Page 136 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden

CHAPTER 27

East of Calcutta, end of July

Libby had never seen such squalor. All along the railway tracks makeshift shelters had been planted between pools of rainwater. Everything was caked in mud. The lucky ones were camped under the canopies of the station platforms. Flies buzzed. The stench of human effluent was only partially masked by the oily smell of cooking. Children splashed in puddles while their parents looked on with anxious faces. Elderly men and women sat looking worn out and resigned. Yet everywhere there was quiet industry: people fixing up shelters with flimsy materials trying to create privacy, while others rolled and cooked chapattis.

Fatima’s charity had commandeered a derelict mansion house not far from the station for its clinic and the distribution of aid. Libby spent the day there parcelling out rations of rice and flour, and helping distribute bedding to the refugees who were camped out in the grounds. Every available inch of garden was occupied. Inside the house, the grand old reception rooms had also been given over to homeless families.

Only the top floor was reserved for the charity workers: a mix of medical staff, students and well-off Hindus, with a handful of middle-aged Europeans. Libby was the only young British woman there that day.

Libby hardly saw Ghulam all day, until the evening when the workers came together for a communal meal on the roof. Libby felt sweaty and exhausted, her hair stuck to her cheeks where it had escaped from her ponytail. Yet the smile Ghulam gave her made all the hard work worthwhile.

The volunteers sat around on bedrolls and shared a simple meal of dahl, vegetables and rice. Below, fires flickered among the dark trees and the hubbub of voices mingled with the sound of crickets. The Bengalis spoke English to Libby and made her feel welcome. She was surprised by their light-hearted humour despite the grimness of the situation and sensed their optimism for the future.

Libby recognised one of them from the ill-tempered political meeting where she had gone to hear Ghulam speak. He was called Sanjeev and seemed to be a good friend of Ghulam’s. With a wave of his hand, Sanjeev said, ‘This is just temporary. Once Independence comes, people will feel safe to go back to their homes – or they will find new ones. It’s just the uncertainty that is causing such panic.’

They talked about the news that Gandhi might once more be coming to the city to calm tensions in the lead-up to Independence Day – now just two weeks away.

Ghulam’s eyes lit up. ‘The rumour is that he is going to live in one of thebusteeswhere there has been so much of the trouble – and he’s insisting that Suhrawardy share it with him.’

‘Suhrawardy?’ Libby exclaimed.

‘Yes, the Muslim leader of the city council.’

‘I know who he is,’ said Libby, ‘but he’s a playboy – he won’t want to slum it with Gandhi.’

‘He won’t,’ Sanjeev agreed, ‘but it’s symbolic – a Hindu and Muslim living side by side together, showing how it should be done. If a man like Suhrawardy can do it, then that will send out a powerful message to others.’

‘Do you think it will work?’ asked Libby.

‘It has to,’ said Ghulam, his expression turning grim. ‘The city is like a tinderbox.’

‘All will be well, my friend,’ said Sanjeev, with a pat on Ghulam’s back.

Libby yearned to have Ghulam to herself but they could manage no more than a few personal words in front of the others.

‘Will Fatima come down again soon?’ Libby asked.

‘She hopes to come by the end of the week,’ said Ghulam.

‘How long can you stay?’ she asked, holding his gaze.

‘I must be back at work the day after tomorrow.’

Soon afterwards, the women went below to sleep in a room with crumbling walls while the men stayed on the roof, smoking and chatting until the rain came on again. Libby, tired out, fell asleep quickly.

During the next day, Ghulam sought out Libby.

‘There’s talk of fresh boatloads of people coming in downriver,’ he said. ‘I’m going to take the truck and bring them supplies. Want to come and help?’

Libby was quick to agree. They rattled out of the compound, loaded up with rice, blankets and tarpaulin. They chatted generally about the charity work and Ghulam told her more about the other volunteers. Sanjeev was an old comrade from the Communist Party who had switched allegiance to the Congress Party during the War.

‘He’s one of the few from the old days who didn’t turn his back on me for supporting the anti-fascist war effort,’ said Ghulam.

Despite his sardonic smile, Libby saw the pain in his eyes when he glanced at her.

‘I like Sanjeev,’ said Libby, touching his arm, ‘he’s so optimistic.’

Briefly, Ghulam covered her hand with his own and her pulse began to race. She wanted to ask him about that other former comrade – thewoman who had been special to him – who had hurt him with her accusations of treachery. Was he still in love with her? Or in touch with her? But they were soon at the riverside and pulling up near an overcrowdedghat.