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.
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
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) |
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 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
Ha ha. That put a 'bug' in my bonnet and now I'm tempted to write another story. Enjoyed that - please do keep writing.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Minoo! Need motivation like this to get me going. What's the name of your earlier story? Seem to have missed it and need to rectify soonest.
ReplyDeleteShows my age. In my time (1950s and 60's) tea Planters usually had their children at boarding schools in Dargeeling or other locations or if ex-Pat in Blighty. Tea worrkers and Baboos sent their children to local schools in Nagrakata or Mal and there were somme Christian Missions spread around the tea districts. There were no school buses.
ReplyDeleteDelightful reading. Beers thrive in forests north of the Vindhyas. We have our Kolams (columns) in the South.
ReplyDeleteEnjoyed thoroughly your descriptive account. As Venk commented, our times were so very different. Beer, however, remained beer as it, happily, still remains so even if written and pronounced differently. Beer lovers would be happy to know that 'Child Bear' is available in plenty here in the Haryana 'grog' shops during the long hot summer months!
ReplyDeleteOh Roma, that brought back to life the Binnaguri Army school where both my children went to start with. Ayah-didis were kind but firm and my kids learnt to draw and colour Oranges fairly accurately. Kiki, our rambunctious daughter went to St. James's school and took the Bus along with other kids from Gandrapara & Lakhipara.
ReplyDeleteYour story reminded me how truly important those roads were and how we took them for granted!
Yeh dil maange more!
Mamlu? You're showing up as 'unknown'!
DeleteMademoiselle X?
So well written, Roma. In Assam, there were very few districts with schools that the tea children could go to, but some Tea ladies started schools in the clubs (obviously called Club Schools!) in the 60s and 70s, which were a real boon. My younger sister's first teacher at the Moran Club School was a British planter's wife, so she recited nursery rhymes with a 'propah' British accent, much to our amusement! Nowadays, of course, there are quite a few excellent schools all over Assam, and most planters can now send their children to school as 'day scholars'. The state of the roads, however, probably remain the same!
ReplyDeleteSuch an interesting read !
ReplyDeleteI still am part of this and how :O
Work at good ole St James School !
You bring life to the words the way you write Roma :)
Loved this Roma. It’s such an accurate account of our children’s introduction to education in far flung tea estates. And they all loved it!
ReplyDeleteBeautifully written... enjoyed every bit.
ReplyDeleteSimply delightful ... next time n a forest I will certainly look out for the beer and I cannot think of how Patrick became Pathri Bhaiyya without laughing and loving our country .
ReplyDeleteThank you Gowri for bringing these life stories to Chai for Cancer
Such a wonderful read, Roma! Savoured every bit of your recollections
ReplyDelete