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Apparently he did.
“Somebody will come by boat to meet me on this bank,” he said. “This fine road looks like it was designed for a bridge, y’ken, but it stops abruptly at the river. I have always wondered about it.”
“There were plans for a bridge. It just never got built,” I said. “Would you care for a cup of tea, Mr. Carruthers?”
“Aye, that would be lovely, thank you.” There was so much I wanted to ask him. He had breathed the same air as Manik Deb!
But Alasdair spoke in generalities when it came to Manik Deb, describing him in his brogue as a “guid chap” who had a keen nose for shikar and was shaping up to be a fine planter. Aynakhal, he said, was one of Jardine Henley’s most profitable and premium tea gardens in the Mariani district.
“You will be the Chotamemsahib of Aynakhal,” said Alasdair.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“The assistant’s wife is called the Chotamemsahib, y’ken. Manik is counting the days when he can be married to you.”
“Well...” This was terribly awkward and I wondered how to put it. “I am not Manik’s fiancée. We are just friends.”
“But 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 mentioned he would be passing by our house again later that evening and if I liked he could carry a letter back for Manik from me. I penned a quick reply and a week later there was another letter from Manik.
Aynakhal T.E.
18th October 1943
Dear Layla,
I am so pleased you chose to send a reply back with Alasdair. Imagine my surprise when he told me he had met you! I must have driven him crazy with my questions!
Jamina’s father lives in the fishing village by the river, next to your house. I had no idea Alasdair had gone to see him. He said it made more sense to drop off the letter than to post it. He was very surprised to find you at home. I had not told him about you, so I am not surprised he thought you were my fiancée. I understand that caused some awkwardness between you two. I do apologize.
Now to answer your very valid questions. I am actually very glad you asked. Most people are itching to know, but dread the answers. It is as if I contracted some terrible disease and they fear the prognosis.
To get back to the point, yes, I gave up the civil-service job. Why? Because Layla Roy did not want to marry a government officer! Of course I am joking! The simple reason is the government job looked bureaucratic and boring. In a single word: soulless.
I actually applied to Jardine Henley on a whim, curious to see what the tea job was all about. An English friend of mine in Calcutta told me that Sterling Tea Companies were opening up managerial positions for the first time to Indians. I went for the interview and to my surprise I was offered the Assistant Manager job in Aynakhal Tea Estate. The Assistant Manager position is the lowliest rung of the managerial ladder.
They asked me some very strange questions at the interview. The first one was, if I had plans to get married in the next three years. I don’t think I even batted an eye when I answered, “No.” Many people would call me a blatant liar. Suddenly it was clear as day—I was not ready to get married. I saw this job as my survival. I need to buy some time to think things through more clearly.
The rest of my interview was equally odd. The Directors showed little interest in my academic achievements. They were excited to learn I played tennis and rugby. They asked if I liked to hunt, fish or play bridge. It felt more like an interview for a country club. Then came two of the strangest questions of all: Do you drink, and are you a vegetarian?
I answered “occasionally” to the first and “no” to the second. I later found that drinking is high on their list of credentials and being a vegetarian, an immediate disqualification. I figure what they really want to know is if I have the Westernized mind-set to fit into the tea culture. Everything else about the job can be taught.
Now that I am here, I understand this much better. Tea life is still very colonial. Social clubs, hunting, sporting events, formal dinner parties and so on. It is a whole different lifestyle, and I can see why most Indians would have a hard time adjusting.
But I digress: I don’t want to sound like I am avoiding your questions. So back to your very stern interrogation. (Your questions make me far more nervous than theirs....)
Yes, I gave up the government job. My family still acts like I committed murder. They are shocked and enraged beyond belief. I have not written to anyone or been home since I telegrammed them. I am waiting for the dust to settle before I face the firing squad—not something I am looking forward to.
Question number two, albeit a more delicate one regarding Kona. Yes, she is upset. Her family is upset. The whole world is upset. I have not written or seen them, either. Kona’s father had not bargained for his daughter marrying a junior tea planter and living in obscurity in the jungles. She was groomed for a cushy life in the city.
Everyone thinks I am throwing my future away, but strangely I have no regrets. I am happier now than I have ever been in my life. I think it is the freedom to choose that I love the best.
I hope you will not think less of me for making what many may consider a poor decision. Sometimes there are reasons only the heart understands.
Yours truly,
Manik
Any sensible person would agree that throwing away the civil-service job was nothing short of impaired judgment on Manik’s part. What was more disconcerting, Manik had accepted the tea job “on a whim” without having a clue of what it entailed. As for signing the contract agreeing not to get married for three years...three years! Did he expect Kona to wait for him? I could sympathize with Manik when he said he felt he was being pressured into marriage and understand him needing more time to think, but his whole handling of the situation with the families was nothing short of dishonorable. I could never imagine Dadamoshai, for one, doing something so cowardly. But I found myself dismissing his shortcomings for my own selfish reason: receiving his letters made me so deliriously happy, nothing else really mattered.
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.
