'Expensive' Whisky!

Dhiraj Kumar Barman

My friend from Shillong had joined Doomur Dullung Tea Estate sometime around the late seventies. After about six months of his joining,  three friends decided to visit him all the way from Shillong. Some of us were studying, or on the verge of looking for a job.

Though our pocket money was limited we made up our minds to visit him at Doomur Dullung T.E. (Moran) by some means. Those days roads were poor and there were practically no telephone services - not to talk of garden telephones. We travelled by bus from Shillong to Guwahati and by train to Moran Railway station. Somehow we managed to inform our friend about our arrival. 

We were shabby, with cheap cigarette packets in our shirt pockets. When we saw a person with a white cap and white safari suit with a shiny "Doomur Dullung TE" embossed brass plate on his chest pocket, we were at a loss as to how to react. We whispered to each other and decided to throw away our cheap cigarette packets. We bought "Wills Filter" instead, which was the expensive cigarette then at Rs.2.00 for a packet of 10.

The chauffeur greeted us with a "salaam" and informed us that "Burra Saab ne gari bheja hai"(Burra Saab has sent his car). He led us to the sparkling white Ambassador car with white seat covers, parked outside the railway station.

We were dropped at the Chhota Bungalow and the Chauffeur left with a "salaam".  

After nearly an hour our friend arrived cycling and perspiring as we were sitting on the sprawling bungalow verandah, trying to show off  to the bungalow servants who brought us water followed by tea and biscuits. We were stunned to see our faces reflected on the Red Cardinal polished, slippery floor of the verandah.

As the evening approached, we all decided to go to Moran Polo Club nearby where we were introduced to Mr.Bipul Barsaikia, Mr.Siban Mazumdar, Mr.Phunu Das and later many others who arrived to celebrate our visit.

We all were informal, as it was not a club evening, and we decided to sit on the verandah. The drinking session continued with rum glasses lining up as the "Bearer Ghuraow"* continued. As mentioned by someone, rum was the cheapest drink available in the club, and whisky was unaffordable for young assistants.  For the bachelors those days, the club bill used to be higher than their pay packets.

The following evening Mr.Bipul Barsaikia brought two bucket full of "first cut Haspani" (first distilled local Assamese brew) and kept it in the massive "Electrolux Kerosene Refrigerator" of the Chhota Bungalow. He declared "Haspani" is cheaper than whisky or rum.

The drinking session with "Haspani" and the merry making continued till late at night. Suddenly someone suggested "Let's have Mitha Paan!"

In the middle of the night, we all drove down in Mr. Bipul Barsaikia's car to a Paan shop in Moran town which was open in the middle of the night. Thanks to the organised bachelors of those days who enjoyed life much more than thinking about their pay packets.

*'Bearer, Ghuraow' - instruction to the bearer to serve a round of drinks.

 Dhiraj Barman adds : The names mentioned in my story "Expensive Whisky" are all real names. Mr. Bipul Barsaikia, a tea planter, a body builder and at one time "Mr. Assam", passed away at a rather young age. Mr. Siban Mazumdar left tea long ago. Mr. Phunu Das opened his own tea garden in Upper Assam is doing well.

The Dinner

J.Rajesh Thomas 

One of the highest peaks in South India, the Karunkulam Peak - over 8300 feet above sea level - towered in the back ground overlooking the dusty plains of Theni. Nestled down at the base of this magnificent peak was a quaint Assistant Manager's Bungalow and way down the valley below was one of the prettiest tea gardens that you could imagine named Yellapatty in the High Ranges, Southern India. If you are wondering where this peak got its name, there was a small rocky pond near the summit, which made the lake look black in color, hence its name in Tamil: ‘Karupu’ – black and ‘Kulam’ - lake. This over the years had amalgamated into one word - Karunkulam.

Yellapatty. Pix by author

Into this paradise in the High Ranges I walked in as a fresh, wide eyed Sinna Durai (as all Assistant Managers in South India are addressed). As I was getting my footing into the serious business of planting, the days went by in a blur of musters, plucking rounds, union leaders, sporting meets, club days and house parties. Parties!

 Well I saw that I was lucky enough to have been invited to many bungalows for dinners and lunches as the Managers and Assistants of surrounding estates went out of the way to make a young creeper feel at home. I decided it was time for me to throw a return party. I drew up the invitations for a mixed crowd of Assistant Managers and some of the younger Managers.

Well the world cannot be a complete paradise, there has to be a fly in the ointment. For this estate, it turned out to be the distance from Munnar, the nearest town. Munnar was 30 Kms away (an hours’ drive) and through a notorious stretch infamous for elephants. The estate did not have the luxury of government bus service and the estate population had to rely on Jeep Taxis. These Jeep taxis were notoriously unreliable and had their own timings. They literally had no limit to the number of passengers they could ferry and their rash drivers made liberal use of the hill track. For shopping one had to go to Munnar town or rely on the Estate Bazaar, which operated out of a Company building. Known as the Bazaar man, he plied his trade by also doing his procurement from Munnar town. He also supplied the estate offices and the crèches basic needs. So I ordered the groceries for the dinner from the estate Bazaar Man.

The big day arrived and mid-morning saw Vincent my cook frantically looking for me in the fields to tell me that all the groceries excepting the chicken had come. I rode down to the estate bazaar to see what happened and the Bazaar Man calmly assured me that chickens were coming in the evening by the Jeep Taxi and should arrive by 6.00 PM. The day wore on and my house boy Sashi who went to collect the chickens in the evening came back empty handed with the news that the Bazaar Man had locked the shop and had disappeared. For some reason he could not collect the chickens and he chose wisely to slink away quietly instead of facing my wrath. It was too late to send someone into town to buy anything as Munnar, unlike now, was a quiet town then and all shops closed by seven in the evening.

Now I had a problem on my hands, twenty five people were turning up for dinner and I had no chicken. A vegetarian dinner would have been the talk of the planting district. Urgent Council of war was held between me, Vincent and Sashi. It was decided to send Sashi to the lines to see if he could persuade any of the workers to sell their precious poultry and in the meanwhile Vincent would continue with the rest of the cooking.

Meanwhile the first of my guests started arriving and they were my PD (Peria Dorai as all Managers were known in South India) Jose and his wife Bindoo. Jose was a young manager and had just got his billet. Bindoo forced Jose to come little early to oversee the cooking as she was apprehensive of Vincent’s culinary skills and it was my first big dinner. I appraised the situation to my shocked PD’s wife. There was nothing one could do but wait.

The guests slowly arrived and as the spirits flowed, the spirits also soared among the men folk. The ladies were immersed in their own conversation. Only Bindoo had a worried look throughout and kept giving me apprehensive looks.

Then the second disaster took place. The power failed and as this bungalow was too far from the Factory, it was not connected to the Factory generator. The bungalow plunged into darkness. Candles were lit, but it had no effect on the mood of the party. Arguments were flying thick and fast as the spirits flowed generously. The nervous wait got over by 10 o’clock. Sashi arrived back from the lines and said he was unable to get any chickens but he had managed to procure three ducks. Something was better than nothing. A shocked Vincent had no choice and was forced to add duck to his limited repertoire of dishes. Immediately the ducks were in the pressure cooker. I came back to the drawing room and quietly told Bindoo, who was even more shocked.

Pic from Pinterest

The ducks turned out to be of some unknown vintage and took ages to cook. Finally by 11.30 just as the ladies were wondering whether I was actually going to give them dinner, Vincent managed to serve the dinner in candle light.  Bindoo glanced nervously at me as she helped herself to the first serving of duck curry and she had a relieved look and nodded discreetly at me. Surprisingly no one in the dark could make out the duck curry. No one knew what it actually was and no one asked what it was. The duck curry was served generously on to the plates and to our relief it became obvious it was the best dish on the table. The men as usual took a lot longer to reach the table and they did not give a second thought as they tucked into the duck.

As the guests were leaving one of them shook my hands and declared that it was the best mutton curry that he had eaten in a long while and for the first time in the whole evening I saw Bindoo sport a smile. It turned out that Vincent, being apprehensive that the three ducks would not suffice for the guests, had cut it into very small pieces and no one could make out the meat. All is well that ends well. Later Jose, Bindoo and I had a mighty laugh over the dinner. Only a handful of us knew what the mutton was really till now.

That was the story of my first of many dinners.

 

Karunkulam peak from across the Kundlay dam. Pix taken by author on his last visit to Munnar

 

 Rajesh Thomas introduces himself:
"A second generation planter. Born and grew up in the planting districts of Southern India. Started my career in the High Ranges and Annamallais Planting Districts for twelve years. Had a stint in Africa for two years. Since 2009 been planting in the Nilgiris.

Read all of Rajesh's stories at this link: https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/search/label/J.Rajesh%20Thomas

 

 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!

 

ADD THIS LINK TO YOUR FAVOURITES : https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/Indian Chai Stories.
Happy reading! Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea! 

The Bridge of no Return

by Madhumita Neog

 
Does that title evoke fear, anxiety or perhaps humour? Let me take you back to my childhood in Assam. 

The year was 1985. My father was The Superintending Manager of two sister gardens in Kokrajhar district of Assam. A simple, happy estate life as it was, it was also one of the places that imparted the most valuable life lessons to my sister and I in our tender, formative years.

We had no social life barring for a few friends my parents had from the forces. We met them seldom too. There were no plantation clubs around and quite literally we were cocooned within the estate for the larger share of our stay there. 

The rains brought in further isolation and the annual deluge. In fact, it may appear fantastical or fictitious to the present generation of school goers to hear of the many challenges we would undertake on a regular basis to attend school, particularly in the monsoons. We had to wade through a strip of water to get on to the ferry that dropped us to the opposite bank. There, the Police Superintendent’s jeep would be waiting for us. Once inside the vehicle, we could wipe the soft clay off our feet and slip into the school shoes. It drove us through the next leg of the journey until I reached my school, the only English medium school then, in Kokrajhar town. My mother, kid sister and I went through this motion together. 

The dry season meant more trips to the town and Cantonment area. After the unforgiving and prolonged monsoons, we didn’t mind the bumpy kutcha roads. Those of you familiar with Assam , would know of the ubiquitous ‘dolongs’ (bridges) over the numerous rivers and streams in the state. The tea estates had these dolongs too. And heaven knows how many we’ve crossed on foot. When the floods inundated the roads, the local villagers would nail bamboos together to make these makeshift bridges or dolongs that took a moderate load of pedestrians, cyclists and the occasional motorcyclist. 

We were returning from town one such eventful evening. A rally or blockade , I cannot recollect clearly, made my father take an unusual detour back to the estate. It was peaceful and serene as we drove through the villages , the narrow earthen roads flanked by rice fields and clumps of plantain trees.

All too beautiful and surreal until the jeep halted in front of a dolong; an old rickety bamboo bridge over which even the cyclists exercised caution. It was dusk already and we were possibly midway through our drive back to the garden. The dolong stretched across a deep, dry stream. 

As instructed by my father, my mother, sister and I alighted from the jeep and crossed the dolong on foot . Horror stricken, we watched from the other side as my father started the engine. It fumed, howled and we said our prayers..my mother holding our hands and looking nowhere else but straight at father. She stood, unflinching. 

The wheels rolled slowly onto the dolong until all four were on it .. and the first strip of bamboo snapped and then the second. The gentle murmur and speculation of the few farmers in the fields at a distance, had grown to sharp decibels of ‘O Hari!’ ‘O Ram!’ 

Rattle, crackle, snap! The bamboos went one by one , as my father revved the jeep on full speed across the dolong. That vision could well be out of a Hollywood classic! The jeep forging ahead with the dolong collapsing behind. The feeling of love for family, the fear of losing our father , the fervent prayers - our hearts experienced such a wide range of emotions within that short span of time. As the jeep came to the end of the dolong and the front wheels touched the soil, the dolong had fallen like a pack of cards. The jeep screeched its way up , scrambling out of the dolong.

Fortune favours the brave , they say. Indeed, it was a daring feat but we had no time to rejoice. A crowd started building up , sensing trouble, we got onto the jeep, possibly crying tears of joy and my father made his way back to the garden as swiftly as he could. ‘Charlie’, as he is fondly remembered, had crossed the bridge of no return with a new lease of life. 

These are the legends that tea is made of I think; the legendary Jeeps that would fuss to start on normal working days but bail you out of life threatening situations, the indomitable spirit of adventure and courage that a tea planter embodies,  of memsaabs who remain unflinching in the face of danger like tigresses protecting their cubs and the chai ka baby and baba log who can adapt to changing circumstances with ease. 

 

Meet the writer: Madhumita Neog
 

 A tea planter’s daughter, I have spent my childhood in Assam , Dooars and Terai. Am a keen blogger and an adventure buff . A celebrity nutritionist and wellness mentor by profession.
More of Madhumita's writings here: https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/search/label/Madhumita%20Neog   And this is the link to her blog: http://madz4ever.blogspot.com/

 

Is this your first visit to this page?  
In February 2018, I started 'Indian Chai Stories' because I believe one of the best things about tea life is story-telling. The most improbable things happen in tea. 

The raconteur was a stock character in tea - at the club, at your breakfast table, at a dinner party - everywhere. It all changed as people grew older, retired or went away. One rarely meets a storyteller in the gardens these days. 

You will meet many of them online at 'Indian Chai Stories'. 

 
Tea planters and their families are generous souls, and they have shared their stories for the sheer joy of the retelling!! Read stories by the chai ka saabs, memsaabs, 'baba and baby log' here. 

 

Do you have a story of your own to tell? Send it to me here : indianchaistories@gmail.com
The blog is updated every two to three days. You will find yourself transported into another world! Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea!
- Gowri Mohanakrishnan