Azaadi ka Din : An Independence Day Story

by Ipsita Sengupta

Well I just can't let Independence Day pass by without writing about Jimma.

Jimma, the hero of the day. He loved his snazzy glittery dazzling green shirts which were always missing a few buttons, and his huge combat boots. I always wondered whose hand me downs those boots were. Now couple that attire with shiny dark brown skin, a prominent hunch and an ever grinning face displaying a row of betel stained teeth and you can almost see him. His primary job was to look after the cows. I vividly remember him carrying two steel buckets brimming with milk in the mornings headed towards the house, cutting through the flowers beds, intent on his mission. He made sure he got the milk in the house, freshly delivered courtesy of Hope and Lalee, our jersey cows. Yes, they had names and no, they weren't named by us. We didn't have the pleasure of picking names but we did have them for a number of years, serving us more milk than we would ever consume. 

Now back to my original story. Independence Day started like it  always did every year in the gardens. I tagged along with Bapi for the flag hoisting, far more excited about the snacks which would follow the event. It was a bright sunny day with one dark cloud hovering. Jimma had decided not to show up for work! Not surprising at all, as he often decided to disappear. 

The rumour was he’d gone on a bender, indulging in a little too much of the coveted country liquor called Hariya.  Hariya was an integral part of everyone's lives in the garden - the workers, as they frequently imbibed and continued to come to work, and the others who had to wait and watch them swaying and wondering how long they would hold up. Well, Jimma did not show up all morning, drunk or sober. Mamma fretted all morning about her poor cows but he still didn't show.

Just as the sun was setting on the horizon and the sky turned a lovely shade of orangey pink I looked up. I saw a man with a glittering green shirt flying in the wind walking up towards the verandah. I wasn’t sure whether the wind made him sway or whether it was his head spinning. His combat boots did not help steady him one bit while he zigzagged his way to the verandah. 

Mamma looked on in astonishment while Jimma stood in front of us, swaying and stinking up a storm.  

Jimma saluted smartly and said, ‘Jai Hind!’

 Mamma squeaked, ‘But why are you here in the evening?’

Jimma grinned, speaking a little too loudly, ‘Memsahib aaj azaadi ka din hai, isliye meh sab gai log ko azaadi dey diya!’ ( Memsahib, it is Independence Day! So  I have set all the cows free! )

Mamma and I ran past him to the opening where we could clearly see the cows running free and wild in the evening sun.  I turned around to see Jimma curled up in the verandah, fast asleep, having set his world free.

Meet the writer:

Ipsita Sengupta introduces herself: 'I was born to AJOY and DOLA in the gardens of North Bengal, and lived there till I was 18. Working in finance in New York city for the past decade. Sister to a kickass writer, SANCHITA and married to my soul mate and best friend ARIJIT. Love books,movies, dogs, travelling and food in no particular order.'
This Cha ka baby wrote us two stories with slightly scary twists in them: 'Bhaaku the Barber' here -- https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/2018/03/bhaaku-barber.html
and 'The Wrong Car' here --
https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/2018/03/the-wrong-car.html

 Is this your first visit here?  Welcome to Indian Chai Stories!
If you've ever visited a tea garden or lived in one, or if you have a good friend who did, you would have heard some absolutely improbable stories!
You will meet many storytellers here at Indian Chai Stories, and they are almost all from the world of tea gardens: planters, 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.  

The Wrong Car

Ipsita Sengupta 

One of my most vivid memories is of Fagu Tea Estate. Undulating roads leading up to an enchanting  bungalow high up on a hill with rooms full of books in crates ready for a bookworm like me. One such trip to meet Aunty Shobhi and Uncle Avinash led to quite an adventure.

With my arms filled with a dozen unread books I settled inside the back of our mint green ambassador and promptly started on the first book. The afternoon sun playing with tea bushes creating interesting shapes passed us by as we chugged along pleasantly. We were on our way home and I would only raise my head to count the number of bumps on the road. I might have missed a few counts with a highway robber in the book I was currently reading  occupying all my attention. After the count of five and an unexpectedly large bump, the car came to a halt. Suddenly a group of men surrounded the car. For a moment I thought the story I was reading had come alive!

There were five men in total completely surrounding the car. They had khukris and guns. They were mostly teenagers, maybe a little older than me. One particular man stood out as he was holding a gun pointed at Bapi through the window and his hands wouldn't stop shaking. He looked even more terrified than we did. Mamma turned around and held my hand and told me to be very quiet. The only sound we heard was our hearts hammering.

"Get out of the car right now!" shouted the young man with the gun pointed at Bapi.

He stepped out of the car, repeatedly chanting, "Take what you want but let us go". The men suddenly opened all the car doors including the trunk of the car desperately searching for something.

They tossed aside my precious books to the ground looking desperately. We looked at them bewildered as they didn't seem interested in our watches or jewellery or even Bapi's wallet. The man with the gun suddenly stood back and ordered us to get back in the car and drive off right away. The entire incident lasted five minutes though it felt like forever. We drove away thanking God we were all unharmed.
" I wonder what they were looking for" Bapi said.

"What does it matter, as long as we are safe," Mamma cried.

"Wait, isn't it a Friday today"? Bapi asked and then he suddenly accelerating and reaching home in less than half an hour.
As soon as we reached home Bapi rushed up the winding stairs and started started dialing, and no, in the early 90's we didn't have cell phones. He came away looking very worried.

"I was too late", Bapi cried.

"Too late for what, Bapi?” I exclaimed.

"I was too late to stop those men from robbing the jeep on the way to the Fagu!! That was right behind us, carrying money to pay the workers,” he said, putting his head in his hands and sighing.

Bhaaku the Barber

by Ipsita Sengupta

"Put that book down and finish your food!" growled Bapi.

 I looked at him curiously across the breakfast table wondering what could be bothering my usually mild mannered father. He did look a little scraggly; his tight curly black hair unusually long and unkempt.

"Bapi you need a haircut", I squeaked out while stuffing my face with buttered toast.

"You don't say?” he snapped back before walking away grumbling under his breath. I stared at him with wide eyes.

"Don't worry, I have asked for Phillip’s brother to show up and cut his hair tomorrow", said Khaancha while helping us clear up the table.

"But what happened to Bhaaku?” I asked, as he is the one who usually cuts hair and nails and has been doing that for years. 

Khaancha looked away and sighed, wondering in his head whether I was old enough to hear the horrific story.
“I won't tell a soul that I heard it from you, but you have got to tell me what happened", I said as confidently as a twelve year old can.

 "Bhaaku ran away two weeks ago. He didn't have a choice, he had to run away or else the police would have taken him away", said Khancha.

“But why on earth would they take him away”? I asked. 

"Well he got into a fight and killed his own brother"! said Khancha looking really uncomfortable. He suddenly realized I might be a little too young for such a gruesome tale.

 "Anyway, that's all I know and Chhota Baby, better finish your food before it gets too late", he said before firmly walking away. 

I stared at him, trying to imagine how a quiet, shy man like Bhaaku who wouldn't even look you in the eye while speaking or ever raise his voice could kill someone. I remember him cutting my hair just three months ago, and seeing how upset I was, he told me that he could make me look like "Siridevi"! 

 In the next few days I pieced together the entire story. 

Bhaaku was the local barber who had married a girl from the neighbouring tea garden. He lived with his brother who spent his days mostly drunk and getting into brawls. He had gotten into brawls all his life and Bhaaku had spent his days getting him out of them. 

The funny thing is, Bhaaku never got angry with his brother for his wastrel ways. He finally got upset when one night he woke up to find his brother and his wife of six months sneaking out of the house. They were planning to run away. Bhaaku then took an axe, and with a single swing of his scrawny arms managed to silence his brother forever.

His wife starting howling in fear and Bhaaku, having realized what he had done, grabbed the bundle of clothes his brother had wrapped up and made his escape. 

It had been two weeks and no one had seen him since. There were stories of how he had been seen washing his bloodied clothes in the Chel river a couple of days after the incident, but no had seen him since.

It was now two years since the incident and like every other story you hear from the gardens you never think much about it. 

I'm taking my book to sit and read in the winter sun when I suddenly hear laughter. My father is sitting and getting his hair cut in the backyard. He's talking and laughing with the barber who is struggling to give him a close shave. I walk around the house to see what’s going on. I look closely and see it's Bhaaku who is back and is holding a razor in his hand.

I look on in horror as he takes the razor and holds it a little too close to my father's neck. I must have made a noise as he suddenly looks at me and smiles gently, asking me, "Kaisee ho, Chhota Baby"?

 

Meet the writer:

Ipsita Sengupta introduces herself: I was born to AJOY and DOLA in the gardens of North Bengal, and lived there till I was 18. Working in finance in New York city for the past decade. Sister to a kickass writer, SANCHITA, and married to my soul mate and best friend ARIJIT. Love books,movies, dogs, travelling and food in no particular order. 

 

Is this your first visit here? Welcome to Indian Chai Stories! 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!