Ranu
Singh Taragi
The
onset of the monsoons is awaited eagerly by the tea growing belt and brings
with it the promise of prosperity for the tea gardens. Tea bushes bloom, leaf
count picks up and every department, right from field, factory and head office
becomes extremely busy. The dry spell is over, there is an abundance of ‘patti’
and the engines in the factory hum, 24x7!
On the home front, the
bungalows too gear up to offer hospitality to advisors, engineers and
technical staff who visit from time to time in order to facilitate the smooth
running of the estate. So this time also severely tests the culinary innovativeness
of the ‘memsahibs.’ One knows only so many ways to serve seasonal veggies like
‘patals, jhinga, lauki…’ in exotic preparations! If you are fortunate to be
closely located to a busy commercial town, the food choices are plenty.
However, in remote areas, one has to turn into a ‘master chef.’ Planning out
the daily menus at times like this becomes a major occupation.
Endless rain also brings in
other problems peculiar to each district. We were once stationed on a tea
garden adjacent to the Kaziranga Park. There the surrounding ‘basti’ gets
totally cut off, due to water-logged,low-lying fields. The estate then brings
out boats, to ferry the workers, to and fro, for daily work.
Areas in Cachar, close to the
Bangladesh border, face storms which have cyclonic fury. The lightning flashes
are blinding and thunder rocks the ground. In some instances, when a cyclone is
expected from the Bay of Bengal, it travels inland bringing destruction.
The weather department estimates the expected time of the storm and warns
residents in advance. Sometimes loudspeaker announcements help to spread the
word. We’ve witnessed this in the town of Silchar.
No matter how welcome the rain
is for the tea, while the storm rages, ‘Barkha' and 'Pavan’s’ abandoned dance often
results in roofs being ripped off, factory sheds collapsing and trees being
twisted and thrust out of the way, by our star performers. So when peace
returns, tea planters face the added work of supervising repair and relief
work.
|
Our dog, Simba, felt
safest here! |
During our stay in Cachar we
faced many such storms. At times like this, meals would be cooked in advance and
all windows and doors secured. The bungalow staff would leave early so as
to reach their own homes safely. The only person inside, besides us, would be
an ‘indoors’ chowkidar, and he would then take charge of the kitchen.
In the year 1993, if I’m
correct, we witnessed terribly severe rains. The downpour continued for days on
end, resulting in floods. Bridges in the Kalchini and Hasimara area crashed,
trees were uprooted, and garden culverts
overflowed so it became risky to cross them. Numerous villages along the
embankment of the Toorsa and Basra rivers had to be evacuated in haste. Local
schools shut down for a long period. Our children, who studied in Binnaguri’s
St.James High School, missed classes for almost a month!
In this grim situation, life
struggled to gain some normalcy. Each tea garden tried to function as best as
it could, in spite of delays in the delivery of rations and other supplies. Of
course, the weekly garden bazaar continued to be the highlight after each ‘wage
day.’
We were living on Dalsingpara
Tea Estate, in West Bengal. A couple of engineers sent down from Kolkata were
staying in our bungalow, and I certainly wanted a happy and cheerful kitchen
staff. I was also counting on Pramod, our cook, to do some vegetable shopping
for our own kitchen, but as I listed our requirements, he heard me with a glum
face. When I enquired, he shared his apprehensions regarding the payment day.
First, he had to pay his contribution to some ‘local chanda’, which would be
collected outside the office, (so there was no escaping it), secondly, he had to
pay back a loan to a friend.
“Kya bachega bazaar ke liye,”
he lamented gloomily. He headed to the garden office to collect his wages while
I kept my fingers crossed, hoping that he’d be back in time for dinner preparations.
Though the rainfall had
stopped, the sky was still heavily overcast. As I sipped a cup of tea in the
‘Jali Kamra’, I could imagine the weekly bazaar in the vast field behind the
office. Small shops would have been set up under brightly coloured plastic
awnings all around the area. The workers would splish-splash their way there happily,
as they haggled over prices, for the whole area was still water-logged. Now and
then, a louder babble of voices wafted over the cool dampness of the breeze.
A different sound reached my
ears… the sound of a helicopter flying overhead. This was not unusual because
the Hasimara Air Force Base was close by. Judging from the sound, it was quite
low - probably due to the clouds. Reacting to the sighting of this flying
machine, now louder, excited shouts could be heard.
A while later, Pramod returned.
His countenance was totally transformed. Beaming from one ear to the other, he
held aloft two bulging bags. The first one, I gathered, contained the
vegetables for the bungalow kitchen. Eyeing the second bag, I commented that
despite his misgivings regarding the wages, he seemed to have done well for his
own home.
‘Arrey memsahib, Bazar akash sae aya!’ (The shopping
came from the sky.) He pulled out a couple of neatly tied packages, which
mystified me. I sniffed the air to check if he was sober!
The explanation came later when
the men came home from office. Packages containing relief items, puffed rice,
biscuits etc. had indeed rained down from the sky. It transpired that the
helicopter was out on a mission to drop off relief material in flood affected
areas. Noticing the makeshift structures of our garden bazaar, it had mistaken
it for a relief camp!! Hence the bombardment of supplies, much to the delight
of the startled workers.
Many of the packets were salvaged
by staff members and chowkidars, directed by the management. These were
returned to the Air base for re-distribution to ‘genuine’ relief camps.
However, quite a few of the workers rushed away with the packets! I guess a
number of families munched on the goodies for dinner.
The rains continued unabated
for a long period. Not all the damage could be set right completely. But for a
long time, the sight and sound of an overhead helicopter made the residents of
Dalsingpara glance up hopefully!
In some instances, the dance by Barkha and
Pavan can result in happy surprises!
Editor's Note :
'Barkha'
means rain, and it is also a name - a feminine name.
'Pavan' means wind, and it
is also a masculine name.
'patti' - tea leaf
‘patals,
jhinga, lauki…’ - ivy gourd, ridge gourd and bottle gourd
'chanda'
- money collected - often perforce - as subscription by unions and other
groups
Meet the writer: Ranu Singh Taragi
|
Ranu Singh Taragi, with her husband Naresh |
Ranu lives in Dehradun with her tea planter husband Naresh. They
moved there after almost three decades in the tea gardens of Dooars and
Assam. Ranu has been writing since her college days, and her stories for
children have been published in 'Children's World' Magazine and the
Hindustan Times.
Yes,I remember 1993,Coming frpm Sankos to Jiti,the Diana bridge got washed out! Iwas stick on the otherside.Reached afted a long detour!
ReplyDeleteI remember those floods Ranu. We were leaving Dalsingpara. A few jawans died at the bridge collapse in Hasimara. I’ve never forgotten the flower pots at the Burra bungalow...they were floating on the front lawn which had turned into a sea! Quite a flood and how well described by you.
ReplyDeleteI can never forget this period. If I recall correctly, the link between Mal Bazaar and Nagrakata snapped, and we had to remain at Sylee for an extra month before Ron could take over his billet at Nya Sylee. Still vivid in my dreams is the orchestra manned by croaking frogs through the long and dripping nights! Apparently frog croaks are the harbingers of more rain to come. An unforgettable monsoon!
ReplyDeleteI was there too to witness it all. I had travelled in nightbus on that fateful season and was completely stranded in the middle of nowhere in Assam. Managed to reach Darjeeling, by hopping from one mode of transport to another, from boat to cart pulled by cattle It was most adventurous and unforgettable journey that I have ever made in my life.
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