Eight Years A Tea Mem

Joyshri Lobo

THE START

Its been an exciting journey from the parade grounds and cramped “bashas” in the Army; to a corporate Indo-Japanese venture at Swaraj-Mazda; to the lush green acreage, huge bungalows  and maali-baris in Tea. Some parts of it make for interesting reading.

1969: My Dad’s sister and I sang Ave Maria at his wedding. He was a tea planter, in the news because of his association with the first, Indian, “Miss World. “ The music for the bridal march had to be befitting of the exquisitely beautiful and delicate bride. Aunty Premo and I stood in dark corners, behind the altar, hidden from view. As a consequence we missed most of the ceremony. He was suave, urbane, unflappable, the epitome of good British manners and gentle, sarcastic humour. He was always at the end of a pipe or cigarette. Secretly I wished he’d been my knight in shining armour. I don’t think he even noticed me.

1976: At Jaipur, I suddenly woke after a disturbing nightmare. I saw my sister’s coffin carried out by four pallbearers. He sat against a Gothic pillar, in a huge cathedral, looking forlorn and lost. I asked him, “Will you marry again?”

“Maybe, “ he answered.

A few months later my sister Binny wrote saying their marriage was over. Stunned, I took an over night, back breaking bus from Jaipur to Chandigarh. They were the perfect couple. Sweet words, courteousness, roses and chocolates were their hallmark. Obviously I’d missed something while busy with a 24X7 Army routine. In true Quixotian fashion, I raced off to right wrongs. Unfortunately both said the relationship was irretrievable. At breakfast I asked him, “Will you marry again?

His answer, “Maybe,” was eerily familiar!

1984: We had been corresponding. I had two sons but my marriage too was seesawing off a rocky ledge. He was coming to meet me as a reciprocal gesture to my failed mission, eight years earlier. As he drove towards Bagdogra Airport, rioters stopped the car. He learnt that Mrs Gandhi had been assassinated. He turned back and rang me on a squeaky on/ off line, as the entire Birpara telephone exchange monitored our call. My Dadi was dying. She needed my ministrations. A promise was made to meet the moment we could.

January 1985: My mother’s words still ring in my ears. “What will people think?” she asked when I showed her the air ticket Oz had couriered.  Frankly I was beyond caring, as it seemed that most of the people I knew had tacitly remained silent as the world collapsed around me.

At Delhi airport, I sat on a baggage trolley for seven and a half excruciating hours. The delay was caused by a typical North Indian, winter smog.  I met every mother’s son and daughter I’d ever known. They too were off to different parts of the country, and wanted to know where I was going. I mumbled “The Dooars,” and refused to divulge more. A borrowed- from-my -mother, sky blue VIP suitcase shared trolley space. I wore a flowered red sari and chocolate brown phiren, the pre-arranged dress code in case he did not recognize me. He’d sent me a photograph of himself with a face covered by huge glares. I asked for a clearer picture. Instead a pale blue sweater and grey trousers were agreed upon. We had not seen each other since my miscalculated mission of mercy!

The plane landed at dusk. I saw a pale blue arm waving from the milling, anxious crowds. On the three-hour drive to Dalsingpara, I put my head on his shoulder and recounted the story of a confused, often hurtful life. That blue sweater had a most comfortable feel to it.

It was a blissful week of gentle introduction to the quiet luxuriousness of tea, a far cry from the male dominated, automobile firm I worked at. Mylee the “maalan,” a tiny Nepali woman, with no children, befriended me as I sat waiting for him to come home from the factory. She offered to bring the dancing girls for our wedding! I wasn’t even sure that would happen, but a week later we did make a promise to each other. He lent me his size 10 keds, with three fat insoles, as I’d brought no walking shoes. We ambled through tea bushes and talked non-stop. It was a completely relaxed way of life as compared to my structured, stressful existence, both in the Army and at Swaraj Mazda. Sitting on a dry log, he suggested we spend our lives together, I added a codicil: only if my boys could join me. He agreed and has been the most wonderful stepfather any one can hope for.

November 17, 1985: A lawyer and his two assistants drove in from Jalpaiguri. Imagine representatives of the court coming to the burra kothi to conduct a marriage! Only in tea can we expect and accept such  generous privileges. Oz and I exchanged wedding vows at the bar of his sitting room. Through out, in my hand I held a baby sparrow washed out from the storm drain. Unfortunately it passed on by the evening like the remains of my previous marriage. 

February 1986: Oz and I sat under the old bauhinia tree for breakfast. Ghosh Babu arrived. He looked at me and told Oz, “She’ll give you a son.” We were aghast as my boys were the only family we wanted but Ghosh Babu was adamant. In 1988, a beautiful baby boy arrived.  When he was three, Oz and I wanted Raoul baptised. The church declared it impossible, as we’d not been married in church. Father Fabian arranged for a second wedding in the house, with candle bearing, hymn singing nuns, followed by a lavish tea.  After the ceremony, Sister Anne asked if I felt like a “New woman.” She probably meant “cleansed woman,” but never mind…it’s been a beautiful journey over the past thirty- three years. Raoul is thirty now, married in Boston. Oz has been an exemplary, doting father.

                                                                                 Bridegroom Raoul with his father

                                                                        Raoul with his lovely bride, Deidra

  Joyshri's boys : From left, Jayant, Raoul and Rohit

1993: After Oz retired, we came to Chandigarh and helped my mother build a new school. I worked in a slum for a decade and with the Police Complaints Authority for three. I had my own column in the Tribune for seven years. Oz breathes, lives and talks golf.  We make long journeys to Australia to meet Jayant, Charu and Dhruv; to the UK to be with Rohit, Tanu, Ronan and Ronika ; and to Boston to visit Raoul and Deidra. 

Our life experiences have given us a unique perspective towards the world. Oz and I lead a comfortable, active life with our two cocker spaniels. After 33 years of marriage, we want to go out together, whenever that may be. The tea sahib from Goa and the Bong/ Punju mem from North India, have led a varied life peppered with arguments, laughter and meeting other chai wallahs. May it continue to be so.

Ozzie , Charu, Rohit and Joyshri

                                              A Dooars vista - near Phuentsholing, Bhutan

Meet the writer:

Joyshri with her husband Osborne

Three score and ten. That’s the biblical figure for a perfect life innings , whereafter we can hang up our boots or aprons, as the case may be. Two years short of fourscore, I can sum up my life in two words: “adventurous and blessed.”

I met my knight in shining armour, Ozzie Lobo, who installed me as his middle aged, pampered princess at his castle, Dalsingpara. Despite being complete opposites we’re still happily together, with an added member, Raoul. We try to meet up with our three boys and their families as often as possible, even though Jayant is in Australia, Rohit in England and Raoul in the USA.

After two hectic decades as an Army wife, tea garden life taught me that time could be spent in gentle contemplation, studying surroundings from the soothing roll of a hammock. That being in sylvan surroundings was like a free holiday at a resort. That meeting and caring for friends scattered over thousands of hectares required a huge effort and personal sacrifices. That when treated with compassion and understanding, labour and household staff give lifelong friendship and loyalty.

The vast spaces around the bungalow brought out the farmer in me. Raoul grew up surrounded by cows, broilers, layers, pigs, goats, rabbits, guinea pigs, a dog and a parrot. Snow white geese guarded the gate and fish swam in a pond. Could anyone ask for more? With peace in my heart, I painted and wrote and published a book each of stories and poems. Tea life allowed me the space and time to be myself. Ozzie’s retirement in 1993 brought us to Chandigarh.

The change was enormous. I went back to teaching, and a weekly column on gardening with water-colour illustrations. Later this changed to a lifestyle piece. I started working in the slums, got an understanding of how the majority of Indians live, and as a result was invited to be a “female” member of the PCA or Police Complaints Authority. Despite its misleading name, the three members actually heard and punished the police over complaints filed by the public. My three years there was a huge learning curve.

Blessedness and a desire for adventure have been the two pillars of my life. Each day has been a learning experience rewarded by blessings, too numerous to report. Each meeting with a person has been a reminder that we all have something of ourselves to share. I hope the rest of my days are full of sharing, adventure and curiosity, for all keep me busy and content.

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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! 

 

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