A Predator- Lost & Lovelorn

by Shalini Mehra     

                                             

‘Memsahib!’ : the voice seemed to drift in from far away, yet a low constant rap on the door woke me up from deep slumber that late summer afternoon, but just into a hazy zone of awareness. It was that time of midday when the heat was oppressive and the silence very vocal; when most of the animal world, seeking escape from the harsh sun takes shelter and lies motionless in the dry undergrowth of trees and bushes. Nothing, not even a leaf stirred; even the birds were lulled into silence. It was the time when even predators rest, except the one that was about to invade the silence of my slumber on that lazy afternoon.

Oakland was such an idyllic place then. The bungalow was like a little cottage, far, very far from the madding crowd ---- a dreamlike nest. Not even a distant moan of any vehicle horn could be heard for days except that of the garden lorry that came from the main garden - Thanai - to collect leaf or of the cars arriving to our bungalow. The bungalow covered with ivy was a befitting setting for a country lover and strains of ‘Green Green Grass Of Home’ held a literal meaning for me. We had just moved in on transfer from Thanai main garden. It was a big relief as Rajan, my husband, had moved to garden work after working for years on 24/7 duty as factory Assistant. The closest bungalow was miles away, yet in this remote place life felt very secure, so much so that there was no fencing; just a hedge of hibiscus separated the bungalow from long stretch of tea bushes and longer stretch of the mighty river.

Even till as late as the last decade the world of tea plantations was a world in itself – an obscured world cut away from civilization, a world shielded too passionately by its keepers to let any trespasser in, and tea planters, over a period acquired a reputation of being aloof, thus lonely. Living in the solitary cocoon of his little kingdom the planter developed a close affinity with wild life surrounding him and revered it --- till he felt threatened.

The Brahmaputra at Thanai, c.2016. Pix by Gowri Mohanakrishnan

Situated on the banks of Brahmaputra, Oakland was a veritable paradise for bird watchers and shooters (that part I wasn’t game for). There are many images that have stayed with me over all these long years such as melodious sounds of varied birds resounding all around us, steamers hurtling through the river during day hours carrying varieties of wares, boatmen rowing country boats, caressing the river waters with bamboo poles. At night these small boats would have a single lantern light, and the sounds of the oars accompanied by humming of the boatman added to the mystique of already enchanting backdrop. 

 

In the monsoon months Oakland would become inaccessible. The swelling river would become a swirling mass of brown water, sweeping away chunks of huge trees, not sparing the tea bushes. We would be marooned for a few days with no communication with the outside world. The garden had some ancient tea bushes so large that they could be easily converted into regular dining tables to seat eight people. 

 
I fell in love with this little heaven the moment we moved in. Its proximity to the river brought in a variety of wild life on its banks. Elephants, leopards and large snakes, even tigers would easily venture inside the garden, especially when the river went drier. For the first time in years, Rajan’s oil paint box and paintbrushes came out to fill in more colours in our lives. Thus the days went by with a slower and calmer pace till that summer afternoon.

 

Thanai Tea Estate Burra Bungalow*. Pix by Gowri Mohanakrishnan

 

Thanai Tea Estate, c.2016. Pix by Viji Venkatesh

‘Memsahib!’ this time the voice was closer and loud enough to wake me up.  Nakul, the little boy I had taken in to play with Vicky, our little four year old son, had brought a message from Rajan that the garden manager Narendra Bhagat would join us for evening tea around six pm. I sent him out to inform Phirangi - our Jeeves. Phirangi had seen many a summer and that too with many phirangies (as Europeans were locally called then). As for the origin of his name I never got down to ask him whether he thought himself to be entitled to such a name after having worked with many phirangies or if he was an offshoot… well he didn’t look like one. Efficient and clever, he managed the household well; only he could operate our kerosene fridge and start the DC engine. Yes, we didn’t have electricity. Instead there was a DC generator installed behind our bungalow.

Phirangi had also inherited the English fetish for the supernatural, and a firm belief in ghostly presences; as a result he had quite a few stories to narrate. My husband’s sister, her husband and two little daughters were with us on a visit from Nazira. Often our son Vicky and my nieces would be seen sitting listening to Phirangi’s tales. On one such occasion while sitting in the verandah I overheard him telling the kids:

 

  "There were a pair of Nag and Nagin ( as the workers generally referred to a cobra and its mate), who would always be seen together in particular corner just outside the bungalow under a Champa tree. Very often I would feed them with some milk in a coconut shell. This went on for months till once the floodwaters came in so high that everything around the bungalow was submerged and one day I saw only the Nag. His mate never came back.  Nag would still be there as if hoping she would be back one day. But months have gone by and he still waits."

I smiled and pointed out to my sister-in-law to look at the kids, who were listening with rapt attention, gaping mouths and shining eyes. 

 

“Bhaiya Phir kya hua? (what happened then?) "asked my son.

“  Since that day Nag comes but never under the tree, just passes across it, I keep the milk bowl a little further away, which it drinks sometimes; sometime it doesn’t” - I could not help eavesdropping, trying not to miss out on the suspense part.

“Bhaiya hum ko dikhana, (show it to me)” Vicky pleaded.

With that promise from Phirangi, the children looked pretty satisfied and ran away to play. 

 

I had decided to tell Phirangi not to tell such stories to them as I had seen kids lying awake at night, a little scared, apprehensive, partly unbelieving yet very convinced at times, and whispering to each other, “Suppose it comes now, what happens if it gets inside? May be we will see it one day.”

I could sense their excitement laced with tension and fear.

And then there were other stories about the ghost of John Powrie, the manager Thanai, who had drowned in the river while fishing, and whose ghost would visit the bungalow every year on the day he died.

Phirangi was sure to have seen the white apparition. Children were too young to be told that there are intoxicating effects of tamul and country liquor that make people see things.

 

This particular afternoon, after sending Nakul back to call Phirangi, I decided to sleep for a little longer. Next to me all three children were fast asleep and my mother-in-law was sleeping on the couch next to our bed. As I turned to go back to sleep I felt a little movement behind me, followed by a slithering sound. I turned fully back and there it was….

 

 A huge black snake curled around the images of Radha and Krishna on my puja table.

Drowsy and disorientated, I was frozen at that moment with my voice choked in my throat. Was it real or I was seeing things? It only happened in Hindi pictures that snake appears at God’s feet! Or was I replaying Phirangi’s story in a dream? It was as unreal as anything I had ever seen in my life--- a snake at God’s feet. I was mesmerized. Fear swept through my entire being. For what felt like hours but was actually a few seconds, things hung in suspense with both of us staring at each other. 

 

Panic ensued; my first concern was the children sleeping next to me. I could not wait; I had to do something - but what??? There was hardly any distance between the table and bed head; if I had stretched my hand I would have touched it and …and if it had just lifted its head it would have moved on to the bed. I swung myself off the bed; felt the ground under my feet shaking, but voice came back to me; I screamed in pure unalloyed fear.

 “Amma wake up…snake”, and then picked Vicky up in my arms. Just then as a result of noise there was a sound of a  thud and the next moment the snake had slithered down the table disappearing under the couch Amma was sleeping on. It was so big that the images of Radha and Krishna too fell along with it but remained lying on the table itself.

Meanwhile Amma got up with a start, and equally panicky rushed out calling for help, as she was closer to the bedroom door opening into sitting room. In no time my brother-in-law, Nakul and Phirangi rushed in, we picked up the children and rushed out. All this while the snake remained hiding under the settee. 

 

By now there was a commotion outside and one mali ran towards Rajan’s office, which was a five minute walk from the bungalow. Within a few minutes the whole lot of them came inside with long sticks. Children were scared yet excited and I knew what was going in their minds:

 

 ‘Is this the one?’ 

 

While all this was taking place the snake, feeling trapped, peeped out from under the settee a few times but the noise of running feet and pounding sticks forced it back into hiding. When banging the settee with the sticks didn’t work, servants started to throw water mixed with kerosene underneath the bed; as a result after a few minutes the snake clambered out but the smooth floor made it difficult for it to move faster. And that proved fatal for it. At that moment the thought to chase it out never occurred to anyone.

I was with the kids in the sitting room when Phirangi took the dead snake out on a stick, mumbling something that sounded like ‘Bechara.’ He insisted to bury it under the Chumpa tree and continued to put the milk bowl for the next few days. Whatever the mystery was, since that day no snake came outside to drink the milk. Phirangi called a pundit and performed a Shanti Puja.

A few days later I overheard Vicky asking him “Bhaiya wo hi Nag tha?”

Phirangi with a grim face replied, ‘Ha baba wohi tha, it had come to be at God’s feet to be blessed and and now it is with its mate.’

I kept quiet refraining to contradict him, as I wasn’t even sure it was a cobra, but yes it was a big snake. I didn’t want to hurt Phirangi’s faith in love forever, or maybe I wasn’t sure of my lack of faith in this serpentine love story, so I let the mystery of the lovelorn Nag remain alive, to be added to Phirangi’s archive of tales.

 I knew a few years later another child sitting in the verandah of that beautiful bungalow would be intently listening to him and asking,

“Bhaiya phir Kya Hua?” 

                                                  

 Postscript: ..Sadly the mighty river swallowed up Oaklands. The stories that read like fiction but aren't, make me feel like an ancient part of history.

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, maybe long or short, maybe impossible, scary, funny or exciting but never dull. 

Happy reading! Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea!

*The bungalow pictured here is where I started 'Indian Chai Stories'!!