The First Story

We are delighted to bring you the first of Danny Pariat's stories of his life in tea. The stories that appear here on Indian Chai Stories are taken from the Koi-Hai website (please click on the name to go to the page) with the author's permission. 
Koi-Hai  'has been created as a free service for those, irrespective of nationality, who lived and worked in North East India in the Tea Industry, Ferry Service, Oil Industry, ITA Administration, ITA Research at Tocklai, etc'  - Editor

by Danny Pariat 
Hamish  Pirie, my first manager, was from Aberdeen, Scotland -- a very fine person who worked you hard but was always fair. He lived up to the Scottish reputation of having a fiery temper and many a time our head clerk was the butt of his anger (deservedly so, of course)!

The head clerk was always cool and calm in the face of blatant mistakes and one day, unable to take it anymore, Hamish said, ''Head Clerk, this office should be burnt''.

''Good idea Sir'' replied the Head Clerk.
Hamish then continued, ''and preferably with you in the middle of it'' !!

"Aah, very very good idea, Sir", nonchalantly replied the tried and tested Head Clerk.

Hamish Pirie was very fond of golf but was never a great golfer as such. Once, during a Doom Dooma club meet we were all at the bar telling stories and then singing away - and before we knew it, dawn was breaking and the sun was coming through. Hamish was playing golf and the tee off was very early, in fact he went straight from the bar to the tee -- we were feeling sorry for him knowing that his golf would be terrible but lo and behold, he played his best golf and won the tournament !!!! Hamish thought he had found the secret to success in golf and from that day on, made sure he always had a very late night before a golf match !!! 

I remember the first story that Hamish told me soon after I had joined. This was regarding a planter at Bargang whose wife was expecting, and it  being close to the time, she was being transported to Tezpur by car. Alas, while crossing the Bhorelli river by ferry ( no bridges then and the crossing takes quite a while) the Mrs. could not wait anymore and, with the help of the medical staff in attendance, she delivered a healthy baby boy! As he was born 'on' the river, the boy's middle name was given as Bhorelli -- Peter Bhorelli McQueen.

Coming back to my manager, his wife, who was expecting, was heading off to Calcutta for the delivery -- she was going by plane and her husband warned her that no matter what happened she was not to deliver on the aircraft -- she should hold on till they got to Calcutta.

Puzzled, she asked him why --- remember the McQueens of Bargang, he said, we don't want our child named after the plane you are flying in.

Name of the aircraft?? any guesses??  The Fokker Friendship !!!!

Hamish Pirie passed away many years ago and I write this as my way of saying Salaam to him -- he was a good human being and I learnt a lot from him. His wife lives in Aberdeen with her daughter  (oh, yes her mum waited till they got to Calcutta).

 Next, a story told to Danny Pariat by the late Peter Swer:
Hippies at Itakhooli!

Peter Swer  was a very fine gentleman with many a story to tell and this is one of his many stories told to me when he was manager Itakhooli in the Tingri district.

One hot summer day Peter was surprised by a foreigner hippie couple when they landed up at Itakhooli with no prior notice. Apparently they had met one of Peter's friends in Delhi and when he heard that they were going to Assam to have a look at the tea gardens he had advised them that they should visit his good friend Peter at Itakhooli.

Peter being Peter welcomed them and told them to make themselves at home( the family was away and he was alone). The next morning, after breakfast, Peter went off on his kamjari after telling the hippie couple to feel free to use the swimming pool.

After his rounds of the garden Peter made his way to the office for some paper work and as he settled in his seat he got a bit worried when he looked out of the window and saw his head bearer running helter-skelter towards the manager's office. He got up and met the highly ruffled bearer at the verandah to find out what the kerfuffle was about. The bearer, out of breath, was urging his burra saab to quickly make his way to the bungalow though he would not say what the bother was all about, and highly puzzled, Peter thought he had better go and have a 'dekho'.

As he approached the bungalow, his anxiety increased when he saw that the plucking had stopped and that most of the pluckers were milling around one side of the bungalow, desperately trying to have a peek through the hedge!

As he got closer the mystery was resolved. What had happened was that, it being a hot day,the hippie couple,seeing the beautiful sparkling water in the swimming pool, had decided to swim in the nude and from time to time they came out of the pool to lie by its side, not knowing that they were causing chaos with the plucking challans plucking just around the bungalow. Peter,with his diplomatic tact, managed to get the couple inside and was very relieved when they departed the next day.

Meet the writer:

DANNY PARIAT

Born and brought up in Shillong, I graduated in Bsc in 1971 and soon after, i.e. Feb 1972, had joined at Koomsong T.E. in Doom Dooma.  I married my girl from Shillong and we have two lovely daughters - Deanna is a doctor in the U.K. and Janice, author/writer, art critic, poet is teaching at a university near Delhi.
My work places varied between the south and north bank - started at Koomsong, then four years later went across to Pertabghur near Bishnauth Charali, back to Moabund near Jorhat from where my actings started then back for my first billet at Harchurah. Thereafter worked at Seajuli,Rupajuli, Margherita and Pertabghur. I finally called it a day in December 2004 and made it back home just before Christmas.


Is this your first visit here? Welcome to Indian Chai Stories! 
If you've ever visited a tea garden or lived in one, or if you have a good friend who did, you would have heard some absolutely improbable stories! You will meet many storytellers here at Indian Chai Stories, and they are almost all from the world of tea gardens: planters, memsaabs, baby and baba log. Each of our contributors has a really good story to tell - don't lose any time before you start reading them!

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. The blog is updated every two to three days. You will find yourself transported to another world! Happy reading! Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea! 
ADD THIS LINK TO YOUR FAVOURITES : https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/Indian Chai Stories

Back in the Day – VIII

by Shipra Castledine
Author's Foreword: 'The days gone by... to me had a better quality of life.There was so much strength of character in our previous generations. And a simpler, more meaningful lifestyle. Anyway, we live with what we have and make the best of it :)...As long as saying something like that does not offend young people if they are reading the blog!'

Whilst my family was in tea India and China fought a short war. This was for a month between October and November 1962. The Dooars and all neighbouring areas are close to the Tibet-China border and are heavily populated with the defence forces of army and air force. This war naturally directly impacted the tea plantations. I remember that we were in boarding school in Loreto Convent, Darjeeling, and one of the days after the war broke out all of us children who were from the Dooars tea estates were pulled out of school and evacuated to Kolkata.

I was little, only seven years old at the time. Only mothers and children were evacuated and the men held the fort. We were taken to Bagdogra Airport which is an airforce airport in the Jalpaiguri* District of North Bengal also used by commercial airlines. There was this monstrous defence cargo plane sitting on the runway. We were directed into it to find that it was a double decker accommodation inside. It quickly filled up with all the evacuees. The seats were like single hammocks slung along the sides of the plane. It was all an adventure as we children did not understand the seriousness of why we were doing this. The plane flew to Dumdum Airport in Kolkata in a fairly slow, noisy flight. You could hear the drone of the engine and the propellers.

When we arrived at Dumdum we were taken to the jute plantations on the outskirts of Kolkata. The accommodation there was very comfortable and it was all very similar to the tea estates. I think we stayed there for the month that the war was on and then went back to our homes in tea as our school was closed for the three month long winter holidays.

The transport plane we travelled in in 1962 was very much like this one

We heard stories from our fathers about their experiences of the war as the fighting was very close.
My Dad related this incident of either himself or of someone we know ( I can’t remember who it was) who had driven to Siliguri about an hour and a half away from some of the Dooars tea estates and whoever it was had to drive further towards Bagdogra. After finishing up with whatever he had to do, he was driving back to go home to the gardens and his location was still in Bagdogra town. A Chinese fighter jet screamed over Bagdogra Airport and bombed the Indian air force fighter jets on the runway. Thankfully there were no deaths from that bombing, but it was drama and excitement for everyone around! That was a story that we remembered! Right through the month of the war all the Dooars and Terai tea areas watched air skirmishes between the Chinese air force and the Indian. But this time it was a bit closer for comfort than just watching them in the sky.

What Dad did tell me of firsthand experiences was him doing his normal rounds and living his normal life and hearing the fighter jets in the sky and he would look up to see either the Chinese chasing the Indian jets or vice versa!

Bagdogra Airport in later years - the building was much smaller and basic in 1962

There was the Indo-Pakistan war in 1965 that affected us again. Though the Pakistan border was not as close as the Chinese border, we felt the tensions in defence with our areas having such a strong presence of the army and air force. Generals and Colonels in the army were good friends with the tea planters as were senior air force officers and they would discuss as much as they were permitted to with their tea planter friends. This brought the machinations of war into our drawing rooms. And it also brought in the politics of both countries’ governments.

Radios would be on a lot to listen to the latest news. There was no TV for many years yet. I remember the sometimes volatile discussions held between my parents and came to appreciate much later on in life what good friends they were and how that quality impacts a relationship. Their marriage was built on a good friendship that had started when they worked together in All India Radio.

Mum was lucky in how she was able to settle down and enjoy tea life almost from the get go. It is a lifestyle so different from any other in India. Her father had been a senior tax officer for the British government and he was provided a house and had to maintain a lifestyle that kept him hobnobbing with the top echelons of the Brits and Indians. My grandmother was well educated, she was one of the first Indian girls to study in Loreto Convent, Darjeeling. Her English and also the English spoken by my Dad’s father was the Queen’s English. They had perfect diction and sounded very polished. I never heard a swear word growing up!! My parents too spoke that aristocratic English!

Well, my grandmother had two kitchens in her days as the tax officer’s wife. There was the lunch time Indian kitchen where she would be in her sari worn ‘desi’ style, sitting on the floor and cutting vegetables on a ‘bonti’ and helping cook mostly a Bengali lunch. She was a renowned cook in her day.

In the evening she would have changed into a stylish sari, wrapped in the modern style, her hair done up, crimped on both sides of the hair part and a neat bun at the back. Two jewelled hair slides would be in her hair neatly holding the crimps in place. I have one of those jewels on a locket today. It is a delicately made gold swallow embedded with rubies and pearls. This second kitchen would have ‘mugh’ cooks who were renowned for their cooking and they would be cooking up the most delicious bakes and roasts and puddings and cakes and all things European. The dinner table would be laid formally and it was the setting was the stuff of stories. And when my Didima entertained sometimes it would be garden parties with several small tables set in their garden and all of high society fluttering about and enjoying her excellent hostessing.

So to come down to why I digressed. This lifestyle in my mother’s younger days lent itself to merging into tea life as it was in those days, quite easily.

Bengali Bonti

A bonti is a long curved blade that cuts on a platform held down by foot. Both hands are used to hold whatever is being cut and move it against the blade. The sharper side faces the user. The method gives excellent control over the cutting process and can be used to cut anything from tiny shrimp to large pumpkins. The bonti’s uniqueness comes from the posture required to use it: one must either squat on one’s haunches or sit on the floor with one knee raised while the corresponding foot presses down on the base. As in other “floor-oriented” cultures, such as Japan, the people of Bengal were accustomed to squatting or sitting on the floor for indefinite periods of time.

This is very much what my Didima would have looked like in her evening formal sari-wear. The addition would have been the two jewelled hair slides in the crimps in the hair.

Like our forest department friends who gave us the opportunity to visit and enjoy every forest bungalow in the extended area of where we lived our army and air force friends likewise took us to restricted areas that only the defence personnel were permitted to enter. One of these border areas was at the India China border - the Nathu La pass, 16000ft above sea level. I am pretty sure I was not taken on the trip when my parents and Mr and Mrs Palit went to Nathu La. Kakoli, their daughter, was not taken either.

I can remember photographs of all of them looking quite cold and standing right on the border. My mum was wearing one of my Dad’s warm trousers and Mrs Palit was wearing one of Mr Palit’s trousers!! It was so cold up there! The army would be hovering constantly as they kept a vigilant eye on civilians coping with the altitude. The minute anyone showed symptoms of altitude sickness, they would feed the person pistachios and raisins and very sweet hot tea and if the person did not feel better they would immediately transport them down to a safe altitude which was Gangtok, the capital town of Sikkim.

Much later when I returned to live in Siliguri as a married lady with children we all made a trip up to Nathu La. I suffered some bits of altitude sickness but I did not need to be transported back down to Gangtok. All those who were feeling fine drove up to the border and watched the Chinese soldiers going about their business guarding their post. In fact they watched a mail exchange between the Chinese and Indian soldiers whilst they were there. The most beautiful sight we experienced up there was the Changu** Lake/. The Crown Prince of Sikkim and his wife had drowned in this lake. They were driving across it when it was frozen, but the ice broke and they crashed through. We saw the lake completely frozen over, and yet a month before that, my then husband the late KK Roy had made a trip up and we had photos of the lake, the deepest blue in colour in the midst of snow covered mountains. I will have to keep these photos pending as I cannot access them easily.

Changu Lake

Some of my father’s closest friends in his tea days were army officers. I particularly remember Col Nathu Singh who was posted to Mal Bazaar for some years and then he moved to the cantonment at Sevoke outside Siliguri. When he was at Mal we saw him very frequently as he would come over to our bungalow for meals or visit Dad whilst he was on his rounds. He and his officers would join us on club days at the Western Dooars Club and if I remember correctly there was a separate bar for defence personnel.

In turn we were invited to their army club. It was a wonderful association. This association allowed civilians to get membership later in the city army clubs. Like Dad got his membership at Fort William army club in Calcutta when he moved there. I also remember General Prem Singh though not as clearly as Col Nathu Singh. General Prem Singh was the one who brought in his division to patrol through the tea estate when Dad was having labour trouble. So ends this chapter with some of the many facets of tea life. To be continued...

* Bagdogra is (and has been for some years ) now in Darjeeling District
** Changu Lake is also called Tshongo or Tsomgo Lake
Photographs sourced by the author from the internet 

 

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 all Shipra's stories 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!
ADD THIS LINK TO YOUR FAVOURITES : https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/Indian Chai Stories
 

Full Moon at the Honeymoon Bungalow

by Aloke Mookerjee

Foreword: Before my transfer to Assam, I was in Ghatia T.E. (in the Nagrakata area of the Dooars) for five years, a long time for an assistant manager. In those years, I lived both in the Upper as well as the Lower Bungalow near the factory. I loved my time in Ghatia with its wonderful labour force and supervisors. The Burra Babu was extraordinary as were Mangra Driver, Tetra Munshi, Sethe Sirdar, Pulin Mistry (the only 'Mugh' I know of who deviated from his community's inborn gift in culinary arts to become a Mechanic!) and Roga Mistry who could strip and overhaul our Prime Movers as well as Ernie Lees the Crossley Engineer! Bill Hudson who was the Manager there (later to become the company VA) was revered by all the workers as their Mai, Baap and Bhagwan all rolled in one male white human form! I have already written of some of my expreriences there already. Wow, how I loved my time in tea!
 

The newly built Assistant Manager’s bungalow in the ‘Upper Division’ in Ghatia Tea Estate was popularly known as the ‘Honeymoon Bungalow’. Tucked away in an isolated spot at the edge of a promontory at the estate’s north-west, this bungalow, unlike its older counterparts, was compact and modern in design. Its spacious lawn in the front and sides and a ‘mali-bari’ behind created a sense of space despite its being hemmed in from three sides by acres of a thick bamboo grove and tall thatch grass. 

The fourth side, on the west of the bungalow, remained open - presenting a vast panorama of a deep and wide valley dipping down some two hundred feet with the stony ‘Ghatia Nadi’ flowing through its middle. Swathes of rice paddy on either side of the river lent an air of quaint country charm that contrasted with the turbulence (especially in the monsoons) of the stony river roaring down from the Himalayas. The river formed the boundary between Ghatia and Bhogotpore tea estates. With no evidence of tea anywhere nearby, the bungalow deservedly earned its reputation being a delightful retreat for newly-weds. 

A veranda enclosed by wire netting, as a protection against mosquitoes and other ‘creepy crawlies’, had been thoughtfully constructed on this open side. It was quite certainly the most charming feature of the bungalow; offering a grand view of the verdant valley and the towering blue mountains of the Himalayas.

Every evening, in the hush of the descending darkness, we would see from our ‘Jaali Kamra’, the lights of the Bhogotpore Manager’s bungalow, far on the other side of the valley, being turned on to blink and glow silently from across the shadowy void. It was a sight that never failed to attract and charm us. Added to it, the sound of the distant river crashing through the boulders on its downward journey made our moments in the ‘Jaali Kamra’ an incomparable experience.     

The far distance from the estate’s main complex made it necessary to provide this bungalow its own power supply unit in the form of a diesel engine (Lister, of course), coupled to an alternator located within the premises a short distance away. While the engine needed to be manually cranked up to start, a switch inside the bungalow conveniently allowed for it to be shut-down when not required. With its ‘estate designed’ concrete mufflers, the sound of the running ‘genset’ remained an un-disturbing distant drone. Its bright AC lights and smooth-running fans created a bright and contemporary ambience unlike the groaning DC powered fans and dim lights of the main estate complex.

From the main complex, the undulating road up to this bungalow wound through several sections of tea and at one point passed by a huge smooth rock about ten feet high. We named it the ‘Panther Point’ after a planter friend sighted a handsome, glossy jet-black beast in his prime gloriously basking atop the rock’s smooth surface in the bright mid-day sun of winter. Alas, that was the one and only time this animal ever decided to make its grand appearance.

Further up and closer to the bungalow, a deep ravine with steep sides carrying volumes of storm water from the copious monsoon rains cut across the road. A narrow concrete bridge without side railings, across it, connected the bungalow to the rest of the estate. The width of this otherwise sturdy structure was just enough for the plantation lorry or a tractor with trailer to cross over with only an inch or two to spare on either side. For us with cars, this was sufficient cause for a few tense moments when rolling down the steep gravel track to approach the bridge, particularly after an action filled night at the club!

A glimpse of the Nagrakata area  - from 'India Places Map Directory' ( http://indiaplacesmap.com/West-Bengal/Places/Nagrakata-99179 )

Sequestered among such wonderous surroundings, the ‘Ghatia Upper Bungalow’ was a perfect destination for lovestruck honeymooners! And indeed, there were the lucky few couples who did have the good fortune to spend their first few blissful years here together, delighting in its privacy and gorgeous setting. I was fortunate to have lived in that sublime wilderness on two separate occasions ( albeit as a bachelor the first time ) more than fifty years ago.   

The large windows in the north and east of the master bedroom allowed the cool fresh breeze to blow through and make it pleasantly comfortable.  The sounds that drifted in after dark with startling clarity kept me awake and often guessing their origins. As one city born and bred, many of the country sights and sounds were to me still as alien and esoteric as if from another planet.  

The month of November in particular was most delightful, with its pleasant days and crisp clear nights of a million dazzling stars that filled the sky. The garden would at times be invaded by swarms of flying glow worms blinking delightfully all around in the inky darkness. But when the glorious full moon appeared and draped the countryside with her brilliance, the glittering stars would fade out and the glow worms give way to leave the Queen of the Night, resplendent in her singular radiance. It was on one such dazzling moonlit night that I was fortunate enough to witness a rare and wondrous event.

It would have been well after midnight when I was suddenly woken from deep slumber by a strange unfamiliar sound of incessant honking wafting in from miles away. Bemused by the increasingly louder noise, I decided to forsake the warm comfort of my bed and go out to investigate.  

And soon I was rewarded with an extraordinary spectacle. High up in the bright moonlit sky were hundreds of wild geese honking while flying in ‘V’ formation with one great confident goose leading the way. With the ethereal silvery light of the full moon glowing gloriously on their wings, (quite like the song from the ‘Sound of Music’) the grand formation flew on boisterously with vigour, on their way to their benign and salubrious winter home somewhere down south. Transfixed, I watched this astoundingly beautiful tableau of their annual migration, till the amazing sight and sound faded away into the distance leaving behind a quiet night and a brilliant but empty sky.  

Even after more than fifty years, how could I ever forget such an extraordinarily fascinating moment of my life? 

Editor's Note:
Sirdar/Sardaar - supervisor, one who oversees workers in the garden ( please note, 'garden' and 'estate' are interchangeable terms)
Munshi - head supervisor
Mistri - craftsman, for example, carpenter, or a general term used to cover electricians, plumbers, mechanics and so on. 
Mugh - 'Mugh' cooks were the master chefs of the British Raj and for many years after. They belonged to Chittagong ( in Bangladesh )
Mai-Baap - literally, mother and father, used to signify 'benefactor' or 'provider': the Burra Saab is always called the worker's 'Mai Baap' - especially when the worker wants something from him!
Bhagwan - God
Jaali Kamra - a verandah enclosed with wire mesh
Nadi/Nuddy - river
Mali Bari - area for growing vegetables and fruits. Every tea bungalow has one


MEET THE WRITER:

Aloke Mookerjee

Here's what Aloke has to say about himself : 'Long retired from tea, but still active in business. Even after all these years, tea remains to live strongly in my thoughts; they were the best years of my life. Other interests? Always loved Jazz music - still do and have written about this incredible genre. Love vintage airplanes (thus my love for Dakotas!) and cars, and intend to make this my next focus.' Aloke's also written The Eager Beaver , A Spiritual Encounter, Gillanders and the Greenhorn and Unto the Unknown for Indian Chai Stories. Here is the link to all posts by Aloke - https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/search?q=aloke

Is this your first visit here? Welcome to Indian Chai Stories! 
If you've ever visited a tea garden or lived in one, or if you have a good friend who did, you would have heard some absolutely improbable stories! You will meet many storytellers here at Indian Chai Stories, and they are almost all from the world of tea gardens: planters, memsaabs, baby and baba log. Each of our contributors has a really good story to tell - don't lose any time before you start reading them! 

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. The blog is updated every two to three days. You will find yourself transported to another world!
Happy reading! Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea!

A Taste of Home

by Gowri Mohanakrishnan 

On a cool and cloudy morning like today, I could have fooled myself into believing  I was in Bagracote Tea Garden in the late eighties. It must have been the freshness of the rain-washed breeze; Bagracote was a place where it rained everyday round the year. At three p.m., without fail - and that, as I said, was in the late eighties.

Those days, a hot meal of Uppuma and chutney like the one we just had for breakfast would have taken me back 'home' in the same way.

Home : a world both Mohan and I had left so far behind, in Delhi. We had to travel for many hours to reach Delhi. There were no telephones and certainly no coloured images flashing on screens to bring other worlds into our lives all day and everyday. For this reason, very few people in the city knew anything at all about tea gardens. I had never heard of the Dooars myself until I got married!

We were all afloat in a world that was remote and had very little in common with life in urban India. Almost all the little towns in the Dooars had come up only because of tea gardens, and the gardens themselves were less than a hundred years old!! The nearest city was Calcutta. There was no way you could bridge the gap between city  and garden with ease in those days; besides, each seemed to exist in a different time zone. 

Language, music and food: these were our connect with home. It was much the same for the people we knew here, for all our friends, for all Mohan's colleagues and their wives. In this way we were all united, in spite of  the things that made each one of us different. We had all created a home away from home. We had gained a new community, new relationships, and a  new family where we lived. We had two homes, then, and we enjoyed each in its place.

Most of the young planters today have their families living in towns nearby. There are two reasons for this. First, most of them belong to this region. The tea growing areas of North East India have well populated towns, and any number of youngsters choose tea as a profession. People from places like Delhi, Dehradun, Chandigarh or Kolkata don't turn up in large numbers looking to make a life in tea any longer.

The second reason is that many girls who marry planters get an opportunity to work in town these days, and their children attend school there. The bungalow becomes a weekend home for them, and often the planter husband/father goes and spends Sundays with the family in town. There is no longing for a home far away, and therefore no need to create another in the garden.

Painting the verandah at Moraghat T.E. Burra Bungalow before Diwali

Some years ago, one of Mohan's assistants - let's call him Vijay - asked to go home, to a town just 50 kms away from the garden, for Diwali. His wife and children lived there, in the house in which he had grown up. They would visit him on weekends.

This conversation took place at the club Diwali 'do' when all the children were having a wonderful time with 'pataakas' (fireworks). Diwali was two days away. We would all do up our bungalows with a bit of paint, lights and so on every year.  Diwali has a special quality in the garden, an added 'flavour', and I've always believed it is enhanced by the darkness and silence around us.

To get back to the conversation -  Mohan asked Vijay whether he really wanted to leave his bungalow in darkness on Diwali night, and the boy replied quite blandly that the bungalow could never be 'home' for him, so why should he stay there and not light diyas (lamps) at home in town!

We were really stunned to hear that he - and so many others, as we now realise - thought that way!

Somehow, our longing for the old 'home' meant we lavished a lot of love on our new homes in what was then a distant land. We gloried in the otherness of  this life. And this was home, after all, for our children!

One year, we were in Delhi at Diwali time. Our little one was just two years old. She heard the sound of 'pataakas' (fire crackers) going off early in the evening, and she announced happily to her grandfather that elephants had come! That was what firecrackers - especially the loud ones called 'chocolate bomb' or 'atom bomb' - meant to a tea garden child, because they were used to frighten herds of wild elephants and keep them away! Our children's idea of 'normal life' included elephants, leopards and snakes, forests, rivers and mountains.

The world of tea gardens is still unique. The language(s), the jargon, the 'dastoor' or customs ( most of them quirky and anachronistic ) and the hierarchy, the feudal spirit, the grave danger, the solitude, the darkness, the silence - it's all one of a kind. Definitely not a life to be taken for granted.

Workers dancing and singing at Diwali time, Moraghat T.E. Burra Bungalow

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!
ADD THIS LINK TO YOUR FAVOURITES : 

https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/
 

From Town to Tea

by Ranu Singh Taragi

I looked out of the window of the Mahindra jeep with astonishment, as we rolled past, mile after mile of a level table of greenery. Amazing how so much effort must have been put in to result in this sea of bonsais ! Father, who sat in front beside the driver, commented now and then about the areas we crossed. The words he used didn’t make much sense to me… ‘shade trees…jabra undergrowth… cheeling….pruning…second flush…’   as this was my first visit to the tea country. I was content to share the back seat with Mother who looked happy and relaxed after our long trip from Dehradun. I shifted closer to her, to soak in some of her happiness.

I was born in Dehradun and spent my initial years in Doon Valley, along with Mother, my elder sister and brother. Father was working on some faraway tea estate and visited for short holidays. Mother did join him for brief periods on the garden, but  such occasions were rare. School activities and exam schedules kept us tied to the town. Now, the older children were busy in college and as for me, the serious business of board exams etc. was light years away. Mother decided that we could close up the house and spend as much time as we wished on the tea garden. So here we were….

The garden in Cachar was indeed far away. We had started off in a taxi from Doon the previous day, reaching Delhi after a drive of six hours. The next morning we reported to the airport early,  as Mother was a bit jittery and wanted the boarding procedure to go smoothly. We were to travel by the Jet Airways Boeing upto Guwahati. From there on Father would take charge and drive us to the Estate. I had overheard Mother telling a relative that it would take us close to ten hours to reach the bungalow! This didn’t bother me one bit as I love long drives.

This was to be my first trip by air and Mother was quite concerned. She wanted me to be relaxed and calm throughout. So, as advised by our family doctor, she made me swallow a biscuit dipped in Benadryl Cough Syrup for children, just before we reached Indira Gandhi Airport. Thereon, I felt totally mellow, and enjoyed the entire checking-in etc. I noticed other passengers looking at me fondly. Must be due to my cute looks for Mother had spruced me up and made me put on my new red checked coat. After all we’d be meeting Father after some months. For some reason my seat was not close to where Mother sat but I was quite happy and comfortable in my own space…the air conditioning and air pressure was perfect.

The plane was on schedule and about two and a half hours later we disembarked in Guwahati. I was thrilled to get a huge cuddle from Father. Once the luggage and all was organised, we started off in the Jeep without any delay. The road to Shillong  is uphill and I had to sit firm, so as to not lose my balance.

Our lunch halt was in at a small roadside dhaba, perched on a hill. Father had decided that a formal meal in some bigger restaurant would delay our travel . It was a terrific choice. I shared a plate of steaming hot noodles topped with a tomato sauce, glistening through which were chunks of crunchy vegetables. Cool moist clouds floated past, whisking away the curls of steam from our plate. I was hardly ever served such food, plus I was quite hungry and ate greedily.

The next stop was to stretch our legs and sip some tea, again by the roadside. It was dusk by then. A crowd of people stood surrounding the television in one shop, looking anxious. The driver went to enquire and came back with a solemn face. There had been a massive earthquake tremor in the evening. There were reports that serious damage had occurred in the area of Kalimpong. The army was involved in the rescue work but night had fallen so progress was hampered.

The road on which we were travelling had extremely potholed stretches, so we had not felt anything amiss. We were subdued as we carried on with the drive. It was dark outside and I decided to take a long nap. Hours later, I awoke to the sound of loud shouts. Squinting through the windscreen, I saw tall black gates swinging open, then a number of men running up to the vehicle. The whole area was well lit and with relief I noted that the men were smiling and offering ‘Salaams’ to Father and Mother. Clearly we had reached the estate!

A lot of fuss was made over me as well. I was served warm milk with bread. The bungalow was huge, with any number of rooms, but Mother insisted that my bed be arranged in their ‘palang kamra,’ under her instructions. Whew! A relief. I didn’t know my way about  this monstrous place yet and one has heard of so many ‘ghost stories'. No Sir…I didn’t want to bump into any such apparition. Not now..not ever.

The next morning as Mother sat in the jali kamara with her mid-morning cup of tea, I stayed close because the biscuits on the trolley smelt fabulously fresh. Staring out at the lawns, I saw a whole bevy of men sickling the grass. Clearly, these guys didn’t believe in lawn mowers! All of a sudden a cute snow white lamb came into view. It looked lost and rushed about in confusion. It was too hard to resist and I ran out to console it. Too my surprise, it bleated in terror and picked up speed.

Mother screamed at the men, asking them to intervene, ‘Oh my God! Pick him up.’ One lanky fellow cut across the driveway and naturally I thought he’d try and save the little lamb. But what was this? A heavy weight almost pounded me to the gravel and the lad struggled to lift  “ME” aloft. Foolish fellow! We fell flat while the lamb escaped behind a mussaenda shrub.

It was irritating to be carried indoors again. Alright, exploring the grounds would have to be postponed for another time. But - for no reason at all - I was now sneezing non-stop! Everyone was perplexed, and nothing soothed me. It was only when Father came home for an important file that the mystery was solved. Some lukewarm saline water was squirted up my nose and seconds later, a plump leech wriggled out!

My hair raising adventures continued. Two afternoons later, I went up to a baby boar which must have wandered in from the forest close by. I am a friendly sort of being and  meant no harm, but the little creature thought otherwise. It hopped high up, and dealt me a mean swipe across my nose! I ran howling with pain and Mother had to apply ointments to heal the scratch.

The next few days, I looked out from the jali kamara which felt safe. Here I was , from the city. Clearly I would have to step cautiously in these new surroundings! At times I missed the city with its air pollution, noise pollution and garbage dumps, where friendlier pigs and stray animals lived. It was clear that animals in and around the tea garden were “phutani.” In other words..not so friendly.

Then just as I was feeling lonely and sad,  a movement caught my eye. Something moved under the jeep parked in the bungalow porch.  A furry brown dog lay there, peeping at me. Must have come from the labour quarters close by. At last , things were picking up. Looked like I had a playmate after all.

Duke riding on a bus in London

Jumping up, I wagged my own tail furiously and signalled that I was game to some exploring but before I could run forward to meet my new friend , I heard Mother’s voice calling my name, “Duke? DUKE, come here…”  Oh oh! She must have woken up from her afternoon nap.

Never mind , the next adventure on the tea garden could wait for another day.

Meet the writer

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. Have you read all Ranu's stories here on Indian Chai Stories? The Elephants Come Calling: Tumtumpara Tea Estate, 
 The Lord of the Garden Gypsy, The Dance by Barkha and Pavan and Freshly Brewed and Packaged Beautifully (which was the first post to go up here on Indian Chai Stories!)

Is this your first visit here? Welcome to Indian Chai Stories!
If you've ever visited a tea garden or lived in one, or if you have a good friend who did, you would have heard some absolutely improbable stories! You will meet many storytellers here at Indian Chai Stories, and they are almost all from the world of tea gardens: planters, memsaabs, baby and baba log. Each of our contributors has a really good story to tell - don't lose any time before you start reading them!
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!