by Shivani Taimni
Of course, this ecosystem was not always the most symbiotic, and a hilarious hiccough or two were always the order of the day. A woman recalls how she, as the newly-wed, young, clueless North Indian wife of a tea garden assistant manager in Dullabcherra, in the Cachar district of Assam asked the Bengali watchman to take her Alsatian puppy for ghumana (a walk) before breakfast. The lazy watchman took advantage of the ambiguity of this command, to the end that the next day the wife saw both him and her beloved puppy napping peacefully by the wall. When reprimanded, the watchman justified it with a straight-faced, “Memsahab said ghumana. That means sleep in Bangla (Bengali language). I did as I was told.”
Linguistic barriers aside, differences of opinion were frequent even between perceived equals with common frames of reference. Often, these differences were rooted in the stifling, sometimes arbitrary but much-needed norms of behaviour that each individual was expected to adhere to without question. In times of social, political and economic turmoil, when hope and faith in humanity is being tested and the very ground beneath ones feet seems unsteady, the individual, and consequently, society as a whole, tends to find solace in the last system that worked.
They align themselves to it involuntarily, regardless of any irrelevant facets or fallacies it may have. The strictness with which they cling on to these norms and etiquette is directly correlated to the instability of the days, and as such, it is understandable that someone even stepping toe outside of these boxes was received with much hype and scandal.
In one incident, two sprightly young men inadvertently got themselves temporarily ostracised. The tea estates were interspersed with clubs, that is, recreational centres where upper class residents would come to socialise and negate the effects of the overwhelming isolation, an occupational hazard of the tea gardens. Each evening, these clubs would be abuzz with the sounds of laughter and merrymaking, of children frolicking and playing, women gossiping gaily and men discussing the events of the day over a drink or three. It was an awe-inspiring sight to behold, the indomitable spirit of the celebration after a long and difficult day, during long and difficult days.
The managers of the club, guided mostly by the desires of the ladies, made special efforts to keep this spirit alive. Every so often, they would put together a gala evening or ‘do’. A special favourite amongst these were the fancy dress dos, affairs that were as lively as they were distinguished, with unspoken rules guiding the festivity without quelling the enthusiasm. It was on one such event that our heroes, Wallerstein and Anderson, in a faltering attempt at humour, arrived at the Longai Club among polished individuals in faded, torn and purposefully muddied clothes, each carrying a broken bucket half-filled with lime cordial with pieces of sausages floating inside them.
Uninhibited, they had dressed as jhaduwalas, the sewer cleaners, who delved into the deepest filth and garbage, keeping human waste and contamination at bay, and were thus considered the lowest of the low. Interaction with them, or, indeed, even with someone dressed as them, was unthinkable. Our heroes were thus asked to leave. Hungry, dejected and finding no alternative, they proceeded to take a seat on the entryway staircase and make a meal of the lime cordial-soaked sausages in their buckets. This anecdote would spread like wildfire, narrated over and over again long after Wallerstein and Anderson themselves were dead and gone.
Any account of pre and post Colonial India would be incomplete without a mention of the frequent interactions of the people with the rich fauna of India, the much-loved shikar trips, which unfortunately led to the eventual endangerment and extinction of various Indian animal species. Packs of boisterous men astride sturdy horses, surrounded by muscular hunting dogs would leave for the wilderness, and not return home without the carcass of some hapless animal to add to their collection.
In an age of heightened awareness, struggling as we are with the repercussions of various forms of environmental damage inflicted over centuries, it is easy to dismiss these men as callous, primal monsters. However, the fact remains that many of the globally renowned conservationists and avid naturalists such as Rudyard Kipling and Jim Corbett would enjoy their fair share of game every now and then. Many of these men were genuine animal lovers, passionate about nature and its bounty and were highly vocal about condemning animal cruelty outside of their shikar trips. It may seem counter-intuitive, but this was a different time. The Indian subcontinent was so abundant in its biodiversity that they may never have conceived of a time when their favourite sport would cause terror-struck animals to disappear and never be heard of again, either migrating into deeper reaches of the forests or perishing.
In the tea gardens as well, shikar was a commonplace activity. Each bungalow would be resplendent with the heads and skins of exotic carnivores and herbivores, mounted up on the walls or spread across the floor, tame and terrifying. Besides this, the tea estates, vast and green as they were, served as breeding grounds for species of mammals, birds and reptiles that, in later years, one would only hear mentioned by the droll voices of their science teachers.
One morning, a tea estate in Longai was up in much hullaballoo as the gardeners and labourers had come across a full-grown python resting on the premises. Fearful but fascinated, they set up an elaborate bamboo cage and brought it to their sahib, much pleased with themselves.
The sahib and memsahib, unsure of the appropriate protocol, decided to consult the authorities. However, the Calcutta Zoo, the nearest reserve that was well-equipped enough for a python, was understaffed and overcrowded, and at the moment could not spare a pilot to transport the reptile away from the remote tea gardens. Thus it came to be that the python was to remain within the tea estate compound, until something could be arranged. A chicken pen was cleared for it to live comfortably in and ample food and water provided. A few hours passed by and the residents began to grow concerned, noting that the snake lay very still and stubbornly refused to acknowledge the delicacies laid out for it. Not long after, the mystery was cleared when the memsahib rushed outside to find the source of a strange huffing sound, “like that of a steam engine.” Much to her awe, she found the python curled into an inverted cone, evidently about to deliver its eggs. Needless to say, this sight was rare at best, and the news spread like wildfire. Locals from far and wide congregated at the estate to witness the miracle.
As the whole event turned into one big carnival, the distressed centre of attraction, the female python herself, was unable to cope with the noise, stress, fear, unwanted attention and, most of all, hecklers, and left her recently delivered eggs one night to break out of her prison and escape into the night. She was discovered the following morning slithering about the grounds. Decisive action had to be taken but the sahib refused to authorise the killing of an innocent animal on his turf. The workers, ordered to take her outside and leave her alone, took matters in their own hands and put the python to her death. The abandoned python eggs were also quietly done away with, by those wishing to close a chapter that had ended on a rather sour note.
Even when the 1971 Indo-Pakistan War broke out, life amongst the tea
leaves remained supremely unaffected, which was no easy feat....
As it always has, life in the tea gardens would go on, slow, mysterious, unexpected and spectacular. Despite India’s tumultuous relationship with its Eastward neighbour, East Pakistan, and the steady influx of refugees, the people of Assam were by-and-large a peaceable lot, and chose to stay away from the greed and violence that many seemed to relish. Even when the 1971 Indo-Pakistan War broke out, life amongst the tea leaves remained supremely unaffected, which was no easy feat, when one considers that not only did they share a border with East Pakistan, thus becoming a war frontier, but also that at many strategic locations, the boundary line between the two nations was demarcated merely by one-foot high painted milestones, set a 100 metres apart.
In the days leading up to the war, as the entire nation awaited the dreaded announcement with bated breath, tensions would be building up in Assam as well. Massive trucks carrying military personnel began to arrive and unload; and seven army divisions were set up. Bunkers and bomb shelters were constructed, and training drills organised, so as to maintain civilian security. Despite this, in another example of the cheerful nature of the tea garden dwellers, the situation was never as sombre as it may appear to be. Jovial young military officers would participate in the evening merrymaking at the clubs, killing time until provided further instruction. Children rather enjoyed the drills, secretly hoping that if a missile ever came whistling nearby, it should happen in the middle of Math class.
Then one fine day, an important announcement was made by the President on the All India Radio, and India was once again at war with Pakistan. Laughter was replaced by the constant rattling of gunfire in the distance, and brave troops on either side of the border were being martyred each day. Patriotic sentiments soared, and the residents of the tea gardens grew cautious, each eager to do their part.
One morning, in the Chand Kheera area of Longai, as a lorry driver was carrying his usual truckload of tea leaves to the storage unit, he came across a fatigued looking youth staggering down the road. As he drew closer, he noticed the markings on the man’s uniform and immediately placed him for a Pakistani military officer. Their eyes met and the man began to gesticulate, trying to wave the truck down. Thinking fast, the driver pulled up and offered the officer a lift, promising to take him to the nearest army outpost. The grateful, exhausted officer lay down on the soft tea leaves at the back of the truck as the vehicle started up again. Inside, the driver’s mind was racing. This Pakistani officer obviously had wandered off his path and did not realise he was on Indian terrain. The driver was aware of a Border Security Force outpost at a short distance and made a beeline for it, praying that the officer remain blissfully unaware of the danger he was in. The military man may not be a threat at the moment, but he was armed, and one wrong move could cost the driver his life.
As they trundled on, passing by expansive farms and small stores, the soldier hailed the driver to stop and buy him a pack of cigarettes. The driver obliged, not wanting to create a scene, and even took the Pakistani currency he was offered, deftly exchanging it for an Indian rupee. As the lorry revved up a second time, the soldier in the back found an unlikely clue: the alien language etched on the cigarette box. He screamed out for the lorry to stop, but the panicked driver slammed down the accelerator and drove at breakneck speed to the BSF outpost. In the nick of time, just as the soldier pulled out his weapon and tried to open fire, the driver alerted the authorities and the Pakistani soldier was overpowered and taken into captivity. It was another day in the military life, but one that the lorry driver would never forget.
Seasons have flown by since the tea estates of Assam saw the comfortable resentfulness of entire families of helpers and workers, the restrained freedom of tiny footsteps on holiday from boarding school, followed by the raucous bark of best beloved Butch. No longer does the air quiver with precise commands that have never known disobedience.
No longer does routine run the clock and the clock run everyone else. Amid tea leaves that united a troubled nation, a little corner of the world ages and flourishes for its own sake, dignified, recluse, melancholy, graceful.
Meet the writer:
Shivani Taimni has recently completed her masters degree at Durham University and is a writer-in-making. Her stories around the tea gardens are inspired by those heard from her grandmother, Mrs. Veena Shivpuri, wife of the late S.K.Shivpuri who was in the tea gardens from the mid-fifties onwards, and had worked for Octavius Steel in various tea gardens of Cachar like Dullabcherra, Longai, Kumbirgram and Kallinecherra.
This is Shivani's first story for Indian Chai Stories.
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!
Happy to welcome young Shivani Taimni to Indian Chai Stories. Her grandfather, the late S.K.Shivpuri, was a tea planter with Octavius Steele in Cachar.
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| Shivani's grandparents (Nana and Nani ) |
A typical tea estate would be a sprawling mass of land, spread across many acres, with a majestic bungalow in the middle. An imposing sahib, his elegant, sharp but perpetually bored wife, a small brood of children, well-educated, well-groomed, well-in line, enough pet dogs to take down an average tiger (and often trained for that very purpose), an exotic pet or two, and at least one attendant to each one of them, not to mention the plethora of maids, cooks, gardeners, other forms of domestic help, farmers, lorry drivers and daily wage labourers, all made up the vibrant populace of that little world.
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Of course, this ecosystem was not always the most symbiotic, and a hilarious hiccough or two were always the order of the day. A woman recalls how she, as the newly-wed, young, clueless North Indian wife of a tea garden assistant manager in Dullabcherra, in the Cachar district of Assam asked the Bengali watchman to take her Alsatian puppy for ghumana (a walk) before breakfast. The lazy watchman took advantage of the ambiguity of this command, to the end that the next day the wife saw both him and her beloved puppy napping peacefully by the wall. When reprimanded, the watchman justified it with a straight-faced, “Memsahab said ghumana. That means sleep in Bangla (Bengali language). I did as I was told.”
Linguistic barriers aside, differences of opinion were frequent even between perceived equals with common frames of reference. Often, these differences were rooted in the stifling, sometimes arbitrary but much-needed norms of behaviour that each individual was expected to adhere to without question. In times of social, political and economic turmoil, when hope and faith in humanity is being tested and the very ground beneath ones feet seems unsteady, the individual, and consequently, society as a whole, tends to find solace in the last system that worked.
They align themselves to it involuntarily, regardless of any irrelevant facets or fallacies it may have. The strictness with which they cling on to these norms and etiquette is directly correlated to the instability of the days, and as such, it is understandable that someone even stepping toe outside of these boxes was received with much hype and scandal.
In one incident, two sprightly young men inadvertently got themselves temporarily ostracised. The tea estates were interspersed with clubs, that is, recreational centres where upper class residents would come to socialise and negate the effects of the overwhelming isolation, an occupational hazard of the tea gardens. Each evening, these clubs would be abuzz with the sounds of laughter and merrymaking, of children frolicking and playing, women gossiping gaily and men discussing the events of the day over a drink or three. It was an awe-inspiring sight to behold, the indomitable spirit of the celebration after a long and difficult day, during long and difficult days.
The managers of the club, guided mostly by the desires of the ladies, made special efforts to keep this spirit alive. Every so often, they would put together a gala evening or ‘do’. A special favourite amongst these were the fancy dress dos, affairs that were as lively as they were distinguished, with unspoken rules guiding the festivity without quelling the enthusiasm. It was on one such event that our heroes, Wallerstein and Anderson, in a faltering attempt at humour, arrived at the Longai Club among polished individuals in faded, torn and purposefully muddied clothes, each carrying a broken bucket half-filled with lime cordial with pieces of sausages floating inside them.
Uninhibited, they had dressed as jhaduwalas, the sewer cleaners, who delved into the deepest filth and garbage, keeping human waste and contamination at bay, and were thus considered the lowest of the low. Interaction with them, or, indeed, even with someone dressed as them, was unthinkable. Our heroes were thus asked to leave. Hungry, dejected and finding no alternative, they proceeded to take a seat on the entryway staircase and make a meal of the lime cordial-soaked sausages in their buckets. This anecdote would spread like wildfire, narrated over and over again long after Wallerstein and Anderson themselves were dead and gone.
In an age of heightened awareness, struggling as we are with the repercussions of various forms of environmental damage inflicted over centuries, it is easy to dismiss these men as callous, primal monsters. However, the fact remains that many of the globally renowned conservationists and avid naturalists such as Rudyard Kipling and Jim Corbett would enjoy their fair share of game every now and then. Many of these men were genuine animal lovers, passionate about nature and its bounty and were highly vocal about condemning animal cruelty outside of their shikar trips. It may seem counter-intuitive, but this was a different time. The Indian subcontinent was so abundant in its biodiversity that they may never have conceived of a time when their favourite sport would cause terror-struck animals to disappear and never be heard of again, either migrating into deeper reaches of the forests or perishing.
In the tea gardens as well, shikar was a commonplace activity. Each bungalow would be resplendent with the heads and skins of exotic carnivores and herbivores, mounted up on the walls or spread across the floor, tame and terrifying. Besides this, the tea estates, vast and green as they were, served as breeding grounds for species of mammals, birds and reptiles that, in later years, one would only hear mentioned by the droll voices of their science teachers.
The sahib and memsahib, unsure of the appropriate protocol, decided to consult the authorities. However, the Calcutta Zoo, the nearest reserve that was well-equipped enough for a python, was understaffed and overcrowded, and at the moment could not spare a pilot to transport the reptile away from the remote tea gardens. Thus it came to be that the python was to remain within the tea estate compound, until something could be arranged. A chicken pen was cleared for it to live comfortably in and ample food and water provided. A few hours passed by and the residents began to grow concerned, noting that the snake lay very still and stubbornly refused to acknowledge the delicacies laid out for it. Not long after, the mystery was cleared when the memsahib rushed outside to find the source of a strange huffing sound, “like that of a steam engine.” Much to her awe, she found the python curled into an inverted cone, evidently about to deliver its eggs. Needless to say, this sight was rare at best, and the news spread like wildfire. Locals from far and wide congregated at the estate to witness the miracle.
As the whole event turned into one big carnival, the distressed centre of attraction, the female python herself, was unable to cope with the noise, stress, fear, unwanted attention and, most of all, hecklers, and left her recently delivered eggs one night to break out of her prison and escape into the night. She was discovered the following morning slithering about the grounds. Decisive action had to be taken but the sahib refused to authorise the killing of an innocent animal on his turf. The workers, ordered to take her outside and leave her alone, took matters in their own hands and put the python to her death. The abandoned python eggs were also quietly done away with, by those wishing to close a chapter that had ended on a rather sour note.
As it always has, life in the tea gardens would go on, slow, mysterious, unexpected and spectacular. Despite India’s tumultuous relationship with its Eastward neighbour, East Pakistan, and the steady influx of refugees, the people of Assam were by-and-large a peaceable lot, and chose to stay away from the greed and violence that many seemed to relish. Even when the 1971 Indo-Pakistan War broke out, life amongst the tea leaves remained supremely unaffected, which was no easy feat, when one considers that not only did they share a border with East Pakistan, thus becoming a war frontier, but also that at many strategic locations, the boundary line between the two nations was demarcated merely by one-foot high painted milestones, set a 100 metres apart.
In the days leading up to the war, as the entire nation awaited the dreaded announcement with bated breath, tensions would be building up in Assam as well. Massive trucks carrying military personnel began to arrive and unload; and seven army divisions were set up. Bunkers and bomb shelters were constructed, and training drills organised, so as to maintain civilian security. Despite this, in another example of the cheerful nature of the tea garden dwellers, the situation was never as sombre as it may appear to be. Jovial young military officers would participate in the evening merrymaking at the clubs, killing time until provided further instruction. Children rather enjoyed the drills, secretly hoping that if a missile ever came whistling nearby, it should happen in the middle of Math class.
Then one fine day, an important announcement was made by the President on the All India Radio, and India was once again at war with Pakistan. Laughter was replaced by the constant rattling of gunfire in the distance, and brave troops on either side of the border were being martyred each day. Patriotic sentiments soared, and the residents of the tea gardens grew cautious, each eager to do their part.
One morning, in the Chand Kheera area of Longai, as a lorry driver was carrying his usual truckload of tea leaves to the storage unit, he came across a fatigued looking youth staggering down the road. As he drew closer, he noticed the markings on the man’s uniform and immediately placed him for a Pakistani military officer. Their eyes met and the man began to gesticulate, trying to wave the truck down. Thinking fast, the driver pulled up and offered the officer a lift, promising to take him to the nearest army outpost. The grateful, exhausted officer lay down on the soft tea leaves at the back of the truck as the vehicle started up again. Inside, the driver’s mind was racing. This Pakistani officer obviously had wandered off his path and did not realise he was on Indian terrain. The driver was aware of a Border Security Force outpost at a short distance and made a beeline for it, praying that the officer remain blissfully unaware of the danger he was in. The military man may not be a threat at the moment, but he was armed, and one wrong move could cost the driver his life.
As they trundled on, passing by expansive farms and small stores, the soldier hailed the driver to stop and buy him a pack of cigarettes. The driver obliged, not wanting to create a scene, and even took the Pakistani currency he was offered, deftly exchanging it for an Indian rupee. As the lorry revved up a second time, the soldier in the back found an unlikely clue: the alien language etched on the cigarette box. He screamed out for the lorry to stop, but the panicked driver slammed down the accelerator and drove at breakneck speed to the BSF outpost. In the nick of time, just as the soldier pulled out his weapon and tried to open fire, the driver alerted the authorities and the Pakistani soldier was overpowered and taken into captivity. It was another day in the military life, but one that the lorry driver would never forget.
Seasons have flown by since the tea estates of Assam saw the comfortable resentfulness of entire families of helpers and workers, the restrained freedom of tiny footsteps on holiday from boarding school, followed by the raucous bark of best beloved Butch. No longer does the air quiver with precise commands that have never known disobedience.
No longer does routine run the clock and the clock run everyone else. Amid tea leaves that united a troubled nation, a little corner of the world ages and flourishes for its own sake, dignified, recluse, melancholy, graceful.
Meet the writer:
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!
Wow!!was transferredinto another era ,especially the lorry driver and the war of East Pakistan.So beautifully articulated,kudos!!,hope to read more from the newer generation.
ReplyDeleteAmazing ,memories of Kalain Chera T.E. and Shivpuri Uncle and Auntie and Kumud revived pleasantly ...
ReplyDeletehi we are the current owners of kallinecherra and Mr Shivpuri was well known to my family.
DeleteHi Shivani - My father John Lane was a planter in the district of Cachar, retiring in 1966. He had often mentioned some of the gardens that you have noted in your story. Dad was the Chairman of the SVBITA and would visit some of the gardens in Cachar district to talk with the Managers. I only returned to Cachar in early 1964 but visited my father at Kalline TE each year at Christmas. I think that in the early 1960s your parents were at Goombira TE, Oliviacherra area in Cachar. 'cherra' seemed to be a common suffix in the names of the tea estates in Cachar. My father, on his retirement to the UK, named his 'Lillacherra' - many neighbours here often asked what it meant, and I told them it meant 'Blue Hills'. I liked your comments about Peter Wallerstein (who I knew at Khumbirgram TE) - he was certainly a lively planter! I have photographs of planter's children at the Silchar Club Christmas party in - er -1947! Yes, I was amongst them. Nice story about the errant Pakistani soldier. Jellapore TE in NW Cachar had an 'outgarden' that was in what is now Bangladesh. In 1964, when I was staying with my father, the CO of the Indian Army in that area, was a Colonel Kapoor and his opposite number in East Pakistan was with Colonel Kapoor at Quetta Officers Training College, prior to 1947! My father invited them both to dinner at Kalline - things were different at that time.Personally, I did not involve myself with shikar at that time, although my father, and Jim Dunlop from Koomber, used to go out for jungli moorgis and duck shooting on Sonabheel.A nice couple that I always enjoyed meeting each year were Mr & Mrs Banerjee at Kallinecherra TE (also Octavius Steele garden. I lookforward to more stories about Cachar - when you can.
ReplyDeleteLovely to read this....brought back memories of Cachar....and all those good times . My love toVeena and Kumud...!and fond rememberances !
ReplyDeleteVery well put together Shivani, it is immensely enjoyable. It brings back memories of having studied with many tea garden children (among them your mama) and occasionally being taken to visit these legendary gardens during holidays. The bungalow living and impeccable hospitality of tea garden folk has had a profound and lasting effect on the collective psyche of all hill school students and the longing for being a part of the planters club dinners while munching sausages at Keventers opposite refuses to go away even after 40 years. Congratulations on this wonderful piece of writing and looking forward to more from you.
ReplyDeleteThat was so Lovely.....While Shivani has beautifully penned the lovely factual story...The Pakaistani Soldier part added the Crispy part....Thank you Gowri for this lovely Platform....Cheers
ReplyDeleteYou're welcome, Sushil! Can't get enough of these stories; precious, aren't they??
DeleteAt first I thought this was another "Chaiwalla" group. But no, it's a wonderful blogspot,and it has stories about my favourite tea area.
ReplyDeleteThanks very much for the interesting stories. Some of the planters mentioned here were very senior Managers when I joined Koomber after a stint in Upper Assam.
Mr & Mrs Shivpuri, Mr Anderson and Mr. Wallestein.
Glad you found this blog, Jayanta, and that you like it. It is two years old and there are 145 stories here for you to enjoy.
DeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteBrilliant story. First time I am reading your stories. Loved it. From a South Indian planting perspective, planting in the North, Assam, Dooars, Darjeeling, seems to have been a hairy business. Thanks for this lovely story.
ReplyDeleteDo hope Shivani will write more such stories … bringing to life the lives of those in these remote regions of our country . Remote to many I mean. How evocatively written is this piece , giving rise to many vivid mind pictures. I’m sure our Chai for Cancer readers will enjoy this foray into Chai Country
ReplyDeleteWow! lovely blog. I am reading this while doing my garden training at Sonabheel Tea Estate which I just found to know was a part of Octavious Steele Co.
ReplyDeleteI had a very heartily friendly relation with Shivpuri’s and the planters in this area.It reminds me of lovely parties and get together Really miss all the love and affection
ReplyDelete