Singampatti

by Minoo Avari

Riding bareback, Ging, 1967

This is a story about the transition of a Darjeeling Planter to South India (Spellings of places as they were then)

'Shankeran managed to give us the history of Singampatti in one breath'

The south-west monsoon set in early that summer of ’70.  There was no sign of it though at Tinnevelli Junction, where the late May sun relentlessly roasted the already baked earth and left us sweating, as porters loaded baggage into the boot and overhead rack of the company Ambassador.  Shehzarin was already a few months pregnant with our first born but it was Pancho, our Boxer dog, who showed signs of morning sickness.  The fault lay entirely with Xavier, the Singampatti group driver, who exhibited a style of driving I found uniquely disquieting; flooring the accelerator for a few seconds, then completely taking his foot off the pedal, he repeated this process with alarming consistency.  As a result we see-sawed past Chernmadevi, rocked back and forth past Karumbai and found ourselves quite seasick by the time we got to Natesan Agency at Kallaidaikurichi. 

Shankeran was there to welcome us with his enormous brother, Harihara Krishnan, taking up much of the background.  Inhaling deeply, Shankeran managed to give us the history of Singampatti in one breath.  Then gulping another huge quantity of air, he informed us that there was a lot of work to be done on Manimuttar and that the Muthanna’s would be off shortly on six weeks leave to the UK and that John Bland’s son and daughter would be coming from the UK to spend their holidays on Manjolai.  He paused to inhale once again, even as the aroma of sumptuous coffee assailed our nostrils.  Shankeran was not finished though and, before the completion of yet another long sentence, which left him breathless once again, he plunged on as we finished our first cup of coffee.

Past the level crossing Xavier steadied his epileptic foot.  The drive was scenic and Xavier pointed out the Manimuttar Dam, which had filled to the brim, with a cryptic “Dam full!” There was no traffic at all and the narrow road snaked through rocky outcrops of scrub before starting the climb to Manjolai.  I chuckled seeing the quaint board informing us that we were now negotiating an awkward hairpin bend! Dappled sunlight bathed Manjolai estate and John Bland had us sit out on the open veranda to sample tea and scoff a few biscuits.  With that we exchanged vehicles and set off with ‘our Michaels’, the Manimuttar driver, for the Muthanna residence.

It got steadily darker as we approached the top of the hill.  Fog prevented us from seeing much of the surrounding forest and by the time Michael pronounced ‘Kakachi golf course’ we were in the maws of the monsoon.  It was blinding stuff.  The wipers were inadequate and appeared to work in slow motion.  Undeterred, Michael drove on while giving us a crash course in Tamil.  Moon, he said, was Nilavoo.  It resounded with a timbre reminiscent of Louis Armstrong after a few bourbons.  Coming to think of it, Michael did resemble Satchmo! 

We turned left and just as suddenly saw the outline of a building looming in front.  A stout balding person, standing under the porch, was very nearly run over by Michael who was in a hurry to get the car parked and out of the lashing rain.  We introduced ourselves.  The man called himself George, leading me to believe the little that I had heard about Coorgs.  It did turn out though that George wasn’t a pseudonym for Ricky and that he was, in fact, Ricky’s cousin.  After that we called him Cousin George. 

A short while later Ricky appeared followed by his wife Prema, who had been preening herself to look presentable in front of Shehzarin.  She had heard my wife was with Air-India and this was sufficient to frighten her into putting on makeup… but when she saw my simple and pragmatic wife she beamed with delight and they were to become lifelong friends. 

There was a sudden break in the rain and George just as suddenly came to life. 

“Would you like to play tennis?”

 Ricky must have seen the incredulous look on my face and assured me the court would be playable.  “The ground here dries almost instantly”, he said.  Pulling suitcases from the car and fishing out my tennis racket, George and I did take to the court.  He was a crafty player and played to win.  We had just stepped back into the warmth of the sitting room when the rain came crashing down again.  Ricky and Prema accompanied us to Oothu Bungalow, leaving a dispirited cousin George to lick his wounds and fuss over the menu for dinner.

The bungalow hadn’t been lived in for some time.  After the Muthannas left, we had for company our bungalow servant Waidyanayagam, who hovered about solicitously.  Watching all this was Thomas the gardener who appraised us with a jaundiced eye.  He amused himself with our apparent loss to adjust to a cyclical Cooper generator and having to make do with Aladdin lanterns, after the generator ran its course and packed up within the hour.  It was difficult and I went to bed perplexed.  Shehzarin was upbeat and took an immediate liking to the seemingly impermeable loneliness, the opaque fog and the drumming rain.

The days rolled into weeks and in that time Ricky taught me to ride a motorbike.  Later, with nephew Subbu in tow, he taught us golf.  In turn we showed him that one didn’t have to stand motionless over the ball.  By taking three steps back one could run up and whack it like they do in hockey.  This must have suitably impressed him because he abruptly stopped further lessons.

A break in the weather allowed me to take stock of the terrain.  I hadn’t realised till then that there was a big hill in front of the Oothu Bungalow.  It turned out to be field number twenty-five, directly opposite the small Oothu office from where I operated.  I checked daily on the little nursery by the stream and admired the hundred acres of tea on the property, which had been planted in part by David Hughes and later completed by Roy Machia.  The view from the lookout, which signalled the last of the hundred acres of tea planted at that time, is magnificent:

 

Mighty Agastiyamalai - all pix by author

It overlooks the impressive Papanasam dam, snuggled below in the heart of the Mundanthurai game sanctuary; where thick forests stretch to the left and culminate just short of towering Mount Augusta.  Locally known as Augustyamalai, this volcano shaped peak is more often than not enshrouded in mist.  It has for company, five smaller jagged peaks known as the Ionthullies, or five peaks.

'As far as I’m concerned, you can plant from here to Bombay.  I’ve been hearing about plans for new planting but nothing ever happens!' 

Toward the middle of June, Angus McNaughton, the Managing Director, paid an official visit.  I had met him and his wife Sally during my interview, at the Bombay office, and was already an admirer of Angus’ zest for life and his spirit of adventure.  The next day we walked through the fields.  With Angus, John Bland and Ricky in front, I remained a few discreet steps behind.

“Oothu can never become a full-fledged estate with just a hundred acres of tea!” Angus suddenly exclaimed.

John looked up at the sky, sucking on a peppermint sweet the while.  Ricky wasn’t deterred and asked Angus how much he wanted us to plant.

“As far as I’m concerned, you can plant from here to Bombay.  I’ve been hearing about plans for new planting but nothing ever happens!”

Turning to me Ricky asked if I was game.  I shrivelled in the sudden spotlight but Ricky had that mischievous, irresistible grin, almost daring me to say yes.  So I said yes!

“I’ll be leaving for England in a few days,” Ricky told Angus “but Minoo can start the nurseries and begin clearing.  I’ll be back to help him with the planting.”

And so it was.  Ricky and Prema left and I got down to planning the extension of both nurseries at Manimuttar and Oothu.  Mr. Sylvester was the staff member in charge of Oothu and worked directly under me.  Mention must be made here of his service to the Corporation: on the verge of dismissal for insubordination, it was decided that Oothu would be suitable for him to dwell on his misdeeds.  I was asked if I would like another IC in his place but I had already begun to interact with him and was impressed with his sagacity.  We got on well.  I certainly wouldn’t have been able to get everything working, with such clockwork precision, on my own. 

The days were long and oft times brutal.  Tamil lessons at 4:30 am (for all the good it did me), then Oothu office for planning out the day with Sylvester; Manimuttar office and factory and overseeing the plucking there, along with checking sundry cultivation works.  Clearing forest and using a dumpy spirit level to measure out roads, thirty feet at a time, to make sure the gradient remained constant, also helped with speedy removal of trees and scrub that had been cleared.

'What’s Singampatti doing sending us Darjeeling tea?' 

Ricky had earmarked some fields where blocks of clonal tea had been left un-plucked.  A2 was a plant selected by Dr. Mathew and then there was a small leafed chinarey plant, with the simple nomenclature ‘Hybrid’, which someone in the past had also selected.  When the un-plucked stalks achieved pencil thickness, they were cut with a slant and each one stuck into an eighteen inch sleeve that sported a four inch diameter.  These sleeves, stacked ten abreast, continued in length for as long as the lie of the land would allow.  Over these we bent large bamboo staves, at approximately three foot intervals.  These were then interlaced with longer bamboo poles to support the weight of the two hundred gauge polythene sheet that would cover each bed.

Riding Murphy on Ging T.E. in Darjeeling

I had done much smaller nurseries in Darjeeling, while working there with the Darjeeling Company, and knew that spraying the top of the stacked bags with Tefazine, a pre-emergent weedicide, would prevent weeds from taking over.  After the chemical spray each stem, with two to three leaves, was pushed into the mud-filled bags before polythene sheeting was draped over each bed.  After that the overhanging sides were sealed with mud.

In essence it was a mini hothouse.  John, never having seen the like, balked at this procedure and repeatedly questioned my wisdom with the admonition, “You’re putting all your eggs in one basket!” Well he did have a point there but I just had too many eggs on my plate at that time to argue the case.  We erected an enormous pandal, with stakes ten feet above the ground and framed a lattice on top over which we tied kidagu sheets.  Even so, the direct sun did find little gaps and managed to burn some clonal material.  Ricky was back by then and suggested we apply mud paste over the polythene.  This was a huge success.  We planted passion fruit creepers, which replaced the kidagu and became the permanent overhead shade.

Meanwhile the clearing in some fields was complete and Sylvester organised the pits to be dug, as per Angus’ desires, at four by two by two and a half feet.  This made it around seven thousand plants an acre.  We were able to plant one hundred acres within a nine month period, after supplying Manjolai with clonal material to plant fifty acres there.

Ricky and I got on famously.  Both Sagittarians, we had similar interests.  He left me strictly alone to get on with work but we got together as soon as the day was done.  As families we did pretty much everything together.  Tennis, golf and swimming by the beaches of Kovalam on an occasional Sunday; at other times watching bathers, huddled in groups, being bludgeoned under the waterfalls at Manimuttar and Courtallam.  There were movies too at the group office in Manjolai and at the Ambassamudram club, where we frequented the swimming pool.

Another year passed and the Directors were pleased with our progress.  Singampatti tea prices were historically lower than those fetched by our Mudis group.  John approached me to see if there was anything I could do, to rectify this bugbear that so obviously haunted him.  Ricky was away again but I was certain that my experience, with manufacturing Darjeeling tea, would do the trick.  Dev Mukerjee of Carrit Moran, our tea-brokers, was flabbergasted.  “What’s Singampatti doing sending us Darjeeling tea?” he queried.

Be that as it may, it caught the immediate attention of certain West German buyers and Willie D’Cruze, the tea-maker of the Manimuttar factory, came back from the auction at Cochin beaming with delight. 

“Those big sweaty German buggers want more tea.  I told them we could give them as much as they want.”

I was taken aback.  We had just sent ten chests as a trial but John’s triumphant demeanour, at the unexpectedly high price, sealed my fate.  We continued making as much ‘Darjeeling’ tea as we could, even as a team of Japanese arrived to put up a green tea factory on Oothu.

A New Arrival  - and lights!

The seasons changed.  In the autumn of ’70 Shehzarin gave birth to our baby daughter at the Catherine Booth Salvation Army hospital in Nagercoil.  It was the nearest hospital, a little less than two hundred kilometres away, run by dedicated American and British doctors.  Winter brought with it another new addition: I had gone to Coimbatore with John Bland to purchase a vehicle with the nineteen thousand rupee car loan sanctioned by the Corporation.  We settled on a 1954 Plymouth Savoy in spanking condition.  Though John signed the cheque enthusiastically, it raised the hackles of the group manager in Mudis and caused quite a furore.  The group vehicle there was a Plymouth Savoy!

By the summer of the following year the green tea factory was up and running.  It brought with it electricity for our bungalow.  We were finally able to listen to our collection of records and enjoy an occasional cold beer from the new refrigerator, which replaced the old dysfunctional kerosene contraption.  Now we had lights that could be switched on at any time through the night! Angus had retired by then and was replaced by David Rosser, a retired commander from the Royal Navy, who now headed the Bombay office as Managing Director. 

A recent pic of the G6 lookout at Oothu estate

More new planting, learning the mechanics of green tea production, harvesting cardamom and picking the little coffee we had on Kutheravetti, kept me busy.  Often, under candlelight, the Oothu office (still not electrified) would see Mr. Sylvester and I pouring over field maps: planning new roads and deciding which plants from either the Manimuttar or Oothu nursery would go where.  We were still supplying Manjolai plants from our nurseries for their annual fifty acre extensions.

 

Of grave concern were rocks and stones.  They had to be removed from the new clearings, so that the roots of young tea plants wouldn’t come in contact with anything other than soil.  We insisted on the workers digging two feet deep, before turning over the earth, to remove these impediments lurking beneath.  I was adamant that excavated boulders and rocks not be rolled down the slopes to block streams and waterways.  At a loss to find a way around, it was Sylvester who came up with the solution.  Digging large craters on the newly cut roads, he suggested we bury them.  This strengthened the roads and took care of our problems of disposal at the same time.

We struck gold!

There was another problem though which required divine intervention.  Digging was not something the workers relished.  Everyday workmen designated to dig would report sick.  We were losing time.  Then to make matters worse Manjolai decided to go on strike.  Not content with striking on their own property, rumour had it that they were planning to march up to Manimuttar and Oothu to disrupt work here.  Neither Sylvester nor I had an answer to this and, that morning, only a skittish handful of Oothu workers showed up at the new clearing.  Sylvester and I stood in the field, forsaking lunch, digging valiantly alongside the workers.

By evening the workers from Manjolai had assembled below the field we were on.  Shouting injunctions and gesticulating, they pumped their fists, as they began to trudge uphill toward us.  They were no more than thirty yards away when one of the Oothu workers, gazing steadfastly at the ground yelled.  “Aaayooe! Aa-yi-yooe!”

Catching the evening sun a stream of yellow oozed from the freshly dug earth.  A light drizzle had started, turning the yellow lava into tiny rainbows.  Unmindful of getting wet and the fact that it was time to go home, the militant Manjolai workforce started tearing at the ground with bare hands.  Then using stakes, staves and other implements, which they had brought along to intimidate us, they went into a frenzy turning the earth over to seek for treasure.  I looked across at Sylvester who, with a wry smile, said, “I think we won’t have any more problems finding people for digging.”

Gold coins, with Tippu Sultan’s emblem emblazoned on both sides, spilled from the damp earth.  Amber and mother-of-pearl ornaments too were being unearthed around us.  Soon hurricane lanterns and large sugar gunnysacks appeared and the field began resembling something from out of a fairy-tale.  Workers in bandages descended from dispensaries.  Others in lungis rushed from their homes and many came from as far away as Kutheravetti, the remote outer division of Oothu.  Later politicians and bureaucrats insisted that anything under the ground belonged to the Government of India.  The workers averred.  They said these blessings fell from the sky and, with encouragement from Sylvester, touched my feet.  It was as though I was responsible for their windfall!

 

Forested hills around Oothu

'What are you going to name the little rascal?'

The south west monsoon gave way to the north east.  It rained like something coming out of a bucket.  With Shehzarin pregnant once again, it gave rise to a great deal of concern.  How would we be able to take her to Nagercoil in time for the delivery? Ricky and Prema suggested we leave immediately but each day, during that dreary December of ’71, seemed to bring more rain with it.  We finally decided we just had to go.  It had already rained eighty inches that week and the only vehicle we could trust in that lashing rain, compounded with gale force winds, was our heavy Plymouth.  We made it to the hospital just in time, with Hazel Scott, the doctor who had delivered our daughter Mishez, saying, “Wait son, wait son”, even as we walked into the hospital.  Later she told us that boys were always impatient, whereas Mishez had kept us waiting an extra two weeks!

“What are you going to name the little rascal?” She enquired.

Shehzarin and I had already thought about it.  With all that rain, lighting, thunder and wind what else could we have named him but Zeus? Hazel clapped her hands in glee and approved heartily.

While all this was happening, Ricky returned from leave to tell us that he would be leaving Manimuttar for the Mudis.  I didn’t take this news well.  We were a good team.  We understood one another and I had no idea who would come in his place.  About the same time Willie D’Cruze was poached by an agency house in another district: they thought he was God to produce such tea in South India!

N. M. Sreedharan came to Manimuttar as Ricky’s replacement.  He was not into sports but was great company and not only left me to work on my own but, to my chagrin, also asked me to put down another two hundred acres of tea on Manimuttar’s North Division.  John Bland had gone on furlough, leaving him to manage the entire group and therefore unable to find time to do any planting.  He also said that we were to stop manufacturing ‘Darjeeling’ tea. 

 It had been just a little over three years since our arrival and yet it felt like an eternity

The higher prices realised by making ‘Darjeeling tea’, had pulled our average prices up by the socks and we had leapfrogged Mudis for the first time.  The Directors in Bombay, with no understanding of tea, had been badgering the Mudis, wondering why their prices weren’t keeping pace with the market.  With no answer other than to get Manimuttar prices back in perspective, Sree was ordered to stop the nonsense going on at the Manimuttar factory.  For me, a valuable lesson in the intricacies of corporate chicanery.

Shree and Saby became close friends as were Prithvi and Rani Jothikumar, the acting manager on Manjolai and Kenny Shresta his assistant.  The group doctor, also on Manjolai, Dr. Krishnamoorty and the new assistant on Manimuttar, Rammohan, were all part of our extended family.  When news came that I was to be transferred to the Mudis group, a pall hung over Singampatti.  Even Mr. Shankeran, down in Kallaidaikurichi was appalled.  That evening I sat up late on the veranda puffing on my pipe.  It had been just a little over three years since our arrival and yet it felt like an eternity.  Shehzarin joined me there after the children were asleep.

“Upset?” She asked.

“I don’t know.  Oothu feels like it’s a part of me.”

 “You’ve finished your work here,” she said and then surprised me with her astute observation: “Over nine hundred acres of new planting; helping setup and run the green tea factory, making changes at the Manimuttar factory.  Running two estates almost alone, finding time to play games and…”

I reached out for her hand and together we enjoyed the darkness; listening to the sound of bears whistling in the distance, the sawing of a leopard and the grunt of a tiger close by. 

“I couldn’t have done it without you.”  I whispered.

                                                       

This is Minoo Avari's first story for Indian Chai Stories.

Minoo at a tennis tournament

In his own words: I was born in Calcutta on November the 26th 1945 though we were a Darjeeling based family.  I studied at North Point (St. Josephs College - Darjeeling) and then went on to do my College in St. Xavier's College, Calcutta.  I played a lot of tennis at this point, travelling around the Country playing in just about all the tournaments then.  

Later I joined the tea plantations in Darjeeling and was on Ging and Tukdah Tea Estates till 1970 when I switched companies and joined The Bombay Burmah Trading Corporation.  I had got married earlier in the year and my wife and I were posted to Oothu Estate in Tirunelvelli District of Tamil Nadu.  This is the story of stint there for a little over three years.  

Now I lead a retired life - writing, playing tennis and enjoying riding my motorcycle.  I am currently the President of the local Farmers Association and also the United Citizens Council of Kodaikanal.  I am also a member of the London Tea History Association.

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