Club Evenings with Burra Saab

by Dhiraj Kumar Barman

It was the late eighties. There was no fear of the unknown, and travelling at night with family was no cause for concern. After Saturday kamjari, we travelled long distances because of dinner invitations or to other planters' clubs and we returned late on Sunday night.

Burra Saab, with his heart of gold, always insisted that his Assistants with their "Chhota Memsaabs" attend the club. Tea companies were generous in providing a portion of club subscription for their executives, hence the insistence. The bachelor assistants always looked for opportunities to move out on their motorcycles to far flung places with permission for the night out.

It was also a must for all executives to attend the club for games on Wednesday afternoon, depending upon what you played...some seniors on the golf course and the rest were either on the tennis courts or engaged in gossip with a glass of beer.  Interested ones were seen near the swimming pool.

Burra Saab was very fond of attending club evenings, and always looked forward to Saturdays. The club programme was discussed in the "kamjari office" on Saturday morning itself.

"I shall pick you up at 7.30 p.m. sharp", Burra Saab insisted - all to be ready by then.

Due to the distant location of the club and kutcha roads, Burra Saab volunteered to pick up his Assistants and their wives in his newly acquired four wheeled Peugeot jeep.

All the men in formals and the ladies in their Sunday best would wait for the Burra Saab’s new self-driven jeep to arrive. Two to three assistant managers were squeezed  in the front seat.  The ladies at the back covering their head with "chunni” reached the club after an hour's bumpy ride on kutcha and dusty roads.

And at the club :

The Burra Saab leaves all his assistants to mingle with other "Burras" to discuss the next agenda of the Circle Meeting...problem of telephones, erratic supply of grid, poor quality of rations, etc. etc.

"Bearer....Ghurao..." and the fellow behind the bar happily pouring large ones for the group of five to six "Burras" but never forgets to present the "club chit" for  Burras  to sign. The smart Club Bearer, at times manages, a peg or two to be gulped behind the bar.

The Assistant Managers have their own group of friends discussing tea, tea and only tea. The ladies, grossly disgusted by their gents talking shop, chat about the latest movie releases in town cinema halls, dresses, mali bari, buying cut glass etc. - The topics end in no time and somehow they pass time and wait for their husbands to finish.

Since we all came together in Burra Saab’s jeep, all had to wait for him to finish.  Assistants noticing  Burra Saab still carrying on,  ask the bar tender for a small one to pass the time.  The ladies keep their posture intact... yawn... as the clock strikes 2.00 a.m. The drinking session of the Burras continues till 4.00 a.m.

Assam being in the east, day break is much faster,  hence Garden Time (GT) which is one hour ahead of Indian Standard Time (IST).

Dawn breaks in the eastern sky.  That is the time Burra Saab decides to call it a day. The Asstt.Managers and their wives heave a  sigh of relief. (Thank God...next time we shall come on our own....)

"All aboard!"exclaims Burra Saab in the driving seat, and the jeep moves towards the garden. Bad luck for the factory assistant who is dropped at the factory gate, still in his formal clothes,  to see if everything is running fine!

It was that transition period of the eighties when the screen in planters' clubs was gradually replaced by TV and VCP (Video Cassette Player).  We, as young planters, travelled great distances on motorcycles to see a movie in the club, eat in the 'Dhaba' and return to the garden late at night.

Jorhat Gymkhana Club was the prime destination for almost all the planters travelling from Sivasagar, Amguri and beyond, and Bokakhat. Those days Jorhat Gymkhana Club was famous for screening good English movies.  Besides enjoying the movie, one could order dinner, preferably Chinese, which was served at your seat while watching the movie.

Sonari Planters Club was also very active those days when veteran planters from Jorhat and beyond frequented the club.  This Club was also another destination for adventurous  young planters for a different reason. The Club Secretary saw that the screening of good movies was an expensive affair. With his innovative ideas, he managed to pull a big crowd on almost all club evenings not by screening movies but  with his personal colour TV and a Video Cassette Player brought all the way from his garden.

The colour TV and the VCP were a draw at that time as these electronic gadgets were expensive and were not readily available in all households.

To add to the attraction, an enterprising lady member of the Club used to bring  ready to eat ‘Masala Chicken' which one could buy while watching the movie on the TV. 

The original cassettes performed beautifully with crystal clear viewing which mesmerised everyone. There used to be a demand for two to three movies per night. 

Club attendance increased. The dwindling finances of the club improved to a great extent from the sale of liquor. Later almost all the Planters clubs procured colour TVs and Video Cassette Players - but we missed the finger licking Masala Chicken!

An Interesting Day

Rajesh Thomas

It was a balmy December evening. The golden orb of the setting sun on the distant hills was turning the evening sky into different hues of orange and yellow. Up high in the east was the revered figure of Carver Marsh, the pioneering Englishman who opened up the Annamallai Valley from the then thick, steaming, tropical rain forests into verdant tea plantations looked distantly on to the valley below. I stepped out of my office and looked yonder, wondering what to do next. My wife had gone to her parents’ home in Chennai as our first child was due any moment. I was home alone and was generally footloose most evenings. 

My reverie was broken by the screech of a motor cycle. I looked up and saw my fellow Assistant Manger Aditya Rana dismount. Rana was a cherubic faced, bespectacled, fair young man bubbling with enthusiasm and was the junior assistant manager with me at Velonie Tea Estate Valparai. Rana descended from semi-royalty and his linage could be traced back in time to the present day royal family of Nepal. Rana and I got along well and had many common interests especially the love of the wild. 

 I enquired, “How are things?”
 Rana replied with a toothy grin, “Things can’t be better.”

Indeed things couldn’t have been better. The estate had performed especially well on the yield front and the factory had churned out some quality teas, keeping the head honchos in the company happy; contented and off our backs for some time. Seeing us both together Chandran our office peon stepped out into the verandah and handed us each a steaming cup of tea. December was the start of the dry weather in the hills and the start of the sporting season. Rana and I contemplated attending the cricket nets at the nearby staff club as we sipped our teas. 

Then Hamza, our estate tractor driver, came with news that there was herd of elephants at the entrance of the estate. Immediately both of us exchanged  uncomfortable glances. Elephants inside the estate during the winter months were generally bad news as it is their calving season. Newborn calves find travelling difficult and the herd tends to stay put for some more time, disturbing the general routine of the estate. 

 Hastily we gulped our teas and jumped on our motor cycles and scurried towards the elephants. On the western end of the estate bordering the coffee estate, about a hundred yards away from the main road stood a dozen elephants of myriad sizes and shapes. Elephant herds have a matriarchal order and the older cow elephants take the decisions and lead the herd. The elephants were very disturbed and milled around uncomfortable in an agitated manner, throwing clumps of grass and kicking the mud around. As we sensed the herd was not comfortable with our presence we beat a hasty retreat. Plans to play cricket were shelved. 

The next morning saw a frantic Rana searching for me and when he saw me he told me excitedly that as expected, one of the elephants had given birth to a calf in the night. For some unknown reason, the herd had abandoned the calf and the forest guards were already on the spot. It is very rare for elephants to abandon a calf, though it has happened before. Naturalists have not been able to decipher the reasons for this. 

 We rushed to the spot, and a sad picture presented itself to us. The elephant calf was weak from lack of nourishment and was struggling even to stand. Its sad and pitiful eyes were painful to look at. It must have been around 12 hours since its birth and the forest guards doubted whether it had even had its first drink of milk. It was a wonder that it had even survived so far, considering that the area had a plethora of carnivores. Meanwhile the watchers from the coffee estate said that the elephant herd had moved several kilometers deep into their estate. It became apparent that it was highly unlikely that the herd would come back to claim the calf. 

The government veterinary doctor was on the way from Pollachi (nearest big town at the foot hills) and it would take a couple of hours for him to reach - it would be midday before he arrived. Rana and I had grave doubts whether the calf would last that long. The lowly forest guards also had no inkling on how to handle the solution. 

Photo of a two day elephant calf from the internet. Pic by Sean Gallup on Getty Images

As we were wondering about the predicament on our hands, Rana jumped on his motorcycle and said, “I will be back in half an hour and keep praying that nothing happens in that half an hour.”

It was a traumatic half an hour, watching the life ebb out of the pathetic little creature. Rana came flying back with one of the estate staff behind him on the motorcycle. The staff had a plastic bucket, two tins of Farex baby food, six packets of Glucose and two feet of plastic garden hose. Half a bucket of water was fetched from the nearby stream and Rana feverishly mixed the baby food and the glucose in the water. We watched anxiously as Rana started forcing the liquid mess into the calf’s mouth through the garden hose. The calf was too weak to resist. Slowly, in about twenty minutes, the bucket was empty. We waited with bated breath to see the reaction and slowly a little life came in the calf’s eyes. In about an hour the calf miraculously started to show life and tried to stand on its wobbly legs. It stumbled and fell a couple of times and finally managed to stand without falling. A resounding cheer went up from all the bystanders as the surprised calf seemed to wonder what all the fuss was.

As the energy levels went up, the little calf became a bundle of fun and we the surrogate mothers its playmates. It would sneak quietly up to one of us and would butt us in the seat of our pants. It took fancy to one of the estate workers and teased him continuously. It would affectionately come up and curl its trunk around our legs and look up at us with its beady little eyes. Soon our Group Manager Vivek Aiyanna came looking for us. The little fellow tried cautiously to feel Vivek’s legs, much to everyone’s amusement. Soon one more batch of baby formula and glucose was sent for, and this time it was guzzled greedily. 
 

The forest ranger and the veterinarian arrived and they complimented us at the good job done. There remained one last thing to be finished. The forest officials had decided to take the calf to the elephant camp at Varagalayar, near Top Slip (a part of Indira Gandhi Wild Life Sanctuary), where it would be under the care of professionals. A mini truck was brought. A serious discussion was held to decide on the easiest method to get the calf on the truck. Various ideas were floated. Behind us the truck driver lowered the tailgate and straight away the little fellow hopped on to the truck. Probably its instincts told him where its future would be secure. 

As we saw our new friend disappear on the horizon to a safe life, a feeling of satisfaction swept over us at what had been accomplished. Rana turned towards me and said, “Things couldn’t have been better.” I tended to agree. 

Well things got even better. In a few days it was Christmas, and the next day my son was born. 

 

Carver Marsh monument covered in mists: Image by TripAdvisor

Beyond Borders: A story from Sri Lanka

by Bernard VanCuylenburg
This is a story about family  -  a personal story which I wish to share with you. The family consisted of four brothers who lived in County Antrim in Northern Ireland; the Eagars. One day, following catastrophic events in the land of their birth, they set their sights on far horizons and left their motherland for a little island still known today as the 'pearl of the Indian ocean'. One of them was my great grandfather, Halley Eagar.

Just as the disease 'Coffee Rust' (Hemileia Vastarix" ) decimated the coffee plantations in Ceylon in 1875, a mould was discovered on some potato plants in Ireland in 1845 and it spread island wide, ultimately ravaging the potato harvest. The consequences of this mould were apocalyptic, and what followed is described to this day as "The Great Famine". It is estimated that three million people died or were forced to emigrate from Ireland. Potatoes being the staple food of a rapidly growing desperately poor population, the blight caused prices to soar. The repressive penal laws ensured that farmers crippled with high rents, could not afford the subsistence potatoes provided, and most tenants fell into arrears with no concessions given by indifferent landlords. The British government adopted a 'laissez-faire' attitude, resulting in the deaths of between 500,000 and one million people and the emigration of up to two million.

There is no record or any evidence that Halley Eagar and his brothers decided to emigrate as a result of the great famine, but emigrate they did  - from the Emerald Isle to a small tropical island in the Indian Ocean  -  Ceylon, another colony of Great Britain. They did not leave hearth and home together. E.R.Eagar was the first to sail for those far horizons, followed by my great grandfather Halley Eagar, and his brothers. Arriving in Ceylon they turned their attention first to the coffee industry which at the time of their arrival was in its twilight years, and then to tea. In time, fortune smiled on them and they became very successful in the tea trade.  They were :

1. E.R.Eagar: Coffee planter from 1852 - 1870
2. H.J. (Halley) Eagar: Coffee and tea planter from 1875 - 1889. He was also the part owner of  Strathspey Estate, Upcot.
3. W.Eagar: Coffee and tea planter from 1887 - 1889
4. Reverend R.Eagar:Partner of Strathspey Estate Dickoya, from 1887 -1889. He never visited Ceylon  but there is an account of one of the Eagars  having left for the USA and it could well be this Anglican minister.

To give this article some perspective, some information from the annals of the Ceylon Planter's Association History may be useful  - "Although the first mention of tea appears in the Planter's Association only in 1865, the plant had actually been introduced to the island much earlier. It is certain that about 1842 Mr.Maurice Worms planted some China tea on Rotschild estate Pussellewa, and on Condegalle Estate in Ramboda. A Mr. Llewellyn of Calcutta introduced some Assam tea plants to Penylan Estate in Dolosbage". Of course the name 'James Taylor' is written in letters of gold in the history of Ceylon tea.

E.R. (Ronald) Eagar was the first brother to arrive in Ceylon, and owned a large coffee estate called "California" estate in Urugala which is in the Medamahanuwara district. He left the island to return to his home in County Antrim Ireland, and was away from 1858 - 1864. He died in 1879 and according to his will, bequeathed the estate to his heirs. Halley Eagar, my great grandfather did very well in planting and was the manager of Strathspey Estate Upcot from 1883 - 1884, and of Gowravilla Group from 1885 - 1886. His story however has a very sad ending. In1889 he fell ill and had to return to England for treatment.

Before he left for the UK, he made arrangements for his two sons John Albert Eagar and John William Eagar to be boarded at St.Marks College in Badulla thus ensuring that their education would continue. He had one daughter Elizabeth, and since there is hardly any news about this girl from the letters in my possession, I can only presume she stayed behind with her mother. He never saw his family or Ceylon again, because he died from his illness in a nursing home in London. His son John Albert Eagar was my grandfather, my mother's Dad.

THAT DEAR LAND ACROSS THE IRISH SEA
I recall my Mum would on occasion talk to us about her grandfather and tell us the story about his visit to Ceylon with his brothers. It sounded interesting at the time, but children being children, we had other adventures in mind, other trails to follow and a world of delight to explore, especially when we came home for the holidays. As the years passed and we went our separate ways on life's road, the story of my Irish great grandfather would sometimes come to mind and it remained just that - a beautiful story. Until about 25 years ago, when my Mum asked me - or merely suggested - it would be nice if further details about her grandfather and his family could be obtained.

She surmised that there had to be other families with her maiden name 'Eagar' living in Northern Ireland and wondered if I could go to Ireland and delve into the ancestry records. Since I was in full employment at the time and obtaining detailed information about ancestry could not be undertaken in a matter of days, I told her that I could not get the extended leave required to go to Ireland and then spend time perusing records from the National Archives and going through the marriage certificates, records of births, baptisms, deaths etc. to obtain complete and accurate details about my great grandfather (my Mum's Granddad) and his brothers.

 She then handed me the letters which I have referred to in this article. I must confess to a tinge of guilt, being unable to accede to her request, although she fully understood my inability to get extended periods of leave from the full time and interesting job that I held as an Administrative Officer in the Victoria Police Department.

Mum passed away in July 2012, and a few weeks later, the tinge of guilt that lay stored away in the deep recess of my memory suddenly burst forth. With each passing day, apart from grieving at her loss, the regret that I had being unable to fulfil her wish to find out more about her Granddad and his family when she was living, continued to haunt me until one day it magnified into the thought that this is something I had to do. I emailed the office of National Archives in London, who referred me to the National Archives in Belfast, and gave me an email address as the first point of contact. Giving them the information I had from the letters which Mum had given me, I emailed them to obtain the necessary information. Four days later I received an email informing me that there were sixteen families with my Granddad's surname living in the County Antrim/Belfast area !

This spurred me to take it a step further. I booked a flight and headed for that dear old land across the Irish sea. My first port of call was Dublin's fair city, and from there the next stop was Belfast  -  and the National Archives Office, armed with the letters which Mum had given me. They told me what they already did in their email, adding that some of the families living in County Antrim had to be descendants of my Granddad's family, and his brothers.

However, they stated that if I wanted to definitely ascertain who these descendants were, I would have to spend time in tracing the birth records, baptism, marriage and death certificates of my Granddad's brothers, which would only be the first step in tracing the connection to any of the Eagar families presently living in the area. This would take some time and was not possible in a few days, considering how many families bearing this name were still around as their genealogy would have to be traced too.

I returned to my hotel room and found no solace in the dark night to follow as the God of sleep "Morpheus" and I have never been on the best of terms. With Mum's passing her entire family have now left this earth, and I had no emotional strength to pursue this search further. The road had been long with many a winding turn, so I decided to end the quest, content with the information which I already had.

The next day was a journey back in time as I wandered the streets of Belfast and I felt a strong "sense of place" wondering if my Granddad had walked these same streets whenever he visited Belfast. More than "a sense of place" I felt a strong connection and presence spanning a period of 129 years, to a man I knew in spirit, who had now become very lifelike as I found myself in the land of his birth.

EPILOGUE
The journey to and from Ireland has been one of the longest I have undertaken. It was not just a physical journey but one of the spirit emotionally charged, trying to connect with a member of her family who has been dead for the past 129 years. All of a sudden from the mists of a distant past I remembered the songs my Mum often sang to us as children. They were  the perennial Irish evergreens  "Galway Bay" "When its night time in Killarney"  "The Old Rustic Bridge by the Mill" "If you are Irish come into the parlour","The Mountains of Mourne", the list is endless. Maybe in her childhood her dad often hummed these lullabies in their home. I do not know if the songs I mentioned were know then, but "The Mountains of Mourne" had to be one because I learned it from her. It was written by the Irish songwriter William Percy French in 1896.

I hope in some measure, writing this odyssey will assuage the feelings of guilt I carried over the years. Attempting to set on paper stories of romance, searching for loved ones, lost love, reconciliation  and other emotions is not simply a matter of 'writing' in a physical sense. It is often an affair of the heart  - and to quote the title of Carson McCuller's classic novel,  "The heart is a lonely hunter".

I hope that with the miracle of the Internet, a descendant or descendants of the brothers in Ireland will see this article and get in contact.  Like a lighthouse in a stormy sea, this is a beacon of hope to ensure that   - paraphrasing the title of the hymn written by Ada R.Habershon in 1907 - "the circle will be unbroken..."

                                         Listen to 'Will the Circle be Unbroken' by the Staples 

Meet the writer: Bernard VanCuylenberg

My late Dad was a tea planter...hence memories of the tea plantations are precious to me. My memories of childhood, growing up in the salubrious climate of the tea country are very dear to me, because my brother, sister and I had parents who were angels.

Prior to migrating to Australia my working background was in the field of tourism and hospitality.

In Australia I worked for seventeen years as an Administrative Officer in the Victoria Police Department, and retired in 1999. I played lead and rhythm guitarin two bands ( in Sri Lanka, and in Australia). I loved the Sitar and always hoped I could learn it one day. Ravi Shankar was my idol.    

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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, long, or short, impossible, scary, funny or exciting but never dull. You will find yourself transported to another world!
 
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Just one of the beautiful sights in Sri Lanka (image from the internet, freely available on Google)

Back in the Day - Part III

Shipra Castledine

I left you all in the last chapter with a tantalising promise of some excitement. Well, all of us who have been brought up in tea can claim there was certainly excitement in our lives from time to time!

I will move on from a couple of years at Zurrantee T.E, where my father became a senior assistant very quickly, to his transfer to Baintgoorie T.E. where he was appointed the manager. So we moved into the Burra Bungalow. It was typical of the Burra Bungalows of its time. A chung bungalow, meaning a rambling home with a verandah all around the top floor and the bungalow was on stilts.

The logic behind the chung construction was twofold. One was to have some protection from wildlife, and the other to allow a lot of ventilation. But we did have some rooms under the bungalow. Our summer drawing room was downstairs as was a big guest bedroom and bathroom. Beautiful lawns with flower gardens of at least an acre surrounded the bungalow. In ensuing years my father became a proud grower of bigger and better multi-coloured dahlias. And our back garden had a substantial mali bari. I was given my own little patch in the mali bari and I clearly remember growing carrots, of course with a lot of help from the malis!

Dad’s senior assistant on Baintgoorie was Jack Thompson, a tall, rangy Britisher. Jack was a bachelor and he had a fondness for wildlife. There were many planters who enjoyed a shikar (a shoot) in those days. It was not illegal. A lot of the time they would kill wild boar and the bawarchis would cook it up into the most delicious dishes including wild boar pickle! My mouth is watering remembering the food.

One of the times Jack went on a shikar he found a leopard cub without its mother. He brought it back to his bungalow and looked after it. It became more like a pet and grew to adulthood at which point Jack kept it in a large cage at the end of his garden. As if this was not excitement enough another time Jack was on his rounds in the tea estate and he found a little Royal Bengal tiger cub in the tea bushes, no mother. He looked around for its mother’s footprint or any indication that she was likely to come back but there were no signs. So he took the cute little thing back to his bungalow and cared for it. Sometimes there were noises in the night and low growling which could have been the mother, but she never attempted retrieving the cub.

As the tiger cub started gaining adult proportions Jack realised that he could not let it roam free in his garden and certainly not inside his bungalow. He erected two sturdy wooden posts at two ends of his lawn, probably with approximately 500 yds between and he strung a thick chain across. He haltered the tiger cub with a ring and a chain that linked on to the one he had strung across the posts so the tiger was able to pad its way from one end to the other.  I used to visit Jack’s bungalow with Dad and we would sit on the verandah and watch this magnificent beast pad silently on its chain, across the lawn.

Jack did bring the tiger on to his verandah at times. I was there one day when he brought the tiger on its chain and this fully grown tiger was so playful and loving with Jack. He would roar playfully and gambol with Jack. I watched fascinated and astounded as the tiger jumped up and put his front paws on Jack’s shoulders and rubbed his face against Jack’s! And Jack had to turn away so he would not get sandpapered against the tiger’s face!

Another time I remember being in Jack’s bungalow with my uncle, Dad’s younger brother, who had also joined tea as an engineer. We were heading out of the bungalow in my uncle’s Plymouth station wagon when the tiger came bounding across and had enough reach to bounce on to the bonnet of the car! There was this wonder of nature with his face right in ours through the windscreen and its huge paws on the bonnet! Oh my God! I will never forget it.

The game ended one day when the tiger playfully managed to scratch Jack’s skin and drew blood. That was it. This was too dangerous. A wild tiger could turn into a man-eater if it tasted human blood. It was reported to the Forest Department that Jack had these animals - fully grown wildlife - in his bungalow. He had to give them both up. The leopard was transported to the zoo in Calcutta and the tiger was flown to a zoo in Canada, I think it was Vancouver. Jack was very sad but he accepted the actions that had to be taken. He missed his two big cats and never kept any again.

Baintgoorie T.E. was where all the rest of my life in tea was spent. Dad managed the garden very well. He learnt to manufacture good tea to the point when Baintgoorie T.E. came up fairly high in Duncan Tea Co. ranking. Then the time came for schooling. In those days there were no nursery or primary schools or any educational institution anywhere close. There was no choice but for us children to be sent to boarding school. Though it broke my parents’ hearts I was packed up and put into St Helen’s in Kurseong at the age of four and a half. A baby.

I did not do well at St Helen’s. Very soon after I was admitted I contracted typhoid and was very sick. Mum came and took me out of the school and I was admitted to the Planters’ Hospital in Darjeeling. Mum stayed at the Planters’ Club and was with me all the time. They treated me over the days and I did recover. But my parents did not send me back to St Helen’s; they put me into Loreto Convent, Darjeeling.

 Then began an enjoyable part of my life. I thrived in Loreto Convent. Mum would visit once a month and bring goodies with her. I will never forget the huge home baked chocolate biscuits she would bring in a large biscuit tin, in the shape of the suits of cards. Clubs, hearts, spades and diamonds! And she would take me out for the day and the nuns allowed me to invite one friend. We would visit the Botanical Gardens at times and then Mum would bring out a picnic basket of a sumptuous lunch. She was very good at doing a goose roast so we would have that with homemade mayonnaise, bread and butter and other sides which I can’t remember!

Mum told me later that the parents would talk about their poor little children having to suffer boarding school and then she would visit the school and us ‘poor children’ would appear all nice and plump and with red, healthy cheeks!! Not such ‘poor children’! I loved boarding school as I had so many friends. Being an only child this was a great environment for me. My love of movies that has lasted through my life came from watching a movie every Saturday in school. We would sit on carpets in this great big hall with a huge screen. The projector was at end of the hall opposite the screen. I remember a time when a few of us got punished for something and the punishment was the worst one we could think of. No movie that Saturday! How miserable were we. But Mother Francis Clare sat the movie out with us and made the time fun!! We loved her. 

We also had to go to mass as Loreto Convent was a catholic school. I remember not liking this part of school at all but we were all taught to be obedient, good children and so we went. I will forever remember the long walk we did all around Darjeeling town at Easter, dressed in our raincoats and gumboots and how the tops of the gumboots would chafe against the skin of my calves, drawing blood. Little did I know that this early introduction to the church and Catholicism would manifest itself in my later life as something familiar and meaningful and that it would result in a journey that did not end but begin with my getting baptised into the faith. And it has been the deepest chapter in my life.

As the years went by in my Dad’s career as manager of Baintgoorie TE the political scene began changing in West Bengal. The left front government came in and the unions started rearing their heads in the tea plantations.

Labour was their target and labour started getting more and more volatile as they learnt ways of getting their ‘rights’. Dad had skills he did not know about and he kept Baintgoorie peaceful when other tea estates were facing strikes and violent disruptions. A lot of tea planters were friendly with the army who were based all around us as we lived in sensitive border areas - mainly near China. Dad would have one of his close friends bring in an army contingent who would patrol through the garden seemingly just as an exercise which it was, but it was also to serve as the connections Dad had that he could call on. But the tension and stress of continuously managing the situation took its toll. Dad was ‘gheraoed’ in his office a couple of times. By this time he had done eight years at Baintgoorie:  in itself a long tenure. He requested Duncans to transfer him to a less stressful garden but they did not want to move him knowing the tea estate would descend into anarchy.

Also Mum and Dad had thought things over and wanted to have me with them. They had already decided that Mum would move to the city (Calcutta) so I could live at home and go to a day school. This move was made at the end of 1966 and I was admitted to Loreto House, Calcutta. Dad continued his post for a couple of years then resigned and joined us.

This is not the end of the chapters of my story. There is so much to write about.

Next part to come…!

 

MEET THE WRITER:

'My name is Shipra Castledine nee Shipra Bose (Bunty). My parents were Sudhin and Gouri Bose. I am a tea 'baba' of the 1950-s era. I spent a part of my life growing up in the Dooars and another large part of my life married to a tea planter's son the Late KK Roy son of PK and Geeta Roy of Rungamuttee TE in the Dooars. I continued to be in the tea industry for many years as KK was a tea broker till he passed away in 1998.' Read more stories by Shipra here: https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/search/label/Shipra%20Castledine

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, long, or short, impossible, scary, funny or exciting but never dull. You will find yourself transported to another world! 
 
Happy reading! Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea!
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