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.

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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. 

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