by Roma Circar
The slender mauve envelope stuck out like a sore thumb on his untidy office table. That it was scented as well was only discovered after its contents were read, remarked on, and ridiculed. The addressee himself did not find it risible enough to warrant the spasms of laughter that it evoked, but his colleagues had always appeared to lack good sense and sound judgement over things essentially classic – like deportment, height, complexion, six-packs, a Roman nose and a leonine head of hair. While a couple of them could indeed lay claim to some attributes, none of them possessed them all in the abundant measure that he did.
It was a love letter, and it was anonymous. Like most amorous epistles, especially introductory ones, it was flattering to its recipient. Written in rather battered English prose, it nonetheless got its message across. Harish (name changed) was thrilled beyond measure. He had been on this garden at the junction of Hasimara and Phuntsholing for almost a year, but nobody had quite appreciated him in the manner that he expected. This letter would change perceptions of him from a general garden dogsbody Assistant to a Don Juan!
After the initial euphoria subsided, Harish’s Roman nose busied itself with ascertaining who the letter writer was. Where had the letter originated– Hasimara? Phuntsholing? A neighbouring garden? His colleagues, my husband included, were only too happy to assist him in this endeavour. Who in their right mind would write a love letter to a dolt such as Harish, when there were so many handsome hunks among the management staff populating the Dalsingpara office? Even the Manager was a trifle curious – he was quite a titbit too, if memory serves! A tacit vote supported an investigation!
However, all investigative leads were at a dead end and attention refocused on loopers and helopeltis when the second billet-doux arrived. The first one had been dismissed as an aberration – the girl had evidently changed her mind after a second glance in Harish’s direction, but the second one put a clattering lid on that line of thought! Either the letter writer was a nitwit in the mould of the recipient, or they had overlooked something overwhelmingly dashing in their colleague. The management staff began to look at him with renewed interest and just a shade of envy.
There was no stopping the spate of mail after the arrival of billet doux 2, and the management crew was frustrated at being unable to identify the letter writer. The Gentle Reader has inferred correctly: Harish’s mail had descended to the level of garden property, and all were privy to its contents. What’s more, everyone was involved in unearthing the possible author of the purple prose in mauve envelopes. The list of suspects was long – even the name of the Fitter Babu’s daughter, who went to an English medium school in Hasimara town, was on it. Then, there was the retinue of Bhutanese princesses who often dined at the Druk hotel in Phuntsholing, and the daughters of army and air force officers, and GREF, based in and around the district. Why daughters alone? Caesar’s wife may have been above suspicion, but the same courtesy did not extend to the wives of the defence personnel in the area, and nor to, horror of horrors, the sorority of Dalsingpara wives and the lady members of Torsa Gymkhana Club!
We, the estate wives, were kept in the loop. When Harish wanted a pat on his shoulder and time to soliloquise in peace, he came to one of us for a cup of tea and a slice of gingerbread with a drizzle of syrup or its equivalent. But after a three month deluge of scented mail, we were all growing a trifle weary of the entire affair.
“She should stop this!” remarked a wife at one of our frequent hen-gatherings.
“She will!” squeaked another. “Or she’ll switch to envelopes of a different colour – that’s 23 letters in mauve already! Maybe one more, to finish the pack!”
“Tell him to toss the next one in the bin without opening it!” said wife no.3 in grim tones.
Even as we were speaking, the 24th letter had been delicately slit open with a paper cutter in the office. The men came home in a great state of excitement. Apparently, Emily Bronte had suggested a meeting the next evening at the level crossing in Hasimara town. Come alone, she had written, at 5pm. Harish was beside himself with glee. At last he was going to meet the girl whose dreams, over the last trimester, had been populated by one hero alone – himself!
In the plantations, the men rarely if ever call it a day at 5pm, but the Manager readily gave the young man permission to set off on his metallic steed to Hasimara town at 4.30. Fifteen minutes thereafter, he was followed out of the lofty estate gates by all his colleagues!
A telephone call from the office had ensured that the bevy of belles on the estate congregate at Beech Kothi with a dish each for the revelry to follow. It took roughly a drop of a hat for us to gather together for a chinwag as a rule, and this was a special occasion! We outdid ourselves in the culinary department and took up our positions on cane chairs in the large red Beech Kothi veranda. The children played happily at one end while we fortified ourselves with cups of ginger tea in view of the still chilly weather.
A shiny moon struggled all evening to ward off competition from the stately row of newly installed halogen lamps leading to the bungalow, and it was at a low slung position when the bikes roared in through its gates. The removal of crash helmets revealed grins as wide as Halloween pumpkins, but of our leading man there was no sign. We craned our necks to spot another headlight, and strained our ears to hear an engine roar.
“Where’s Harish?” asked a memsahib, perplexed.
“Chatting up the besotted lady?” suggested another.
But our men were too busy sputtering and quivering like their motorcycles to provide a coherent reply. What was tickling them so pink?
Harish had ridden to Phuntsholing, we were told eventually.
“For a drink!” added an Assistant.
“But who was the letter-writer?” we chorused inquisitively.
There was stone cold silence for a moment before a second round of sputtering and quivering began, but one among our men deigned to assuage our curiosity.
“It was the Hasimara teashop guy!” he said, before dissolving into helpless chuckles again!
Meet the writer: Roma Circar
Says Roma, "At a fairly tender age, in 1979, I traipsed into the magical wonderland of Camellia Sinensis and shade trees.It was in this exquisite space that I began to give vent to my feelings, albeit in miniscule doses. A number of my short stories found their way into Eve's Weekly, the Telegraph,and The Statesman.The slender mauve envelope stuck out like a sore thumb on his untidy office table. That it was scented as well was only discovered after its contents were read, remarked on, and ridiculed. The addressee himself did not find it risible enough to warrant the spasms of laughter that it evoked, but his colleagues had always appeared to lack good sense and sound judgement over things essentially classic – like deportment, height, complexion, six-packs, a Roman nose and a leonine head of hair. While a couple of them could indeed lay claim to some attributes, none of them possessed them all in the abundant measure that he did.
It was a love letter, and it was anonymous. Like most amorous epistles, especially introductory ones, it was flattering to its recipient. Written in rather battered English prose, it nonetheless got its message across. Harish (name changed) was thrilled beyond measure. He had been on this garden at the junction of Hasimara and Phuntsholing for almost a year, but nobody had quite appreciated him in the manner that he expected. This letter would change perceptions of him from a general garden dogsbody Assistant to a Don Juan!
After the initial euphoria subsided, Harish’s Roman nose busied itself with ascertaining who the letter writer was. Where had the letter originated– Hasimara? Phuntsholing? A neighbouring garden? His colleagues, my husband included, were only too happy to assist him in this endeavour. Who in their right mind would write a love letter to a dolt such as Harish, when there were so many handsome hunks among the management staff populating the Dalsingpara office? Even the Manager was a trifle curious – he was quite a titbit too, if memory serves! A tacit vote supported an investigation!
However, all investigative leads were at a dead end and attention refocused on loopers and helopeltis when the second billet-doux arrived. The first one had been dismissed as an aberration – the girl had evidently changed her mind after a second glance in Harish’s direction, but the second one put a clattering lid on that line of thought! Either the letter writer was a nitwit in the mould of the recipient, or they had overlooked something overwhelmingly dashing in their colleague. The management staff began to look at him with renewed interest and just a shade of envy.
There was no stopping the spate of mail after the arrival of billet doux 2, and the management crew was frustrated at being unable to identify the letter writer. The Gentle Reader has inferred correctly: Harish’s mail had descended to the level of garden property, and all were privy to its contents. What’s more, everyone was involved in unearthing the possible author of the purple prose in mauve envelopes. The list of suspects was long – even the name of the Fitter Babu’s daughter, who went to an English medium school in Hasimara town, was on it. Then, there was the retinue of Bhutanese princesses who often dined at the Druk hotel in Phuntsholing, and the daughters of army and air force officers, and GREF, based in and around the district. Why daughters alone? Caesar’s wife may have been above suspicion, but the same courtesy did not extend to the wives of the defence personnel in the area, and nor to, horror of horrors, the sorority of Dalsingpara wives and the lady members of Torsa Gymkhana Club!
We, the estate wives, were kept in the loop. When Harish wanted a pat on his shoulder and time to soliloquise in peace, he came to one of us for a cup of tea and a slice of gingerbread with a drizzle of syrup or its equivalent. But after a three month deluge of scented mail, we were all growing a trifle weary of the entire affair.
“She should stop this!” remarked a wife at one of our frequent hen-gatherings.
“She will!” squeaked another. “Or she’ll switch to envelopes of a different colour – that’s 23 letters in mauve already! Maybe one more, to finish the pack!”
“Tell him to toss the next one in the bin without opening it!” said wife no.3 in grim tones.
Even as we were speaking, the 24th letter had been delicately slit open with a paper cutter in the office. The men came home in a great state of excitement. Apparently, Emily Bronte had suggested a meeting the next evening at the level crossing in Hasimara town. Come alone, she had written, at 5pm. Harish was beside himself with glee. At last he was going to meet the girl whose dreams, over the last trimester, had been populated by one hero alone – himself!
In the plantations, the men rarely if ever call it a day at 5pm, but the Manager readily gave the young man permission to set off on his metallic steed to Hasimara town at 4.30. Fifteen minutes thereafter, he was followed out of the lofty estate gates by all his colleagues!
A telephone call from the office had ensured that the bevy of belles on the estate congregate at Beech Kothi with a dish each for the revelry to follow. It took roughly a drop of a hat for us to gather together for a chinwag as a rule, and this was a special occasion! We outdid ourselves in the culinary department and took up our positions on cane chairs in the large red Beech Kothi veranda. The children played happily at one end while we fortified ourselves with cups of ginger tea in view of the still chilly weather.
A shiny moon struggled all evening to ward off competition from the stately row of newly installed halogen lamps leading to the bungalow, and it was at a low slung position when the bikes roared in through its gates. The removal of crash helmets revealed grins as wide as Halloween pumpkins, but of our leading man there was no sign. We craned our necks to spot another headlight, and strained our ears to hear an engine roar.
“Where’s Harish?” asked a memsahib, perplexed.
“Chatting up the besotted lady?” suggested another.
But our men were too busy sputtering and quivering like their motorcycles to provide a coherent reply. What was tickling them so pink?
Harish had ridden to Phuntsholing, we were told eventually.
“For a drink!” added an Assistant.
“But who was the letter-writer?” we chorused inquisitively.
There was stone cold silence for a moment before a second round of sputtering and quivering began, but one among our men deigned to assuage our curiosity.
“It was the Hasimara teashop guy!” he said, before dissolving into helpless chuckles again!
My experience with work in the organized sector, once we moved to Kolkata after three decades out in the sticks, was with e-learning in the corporate sphere. However, the long hours of slavery were not exactly my cup of tea. I now work from home. In addition to books, I am now turning more and more to reading what is churned out in this blog. It transports me to a slice of life that is already on its way to becoming an anachronism. Let us endeavour to record it for posterity."
Click here to read all Roma's stories on this blog
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!
ADD THIS LINK TO YOUR FAVOURITES : https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/Indian Chai Stories
Most enjoyable Roma..and I'm left recalling some of the most interesting moments we shared on the garden ...plus Beech Kothi !
ReplyDeleteJust don't recall his name please, Ranu! Wonderful memories of Dalsingpara and all its associated kothis, bacchas, get togethers, potlucks, and pregnancy batch, or should it be pregnancy patch, when each bungalow, starting from burra bungalow, contributed its 'mite' to the estate population??
ReplyDeleteDelightful tale. Only the 'Land of Tea' could provide such unforgetable experiences, Thank you for sharing Roma.
ReplyDeleteWhat an entertaining story, Roma, and so well written. Shades of Wodehouse! Looking forward to your next!
ReplyDeleteLoved this Roma!! Dying to know who!
ReplyDeleteLovely story! Brought back so many memories. What a happy family we all were.
ReplyDeleteWho's this?? Sounds like you were in Dalsingpara too, so pardon my curiosity!
Delete