Travails of a would-be Proprietary Planter - I

by Minoo Avari

These hills were the precursors to the Anamallais, where I had worked earlier as a tea planter, before being transferred to the Corporation’s coffee belt. I was still posted there, on Raigode Estate in South Coorg, but figured it was time to branch out on my own. Our three children were already schooling in Kodaikanal and we had come on a visit, which I combined with this reconnaissance mission. It would be nice to have the family together.

Part I: The Reconnaissance Mission

There was no wind and the early morning cool, having already surrendered to the heat coming up from the plains below, left a sheen of perspiration coating our faces. Strewn with rocks and stones, the path to the valley fell steeply from the road. Ponies, laden with farm produce, picked their way gingerly up the slope. Sweating from the heat, climbing with bulging gunny sacks strapped on both sides, they stepped nimbly on patches of clay, to avoid injury to their hooves: they had to be given a wide berth as we made our way down the narrow-broken track.

The watershed to our left, comprising largely of coarse lemon grass, had a few jackfruit trees with some scrub clinging to the shale. Makeshift clusters of banana cultivation, incongruous in this environment, appeared and disappeared in irregular succession, giving way to more lemon grass and dried out stumps of wild dates. To our right the hill rose sharply, culminating at its highest point: Perumalmalai. Clothed in grass and sporadic vegetable cultivation it is, for the most part, a dark granite escarpment cresting seven thousand feet: not at all like the volcanic peak it resembles when viewed from Kodaikanal.

Peon Balu whispered, 'Pethuparai'. He might well have exclaimed 'Philadelphia'!

Descending further into the valley, we stumbled upon a house … and then another. A little further there was a shop with a post box affixed to the outer wall. Peon Balu whispered, “Pethuparai”. He might well have exclaimed Philadelphia; such was the awe and reverence with which he introduced me to the village.

Standing outside the tiny shop we sipped tea from a glass. It tasted mighty sweet and, despite the hot sun, was invigorating. Balu had his own property below the village, which he had purchased while working as a peon in the government’s revenue department. Though he was now retired, he still identified himself as Peon Balu. His knowledge of government records and the lay of the land had prompted him to become a real estate broker.

He was attired in a white whaistie, which is a loosely tied tube of cloth wound tight around the waist, that fell to his ankles. Atop this he wore a white short-sleeve shirt. It is the attire of the older generation and worn for ceremonial as well as daily use. I never saw Balu in anything other than this traditional dress!

Thanking Rajan, the teashop owner, while adamantly refusing to allow me to pay, he placed the empty glasses on a roughly hewn wooden plank in front of the shop. In turn Rajan casually mentioned that the large acreage of land behind the shop belonged to him. Here a profusion of squash (locally known as ‘chow-chow’) vines, supported on latticed framework, allowed a bumper crop of the large prickly fruit to hang down and await harvesting.

The paucity of ponies determined how much fruit could be picked daily. A single pony was good for only a hundred kilograms – fifty on each side! With that bit of information, we continued on our mission. There were less stones now, as the path turned to clay and Balu began pointing out properties that were for sale. Actually, they all were, so he confined his remarks to only those that looked promising.

Shehzarin and I in February 1993.  All pix and captions by Minoo Avari

There were more trees and vegetative growth as we descended. The valley became narrower even as the gradient eased and a big bend, beyond the village, split by a mountain stream with little water trickling down, passed under a rough bridge below the path. After that there were no more turns for another two kilometres – when we came to a hairpin bend. The property abutting this junction was what Balu wanted to show me.

Earlier that morning, we had rendezvoused at the Kodaikanal bus station. Catching the six o’clock bus to Madurai we got off at Perumal, a small hamlet twelve kilometres away. From there we were on foot for two kilometres, before arriving at the junction, when we left the road to Palani and took the path down to Pethuparai and beyond.

It had been cold on the bus. There were no windows and the shutters had disappeared long ago. It got decidedly chilly as the bus passed the Silver Cascade and it was positively freezing as it made its way down through ‘Tiger Shola’, which earned its name, some decades ago, when tigers roamed this stretch of forest.

Amongst the oranges that brought us our first profit

I instinctively knew this property, below the village, was what I wanted – all twenty-four acres of it! The owner wasn’t there for he lived in faraway Pannaikadu; the ancestral property of the Chettiar business community. Nevertheless, Balu assumed the role of owner and we covered every inch of the property.

Facing East, this almost rectangular tract bulges with fertile soil in the centre, petering out to more stony and rocky outcroppings above. Located directly below Perumalmalai peak, the property starts from the entrance, by the hairpin bend, at four thousand feet and climbs to four thousand seven hundred feet. The peak can’t be seen from there but, standing at the top of the property, the temple town of Palani and the sprawling plains beyond, are clearly visible.

Balu told me those hills were the precursors to the Anamallais, where I had worked earlier as a tea planter, before being transferred to the Corporation’s coffee belt

A family of Black Eagles nested here. The parents took turns to sweep up from the plains, uttering shrill cries of alarm. Satisfied that we were harmless, they left in search of food which consisted mainly of snakes: a few large rat-snakes and poisonous vipers, along with the occasional hare, kept the family well fed. Standing there, at the highest point, looking at the hills opposite us, I tried to get my bearings.

Balu told me those hills were the precursors to the Anamallais, where I had worked earlier as a tea planter, before being transferred to the Corporation’s coffee belt. I was still posted there, on Raigode Estate in South Coorg, but figured it was time to branch out on my own. Our three children were already schooling in Kodaikanal and we had come on a visit, which I combined with this reconnaissance mission. It would be nice to have the family together.

A rumbling from my stomach brought me out of my reverie. It was past the lunch hour and I hadn’t eaten anything since an early breakfast in Kodaikanal. Balu seemed unconcerned, as he paused to close the makeshift wooden contraption that served as a gate, and I prepared to walk up the road back to the village. But Balu wasn’t going to have any of it. He was a big, well-built man, a few years older than I, but obviously very fit. Swinging a foot backward he caught the ankle length whaistie behind him and deftly folded it around his middle. Tucking this into the cloth already around his waist, he converted it to the nearest thing to short pants. I was in my working shorts and had on a sturdy pair of boots. He wore sandals below his well-developed calves!

Edwin was a duo-concert pianist who played at Carnegie Hall and the White House.  He and his partner Wilfred came to visit

Straightening up, he saucily suggested we go down, cross the river and see some estates on the other side. Not wanting to give him the impression I had already made up my mind about purchasing the property behind us, I followed him down to the river a few kilometres below. There was no bridge to make the crossing. It wasn’t really necessary though, for it resembled a burbling brook, with enough stones and boulders scattered across the water, allowing us to leap from one to the other.

Halfway across a cool breeze ruffled my shirt. It was following the water, coming down from the hills above, but I paid no particular attention to this phenomenon; relieved as I was at the sudden cool that replaced the stifling heat. We were on the other side in quick time and now made our way up the western side of the valley. There was a broad path to begin with, which dwindled to a narrow grassy track.

I must admit I wasn’t paying much attention to my immediate surroundings. My thoughts were firmly across the river; on that rectangular patch of land we had left behind. All the same, we were making steady progress, leaving the stream further and further below. Knowing I wouldn’t have enough money to turn the entire estate around at once, I was mentally focussing on the bulging centre portion.

With its stand of coffee and young orange plants, it would be my first source of income. Yes, I would have to concentrate on that four - or five- acre section first. There were trees there too which could be used as a stand for pepper vines. A manmade channel breaking into my reverie, no more than two-feet wide, devoid of water, ran across the track. It was coming from somewhere above, running down from the South.

Another three kilometres up we came across a second channel. Roughly the same size, this had a trickle of water flowing down in the same direction. Balu told me this water, from the falls below Vilpatty village, would soon dry up. However, with the North-East monsoon coinciding with the coffee picking season, it would provide us with water to pulp the coffee fruit. The land now was black and fertile. There were large trees here and I was able to identify mahogany, oak and some others whose names I only knew in Tamil. We were standing on a fourteen-acre plot, with a good stand of healthy coffee growing below a thick canopy of tree cover. It certainly was a better plantation choice than the one I had set my heart on but transport would be a major problem.

The Swaraj Mazda I purchased and used for thirteen years - it was a dual cabin and served for personal transport as well as carrying, fertilisers, oranges and coffee to market

Only accessible on foot, with no possibility of motorised transport, it belonged to a Manadiar family who were also in the mobile cinema business. They went from village to village in the plains, to screen Tamil movies, when there was no work on the property. I suspected they made more money from that venture than they did with their coffee cultivation. Nevertheless, it was still a valuable property: certainly the most fertile I had come across since we started out that morning. Walking across the breadth of this fourteen-acre patch, we stumbled on pomegranate trees, some cocoa plants, and a useful field of well planted coffee bushes. A ramshackle hut of mud and stone, with a thatch roof, was the only shelter. It wouldn’t offer any protection from rain though as the thatch was old and rotten. It would have to be torn down and rebuilt if it were to serve as any sort of accommodation.

Sensing my interest, as I lingered to take a closer look at the variety of flora on offer, Balu suggested we climb to the top where there was a Dolmen. It wasn’t far and I was intrigued by the large flat slabs of stone, standing about six feet apart, with another massive piece atop, serving as a roof!

Still puzzled at this ancient edifice, we ambled toward the bottom section which touched the same stream we had crossed a few hours ago. Midway down it started drizzling, which effectively stopped any further discussion on the intriguing Dolmen. Some folk on the other side, who were cultivating cabbages, started yelling in our direction. Balu wasn’t dark but he visibly paled. Telling me to start running, he made for the water below at a furious clip.

It was raining hard now: the stream had swollen and water, gushing down, made it impassable. Undaunted, Balu grabbed a rope with a loop dangling at the bottom. The other end was tied to a branch of a tree that spanned the water. Shoving it roughly into my hands he told me to put my foot in the makeshift stirrup and swing across. People, waiting on the other side, encouraged me to do what I had only read about in Edgar Rice Burroughs’ mythical Tarzan!

It happened very fast. I clung to the vine and Balu shoved me hard. I was soon across the water but sceptical about not swinging back and getting stranded right in the middle of this torrent. The cabbage cultivators grabbed the rope by my feet and held it fast, allowing me to jump on the bank next to them. One of them had a large stone ready. Tying it quickly, to the end of the rope, he hurled it back to Balu who caught it expertly and swung across with evident ease.

It was obvious he wasn’t new to this but it wasn’t the time for talking. The rain was now coming down hard. We had no umbrellas and were soaked to the skin before even starting up the slope. Running much of the time, to keep warm and escape as much of the rain as possible, we slowed awhile when Balu, coming close, yelled into my ear that we were on his property. Then we started up the slope again slipping and sliding on the already waterlogged ground.

Pethuparai wore a deserted look. The shop was closed. We had stopped running by this time but walked fast to keep warm. The rain, now a drizzle, intermingling with sweat, evaporated with a light steam from off our warm bodies. Bedraggled, we reached the junction when the rain stopped under a still overcast sky. We still had to walk to Perumal, where we caught a bus that had conveniently just stopped en route to Kodaikanal.

Wet and completely frozen, when the bus let me off at the start of Fernhill road, I had yet another kilometre to walk before getting home. It was past seven and already dark, leaving me with just enough strength to have a hot bath before diving under the covers of my bed.

Photo of the house.  I just added the two foot wall to protect the veranda

It might well have been an empty stomach that led me to dream of a stone house, with two small rooms under an assortment of rusty tin sheets; with no toilet or kitchen but sporting an open veranda, leading into the middle of a coffee plantation. Not exactly Buckingham Palace, it was to be my home for twenty-five years.

Note: The author has promised to send Part II  in due course 

Meet the Writer: Minoo Avari

Minoo riding bareback in Ging, Darjeeling

In his own words: I was born in Calcutta on November the 26th 1945 though we were a Darjeeling based family. I studied at North Point (St. Josephs College - Darjeeling) and then went on to do my College in St. Xavier's College, Calcutta. I played a lot of tennis at this point, travelling around the country playing in just about all the tournaments then. 

Later I joined the tea plantations in Darjeeling and was on Ging and Tukdah Tea Estates till 1970 when I switched companies and joined The Bombay Burmah Trading Corporation. I had got married earlier in the year and my wife and I were posted to Oothu Estate in Tirunelvelli District of Tamil Nadu.  Now I lead a retired life - writing, playing tennis and enjoying riding my motorcycle. I am currently the President of the local Farmers Association and also the United Citizens Council of Kodaikanal. I am also a member of the London Tea History Association. 

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