Everybody wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die.

Anonymous

Assam is a northeastern state of India, one hundred and sixty feet above sea level, located near the eastern Himalayas – with luscious valleys, rivers, creeks, and waterfalls. It became an ideal setting for the first known tea plantations in India when a Scottish adventurer, Robert Bruce, visited India in 1823 for trading purposes. While exploring Rangpur, he encountered wild tea bushes growing near the area. By the late 1970s, the estate spread across eighteen hundred acres of which a thousand acres were covered with tea bushes. For over one hundred and fifty years, the quality and rich aroma of the tea leaves harvested by the Assam Tea Estate has remained unmatched.

Usha, fifteen years old, was a tea picker in Assam – as was her mother and grandmother. Young, pretty with delicate features, light brown skin and green eyes, Usha embodied a distant lineage of British rule. Though slight, Usha was strong from working on one of the largest tea plantations in India since age ten. She lived with her mother, though only thirty-one seemed older, and with her grandmother, who was in her fifties yet seemed ageless. Neither spoke of her father or grandfather, and Usha understood enough not to ask.

Though the family that owned the tea plantation earned billions, the tea pickers barely had a minimum wage. Ninety-four rupees a day ($1.27) was not even enough to survive, which was designed to keep the indentured tea pickers there for years– even generations.

Usha was very close to her grandmother whom she called Nani. She loved it when after a long day of tea plucking, Nani would tell her stories and legends. Her favorite story, the one Nani repeated for her over and over again was about a great Asura king’s daughter, Princess Usha – her namesake. One night Princess Usha dreamt of a handsome prince, and though it was only a dream, she fell madly in love with him. Her friend, Chitralekha, a talented artist, not only painted the prince but recognized him to be Aniruddha, the grandson of Lord Krishna, the ruler of Dwarka. Using her magical powers – for Chitralekha was also a witch – she spirited the young prince away to Usha’s boudoir where the two married each other according to Gandharva rites. The ancient marriage tradition based on mutual attraction has no rituals, witnesses, or family participation. Unfortunately, this also meant that the marriage took place without the knowledge of her father, the king. When he learned of the romance, the king imprisoned Aniruddha. At this, Lord Krishna came at once to rescue his grandson. A fierce battle followed, bathing the entire city in blood. Tezpur got the name ‘the city of blood’. Yet the eternal love between Usha and Aniruddha lives on to this day.

“Oh, Nani, tell it again.”

Ma, Usha’s mother, who thought such stories a waste of time, shouted, “Time to sleep. Dawn will not wait for silly stories.”

So, Usha would close her eyes, and dream of the day her own prince would come.

It was Nani who taught Usha to read. Usha loved history. Knowing that the stories were true made them all the more precious. One evening after chapattis and green gram, she laid down near the fire with her head on Nani’s lap, and listened in awe to another true story.

“After the Mughal invasion, Nani said, “the British took Assam into the British Empire. But the people in Assam did not like it. They wanted to be free, so they joined the Civil Disobedience Movement. At this time, before you were born, Mahatma Gandhi visited Tezpur. Later it was called the Quit India Movement and banners proclaimed “Do or Die.” Toward the end of this movement, during the second great world war, a young village girl – about your age – led a procession of unarmed villagers under the Indian Congress flag. Her name was Kanaklata Barua. As soon as Kanaklata unfurled the flag, she and her friend, Mukunda Kakati, were gunned down by armed police.

“That’s why, Usha, we do not trust the police. The police are for the masters – not for the poor, not for us. Remember this. On the same day the Police killed Kanaklata, the Police gunned down eleven unarmed villagers, just for trying to raise the flag – and three of them were teenaged girls – just like you. So, don’t trust the police.”

“But Nani, it’s different now. The British no longer rule us, right?”

“After years of struggle and many deaths, on 14 August 1947 at midnight, India finally gained her Independence.”

Ma turned off the kerosene lamp and turned over to sleep.

“Nani, even girls like me helped to free India, isn’t that right?”

“Shhh,” hissed Ma, “We must rise early to work.”

The morning came too soon and after some left over roti and vegetable curry, it was time for work. For the next eight hours Usha with her large straw basket hung over her shoulders plucked the bright green leaves that would become black tea. She tried to imagine homes in England and America where far-away families enjoyed tea with the rich aroma of Assam.

Ma would tell her true stories sometimes, but they were never happy ones. They were told to frighten or warn Usha so that she didn’t end up in a bad situation like some tea pickers.

One such story was of Somila, a cousin of theirs. Like Usha, Somila was a tea picker from childhood. When she was sixteen, a man from Delhi told her he needed suitable girls to work in Delhi for better jobs, better pay. The opportunity seemed so promising that Somila went away with the Delhi man, and was never seen again. Ma told Usha that Somila was one of hundreds of young girls who left and never returned. “Who can say what happened to these poor girls lured far away to the big cities. only to disappear?” Usha did not wish to hear this story again and again, but she never forgot it.

Clive was the English overlord in charge of the female pickers, working in the tea estate as his father before him. Though British, he had never been to England, and was the third generation of his family to work in Assam. At fifty, he had a failed marriage, no children, and had remained single for the past twenty or more years. Ma had taught Usha not to look him in the eye, and to always look down and keep working. As he was not very much to look at, Usha found it easy to ignore him. Clive liked to chew betel nut and leaves, and would spit the juice anywhere and everywhere.

One day, he spat the chewed betel leaves so close to her, that she felt the droplets on her cheek. She looked up to see Clive smiling at her. Taking the edge of her cotton sari, Usha wiped her face and kept on working. After this, more and more, Clive would watch her. He liked to come up behind her as she was bent over plucking the tea leaves, all the while, chewing, chewing, chewing. One morning as she bent over to work, Clive placed his hand on her backside and squeezed, as if Usha were a mango fruit he was testing for ripeness.

Usha wondered if she should tell Nani. She knew her Ma would only get angry. So that evening, rather than ask for a story, Usha whispered to Nani about what Clive had done. Nani looked very serious, and for a moment did not speak. Washing the dishes, she did not look at Usha for some time. Later, drying her hands on her old sari, Nani whispered to her granddaughter, “Don’t do anything. Be careful. Never be alone with him – no matter what.”

A few days passed before Clive made his move. He told Usha to go to the shed and bring back some shears to cut the vines. As soon as Usha found them, she turned to leave and there was Clive, smiling, and shutting the door of the shed. He took the shears from her and replaced them on the shelf. Then he walked toward the girl, speaking softly.

“Just be quiet and do what I say, you’ll be fine.”

The overlord unbuttoned his khaki pants, backing the frightened girl into a corner. He pushed her down on some sacks of tea, and when she resisted, he struck her hard on the face til she went limp. He forced a cotton handkerchief into her mouth as he roughly lifted her sari in order to gratify himself. Usha struggled briefly, then surrendered to the inevitable. She noticed a glimmer of light shining in the darkness of the shed, a small window where she could see a slither of sky. She held her gaze on the shimmering light until the Englishman groaned, sighed, and got up from her bruised body.

“Say nothing or it will harm your family. They will starve,” he warned.

Still in pain and shock, Usha looked at the man who had brutalized her, unable to speak. Clive hurriedly left, buttoning his pants as he walked quickly away, not noticing that the girl’s mother had seen him. Ma understood at once what had happened when she found Usha bleeding in the shed, where Clive had left her. She immediately darts out of the shed after him, just as he was finishing buttoning his pants. He tried to turn away from her when she cried out, “You monster, don’t you realize who she is? She’s yours.” Clive, at first surprised, abruptly turned his back on the shouting woman, and angrily shaking his head, trudged off.

Back at home, the women wept. Nani cried softly, saying, “Once again, I weep my pain. That is all we women know, that is all we have. We live the pain. Pain is what life is for the poor.”

In contrast to Nani’s pain and Usha’s trauma, Ma’s anger grows more and more until her face turned red with rage. She chops the raw cabbage for the evening meal as if attacking an enemy. Then when the oil was boiling, pours in the chopped cabbage mixed with cumin and mustard seed. As it sizzled, she stared at the iron pan as though reading the future of what is to come. Noticing her daughter, Nani, says, “No, my child, be still. There is nothing we can do. Nothing. It is our duty to survive for Usha. That is our dharma.” Nani crawls over, sitting near her disturbed daughter who turns away preferring her anger to Nani’s prudence. Instead, Nani strokes her granddaughter’s head, mourning for the beloved innocent she once was.

The following days at work, the three women stayed close to one another, never letting Usha out of their sight. One day, watching her like a hawk, Clive noticed where Usha went into the brush to relieve herself.

It had been a week since the rape. As an exotic fruit once tasted, Clive knew that he must have Usha again. He approached her unawares, causing her to hastily rise up and adjust her sari. Holding her arm tightly, Clive hoarsely demanded she must meet him in the shed or her mother and grandmother would pay the price.

“They will lose their jobs. They will starve if you do not come to the shed tonight. “

Usha understood that she had no choice. She must protect her mother and grandmother. So late that evening when her family was sleeping, Usha stealthily left their shack and made her way to the tea gardens. The moon was round and bright. “Even the gods are watching,” thought Usha. Clive was smoking a beedi, impatiently waiting at the shed when she arrived. He opened the door, looked around, then closed it after they were both inside. She looked even more beautiful in the moonlight. Her green eyes shone, as if mirroring his own. Knowing what to expect, she did not resist this time, and let him have his way with her. She was still in pain from his first assault, only this time she did not bleed. He finished and stood up, nodded to her and left. Then Usha slowly made her way home.

Ma heard her come in, and must have guessed what happened. Saying nothing, she pretended to sleep. Nani was in a deep slumber, and Usha was grateful she did not have to face either woman with her shame. Usha soon fell asleep, and did not notice that her mother had left.

The next morning while plucking the ripe leaves, there was a buzz among the women in the fields.

“Did you know?”

“Have you heard?”

It was some minutes before news reached their area.

“The overlord is dead.”

“His throat was slit like a slaughtered pig.”

“Killed in his own bed, he was.”

Nani first looked at her granddaughter who looked back, obviously with as much surprise as the other women. Then she looked across the tea bushes at her daughter who, avoiding her mother’s gaze, spoke out, “Who will miss him? None will weep for this man.”

“Ay. A man like him would have many enemies,” added another tea picker.

The police came and all the women pickers told the same story: that there had been thieves in the village and perhaps one attacked the overlord. After a brief investigation, the police were satisfied that the Englishman’s death was as the women said. The matter was settled, the police left them alone, and no one mentioned him again. As Ma had said, “Who will miss him? None will weep for this man.”

Life returned to normal for the three women as they continued to pluck leaves and, at home, their lives encircled each other even more tightly. After some time, Nani began again to tell Usha stories after supper. Even Ma seemed less angry with her daughter.

Time passed uneventfully, that is, until a few months later when Nani noticed that Usha was getting a round belly. The older women knew what that meant, and though Nani was sympathetic, Ma again grew angry.

“What to do? It cannot be helped, daughter. It is not her fault.”

Usha continued to work in the fields until her time came, and then Nani assisted her with the difficult birth. She was now sixteen, and the child was a boy.

Late one night, Usha woke to find Ma with a small blanket heading toward the sleeping baby. At first, Usha was puzzled for Ma usually had nothing to do with the care of the child. To her horror, she suddenly realized her mother wanted to smother the baby.

“No, Ma, no!”

Usha jumped up and grabbed her baby.

“Nani. Nani. Wake up! Help me.”

“It must be done. Give him to me.”

“No, Ma, no,” Usha pleaded, “No.”

Ma collapsed in tears, and Ma rarely wept.

Nani was awake now. “Daughter, you cannot do this thing. It is no fault of the child.”

“But it is a man child, Amma, I could bear it if it were a girl like our Usha, but not a man child,” as Ma continued to weep as never before, crying out, “Oh, Amma, it never stops. It never stops.”

Nani consoled her daughter, and Ma, for the first time in many years, allowed herself to be touched and comforted by her own mother. They never told Usha the truth of who her biological father – now dead – was. Or who was responsible for his murder. Usha knew only that the overlord was the father of her child, and this was a secret she would carry to her grave.

And so, Usha raised and cared for her son and, though the child would never know his British father, he would grow up to look just like him.