areas, tangled in vegetation and overrun by creepers. Many are unmarked but some have carved inscriptions that speak of the short, precarious lives of these young men in Assam.
For mysterious reasons, Manik Deb had disappeared into this uncertain and little-known world. I was suddenly filled with despair. Would I ever see him again? He seemed to have faded into the ether, beyond reach. What if something happened to him?
I closed the book. All I wanted to know was—why? Why had he just upped and gone?
Little did I know, I would soon find out. And I would hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.
* * *
The letter was addressed to me in a familiar slanted hand. Just the sight of it made my heart flutter. I went to my room and shut the door. I turned the letter over. No return address. The smudged stamp of the post office read MARIANI. It was from Manik.
Aynakhal T.E.
17th September 1943
Dear Layla,
I take the liberty of writing directly to you. I hope you forgive my audacity. You are the only person I feel will not judge me too harshly. Maybe you will take pity on a lonely tea planter and write back. I only dare to hope.
I have not written a single letter since I have been in Aynakhal, which is almost three months. I feel a strange sense of disconnect with the outside world.
Before this job, I had little idea of life in the tea plantations. I was aware tea gardens in Assam are located in remote areas, but Aynakhal Tea Estate seems to be in the godforsaken nowhere.
All hints of civilization disappear by the time we cross the Dargakona Bridge, which is sixty miles east of Silchar. We enter the forestland and it takes another two-hour drive over dirt roads (if they can be called such) to get to the outreaches of Aynakhal. The last stretch is little more than an overgrown jungle track. It is common to see elephants cross the road. Plenty of sambar, barking deer and wild pigs, too. Once, late at night on our way back from the Planters Club, we saw a leopard.
We have had a spate of heavy rain, rather untimely for this time of the year. Puddles all over the jungle roads. Mud butterflies congregate by the hundreds. You don’t notice them until you come right up to them. Their wings are the most brilliant cerulean-blue you can imagine. The flock takes off like a shimmering silk scarf when we drive past. I have never seen anything quite so magical.
Jardine Henley (the British company that owns Aynakhal plus six other tea estates in the Mariani district) provides us with company jeeps to get around. They are used army vehicles, four-wheel drive. Without them we could get nowhere. Actually, there is no place to go except to the Planters Club on Monday nights and visits to other gardens. I am still trying to get used to the isolation here but I can’t say I am unhappy.
Most evenings I go hunting with Alasdair Carruthers. He is a Scottish fellow and Assistant Manager at Chulsa Tea Estate, the neighboring garden just cross the Koilapani River. He is a crack shot and is teaching yours truly the rudiments of shikar. I must admit he has me hooked. We have an excellent selection of wild game and plenty of opportunity to practice. It’s Greener Pigeon season. Good eating bird. I bought myself a blunderbuss (an old 12-bore Belgium shotgun), which, to my exasperation, seems to jam at the most inopportune moments. But this is the best that I can afford right now.
I hope you enjoy the small book of Tagore’s poems I picked up for you in Calcutta. I have fond memories of our time together.
Best wishes,
Manik Deb
I lay in bed imagining Manik tramping through a jungle armed with his blunderbuss—a rusty old musket, in my imagination. The thickets rustled with dangerous game and flocks of greener pigeons took to the skies. I felt his keen sense of excitement and heard the joy in his voice. Manik Deb did not sound like a coward hiding in the jungle: he sounded like a koel set free.
CHAPTER 10
That October I started training as an assistant teacher under Miss Rose in Dadamoshai’s school. In the afternoons I gave private tuition to students at home. One day just as the girls were getting ready to leave, I saw an army type of jeep pull up and park under the mango tree outside our gate. A European gentleman unlatched the gate and held it open gallantly like a doorman as the three little girls giggled past him. He then closed the gate and walked toward the house.
He was a stocky man with a craggy weathered face and the kindest blue eyes.
“Is this number eight Rai Bahadur Road?” he asked with a shy smile. He spoke in a rich brogue.
“Yes,” I said, wondering who he was.
“I have a letter for Layla Roy from Manik Deb in Aynakhal,” said the man. “My name is Alasdair Carruthers.”
Alasdair Carruthers, Manik’s hunting partner!
The letter had a postage stamp. Alasdair explained that Manik had asked him to post the letter in Silchar, but it was quicker for him to drop it off. He saw Rai Bahadur Road on the address and realized it was the very same road he took to go to the village across the river—which was where he was headed.
The village across the river, how very odd, I thought. No white person ever went there. It was a rather desperate section of the town, inhabited by poor Muslim fishermen and accessible only by boat. I wondered if Alasdair knew that.
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
