Teatime for the Firefly. Shona Patel

you,” I said to Sister Cecilia as I walked toward the door.

      “See you again soon,” she called back in a cracked old voice. “God bless you, my child.”

      I wondered what Sister Cecilia would say if she found out my real reason for coming to the library? She would be terribly disillusioned, no doubt. Not only was I pretending to be holy, I was secretly coveting a man who was formally betrothed to another. But thankfully, Sister Cecelia would never find out, because I, Layla Roy, was the self-proclaimed mistress of deceit.

      CHAPTER 3

      I returned home one evening and from the garden path I could hear voices on the veranda. My heart took a tumble, for there he was—Manik Deb. I felt instant panic. For some reason, Manik Deb could trigger a flight response in me faster than a house fire.

      Boris Ivanov, Dadamoshai and Manik were engaged in animated discussion. I tiptoed past the jasmine vines, crept into the house through the back door in the kitchen and went straight to my bedroom.

      My bedroom window opened out onto the veranda, and I had a clear view of Manik Deb through a slit in the curtain. I fingered a small tear in the fabric as I watched him. I admired the contours of his face and the easy way he inhabited his body. It was a trait common in animals, I thought, that unconscious intimacy with self, an unconditional acceptance of gristle and bone. His thumb absently stroked his lower lip as he listened.

      “What our patriotic brothers don’t understand,” Dadamoshai was saying, “is that I am advocating English as the official language simply because it is the most practical solution. India has twenty-one different languages and each of those has several dialects. We are a culturally diverse people—Indians are not of a feather and we are not going to flock together. It’s like trying to get twenty-one different species of birds to talk to one another. Besides, who is to say which language is the best for our country? Some have proposed Hindi. The Bengalis are insulted because they believe their language is superior. The South Indians are ready to go to war. South Indian languages, as you know, are completely alien from all other Indian language. Can you teach a blue jay to coo like a mourning dove? You tell me.”

      Manik laughed softly. He leaned forward to tap the ash from his cigarette. Tap, tap. One, two. He paused deliberately between each tap, as though he was thinking. “So you suggest we all become parrots and learn a different foreign language altogether. English, in this case,” he said.

      Then Boris Ivanov’s voice rumbled like water running down a deep gorge. “The esteemed Rai Bahadur believes that the English language will, how do you say this...” He shrugged expressively, before turning to Dadamoshai to break off into Russian.

      “Put India on a global platform. Connect us with the bigger world,” Dadamoshai said.

      “Sounds sensible,” said Manik Deb. “So who is opposing English education?”

      “So-called patriots. Morons,” said Dadamoshai. “It’s easy to be a rabble-rouser instead of coming up with a concrete solution. Our donkey leaders have no clue what they want.”

      “Could be just bad timing,” said Manik. “It’s hard to advocate English when our country is hell-bent on throwing the British out.”

      “They are throwing the baby out with the dishwater, are they not?” Boris Ivanov said.

      Boris Ivanov meant bathwater, but he was right. Zealots seemed to forget that the British had done plenty of good for India. They built roads, railways and set up a solid administrative and judicial system. They exemplified discipline and accountability. But with the “Quit India” movement in full force and patriotic sentiments running high, anything and everything British was being rejected.

      “Let’s not mix politics with education,” said Dadamoshai. “They are separate issues. I want India to be free just as much as anybody else, but I also want our country to survive as a democracy. I want India to have a sure footing in the world. I am proposing the English language as a conduit, not as an endorsement of British politics.”

      Teacups tinkled down the hallway. Chaya entered the veranda and set down the tea tray on the table.

      “Velikolepno!” Boris Ivanov cried, rubbing his hands with gleeful anticipation. “I cannot get enough of this Indian tea.”

      “Think about it—none of us would be here, had it not been for Assam tea,” said Dadamoshai.

      “What do you mean?” Manik asked. “What does Assam tea have to do with anything we are talking about?”

      “Ah! You know it was tea that put Assam on the world map, don’t you?” said Dadamoshai, stirring his cup. “It’s quite a remarkable story.”

      * * *

      Not so long ago Silchar was just a small fishing village, with its slow, winding river, paddy fields and sleepy bamboo groves. It all changed, however, in 1905, when the British made it the seat of central government for three major counties in Assam. Before that, the British had hardly turned an eyeball for Assam.

      “Assam is India’s most neglected and backward state,” said Dadamoshai. “It is disaster-prone and inaccessible. We have devastating floods every year. You can see why the houses are built on bamboo stilts and have boats stored on the roofs.”

      “It does rain an awful lot here. More than England, it seems,” said Manik.

      “Oh, much more—Assam gets triple the amount of rain compared to England,” said Dadamoshai. “And England is considered a rainy country. Sometimes there seems to be more water than land in Assam. Rivers spring up overnight and change courses all the time.”

      “Also big earthquicks happening here,” added Boris Ivanov, shaking his massive fists at the sky. “One time, so much—shake, shake, shake—I think the world is end today.”

      I smiled, remembering. Several years ago Boris Ivanov was on one of his visits when the tremors struck one sleepy afternoon. He got so disoriented he fell right out of the plantation chair and was jittery for days. Earthquakes were common in our state. Assam straddled a major seismic fault, and throughout the year mild tremors rocked Assamese babies to sleep in their bamboo cribs.

      When I turned back to the conversation, Dadamoshai was talking about the Ahoms—the rice farmers who lived in the silt-rich valley of the Bhramaputra.

      “They are a simple, pastoral people,” said Dadamoshai, “of Sino-Burmese descent. All they want to do is chew their betel nut, drink rice wine and live life lahe-lahe.”

      “What’s lahe-lahe?” Manik asked, tapping his unlit cigarette.

      “Slowly-slowly,” said Dadamoshai. “This lazy mentality of the Assamese has kept them in the dark ages while the rest of India has marched on. Of course opium has a lot to do with the lahe-lahe.”

      But it seemed the Ahoms were not left alone to enjoy their salubrious lives. They were constantly harassed by marauding tribes who thundered across the Burmese border to ransack and pillage their villages, carrying off every slant-eyed, honey-skinned woman they could lay their hands on. All they left behind were toothless widows.

      “I am not surprised,” said Manik. “Assamese women are delicate beauties. They remind me of orchids.”

      I felt a pinch of jealousy. No wonder he likes Kona, I thought. She was dainty and feminine—like an orchid.

      “The Ahom kings tried their best to fight off the Burmese invaders but they did not have the might or the mettle,” Dadamoshai continued. “Out of sheer desperation they appealed to the British for help.”

      “But you say before the English are having no interest in Assam—” Boris Ivanov began.

      Dadamoshai held up his hand. “Aha! But now suddenly the British were interested—oh, very interested in Assam.”

      At any other given time the plea for help might have rolled right off the sola