Lessons from Tea

by Roma Circar

A recent picture of Roma with her Mistri Saab

I simply couldn’t imagine why he had been allotted to us, this feral, almost fey man – and that too as bungalow chowkidaar. A huge gap-toothed smile split his face into two hemispheres. He had a strange lope –long stride, dip, long stride – and he could barely speak an intelligible word, using bizarre gestures to get his message across. Several times in the dead of the night, when only phantoms and Mistri or Kol Saabs are ordained to traverse earthly soil, I spotted him executing a solo primordial dance on the illuminated veranda, baton in one hand and a crude cleaver in the other, through the curtained fronds of my bedroom window. Jugnu was his name.

“He frightens me!” I complained to my husband. “You’re away all night at the factory. What if something happens to me?”
“Nothing’s happened so far,” countered my better half, stifling a huge yawn. “He’s a good chap!”
“There must be many better chaps,” I whined. “The bungalow needs someone strong and able. If anything happens, I’ll have to protect him!”
“If he doesn’t do you in, first!” the man I abandoned civilization to follow said, with a chortle.
It is impossible to argue with a Mistri or Kol Saab for the simple reason that he is the proverbial nocturnal animal and the only grunt you can extract from him after daybreak is a snore.

Every night after my husband left for work, I would bolt the door, finger the Hanuman Chalisa under my pillow, occasionally clutch the steel penknife on the bedside table as I had been directed to do by my anxious mother, and pray that I would fall into a deep sleep. If I was going to be cleaved to kingdom come, I’d rather not know about it first. On nights when these remedies failed, I would cyclically clutch at my nightie, clutch at the curtain fronds and clutch my heart in some kind of pagan dance of my own, and watch Jugnu execute his intricate steps on the veranda as usual.

Circa 1980. Venue, Assam. The months glided by as they are wont to do, and soon we found ourselves straddling the onset of the Durga Puja. Bonus negotiations were growing acrimonious as the Company and the unions failed to agree on the bonus percentage. In a solid show of strength the unions decided to declare an indefinite strike until their demands were met. All workers would be withdrawn from their duties. In a particularly vicious stroke, the unions suspended all emergency services as well. To add to this, they announced, in no uncertain tones, that any member of the bungalow staff who dared to report for duty at the bungalow would be severely dealt with by their co-workers.
It was bad enough that the garden was on strike, but how were we to cope without any bungalow staff? Who would tend the malibari, milk the cows, feed logs into the drum for hot water, sweep, swab and protect the management staff from threats that could as well arise from within the estate as without, under the prevailing circumstances? There were plenty of hotheads among the workforce capable of instigating violence.

Burra Bungalow came with its own plethora of staff quarters. The indomitable and fiercely loyal Jeevus, undoubtedly christened after PG Wodehouse’s Jeeves by a British planter, would creep his way into the bungalow at the witching hour if required. If he was caught milking the burra mem’s cows, he would brazenly claim that he was doing it for his own family, and offer some to his interrogator as well! He was a smart cookie!

But Kol Kothi was a different kettle of fish altogether. Set up on a knoll beside the factory, it did not boast a single staff quarter, and was within clear view of, though distanced from, a number of labour lines. I was in a soup! No bungalow staff, however loyal, would be able to come to my help.
On the first day of the strike, all the management staff on the estate left for Jorhat for another round of meetings designed to resolve the impasse. I was alone at home, and suddenly I wanted my mother!
From my vantage point upon the veranda, my eyes swivelled around the expanse of green around me. They took in the factory, and the new suite of management offices, and then the road that led up to our bungalow. I blinked. Did I just see a series of long strides, dips and long strides coming up the path into the bungalow? My first instinct was to run inside and lock the door, but I stood my ground till Jugnu was clear enough for me to spot his trademark gap-toothed smile. Ignoring my presence, he walked past the veranda, to the kitchen at the rear, picked up the wood axe and began to splice the wood into logs for the hot water drum.

What was he doing? He was a night chowkidaar. This was not part of his job profile. I gathered enough courage to walk towards him. “Go away,” I said. “You’re not supposed to be working today!”
He paused for a second; then continued hacking at the wood.
The gate rattled ominously as more people entered the compound. Three tempestuous youth, they rushed towards Jugnu, clearly livid that he had showed up for work that he had been proscribed from doing. He stepped back from the pile of freshly hewn logs, raised the axe and bore down upon them in fury. They fled for their lives!
Undeterred, he continued with the task that he had set himself, seeking more work from me through sign language.

Jugnu showed up for work, 24 hour duties at his own behest, for the duration of the strike. A one-man army, short of rustling up cream of tomato soup in a silver tureen, he handled all the chores that a bungalow, by virtue of its size demands. Our malibari received water, vegetables were gathered, the cows were milked, there was plenty of hot water, and the house was swept and swabbed to perfection. I wanted to tell him to take a break, dance his dance, rest and relax, but he was like a man possessed. What’s more, no garden worker dared enter our compound to call him to account.
I believe that Jugnu was part of my learning curve. He personified the adage ‘Never judge a book by its cover.’ On days when we were alone in that chhota bungalow, just Jugnu and I, I found myself making a cup of tea for him whenever I deigned to make one for myself. It was a small gesture of appreciation for his loyalty – and for the huge lesson he had wordlessly taught yours truly.

                                                        
Meet the writer: Roma Circar

Says Roma, "At a fairly tender age, in 1979, I traipsed into the magical wonderland of Camellia Sinensis and shade trees.It was in this exquisite space that I began to give vent to my feelings, albeit in miniscule doses. A number of my short stories found their way into Eve's Weekly, the Telegraph,and The Statesman.

My experience with work in the organized sector, once we moved to Kolkata after three decades out in the sticks, was with e-learning in the corporate sphere. However, the long hours of slavery were not exactly my cup of tea. I now work from home. In addition to books, I am now turning more and more to reading what is churned out in this blog. It transports me to a slice of life that is already on its way to becoming an anachronism. Let us endeavour to record it for posterity."

 Click here to read all Roma's stories on this blog

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