by Mrinalini Rautela Pahwa
While checking my emails today, the spring cleaning bug hit me – although spring is long gone and Delhi, currently, is a sweltering 43 degrees! I decided to begin my spring cleaning with my email inbox. Deleting email upon email from Marks and Spencer’s sales promotions to offers for home loans, I hit upon an old invitation to a Christmas carnival sent by our club.
Carnival? I paused with my finger almost touching the Delete button. The word struck a false note somewhere as I thought back to the Christmas carnivals I had attended in our club in Delhi.
The lawns of the club, resplendent with brilliant red poinsettias, red and white balloons and similarly themed checked table cloths on the tables and chairs that dotted the grounds. Live food counters with chefs in their white aprons and tall hats, a Bouncy, a magician, a tattoo artist and hair braiders, all in place, ready to cater to the demands of the children while the dance floor gleamed and the DJ belted out a steady stream of Christmas carol remixes, interspersed with Punjabi pop.
The ubiquitous Christmas tree with its professionally perfect decorations and lights glittered away and well -dressed parents ate their tikkas and drank beer, keeping an indulgent eye on the children and their nannies. Santa arrived to the tune of Jingle Bells, the MC cracked a few jokes, and announced the names of the children, who trotted up and collected the presents their parents had sent in earlier - and everyone went home happy. Sure, it was a carnival of colour, light and music but was it Christmas with its attendant spirit of togetherness?
Growing up in the remote tea plantations of far flung Assam, the winter season was always looked forward to, with its endless rounds of parties and picnics, duck and partridge shoots and the feasts that followed, the profusion of flowers in the sprawling bungalows and the flower shows that every Tea Garden Memsahib worth her salt, (including my mother) did her best to win. But for us children, nothing could beat the magic of Christmas!
For weeks in advance, the anticipation permeated the air just as did the aroma of candied fruit soaking in rum and the Christmas goodies the cook started baking for the club ‘Christmas Do.’ The ‘Do’ for the uninitiated, was the big party that was held at the Planter’s club, where all the tea planters of that district (the Assistants or the Chota Sahibs and the Managers – the Burra Sahibs) and their families gathered for an evening of much drunken revelry – with most of the planters going straight to work from the club, the following morning! And for us children, the one we looked forward to most was the Christmas party.
Weeks in advance, our mothers scanned the catalogues and sent off orders to large departmental stores in Calcutta for our Christmas presents, which would arrive in cloth wrapped packages and be hidden away until the big day. The ladies in charge of the club committee would designate work amongst all the Planter’s wives and so, the food and the décor would be taken care of amongst much bonhomie and laughter while the club took on a festive look.
In the meanwhile, we children would lay bets on which uncle was going to essay the role of Santa Claus. The requirements were stringent- a booming laugh, a beer belly and the patience and strength to dandle several children on his knee without busting it. The Santas I saw over the years as a child in tea had one thing in common…they all smelled of copious quantities of the alcohol that had been poured down their gullets by their friends, our fathers, in a bid to (literally) bolster their spirits!
And they all arrived in as dramatic a manner as possible – on an elephant, on a rickety cart, pulled by the local banker’s pony, once even by helicopter, loaned by the air force unit posted close by. For me personally, the most memorable was the Santa whose vehicle had had a flat. Hoisting his sack on his shoulder, determined to fulfil his commitment of bringing joy to the world, he hopped off the jeep and began his trudge to the club, only to be chased by an irate bull. All his padding notwithstanding, Santa took to his heels, putting in an impressive performance, beating the wicked horns of the bull by a millimetre as he flew over the cattle trap, leaving the frothing bull on the other side and winning our respect forever! A few bottles of chilled beer later, when he had steadied his nerves enough to get back to the job of dandling us on his knees and dishing out the gifts, not one of us attempted to pull his beard off or tickle him. He was our death defying hero!
Our Santa knew all the children well and called them to himself one by one, teased them, asked them questions and finally handed over the gifts. Then, the khoi bag was burst and we flung ourselves on the floor with gusto while Santa took that as his cue to beat a hasty retreat!
Finally, came the feasting at the long trestle table that was set up especially for us with caps and whistles and all the food that had been cooked in the kitchens of our friends. Aunty Trixie’s famed horse shoe shaped peanut biscuits and Aunty Shashi’s gingerbread along with Aunty Hema’s dosas and Aunty Cynthia’s Christmas cake were looked forward to year after year. We stuffed ourselves till we could barely move and as the shadows lengthened, the fireplace was lit. The adults played their music and took to the floor while we children played with our gifts or napped contentedly in the Children’s Room that all clubs had.
That was Christmas for me and for my generation. A time for laughter and celebration. Of pleasure in getting together with friends who had become closer than family. We didn’t know what a Bouncy was or a tattoo artist, for that matter and DJs and dance floors were a concept still to be born. But we could run races with the best, breathing in the pure winter air and our imagination ran riot, fed on a diet of the stories we read, from the books we received as Christmas presents.
And as I finally hit the delete button on the Christmas Carnival invite, I knew that our generation owed it to our children to show them the difference between a Christmas Carnival and a Christmas party and refresh our memories along the way.
Meet the writer:
Mrinalini Rautela Pahwa lives in Gurugram, Haryana with her husband, a dog and a daughter ...not necessarily in that order. She would like to believe that she is a teacher- a stolidly respectable pillar of society. However, there are many, who shall not be named, for fear of arousing homicidal tendencies in her-- who have been known to whisper otherwise. For now, let this suffice. The rest is silence.
Is this your first visit here? Welcome to Indian Chai Stories!
ADD THIS LINK TO YOUR FAVOURITES : https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/Indian Chai Stories
There are over a hundred stories here, and they are all from the tea gardens! Our storytellers are tea planters and their memsaabs, baby and baba log. Each of our contributors has a really good story to tell - don't lose any time before you start reading them!
Do you have a chai story of your own to share? Send it to me here, please : indianchaistories@gmail.com. My name is Gowri Mohanakrishnan and I'm a tea planter's wife. I started this blog because one of the things that I wouldn't want us to lose in a fast changing world is the tea story - a story always told with great seriousness, no matter how funny - always true (always), maybe a tall tale, long, or short, impossible, scary, funny or exciting but never dull.
Happy reading! Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea!
While checking my emails today, the spring cleaning bug hit me – although spring is long gone and Delhi, currently, is a sweltering 43 degrees! I decided to begin my spring cleaning with my email inbox. Deleting email upon email from Marks and Spencer’s sales promotions to offers for home loans, I hit upon an old invitation to a Christmas carnival sent by our club.
Carnival? I paused with my finger almost touching the Delete button. The word struck a false note somewhere as I thought back to the Christmas carnivals I had attended in our club in Delhi.
The lawns of the club, resplendent with brilliant red poinsettias, red and white balloons and similarly themed checked table cloths on the tables and chairs that dotted the grounds. Live food counters with chefs in their white aprons and tall hats, a Bouncy, a magician, a tattoo artist and hair braiders, all in place, ready to cater to the demands of the children while the dance floor gleamed and the DJ belted out a steady stream of Christmas carol remixes, interspersed with Punjabi pop.
The ubiquitous Christmas tree with its professionally perfect decorations and lights glittered away and well -dressed parents ate their tikkas and drank beer, keeping an indulgent eye on the children and their nannies. Santa arrived to the tune of Jingle Bells, the MC cracked a few jokes, and announced the names of the children, who trotted up and collected the presents their parents had sent in earlier - and everyone went home happy. Sure, it was a carnival of colour, light and music but was it Christmas with its attendant spirit of togetherness?
Growing up in the remote tea plantations of far flung Assam, the winter season was always looked forward to, with its endless rounds of parties and picnics, duck and partridge shoots and the feasts that followed, the profusion of flowers in the sprawling bungalows and the flower shows that every Tea Garden Memsahib worth her salt, (including my mother) did her best to win. But for us children, nothing could beat the magic of Christmas!
For weeks in advance, the anticipation permeated the air just as did the aroma of candied fruit soaking in rum and the Christmas goodies the cook started baking for the club ‘Christmas Do.’ The ‘Do’ for the uninitiated, was the big party that was held at the Planter’s club, where all the tea planters of that district (the Assistants or the Chota Sahibs and the Managers – the Burra Sahibs) and their families gathered for an evening of much drunken revelry – with most of the planters going straight to work from the club, the following morning! And for us children, the one we looked forward to most was the Christmas party.
Weeks in advance, our mothers scanned the catalogues and sent off orders to large departmental stores in Calcutta for our Christmas presents, which would arrive in cloth wrapped packages and be hidden away until the big day. The ladies in charge of the club committee would designate work amongst all the Planter’s wives and so, the food and the décor would be taken care of amongst much bonhomie and laughter while the club took on a festive look.
In the meanwhile, we children would lay bets on which uncle was going to essay the role of Santa Claus. The requirements were stringent- a booming laugh, a beer belly and the patience and strength to dandle several children on his knee without busting it. The Santas I saw over the years as a child in tea had one thing in common…they all smelled of copious quantities of the alcohol that had been poured down their gullets by their friends, our fathers, in a bid to (literally) bolster their spirits!
And they all arrived in as dramatic a manner as possible – on an elephant, on a rickety cart, pulled by the local banker’s pony, once even by helicopter, loaned by the air force unit posted close by. For me personally, the most memorable was the Santa whose vehicle had had a flat. Hoisting his sack on his shoulder, determined to fulfil his commitment of bringing joy to the world, he hopped off the jeep and began his trudge to the club, only to be chased by an irate bull. All his padding notwithstanding, Santa took to his heels, putting in an impressive performance, beating the wicked horns of the bull by a millimetre as he flew over the cattle trap, leaving the frothing bull on the other side and winning our respect forever! A few bottles of chilled beer later, when he had steadied his nerves enough to get back to the job of dandling us on his knees and dishing out the gifts, not one of us attempted to pull his beard off or tickle him. He was our death defying hero!
Our Santa knew all the children well and called them to himself one by one, teased them, asked them questions and finally handed over the gifts. Then, the khoi bag was burst and we flung ourselves on the floor with gusto while Santa took that as his cue to beat a hasty retreat!
Finally, came the feasting at the long trestle table that was set up especially for us with caps and whistles and all the food that had been cooked in the kitchens of our friends. Aunty Trixie’s famed horse shoe shaped peanut biscuits and Aunty Shashi’s gingerbread along with Aunty Hema’s dosas and Aunty Cynthia’s Christmas cake were looked forward to year after year. We stuffed ourselves till we could barely move and as the shadows lengthened, the fireplace was lit. The adults played their music and took to the floor while we children played with our gifts or napped contentedly in the Children’s Room that all clubs had.
That was Christmas for me and for my generation. A time for laughter and celebration. Of pleasure in getting together with friends who had become closer than family. We didn’t know what a Bouncy was or a tattoo artist, for that matter and DJs and dance floors were a concept still to be born. But we could run races with the best, breathing in the pure winter air and our imagination ran riot, fed on a diet of the stories we read, from the books we received as Christmas presents.
And as I finally hit the delete button on the Christmas Carnival invite, I knew that our generation owed it to our children to show them the difference between a Christmas Carnival and a Christmas party and refresh our memories along the way.
 |
| The colours of a tea garden Christmas!Pic by Gowri Mohanakrishnan |
Editor’s Note:
saat pheras – the most important ritual in a Hindu marriage ceremony
baraatis – the bridegroom’s party
band, bajaa and malaas – a fitting reception committee for the groom’s party
bidaai – the time when the bride leaves her parent’s home after the wedding
Meet the writer:
 |
| Mrinalini Rautela Pahwa |
Mrinalini Rautela Pahwa lives in Gurugram, Haryana with her husband, a dog and a daughter ...not necessarily in that order. She would like to believe that she is a teacher- a stolidly respectable pillar of society. However, there are many, who shall not be named, for fear of arousing homicidal tendencies in her-- who have been known to whisper otherwise. For now, let this suffice. The rest is silence.
Is this your first visit here? Welcome to Indian Chai Stories!
ADD THIS LINK TO YOUR FAVOURITES : https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/Indian Chai Stories
There are over a hundred stories here, and they are all from the tea gardens! Our storytellers are tea planters and their memsaabs, baby and baba log. Each of our contributors has a really good story to tell - don't lose any time before you start reading them!
Do you have a chai story of your own to share? Send it to me here, please : indianchaistories@gmail.com. My name is Gowri Mohanakrishnan and I'm a tea planter's wife. I started this blog because one of the things that I wouldn't want us to lose in a fast changing world is the tea story - a story always told with great seriousness, no matter how funny - always true (always), maybe a tall tale, long, or short, impossible, scary, funny or exciting but never dull.
Happy reading! Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea!
5 comments:
All those stockings knitted by Tina Hundal for the multitude of children at Western Dooars Club one year....the spirit of a Christmas past...
Deep nostalgia this Sunday afternoon!
Great days, great Yuletide parties! I still remember the mounds of presents to be wrapped with the help of Marcel and Yohan. Our son Rohit was persuaded to be Santa at Dalsingpara. He arrived on the bonnet of the blue garden jeep. Job done he looked around for his sleigh but found that the sole reindeer had gone off for grub and a tot! Fuming, he left on foot, back to Santa land! Thanks for a great story!
That was a great Christmas party at Dalsingpara burra kothi, Chinny. The live counter with chef-hatted chefs, the Burra Saab and his Mem in Bhutanese regalia, Rohit as Santa, the kids running amok in glee, the welcome winter sunshine, the populated gazebos, the festive decor and the excellent victuals! Etched in memory as if in stone! Thank you and Ozzie once again for a delightful remembrance!
Thank you for being there!
December/January were such wonderful months in tea with reduced work load and cricket, tennis or golf events every weekend! Thank you you for bringing back the memories of those days.
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