Comic Timing!

by Shalini Mehra 

 

"It is a fact that till air travel improved and the broad gauge was installed, no one - I repeat no one - from outside Assam reached us on a personal visit without a hitch", wrote Shalini Mehra in 'Train of Thought: A Comedy of Errors'. Read more:

Another incident that I recollect with amusement now was not amusing at all when it happened.

My brother Pradeep decided to visit us after his first year engineering exams. This time we had received the message in advance and the Supt. Manager Mr. Sanjoy Ray very kindly not only gave us three days leave to receive him, but also an excuse, literally on a platter, to visit Shillong; to collect an exclusive cold cut platter for his VIP guests who were to visit the garden the following week.

Since the arrival time of the train was five a.m., we decided to reach Guwahati (Gauhati then) the night before and book ourselves into a hotel. All our efforts to reconfirm the arrival time before leaving Salonah were rendered futile. Those days one needed to book trunk calls that rarely came through. There was a telephone exchange in Salonah but the operator informed us that the lines were down.

Once in Guwahati we checked into the hotel, freshened up and were about to go out, when,on a hunch, Rajan rang up the railway inquiry to be told that the train starting from Delhi on the 12^th had already arrived at five a.m. that morning. What followed was utter confusion. We never got to know who had erred – us, or the railway inquiry; whether it was a miscalculation on our part or wrong information from the inquiry. There was no time to waste on such speculations. It was seven p.m. We reached the station to find it deserted. I was close to tears. My brother was on his own in a city that he knew nothing about, and by then 14 hours had elapsed since the train’s arrival. Where was he? Just the thought filled me with apprehension.

We desperately tried to book a call to the garden to inform our friend K.R Bhagat, popularly and universally called Kaka by his friends and colleagues in the plantations, about the situation; but the telephone lines were still down. The next exercise, though futile from its onset, was to inquire around from the porters and the taxi drivers but to no avail. There was nothing we could do, except go to the bus stand and check the buses for Nowgong. After wasting an hour we tried to check up on all the hotels near the station but got no lead from anywhere. Instead of being any help, I was on the verge of hysteria: “How the hell would he reach Salonah?” Well, that was it. We realized that he might have waited at the platform and not finding us, left for the garden. That logical reasoning made up our mind to return to the garden, hoping for the best.

Well, this is only one side of the story. The other side is more thrilling and full of adventure!

After peering up and down Guwahati railway platform, Pradeep tried to contact us but could not get through. He waited for a long time, then, presuming that his telegram had not reached us, decided to reach Salonah on his own. The first leg of the journey till Nowgong was comfortable and without any hazard. Now was the difficult part, as he was clueless about the location and the distance of the garden from the town. With the postal address in hand he inquired at the bus station. Someone pointed to a bus parked nearby and said, ‘This will go to Salonah’. Excited to have got the right vehicle for the commute so soon, he walked up to the driver.

'The Village Bus' by Mario Miranda, 1964

‘Ye bus Salonah garden jata hai?' he asked, and in answer got a big nod of affirmation. One look at the rickety old bus filled him with doubt but beggars cannot be choosers. And thus started a journey he would never forget in his entire life.

Thus goes his story:

“There was this dilapidated bus; however, the driver spoke Hindi quite legibly and looked very confident about the whereabouts of Salonah. This facilitated my decision to board it. Very soon I discerned a curiosity among the crowd that had gathered and when the driver started to probe, I evaded the queries. Trying to hide my nervousness and ignorance I discreetly elected to remain silent.

No sooner had I made myself comfortable, as comfortable as one could on a tattered seat with poking nails, when the bus started swarming with people. The journey began. Weary and sleepy I soon dozed off but not for long as a loud screech abruptly jolted me out of my reverie. For a second I thought the bus had collided with another vehicle. But no! It was a big pothole that we had just sailed through and to my utter dismay the bus had digressed from the highway onto a country road with literally no surface. From then on after every ten minutes it stopped; the passengers mounted and dismounted at their will, some with livestock – chickens stuffed in cane baskets.

Thus we trundled on for an hour, making all manners of minor detours. After what seemed ages the bus came to a halt for cha paani. I too got up and without any effort on my part was propelled out of the bus. Once outside in fresher air I walked up to a small shop and inquired about ‘Salonah.’ The news was very heartening – ‘barely six kilometers from here’. Soon we were back in the bus but it would not start. The self-starter had packed up. The driver, cursing with the choicest of expletives, took out the crank handle. It seemed to have worked as the bus started, moved a little further, then stalled again.

By now the cacophony of sounds and the overpowering smell of dust and sweat were getting to me. I decided that if it did not start I would walk the rest of the distance. This time even the handle was rendered useless, so all of us got down to give the bus a push. Puffing and panting after innumerable stops and restarts it finally made it to Salonah by six p.m. The signboard brought a surge of relief. The place was teeming with people; the fortnightly pay day local bazaar was on, as I came to know later. I asked about the whereabouts of my brother-in-law from one of the estate workers, who promptly answered,

“Mistri sahib bungla factory ka peeche hai.”

 I repeated, “Mistri sahib nahi, Mehra Sahib”

“Jee …jeee.. Mehra Sahib - Mistri Sahib.”

I didn’t know that after acquiring an engineering degree the designation one got in the estates was ‘Mistry Sahib’! Very discouraging for a Mechanical Engineering student indeed!

As I walked further I found someone who introduced himself as Kirani Babu and very kindly arranged a young boy to carry my luggage and guide me to the factory.

‘Finally I am home’, I told myself and just the thought relaxed me. Sore all over with fatigue but excited to meet my sister and brother-in-law I struggled hard to keep pace with the quick strides of the young boy.

Well that was not the end of the story. There was more to come. At the factory gate I was told –

“Mistri Sahib toh Shillong gaya hai.”

“Shillong??” I was sure I had heard wrong.

 “Kab tak ayega?”

“Teen din baad”

Well, some welcome this was! After a three day train journey, three hours on a rickety bus and a further two hours of roughing up on a kuccha road, here I was - still on my own - alone .

Before the bad news could sink in, a voice boomed, “You … Pradeep, how come you’re here?”  That was the most welcoming voice I had heard since I started my journey and the familiar face of Kaka Bhagat appeared from somewhere. I had met him at my sister’s wedding.

The story unfolded. Kaka took me to his bungalow and from then on it was a red carpet welcome all through my stay in the manner that only tea planters can extend.  It was Saturday evening. Kaka took me to the club and in no time everyone made me feel at home as if they had known me for years. I got my first glimpse into the life of tea planters and found them warm, friendly and fun loving.  What I enjoyed the most were the wild life encounter stories, and I was warned that I might see some on the way back to the garden. Later, fast asleep in Kaka’s guest room I woke up to see the door rumbling. Fearing it to be an elephant attack I panicked and broke into a sweat. The rumbling turned out to be the most welcoming banging when I opened the door to find my sister beaming at me.”

As for us, with frustration and nervousness mounting we reached the garden and heaved a sigh of relief. Our visitor had made it to Salonah. When we reached Kaka’s bungalow Pradeep was fast asleep. A happy ending to a total fiasco! What further turns it into a comedy of errors is that on his next visit to Assam, this time with his family, he landed at Dibrugarh Airport and once again I almost missed him, as the telegram arrived just that morning.  

The last episode for now but not the least interesting one - the year was 1974.

It was midday and I was sitting on the verandah of our Chung bungalow at Borghat division of Salonah, which has a long driveway. From a distance I saw a bicycle turning onto the garden road leading to our bungalow. This could not be Rajan as he had taken his car that day. The main gate opened and someone walked in. From his pugri I knew the visitor was a Sikh. I was still wondering who it could be when he waved. Recognition dawned and I almost fell while running down the staircase.

‘Battu’ I shouted in disbelief.

Our little son just a year old started crying. He had never seen a Sardar before.

It was my younger brother’s friend Amarpal Singh Bindra, lovingly called Battu by all of us. Having just completed his NDA course, he had received a posting in the North East and decided to visit us without any prior information. From Nowgong he had boarded a bus and the driver dropped him at a junction on the highway where there was a signboard indicating ‘Salonah Tea Estate.’ It was only after the bus trundled away that he read the fine print on the signboard - “Six kilometres”!

He walked six kilometres to reach Salonah and thanks to the electrician in the factory he covered a further one kilometre inside the garden perched on the back seat of a cycle. Rigorous Army training had toughened up the young man and thank God he was not carrying any parcel of mangoes, just a small overnight bag.

Today I log on to the internet to find my family and friends just a mouse click away. I often wonder how we lived in those days, when life moved at a snail’s pace! Our dear ones remained literally light years away. It could be months before we heard their voices and got news of their well-being. Telegrams often reached after the arrival of the guest, trunk calls hardly ever came through – all of this often leading to the kind of muddled up situations mentioned above. Feelings of disappointment related to such incidents were short-lived, and all of us, discovering the funny side, learnt to take these in our stride. Now, looking back, I know it was the nonexistence of the basic amenities, especially of communication and commuting that made tea life then what it is best known for --- uniquely different, unpredictable and full of adventure.

Fiascos of the sort stated above very soon turned into comedies of errors that would be told umpteen times with laughter and amusement at every tea gathering.

Editor's note: 
Kirani Babu - Head clerk of the tea garden
Mistri Saab - the Assistant Manager in charge of the factory is called Mistri Saab in the Assam tea gardens. The word 'mistri' in the rest of country is used to mean artisan/craftsman, or workmen like carpenters and masons. 

Meet the writer: Shalini Mehra

I can neither boast of any career, nor of great feats; yes, a tag of gypsy is befitting, as all through my life I have been wandering from one interest to another, returning home to one, then moving to new pastures. To use the cliché, I have been ‘Jack of all and Master of none’. The best part is that I have enjoyed the freedom of expressing myself through different mediums, be it music, dance, cooking, gardening, flower arranging or making dry flower frames, reading and writing. The last was always a moody muse till The Camellia happened.

During my wanderings I stumbled upon an idea when the new age of internet dawned upon the backwoods of the tea plantations. Life in tea has been unusual, very often bordering to inconceivable, and those real-life stories, so often almost fictional, needed to be told. The idea took a shape and thus the first ever Tea Planters’ Interclub magazine ‘The Camellia’, ‘for the planters, by the planters, of the planters’ was born in the sanctum sanctorum of my study. Thus, began the journey with pangs and pleasures of the birth and rearing up of my brainchild. If that can be called a milestone, it was surely one for me.

It makes me so proud that during this journey I made a lot of friends who shared my passion and extended their help. And Gowri Mohanakrishnan, moving with the times, took a step further and created ‘Indian Chai Stories’ - the tea stories blog. I extend my wholehearted support and best wishes to her.

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!

 

Train of Thought : A Comedy of Errors

by Shalini Mehra

 

Almost at a sprint and out of breath we reached the platform only to see the fading lights of the last bogie of the train.

‘Not again’, I told myself. Luckily, we were not boarding. 

We had arrived at Tinsukia station well in time to receive my parents, aunt, brothers and sisters, most of them on their first trip to Assam.  Though they were booked to Dibrugarh, we had planned to receive them at Tinsukia so as to save them an extra hour on the train. But it was too late now. Once back on the highway we sped up to keep pace with the train. This was well before the days of insulated AC compartments and we hoped someone from the family would peep out of the train window and spot us. Our four-year-old son Vicky, unable to contain his excitement, was literally hanging out of the car window in anticipation of some fun; while our good old Ambassador rattled ahead trying to catch up with the train which had now  gathered speed.

It is very interesting to see how closely parallel the train track and national highway run for a distance of almost 48 kilometers from Tinsukia to Dibrugarh, so much so that at certain points one can easily shake hands with the passengers on the train. But on this evening the sky was overcast with dark clouds, resulting in poor visibility. We had raced up and then slowed down, covering the length of the moving train, to sight a familiar face; but most of the shutters were closed. Disappointed and reconciled to a long drive to Dibrugarh, we carried on.  

My mind was racing back in time to the day, a month back, when I had received a letter confirming my family’s travel plans - but the much awaited telegram had never arrived. Apprehensions grew whether they were on the train or not. Had they changed their minds?

The year was 1977 and we were posted at Oaklands – a little Eden on the banks of the Brahmaputra. The out garden was tucked away in a corner, a place where telephones were hardly ever functional, roads rarely motorable. Despite the unpredictable communications we had confirmed the arrival time from the railway inquiry through a friend. However, taking no chances, we had arrived at Tinsukia well in time, only to be told that the train was two hours late. Taking advantage of the time, we proceeded to have a cup of tea in town with a friend. The hostess had barely poured tea in the cups when the hoot of an engine sounded and our friend, living in close vicinity of the station for years, exclaimed with surety, “I think that’s your train.”

Leaving our cups untouched we hurried towards the station but by the time we meandered through the traffic and parked, considerable time had elapsed. We had missed the train, and this was not the first time - but that is another story. It is a fact that till air travel improved and the broad gauge was installed, no one - I repeat no one - from outside Assam reached us on a personal visit without a hitch.

To continue, as if in response to little Vicky’s prayers, as we crossed Dikom Station (no halt) I saw my sister looking out from her compartment window and at the same moment she spotted us. One by one more shutters were rolled up and beaming faces of my younger siblings grinned at us. What excitement ensued! We were all waving, laughing and singing a la Rajesh Khanna from the Bollywood blockbuster ‘Aradhana’.  This continued Dikom onwards till the rail track and the road parted as we neared Dibrugarh town. By the time we reached the platform the train was chugging in and screeching to a halt. Well, all’s well that ends well. A ‘miss’ at Tinsukia earlier had resulted in great fun. All of us still treasure the memory of that journey with nostalgia and affection.  

Another incident took place much earlier in 1973, the year we got married and I came to Salonah in Nowgong district. A clerk from my father-in-law’s office was visiting Assam and was carrying a parcel of mangoes. The exotic king of fruits was a rare commodity in Assam then.

His journey brought him very close to his destination but not close enough. At the railway inquiry office in Guwahati he showed our postal address and was thrilled to see the name of Salona station on the rail chart. Salona was a small railway station, very close to Salonah tea garden, where one local passenger and one goods train would arrive every day. 

Secured with this information he boarded the only train to his destination. The Metro-city man, expecting a cemented platform with regular information announcements, porters to carry luggage and auto-rickshaws in waiting, was in for the shock of his life. He found that he was the only passenger who had got down at Salona. There was no platform and just a small shack for an office. A single beam of light emerging from it barely penetrated the darkness that had descended very early.  

Dragging his own suitcase and the mango parcel he somehow walked up to the cabin to find a solution for his colossal problem - where was Salonah tea garden and how could he reach it? But no words answered him. Only a finger pointed towards one direction. 

He dragged himself a little further ahead and saw a man on a bicycle carrying a cane basket piled with dozens of raw bananas. On inquiry he was once again given a direction but no manual help to carry his luggage. With a pounding heart he waited, wondering what to do next. Moments dragged on; his imagination playing tricks on him started to cast shadows of prowling wild life in the darkness and a shiver crept through his body. 

After what seemed ages but was only a few minutes, he saw another man - and as luck would have it, it was a Salonah garden labourer. On hearing the familiar name ‘Rajan Mehra’ he immediately paid his customary obeisance, ‘Salaam sahib’ and offered to carry the parcel and guide him to our bungalow.  

Thus arrived on our doorstep our first visitor from Delhi, very shaky and stressed out indeed but with the mango parcel intact. Years later I came to know that he would regale the entire office staff with his exaggerated version of the story in which the imaginary prowling animal became a real one.

Meet the writer: Shalini Mehra

I can neither boast of any career, nor of great feats; yes, a tag of gypsy is befitting as all through my life I have been wandering from one interest to another, returning home to one, then moving to new pastures. To use the cliché, I have been ‘Jack of all and Master of none’. The best part is that I have enjoyed the freedom of expressing myself through different mediums, be it music, dance, cooking, gardening, flower arranging or making dry flower frames, reading and writing. The last was always a moody muse till The Camellia happened.

During my wanderings I stumbled upon an idea when the new age of internet dawned upon the backwoods of the tea plantations. Life in tea has been unusual, very often bordering to inconceivable, and those real-life stories, so often almost fictional, needed to be told. The idea took a shape and thus the first ever Tea Planters’ Interclub magazine ‘The Camellia’, ‘for the planters, by the planters, of the planters’ was born in the sanctum sanctorum of my study. Thus, began the journey with pangs and pleasures of the birth and rearing up of my brainchild. If that can be called a milestone, it was surely one for me.

It makes me so proud that during this journey I made a lot of friends who shared my passion and extended their help. And Gowri Mohanakrishnan, moving with the times, took a step further and created ‘Indian Chai Stories’ - the tea stories blog. I extend my wholehearted support and best wishes to her.

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!

Oh, Manglu!!

Shalini Mehra

 
In tea, most of the people know me mainly through ‘The Camellia’Tea Planters’ magazine. I cherish the moments of its birth - December 2001- as it has been the most exhilarating and at the same time satisfying experience.

Personally I never took writing seriously, never thought of sending anything for publication. It was always my ‘Moody Muse’ that will surface now and then. Though a complete novice to the field of publishing, I had a very clear concept of the content, the idea that had sat dormant for years:  Real Life Tea Stories, the emphasis was to be on the personal side of Tea Planters’ lives.

The 'content division’ in various sections came as if it was sitting ready in my mind: for example story telling meant ‘Nostalgia’, but the word has very wide connotations, so it needed to have specific subdivisions. Hence several sections were created to fit various writings: 

'As it happened' (for one particular incident)

‘When I came to Tea’ (first day or initial days on arrival), 

‘Nostalgia’ for captivating stories by the raconteurs we have in tea

'Uncanny & Bizarre' (Tea boasts of quite a few haunted bungalows), 

‘Giggle in the Tea Cup' (how could a Planter or Tea memsahib live without Manglu, the bearer)

‘Little Mirchi Thoda Pepper’ (A good laugh is a must)

‘View Point’ (on a serious note) and 

‘Cuisine’ (Tea Memsahibs’ special forte)

One of the most interesting sections then was ‘Giggle in the Tea Cup’ –  anecdotes about the bungalow helpers who were so often so very simple,  naïve, some ‘dumb’ ( pardon my saying, but that breed existed) and interactions with them led to some hilarious situations.

Today the blog - Indian Chai Stories -  that GowriMohanakrishnan has created is on Facebook and has  a far wider reach, and I am so happy to share some of those anecdotes.  I am sure those who had penned these down on the pages of the magazine years back, would be reminiscing and grinning, if they happen to read them, as they are on Facebook.

Meet our man for all seasons, our Jeeves, Manglu – a name I gave this universal character in Tea.  All the situations and conversations are real.

From Anjali Behl -

Chatting over a cup of coffee with my friend I was enjoying the winter sun... she told me something really hilarious. Her old bearer was off duty for a week and on his return she wanted an explanation.

 He said, “Memsahib humara maiki ke bachha huan hai” (My wife has given birth to a child.).

 Memsahib “  Abhi kitana baccha hai? (How many children you have now?”)

 Manglu: “  panch  tho chori aur teen tho chora (five girls and three boys).”

Memsahib: “ Eight altogether?” 

Manglu:” Nahi memsahib ek, ek kar ke hua hai.” (I got them one at a time)

From Jyoti Arjuna -

Our Gooru Bagaal (Cowherd) is a simple soul. Very devoted to cows, he literally worships them. One cow has not been well for some time. My husband, a great devotee of his Guru organizes keertans (devotional song sessions) very often. One day he was sitting in the verandah when Bagaal came over.

'How is the cow now?', inquired my husband. 

Bagaal replied sadly, 'Theek nahi hai  Sahib! aap uske liye bhi prathna karana'

(not well, you should pray for her too.)

My husband very touched by his love for the animal asked him, 'Do you have any Guru'? ( spiritual teacher)

'Yes sahib do tho hai, ek boga , ek kala ( I have two one white one black' replied the Bagal.

'What?' my husband exclaimed 'Two ‘Gurus', one white and one black…. how can that be possible?'

 I came out laughing, explaining, 'What he means is he has two Goorus (Cows) one white and one black!'  

From Aditi Sharma -

Having missed my lunch one day, I felt hungry around afternoon tea time. Trying to control calories, I asked Manglu to get me a piece of toast and one poached egg.

When time went by and neither Manglu nor eggs arrived; I rang the bell. Manglu arrived looking bewildered with one toast on a plate and very sheepishly admitted:  

'Memsahib, I could not find a pocha ('rotten' in local lingo) egg. I broke four eggs; all of those were fresh.' 

Manglu, the bearer was asked by the Memsahib to bring some cold coffee for her friends, who were coming for a cards session.  The cards session, punctuated by gossip and chatter, carried on, but the coffee seemed to be taking too long. By now the players were getting impatient and the hostess was becoming a little embarrassed by the unusual delay. They could no longer wait for the cooling drink to soothe their heated nerves which were not so much the result of the hot summer afternoon but more of the heated arguments over cards. The memsahib, though sure of Manglu’s expertise, was now getting worked up. As she readied to leave to find out the reasons behind the delay, Manglu the Great entered with cups full of piping hot coffee with a little banana stuck into each cup.  He had brought 'Kol' coffee and the delay was because he had to get the bananas from the nearby Gola shop. 

(Kol means banana!)

After a formal dinner, the Visiting Agent looked around for a toothpick. The host immediately gave a signal to Manglu - his fingers touching his teeth - and waited. Manglu, with a very courteous, 'Ji Hazoor' went off, to appear only a few minutes later with a tray that contained a toothbrush, toothpaste and a bottle of Listerine and a hand towel hanging neatly over his left arm….

Yes, he had followed the sign language instructions to the best of his ability to provide the gentleman everything he would have required to clean his teeth.

In a bygone era, most of the tea plantation bungalows still had D.C (Direct Current supply). The refrigerators operated on kerosene lamps. The special bulbs provided such a dim light almost like that of a candle.   Notwithstanding all the handicaps, Sahibs enjoyed their little luxuries like a tub bath which the bearer had to get readied.

Then came the A.C. (Alternating Current). With the increased current, the dim lights brightened up. But not for Manglu, the bearer, who now wanted to leave and work in the garden, plucking leaves.

The reason was that now he had to prepare the bath tub ready first for the Sahib, then for Memsahib and then for Missy sahib, each time draining the used water, scrubbing the tub and filling it with fresh water. With better visibility now, he would be caught if he reused the same water for all three of them!

The Chhota Sahib came to act for the Manager who left to go on annual leave. With the perks came in the liabilities too, like taking care of cows and loving dogs. He found the little puppies very playful, but to make friends with them he had to know their names.

So Manglu was called. “What are the names of the two dogs?” he enquired.

Manglu in his incomprehensible garden dialect muttered 'Chip...and Mutton.'

Very funny thought the young man but then tea planters' whims and fancies are well known.

After a little reluctance for a few days, Chip and Mutton were responding to him. So it went on 'Chip, Mutton come here, Chip, Mutton sit down!'

Finally, leave over, the Manager arrives and to his horror, finds that his dogs have been rechristened - from 'Stitch' and 'Button' to 'Chip' and 'Mutton' and not only that, they were responding to those names!!

From Dr. S. Sarma -
Somra comes out of the doctor’s room looking worried.

Compounder Babu asks him, 'What happened?'

Somra replies, “Doctor Babu bolta hai hamara maikee ke chejereen (Caesarian) baccha hoga to babu kya woh indiaaan (Indian) nahi hoga? (Doctor says my wife will have to deliver a Ceasarian child, will he not be an Indian?)"

If these tickle your memory ….pen down your experiences with Manglu!!

Meet the writer: Shalini Mehra

I can neither boast of any career, nor of great feats; yes, a tag of gypsy is befitting as all through my life I have been wandering from one interest to another, returning home to one, then moving to new pastures. To use the cliché, I have been ‘Jack of all and Master of none’. The best part is that I have enjoyed the freedom of expressing myself through different mediums, be it music, dance, cooking, gardening, flower arranging or making dry flower frames, reading and writing. The last was always a moody muse till The Camellia happened.

During my wanderings I stumbled upon an idea when the new age of internet dawned upon the backwoods of the tea plantations. Life in tea has been unusual, very often bordering to inconceivable, and those real-life stories, so often almost fictional, needed to be told. The idea took a shape and thus the first ever Tea Planters’ Interclub magazine ‘The Camellia’, ‘for the planters, by the planters, of the planters’ was born in the sanctum sanctorum of my study. Thus, began the journey with pangs and pleasures of the birth and rearing up of my brainchild. If that can be called a milestone, it was surely one for me.

It makes me so proud that during this journey I made a lot of friends who shared my passion and extended their help. And Gowri Mohanakrishnan, moving with the times, took a step further and created ‘Indian Chai Stories’ - the tea stories blog. I extend my wholehearted support and best wishes to her.

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!