PremiumFiction
by Ankush Saikia
Sep 27, 2024
In the later years of his life, weakened by malarial fevers and the bottle, James Patrick MacDonald, or “Donal sahab” as the coolies on the estate called him, would lie on his favourite reclining chair in the upper veranda of his bungalow—under a punkha being gently moved by a puller if it was summer—looking out at the gently undulating green carpet of tea bushes he had planted years ago, with shade trees scattered in-between them, and hum snatches of rhymes from his child
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