Teatime for the Firefly (14 page)

CHAPTER 17

Manik returned the following Saturday in the company jeep with Alam, the driver. Manik looked rested, clean-cut and handsome, although he was still in his workday clothes—white Bombay bloomers and a short-sleeved shirt. His canvas boots were caked with mud. He had brought along a change of clothing.

Dadamoshai’s house overflowed with visitors. The entire neighborhood had turned up to give me a grand send-off. Teacups littered the veranda. They sat precariously on the railing, got pushed under the sofa and left smudged rings on the newspapers on the coffee table. My bags were lined up on the veranda. I was taking most of my books, my grandmother’s old trunk and, at Dadamoshai’s insistence, my grandmother’s dressing table.

It was an elaborate Victorian contraption, of solid mahogany with intricate carved legs and a three-panel mirror that could be angled. The polished top looked as though it should be lined with powder puffs, potions and exotic perfume. For someone who used only sandalwood lotion and no makeup, it was overkill. I was not the powder-puff kind.

“It’s too big, Dadamoshai,” I said, hoping to talk him out of it. “This will never fit in the jeep.”

“Then I will rent a truck and get it delivered to Aynakhal,” Dadamoshai said. He was not the most practical man. “Manik said he had not thought of getting you a ladies’ dressing table. You will need one, Layla, now that you are a married lady.”

What were married ladies supposed to do? Preen all day?

But I knew my Dadamoshai. The dressing table was the last remaining relic that belonged to the woman he had loved. He was finally letting go.

I watched Manik as he leaned against the veranda railing. He was listening to Mima, his head tilted, his thumb thoughtfully stroking his chin. He shook his head and laughed. Then his eye caught mine, and an invisible string tightened between us.

Two men from the fishing village had come to give a hand with the loading. The big debate was how to fit the dressing table into the jeep. A carpenter was summoned. He took apart the dressing table in sections. The mirror panels were covered with burlap, and the whole thing was piled in the back and bound tightly with ropes.

Relatives and neighbors stood around with teacups and shouted advice, most of it random, contradictory and illogical. The jeep was beginning to look like a very tired and overburdened camel. Dadamoshai had been edgy and high-strung all morning. During the complicated loading operation, he lost his head, and called Senior Uncle “a half-witted donkey.” Senior Uncle, a pompous and belligerent man—whose razor it was, incidentally, Moon had stolen—well-known for his epic fits of rage, got bug-eyed and speechless while his dentures clattered uncontrollably. Dadamoshai stomped off in his wooden clogs, and a chair was hurriedly brought out for Senior Uncle to collapse into. The loading operation came to an awkward halt, and a shouting match erupted between two warring parties of relatives. Parrots flew screeching from the mango tree while the workers sat calmly on their haunches and took a bidi
break.

Manik was a model of diplomacy. He sauntered off with his hands in his pockets to observe the canna lilies. I wondered what he would think of my uncouth relatives. But when I caught his attention, I saw mirth in his eyes.

Then came the part I had been dreading the most. The bride’s final leave-taking, which is typically marked by a tidal wave of tears. There were not many people present whom I cared about, except Mima, who wiped away mostly happy tears, and Dadamoshai, who had disappeared. But I knew him well: he had used the showdown with Senior Uncle as an excuse to be alone.

I went looking for him. Dadamoshai was nowhere to be found. He was not in his study, the dining room, garden or even the kitchen. The last place I thought of looking was the old master bedroom where Manik and I had spent our wedding night. The door was slightly ajar and Dadamoshai was sitting on the bed.

“Dadamoshai?”

He started. “Please,
maiyya
, go. It’s time for you to leave. You are getting late.”

I sat beside him on the bed and took his hand. The old bedcover was back on the bed and the mishmash furniture moved in but the room still smelled of the incense from our wedding night.

“I am thinking of moving back into this room,” mused Dadamoshai. “I had forgotten how pleasant it is.”

“It’s the best room in the house,” I agreed. I pointed to the empty space where my grandmother’s dressing table used to be. “You even have space for a writing desk by the window with the beautiful neem tree outside.”

“I was just thinking about that,” said Dadamoshai.

We sat quietly looking at the waving branches. It dawned on me that by taking away the last physical reminders of my grandmother—her dressing table and her saris—I was setting Dadamoshai free from his past. We were both starting new journeys of our own. The same thought must have crossed his mind because he said, “This is a new chapter in your life,
maiyya
. You will be happy with Manik Deb. I could not have wished for a better life partner for you.”

“You really think so, Dadamoshai?”

He nodded. “I would not have let go of you so lightly,
maiyya
. Not for anyone else. You are...” His voice broke, and his eyes misted behind his glasses.

I buried my face in his shoulder. “I hate to leave you alone, Dadamoshai.”

Dadamoshai sat up. “Quickly now, you must not keep your husband waiting. I have plenty of things to do today.” He waved his hand around the room. “I want to get this room organized and move in today. Might as well use those two fellows from the village to move the furniture while they are here.” He touched my cheek lightly. “I won’t come to see you off to the car, if you don’t mind,
maiyya
. All that wailing and breast-beating will irritate me. Besides, I fear if I see your senior uncle, that donkey, one more time, I will give him a kick on his backside.”

I smiled and put my arms around him. This is what I loved about Dadamoshai: even though he lost his temper, he rarely lost his sense of humor.

“Go now,
maiyya
,” he said quietly, kissing the top of my head. He gazed at my face tenderly and pressed a thumb to wipe back a tear from my eye. “May God be with you, and know that all good things in the world are yours.”

I stood up and walked toward the door.

“Send in those two fellows, will you?” Dadamoshai called after me. “Make sure they don’t run back to the village. I want to get this room cleaned out now.”

I nodded. Just hearing his parting words lifted my heart.

* * *

As I was getting into the car, a bunch of dubious neighbors and relatives set up a howling chorus. Their wails and shrieks echoed all the way down to the river. I stood there dry-eyed and silent while Manik awkwardly held open the car door. It was unheard of for a bride not to cry during her leave-taking. I was sure the entire town would hear about my coldheartedness.

Finally I got into the car and we were off. Manik drove and I sat in front with him, his Manchester rifle on the floorboard between us. As for the driver, Alam, the poor fellow was crushed in the back, sandwiched between suitcases and boxes with the burlap-covered legs of the dressing table two inches from his nose.

Manik blotted the sweat from his forehead on his shirtsleeve. He was a little taken aback with the unexpected drama, I could tell.

“I hardly know these people,” I said irritably. “All they ever did was gossip behind my back, and now they cry as if I just died. So hypocritical.”

We pulled out into the main road. Manik flicked his eyes at the rearview mirror and saw that the driver was buried out of sight. He pulled me over and kissed me. The car careened and sprayed gravel, and everything skidded around in the back, including poor Alam.

“Layla, I am so happy. Are you?”

“Yes,” I said, trying to catch my breath. Nothing had begun to sink in quite yet.

In his last letter Manik had asked me to make a detailed list of every single item I might need. Even basic toiletries like soap, shampoo, cream, everything I could think of. Feminine items. There was not much available around Aynakhal, he said.

The nearest shops were in Mariani, which was little more than a fishing village, fifteen miles from the tea garden. There was also a club store at the Mariani Planters Club that stocked mostly imported provisions. Everything in the store was hideously expensive. Planters normally ordered exotic items from wholesale merchants in Calcutta. Common provisions and toiletries were purchased from Paul & Company in Silchar and picked up when planters came into town.

We bumped over a pothole and something rattled overhead.

“Careful,” I said, “don’t break a mirror. It’s bad luck.”

Manik grinned, took his hand off the gearshift and held his palm open on my lap. My hand slipped easily into his.

“You don’t believe in things like that, do you?” he said softly, kissing my fingers. “Please say you don’t.”

I did not answer. I was balancing a fragile new world on the tip of my destiny.

“What are you thinking?” he said.

“Nothing.”

“‘Nothing’ is not a valid answer.”

“I worry sometimes about bad luck,” I said. “You know I...”

“Please don’t,” he said, his lips grazing the back of my hand, his breath soft on my skin. “Think of all the incredible luck we have had so far. What were the chances of you and me getting married, you tell me? I feel like the luckiest chap in the world.”

* * *

Paul & Company were general merchants with an all-European clientele. It was a family-owned business run by three Bengali brothers, triplets. They were impossible to tell apart, each one being as pudgy and soft-spoken as the other. Their original surname, Pal, had been anglicized to Paul for cultural congeniality. The Paul brothers were astute businessmen and spoke excellent English with roundy-poundy Bengali accents, as if they had plums in their mouths. The store had earned the loyalty of the tea crowd by carrying the right mix of provisions and extending generous credit to tea planters. They maintained a ledger with elaborate accounts for all the tea gardens in the Mariani district.

It was a big, musty store, high-beamed like a warehouse. Pigeons cooed in the dim rafters. The store stocked many imported grocery items dear to expatriates: Marmite, Polson’s Butter, tinned sardines, Bournvita and Bird’s Custard Mix, among others.

I easily found the things on my list. Manik quirked an eyebrow to see my rather meager requirements. I guess he had expected more expensive and complicated wifely maintenance items.

“Sure you’re not forgetting anything?” he asked. He threw in some items of his own: torch batteries, Lifebuoy soap and razor blades.

An athletic-looking young European man had entered the store. He wore white tennis shorts, a white shirt and a cream ribbed sweater tossed carelessly over his shoulder. His straight, blond hair fell over his eyes like a sheet of pale sunshine, and his eyes when he looked up were the most startling blue.

“Ash!” cried Manik. “Fancy meeting you at Paulies.”

“I have a match at the Gymkhana today, old chap,” said the man. He spoke with a singsong Irish lilt. “Just popped by to pick up the tennis balls I ordered.”

“My wife, Layla,” said Manik, introducing us. “Layla, this is Rob Ashton, champion tennis player, pride of Jardine Henley and Assistant Manager of Dega Tea Estate.”

Rob’s blue eyes admired me candidly. “Why hello,” he said, sticking out his hand.

“Pleased to meet you,” I replied.

“You speak impeccable English,” Rob said wonderingly. “Did you go to school in England, Layla?”

“Oh no, just here in Silchar,” I said. “I was privately tutored by English teachers.”

“Fascinating,” said Rob. “Debbie will be so excited to meet you. She is dying to make an Indian friend and learn how to wear a sari.”

“Debbie is Rob’s wife,” Manik explained. “She’s a lovely girl.”

“I saw your loaded-up jeep parked outside, Manny. Looked like there was not an inch of room inside. I thought you brought your driver along?”

“I did indeed,” said Manik. “Poor Alam has to squeeze in with all the furniture. He’s going to be terribly uncomfortable on the journey back, I’m afraid.”

“Well, here’s an idea, old sport,” said Rob, flicking back his blond hair. “I’ll be heading home after the game. I can drop Alam off at Aynakhal, if you like.” He winked at Manik. “I am sure you two newlyweds will want some private time on your romantic drive back to Aynakhal.”

Mr. Paul, the triplet with the mole, who was tallying up our bill behind the counter, looked embarrassed. He twitched his nose and sniffed.

“Brilliant idea!” cried Manik, clapping Rob on the back.

“That settles it, then,” said Rob. He turned to me. “We’ll be seeing you plenty, Layla. Manik and I play tennis on Mondays. He thrashes me.”

“Oh, stuff and nonsense,” said Manik affably. “This guy is a champ. I am grateful he stoops to play with me at all.” He turned to me. “Ash is representing Mariani in the district championship at the Silchar Gymkhana Club today. I’m not joking when I say he’s a champ.”

Manik signed the register and picked up our carton. “I’m afraid we have to run, old chap. We’ll see you on Monday.”

“S’long,” said Rob. “Ask Alam to wait by my jeep, will you? I’ve parked behind the cantonment.”

* * *

Manik glanced at my feet as we got into the car. “I hope you have sensible shoes,” he said.

“These are sensible,” I replied. I had on a pair of flat slippers.

“No, I mean
seriously
sensible footwear—like boots.”

“Boots? What do you mean? I can’t wear boots with a sari.”

“Believe me, darling, you are going to need them. With all the leeches and snakes, slippers and sandals won’t do.”

“I don’t have any closed shoes, if that’s what you mean.”

“Then we might as well swing by the Bata shoe store,” said Manik. “It’s on the way.”

Our jeep inched along the clogged road. A convoy of military trucks thundered by on the way to the cantonment. Rickshaws honked, and cows wandered around aimlessly, chewing banana peels. We pulled up in front of the Bata shoe store.