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