I Have my Licence

Lataguri. Gorumara. These are names you see on travel websites advertising holiday stays at 'resorts' in the Dooars. There was a time when the forests of Lataguri and Gorumara were dense and forbidding; they were dark, even during the day. Venk's story brings that era to life.

by Venk Shenoi

Pic of Venk with the Tata Nano in which he went round India in 2013

Grassmore Tea Estate is spread over 2,000 acres of land and getting around on foot at all hours of the day was not practical. I had my trusted Hind bicycle which gave me four years’ service during my student days in Kharagpur. Pedalling up and down the *Mela-tracks was hard work particularly in hot-weather and rain, and you were dependent on others for lifts to the Club.

The company offered loans – up to 15,000 rupees for cars and three or four thousand rupees if you got a motor cycle. A Hindusthan cost Rs 11,000 and a Triumph Herald Rs 9,500. I opted for the cheaper option and preferred the freedom of the elements on my face at speed. 

My motorcycle, the latest Rajdoot in 1963 (see photo) cost 3,400 rupees and arrived from the agents in Siliguri on the back of a lorry after a month’s wait. The driver gave me basic lessons – start, stop, turning my head looking for oncoming traffic and rudimentary hand signals, although I was not sure how I could give hand signals while gripping the throttle on the handle bar. May be the instructor was talking about driving a car.

I got the hang of it in no time. For a while I dashed around the estate tracks falling down occasionally on the slippery slopes crossing the jhoras - rivulets - and burning skin off my left calf on the exhaust pipe. That was really painful. Getting up after a fall and lifting the bike up on the slippery track was a skill I acquired after some practice.

I soon realised I needed a licence to take the bike on the road. The chief Babu in the office arranged to get me a learner’s licence from the District Office in Jalpaiguri in no time and I was on my way to train myself towards getting my first licence. No matter the falls and occasionally dashing against a cow or buffalo trying to cut across my path uninvited.

The day arrived when I had to present myself for the test. Getting up early I started for Jalpaiguri some fifty miles away via Mal and the kacha-roads through Gorumara forest on to Lataguri and Moynaguri to the Eastern banks of the Teesta River which was several miles across in the flood-season. An island which changed its shape with the water level lay in the middle of the river and you had to take two ferries to cross over to Jalpaiguri Town.

The first crossing brought you to the sand banks and the motor cycle wheels sank in the loose sand. So pushing hard with occasional help from those around, I made it at last on hard ground in Jalpaiguri. It had taken nearly four hours including the two hours walking and ferrying across the river. Excited, I managed to find the District Transport Office and presented myself to the chaprasi. It was 1.30 pm and the Licence Babu had gone for lunch.

Hungry, I managed to get some tele-bhaja and chai by the road side and waited for the Babu to arrive. He came at 3.00, and apologising profusely that I had had to wait so long. took out his note book and wrote down my name and address and scribbled that this was a provisional motor cycle licence which required formalising within six months after Police checks. Feeling cheated, I asked – ‘Thank you Babu, but what about my test?’

‘What test?’ he exclaimed. ‘How did you come here?’

‘On my bike, Babu’, I said politely.

‘So that was your test!’ he retorted, somewhat annoyed that I had dared to question his decision.

Never one to give up, I insisted he gave me a proper test according to the Highway Code for which I had been practising for weeks.

‘Achha Paagol**!’ he said and we went together to the field behind his office.

He asked me to do four rounds of the field and stop in front of him sharp which I did obediently. He then asked me to look right and then left and turn right and then left and return after two more rounds.

He was in better humour by now and asked me, ‘Are you satisfied with your test?’

‘Yes, Onek Dhonnobad’,*** I mumbled.

‘So you have passed your test now properly and can ride your motorcycle safely’, he said.
‘Thank you Babu’, I said as he handed me the hand written note which was supposed to be my licence. He also stamped the paper. I had passed my test at last.

It was four o’clock by now and I had to return and cross the ferry across the Teesta and it would be dark soon. The return crossing only took an hour and a half and I was on the Moynaguri side as darkness fell.

The road back through Lataguri and Gorumara was hell on earth as torrential rain hit me in the dark. Millions of insects splattered across my face and glasses as I progressed slowly, hardly seeing the road ahead and trying to keep my balance as I approached the edge of the road. The head light on the Rajdoot was not up to cutting through the rain or the cloud of insects as I progressed towards Grassmore. It was a long, long journey.

Yes, I made it at last after three hours ride in blinding rain, soggy and wet.

Yes, that was my real test, and I knew I had passed.

*Mela - tea plucking row. This is called 'Mela' in the Dooars and 'Padhi' in Assam

 **Paagol - madman

 ***Onek Dhonnobad - many thanks

 
Meet the writer:

Venk and Anna Shenoi

 

Over to Venk: 'Born in Chertala, Travancore (Kerala), grew up in Chertala, Calcutta and Bombay. Can read and write in Bengali (my best Indian language), Malayalam, Hindi and Marathi apart from English, smattering of spoken Czech, German, Mandarin Chinese, Tamil and Konkani (my mother tongue, which I have forgotten for all practical purposes). 

Was a Dooars Tea Company Assistant Manager from 1962 – 65, posted at Nagrakata and Grassmore T.E.s.

Went round India on a Tata Nano in 2013. 

Member of the Conservative Party, and served two terms as an elected District Councillor in the Forest of Dean Gloucestershire where I live. Apart from travel, visiting museums and archaeological sites, history, radio, photography, vintage fountain pens, concerned about world population explosion and resource limitation leading to extinction of man on earth soon.' 

Read all Venk's stories here: https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/search/label/Venk%20Shenoi

Is this your first visit here? Welcome to Indian Chai Stories!
You will meet many storytellers here at Indian Chai Stories, and they are almost all from the world of tea gardens: planters, memsaabs, baby and baba log. Each of our contributors has a really good story to tell - don't lose any time before you start reading them! 

 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. 

You will find yourself transported to another world! Happy reading!
Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea! 

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

Johnny Hodges & I

Here's a story that has nothing to do with tea - but I am sure our readers will enjoy it, because it is a planter's story after all!

by Aloke Mookerjee 

Soon after college in Calcutta, I joined the global commodities trading firm Louis Dreyfus, located in Brabourne Road. In India, however, Louis Dreyfus remained a small outfit headed by a Frenchman who resembled Kirk Douglas, or so I thought!

Their main business here was in the domestic trade and export of jute goods – gunny sacks and hessian cloth, which was then popular worldwide as an economical and durable material for bulk packing. While learning the ‘intricacies’ of ‘B’ Twill Bags (with three blue stripes!) and 40”/10oz. hessian cloth, I realised quickly that my work was as dry and unglamorous as the goods Louis Dreyfus was trading in! I decided then that, as a profession, this would not be mine for long. Being barely twenty probably accounted for such definitive views and paved the way for my escape to the Dooars in North Bengal about two years later.

Meanwhile, a regular salary coming in while ‘counting bales’ kept me going rather happily! A friend and I decided to share an apartment we found available on rent. It was tiny but very airy and very bright. We hired some furniture, a small battered fridge and a kerosene cooker. We bought some curtains for the windows and pictures for the walls. I remember the curtains as being rather loud and garish, matching well with our ways then, I guess. We also bought some china plates, cutlery and some cooking utensils. We hired a man servant. This was necessary for while we both loved good food, we were neither inclined nor adequately versed in this esoteric art. As a final and essential touch to the apartment, I set up my precious music system; my father’s old valve radio hooked onto a turntable that played my collection of 12”, 10” & 7” vinyls – all jazz.

Despite the ludicrous (by today’s standards) monthly emoluments and the crushingly dull work schedule (compensated partially by the vivacious Anglo-Indian secretaries spreading their smiles along with a huge wave of scent as they passed by!), life was good. The beer sessions on Saturday afternoons were now more frequent as were the weekend sprees to the famed (and gratefully affordable) Calcutta nightclub ‘Scheherazade’ for Sonny Lobo’s big band jazz sounds! Trincas, Mocambo and Magnolia filled in the other evenings with jazz and the Sunday mornings with their jam sessions.

We had no car but the public transport was reasonably efficient and when occasion demanded, the ubiquitous black and yellow ‘Ambassadors’ with their cheerful ‘Sardarji’ drivers were always available for the feel of being ‘chauffer driven’ to our destination. The distinctive charm of Calcutta had not yet faded.

One such Saturday afternoon was going rather well in our tiny apartment. Beer was flowing with Brubeck thumping (rather loudly) from my LP spinning on the turntable. Despite the absence of Eugene Wright and Joe Morello in this particular concert, ‘Jazz at Oberlin’ remains to be one of my favourites in amongst other Dave Brubeck performances. The high decibel sounds must have penetrated the apartment to reverberate outside with considerable force for suddenly, a loud knock overpowering the din inside, could be heard emanating from the entrance door. Expecting an irate neighbour demanding immediate consideration, I hesitantly opened the door and saw myself facing a white man towering over me. He turned out to be an American of at least 6’6” in height, with two long playing records in his hand.

“Isn’t that Dave Brubeck I hear?” he asked looking down from a great height! “Yes, so it is” I replied. “Well, I have never heard this recital of Brubeck's before. May I come in to listen?”. “Sure, do come in”. Soon, settled in our rather hard straight-backed sofa, he seemed comfortable enough and happy with what he was hearing – evidently for the first time. He then showed me his two LP records. One was Miles Davis’ path breaking ‘Birth of the Cool’ while the other was a Duke Ellington, the name of which I have forgotten.

He introduced himself as Johnny Hodges (not to be confused with the great African American alto saxophonist of many years in Ellington’s band), in the midst of his travels through South East, South and West Asia, primarily with an aim to promote jazz. A few cold beers and more music later, our Johnny Hodges realised full well my love for jazz. A lunch of hot chapatis with a mean mutton curry followed and was greatly relished.

Finally bidding farewell, he came over to me and handed the two records he had been holding on to. “Very happy to do so”, he remarked, adding that the vinyls “would surely remain well cared for in the good hands of a true jazz lover”. That was the first and last time I met our Johnny Hodges.

NB: I had those LPs for many years till my move to Papua New Guinea when I lost all my jazz collection in transit.

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. There are over 120 stories of tea life here, all written by people who have lived in tea gardens. 

Add this link to your favourites: https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/ 

Happy reading! Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea!

 
Meet the writer: Aloke Mookerjee

Here's what Aloke has to say about himself : 'Long retired from tea, but still active in business. Even after all these years, tea remains to live strongly in my thoughts; they were the best years of my life. Other interests? Always loved Jazz music - still do and have written about this incredible genre. Love vintage airplanes (thus my love for Dakotas!) and cars, and intend to make this my next focus.'  Here is the link to all posts by Aloke - Stories by Aloke Mookerjee

Aloke has recently published a book, The Jazz Bug, which is available on Amazon. Read about it here: https://notionpress.com/read/the-jazz-bug?fbclid=IwAR2HjxSU2rY6sq5cX_lzBxJY5oat1i_Z22qKdRRP1Tm77Dqp48B2CAlnGvY 

Listen to Dave Brubeck's 'Jazz at Oberlin':

and here's a short piece, just to get a taste of the music!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KAlVasHbipo

The Saga of the White Snake

by Simran Sandhu 

This one is of me in the maali bari and the tall dahlias I have mentioned

So we had moved from Sagmmotea to Nahorani ... Misa club to Thakurbari club. This was a bigger "chang" bungalow with a much longer, winding drive. It was nestled among mature, very tall trees and had some amazing shrubs some very tall dahlias, cosmos and many other varieties of flowers and come winter, the inevitable "baraf", those multi-coloured little gems edging all the flower beds.

Mesembryanthemums

I had a penchant for lamps ( I still do), a penchant almost bordering on a mania, so I had hanging lamp shades made in all shapes and sizes from a local craftsman ; the lamp shades ranged from being round to a square, a hexagon, an oblong, a rectangle and anything in between They were simply and perfectly woven in bamboo .

The next thing was to find a suitable corner to hang them from.. and of course what better place but my happy place- the " jaali kamra",a lovely square space with ageing floor boards and wooden beams and a (not very new) wire mesh to keep the various creepy-crawlies from creeping inside .

Very soon, a corner of my "jaali kamra "was adorned by the six hanging shades of varying shapes and lengths adding a rather mellow and magical ambiance in the evenings whilst we sat around the round table listening to Queen, Bryan Adams over GT's and Rum and Coke. My mother, on one of her rare visits to us counted 45 lamp shades in our house..!

The Jaali kamra with my mom and dad and the bamboo shade in the background

Hindsight is a wonderful thing and now when my very eco-friendly daughter hears of the 'lampshade saga', she is appalled and gives me a very well deserved dressing down for having wasted so much electricity and being one of the millions of individuals who are instrumental in causing the environment harm. 

I cringe, but in my defence, hasten to explain that I needed all these lights to light up the dark nooks and crannies of the huge rambling bungalow with its creaking floor boards,temperamental water taps, stained bath tubs and sometimes leaking roofs .To add more substance to my defence, I also add that these bungalows were more often than not inhabited by bats and lizards and snakes and apparitions in white... more so than humans!

This bungalow was not in the best condition, it was only the first and the last bungalow where I had kept a little "goru"a cow so I had a small “ goru ghar” i.e cow shed made of bamboo in one corner of the “mali bari”!

One of the three chowkidars (that we inherited) was a surly, middle aged chap, one of the very rare workers who supported a sizable belly. He was obviously very well fed and did not get much exercise. He was a man of very few words but over the months since we moved in he began articulating a bit more. I am not sure if was the locally sourced alcohol or the charms of my rather attractive, very slim,always pristine, clad in white mini (maid) who had travelled with us from the previous garden.

I was expecting my first born and prone to cravings and also quite moody (as is expected). In addition to the rather abnormal cravings for the very spicy "Haldiram bhujia" that the young mali Neelambar got packets of from the nearby town of Rangapara (in hordes without the knowledge of my husband), I was also a bit petrified of the dark nights and of being on my own - especially when my husband was in the factory.

Ranjiv with his sister and brother in law

The portly chowkidar had been instructed to stay upstairs in the lampshade “infested” jali kamra as I watched endless videos of the James Bond 007 series over endless cups of "ketli chai" that was constantly replenished, Marie biscuits and spicy Haldiram bhujia almost soaking in the spicy Maggi hot and sweet sauce ( something that I gorge on in times of stress even now twenty four years after ).

One night - and it was a rather stormy one at that - with the eerie sound of the wind amongst the tall trees...the occasional hoot of the owl, the shadow of the bats as they set about on their nocturnal flights, the rustling of the little rats that I knew had a permanent home in the confines of the “faltu karma” and the maybe even the kitchen amongst the grimy aluminium pots (on which no amount of scrubbing had ever worked) the chowkidar knocked on the door, gasping for breath. He stuttered that he had just sighted a “boga saamp” i .e white cobra near the “ goru ghar”.

He was pale and agitated and profusely sweaty. He said the “ boga saamp” is the undisputed lord of the garden and that it was bad luck to disturb / kill it. He had seen it slithering and moving and he was convinced it could easily slither across the garden into the house!!

I became agitated and tense and in incoherently "walkie talkied" my husband about this. Within ten minutes, I heard the sound of his car and his deep authoritative voice questioning the chowkidar.

Out came the big torch and armed with lathis ,the three chowkidars and my husband marched towards the corner of the garden near the lotus pond aiming to get rid of this white snake !

After a while they all came back ... with nothing to report except some very muddy boots and drenched clothing as it has started to rain. Assam and the blighty do have the one thing in common- the big W-vagaries of weather. The portly chowkidar, to his chagrin, got a firing for leading everyone up the garden path ( pun intended ) in the middle of the night!

Of course, by now it was the beginning of dawn and it being a Sunday, my husband without a second thought rounded up his Wilson 2000 and off he went for a round of golf leaving me, the “golf widow” to my own devices .. yet some more tea and biscuits ...sigh!

That evening, just as we were about to set off for the club, this chowkidar ambled up to me and without quite meeting my eye, said, and I quote,

“ ..Memsahib, hum maalom kiya hai .. woh boga saamp nahin thah .. Wo toh aapka mini thah, woh boga saree mein maali bari mien doosra chowkidar ke saath mohabbat banata hei” 🤣

Simply translated, “I have found out that it was your maid in her “white saree” in the throes of an intimate act with the other chowkidar.”

Of course our good man, this chowkidar, in his inebriated state mistook the writhing in the white saree to be that of no less but of the white snake !

Suffice it to say the bungalow was soon bereft of both ..the mini and her amour !!

As for the “ boga saamp” I am certain it still resides somewhere amongst the shrubs in the far corner of the bari !!

1.Chang bungalow-- A house on stilts.
2.Barf Phool - Mesembryanthmemum
3.Jaali Kamra - Deep verandah with mesh windows
 4.Goru- Cow
5.Goru Ghar -Cow shed
6.Mali Bari- Garden
7.Ketli chai -Tea in a tea pot
8.Faltu Kamra -Guest room
9.Boga saamp- White snake
10.Walki Talkie - Wireless
11.Chowkidar- Guard
12.Mini -Maid

Meet the writer: 

A Word from Simran:
Hello chai people
I left tea many years ago and life has been a real roller coaster; one that I have learnt from and loved every minute of , but the lush green of the tea bushes and the time spent in the “Jaali Kamra”,my happy place, is as vivid today as it was all those years ago. (Wish I could build one here but not sure if I will get the planning permission from the old fogies of the local county council 😊) 

I now live in the “blighty” with my two children and I work for the local government. I paint watercolours occasionally (time permitting ), love reading, antique fairs and long drives in the rolling Peak district. I often surprise all of my British friends when I bake cupcakes and scones , vol-au-vents and stuffed chicken, not to mention serving them in a tea trolley replete with perfectly starched napkins and bone china … a throwback to the "chai" days that I still hold very dear to my heart as I do all the lovely friends and memories made all those years ago. 

Is this your first visit here? Welcome to Indian Chai Stories! 
ADD THIS LINK TO YOUR FAVOURITES : https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/Indian Chai Stories
There are over a hundred stories here, and they are all from the tea gardens! Our storytellers are tea planters and their memsaabs, baby and baba log. Each of our contributors has a really good story to tell - don't lose any time before you start reading them! 

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!

Burra Memsahibs

  'Never form your opinion on hearsay, be polite to everyone and keep your circle small.'
by Gumi Malhotra

During my fifteen years in tea, I was ‘under the wing’, so to say, of four Burra Memsahibs.

I came to Kakajan Tea Estate as a diffident newbie and met the Manager’s wife, Mrs Hanwant Singh. Tall and stately, she had an air of authority about her, and I noticed everyone straighten up when she walked in. Her daughter Ritu and I hit it off and shared many gups and giggles and I’d go to the Burra bungalow more to meet Ritu than her mother.

Mrs Singh treated me with the affection and indulgence due to an ignoramus. There are many little incidents I remember of those three months in Kakajan...hand written notes asking the ladies over for coffee, conversations on running a house and gardening, cooking lesson in her kitchen where the famed cook Surjit taught us his light as air chocolate soufflé. She told me once in a mild matter of fact way, 'Never form your opinion on hearsay, be polite to everyone and keep your circle small.'

She epitomizes the spirit of the tea ladies who were “Burra” not only owing to their husband’s position, but in stature and spirit.

In Nahortoli, I remember Afruza Chaudhury being fiercely protective of Imaan, who I brought to the garden as a one month oId baby. I told her once that he broke the only bottle of perfume I possessed and she looked alarmed and said, “ Oh God, I hope he didn’t hurt himself”!!

Later in Damdim, Mrs Meera Pandya, spoiling the boys with her motherly charm.

Roma Singh was by far the most chilled out Bara Mem ever! Always encouraging, never a negative word for anyone. We’d walk in for a chat or a swim anytime and were always welcomed with her signature laugh and a laden tea trolley!

Once after a very late night, about ten of us landed up at the Bara Bungalow at 2 am and asked the chowkidar to wake up the Manager Kuljit Singh, demanding coffee, an unheard impudence in tea! Not only were we not thrown out, we were plied with drinks, coffee and warm lemon tarts!

By the time I found myself living in the Bara kothi, I was a pale imitation of these stellar ladies. I’m much more myself living in a small apartment reminiscing of a way of life long gone.

Meet the writer: Gumi Malhotra

Gumi Malhotra

Hello chai people! Here’s one more attempt to pen down some of the million memories I carry with me. We came away from the gardens twelve years ago with our hearts full ( not so much the pocket) of such nuggets. 

We live in Bangalore now and what started as a hobby in the gardens has become my calling. I paint pet portraits. The happiest days spent in tea were in the Jali kamra with my paints, the boys occupied with make believe cars and a steady stream of tea flowing from the kitchen. Cheers!

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. You will find yourself transported to another world! 
 
Happy reading! Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea!
ADD THIS LINK TO YOUR FAVOURITES : https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/Indian Chai Stories