Peewee spent his first week recuperating from his mosquito bites and a terrible attack of diarrhea. Jimmy O’Connor’s eyes almost popped when he saw tiny Peewee tiptoe into his office. According to Rob Ashton, who was present, Jimmy O’Connor wagged the stub of his missing finger to intimidate Peewee and acted as if he would eat the poor fellow with a toothpick.

Larry Baker took up the manly challenge of hand-rearing Peewee Williams. Barely had his mosquito bites subsided when Peewee, doused with whiskey, was marched off to Auntie’s for his primary education. Larry played with Peewee for his own amusement. He made sure Peewee got his vernacular nicely jumbled: he confused
chokri
(girl) with
tokri
(basket) and
pisab
(piss) with
hisab
(accounts) and unwittingly said the most hilarious things. He turned crimson when the coolie
women shrieked with laughter. But he was a good sport overall and had a sweet milk-fed charm that endeared him easily to women.

I was bottling my second batch of gooseberry jam in the pantry when I heard the wheezy honk of the Aston Martin coming up our driveway. Larry was at the wheel with Flint, the Kotalgoorie assistant, riding alongside while tiny Peewee bounced like a marble in the backseat.

“Yo, Manny!” yelled Larry, as the engine spluttered down.

He bounded up the stairs followed by Flint. Manik was in the living room reading peacefully on the sofa.

“Oh, Man-ny boy,” sang Larry from the veranda. “The pi-pes the pi-pes are ca-all-ing. Where are you, old chap. Where’s Layla?”

“She’s in the pantry,” Manik said, stirring from the sofa. “What’s up, fellows?”

“Are you up for some bridge?” Flint asked. “Your old comrades eagerly await thee. We are playing at my bungalow and we need a fourth hand.”

Manik shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’m really...”

Flint held up his hand. His face wore a pious expression. “Spare us the excuses, old man. Just so that you know, you are getting awfully antisocial these days. I understand you have domestic duties, being married and all, but forgetting your old friends is a real shame—that’s all I’m saying.”

“Exactly!” agreed Larry. “Come on, Manny, just a few rubbers and we will drop you right back. Peewee here is keen to learn bridge. I told him you are a champion player.”

“Is Manny coming?” called Peewee from the bottom of the stairs.

“Not a chance,” Flint called back peevishly. “Manny is stuck to his wet nurse these days. What a crying shame.”

“Wait, fellows,” said Manik. “Let me see what Layla is doing. Maybe I can play for a little while. But I have to be home for dinner, though.”

Flint snapped his fingers. “Attaboy. Go ask the old lady, will you?”

Manik sauntered into the pantry, hands in his pockets. Of course I had heard the whole conversation.

“Go,” I said, waving him off, before he could open his mouth. “I don’t want to be called your wet nurse.”

“They are only joking, darling.”

“I know, but please go. I have things to do here.”

Manik kissed my neck and grinned happily. “Only for a few hours. I’ll be home for dinner.” He hurried out of the pantry. “Boys, I’m coming!” he yelled.

“Brilliant! No need to take your jeep, Manny,” said Flint. “We’ll drop you back. Oh, got a dram to spare, old chap? I am running low.”

“Only some cheap whiskey.”

“That’ll do.”

Larry poked his head into the pantry. “You’re a brick, darling. We’ll make sure your old man is back home for dinner. Boy, that jam looks awfully good.”

* * *

It was past dinnertime, past bedtime, and there was no sign of Manik. The generator powered down, the lights went off, Halua and Kalua went home and Potloo reported for duty. In the distance the jackals howled, but still no sign of Manik. I must have fallen asleep on the sofa because when I woke the clock in the living room was striking twelve.
Midnight!
I sat up in panic.
Where was Manik?
Something terrible must have happened. Did Larry’s old jalopy break down in the jungle? Was there an animal attack?
Kotalgoorie was only seven miles away. I could possibly drive Manik’s jeep, very slowly. I decided to take Potloo along and carry Manik’s gun.

I banged on the door to Potloo’s hut, but it was like trying to raise the dead. He finally emerged bleary-eyed, wrapped in his scratchy old blanket.

“I have to get
Chotasahib
,” I said hurriedly. “Get in the jeep and bring your torch.”

The jeep growled to life, coughed and died. I tried again and the engine throbbed and held. The gears engaged with a terrible squeal and the vehicle lurched forward. I sat at the very edge of the seat and inched out of the driveway, my hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Potloo sat behind, gripping the back of the passenger seat as we bumped down the hill and into the pitch-black night.

The night was thick, and eyes of furtive animals gleamed in the headlights. I drove the entire way in first gear and instructed Potloo to check the sides of the jungle road with the flashlight for signs of an accident—an upturned vehicle or, God forbid, bloodied human remains. But there was none, thank God. We entered the Kotalgoorie Tea Estate gate and drove past the factory to Flint’s bungalow. All the lights were blazing. Flint had the luxury of a small kerosene generator in his bungalow. His manager was easygoing, so his bungalow was pretty much the party house for young assistants.

It was close to one o’clock when I arrived. There was a big racket going on and nobody heard me pull up on the driveway. I killed the engine and paused, listening. Somebody was twanging a guitar; there were shouts, drunken voices singing rowdy Irish songs and shrieks of female laughter.

I got out of the car. My head was thundering as I marched up the stairs. The living room was in shambles. Beer, whiskey bottles, glasses and plates strewn everywhere. Flint was flat on his back, his head cradled in the bosom of a dusky female, her sari falling off her shoulders. She was feeding him bits of what looked like omelet from a plate on the floor. Larry was shirtless, perched on the sideboard with his ankles locked around a slant-eyed girl, singing lustily. Peewee had passed out, like a baby bird on the sofa, and Manik and another fellow whom I did not recognize were attempting to build a house of playing cards on the coffee table. Manik swayed like a leaf in the breeze, trying vainly to tent two cards together. His glasses were hanging off the tip of his nose. He was hopelessly and completely drunk.

“Manik!” My voice slashed through the room like a whip. There was an instant chill in the air. Larry’s hand froze on the guitar. The omelet froze halfway to Flint’s mouth; the girls froze in their tittering and Manik glanced at me, then quickly down at the two cards on the table, which were now miraculously tented together.

“I believe that is my wife,” he told the other fellow. He looked confused, not knowing whether to be dismayed at seeing me or triumphant at the tented cards. “I have to be home for dinner. I am a married man, you know.”

All eyes were riveted on me. Suddenly I was mortified to think how I must have appeared: in my crushed sari and disheveled hair, I was the very caricature of the irate wife chasing down her faithless husband. I was the killjoy and a laughingstock. A hot wave of humiliation washed over me as I stood there blinking back the sting of my tears.

The awful silence woke up Peewee. He looked around fearfully. “What’s going on, fellows?”

What followed was a confused babble, everybody talking at once.

I looked at Manik. “Let’s go,” I said acidly.

“Oh boy,” said Larry, glancing at the others nervously.

I turned around and marched down the stairs.

Flint ran out to the veranda and peered over the railing. “Bloody hell, she drove here by herself. I didn’t even know she could drive.”

“Where is my shoe? Has anybody seen my shoe?” I heard Manik shout.

“Forget the shoe, old chap,” said Flint. “You better go.” He said to the others, “She’ll make mutton chop out of him.”

Manik tumbled down the stairs, wearing one shoe.

“Goodbye, fellows, have to be home for dinner. I am a married man, you know.”

Blinded by tears and fury, I drove back to Aynakhal. Manik lolled around in the passenger seat and slept soundly. I left him in the jeep, went upstairs and locked the bedroom door. Potloo must have put him to bed that night, because in the morning Manik was asleep on the living-room couch, covered with Potloo’s scratchy old blanket. How he made it to
kamjari
on time is anybody’s guess.

* * *

Assam lies on a seismic fault that is wide and disastrous. Mild tremors are common. Once in a while, the earth gives an involuntary shudder as if imagining something frightful. The old bungalow creaks, lightbulbs sway and people forget what they were saying. One time we were halfway through dinner when it felt as though someone gave a violent jolt to the dining table. The walls weaved a little, the silverware clattered and the water glasses formed shuddering whirlpools. Then, just as abruptly, it all settled down.

The earthquake that hit Assam the first summer I was in Aynakhal measured 6.5 on the Richter scale. When I look back, I recall there was something different in the air that evening—a rigid stillness almost, like a clamped throat. The dusk did not linger as it normally does in Assam and night fell swiftly. There was not a single sound, not a single firefly.

Manik and I did not speak the whole next day after I pulled him out of Flint’s. There was icy silence, and Manik crept about like a thief, coughing nervously. He looked awful and I’m certain he felt worse. I was still giving him the royal snub.

“The lads are very impressed with your driving,” Manik offered, trying to be friendly.

I gave him a frosty look. “I don’t care what the lads are impressed with, and I am certainly not impressed with
you
.”

He took his evening tea alone in the veranda while I stayed in the bedroom. When he came into the bedroom for his bath, I went out to the living room. I sat at the writing desk and tried to compose a letter to Moon. Through tear-blurred eyes, I wondered how to tell her of my tragically flawed marriage. Each word took so long to write, the ink kept drying on the nib of my fountain pen until I ran out of ink altogether. I was filling my pen with the dropper from the inkwell when a movement against the wall caught my eye. It was about a foot long, thin like a snake but without the writhing serpentine motion, rather it bobbed up and down in a straight line. I moved a little closer to take a look and found to my utter astonishment a long line of very tiny mice. They were holding one another’s tails and scurrying rapidly along the edge of the wall in a single file. The tiny convoy then turned the corner of the living room and disappeared into the darkness of the veranda. It was the most bizarre thing I had ever encountered, and I had no idea what to make of it.

Three minutes later, the inkwell flew off the desk and smashed against the wall. Books tumbled off the shelves, and the ground began to move in a violent sideways motion like a giant sieve. The desk tipped and jammed the bookshelf into the wall. I lost my balance and grabbed the sofa, watching in horror as it slid toward the dining table, dragging me along.

Manik ran out from the bathroom covered in soapsuds and wrapped in a towel.

“Get out!” he screamed. “NOW!”

The floor was tipping in the opposite direction now. He yanked me to my feet. We bolted down the stairs and ran to the far reaches of the garden. Halua, Kalua, Potloo and their families were already gathered outside, shouting, screaming and crying. When I turned around the bungalow was a sight to behold. The massive structure was shaking violently. The lightbulbs swung in giant arcs, there were rattles and thuds and then, like a giant freight train slamming on its brakes, it all came to a sudden and shuddering stop.

A split second of dead silence was followed by pandemonium. Thousand of voices broke out in the night, mixed with the braying of petrified cattle and the barking of dogs.

The crowd on our lawn began to ungroup. A quick head count revealed everybody was safe. The biggest wonder of all was that Manik’s bath towel was still in place. In the midst of the chaos he had quietly slipped his arms around my waist. He held on to me like a drowning man, and I could feel his heart thudding through his bare chest.

“Please don’t leave me, Layla,” he whispered in a tortured voice.

I was so relieved we had both escaped unharmed, I could only cover his hand with mine and squeeze as Manik tightened his arms around me.

I believe sometimes the heavens move in curious ways to solve human dilemmas. A hornet was dispatched to solve our sex problem, but it took an earthquake to mend our squabble.

* * *

There was no sleep for anyone that night. No lights, no fan, either. The power lines were down and it was swelteringly hot. Without bothering to rinse off the soap from his body, Manik pulled on his trousers and ran to check the state of the factory. Damage to the structure and equipment would mean a major blow with the second flush plucking season just around the corner. But miraculously Aynakhal had been spared. Other than clearing the debris and straightening up the mess, there appeared to be no major damage.

Just when we thought the worst was over, the next day there was another calamity. Manik had gone to Mariani after breakfast, and I was reading on the veranda when I heard a sudden rumbling followed by what I can best describe as a wet slapping sound, like a loud
phlaat
, that came from the master bedroom. The sound was so loud that even the floor shook a little. I ran to the bedroom to find a large portion of the thatched roof had fallen in and entirely covered my grandmother’s dressing table. Clumps of moldy straw, splinters of bamboo and rattan were strewn in massive heaps all over the bedroom, and a four-foot square patch of blue sky peeped overhead. What was more alarming was the bedroom was crawling with
snakes
! Several dozen baby banded kraits that had been nesting in the thatch descended with the debris. There they were all tangled up in a fat, writhing knot. I stood on the bed and screamed for help. Halua, Kalua and the
malis
ran to get sticks, brooms and shovels. By the time they returned all the snakes had vanished. The whole lot. The babies sought refuge in every nook and crevice they could find. They crawled inside our clothes cupboard and the laundry basket in the bathroom, and when we looked in Manik’s shoes, each one had an angry baby krait hissing inside. Some even managed to slink off into the living room and veranda.