Tiger Tales

Joyshri Lobo

 
Ossie Lobo was a rookie on a tea estate in the Dooars, West Bengal. Work started at 5 a.m. Three hours later he would go to the bungalow for a massive British breakfast of porridge and fresh milk, ham, bacon, sausages, French fries and orange, white, glowing “desi” eggs.

On that particular day in December 1962, a wizened old women plucker approached him and declared there was no fresh milk for “chhota sahib’s chhota hazri.” Ossie was disappointed, as he loved his oats. He asked her what had happened to her cows. She said they had all vanished.  Ossie chastised her for leaving her cows to graze in the tea. He even told her he was happy that he would have to chase less cows from the section in his charge. Puzzled but very busy supervising the cold weather pruning, the young man forgot the old woman’s story. He had put the incident behind him when an hour later, an ashen faced chowkidar ran in and declared that three cows and two calves where lying dead near the bamboo “bari”.

Sure enough, the young planter found the said cows, scattered in the vicinity of the bamboo clump. Their udders and rectums had been eaten and they were quite dead. Obviously, the bovines had had a feast on young tea leaves and been surprised by the tiger at night. Seeing a small herd, the feline had eaten the choicest, tenderest, most vitaminised bits and left the rest for lowly scavengers.

Ossie examined each cow carefully. Then, enthusiastic, excited and full of a twenty two year old’s sense of danger and adventure, he cycled (motorbikes and cars came in twenty years later) to his manager’s bungalow to give him a full report of the morning’s events.

Joe Poulton was a shikari at heart and a planter by profession. India and its big game was his dream come true. His magnificent collection of guns was the envy of the Dooars community. In true Brit fashion the game heads he collected were strung up all over the Burra Bungalow walls. Umbrellas and walking sticks nestled in hollowed out elephant legs. Guests sat on elephant stools and often quaffed beer from buffalo horns as their host regaled them with shikar tales. Joe wore a huge tiger claw on a thick gold chain round his muscled neck. He asked Ossie to organize a few hundred beaters with as many “thalis” and pans as they could collect.

Joe climbed a tree near the bamboo clump and Ossie was asked to come with his beaters from the opposite direction. The young assistant started moving but found that the hundreds of beaters were about two hundred meters behind him. No amount of persuasion would encourage them to move forward.

  
Two young Muslim boys from Bihar took courage from Ossie and joined him while the horde remained in the distance. The threesome decided to go it alone. The cacophony was unbearable, as to the pan beating the beaters had added their voices. Almost at the bamboo clump, Ossie heard a horrendous roar and a large tiger reared up about two meters from his face. The rookie jumped for an overhead branch which, being termite eaten, broke under his weight. Fortunately Joe got the feline in the left shoulder and it fell to one side with the impact - and Ossie lived to tell the tale and marry me.

That Saturday night, Ossie was the hero of Torsa Gymkhana Club. The two Muslim boys lost their voices for about a week and never volunteered to follow in the footsteps of that particular Chhota Sahib again.  

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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