“I still don’t see what you, the Rai Bahadur, have to do with the tea industry,” Manik said.
“Let me explain,” said Dadamoshai.
The British needed to set up a central government to manage its affairs in Assam. They picked Silchar, a town strategically located close to the tea-growing belt. But when they looked to employ Indian staff to man their government offices, they discovered Assam had a surplus of rice farmers and toothless widows but not a single educated Indian to be found in the entire rain-drenched valley.
“But all was not lost,” Dadamoshai said, “because just a stone’s throw across the Padma River there was a rich pool of qualified Indians—the Sylhetis of East Pakistan, many of whom were educated in universities abroad.” He looked at Manik. “People like your father and I. We were lured to Assam with nice salaries and fancy titles to work for His Majesty’s service. So here we are in Silchar—all because of Assam tea.”
Dadamoshai did not mention his real reason for accepting the post as District Magistrate of Assam. He had shrewdly figured his dream to promote English as the medium of instruction in schools was in perfect alignment with colonial interests in India. As the powerful District Magistrate he would have the clout to make it all happen. But India’s struggle for independence skewed everything the wrong way. Dadamoshai had anticipated a shift in loyalties, but he had not counted on the blinkered view of our politicians or their narrow personal agendas. Before long he faced a tall embankment of opposition and found himself separated by an ideological divide that no amount of reason or common sense could ever hope to bridge. And he was left on the sidelines, an angry old man shaking his umbrella at the sky.
* * *
Darkness had fallen. Drums throbbed in the fishing village across the river. Manik Deb stirred in his chair. “Fascinating,” he said. “Funny how little I know about my own country. I have been gone for too long.”
“Did you do your earlier schooling in England, as well, before Oxford?” Dadamoshai asked.
“Yes. I went to Harrow. My father’s younger brother paid for my education. He lives in England—married an English lady, my aunt Veronica. They practically raised me.”
“I knew your father well in Cambridge,” said Dadamoshai. “You may not know this, but at one time we were both in love with the same English girl, the beautiful red-haired Estelle Lovelace.”
Manik laughed. “So what happened? Neither of you married her, obviously.”
“We both came back to India to marry good Indian girls,” Dadamoshai said. “Like you are doing.”
Manik fidgeted in his chair. “So you had an arranged marriage?”
“No, I fell in love with my wife, Maya. She...she died very young.”
Boris Ivanov came to life with a noisy harrumph. He had been listening quietly to the conversation.
“When I first saw the Rai Bahadur’s wife—” Boris Ivanov gave a big flowery wave “—Maya was a famous beauty. Layla, the Rai Bahadur’s granddaughter, looks just like her.”
I straightened at hearing my name.
“So who arranged your marriage?” asked Dadamoshai, changing the subject. He still had a hard time talking about my grandmother, I could tell.
“My oldest brother,” said Manik. His voice was taut. “He became the patriarchal head of our family after my father died. My marriage was arranged seven years ago. I was sixteen, too young to understand. I am committed now. If I break my engagement, my brother tells me I will ruin our family’s name. Sometimes I feel like I am bound hand and foot by pygmies.”
Manik ground his cigarette into the ashtray, sighed and then got to his feet. “This has been a delightful evening, but I must take my leave.”
“Wait,” said Dadamoshai. He grabbed a small flashlight from the coffee table and shook it awake. “Here, take this. Battery is low but it’s better than nothing. The road toward the river gets a little treacherous.”
“Oh, I will be just fine,” said Manik.
“No, no, I insist,” said Dadamoshai, pushing the flashlight into Manik’s hand. “I enjoyed talking to you. And please do drop by again.”
I shifted my feet. I had been so engrossed in watching Manik Deb, I had fingered the small tear in the curtain to a walnut-size hole. But I was unable to pull myself away from the window. Just looking at him gave me immense pleasure. It was like watching a sunset: arresting, mesmerizing even, but distant and, ultimately, unattainable.
CHAPTER 4
Boris Ivanov left for Calcutta, and Manik Deb continued to come by to visit with Dadamoshai, often stopping on his way to the Sens’ house. They seemed to resonate on many levels and enjoyed talking to each other. He always sat on the same cane chair, the one with the defective leg. He skewed it a little to one side, facing the jasmine trellis, and lounged deep in the cushions, stretching his long legs past the coffee table. He dominated the floor space easily, as if it was his to occupy and own. He smoked constantly, lighting cigarettes with quick, easy strikes of his match, tilting his head back sharply to inhale. I noticed he had changed brands, downgrading from the fine English Dunhill cigarettes to Simla, an Indian brand. He had been in India for six weeks now.
Once he showed up wearing Indian clothes—a long white kurta and loose slacks—looking elegant and princely. Was he becoming more Indian? I wondered. Whatever the reason, it suited him well. The starched cotton was creased around his sleeves and hung gracefully on his long frame. He did not wear an undershirt, and the dark hairs of his chest bled through the thin fabric. Wearing traditional Indian clothes defined him as a Thinking Indian. It was the dress code of the intelligentsia. Patriotism was at a fever pitch in our country and recent political events had sparked a heated debate among intellectuals.
All over India people were deeply caught up in the current events of the day. The world was at war, and Bengal was in the throes of a devastating famine, but what worsened the catastrophe was a heartless and diabolical British policy of war.
The Japanese had inflicted a crushing defeat on British forces in Singapore and were threatening to invade Burma, one of the strongholds of the British Empire, which bordered Assam in India. In a desperate and shocking attempt to stall the enemy, the British employed the merciless “scorched earth” policy. They destroyed crops, dwellings, infrastructure and communications—anything to inconvenience the enemy from encroaching into India. This was done with total disregard for human life. The effect was widespread, the horror unspeakable. Millions died of starvation.
Educated Indians like Manik and Dadamoshai, normally staunch supporters of the British, were outraged and disillusioned beyond belief. It brought to glaring light the self-interest of colonial rule in India. There were agitations and uprisings all over the country.
“We need our independence more than ever now,” Manik said, “but there is so much divisiveness among our leaders. Their ideologies are poles apart. On one hand, we have the followers of Gandhi touting nonviolence. On the other hand, militant leaders like Netaji are brandishing guns and conspiring with Hitler to overthrow the British by force. As for the millions who are dying like flies as a result of this famine, do you think they care a fig for freedom? All they want is their next bowl of rice.”
“Our leaders are like rushes and reeds,” lamented Dadamoshai. “They will scatter to the winds if they cannot come together to be woven into something useful.”
“That’s Rumi, isn’t it? What