Ghorajuli – No. 9 Bungalow

 by Vikramaditya Chaudhury

Dear friends, I am delighted to welcome our newest storyteller, Vikramaditya Chaudhury. He presents us with a rookie, a late night drive in dangerous ( leopard )country, a whiff of romance, the club Christmas party, and a 'presence' in the guest room...well, all these ingredients make for a brilliant chai story! Thank you, Vikramaditya. Happy reading, folks!! 

Guwahati – 24th. December, 1988

I reached office as usual at 8:30am and found the four other senior executives huddled in the Branch Manager’s chamber, deep in conversation. I was the juniormost officer and the others were all older than me by a decade or so. The moment the boss saw me, he waved me in without a smile. I entered the chamber and after the perfunctory round of ‘Good mornings’, he came straight to the point.

“VC what are your plans for this evening?”

The pragmatic tone of his voice betrayed the answer that he expected from me. Having spent a few years in the tea industry, I had learnt that such a question in such a tone merited only one answer and I didn’t disappoint him, “Nothing at all Sir. No plans.”

A collective sigh of relief washed over the group as they all beamed back at me.

The boss continued, “Right. Take the day off, go home and relax. You are to leave for Ghorajuli Tea Estate this afternoon, where you will represent the company at the Annual Christmas Party being held there. The party will be held at the Gohainbari Planters Club and arrangements have been made for you to stay the night at the Ghorajuli Manager’s bungalow. You will return to Guwahati tomorrow. Leave after breakfast at Ghorajuli and you should be back in town by lunch. Take the Ambassador and Dwijen driver. Any questions?”

Yet again, I didn’t disappoint him, “No Sir!”

“Leave by 2pm and you should be at Ghorajuli by 6pm. Remember that ‘Garden Time’ is ahead of IST by an hour, therefore, you should reach Ghorajuli by 7:00 pm Garden Time. Understood?”

“Yes Sir!”

“Do you drink?”

Pix by Gowri Mohanakrishnan https://www.instagram.com/indianchaistories/

Before I could respond to that rather pointed inquiry, one of my other colleagues sniggered, “It takes him precisely two small pegs to fly. VC and alcohol are rather distantly acquainted!”

That was the shameful truth on those days. At the ripe age of 23, I was yet to be closely acquainted with Lord Bacchus. The boss wasn’t too happy to hear this and droned on, “That’s terrible old chap. First you are a vegetarian and now you don’t drink. Your future in the tea industry is not too bright VC. Anyway, when you are offered a drink, take it and hang on to it. Don’t overdo it and don’t fall flat on your face. You are representing the Company, don’t forget.”

“Very good Sir!”

“I’ll tell my wife to send across a company tie to you. Wear that for the party.”

“Very good Sir. Thank you Sir!”

It was an unexpected honour to wear the green tie emblazoned with the muted gold crest. That was the only occasion when I had the good fortune of wearing it. Though I served with the company for almost a decade, I didn’t receive a tie of my own. I believe they were manufactured, in sets of twelve, by some bespoke outlet at Mayfair, London. Since I was the only eligible executive who needed a tie, they just couldn’t procure one single piece for me. I had to wait till at least another 11 became requisite. By the time I left the organisation in 1993, the list of requisites had climbed to five and the order was never placed. 

At precisely 2pm chauffeured by Dwijen, I left Guwahati and embarked upon the 200 kilometre journey to Rangapara.

Assam sunset. Pix by Gowri Mohanakrishnan https://www.instagram.com/indianchaistories/

The first part of the journey was smooth and we reached Nagaon by 4.30pm, it was dark by then. After a quick cuppa by the roadside, we started off again. Just out of the main town, there was a terrific metallic cacophony and suddenly the car engine note rose to a high pitched whine as the vehicle began to slow down. Dwijen quickly shut off the engine and the car rolled to a halt. Luckily there were people around and someone produced a torch.

The driver crawled beneath the car, inspected it and reported, “Popular sapt ka boltu capling toota.” What he was trying to tell me was that the nut and bolt binding the propeller shaft to the universal joint coupling had broken. Thus there was no power from the engine reaching the rear wheels.

By this time, a small crowd had gathered and some ingenious yokel offered street smart advice. Mate the shaft to the joint and insert a couple of bicycle spokes into the holes and tie them up. It will hold till you reach a garage and replace it with proper nuts and bolts. That was done and we were on our way again. As we had already lost about 45 minutes, Dwijen refused to stop at any garage for fear of the prowling militants who had sworn to carve out a ‘sovereign republic of Assam’.

We arrived at Ghorajuli Tea Estate an hour after schedule, to find that the Manager and his wife were all ready to leave for the club. They seemed rather relieved to see me and the Manager immediately instructed one of his executives to call up my boss and inform him of my tardy yet safe arrival. I was shown to the massive guest room and served a cup of tea with a request to change and get ready as soon as possible.

While I fiddled with the Windsor knot and tried to achieve the perfect cleft on the green and gold tie, I heard a car pulling away. A while later, after a final buff to my black brogues and a long Narcissistic inspection before the mirror, I was ready to rock and roll at the Gohainbari Club. Some combinations are truly classic and the blue blazer and powder grey trousers with black brogues (or Oxfords) are timeless.

As I admired myself there was a polite knock on the door and the orderly informed me that Sahib and Memsahib had already left for the club and that ‘Sunny Baba’ would be driving me. I wasn’t aware that Mr. and Mrs. Banerjee had a son staying with them. I stepped out to the car porch to find a Maruti 800 with the engine already running. The driver’s door of the car opened and the voice of the orderly, “Woh hai Sunny Baba, aap key liye wait kar rahin hain (That is Sunny baba, she is waiting for you)...” faded into oblivion. Sunny Baba aka Miss Sunita Banerjee was truly a sight for sore eyes! Even more so on that cold foggy Christmas eve when I was 23 years old.

“Hi Vikram, I’m Sunita. I thought I would wait for you and take you to Gohainbari. Ma and Dad had to leave early. Hope you don’t mind.”

Mind? Me? At that moment I just wished that the Gohainbari club had been 200 kilometres away! As I stepped into the car, my senses were overwhelmed by the perfume that she was wearing and even today the smell of Christian Dior’s Poison takes me back to that Christmas Eve of 1988. She wasn’t an accomplished driver, however, but her bubbly conversation more than made up for it.

“I’ve just graduated from LSR and am articled with a CA firm in New Delhi. Just got here last week and am already bored. You are the first guy that I’m meeting here that I can relate to. Call me Sunny, my friends do.”

As the estate roads meandered and the darkness gathered around us, her perfume numbed my senses. I was beginning to feel that fate had ordained this evening and it would prove to be an unforgettable Christmas Eve for me. I was right, albeit for all the wrong reasons!

After about a half hour or so, she grew decidedly under-confident and her chatter ceased as she peered through the windshield. The vehicle began to slow down and finally came to a halt in the darkness.

Uh oh! Was this vixen about to pull the ‘out of gas’ routine on poor old unsuspecting me?

“Vikram I’m lost. We should have reached Gohainbari by now. I thought this was the road but I must have taken a wrong turn at the last crossroads.”

Before I could react, she started to shiver and the pitch of her voice rose steadily.

“Oh my God we are at the fringe of the forest. This is where the leopard attack took place last week!”

A week ago, a worker had been mauled to death by a leopard at Ghorajuli Tea Estate and I remembered reading about it in the Assam Tribune.

She completely froze and seemed to pass out. Now this was a jolly good fix that I had gotten myself into. Pretty woman, scared, dark night, deserted road, static car, Christmas Eve! These situations occur once in a lifetime! Just that the prowling leopard was a bit of a damper.

By now she had taken her hands off the steering wheel and seemed incapable of driving anymore. I tried to calm her down and told her that I would drive us to the club. As I opened the door to get out, she lunged at me and grabbed me in a bear hug. “Please don’t go out. Don’t leave me alone.”

Though my resolve was about to melt, I gently extricated myself from the clutches of Miss Sunny Christian Dior Poison and managed to exchange places without stepping out of the vehicle. During this period we encountered some pleasant difficulties arising out of rather close physical proximities, but by the end of it I was behind the steering wheel.

She had begun to calm down by then and was coherent enough to guide us back to the club, where we arrived after a while and were greeted by a rather worried Mr. and Mrs. Banerjee. While Mrs. Banerjee intoned in her dulcet cultivated uppah class, “Dahling Sunny, we were so worried! We were just about to send out a search party! Ramu informed us that you left home an hour ago! Did you get lost? Is everything alright?”

At the end of the enquiry, without waiting for her daughter’s reply, she shot me a dirty inquisitive look. “No Mama, I got lost and landed up where the leopard attack took place and completely freaked out. If Vikram had not been there, I don’t know what would have happened.”

Mother Banerjee hissed, “Oh you poor thing! Thank you Vikram!” I knew sachcharine from sugar!

Father Banerjee, who had by then sidled up to me, grimaced and whispered, “Damn! You smell like my daughter. Come on, let’s get you a drink.”

I faintly recall the rest of the evening at Gohainbari club. Ms. Sunny expressed no interest in me for the remainder of my sojourn there. I remember her standing close to me as we all tunelessly belted out, “Silent night, holy night” at the stroke of midnight. I did catch her looking at me once or twice, it wasn’t anything amorous.

I also recall even more indistinctly (after two or three large pegs of Scotch) being driven back to Ghorajuli Tea Estate by who I don’t know and being shown into my spacious accommodations.

I had just divested myself of my blazer and brogues as the logs in the fireplace crackled happily, when the same orderly, now with a pronounced red tint in his eyes, arrived at the door and extended a rather exaggerated ‘Shaalaam Shaab’. The stressed ‘Sh’ is to be noted.

“Shalam Shaab! Aap aa gayaa? Aapka room mein shab kuch theek hai? Bathroom mein garam pani geyser on kar key rakha.” (Greetings Sir! You have returned? Hope all is well in your room. I have switched on the hot water geyser in the bathroom.)

Then he fished out a wooden box from the bookrack above the bed and uncoiled the long wire attached to it. It had an electric switch embedded in it. “Ish shwitch to dabaaney shey, kischen mein bell ring hoga. Hum pura raaat kischen mein rahega. Koi darkar padega, to aap ish switch ko dabayega aur hum aayega daurke do minute mein. Darne ka nahin.” (If you press this switch, a bell will ring in the kitchen. I will be in the kitchen the whole night. If you need something, press the switch and I will run and reach in two minutes. Don’t be scared.)

“Darne ka kya hai?” I asked diffidently. (What is there to be scared of?)

“Shaab woh sirf aapko dekhney ke liye aayega. Kush nahin karega. Aapko shirif dekhega aur chala jayega.” (Sir, he will only come to see you. He won’t do anything. He will just come to see you and then he will go away.)

“Kaun? Kaun aayega mujhe dekhene ke liye?” (Who? Who will come to see me?)

“Woh Shaab. Woh aayega. Lekin aap mat dariye, kush nahin karega. Meri Chrishmash Shaab! Good night Shaab!” (He, Sir. He will come to see you. But don’t get scared Sir, he won’t do anything. Merry Christmas Sir! Good night Sir!)

So saying, he produced another exaggerated ‘shalaam’ and backed away out of the room into the darkness.

The Scotch was playing tricks with my brain and the long drive and the experiences of the evening only served to muddle it further. I decided to call it a day and changed into my bed clothes.

Unaccustomed to sleeping in total darkness, I left the bathroom light on and also left the bathroom door ajar. It was a huge room and must have measured around 700 square feet or more. Enough space to construct a two bedroom flat in today’s world of architectural parsimony. I remember that there were two complete sofa sets with glass topped tables and a massive Emperor-sized bed. There was also an ancient Davenport desk and a quaint rocking chair with a vintage pendant reading light above it. The bed was very comfortable and the logs crackled in the fireplace, pretty soon I felt sleep overtake my senses. Merry Christmas!

I awoke around 3am with the feeling that there was somebody else in the room. My first instinct was to reach for the reassuring switch but I fought it and crawled out of bed. First I opened the bathroom door completely to let more light into the room and then switched on the light above the rocking chair. Now there was enough light in the room.

Sans me, the room was empty and I crawled back into bed. As I drew the blanket up to my chin, I saw a sight and froze. The rocking chair was rocking. Ever so slightly, but rocking back and forth all the same. I must have brushed against it on my way back to the bed. As I propped myself up on the pillows and continued to stare at the moving chair, it suddenly stopped in mid swing. As if an unseen hand had steadied it. The chair froze and so did I. I remember feeling the clichéd chill run down my spine.

After a while, I plucked up enough courage to throw away the blankets and approached the rocking chair. I pushed it and again it began to rock back and forth. I got bored of looking at it after a while and turned my attention to the antique Davenport desk in the corner of the room. Even though I continued to feel a presence in the room, surprisingly I wasn’t scared at all.

I don’t know why I did what I did next but I spoke aloud, "Whoever you are, show yourself to me. If you feel that I will be scared, show me yourself in some form that won’t scare me."

Immediately, a small red toy car (a Matchbox Mercedes Benz) buzzed its way out from below the Davenport and took me completely by surprise. As I stared at it, in its wake followed the most beautiful green frog that I’ve ever seen. It hopped out from under the writing desk and sat there on the polished wooden floor. I was relieved. So this amphibian had sought refuge from the cold and had been disturbed by me. It looked at me for a while and then hopped its way towards the bathroom, I followed. It was a sprightly creature and four leaps took it to the bathroom door. It hopped inside and though I was a split second behind it, it had vanished!

I looked all over the large bathroom but it was nowhere to be found. It had practically vanished into thin air. I crawled back into the comfortable bed, but not before I had found a large collection of Reader’s Digest magazines dating back to 1969 on the book rack. I took some of them down and decided to read into the night till sunrise.

I remember I was mid way through an article about airports and aeroplanes when I heard it. An innocuous sound, a steady tap-tap-tap of a stick on the wooden floor of the long corridor outside. Obviously a night watchman or a ‘chowkidar’. I heard the tap-tap-tap approach the room and then turn around and fade away. Then it came back. Growing louder as it approached the room, stopped and then grew fainter as he went away from the room.

The sound reassured me and proved to be somniferous. Soon I found myself yawning and I put the book aside. All thoughts of ‘a presence in the room’ seemed to vanish and I drifted into sleep listening to the continuous tap-tap-tap of the night watchman parading up and down the corridor of Bungalow No.9 of Ghorajuli Tea Estate.

I was jolted awake with repeated knocks on my door and as I opened my eyes I realised that the windows were bathed in sunlight. I opened the door and faced an impatient liveried orderly who said, “Sahab, aath baj gyaa. Madam aap ke liye lawn me breakfast ka order diya. Aap ready ho ke aa jaayo.” (Sir it is 8am. Madam is waiting for you to join her for breakfast on the front lawns. Please freshen up and be there.) My watch said 8:00am IST which translated to 9:00am GST. I had overslept!

In another thirty minutes I presented myself before the lady of the house on the front lawns of Bungalow No.9 Ghorajuli Tea Estate. As hot toasted bread and fried eggs, fluffy omelettes, steaming coffee, scones and dollops of fresh whipped cream were laid out on the wrought iron table under a garden parasol, she opened the conversation.

“Aloke left for the factory at 7 o’clock and Sunny went riding at 7.30. Both of them wanted to wake you up but I didn’t let them. I know you had a long day yesterday. Did you sleep well?”

“As a matter of fact, I didn’t. I kept imagining that there was somebody in the room. Woke up at around 3 am. Tried to read myself to sleep but then thank God your Chowkidar took over. Listening to the tapping of his stick, I went off to sleep.”

Mrs. Banerjee had bitten into her buttered toast when she seemed to freeze. The fork and knife that had sliced into the ‘sunny side up’ returned to the plate and she spluttered, “Chowkidar tapping his stick? You heard it? Are you sure?”

“Yes. Quite sure. I felt very reassured hearing that sound. As a matter of fact, one of your Nepali orderlies tried to scare me last night by saying that, “Woh aayega. Woh aayega aapko dekhney ke liye.” Thank God the night watchman was there to allay my fears.”

What I didn’t notice then but I do recall now is that she had turned a shade pale, abandoned her breakfast and quaffed down her coffee at this point. A moment later, Dwijen, my driver, appeared and saluted, “Ready Sahib, aapuni jab ready hoga, aahi jaabo!” (Ready to go Sir, whenever you are.)

My bag was packed and ensconced in the rear seat of the Ambassador and I was about to drive away when Miss Sunny made her entrance atop a chestnut stallion. It was a stunning sight to say the least.

As her trainer helped her dismount, her mother rushed to be beside her and the duo were soon engaged in a very animated conversation. I saw curious glances in my direction as I raised my hand to wave goodbye.

Dwijen had engaged the gears and the vehicle was moving when Sunny broke away from her Mom and ran towards the car. I told Dwijen to stop as we reached her and she stuck her head in through the window. I smelt that old perfume lingering on….

“You heard Ranbir Singh last night?”

“Who Ranbir?”

“You heard the night chowkidar go tap-tap-tap last night?”

“Yes I did.”

“Sure? You heard him?”

“Of course I did. Right through the night. Why? Where is the problem?”

“No problems. It is just that we don’t have night chowkidars with sticks any more. There are guards patrolling the border of the estate with automatic weapons.”

“But I heard him tapping away last night, I’m sure of that. I was wide awake and couldn’t have been dreaming.”

“No you weren’t dreaming. Ranbir Singh was a chowkidar here at Ghorajuli in 1917. There was an uprising in the labour camps and they massacred all the British officers of the estate. Ranbir died in his attempt to protect the Manager and his family. He was killed in the bathroom of the guest room that you slept in last night....” having said that, she turned around and walked away.

As I waved goodbye to Ghorajuli Tea Estate, these last words of Sunita Banerjee stuck to my ears and followed me back all the way to Guwahati.

***Based on an actual incident. Identities of the people and places have been changed to respect their privacy. 

 Meet the writer:

Vikramaditya Chaudhury is an author, whose books include Six to Gehenna , Rag, Tag and Bob Tales and Grey.

The author served with Carritt, Moran & Co.P.Ltd., for almost a decade, at the beginning of his career. Thereafter he worked with corporate entities like the Gujarat Ambuja Group, amongst others. Today he is an acclaimed Soft Skills Trainer and Motivational Speaker serving a plethora of sectors in the corporate world and educational institutions. His clientele comprises corporate blue chips, students of several IITs, NITs and IIMs and the Indian Army.

He is currently working on his latest novel ‘Banga Kiron - Footprints in the Sands of Time’ which is set in the holy city of Varanasi.

The author is married and stays in Guwahati, Assam with his family, comprising his wife Indrani, daughter Indrakshi, Sakura his feline son and Patchy his canine younger daughter.

His hobbies include scale and radio controlled models, aviation and air combat Research, vegetarian cooking and playing the harmonica.

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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, short, impossible, scary, funny or exciting but never dull. You will find yourself transported to another world! 
 
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