A Brush with the Past

by Murari Saikia

In the world of black and white there are always some shades of grey: clouded, imprecise and at times taciturn figures which are never seen full face but more often than not in silhouette. 

We were driving back to the garden from Jorhat, my wife Sruti, my colleague Pranjal, my driver and I. It was just about dusk as we left the town and coasting along the by-pass, the soft autumnal breeze wafted through the open window of my Ambassador and Kenny Rogers’ ‘The Gambler’ was playing on the car audio system. We chatted and traded stories of the ‘good old days’ in tea. 

It was that time of the day when birds and humans alike are homeward bound and semidarkness wrapped itself around all objects…..the twilight! In the distant horizon the sky was darkening with clouds hanging low as if portending a storm. The song ended and it became ‘deathly quiet’, the only sound was of the wind swishing through the rolled down windows. Pranjal, sensing the mystical eeriness created by these sounds began his tale, which I now narrate to you, dear reader…

Pranjal was then a young trainee assistant in a garden near Jorhat and was temporarily billeted in the huge old burra bungalow (now rechristened the Directors’ bungalow) as his accommodation was under renovation. 

It was a cold winter’s evening and Pranjal was sitting in a deep armchair tucked in one corner of the cavernous sitting room waiting for the old bearer Jagganath to serve the ‘nasta’. It was Saturday and Pranjal was expecting his colleague, another bachelor assistant. Samir Handique to drop by for a couple of sundowners. 

Pranjal hollered to old Jagganath to hurry up; the old man had to fetch the tray from the kitchen which was away from the main house connected by a covered galley-way. Old Jagganath was of the ‘Raj’ vintage having started his career as a little ‘chokra’ in the very same bungalow, where his father was the burra sahib’s bearer, the major domo. Old Jagganath with rheumatic limbs and eyes whose lustre had dimmed somewhat was every inch the class of domestic staff that has now become extinct. 

The evening drew on and as it usually happens, the grid supply tripped and enveloped everything in a shroud of inky darkness; there was not a shred or pinprick of light nor any sound barring a shrill cicada pining for the warmth of summer to break the silence. Time ticked on but the back-up generator had not started up. 

“Damn, the engine attendant must be out in the bazaar, being payday”, Pranjal said aloud as he cursed himself for not bringing the torch with him from the bedroom. 

He was about to push himself up from the deep armchair when he heard the sharp click of boots studded with steel sole protectors climbing the verandah stairs. “Hey Handique, watch your step, man” Pranjal called out towards the verandah, certain that it was Samir making his way up. Samir was very fond of wearing those stylish ‘Beatles’ boots with steel sole protectors and had a couple of pairs made to order from the famous Chinese shoemakers of Shillong. 

It was still pitch dark, but the footfalls were surely making an entry into the sitting room. “Hey, I’m here Handique, watch your step”, called out Pranjal. The drawing room door seemed to have opened as a draft of cold air wafted into the room, the footfalls had momentarily stopped. “Come on Handique, quit the games! - and why don’t you strike your match and make some light buddy, and do sit down” Pranjal cried out. 

No response, and instead it became eerily quiet, even the lone cicada stopped rubbing its wings….time just hung, and once again the footfalls resumed and were nearing the chair where Pranjal sat. As the steps neared, Pranjal could feel and sense someone’s presence, and waving out his hand he cried out again, “Quit it Handique, you will now trip all over me”. Fear had forfeited control of his faculties and Pranjal wildly flayed and flung his arms across him to ward off Handique…but, despite feeling someone so close to him, Pranjal’s arms cut through thin air, once, twice, three times...nothing!! 

Nothing or no one was there!!!! But, he was so certain of someone or was it ‘something’ by his chair?? 

Pranjal was now in a cold sweat chilling him down to his spine, his skin erupting in goose pimples and with the wayward impulse of a madman he sprang up from the chair and tore out of the room throwing peg tables asunder in his rush out to the verandah whilst shouting out to Jagganath at the top of his voice. When his hand hit the wooden railings, Pranjal stopped for some air and peering into the galley-way could see the feeble light of Jagganath’s torch as the old man shuffled towards the main house….and at that instant the lights came on. 

As Jagganath approached, Pranjal enquired “Handique sahib kaha hai?” “Woh to nahi aya hai sahib” was Jagganath’s reply. Pranjal was quite shaken up, and seeing him so, the old man peered at him with his old eyes and inquired “Kya hua sahib?” Pranjal narrated the incident which occurred during the last seven to ten minutes since the grid failure till restoration of the lights. As Pranjal was narrating the story, Samir Handique walked up the steps to the verandah with a cigarette hooked on to his lips and the steel protectors of his boots clicking away on the tiled floor. 

“Handique, you came here a while ago while the lights were off, didn’t you?” asked Pranjal, certain that it was Samir who might have pulled a practical joke on him. Samir replied in the negative and swore that he had just come in; he’d detoured by the factory to check on why the attendant was taking time starting up the engine. 

Jagganath, the wizened old faithful following the exchange between the two chotta sahibs piped in, “Sahib, aaj hamara Burra Sahib aya tha”, as a matter of fact. “kya bola, Jagganath? lagta hai aaj phirse bhaang charaya hai”, was Pranjal’s admonishment to the old bearer while sending him off to fetch whisky tumblers and the bottle. 

As the old man shuffled in with the tray, Samir, after having heard the whole story asked Jagganath, “tum kuch bol raha tha, Burra Sahib key baat?’ “Ji Sahib” replied the old bearer and went on to narrate the story which went like this… 

Pix by author

‘This garden was managed and partially owned by a middle aged Scotsman, who resided in the bungalow. He was married, but his firangi mem left him to go away to ‘Bilat’ when their only child was born. 

Burra sahib was a very good natured person and when the ‘mem’ was with him, there used to be lovely parties, full of fun, dances and songs, and Burra Sahib would entertain the other sahibs and memsahibs by playing the violin. 

Though burra sahib resided here for several years, the memsahib and baby never visited again. Sahib became very lonely, depressed and a sad person, he took to drinking quite heavily too. One winter evening, Burra sahib was very disturbed and distressed after he had received a ‘dak-tar’ (telegram). Sahib remained very pensive and after drinking quite a bit, retired to his bedroom without asking for his supper. 

After a while, there a very loud crack of a gunshot from the bedroom and all of us rushed to the door, which was locked from inside. We broke it down only to find our burra sahib sprawled on the deck chair, his head shot to pieces and his handgun hanging on his now limp hand.’ 

Jagganath with a forlorn look in his weary eyes as if transported back in time, shook his old head and mumbled that the burra shaib’s spirit sometimes visits the place he loved so much in the hope that his mem and baby have returned. “sahib ka atma bahut atcha hai, sirf dekh ke chala jata hai”. Having said that, the wizened old man straightened his back and slowly walked out of the drawing room to his domain in the kitchen and pantry, leaving two very puzzled young men, Pranjal and Samir. 

As Pranjal ended his narrative, we saw the lights of my estate ahead of us, the gates were opened by the watchman and we drove in to the welcome lights of the bungalow porch. As Sruti & I got off the vehicle, I was in a tizzy with a bit of awe and a concoction of thoughts crowding as well as clouding my mind after having heard this strange but true tale….truth my friends is often stranger than fiction!!

 Meet the writer:

Murari Saikia

I was born in Dibrugarh in 1959 and grew up in Shillong. After finishing school from St. Edmund’s College (School Dept.), Shillong in December 1975, went off to Delhi University and graduated from Ramjas College, in 1979. Joined FSL (Nestle) around mid-79 and was in Calcutta for a short while and thereinafter joined tea in 1980-81 almost by accident!! 

After a career spanning 36 years in the plantations of McLeod Russell & the Luxmi Group, I retired from the gardens in 2017. But, the love and the lore of tea have not left me. I am still actively involved with the industry currently with Parcon (India) Pvt. Ltd as a Visiting Advisor. 

It’s always a pleasure visiting the gardens and meeting up with some very good old friends who have weathered the storms together, and as always it’s also a treat to meet the younger generation of planters and get to learn a thing or two from these lads too, while throwing back the sundowners!!

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

 

Happy reading! Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea!