Flame Tree Road. Shona PatelЧитать онлайн книгу.

CHAPTER

       14

      What a damned, wretched day, thought Owen McIntosh, the Scottish owner of Victoria Jute Mills. He sat on the veranda of his bungalow, the pipe in his mouth remained unlit, his cup of tea untouched. After the horrific events of the day before, he felt no desire for the small comforts he looked forward to every evening when he got home.

      A dreary darkness had settled around the bungalow compound, and in the distance the jackals howled in chorus. It was around this time yesterday that Shamol Roy had suffered the fatal cobra bite in the jute godown and breathed his last. Owen was horrified to think of the poor man lying in his own vomit all night, surrounded by rats, cockroaches, the jackals wandering in and out of the open doorway. When the laborers found his body in the morning, the jackals had half dragged it out of the doorway and it was a gruesome sight. Owen McIntosh covered his eyes and felt the bile rise to his throat at the memory of what he had seen.

      What a fine young man Shamol Roy had been. He’d had so much promise and was undoubtedly one of the best employees of Victoria Jute Mills. Owen believed Roy deserved better. He had been too educated and genteel for the rough work he did in that filthy godown, managing the common laborers, day in and day out. That man had a quiet presence about him, a dignity of carriage, speech and manners that belied his humble village upbringing. From what Owen knew, Shamol Roy had been the only earning member of his joint family. He had accepted the godown job because the pay was slightly higher than the administrative work at the mill office. Owen had had every good intention to promote him to a better paying position in the main office as soon as he could find someone to replace him. At one point, he had even toyed with the idea of grooming Roy as his personal assistant. Now it was too late.

      More than just sadness and regret, Owen McIntosh was tortured with guilt. He knew in his heart he had delayed Shamol Roy’s promotion because of his own self-interest. Raw-material management was a critical part of the jute mill business and Owen had yet to find someone as responsible and capable as Roy. Roy had had a gentle way of dealing with the rough laborers. He had known each laborer by name and often asked after their families. Shamol Roy had been meticulous about his job and never acted bossy or condescending toward his assistant. Because he’d managed the godown operation so faultlessly, Owen had let him run it. He had not tried hard enough to find a substitute, and the soft-spoken young man never once complained.

      Shamol Roy had elected not to live in the jute mill quarters provided free to employees. Rather, each day, he traveled up and down by boat from his village to work. Most other workers went home only on weekends. A cluster of cheap wine shops and brothels had sprung up around the jute mill area to cater to these men. Many showed up to work red-eyed and hungover in the mornings, but Shamol Roy had always arrived impeccably dressed, never absent or late. He had to return home every night to tutor his children, he’d explained, to help them with their schoolwork, as he did not want them falling behind in their studies. Owen also knew he had collected the discarded pencil stubs from the office to take home to his son.

      He had once met the older boy at the office of Saraswati Puja. Held in the jute mill compound during early spring, the puja was a joyous occasion celebrated with the beating of drums and blowing of conch horns. Employees brought their wives and children from the villages, dressed in bright new clothes to see the bedecked Goddess of Learning seated on her snow-white lotus, holding a stringed vina in her hands.

      Owen had been in his office when Shamol Roy had walked in with his eight-year-old son. A bold and curious child, he was intelligent beyond his years. The boy had sat on the edge of his chair and knew more about jute manufacturing than most of the employees at the mill. Thoroughly charmed, Owen had, with mock gravity, offered the lad a job. To his surprise the young fellow piped up, “Thank you, sir, but I must complete my education first.”

      “And did you make a special wish to the goddess Saraswati today?” Owen had inquired gently. “What do you want to be when you grow up, young man?”

      “I want to be a lawyer,” the boy had replied without hesitation.

      “Indeed! And why not a doctor, may I ask?”

      “Because...” The boy’s soulful eyes had deepened. “Because if I am a doctor, I can only make my living if people fall sick, but if I am a lawyer I can make my living by fighting for what is right.”

      Owen had been astounded by his sage-like answer. What was more remarkable, Shamol Roy had let his young son take center stage, never once chiding or belittling the boy in front of his boss. He had treated his son respectfully like an adult and as a result the boy stood tall and felt entitled to speak his mind.

      Owen thought about his own two children. Alan, his son, was the same age as this boy, maybe a wee bit older, and his daughter, Margie, was six, but both his children seemed like toddlers compared to Shamol Roy’s boy.

      Owen’s heart was filled with despair. What would become of Shamol Roy’s young sons? Who would tutor them, who would give them the confidence to strive higher? Their education would be cut short and they would be sucked back into their village life. What a waste of potential. The more Owen thought about the two boys, the more wretched he felt. He blamed himself in part for Shamol Roy’s death. How was he ever going to live with himself?

      Another thing bothered him. A few years ago Roy had approached his office, stood shyly outside the door and asked to speak with him on a private matter. He had explained to Owen about his family situation. His brother was unable to work because of an injury sustained a few years ago, so the responsibility for his aging parents, his brother’s family as well as his own, was on him. As Roy had talked, Owen McIntosh had begun to suspect he was going to ask for a loan, but he was wrong.

      Roy had said he had been thinking about the future of his boys. To make sure there would be sufficient funds for their college education, he wanted to set aside a portion of his salary every month. Unfortunately, he would have to do this without the knowledge of his family. His older brother, who managed the funds of the family, was childless and did not put the same value on education as Shamol did. Shamol Roy himself had missed the opportunity to finish college. He did not want his sons to suffer the same fate. He had asked if Mr. McIntosh could deduct a small portion of his salary every month and put it aside in a separate fund for him.

      Owen McIntosh had been deeply moved by his story. He said he would not only be glad to do that, but every month he would add a small bonus to compensate him for his hard work.

      Shamol Roy was now dead at the age of thirty-four. The fund, meanwhile, had grown to a sizable amount. The question was, what to do with the money? If Owen handed the money over to Roy’s joint family, chances were the boys would never see it. It became increasingly clear: he had a moral responsibility to protect the two boys.

      Now there was Roy’s final letter where he had asked, rather timidly, if Owen could help his sons get admission in an English missionary school. It had never occurred to Owen to do that for any employee, as it meant assuming