Drama in Real Life

 by Anjan Roy

Hello friends! I'm delighted to welcome Anjan Roy to Indian Chai Stories. His first story is from the Dooars - a paradise on earth? Not quite, as you'll find out! 

The year was 1986 and the foothills of the Himalayan region in West Bengal were literally on fire with government Circuit houses and the Forest Department rest houses of Darjeeling, Kalimpong, Kurseong and adjoining regions torched by vandals as part of the Gorkhaland agitation. The political fire was lit by the separatist sentiments of a large population of Nepalese origin whose forefathers had been brought by the British in 1880s from Nepal to clear the dense forests and establish tea plantations in the hills of Darjeeling and the adjoining foothills of Jalpaiguri district.

The separatists were no secessionists but they wanted to be liberated from the yoke of the Bengali babu administering them from Calcutta or Kolkata, as is known these days, to assert their Nepalese identity, their language and culture . 

Author (in Nepali cap) with the members of his transport department  during the annual picnic ( all pix and captions by author)

It was a beautiful clear autumn day with the bright sun and mild onset of winter in eastern India. Lankapara Tea Estate was nestled in the foothills of Bhutan the Dragon Kingdom where I, a 20 year old, was serving as an Assistant Manager. The estate was owned by Duncans, the erstwhile London based tea conglomerate.

The time was 2pm and I was playing on my bungalow lawn with Zero, my pet Bhutanese sheep dog. It struck me that I was running late to attend the third leaf weighment of my workers in Badribagh division.

Motioning Zero to stay I kick started my 250cc twin cylinder Yezdi which had been sent all the way from Baroda in Gujarat a few months ago where my father Maj Gen B.P. Roy was the Commandant of Electrical & Mechanical Engg. School of the Indian Army. Zooming past Shanti club football ground, I reached the main road in a few minutes, and at the point where I was to turn towards the dirt track I was accosted by a terrified group of women leaf pluckers blocking my way.

Upon questioning their hysterical behaviour I was informed that Abhijit Dutta, my junior colleague, had been killed by two drunken men whilst he was undertaking patti wajan  - weighment of harvested leaf .

Kanchi Tamang, the prettiest of them, reached for the Yezdi key sticking up on the headlight console of the bike and threw it as far as she could in the thicket. The ignition cut off, the engine sputtered to a halt.

Throwing my new bike aside, I frantically sprinted 200 mts on the dirt track. On route I encountered many of my pluckers running in my direction towards the main road screaming murder of Bhogotay saheb ( nickname - meaning pomelo fruit - of the portly Abhijit Dutta ).

Author with Hitu Manger the senior lorry khalasi(crew) who was  perched atop the cabin on the day of the assault, picnicking on the  banks of river Diana a month prior to the incident.

Panting and out of breath, reaching closer, I saw the dilapidated Lankapara garden TMB Tata Mercedes Benz lorry parked in the open space meant for patti wajan and the aged driver Akum Biswakarma and his petrified khalasi crew of Hitu Manger and three others. They were sitting atop the cabin watching two drunken men with long khukris and country-made pistols in hand kicking the lifeless Abhijit, who was lying face down on the dirt.

I recognised one of the assailants to be Dhan Bhadur Tamang, the athletic forward right footballer of Lankapara with whom I had played numerous matches as his center forward. The other was Garbhey Prem Singh Tamang, a known gangster of Sukanti line adjoining the main road where I had dumped my bike.

Dhan Bhadur continued to kick the motionless Abhijit on the face and stomach while Garbhey pointed his pistol - which was earlier aimed at Abhijit, at me. When a firm kick landed on his solar plexus, the lifeless Abhijit let out a low grunt which proved that he was miraculously still alive.

Hearing his moan I bent down and rolled Abhijit over. His swollen face was blood spattered beyond recognition. He managed to painfully open his eye and mumble in a barely audible pitch Anjan saar amake bachao ( Anjan sir please save me )

Unable to budge the dead weight of Bhogotay saheb's over 80kgs I looked up pleadingly at the lorry crew perched atop the cabin but failed to make eye contact as they chose to look away out of fear.

With no help forthcoming, I decided to request my football teammate Dhan Bhadur for help,  'Bhai alik maadat gari deo'. This infuriated DB so much that he now pointed the pistol menacingly between my eyes as he would have seen on-screen in some C grade Hindi films in the ramshackle shed which passed off as cinema hall in Gomtu, Bhutan - a dusty one horse town across Pugli river adjoining Lankapara on the western periphery.

'You @#&! How dare you try to save Bhogotay when we are here to finish him off ?' growled Dhan Bhadur. With my football teammate behaving thus I thought it best not to approach Garbey who was a dreaded cold-blooded killer known to have eliminated many of his political rivals by decapitation, then hanging their touko (heads) at prominent places in the chai bagan to instill fear among the public.

With a great effort I finally managed to prop up Abhijit, hooking my right arm under his left to get him upright. Half carrying, half supporting his weight, the short walk upto the main road was painfully slow. The progress was made further arduous by Dhan Bhadur repeatedly blocking our path and pointing his pistol menacingly at us.

My initial sense of fearlessness was slowly dissipating as I realised that should the pistol fire wilfully or otherwise, it wouldn't have missed the intended target at point blank range.

Hearing footsteps behind us I turned around sharply to find Garbey keeping pace in a drunken stupor, brandishing a huge khukri ominously close behind. Self and Abhijit painfully trudged on the seemingly endless stretch of dirt track.

Upon approaching close to the Lanka-Birpara road I saw a large number of passenger Willys jeeps, Nissan Jongas and sand and boulder laden army-scrapped Shaktiman trucks - stationary, with their passengers perched at vantage points trying to catch a glimpse of Bhogotay saheb who had literally come back from the dead.

A large group of women pluckers led by Kanchi Tamang who had earlier tried to prevent me from rushing head-on into a life threatening situation now themselves came forward to assist in getting Abhijit aboard one of the jeeps going towards Lankahat while some passengers readily disembarked to make space.

Once safely seated I looked back to see Abhijit's assailants staring at us from a distance, undecided if they should debar us from being whisked away. Reached Lankapara garden hospital in less than ten minutes and the nursing staff led by the efficient junior nurse Daimanti Thapa quickly cleaned up Abhijit, providing him first aid by dressing his wounds efficiently.

Abhijit recovered miraculously from his injuries within a month, including healing of his three fractured ribs inflicted by the brutal kicks of Lankapara's star footballer Dhan Bhadur Tamang. 

The author ( 2nd from R ) in Lankapara Tea Garden  Shanti Club grounds in one of the many tournaments  played with Dhan Bhadur Tamang

Looking back at the course of these events of over three decades ago, it is still unclear why Bhogotay saheb had been murderously assaulted - and seemingly without provocation. However, one thing was beyond doubt: that I was successful in rescuing him from a near-death situation. This was probably due to my on-field camaraderie with Dhan Bhadur Tamang: despite being in a position to score a certain goal myself, I had passed the ball to Dhan Bhadur so he could attain glory.

This magnanimous act was possibly not lost on Dhan Bhadur Tamang - even in his drunken stupor, he hesitated to pull the trigger that fateful day. 

Kanchi Tamang ( 2nd from L ) and her co-workers visited the author at his bungalow the following day to enquire about his well being.

 

 

Meet the writer: 

Anjan chooses to describe himself in a few cryptic words, "A planter by default but implanted to the core". 

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; maybe long, 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!
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