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Friday, August 9, 2019

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.

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My name is Gowri Mohanakrishnan and I'm a tea planter's wife. I started this blog because one of the things that I wouldn't want us to lose in a fast changing world is the tea story - a story always told with great seriousness, no matter how funny - always true (always), maybe a tall tale, long, or short, impossible, scary, funny or exciting but never dull.
 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

28 comments:

  1. Great note Yawar. How are you after all these years. Nirad Kunhiraman

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    1. Nirad, so lovely to hear from you. I am very well, thank you. In Hyderabad. Please email me yawarbaig@gmail.com
      Where are you? Indeed its been a lot of years.

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  2. Quslities of a great humane leader!

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    1. That is very kind of you. Thank you very much indeed

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  3. This story reminds me of a similar incident in Assam where my Father being a Surgeon in the Tea Gardens for nearly 30 years, had a very close shave with the wife of a senior Tea Manager. It was a case of conception having occurred in the Fallopian tubes, and the patient was loosing her pulse rapidly. Luckily for her she was at the Operation Theatre when Dad realised what was wrong and quickly performed the necessary operation. After that operation got over,along came a Scottish Tea planter who was to undergo his annual checkup. Dad got hold of him and made him donate blood. Thereafter the Scot was constantly found pushing his club chits across to the relieved husband as he was now part of "family"!

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  4. What a nice story. And narrated so well.
    I wonder if you also met the person to whose mother you donated your blood. Maybe the next time....

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    1. Yes indeed. As I think I mentioned, I met them both. The mother to whom I donated blood and the daughter who was born that day.

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    2. Please read the story again, Raji. Many thanks!

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  5. Enjoyed this very much!

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  6. A lovely, touching story illustrating the truth that sometimes we do things which seem simple to us but make a huge impact on others. Thank you for sharing it, Mr Baig.

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  7. Very true Madam. Many thanks for reading.

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  8. That IS a lovely tale.
    Enjoyed the read.
    Indi

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  9. Always good to read stories from the Anamalais. It's a trip down memory lane for Deepak & me, we spent 18 years in the district.
    Yawar & Samina, trust both of you are doing well.

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    1. Sunita, so good to hear from you. Samina and I are well. My email in yawarbaig@gmail.com How is Deepak? Those were lovely days indeed and a privilege to live them. Do keep in touch.

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  10. A lovely tale with the aura of an era gone by..

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    1. It was in a way an 'era gone by', though it was very present and modern in its own way.

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  11. A beautiful take on life in the tea plantations and the many ‘hats’ worn .

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    1. Most grateful to you for reading. Those were really lovely days and I am most grateful for being afforded the opportunity to experience them

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  12. What a heartwarming story! Mr. Baig, do give us more!

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    1. On the job!! Thanks for reading. Your comments make it worth writing.

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  13. Your tale reveals the human side of you and the appreciation of this of all the people you have come across. Thank you for recalling it here for us to read.

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    1. Most grateful for your kind words, Sir. Sorry for this late response. I didn't have a chance to return here for a while. Many thanks indeed for reading.

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  14. As a child I studied at Darjeeling, living in close proximity with the planters family. I thoroughly enjoyed your story.
    God rewards for selfless deeds... May the almight's blessing be always with you and your loved ones.

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