Becoming a Planter

by Minoo Avari

CALCUTTA – Circa December 1965: THE INTERVIEWS

It was pretty much the same group that did the rounds, from one agency house to the next. Fresh out of college, we were going for interviews with the big tea companies. There were strapping lads from Delhi; a few from Bihar, Assam and Uttar Pradesh … and then there was me. We paraded the streets of Calcutta, checking appointment times; feeling important; talking loudly, while waving at passing ubiquitous Ambassador cars, and hiding our anxiety as best we could. Becoming an assistant manager on a tea plantation was a coveted post and certainly a big deal. Everyone was suited and booted. Flashy ties, bowties and multi-coloured shoes were frowned upon. Indeed, the unwritten dress code could be summed up in a word: sombre! This immediately eliminated the unwary, who came up short in colourful socks. However, there was still a large contingent in the fray. Seated in lounges, outside the offices of the Directors, the silence bore testimony to jangling nerves as candidates were summoned, one at a time, to enter the offices of those who would play God.

It was an inexplicably heady feeling, entering the portals of Duncan Goodricke, Williamson Magor, James Warren, Octavius Steel and, of course, James Finlay. Aspirants, called in for interviews, came out five or ten minutes later with brave smiles hiding obvious concerns, intermingled with audible sighs of relief. It was scary. Once inside, four or five solemn gentlemen, on the opposite side of large desks, glared imperiously down their noses. They always waited awhile, before asking you to be seated on the lone chair facing them.

Fidgeting, looking down at one’s shoes, or staring at the ceiling, guaranteed a quick exit. In my case, to add to my discomfiture, I knew most of them. They were friends and acquaintances of my father and grandfather. For all that, they appeared not to know me at all! Asking questions, to which they already had the answers … and I had to reply as best I could. These interviews ended with a curt thank you and, the added, “we will be contacting you shortly.” This required a polite thank you in return, followed by a nod and a wink at the lads outside, still awaiting their interviews in the lounges.

In the weeks that followed a flurry of official stereotyped letters poured in, thanking me for coming to the interview. Some said vacancies for assistant managers had already been filled. Then there were those that said I was found acceptable and asked me to report to their respective head offices, where I would be given an allowance for crockery, cutlery, curtains, bedsheets etc. After giving these letters some thought, I chose The Darjeeling Company – I had had my fill of the big city and wanted nothing more than to get back to Darjeeling. 

Though I had never been below the Superintendent’s bungalow, at the top of the estate, I had already been to Ging tea estate on social visits. That was comforting and, so it was, I trooped across to James Warren & Co. They were the forwarding agents for The Darjeeling Company, where I collected a generous allowance. With my mother and aunt Kitty keeping me in tow, we spent days at the New Market where I was a mere spectator to reams of curtain materials being unravelled: there were tempting Noritake china crockery sets on display and, of course, the cutlery just had to be Rosenthal! They looked genuine enough and came in within my allotted budget. With that I was all set to go to Darjeeling.

Ging: Showing Dad the new rotorvane

GING TEA ESTATE: On the last day of January 1966, the company jeep pulled up in front of Kenilworth, our home on Ashley Road, just below the Darjeeling Gymkhana club. I didn’t have much by way of luggage and we were soon on the road. Saudhan, the driver, drove fast, obviously enjoying the new jeep and we were speeding down the narrow stretch, below the Lebong Race Course, in quick time. Turning off on the Estate road below Ging Bazaar, with impeccable tea fields on both sides, Saudhan told me that the Hardingham’s had retired and had already left for the United Kingdom. David Little, he told me, now occupied the Superintendent’s bungalow. I was aware of all that but nodded anyway.

Marjorie Lancaster

Riang: with Shree, Jas, Tom and Uttara

It was about 4:00 pm, on that cold winter’s day, when we pulled up outside the kitchen entrance. Assistant Managers never entered the Superintendent’s front door unannounced. I stood outside the jeep while Saudhan offhandedly told the kitchen staff that we had arrived. Someone came out, telling me to walk around to the front of the house: a clear insinuation that, in the pecking order of things, the Assistant was below the Superintendent’s bungalow staff. Walking around gave me time to compose myself, before knocking timidly on the front door. A liveried bearer opened it with a flourish.

I was ushered into the familiar cosy sitting room, there was David Little puffing on his pipe, peering at me from under bushy, ginger eyebrows. I noticed a huge British planter seated alongside. He smiled dutifully but it was his wife, Marjorie, whose smile was reassuring. I stood by the door not knowing quite what to do, other than reminding myself not to fidget. It was intimidating. Richard Lancaster, at six feet five and a half inches tall, occupied the entire sofa. Seated, he was taller than I, still standing with my arms behind my back and awaiting an invitation to sit.

Just then Celia Little, the Superintendent’s wife, came bustling in with hot scones and crumpets. Laying them on the table she said, “Well, for heaven’s sake sit down. We don’t want the tea getting cold, do we!”

David frowned as I hesitated. “When the Burra Memsahib tells you to sit, you snap to it ,young man,” he bellowed. I was seated in a flash. It turned out rather pleasant after that. The conversation was centred around me, with David telling Richard about my parents, my knowledge of Nepali and my prowess on the tennis court. All very flattering undoubtedly; I still had to keep in mind I was on probation and that there would be little leeway for any slipups.

The scones were delicious and the tea the best I had tasted. I tried to keep the cup from rattling on the saucer, while Richard, noticing my reticence to attack the crumpets, laughed out loud.

“Eat up, we’ll take it out of your hide tomorrow,” he said, still chuckling disconcertingly.

Richard was the Acting Manager on the estate. He had come from the plantations in Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) and joined Ging a few months prior to my arrival. Still struggling to speak Nepali, his vocabulary was speckled with Tamil and English thrown in the mix. I was to be his Assistant for the next two years, before he was transferred to Bannockburn and Baljit Sukarchakia, who was on Bannockburn, came to Ging as my manager. Reaching out for yet another scone I was arrested in the act, with David Little telling me about the forthcoming tennis tournament in the Dooars. “We take this very seriously. There has never been a winner from Darjeeling and we want to change that statistic.” I wondered if that was why the Company wanted me! Sports were an essential component of working in the plantations and tennis, undoubtedly, was at the top of the list. It was followed by cricket and soccer.

I knew several tennis players from the Darjeeling contingent. There was my buddy, Harish Mukhia, with whom I had played an exhibition match against the visiting Calcutta players, Premjit Lall and Jaideep Mukerjee, some years earlier. David Little was a keen player himself, as were the Hardingham’s before him. Gordon Fraser, Som Kochar, Hemi Rickye and L.B. Rai were some of the others who were regulars at the Gymkhana Club courts. Of course, there were ladies too but this tournament, down in the Dooars, was only for men! That didn’t prevent the women from accompanying their husbands, it being a gala event that nobody wanted to miss.

Scarcely a few weeks as a tea planter, Harish and I drove down to the club in the plains. We were to be hosted by the different planters there. L.B. Rai and I were put up on Bagrakote, as guests of Donald (Big Mac) and Betty McKenzie. At the club that evening, the Dooars planters successfully drank us under the table! Nevertheless, both Harish and I, fortunately on opposite sides of the draw, entered the finals of the “A” Meet. It was the first time any player from the hills had actually got past the quarter-final stage. That final was a real battle. We knew one another’s strengths and it was only a question of who would perform better on the day. It was my day. After the match Farookh Aga’s wife presented the trophies. I remember Dougie Armstrong won the ‘B’ Meet, which ran concurrently and there were celebrations through the night. After that it was back to work. I had to check the stores and make an inventory of the tools and equipment on the estate. Then I had to familiarise myself with Kaffiebarie division.

Badamtam, with Jiwan Pradhan and Sonnam Topden

There were three divisions. Ging, on top all by itself, with Gelongtar, on the Badamtam Estate border to the North and Kaffiebarie on the Southern side of the plantation. Both these lower divisions touched the stream, separating us from Tukdah, which was also part of the company. It was a prize property, with Derek Royals managing the tea that sprawled to the East in front of us. More importantly, it wasn’t affected by any labour problems, as the Communist Unions couldn’t get a foothold.

It wasn’t a happy time though for planters on most estates. The Congress government had fallen and a coalition of Congress and Communists, calling themselves the United Front, pretended to govern Bengal. There was no law and order and Gelongtar division, with its fully communist union, proved to be the most turbulent in the district. There were strikes and ‘go slows’ almost every day, accompanied by ‘gheraoes’, where planters were surrounded for several days with nothing to eat or drink.

The entire district was affected. Managerial staff were targeted and there were instances of limbs being amputated by workers, armed with kukris or pruning knives: the grievously injured, callously left to their own devices. Every weekend most planters congregated at the Planter’s Club. From there they often drove en masse, to rescue some Manager or Assistant who, surrounded in his bungalow, had no lights, no water and nothing to eat. I remember one such incident on Mim where Gordan Temple was the manager.

Somehow, he got word to the Club that he was in trouble. I got into Willie Campbell’s Land Rover and, with a string of vehicles following, got to the estate bungalow. There were no lights. Willie was able to start the generator and then we all trooped in with food and water, but couldn’t find Gordan Temple. After a while we heard a voice from the attic asking: “Is it safe to come out?” We spent the rest of the night there reassuring him but had to leave at daybreak to get back to our own estates.

The lawlessness spread to even docile Kaffiebarie division. One November evening, Richard Lancaster and I were surrounded by an angry mob in the pruned tea field, just below the factory. Standing there in short pants and short sleeve shirts, we were freezing. To make matters worse our mouths became dry and we were both incredibly thirsty. My little ‘paniwalla’, Birbhadur, was watching all this with obvious consternation. With gestures I signalled we were thirsty and he was off like a shot.

Arriving a half-hour or so later, he tossed me a bottle which he had pulled from the refrigerator. Protocol demanded that I give it to my senior before it was snatched away. Richard hastily poured half the contents down his throat before handing it over to me. I drank with equally large gulps, even as the labour, becoming agitated, were about to wrest the bottle away.

Before they could get to us, the bottle was empty and that ended the ‘gherao’. It was a bottle of gin; the label had peeled off in the refrigerator! Both of us, standing there in the gathering darkness, had our arms around one another’s shoulder’s, singing “Last Train To San Fernando” and desperately pleading with the workers not to leave. Disgusted, they left nevertheless; leaving us singing in the moonlight and nursing enormous hangovers the following day. Richard and I were to become good friends thereafter!

However, chaos, confusion and violence were the order of the day. Businessmen, not wanting to invest in Bengal anymore, began flighting capital to other States. However, they were forcibly restrained from shifting their head office’s elsewhere. While there were innumerable horror stories, coming from the plantations on a daily basis, I can best relate a few incidences that had to do with me. I must admit, I was one of the lucky few who got away unscathed!

Ging Chotta Kothi

A year after the Kaffiebarie incident, I was attacked in the office by a kukri bearing Kalamaan chaprassy. There was little I could do. Seeing his kukri raised above his head, prepared to strike, I was taken completely by surprise. Instinctively, I pushed the desk between us, as hard as I could. That knocked him over and I quickly jumped to my feet to disarm him. Getting the kukri out of his grasp and nudging him out of the office, perhaps none too gently, he couldn’t stop himself from stepping over the factory plinth area. With giant strides he couldn’t arrest, he fell into the tea bushes about ten feet below.

Of-course, he was as drunk as a Lord and put up to this by the Union. Nevertheless, that resulted in his collarbone getting broken which, in turn, led to the entire division going on strike the next day. Ken Hutchinson, who was the Secretary of the Darjeeling Branch of the Indian Tea Association, swung into action immediately. He registered a First Information Report against the errant chaprassy and that took care of the problem. After two days the workers were back in the field as though nothing had happened!

The communist party gained in ascendency through the mid-sixties and into the seventies. As Bengal became an even more lawless and sordid mess, many plantations insisted their managerial staff were armed at all times. Weapons had to be surrendered to the secretaries of clubs, as they couldn’t be taken into the bars, parlours or billiard rooms. Neither could they be left unattended in vehicles dotting the parking lots. One Saturday morning, while driving my jeep to town, I had to stop at the outskirts of the Darjeeling bazaar. Deo Prakash Rai was making a speech on behalf of his Gorkha League party: when he spoke, the whole town turned out to hear him. An ex-British Gurkha soldier, he had served in the World War and was a friend of my father. He was fond of me too but I never saw him anything less than intoxicated. Inebriation notwithstanding, he was a powerful force in Darjeeling politics and would have been an excellent alternative to the mindless and violent communist party.

His animated speech continued interminably. I waited but there was no sign of the crowd parting. A small yellow triangular flag, affixed to a rod, proudly fluttered in the breeze on the bonnet of my jeep. The pennant was a gift from my father but, what followed, made me wish that he hadn’t! It signified I was part of the Sherpa Association, which I wasn’t, even though he was the President at the time. The fluttering pennant appeared to have distracted one among the crowd.

Standing on tiptoe, to listen to the leader, he suddenly turned and ripped the rod off the bonnet. Not content, he flung the entire kit and caboodle away in a fit of rage. It struck someone standing alongside and, pretty soon, there was a melee of fists and shoes energetically growing larger and larger. Needless to say, I too was enraged. Jumping out from the jeep, I more than just grabbed his collar.

Some Sherpas nearby, seeing their flag cast aside, took umbrage and came to my assistance: it was a merry, free-for-all, right there on the market square. Deo didn’t take kindly to his speech being terminated in this rude fashion and complained to my father. I had to go to his house the next day and apologise. I don’t know what time I got away, but we were the best of friends by the time I staggered outside his door. Shortly after, Baljit Sukarchakia, as a full Manager, came to Ging. I was his assistant for perhaps a year before being transferred to Tukdah. Balli, as he was affectionately called, was hardworking and expected the same from me. We divided our tasks before getting together each evening to discuss the work. Sometimes it got late to meet at the factory office, which required me to go to his house. While he was busy reviewing the accounts and other books, his wife, Pali, an excellent cook, treated me as her personal guinea pig. I feasted on tandoori chicken, accompanied by thick delicious parathas and washed it all down with large mugs of lassi … sometimes I purposely got home late, avoiding the factory office discussions!

This is not to signify there wasn’t any trouble. There was plenty of it and with Gelongtar division in particular. At one-point Baljit declared a lockout and we had Punjab police do a lathi-charge on the property. The Punjab police were sent in by the Central Government to quell the chaos in the State, with a large contingent of Sikhs posted on Ging. As long as they were there, that entire fortnight, there wasn’t a murmur from the workers and everything from pruning to plucking the tea bushes, hummed like a well-oiled machine.

Shortly after the Punjab Police left, to quell riots in Bilaspur, Baljit decided that all the tea pruning, hitherto left in the field for the workers to gather as firewood, should be buried. This would act as nutrient, as they broke down under the soil, and be beneficial to the plantation. It created another uproar on Gelongtar. A long strike followed with workers marching up to the factory, yelling obscenities, flashing kukris, pruning knives and even large iron rods, used for prising obdurate stones from the ground.

Balli stuck to his principles and there followed another lockout. Soon the workers had to start selling their pots, pans and chattels to survive. They were disillusioned with the Union but afraid to challenge them; what with communist goons camped on the division, encouraging and even compelling them to remain resolute. The Union strongmen didn’t face any difficulties and indeed forced the starving workers to feed and look after them. It was an untenable situation that was not fully resolved when I was transferred to Tukdah. A few months later, they returned to work: Balli had had his way and it broke the backbone of the continual unrest.

Tukdah Chotta Bungalow

TUKDAH: Tukdah was another world. Derek Royals spoke fluent Nepali, which he delivered in strong Queen’s English. His work was meticulous and, away from the daily strife on Ging, I actually got to learn a lot about planting. From him I learned how to create large tea nurseries, construct labour quarters and make quality teas in the factory. It was an education in itself. He was rigid and followed protocol, wherein the Assistant didn’t mix with the Manager, which pretty much left me on my own.

Tweedie had by then become part of Tukdah. It had belonged to a Mr. Tweedie and was purchased by the company several decades ago. I enjoyed riding my black stallion, Toofan, to this outer division, which was a completely separate entity from the rest of the estate. Located below the main road to Teesta Bazaar, it harboured a perfect stand of tea, with a huge tree that had been struck by lightning many years ago. The tree was already dead but served as a prominent landmark. The road above continued to Kalimpong, on the other side of the Teesta river.

Tukdah: the road above

By then the rupee had been devalued. It made it difficult for expatriate planters to stay on in the Country. Sterling companies too started diluting their stakes and wealthy Indians began mopping up shares, eventually becoming sole owners of several large holdings. At the same time, my parents were getting increasingly concerned about my future. The violence and dangers on all plantations showed no sign of respite, instead they were precipitating with each passing month. Many of my expatriate friends encouraged me to immigrate to Australia and I applied to the Australian High Commission.

About that time, my young cousins in South India, were having their thread ceremonies performed on one of the tea estates there. It was their initiation into the Parsee Zoroastrian community. Having just joined Tukdah I couldn’t go, but my parents attended the function. They came back full of praise for living conditions in the South and were keen I apply for a job on the plantations there. I was to get married in a few months, and they were adamant about not wanting me to bring up a family surrounded by such mindless violence, orchestrated by a bloodthirsty Bengal government.

I was happy on Tukdah and in two minds about moving to the South of the country. It would be quite an upheaval. What with having to learn a new language, which was something I was never good at, and then learning to ride a motorbike; make new friends … there were a lot of uncertainties connected to such a move! I procrastinated awhile, when the government announced there would be a twenty-four-hour strike. No estates or businesses were to work. There would be serious consequences should they choose to do so. The workers on Tukdah had never been on strike and were adamant about working.

It was a dilemma. Derek Royals decided that we would work and not have our workers unnecessarily lose a day’s wage. He consulted David Little and David’s advice was to keep the estate open but remain alert. On the day of the strike, we got word that workers from Ging were planning to cross the river and stop Tukdah from working. Derek rode his horse, Crusader, down to my bungalow early morning, telling me to accompany the estate contractor to the river. Apparently, the contractor was an expert with explosives and would blow up the bridge across the water. The contractor and I walked down, while Derek rode back to his bungalow with instructions that I should call him as soon as I got home.

The contractor was clever and in no time the company bridge, connecting the two estates was floating down the water. I called Derek on the intercom and told him the work was done. Two hours later the workers from Ging, having constructed a makeshift bridge, crossed the river and surrounded my bungalow. They were yelling slogans and telling me to come out of the house, while I informed Derek about what was happening. “Try and keep them from coming up to the ‘Burra Kothi’. I don’t want that riff-raff coming here and disturbing my family.”

It was fortunate that I had worked on Ging and knew the workers by name. Waiting till the hullabaloo died down, I started talking to them. The parleying went on for a few hours, by which time workers from Tukdah came to my assistance. It looked like a clash could be brewing, right there, outside my bungalow. Ananda Pathak, the chief of the communist union, seeing that this might erupt into something serious, spoke to the workers and calmed things down. After the workers from Ging left, he had a cup of tea with me and said he was having ‘a hell of a time’ on nearby Rangaroon estate.

Rangaroon was a government estate. The workers there had cleverly switched loyalties and formed a non-communist union of their own. Pathak was left helpless. He was a small built man who lived in the communist commune close to our house in Darjeeling. Before leaving he asked why I chose to continue planting in Bengal. “Things are only going to get worse,” were his parting words. That did it and I started looking at Companies down South.

It was only after Shehzarin and I got married in January 1970, that I applied for and got a job with the Bombay Burmah Trading Corporation in South India. We were in the Tukdah ‘Chota Kothi’, for a few months, before leaving for Tamil Nadu, in the April of 1970. In the interim she was horrified by the weekly visits to the hospital, to see fellow planters lying on hospital beds with varying degrees of wounds. It did come as a shock to her, and I knew I had made the right decision to leave my beloved hometown.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The complete absence of law and order continued unabated in Darjeeling till the early eighties and only subsided with the death of Geoffrey Johnston. The town revolted, horrified by the ninety wounds on his body, which were over two inches deep. It was premeditated murder by the government, who wanted to take over this prize proprietary estate. The butchered body had to be wrapped in plastic sheet, to bring it to Darjeeling for autopsy. 

For once, even the politicians were aghast and condemned the State government for this act of brutality. Geoff, born in Rungmook, was killed by his childhood friends … he had played with them as a child and later bent over backwards for them, almost going bankrupt into the bargain. This was his reward by the so-called protectors of the people! He was my friend, a friend to all the people of Darjeeling: a good kind-hearted man, slain by an egregious government!

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.

Read more by Minoo Avari here: https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/search/label/Minoo%20Avari

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