A Home Beside Two Areca Palms

by Joyshri Lobo

Binu (name changed for obvious reasons) has worked with us intermittently for the past three years. She has a reverberating voice, dresses like a multi coloured butterfly and oozes confidence. Her alabaster complexion, perfect features and hearty laughter hide a lot of hurt and insecurities. Not in anyone’s wildest dreams does she look like a Nepalese. She claims descent from the best Brahmin stock and looks down upon her second husband who is of a lower gotra.

Binu’s father and mother are from tea estates in the Dooars. Four daughters were born of this union. The father was a respected cook at a senior manager’s bungalow. The mother is still a plucker, with a booming voice, and spearheads every agitation. The daughters have tremendous leadership qualities and are wooed by various unions. Binu cooks with patience, love and meticulous detailing, just as her father did. She samples dishes with impunity, which explains her large size.

Binu’s father came home to roost when the manager was murdered by garden labour. A passion for alcohol led to illness and ultimate death. While he wasted away, a young woman often came to nurse him. In his will, he left a small strip of land to her. It was company land but as with most tea estates, he laid claim to it because of the quarter built upon it. He marked his property with a line of six areca palms.

The mother chose a husband for Binu, who was a tender 16 at the time. The groom, a mature man in his late thirties, was proud of his lovely bride and probably paid a heavy bride price. However, from day one he felt insecure about her beauty and started beating her on the slightest pretext. She bore him a son and daughter, but the repeated drunken thrashings finally forced her to go to the police, who confronted the husband and asked him to behave. He swore he’d never laid a finger on her but the police were convinced otherwise by the wounds they saw.

The Panchayat, (another reality of tea labour) was on the husband’s side. They told him never to hurt her, and ordered Binu to go back to him. She told the 3 village elders that if her husband hurt her again, she would stay with them by turn, so that they were duty bound to protect her. Their rather frumpish wives baulked at the idea. Binu, who was penniless, demanded maintenance. The elders forced her husband to empty his pockets. Rs. 700 were handed over to Binu and after 12 years of a horrific marriage, she was legally divorced, and her children were handed over to the father.  Having lost face, he swore to disfigure her with acid. Binu received threats from his friends too, and after months in hiding, went off to the UAE through a dubious route. She worked at a sheikh’s home as a maid for two years, and showed me photographs of herself, completely enveloped in a black burqa, with her face uncovered only in the kitchen, a favour the lady of the house sometimes granted.

Binu’s story, embellished with chuckles, giggles and earthy abuses, had me laughing, but it also proved the mettle she is made of. She had used her considerable intelligence to get the better of a brutal husband, as well as the sanctimonious village elders.

 Torsa River, Dooars (pic by Gowri Mohanakrishnan)

Two years later, with an expired work visa, Binu was back at the parental home.  The mother looked at her as an unwelcome mouth to feed. Though the daughter collected dry wood from the forest and sold it in the market, the paisas were not enough. The 60 odd thousand Binu brought from her jaunt abroad, was spent on her father’s treatment but he never recovered. She was heart broken but with habitual courage, decided to make the best of her kismet.

Binu, whose prize possession was a large makeup box, looked as lovely as ever. She was convinced her future was outside the tea gardens. One day Mum told her she’d found the perfect jamaai.  Binu met him at a tea stall, agreed to marry and went off in a rickshaw to the nearest temple where they were pronounced man and wife. She was aware that his wife had run off with another man and that he was single parenting a son and daughter aged 11 and 8. She swore she would bring them up like her own children.

However, her step-daughter resents her - and the first target was the makeup kit, which I found smashed to smithereens on the neighbour’s roof. The daily destruction, reprimands and thrashings, and the vitriolic slanging matches between husband and wife, tore through my peaceful existence. I asked Binu to move out of the quarters.

She and Binod now live in a one room tenement about 300 metres from our home. She works as a day and night carer to patients who are on their way out. Her monthly earnings are Rs. 25000. Binod still works with us, doing top jobs. He earns Rs.10500 and is a pleasant man with a perpetual plug of khaini in his mouth.

On the side, Binu is a masseur. Always beside critically ill patients, she picks up doctors’ tips like a sponge and considers herself a healer of sorts. She oils and soothes my aching limbs, and I swear her dedication and sincerity has eased most age related pains. She is invariably well turned out as her patients leave behind beautiful clothes. She knows the healing powers of aloe vera and eats and applies the gel from the pots on my terrace garden. She is also dabbling in acupressure and trains herself from recorded videos on the mobile. They are in English, but she only follows the actions, not the words.

Every year Binu goes home to the patch of land her father bequeathed her. In 2015 she dug the foundations, laid the plinth and returned to Chandigarh. In 2016 she went and raised the walls. All the cement and iron she left behind was stolen. Her father’s girlfriend planted four areca saplings a foot into Binu’s land, hoping to stake her claim. But a huge cat -fight left her vanquished. The saplings disappeared overnight and the issue was settled. When Binu ran short of cash for cement, she sold 4 of her father’s fully grown areca palms, each for Rs.1200. This year Binod went to roof the little home. He added two sturdy second hand doors and put in the extra cement and iron rods inside. In a couple of years their home will be ready. Binu plans a two storey hutment with enough room for the four children…his and hers. I get to hear of every brick and bolt in breathless detail, as she pummels me into shape.

The new home is by a national highway. Binu and Binod plan to sell momos and “Punjabi” food to truck drivers. Any extra money will be used to open a beauty parlour cum shop with knick -knacks for women. I admire the young couple’s spirit, resilience and humour.  Neither shows resentment, malice, bitterness or lack of confidence. They sock life in the face and take its hurdles in their stride. Both smile, sing, whistle and talk loudly when working and agree that they are doing better in India than back home in Nepal. Some of Binu’s nephews and nieces have joined the circus. She tells me that training is intense and involves a lot of beatings. In characteristic fashion, both often squabble about their dreams. Ozzie and I wish them well but will miss them when they go back to the Dooars, to the home by the two remaining areca palms.

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.

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. 

Happy reading! Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea! 

 

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Learning to Drive

by Rajesh Thomas

Disclaimer: The names have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty.

At the beginning of the last century, a planter in the erstwhile James Finlay company received a horse allowance of thirty rupees per month, probably a princely amount in those days. With ever increasing costs, in 1971 the last of the James Finlay planters who rode a horse received three hundred rupees per month as allowance. The company probably felt that maintaining a horse was more expensive than maintaining a wife as the same planter received only hundred and twenty five rupees increase in dearness allowance when he got married.

Jokes apart, it was recognized that transportation was a lifeline to a planter in the olden days, a time when communications were poor. Even after the advent of motor vehicles, transportation was of vital importance in  the life of a planter and his family - for work, social life and emergencies. Many a planter would readily admit that without his vehicles he would feel handicapped. Many newcomers grasp the importance of this soon or they learn it the hard way.

Photograph supplied by the author, see Editor's note for more

Funnily, not every creeper comes into the gardens with the experience of handling motor vehicles and quite a few of them learn to ride and drive after joining. For such assistants it is baptism by fire to learn to ride in treacherous conditions, especially if they join during the monsoons. Handling heavy ‘Bullet’ motor cycles (as an old manager put it they were built like Patton Tanks) for the first time in these kutcha field roads meant that during one of the inevitable falls they invariably had the silencer burn their legs. A silencer burn was called a company seal and was a source of mirth and enjoyment for all other Assistant Managers in a party or at the club bar.

More often than not, after a fall from the motor cycle is the embarrassment of having to be helped back onto one’s feet and the bike back onto its wheels. One of my father’s colleagues who started to learn how to ride after he joined the gardens had fallen for the umpteenth time - and for the umpteenth time the workers had to rush to lift him back to his feet. After he had dusted himself, one of the supervisors offered him a sympathetic piece of advice, “Why are you struggling like this, why don’t you just employ a driver for your bike?”

One such rookie Assistant in the High Ranges, when asked at a party whether he had mastered the motor cycle, replied innocently that he had learned to ride up hill and, “am now learning to ride down hill”.

Another novice rider in the Annamallais - let’s call him M - was coming back from a party, when he hit a porcupine and had a dozen quills stuck in his front tyre. When his Senior Assistant who was following him on  his motorcycle asked how he managed this, M in all innocence replied that he thought it was a peacock.

Another old timer on transfer to a new planting district, when asked whether he found the ghat road steep, gave a disarming reply: “I couldn’t tell, it was dark”! This same gentleman had a reputation of being rather rough on his old Amby, thereby giving the motor foreman at the group workshop a tough time maintaining his car. A colleague of his at the club bar had this observation to make, “We change gears while he changes gear boxes”.

Now that doesn’t mean that planters didn’t know how to drive. Most of them were expert drivers who could drive under any kind of conditions, i.e. when inebriated, on dirt tracks, up and down hill roads, through ditches, over streams and rivers - and that too vehicles in any condition. There was an enterprising planter in the Annamallais coming back from a late night party who found that his forward gears had jammed. Instead of panicking, he calmly drove the last fifteen kilometers in reverse gear, and through a startled bunch of donkeys inside Valparai town in the dead of night. Eighteen years down the line this feat is still talked about in Annamallais.

Not only do creepers learn to ride and drive on the gardens, so do many of the planters’ children. When my father was teaching me to drive a Jeep, I rolled it three times into a pruned field. Surprisingly, all of us including the Jeep escaped without a scratch. After it was pulled out a rather shaken self apologized to my father, for which my father replied with a grin, “You only rolled the jeep while your friend N drove a brand new estate tractor into a wall”. N was the son of one of my father’s colleagues who was my age, and more mischievous than me.  For a long time, this jeep was never referred to by its number but as the one Rajesh rolled.

The real excitement in the garden starts when the Manager’s or the Assistant Manager’s wife starts to learn driving. Most husbands do not have the patience to teach their wives to drive and usually use a standard phrase, “…there is a lot of work”, and excuse themselves. Normally one of the seniormost of the garden drivers is given the task of teaching the nuances of handling the motorcar to the Memsahib. This Senior Driver normally would have put in at least around 25 years in the garden and would have seen a myriad of Sahibs and Memsahibs. He would keep a stiff upper lip, maintain stoic silence and speak only when spoken to.

The Memsahib's mode of transport 'from Bottom to Top Station' in 1921. See Editor's note.

Before the start of the day, the Senior Driver would normally inform all other drivers about the route the Memsahib would be taking and caution all the other estate and bus drivers to drive carefully and to give her the right of way. The word would spread among the rest of the estate population and the women folk and children, when they saw the Manager’s car coming in the distance, would safely ensconce themselves behind two rows of tea.

Another Assistant Manager - let’s call him R - after many nights of difficult driving after parties declared that he was only going to marry a girl who could drive, dreaming that he could sit safely in the passenger seat or probably take a snooze on the way back home. So when he met S for the first time he was completely bowled over by her and promptly asked her whether she could drive.

Pat came S’s reply that she had a drivers’ license. So they got married. 

On the first Saturday after that, R had a relaxed and enjoyable night at the club. Knowing that he did not have to drive, he knocked back a couple of more rums than usual.  He handed over the car keys to S in the club parking lot. Within a few minutes of leaving the Annamallai Club, S took the first two hair pin bends in true world rally championship style at sixty kilometers an hour and with that all the effects of the evening’s rum promptly vanished, leaving R in a cold sweat, totally sober and desperately clutching the dashboard.

Then the hard fact hit R that in India having a driver’s license and knowing to drive are two totally different things. The couple have been happily married for the last seventeen years but in all these years, however late the party is, and however  many drinks he has downed, R always drives. The rumor is that R has been on the wagon for the last couple of years, thereby further solving the problem.

Nevertheless many of the ladies in planting became accomplished in handling motor vehicles. In fact a now retired planter always used to let his wife drive inside Chennai, when they went on their annual leave. He always felt that she drove better than him in the city traffic.

N, a manger in the BBTC estates in the Singampatti group was posted under my father in the early nineties. His wife V, a city lass, never having seen a tea estate or the jungles, decided to learn to drive after getting married. As narrated before, a very senior driver named Karupiah was deputed to teach her driving.

The BBTC estates of the Singampatti Group are situated in the middle of one India’s last bastions of wilderness amidst the Kalakad – Mundanthorai tiger reserve. As the gardens are situated in the middle of the tiger reserve, the wild life there naturally considers the tea fields as a part of their domain. As V was driving on a narrow road, an ill tempered lone elephant charged at her car. She froze and the engine stalled, and Karupiah, with great of presence of mind, pushed her to the end of the driver’s side and took over the wheel. He had to reverse for over a half a kilometre before the elephant stopped chasing them.

Karupiah, born and brought up on the estate, probably knew every bump and pothole on those roads. His quick thinking and also the good fortune that the old ambassador cars did not have bucket seats and floor shift gear sticks ensured that he was able to move to the driver’s side easily. N and V later moved on to Chennai where they run one of the city’s most popular watering holes.

Nerves can either freeze a person or can galvanize a person into action. This incident amply demonstrates the latter. Another Assistant in the High Ranges – U - brought a car (a Maruti Van). Since he did not know how to drive, one of the staff promised to teach him. So the next weekend off they went to the nearby golf course at the Kundlay Club to master the motorcar. U was having a tough time getting a hang of the clutch and the gears and driving in a straight line at the same time, much to his staff’s consternation.

Meanwhile in the shola nearby, a tusker whose afternoon siesta was disturbed by this ruckus, was working himself into a serious rage. He decided that this white thing going around the fairways had to be shooed off and decided to take matters into his own hands. With a piercing sound he launched himself out of the jungle and at the Maruti Van. The sight of the charging tusker in the rear view mirror - coupled with the blood curdling trumpet - was too much for U to bear.

Spurred on by the charging pachyderm, U’s hands and feet miraculously swung into coordinated action as the gears changed and the clutch released automatically. The car moved as if it was on auto gear. U swung on to the tar road and never stopped till he reached his estate with the staff beside him frozen in fright. Meanwhile the elephant having victoriously reclaimed his turf went back to continue his slumber. There endeth the successful driving lesson. The Regional Transport Officer at Munnar had no hesitation in giving U his red badge of courage.

Much water has flowed under the old Victoria Bridge since U’s first driving lesson and he has gone on to become a safe and reliable driver, but his habit of anxiously checking the rearview mirror often continues to baffle many.

Editor's Note: 

'creeper' is the term applied to a new assistant on the plantation

'shola' is a patch of jungle

Many thanks to Rajesh for explaining the terms, and for the photographs, which are all from the two websites whose links are given below.

http://robinmoolamattom.blogspot.com/2013/05/top-station-to-kundala-main-road-1953.html

http://pazhayathu.blogspot.com/2014/03/blog-post_23.html

Meet the writer:

  Rajesh Thomas introduces himself:
"A second generation planter. Born and grew up in the planting districts of Southern India. Started my career in the High Ranges and Annamallais Planting Districts for twelve years. Had a stint in Africa for two years. Since 2009 been planting in the Nilgiris.

Read all of Rajesh's stories at this link: https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/search/label/J.Rajesh%20Thomas

ADD THIS LINK TO YOUR FAVOURITES : https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/Indian Chai Stories.
Happy reading! Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea! 

 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.
 Happy reading! Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea!

Newlands and New Beginnings: Tales from a Planter's Diary

by Krupa David

I have fallen in love twice in my life; once at the age of eight and once at eighteen. The first time was with my father’s old .12 bore shotgun and the second time with my present wife Jyotsna!! One of these “loves” is still with me; the other, alas! I could never possess!

My father was a keen shikari but turned into a staunch conservationist before I reached the height of his shotgun! He was a doctor and he was posted as Director, Medical Services, CP & Berar (Central provinces) in the pre-independence days. The region had some of the finest jungles in India at that time. His friends were keen shikaris and we would all go along for picnics to the forest where they would shoot. I used to pick up the empty cartridges and smell them and get a ‘high’! I must have been around eight or nine, that’s how far back I can remember.

When I passed out of college in 1967 I wanted a job badly. The main reason was that Jyoti and I were courting (we were together in school and college from class one to graduation!) and we wanted to get married. In 1967 after passing out, I joined Bajaj Steel Industries as an Executive Trainee; I realized that the pitiable stipend I was getting would never get me anywhere near marriage! I then ran off to Bombay with 30 rupees in my pocket, to my brother, and joined an advertising firm. My brother Manohar was then already with Philips as a Marketing Executive (later on in life he retired as Director) and I lived with him. 

One day at some advertising jamboree I was sitting next to a gentleman and chatting while the models were doing their bit. We got to talking about life and he asked me what my hobbies were. I told him. He said that I was wasting my time in the concrete jungle. I should go to a real jungle and that I should come and see him the next morning.

The gentleman was a Mr. D.Kapoor, a Director with Asian Cables of the Duncan Brothers group. To cut a long story short, I did not much care for Bombay so I put in my application to Duncan Brothers & Co for the post of an Assistant Manager. I was subsequently interviewed, selected and thereafter medically examined – fore and aft-- by the good Dr.C.K.M.Thacker! I still remember Dr.Thacker; poor man is no more now. He had his chambers on Chittaranjan Avenue in a dingy, dreary building. The medical report declaring me fit was sent to Duncans and I was told to collect the appointment letter!

I was in seventh heaven now, as the pay offered was good (Rs 650/- per month + some allowances. Later on you got Rs 100/- if you had a wife and Rs 250/- if you had a pony - most opted for the pony!!) And I was to have a bungalow and servants and what I now needed was a wife. I was already hatching my marriage plans, little realizing what was in store for me! 

When I went to collect my appointment letter from Messrs.’ Duncan Brothers & Co, I was horrified to learn that there was an embargo on getting married during the first contract (three years)!  This, I believe was the rule in all tea companies and this rule still exists. In those days it was strictly enforced. 

I went back to Nagpur and broke the sad news to Jyoti. We however decided to get formally engaged and this happened on the 2nd of June 1969. The next day I was back in Calcutta and before I realized it, on the 6th of June, I was put on a rickety Jamair (a World War II Dakota) flight. We left at 4.50 in the morning for Newlands Airfield in the Jainti Sankos Sub District of the Dooars in North Bengal. This area was known as the “corner” as it was bounded on three sides: by Bengal, Assam and Bhutan. There were three tea gardens belonging to Duncans in this belt, Newlands to the east bordering the Rydak river (on whose land the airfield and club were situated), Sankos which was right adjacent to the Assam border bordering the Sankosh river, and Kumargram which was sandwiched in between.

Pic by R.A.Scholefield from this website 

I was the new Assistant Manager of Kumargram Tea Garden. East, West and North were thickly forested, and in those days, were a haven for wild life. Both, the Rydak River and the Sankosh, harbored trout in the upper reaches and huge Mahasheer in the lower. Jimmy Gilchrist, when he was at Sankos, had a record 56 pounder Mahasheer!

Apart from two suitcases and a bicycle, I was carrying with me a massive hangover from the previous night, having imbibed one too many at the ‘Princess’, Oberoi! I was in a bad mood as the lissome lass who did the strip turned out to be a male! What a letdown.

Along with me on the flight was another passenger, Navin Huria whom I had met at the Jamair office on Ganesh Chandra Avenue. Navin was posted at Sankos Tea Garden and was returning after his first leave. Subsequently we became the thickest of buddies and we remain so even today. We were accompanied on the flight by an assortment of crates from Great Eastern Stores and United Supply Agency, containing various provisions for the planters upcountry.

Along with these were crates of beer and liquor to cater to the “spiritual” needs of the planting community till the next flight rolled in two week later! The icing on the cake was a large bamboo crate consisting of a couple of turkeys and a few geese. The flight was terrible! I was sick with my hangover and the cabin reeked of aviation fuel, turkey and geese shit. And beer. I think one of the crates of beer had split open.

The flight took about two hours and finally we were circling around the airfield. I looked out the window and was expecting to see a proper airport with a tarmac ked runaway and domestic terminal. All I saw was an open football field, cows being chased all over and set in one corner a corrugated tin roofed shed! Close by was another more “pukka” building which later I knew was the Jainti Sankos Club. I could also see a large yellow tractor perched at one end of the so called runway. This, I was told later, was to pull out the aircraft in case it got bogged down in the mud!

We circled for around 15 minutes till all the cattle and goats were chased off the field. Once the all clear was given the pilot prepared for his decent and soon we landed with a jarring thud - only to bounce up again! This repeated itself twice more before the plane came to a halt with a jerk, just short of the line of tea bushes.  I later came to know that this was not some heroic flying feat of the pilot; we were in fact forced to come to a halt as the nose wheel was embedded in six inches of mud!

Soon the yellow tractor swung into action assisted by a gang of coolies and we were swung around and towed to where a large group of men and women representing the planting community of the Jainti Sankos sub district were standing.

 I was quite touched to see that there were so many people who had come to receive us. This I thought was truly the legendary ‘planters’ spirit’. Sadly I was disillusioned by Navin, who laughingly said, ‘They are not here to receive you, but have come to collect their cold stores that has arrived in crates along with us’! So much for the planters’ spirit! He however said the Manager or the Senior Assistant would be there with a transport to receive me and take me to my garden.

It was pouring with rain,  the month being June. I stepped out of the aircraft wearing my ‘cowboy’ hat! And no umbrella.  A slim spare Scotsman of medium height walked towards me and said, ‘Are you the young lad come to join Kumargram?’ I replied in the affirmative and he smiled, ‘Welcome! I am Mr. Anderson, Senior Manager Kumargram - and you can call me Andy!’

He was the legendary A.B.Anderson known as ‘fighting Andy’ as after the second large whiskey he was ready to take on a tiger bare handed!(Alan Macdonald our Director in Calcutta had told me about Mr. Anderson, ‘He will not mind you calling him Andy, but will not let you forget that he is the Burra Sahib!’

I liked him instantly. He wanted to share his umbrella with me but I politely declined and told him that I understood that this was an ‘outdoor’ job and that getting wet was expected! This apparently went down very well with him and he said, ‘Well, laddie! I can see you’re going to be a great planter!’ I never carried an umbrella ever after that in all my years in tea.  

Kumargram Burra Bungalow - pic from Mapio.net

“Let’s collect your ‘jiti miti’ and push off, but first let me introduces you to some of our neighbors” .I was introduced first to Nick Lowden, Manager of Newlands, and his wife Elma. Nick looked like a movie star, a handsome man very nattily dressed in white shorts, polished shoes and a white shirt. Next I was introduced to Dick Simpson and his wife Dolly - from Sankos, where Dick was the Manager (and where in later years I was to become Manager).He was another Scot with a pretty broad accent! Dolly was a pretty lady and theirs happened to be a love marriage. Dolly was a nurse in Woodlands Nursing Home at Calcutta and Dick had met her there on one of his medical visits.

I met other senior and junior assistants from the three gardens and some wives. Some of the names I can remember, Dinesh Sharma, Sarit Mohan Dev (Jhunu), Surjit Singh (Silent Sam he was called), Eric Thompson, Mat Summers and Dr.Sarker the M.O. Everyone was having a jolly good time and some were standing near the bar- I am not sure whether the bar was open or not but the ladies had set up a table with some eats and some hot tea! It all had a party atmosphere. Talking to some of the Scottish expatriates, I was finding it difficult to understand their accent. These outings, I was told, took place twice a month when the plane came in with provisions and took back a load of tea chests for the Calcutta auction.

Talking of broad Scots accents, the conversation between Jock McRae of Leesh River and me went like this - I just could not decipher his brogue!

After a few minutes of a one sided conversation Jock said, “Lad, either ye are deaf or else ye are dumb which is it?”!

I was taken aback! “Well, Jock! I said I can hear you, which shows I am not deaf; I am talking to you, so I can’t be dumb! However, if you were to speak in English then maybe I could understand and take part in the conversation!”

The bar erupted in laughter. For a moment I thought that Jock would biff me one. But he too laughed and took my comment in good spirit! It was pretty cheeky of me, I later realized. However, he had his own back, when he sold me his Ford V8 a year later! – What a piece of junk!

All this time I was wondering what ‘jiti miti’ had I to collect be it something I forgot to bring with me. Later it was clarified that this was the local planters’ slang for one’s kit. We were soon loaded up in the jeep and headed out to the garden which was about ten minutes away. Andy said that I was to have breakfast with him and change into dry clothes and then he would put me in charge of the senior assistant Bipin Tandon with whom I was to share a bungalow till I was allotted one of my own.

I was met warmly by Mrs. Anderson who to my surprise turned out to be a lady from amongst the local tribal labour! She was a motherly and a wonderful person but with little English. She was called ‘Wendy’ but her real name was Budhni which in the local lingo means Wednesday - hence Wendy. The Andersons had three lovely daughters and a son. They were away to boarding school. I was told the daughters were very pretty!

Wendy was a real senior Burra Memsahib. In the club she would sit regally on the barstool with a cigarette in a foot long slim holder and order drinks all around! The other Managers’ wives were junior and always gave her the respect she warranted.

Wendy called us in for breakfast. I had dried out and changed. I was hungry and had had nothing since the previous night’s dinner at the Grand, Calcutta. As I have mentioned I was nursing a hangover when I boarded the flight, but in all the excitement it seemed to have vanished! I tucked into a bowl of fruit, followed by eggs, bacon and hot toast. We had our tea on the verandah where Andy soon gave me a brief lecture on what was expected of me and what a planter’s life would be.

“Life is not all shikar, fishing, tennis and booze”, he said! “It’s a hard life, and rewarding in a number of ways. Play hard, work hard and you will do well”.

He continued,“I am going to give you some important advice. Do not ever   sh...t on your own doorstep!”

I was a bit confused, and my look must have told him so. He then went on to explain the facts of life vis a vis the biological needs of young, hot blooded bachelors.

I quickly put his mind to rest by bringing out Jyoti’s photograph from my wallet and showing it to him, saying that we had got engaged just five days ago and that I had no intention of indulging in any such ‘biological’ activities!

He was most relieved!

Sankosh River - pic from IndiaNetzone

Not a Bad Egg, Really

by Gowri Mohanakrishnan

 

We lost two really good craftsmen from Moraghat Tea Estate in the same year. One was Bawarchi, the Burra Bungalow cook ( his name was Lakshman Singh Pradhan but everybody always called him‘Bawarchi’ ). The other was the garden carpenter, the 'Kath Mistri', Biren Sarkar. Each of these men could be described as a ‘character’ in his own right. Each one had a strong sense of tradition and of his place in it.

Bawarchi was one of a kind. He was already a very old and frail man when we moved to Moraghat. At the beginning of every cold weather, he would announce that he was going to die. The poor old man would arrive at work early in the morning, hunched up and shivering. He'd go home for his breakfast and bath and come back at around eleven o'clock, now walking straight, and actually looking younger. We would ask him if he was himself or a younger brother. He'd give us his trademark crooked grin in reply.

Bawarchi's shopping lists were unique. He had a strong sense of loyalty to the old British Sahibs and his idea of 'essentials' seemed to be based on a longing for those bygone days. At the top of the list, I'd find, not rice, sugar, atta and so on, but corn flour, Worcester sauce, beans and carrots. He once told me he’d liked the way the British sahibs would eat potatoes with their meat instead of eating rice or chapattis.

Bawarchi was old, but he cooked like a dream. His soufflés and cakes were light and lovely, and he made wonderful Indian and Chinese food as well. His 'pandraas’, cutlets and pancakes stay on in our memories. The only 'baksheesh' that the old man ever wanted was a 'Thank you!' And he got plenty of heartfelt thanks in his time. Poor old man, he died of tuberculosis. In the cold weather, as he’d said he would.

Biren was an old timer too - he was painfully thin; he had a weak heart and was lame in one leg. He'd come limping to the bungalow with a fine walking stick which he'd carved himself, and he had a helper who carried all his tools. He wore a woollen hat(all round the year ), shorts, shoes and socks, and a pair of very thick spectacles.

Biren was an artist. Wood was something he loved and understood, and he must have picked up his craft from the Chinese carpenters who worked in tea gardens many years ago. There were some glass fronted cupboards he’d made  with carved wooden frames of classic Chinese design. He once made me a perfect  oval picture-frame with invisible joints. He carved us two or three fine walking sticks as well. 

He loved appreciation, and he had a lovely smile that lit up his face with kindness and goodness. Biren’s helper had to bear the brunt of his tongue, though. He was quite rough with him.  

 It was decided that Biren would make a wooden frame for the fireplace - a complete wooden mantelpiece, and the entire design was to be of his choosing. He was very happy. He loved the idea, the challenge, and the thought that he was going to contribute something to the bungalow that would be a source of pride and joy for years to come. It was, in fact, his final masterpiece. He retired some months later, and he died soon after. That was some months before Bawarchi died.

Biren would have to do the entire job of the fireplace in the bungalow. There was no way he could take anything to the factory, as he’d have to keep taking measurements during the course of the work. The old man was worried about his morning tea break. How could he manage to walk all the way home for his eleven o'clock meal then back to the bungalow, with his leg being what it was? Well that was simple enough, he was told: he could have a meal in the bungalow. Bawarchi was instructed to provide Biren with breakfast every morning.

No one anticipated the storm that the two proud old men would manage to brew up between them. To start with, Bawarchi was outraged. Did anyone realise who and what he was? He'd been working for years -- so many years! -- first in Assam, and then in the Andrew Yule Company Kothi in Karballa T.E. He'd seen so many saabs and memsaabs, and that too from the British days! He'd cooked for such grand parties, he'd turned out a hundred and fifty perfect tandoori chickens on one night, and now, in his old age, he was being asked to wait hand and foot on this – this Biren Mistri who addressed him as ‘Ay!!’ and ordered him about!

One of the complaints Bawarchi made was absolutely ridiculous. He claimed that Biren was profiting unfairly from the situation. How? No one could understand. So he explained. We bought eggs from Biren’s house, where one of his sons ran a small poultry business. And then, Bawarchi said, stressing the point, Biren was fed one of those eggs everyday. 

How could Biren sell us an egg and then eat it himself??

Biren, for his part, ranted about how Bawarchi deliberately took advantage of his dependence on him for food. He insulted him in every possible way, he said. He made him wait, and he did it purely out of spite. He couldn’t bother with cooking the simplest thing properly. He grudged him every mouthful that he ate. Who was he to counter Burra Saab's orders anyway? Biren Mistri could not handle the daily humiliation, he said. He would go hungry, but he would not tolerate Bawarchi's insults, his insolence and his arrogance.

Now this was a Situation. Neither Biren nor Bawarchi could be ticked off and told to stop behaving like a child. Each one was given a patient hearing, and then offered a suggestion. Biren's meal was to be served to him at a fixed time. All that Bawarchi had to do was to see that everything was in place, so that his helper, the paniwala, could cook the meal and serve it to Biren. The arrangement worked well for a few days, and there were no fireworks in the kitchen.

And then one morning, Bawarchi started off again.

He had found a rotten egg. He complained, and then he raged about the villain who'd sold it to us. He brought it to me in a cup and waved it about, ranting about dishonest people and the bad stuff they sold, and how it was he who was accountable for everything that found its way into the kitchen. Who would have to take the blame, after all? It was so unfair. He was simply delighted that he’d got some tangible proof of his enemy’s villainy. He was going to take full advantage of it!

Once he quietened down, Bawarchi was told that the egg could easily be replaced. Wasn’t it always? 

No, he said, if we wanted any eggs replaced, ‘they’ always asked to see the bad egg in the first place. Well then, he was told, he could go and show 'them' the bad egg and ask for a replacement. There were other eggs in the house for now. That seemed to be the end of it. I had had enough from him.

The next day, Bawarchi went about looking less grumpy than usual. His sudden cheeriness made me suspicious. I decided to ask him about the bad egg. Had he managed to get a fresh one in its place?

'No,' he said. He smiled his crafty old smile. 

'I cooked it and fed it to Biren Mistri.'

Moraghat Burra Bungalow - a typical post-monsoon sunset

 

 

 

Meet The Writer/Editor: Gowri Mohanakrishnan  

 I was teaching English at Indraprashta College in Delhi when I met and married my tea planter husband in 1986. He brought me to the tea gardens - a completely different world from the one I knew! Life in tea continues to be unique, and I began writing about ours many years ago.

Early in 2018, I started Indian Chai Stories to collect and preserve other people's stories from tea.

The first chai stories I ever wrote were for a magazine called 'Reach Out' which Joyshri Lobo started in the mid eighties for the Dooars planters. Some years later, Shalini Mehra started 'The Camellia' and I started writing there regularly. Shalini put me in touch with David Air, the editor of Koi-Hai, who gave me a page there.  My family has always believed that I can write, and that is what keeps me going, whether I agree with them or not.

Here is the link to all the stories I have written at Indian Chai Stories - https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/search/label/Gowri%20Mohanakrishnan 

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; maybe long, 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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