Begonia

by Mamlu Chatterjee

This story, though fiction, has its core based on completely true events 

View from my kitchen verandah ( pix by author)

The move was uneventful, everything happened smoothly, we sang aloud with the radio on the drive up and none of the luggage got lost. The house was darling: painted bright yellow, with white framed windows and doors, it looked like a Lego house. Shaped like an L, it had a cosy, warm feel to it and I couldn’t wait till it was cold enough to light a fire, using the logs kept at the ready in big baskets by the fireplace. A row of tall hollyhocks lined the driveway and there was a white picket fence along the lawn from where the hills could be seen, some hazily in the distance and others closer. A long kitchen made up one end and the other rooms made up the other, broader arm of the L. An old blue fridge and a checkered floor made the kitchen quirky, just the way I liked it. Beat my city kitchen, with its miniscule space any day! I could see myself turn into a regular Betty Crocker here, rustling up hotpots and baked goodies at the drop of a hat!

The wooden floors reverberated at our steps, and we realized how hard and noisily we walked. Unfortunately, the windows rattled as well, like an evil spirit was huffing and puffing to blow the house down! In truth, their panes were desperately in need of a fix, but did we mind, hell, no! We were just happy getting away from the frenetic pace of the city and breathe in the cool air up in the hills! Mihir was happy too and in a flurry of energy, we unpacked our seven bits and bobs that very night, put fresh sheets on the beds, made some Maggi noodles with cheese and chillies for dinner and sat under the little light in the kitchen smiling foolishly over our first dinner in our new home.

Tomorrow, he would go to his new office and I would pick fresh flowers and set about turning this yellow cottage into our home.

Pix by author

I saw a hooded person with the scythe. I saw him, (or was it a her? I couldn’t tell) hanging about behind the door to our bedroom. It was morning, early, but still, it was morning and I saw it clearly, looking in my direction. I realized that it was futile to even try and tell Mihir about it because he would, first, disagree, next, be terrified, and then, would walk up to the said door tentatively, show me his dark blue track pants hanging on a hook there, and explain in that kind, calm voice, “see, it’s my track pants you saw, nothing scary, see?” I would quietly acquiesce knowing very well that’s not what it was.

The next time, it happened again, while I was washing my face. Cleaning my face with hot water, I felt someone move the strand that had fallen on my forehead; my eyes were tightly shut against the hot water and as I turned the tap off to open the cold, my eyes flew open and the face I saw staring back at me in the mirror, was not my face. It was thin, with missing teeth, sunken cheeks and kohl lined eyes. Malevolent, evil eyes. With a single splash of cold water, it was gone, like I had imagined it all. I splashed some more cold water onto my face, and with great relief saw myself again, blackheads in place, and that strand of hair stubbornly back on my forehead. This time I didn’t dare touch it. I crawled into bed and fell into a deep crowded dream.

Whooshing sounds, sighs, knocks on doors, digging hard ground sounds (later reasoned out to be the blinds hitting the wall) abounded. We made excuses for each one. ‘It’s a wooden house, an old one at that’ I explained to myself over and over again. As I saw it, if houses live and have feelings, then this one was a tempestuous, spoiled little girl, all flouncy dresses and bouncy curls. She wanted attention, and a lot of it. She was prone to pouting and fits of indignation at every imagined slight and blamed her mother for everything troublesome in her young life. So who was the older, malevolent face in the mirror?

Days went by in a golden haze; we woke up to bird-song and slept with the moon rising from behind the dark hills in the distance; we ignored the odd thumps and knocks now and then and installed wind-chimes at the entrances to ward off any lurking evil spirits, opened all the windows to let the sun stream in, filled available vases with bunches of wildflowers and talked about getting a pup. All good.

Or not.

We had to go away for Mihir’s official orientation in the city and were away for three days, during which I couldn’t escape the nagging feeling that the house was upset at being locked up and was keening and calling out to me. It had got used to being taken care of, and music playing through the day while I worked and was now pouting furiously at being left behind, slamming doors and gnashing its teeth like an angst filled pre-teen. I felt it strongly the moment we walked back into the house on our return, a heavy, smoky, ill-tempered feeling, curling in spumes at the corners and sending out indigo slivers of noxious fumes. Opening all the windows worked somewhat, but a reproachful air hung heavy everywhere. Mihir, thankfully, was oblivious to any of this and I wasn’t going to educate him on the subject. I would find out myself, the history of the house and anything else that I could.

Pushpamma was a third generation worker in these parts and though originally from South India, had been born and bred in the town down the hill. She was in her late fifties, an energetic chatterbox given to doing everything at the speed of light; she knew everyone in the area; a devout Hindu, she went to the temple every Sunday with flowers in her hair and an ash coloured spot on her forehead. I would ask her, I decided.

I did and she dropped the pan she was scrubbing in the sink and looked as pale as she possibly could, slapping her hand over her mouth with an expression much like those cartoon characters whose eyebrows disappear into their hairline. I asked again, more gently this time. She turned off the tap, shook her hands and dried them on the dishcloth before she could look at me.

‘There was a child’, she said, ‘a girl. Her mother was too busy with her other activities to give the child the care she needed and left the child alone with the servants at home often; her father was busy at work and saw her for just an hour or so every evening before she went to bed. But in that hour he made her feel like a princess and showered her with gifts and gave her the love that kept the child going. Her mother was jealous and brought home a lover one day; when the child saw her mother with her lover, she threatened to tell her father, and in a fit of rage the woman pushed the child out of her way, sending her rolling down the steps leading up to the verandah, killing her. This is all I know madam’, she said, ‘maybe it is only a story, I don’t know’.

I sipped my tea while I thought about this tale. Something was missing, and I couldn’t figure out what. I took my cup of tea and went to the verandah and looked at the steps leading up to it; I had got hanging pots trailing petunias all along the verandah and rather liked the way it looked; the wind was whistling today, and even though it was a bright day, it was cold. I took a step and lurched forward, tea cup flying, and hurtled down the steps. Somewhere a door banged shut.

When I came to, three worried faces were looking at me ~ Mihir, the girl with her mouth open and a bespectacled doctor with slicked back hair; he still had a torch in his hand, and I expected him to say, ‘say aaah’ in a minute. I sat up, I was fine and impatient to get out of bed so I waved them all away and hid in the bathroom to gather my thoughts. For the life of me I couldn’t remember how I’d fallen; the ground was smooth, there was no rug or mat to trip me up, my head wasn’t swinging, so what happened? And why on earth did the doctor bring his daughter with him?

I sat bolt upright suddenly. The girl was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, looking at me; my questions yielded no reply from her and I wanted to shake her. I flung the door open and bellowed “OUT! out” I said, and she walked out the door very slowly, looking at me over her shoulder. Mihir came running, not used to hearing my stage voice for several years, looking perplexed; ‘what happened? Why are you yelling?’ he said and continued to stare at me, bewildered, when I said ‘Doctors aren’t supposed to bring their children on visits are they? Or is that the norm here?’

Next thing I knew, it was morning and Mihir was waking me up with my cup of tea and rolling up the blinds to let the day come in; he was already dressed for his day in the field, in his shorts and Polo tee, waving goodbye and telling me to have my warm water first. ‘The Doc will be in to check on you,’ he said, ‘stay in bed if you want to rest a little longer; I’ll get those banisters fixed and see you at lunch’ – and he was off, without answering my question about the doctor’s daughter. Aaah well, I had a busy day ahead myself, and needed to finish the manuscript I had been editing. The chimes in the verandah were making their usual cuckoo-like sounds and it looked like it was going to be another bright day.

The banisters got fixed, and every now and then the Middle Eastern tourists would wander in on their rambles and stand at those very banisters and pose for pictures at the yellow house in the hills, no doubt a memorable part of their holiday in these parts. A night-jar evolved from the forest behind, probably lured by the sound of the chimes that sounded somewhat like a brown bird in the trees; his solemn hoots at night were comforting, like a gruff uncle who looked out for us. We went about our quiet days un-disturbed, driving up to the little town nearby when we needed anything and early nights became the rule. I was almost convinced that I had let my imagination run away with me and fancied things where there weren’t any, when suddenly, out of nowhere, I had to think again.

We had gone to a young couple’s home for dinner and they had some elderly relatives visiting as well; our host introduced us to them, adding that we had recently moved into the Yellow Cottage up the hill; the look on the old lady’s face was a dead give-away – and I caught her husband’s look as well, while he tried to shush his wife, who was in no mood to be shushed. “Didn’t they break down that house? How can they be living in that house after everything that happened?” she quavered on, much to our host’s embarrassment. Mihir was alarmed, I could tell. “What happened there? What’s the story?” he asked, casually and over dinner, we heard the whole story.

“That woman had not a single maternal bone in her body”, she began in her quivery voice; “and so vain too ~ always worrying about her hair, her waistline and other nonsense stuff! I didn’t like her from Day One, stupid woman with raccoon eyes!” “That’s only because she admired my silk scarf my dear” mumbled her husband perhaps in an effort to halting her there; She carried on undeterred “she laughed at my chipped tooth you know? I was a new bride and so young, not even aware that it was something to laugh at, and she laughed, and not affectionately either. Just as well, she almost swallowed her dentures and died!” she ended with a flourish. “Now dear, you know that’s just conjecture” her husband said, looking around the table apologetically. “She actually had some kind of aneurysm and unfortunately was alone when it happened” By this time Mihir was almost apoplectic – and our host had to work very hard to veer the conversation away from his aunt’s ghoulish delight in telling the tale. By the end of the sadly unappreciated meal, we pieced together a story that sounded tragic, but not quite implausible.

On the drive back, I had a hard time convincing Mihir that this was all nonsense, made up in equal part by gossip and fantasy, embellished by each and every one who heard about it. “How do you manage to attract spooks every time? Everywhere you go?” he said tetchily, reminding me of the other times I’d encountered mysterious events. He was ready to leave the estate the next morning, convinced I was terrified and clinging to him for protection; for the first time, I saw him worried about leaving me alone at home – and I had to draw on all of my courage to reassure him that I was not in swoon mode; having sent him to work with some difficulty, I heaved a sigh and set about clearing my head and putting my thoughts in order.

So, there was this unkind, self-centered mother who had no time for her only child, leaving her to her own devices, not caring a whit that she was growing up troubled and willful. The father, though kind, was far too busy to give his wife the kind of life she wanted and too timid to stand up to her demands; he adored his little girl but had to hide his feelings because that inevitably led to jealous tantrums and severe attacks of nastiness meted out to the poor child; into this mess strode a lover, given to smooth promises and soft hands; and a horrible accident ensued when the child stood up to her mother ~ this much was true then, it corroborated Pushpamma’s story as well, so what happened next?

Debutantes at a Ball - the corner where the Bird Bath used to be ( pix by auhor )

The father, overcome by grief, turned to alcohol and turned a deaf ear to his wife’s ranting, thus further infuriating and alienating her; they said he stood for hours at the corner of the garden where his daughter’s bird-bath stood, and one afternoon, opened the secret gate that led from that corner and vanished, never to be seen again. Some said he had leapt to his death, knowing he wouldn’t be discovered for days. Alone, the woman, turned more and more bitter, her real colors showing through her sculpted face and beautiful clothes, repelling any admirers she may have acquired along the way; her bejeweled fingers gnarled and her cheeks sunken hollows, her eyes glittering and unseeing, she wandered around the house like a shadow, turning furniture over if it was in her way; hurling abuses at the help.

Little wonder then, no one came to her aid when she had her stroke, poor thing. She was found later, with her eyes wide open, gnarled fingers at her chest and her dentures lodged in her throat. Did she even realise that she had created this life, and its end for herself?

I would have to do something to release them, I thought, I couldn’t have them banging on my doors and upsetting the glasses at will! The little girl had taken to sitting on my bed while I did my prayers now – and that drippy faucet, falling drop by fat drop into the bucket placed strategically to catch those drops, sounded exactly like boot-steps across a wooden floor – and lately, I could swear I heard a large dog flapping his ears at night just outside our bedroom door on windy nights.

I should have been scared, but I was not; by the end of our first month, I had got used to the little girl following me around, and on occasion, I would speak to her – she never answered though, but once she did give me a shadow of a smile – sweet and crooked, which disappeared almost as soon as it appeared. I prayed for her, her mother as well as her hapless father, hoping to release their troubled souls wherever they were; in turn, she started doing little things for me and Mihir; no, of course she didn’t tell me she was doing them, but I knew. Mihir’s old phone that had been out of use since we got here had died a natural death, its battery fading and sighing, it’s charger malfunctioning; it had been safely tucked away in Mihir’s bedside table, till one evening when it suddenly rang out shrilly. Startled, Mihir ran to answer it, quite forgetting it was out of use; it wasn’t an important call but once it was over, Mihir’s face was a picture! “It’s fully charged” he said, “I haven’t charged it in four months and it’s fully charged. How is that possible?”

I had no logical answer, and didn’t tell him what I thought because I didn’t want to freak him out.

And so it went on, days blending into evenings, dinners by the fireplace, trips to the city every now and then; the broken banister repaired (not to Mihir’s satisfaction though) and my little collection of plants growing, as was Mihir’s vegetable and herb garden. The trumpet flowers fell, leaving the tree bare briefly, and suddenly there they were again, looking like debutantes at a ball in their cream, frothy dresses. Luscious Ferns grew in the rains, all over the hills like filigree or lattice-work, their delicate ends curling, and the stubborn ones even grew out of the tin roof, peeking over shyly. I stood often at my little verandah, watching the rain come over the hills – and perhaps an hour later, at the same place, watching the setting sun shimmer on the velvety hills, casting all kinds of interesting shadows.

Would I get tired of this one day, I wondered. Would it all pall? Would I really wake up one day and no longer hear the trilling conversation the birds had everyday outside my window? Not smile at the sight of the brave red canna soldiers along the path to the convenience store? Would my breath continue un-caught on those shiny sunny days when the sun streamed in through the guest room windows? Would we give in and finally bring a wall clock to tell us the time instead of just being carried along by the pace set by this house?

Right now, the wind is blustering; It’s being a bully; the bougainvillea is used to it but the poor red bush gets terribly agitated, like an interrupted Ballet class; but I’m unfazed. I’ve learnt that this blustery wind pushes your buttons to see how much you can take before you cave – and if you don’t, if you can say ‘look I’m all wrapped up, I can take this’ it rights itself soon enough and does an about face soon – as if to say gently, ‘I was only teasing’.

I felt Begonia’s presence (yes, I’d named the little girl Begonia) less and less and I wondered why. I looked for her over my shoulder, from the corner of my eye, but she wasn’t there; was she hiding? But where could she hide, even my curtains were light and blew in the slightest wind – and there were no secret spaces where she could hide, really. I called out to her sometimes, but got no indication of her presence. The house felt light and airy too, and even when the winds were howling outside, we were warm inside, with a lovely fire going, and roasting corn cobs on the fire became one of our favorite pastimes.

Pix by Gowri Mohanakrishnan

One day a large, furry, beige and pink moth came in, and refused to leave. I tried everything – left the doors open, windows ajar, but there it sat, unmoving; I continued my chores keeping an eye on it, ready to shriek if it flew at me; it didn’t. It moved from the door to one of the walls in the living room, almost blending in with it ~ and when Mihir got home, it allowed him to pick it up gently and hold it, outside the window, willing it to fly away. It took its own time and flew away slowly, settling onto the grass near a rose bush. “That’s odd. It should be trying to get out of the rain, go under some leaves or something” said Mihir, adding sagely, “it’s dying, probably” as he rubbed his hands on his pants.

I realized in that moment that Begonia wasn’t hiding at all, she was standing against the wall the whole time and I wasn’t able to see her because she was the same colour as the walls! I looked around in all the rooms and called out to her, telling her I knew she was here, and was answered by silence. The crickets in the pine trees were louder than usual and I disliked them intensely at that moment. I wanted Begonia.

She never came back. I missed her and in a frenzy planted begonias everywhere, in pots, at the edge of the lawn, in the corner by her bird-bath, everywhere. White and pink begonias everywhere. Three years later, feeling somewhat guilty for having removed all the cannas when I had first moved here, I left detailed instructions for the future occupants of the house asking them to tend to the begonias with care, hoping they would.

The day we left was a bright, still day. I looked back for as long as I could, memorizing the house, the hills, the red gate, the bird houses Mihir had made, the sun glinting off the windows.

My begonias were all a flutter, waving their pink heads at me – and I knew she was there, and she was at peace.

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!

Meet the writer:

This is Mamlu Chatterjee, and here's what she has to say : 'Mamlu is a Mum, an editor, an avid reader, loves dogs and baby elephants and lives in a red cottage on a hill, in the tea plantations of Malaysia. 
Discovering new things is a favorite pastime, whether it’s a favourite fruit (dragon fruit and mangosteen currently😉) or a new artist or a new gadget. She's been writing ever since I can remember! 

Currently going slowly bonkers trying to prepare for her son's wedding by remote control!'

Higher-archy

When you hear a good tea story, you always want to tell one of your own!! I read Indi Khanna's story and my mind flew back to 1986, when 'reception' referred to one thing only - television!

by Indi Khanna
Prefaced with an advance apology to Mac. Some literary licence having been taken, never any offence meant!

1984. Upper Assam. I was at that time the Mistry Sahib (Factory Assistant) on Rajah Ali Estate.

All pix by Indi Khanna

Other than the fact that the Burra Sahib would at regular intervals shake one up with some "earth shattering" issue or other (earth shattering as defined in 'his' book), those were blissfully peaceful days. Peaceful to the extent that the only 'idiot box' we'd ever encountered was the one constructed with good quality timber, firmly lodged between the ears of at least a couple of the venerated gentlemen who made up the planting community.

Tingrai Club

And then the powers that be went and shattered our serene existence and disrupted our club life (the very centre of our existence) by taking a giant leap towards development by plonking the first TV repeater tower across the Lohit river in Arunachal Pradesh. The upshot was that club evenings ended up with only a couple of die-hards perched on their bar stools having an animated conversation with the bar man, while the rest had all but disappeared from the scene, at home and glued to their respective idiot boxes.

On days when the avid TV watchers did venture out, the first question each one would ask the other as soon as they stepped into the club was 'how was your reception today?'
Not that there was much that those folk were watching which would excite anyone with even an ounce of grey matter, because the only response to this all important question was a 'wow' or words to that effect - and then on the odd day, 'today my reception was in colour'. Which simply translated into the fact that instead of staring at the usual black & white blizzard on the screen, the snowflakes on that particular day had been viewed in all the colours of the rainbow.

Major excitement which kept the whole of Upper Assam agog for the better part of a year!

Lohit Valley 1988

A year later, returning from our annual leave, we were driving back to Assam from Delhi. Since we had the whole back seat of our trusted Ambassador free, and having been told of the major development in entertainment in Assam, my sister gifted us with a 21" Niki-Tasha colour TV set. We did actually require the whole of the back seat of the car for the 21" because the cabinet for the TV was about the size of a very large fridge. And so, duly hemmed into the Ambassador with this monster, we happily took the usual five day drive back to the estate from Delhi. On arrival in Rajah Ali, the new acquisition was duly placed in one corner of our bedroom.

To bring the system to life, the very next morning the factory head fitter, Naranjan Singh, a wonderful Sikh gentleman who managed to keep the factory running with sheer ingenuity and common sense was given the task of installing the TV antenna in the bungalow backyard. Ever tried to lift up a 20' length of lead piping with some weight at one end, from the horizontal to the vertical position? If you haven't, I can tell you from experience that it's not quite the most easy or pleasant of tasks. The installation took on the air of a rather complex military operation.

Accompanied by a barrage of screaming and shouting of instructions, a number of times the pipe with many pairs of strong hands working at it rose to about a 45 degree angle to only land back on the lawn with a thud. Three times, when coming back to terra firma during the operation, the antenna lost one prong or the other from its cluster. Since we had no gas welding equipment on the estate, each time it broke, N.Singh would hop on to his scooter and head off to Duliajan, the closest 'town' to Rajah Ali. Each trip resulted in the antenna coming back more and more misshapen and with extra bits and pieces of aluminium welded on to hold it together.
Regardless and with shouts of achievement we finally had our antenna, atop one full length of 1" piping, lording over the Rajah Ali Mistry sahib's bungalow.

The antenna having been duly plugged into our Niki Tasha, surrounded by the whole gang of artisans and workers who had been instrumental in getting it up, when the idiot box was switched on you could have knocked all of us down with a feather - because what we got on our screen was an almost crystal clear picture in full blown Technicolor. Not the signs of an impending blizzard which others in the district had been 'enjoying' all those months, but an honest to goodness actual TV picture. Much excitement all around followed by tea and samosas for the large gang of achievers!

In course of time word got around that the district had been blessed with a TV which actually 'worked'! Which - not that this required any prompting - led to an acceleration in what is the usual evening social practice in all planting communities, with many friends and colleagues dropping in to Rajah Ali to spend the evening with us, with the added excitement of watching 'Chitrahar' on our fully operational Niki Tasha.

About a fortnight into all this excitement Mac (Mr R.S.Makoll, the Executive Director of Warrens) whose bungalow was about 10Km away on Deohall Estate, decided to bless us with a factory visit. The hour long visit went along totally predictable lines – that nothing at all was up to the mark in the factory. Which berating all Mistry Sahibs simply took in their stride since nothing ever was up to the mark in any factory.

As we stepped out of the factory into the tasting room Mac casually puts an arm around my shoulder, and shifting from English to Punjabi, mentions that he has heard through the grapevine that the TV in my bungalow is functioning in the manner which TVs are designed to and that would it be possible for us to go across to check it out.

Which we did. I obviously had no answer as to why our TV should be behaving itself. And so, having checked out everything including the location and the installation of the antenna, Mac wanted to know who had been responsible for its installation, which led to my being requested to despatch N.Singh to Deohall to wave his magic wand on the E.D.'s bungalow entertainment system.
Next morning N.Singh's Kamjari (task) was to head off to Deohall with a couple of jugalis (helpers) to do his bit.

This was on a Monday. Come Thursday, by which time my CTC rollers had to be changed and a whole lot of other minor issues had to be attended to, I could still see no signs of the gentleman. The line chowkidar (the watchman responsible for ensuring that the factory personnel were on duty) being asked why the Head Fitter was AWOL, told me that as had been happening since Monday, Singh had headed off to Deohall with his jugalis in tow.

I was livid at the fact of one day's work having been stretched into four, and so promptly hopping on to my bike I got to the E.D.'s bungalow in Deohall. Having got the watchman there to find and get hold of the Rajah Ali fitter, I saw N.Singh walk out with an ear to ear grin, looking pleased as punch. I, needless to say, waded into the hapless soul, taking him to task for him having been missing all these days. N.Singh's response being that instead of me blowing my top, would I like to come to the rear of the bungalow to understand why.

Walking across to the bungalow backyard, what I saw left my jaw hanging. In front of me was progeny the parent in Paris would have been proud of, a scaled down replica of the grand Eiffel Tower rising about 20/25' from the ground. At the top of our very own mini Eiffel Tower was a 20' lead pipe with a TV antenna perched on the top.

Closer inspection showed that the pipe was housed in a large ball bearing and had two prongs attached to the pipe to make a handle, much like a submarine periscope which one had seen in movies, to rotate the antenna to catch transmission airwaves from whichever direction they happened to find their way into the Deohall bungalow backyard.

Finally finding my voice I had only one question for N.Singh – "WHY?"

His response, which I simply adore, has stayed with me all these years. "Makoll Sahib said that if that factory assistant can have an antenna 20' up, mine has to be at least twice that height!"

The post script to L'affaire á la Eiffel – Regardless of the 'periscope' being rotated every which way thorough 360 degrees, the only thing Mac and Dinda (Lovely Mrs Makoll) ever got to see was the usual 'Upper Assam Blizzard' - albeit, once in a while in full blown colour!

 

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!

Meet the writer:

Indi Khanna with Xerox

With an industry experience and a tea knowledge base of four and a half decades and counting, I literally live and breathe tea. 

Starting my career in 1975 as an Assistant Superintendent with Malayalam Plantations Ltd, rolling up my sleeves by 'dirtying' my hands at the grassroots level and having literally 'grown' in the business, my experiences have matured me into a ‘one of a kind’ unique entity in the industry.

My journey which literally starts from the tea nursery and stretches all the way up to the consumer shelf, is in many ways unique. Regularly roaming the tea world, delving into the most remote areas wherever tea is grown or consumed, constantly interacting with Tea folk, I have always been learning and innovating. The invaluable experiences along this very interesting route have culminated into a unique new venture, a one-of-a-kind specialty tea manufacturing facility unit in the Nilgiris - www.teastudio.info.

My life has been and continues to be blessed.

Thankfully this very interesting Tea journey continues as an ongoing learning experience.

Our Childhood Picnics

by Mandira Moitra Sarkar

I came across this picture today of my sister and me at our usual childhood picnic spot, and given the non-picnic weather this week, I began to reminisce....

Memories abound of elaborate preparations before the actual event with Monglu our cook presiding over what almost seemed like a wedding celebration. On the much awaited day, the excitement started with jeeps with trailers arriving to the house at dawn to be loaded up not only with prepared food but everything from rice to chicken, pots and pans and an army of staff. The heavily laden jeeps would set off on their two hour journey to the usual picnic spot on the banks of the majestic Bhareli river and the cooking would begin in makeshift open air kitchens ready for us when we arrived in time for breakfast.

Lunch was usually steaming, freshly made Khichuri served on dining tables set up with proper linen and bottles of beer / drinks conveniently chilled in the the crystal clear waters of the river.. The afternoon would wear off with games and music, laughter and lazy cups of tea until my dad made an appearance in the setting sun, sailing down in his rubber boat after a day's fishing accompanied by his faithful Miris (fishing assistants) Magairam and Mohan.

There would usually be a not insignificant catch of the golden Mahseer tied to his boat which would then be swiftly taken away by the cook as an addition to the evening menu. Dinner was a magical affair usually a clear moonlit night.. the gleaming, sparking waters of the fast flowing waters reflecting the moonlight, the forests on the opposite bank aglow with fireflies and the occasional trumpet of a wild elephant or even a leopard.

Gradually as the night wore on, the kitchens would be cleared, open fires put out and we would pile back into the cars to make the sleepy journey home... until the next time.

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

Meet the writer: Mandira Moitra Sarkar

'I consider myself a true Chai Ka Baby. Apart from being born in tea, I am probably one of those few people whose grandfather was in tea and whose parents were actually married in tea . So the groom, bride, best man, wedding, honeymoon, children etc. etc. were all from tea!!! I have had three proper homes in tea - parents, grandparents and Mama ( maternal uncle) all being tea planters in addition to friends. I currently live in leafy Surrey in a chai inspired colonial home ( I think so at least!) with my car mad husband and very grown up teenager. After 17 years as a management consultant, I finally started Surrey Spice which aims to bring proper Indian food inspired by the regions, seasons and festivals of India. Apart from cooking , I love to travel and am a passionate blogger - and still live (mentally) amongst the verdant tea bushes of Assam.'

Here are links to more stories by Mandira on this blog : https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/search/label/Mandira%20Moitra%20Sarkar  
https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/p/mandira-moitra-sarkar-cooks-up-story_6.html
Read about Manidra's Kitchen here: https://www.facebook.com/MandirasKitchenSurrey/

Bungalow Bijli

by Alan Lane

Jackie and I really miss the monsoon period in Assam.

Jackie still misses the noise of the bamboo rubbing against each stem in the wind, and the trees whipping around in the wind just before the rain came – also not forgetting the calls of the Koel (Your’e ill) and the Indian Pied Crested Cuckoo (Make more pekoe!).

The build-up of mould on your shoes and clothes! We used to put a small electric heater or light bulb in the wardrobe to keep it with a dry heat. Of course in those days the electric supply was 110V DC – sometimes from the factory, but mostly from a small diesel engine that was situated in an engine house separate from the bungalow, purely for the supply of power for lighting, and punkahs.

The one we had at Nagaghoolie bungalow was located in an engine house about 75 yards away, so if there was any problem at night we would have to go out and walk through the tea with a torch to rectify the fault – usually an airlock in the fuel supply. It was a bit disconcerting walking along in the night to the engine shed as there were still leopards around those gardens in the 1960s, plus the snakes, as always. Naturally, in the monsoons we had to use an umbrella against the rain.

The photograph attached shows the Nagaghoolie bungalow, with the daughter of the Crossley engineer who lived there in June/July 1964. This bungalow was demolished not long after, and transported to Rungagora TE, near Tinsukia. It was rebuilt there on the banks of the Dibru River, and Sandy and Dorothy Cowe moved there from Greenwood TE. A few years later, this bungalow was washed away by the Dibru River. Pic by author

Yet again at Nagaghoolie, not only were there plenty of jackals around giving their pheiow calls , but as you might expect, we had to divest ourselves of those little pests – the leeches.

One always thought that you had found them all, but somehow there was always one that managed to get through your Bata boots laces, and it was only when you felt the squelching in your boot that you realised that you had missed one!

The small engine room shed, as mentioned, was about seventy-yards away, and the Lister CS engine (single cylinder, twin flywheels) was supposed to operate on the ‘start-o-matic’ principle. This system had a rather ingenious method of starting the engine when the bungalow lights were switched on, and then when the last light was switched off, the engine would shut down, however, if punkahs were operating in the bungalow the engine would continue to supply power. Needless to say, that did not cover the eventuality of an airlock in the fuel (sometimes caused by a fractured fuel pipe, or running out of fuel in the overhead tank). The disappointment was always quite evident by the expletives shouted when the lights began to dim at these times. Sometimes, the engine, for no particular reason, would pick up and then the lights would start to get brighter, and brighter, and brighter, until we thought the light bulbs would go ‘pop’, but, that gallant little governor in the engine would really take over properly and control the speed again. Or, ‘over control’ and the engine would be in its last gasp. Not particularly good when a monsoon cyclone was in full blast.

“Oh dear (the decent expletive!) we have to go to the engine shed and fix the problem.” I remember once walking through the tea on a pitch black night, a deluge of rain, and wind bending all the shade trees, and bamboo clumps around when I felt something wet and cold jump on to my leg (as normal, men wore shorts). I can tell you that I had a real fright (actually s**t scared!) and wondered what it could be. On shining my torch down I found that I was looking squarely at a tree frog, with those sucker legs. “Thank God for that”, I said, and brushed the little fellow off onto a tea bush – I am very good at understating expletives!!”

There was event that I recall that happened in July 1964 at the Nagaghoolie bungalow.
This particular night, there was a typical monsoon storm (more like a cyclone with a deluge of rain) and we had all gone to bed.

It must have been the middle of the night when there was an almighty flash/bang, and the punkah suddenly threw sparks out and then caught fire, with bits of the windings from the motor dropping on to my bed. As the flash/bang had woken me up, and I'd noticed the embers from the fan, I quickly put out the burning bed sheet with a glass of water. Of course there was no electricity (110v DC) so had to operate with the aid of my torch (which I always kept beside my bed) and had a look outside on the verandah. There was no problem there, so, unpleasant as it was, I went back to sleep.

Later on waking up and going for a shave, I got a shock off the sink taps. On checking outside we could hear the main supports of the bungalow ‘buzzing’ so kept well clear of them.

It was evident that the bungalow had been struck by lightning, so we had to keep away from any part of the bungalow frame. The taps were still giving us mild shocks for two days after the strike.
Finally, one day I was going from Panitola to Hazelbank TE and took the short cut through Nudwa TE from the AT Road. Yet again there was a typical monsoon storm going on, and as I drove my jeep on the garden road, nearing a leaf weighment shed – about a hundred yards away, there was a flash/bang and the weighment shed collapsed, and a nearby shade tree split its trunk, and started smouldering. Hmm, I was glad that I had not been nearer.

Somewhere near the Brahmaputra at Oaklands, Upper Assam. Pic by Gowri

Those monsoon storms were just something else. It was very eerie that just before the storms and rain struck, when the wind used to bend every bamboo clump, and shade tree, all the birds would fall silent.

If you looked across the Brahmaputra to the hills of Arunachal Pradesh, you would see the continuous lightning going from West to East, and the evening sky with heavy clouds constantly lit up.

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!

Meet the writer:

Alan Lane, a 'cha ka baba', was born in Bombay. His contribution to Indian Chai Stories goes beyond the written word: he keeps a large number of people all over the world connected with their roots in India. In his own words, 'My wife and I still have lots of connections with India and we are, as you may well say, ‘Indophiles’.' Alan and Jackie Lane live in the UK; they left India a little over fifty years ago. Read the story of this cha ka baba's return to the tea gardens of Assam as a Crossley engineer here: Indian Chai Histories.  You will find more stories by Alan here.

Butler English and more

by Mirza Yawar Baig
You all know my butler Bastian whom I have written about earlier.
Bastian, like most of his tribe, spoke ‘Butler English’ and was very snobbish.

Bastian had a habit of translating Tamil names into English and announcing anyone who came with his translation of the person’s name. He didn’t do that with the Doraimaar (Manager class) but did it with anyone else. Workers or union leaders didn’t come to the bungalow to meet the Manager. We met all workers, supervisors, staff and union leaders only at the morning muster or in the Estate Office.

This was a universal rule in all estates which was strictly adhered to. This has nothing to do with being snobbish or class conscious but with maintaining boundaries of work and personal time and space. We lived on the job, as it were, and if we didn’t do this, we wouldn’t have had a single day’s peace. Having said that, there were some special people who had special privileges. In my case these were my tracker, who told me about the movement of wildlife in the forests adjoining our estates in the Anamallais, the supervisor who built the hides in trees or rocks for me to watch wildlife, and the two Ramans who accompanied me on my hikes on Grass Hills. All of them came to the bungalow if they needed to meet me.

The norm was that they would first go to the back, to the kitchen and Bastian’s pantry and he would give them a cup of tea and they would chat. Then he would see what I was doing and if I was free, he would announce that so-and-so had come to see me. But the way he did it was, to say the least, very funny. He would say, “Master, Seven Hills is here to meet Master.” Seven Hills being the literal translation of Yedumalai. Or he would say, “Master, Golden Mountain is here and wants to meet Master.” Golden Mountain being, yes you guessed it, Thangamalai.

When I was in Paralai Estate, my bungalow was just off the main Valparai road, opposite the Iyerpadi Estate Hospital, the domain of Dr. John Phillip and his charming wife, Dr. Maya. John and Maya were very good friends. John was one of the finest diagnosticians that I have ever had the pleasure of knowing, who could tell you what was wrong with your soul by looking at your toenails. Maya, in addition to being a physician, was a very creative artist and painted and made all kinds of beautiful things.

One day, I had almost finished my morning rounds and had a nasty headache. So, on the way home for lunch, I dropped in at the hospital to meet Dr. John and get something for my headache.
As I drove into the hospital compound, I saw a lot of urgent activity with nurses and attenders running here and there. I asked Mr. Karunakaran, the Pharmacist, who held fort when Dr. John was away, what was going on. He said that there was a woman in labor who was terribly anemic and needed a blood transfusion. They were trying to find her family to donate blood.

I said to him, “Take mine. I am O + and a universal donor.” Karunakaran looked surprised. A nurse standing by him, looked shocked. “You will donate blood for a worker woman?” she asked. “We are trying to find her people (Dalits) to donate blood.” I said to her, “Look, I have no time for this. Take my blood and give it to her. You don’t want her dying with her baby while you hunt for her relatives.” While all this was going on, Dr. John came on the scene and on being informed that I was offering to donate blood and the reluctance of the staff to accept it, he said, “He wants to donate his blood. What is your problem? Just take it.”

I was duly laid down and bled to the extent of two bottles of blood. It was thick and almost black with hemoglobin and had my friend John smiling in satisfaction. They disappeared with the blood into the operation theatre. I was kept under observation for a while and given some tea, just to ensure that I didn’t croak. I realized that in all this, my headache had disappeared. Clearly donating blood cures headaches. I then went home and had lunch and went off for my siesta - a most civilized practice that I learned to do in the plantations and have adhered to ever since. I am told it is also very good for the heart. It is certainly very good to rejuvenate you for the rest of the day.

After my siesta of about forty-five minutes, I got up for my cup of tea, when Bastian announced, “Master, Golden Mountain and the entire Works Committee are here to meet Master.” I was surprised because it was my rule that I never met any union leaders at home, and everyone knew and respected it. What was so urgent today that they couldn’t meet me in the office?

The land you are born in is not your motherland. It is the land you die in and are buried in that belongs to you.

I walked out on to the veranda to see Thangamalai, who was the head of the union, Madasamy who was his Deputy and entire Works Committee with them. I was a little apprehensive also, because usually it is not good news when the whole committee wants to meet you urgently. We made our greetings. Then I asked them why they had come. They didn’t say a word. Thangamalai stepped forward and bent down to touch my feet. I stepped back in amazement and irritation because I never encouraged the touching of my feet. They knew this.

I told them, “Why are you touching my feet? You know I don’t like this and don’t allow anyone to do it.” Thangamalai said in a grave tone, “Yes Dorai, we know. But today you will have to allow us to touch your feet. So, please don’t stop us.” He then bent down and touched my feet. And all the others followed suit. I stood there, totally amazed at all this. When they had all finished, I asked them, “So, tell me, what is all this for? What did I do?”

Thangamalai said, “Dorai, today you did something that has never happened in the more than one hundred years since this tea was planted. You gave your blood for one of us. No manager ever did this. So, we must thank you.”

I said, “What is so special about that? Wouldn’t you have done the same for me?”

“Yes Dorai, we would. But Doraimaar (Manager class) don’t do it for us. You are the first one and the only one who ever did it.” Then he said something which has stayed with me ever since. He said, “Dorai, this is our land. It is our land not because we were born here but because we will be buried here, if we die. It can never be the land of the Managers, because if you die, they will take you away to your hometown to bury you. They will not bury you here. The land you are born in is not your motherland. It is the land you die in and are buried in that belongs to you. But from today, this is also your land because your blood is now our blood.”

I had tears in my eyes and to this day when I think of this whole event, it fills my heart with warmth and love for these simple, lovely people. I have never believed in caste and class divisions and never practiced them and that day, they accepted me as their own. I was a Dalit for them and for me that was the greatest honor. 

Lower Sheikalmudi Manager’s bungalow where we used to live ( Pix by author)

 There is a very happy ending to this story. Almost twenty-five years later, in 2010, I returned to the Anamallais with my wife Samina and some friends of ours from South Africa and my nephew Aly, to show them one of the most beautiful places on earth. We stayed for two nights in the bungalow we used to live in, the Manager’s bungalow on Lower Sheikalmudi Estate. We walked the trails that I used to walk and met all those workers and staff who were still there. Many had retired. Some had passed away. But those who were there, remembered me and left their work and came to meet me. I was taken in an informal procession and ‘installed’ in my old Muster. Someone put a shawl on the chair for me to sit upon. Others brought tea and vadas from the teashop which every estate has. Many of my old workers brought their children to meet me and told them, “This is the Dorai we have told you about.”

One young fellow came up to me, greeted me with, “Vanakkam Dorai.” I returned his greeting. He asked me, “Do you recognize me?” I always find this question very disconcerting. If you don’t remember them, it puts you in an embarrassing position. You can try to wing it by saying, “Of course I remember you. How can I ever forget you?” But some horrible fellows won’t let you get away with that. They will persist, “Then tell me who I am!” Then you must say, “You are the one for whom I pray every day that your socks should shrink in the wash and that you should discover after having showered that you forgot your towel in another room and that when you are in a rush to urgently go to the toilet in the airport, after you have done the deed, you should discover that you were in the toilet meant for the opposite gender.”
 

 Manjaparai view – Sholayar Dam in the distance (Pix by author)

No, I didn’t say all that. I said to him, “I am sorry I don’t recognize you.” He said, “Not surprising Dorai. The last time you saw me was twenty-five years ago. I am the little boy who you would always give a ride to school on your bike. I would be walking down the road to the school and you would come down from the office and you would always stop and ask me to hop on behind you and you would take me to school. I can never forget you.” Then I remembered him of course. For me it was such an unremarkable thing to do. I like children and this little fellow was so happy to ride behind me and it made him such a big shot before all his friends that I always gave him a ride. Of such simple, unthinking, spontaneous actions are enduring memories made.

The day after we arrived, word got around to the workers of Paralai that Baig Dorai had come after twenty-five years and many people came to meet me. In the course of that, came two women and a man. The man was an old servant of ours who had worked as Bastian’s assistant, Asaithambi. He greeted me, “Vanakkam Dorai.” Then he gestured to the two women to come forward and asked me, “Do you know who they are Dorai?” I had no clue. He said, “This one is the one you gave your blood to. And this is her daughter. Without that blood they would both have died that day. It is with your blood in their veins that they are living. And Dorai, this girl is studying medicine in Coimbatore.”

I wept with joy and gratitude. That is all that I could do.

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!

Meet the writer: 

Mirza Yawar Baig. President, Yawar Baig & Associates (www.yawarbaig.com). Business consultant specializing in Leadership Development and Family Business Consulting. Was a planter from 1983-93 in Anamallais and Kanyakumari. Author, mentor, photographer, speaker, inveterate traveler. Working across boundaries of race, religion and nationality to bring hearts together. I was in tea for seven years and in rubber for three. Also planted coffee, cardamom, vanilla and coconut. 
You can read all Mirza Yawar Baig's stories on this blog here: https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/search/label/Mirza%20Yawar%20Baig 
It's My Life,  Yawar's book, here: http://amzn.to/28JpEC2

Blazing the Scholastic Trail

by Roma Circar
At the best of times they were long, winding and gleaming with asphalt; and at the worst of times, they were long, winding and as cratered as the lunar surface that Apollo the 11th touched down on that July afternoon in 1969. Either way, the rete of roadways that criss-crossed the tea districts, looping in the estates usually in oxbow fashion, was more bane than boon –but we could not live without it.

A bit of the good stretch on the National Highway near Binnaguri in the Dooars (pic by Gowri Mohanakrishnan)

Like the blood circulatory system in our bodies, roads were integral to our survival in the estates. Quite apart from the regular functions of facilitating the supply of essential commodities and keeping us connected with the outside world, mainly with each other and the clubs, they were the trickle (and I use this word after careful thought) of earth our children traversed each day on their way to and from their schools.

Of schools in the Dooars there was no dearth, but the more popular ones were a fair distance away from most tea communities. Most of our children began their academic journey in the army or air force schools within cantonments in the vicinity. After a rattling drive through our own garden roads, they would catch a smooth highway, maintained by GREF or the armed services, to their schools. These were joyrides in pool-cars that left them woefully unprepared for the rigours of life to come. From the point of view of the parents, these small kindergarten-type schools served the purpose of easing their children into scholastic life – although a great deal of time was spent thereafter on ‘unlearning’ the lessons learnt in their nascent years!

The teachers in my son’s very first school were impeccable personalities. However, those allotted to the infant sections were justifiably selected on the basis of their compassionate and nurturing qualities, rather than their language skills. They tended to be deficient only in the medium of instruction that the school purported to follow. Holding his school reader at the level of his navel, we were astounded to hear our son read aloud the following sentence: “There was a beer in the forest!”

“No!” protested my husband. “There’s a beer in my fridge!”

“In the forest too!” insisted our first-born.

“You mean a bear?” I suggested helpfully, scanning his page from a distance. “There are many bears in the forest.”

“I mean ‘beer’!” said the Imperious One.

My husband and I exchanged glances.

“Beer is only found in the fridge, Baba,” said my husband. I could see his patience running thin. “In the forests, you get bears!”

“Ma’am said there was a beer in the forest,” said young Viraj firmly, clinching the argument.

“Let’s go there for a drink then!” sighed my husband, conceding defeat.

We held our tongues with great difficulty when Viraj got to the poetry section of his reader. “Cats in the cup board, hahaha!” he recited with exuberance.

Cup board?? Really? But which parent is mighty enough to compete with a teacher?

St. James’ High School in Binnaguri followed – it was the inevitable trajectory of a tea child’s life. Mornings began at 5.15am, irrespective of whether you were at the eastern or western tip of the Dooars. Fathers would roar their offspring off to a designated petrol pump on the highway, on their motorcycles or Gypsies, before heading to work. This was where the children would foregather before boarding the school buses that would trundle them to school. There was a driver and a helper in each school bus, and a clutch of teachers who lived on sundry estates.

The eastern Dooars bus had PT Ma’am (no relative of PT Usha) who lived in Satali. She was a blessing for parents in those pre-mobile days of yore, and a terror for the bullies on the bus.When the eastern Dooars bus was introduced, the road to Binnaguri was as smooth as a freshly depilated Anne French limb where the voiceover claimed “the chiffon scarf just glides off”! A drive each way took all of forty-five minutes. Then came the monsoons, and another, and another; and without repair or restoration the tarmac crumbled from the sum of its parts to the bituminous mess that our children had to oar through each way.

The Western Dooars bus had a marginally better route, although the loading point was also a large petrol pump. The helper on the bus had a nickname for all his charges. My daughter, Mallika, was Sushmita Sen, on account of her swinging ponytail. Patri Bhaiya, as he was called by the children, was an ordinary man who performed an extraordinary service. When we moved to Nagrakata, it was he who gently ushered our kids off right at the gates of Nagrakata Club on Friday afternoons, from where they would charge in like a swarm of hungry locusts in search of grub! It was much later that we discovered that Patri’s moniker was actually Patrick.

The uncertainty of those days verily hinged upon the state of the roads and reams could be written on how substandard they were. Buses returning from school inevitably docked at port later and later each year, frequently getting lodged in asymmetrical cavities or breaking down altogether. Somehow word would reach the affected estates and vehicles would set off to collect the children and bring them home. While mothers wrung their fingers in anxiety, the children had a wonderful time devising games to play on the bus. Mobiles and computers were still far from a reality in our neck of the woods, and recreation was as organic as a freshly laid desi egg. Fortunately there were no encounters with leopards and elephants, our reality, and I can assure you none with that beer in the forest – because as we all know in the plantations, beer is only found in the fridge!

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.

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

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!
ADD THIS LINK TO YOUR FAVOURITES : https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/Indian Chai Stories

The Late Cut

by Bernard VanCuylenberg
This is a tale of a planter who called the bluff of the union leader and the union, who in turn called his bluff which climaxed in an amusing finale ! For reasons of privacy I shall use a pseudonym and call him Les Parker-Bowles. LPB was a very popular member of his club, the planting fraternity in general, and in short the public with whom he interacted. A model of physical fitness, he was a superb rugger player a member of his district clubs rugby XV team, and this enhanced his popularity and reputation with lovers of the game. He played some cricket, but Rugger was his forte. He also had a reputation as being a strict but fair minded Superintendent of the plantation he managed, and was well respected by the community. In a word, he worked hard, and played hard.

Among the myriad problems that crop up in a planter's life, dealing with the labour unions could at times prove very testing. On the estate which he managed, LPB held a fortnightly meeting with the union. At these meetings any labour problems were thrashed out, and as far as possible 'resolved' to the satisfaction of the workers and management, thanks to mutual negotiations and the diplomatic skills of LPB. Discussions were always frank and open and in time the Union leader (the 'Thalavar') cultivated a healthy respect for his 'Dorai' and opposite number during such meetings.

Then one day the proverbial storm followed the calm ! At the next meeting LPB was surprised to receive from the union a list of demands (there were seven in total), foremost of which was the demand which stipulated that the number of bushes to be pruned by a worker should be reduced to 150 instead of the standard 200 which was the requirement at present. Up to this time LPB had been batting on a friendly wicket, but suddenly he had to face a barrage of hostile bowling with bouncers a plenty !

He did not flinch but was the epitome of sang froid and composure, displaying no adverse reaction at all. He calmly proceeded to take up the demands with the 'Thalavar', all the while maintaining eye contact with his opposite number which was part of the psychological weapon in his armoury. This took the wind out of their sails because they fully expected to bring him down a peg or two thinking he would ask them to reconsider. He then told them he would have to peruse their demands in detail and he needed time. But regarding the demand for a reduction in the number of bushes to be pruned, he despatched that one clean over the boundary for a massive six ! He insisted that there was no way that this demand could be met and 200 bushes was the final total.

Image sourced from Robert Wilson Ceylon Tea's 'Field Works on an Estate'

At the next meeting, the Union was more belligerent. They began the meeting by spear heading a hostile bowling attack ! They said that if at least six of the demands were not met to their satisfaction strike action was inevitable. The meeting ended with some tension, although LPB maintained a cool demeanour. By now the union leader felt he was holding a winning hand . Not losing the momentum, and being carried away at the thought of winning some of the demands, he played his trump card at the next meeting!

He may have had the proverbial rush of blood which lulled him into a sense of euphoria, and he said "Dorai - if YOU can prune 200 tea bushes with the pruners in a day, we will withdraw all our demands and not resort to any strike action !" He thought he had LPB on the ropes. They all knew how meticulous their "Dorai" was about his field rounds, but none of them had ever seen him wield a pruning knife,. There was no way he could prune 200 tea bushes - (even 100 bushes) - which was a very labour intensive task , and they thought they had him on the back foot !

There was a collective dropping of jaws when LPB calmly told them he would take up the "challenge". A day was then fixed for "the clash of the Titans" , although some of the workers were still convinced they had called his bluff.

D-Day arrived and the pruning field resembled a Roman amphitheatre with the pruners like infantrymen ready for battle. They stood by their rows knives ready, awaiting the arrival of their 'nemesis' whom they would vanquish that day. The pruning Kangany stood his ground like a centurion, handed LPB a pruning knife after he arrived, and assigned him a row.

And the arduous task of pruning got underway. It was then that the surprises sprung fast and furious ! By the time the veteran pruners had completed sixty bushes, they were awe struck to observe that LPG had completed pruning 65! He was wielding his pruning knife with the same dexterity and speed with which he handled a rugger ball on the playing field !!! His 'sleight of hand' and lightning strokes wielded the knife swishing left, right, up, down, and sideways, and one never saw a better and cleaner pruned tea bush anywhere ! In a word he was 'The Master Pruner'. And to drive the point home - or to score the winning try - he pruned five bushes extra for good measure thus pruning 205 bushes in total, and in record time !

True to their word, the Union in stunned disbelief withdrew all their demands, and all threats of any strike action vanished like the mist evaporating in the morning sun ! LPB's reputation was further enhanced after this incident, and he continued managing this particular plantation until he retired from planting and left for England in the mid sixties.

Dorai - boss, saheb
Thalavar - leader, head
Kangany - supervisor

Meet the writer: Bernard VanCuylenberg

My late Dad was a tea planter...hence memories of the tea plantations are precious to me. My memories of childhood, growing up in the salubrious climate of the tea country are very dear to me, because my brother, sister and I had parents who were angels.

Prior to migrating to Australia my working background was in the field of tourism and hospitality.

In Australia I worked for seventeen years as an Administrative Officer in the Victoria Police Department, and retired in 1999. I played lead and rhythm guitarin two bands ( in Sri Lanka, and in Australia). I loved the Sitar and always hoped I could learn it one day. Ravi Shankar was my idol. 

Here is a link to all Bernard's stories on this blog: https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/search/label/Bernard%20VanCuylenberg

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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