Cakes & Curry Puffs

by Aloke Mookerjee
This piece was written a long time back. A recent short trip to Goa during which a visit to the lovely ‘Mario’ shop in Candolim where amongst all the wonderful Mario Miranda themed items, was a picture of a lovable dog holding a flower by the stem between its teeth. Its caption was so very appropriate to my article that I felt the urge to include it.

Ghatia Tea Estate, bordering Bhutan in the Dooars was, at that time, a small compact plantation of 900 acres with a well laid out factory that boasted of two functional gates – the IN and the OUT! Not to be outdone, the factory building also had its own two entry/exit doors; one at the drying room and the other at the rolling room.

As the 'KAMJARI SAAB' of Ghatia, I was required to be at the office in the afternoons after my field work, to dispense with the day's paper work and dole out the minor 'bichars'* to workers who appeared before me after having escaped the Burra Saab's severe growls and snarls! Through all these proceedings my yellow Labrador Tippy would remain quietly by my side.

Having dispensed with the chores, I would walk down to the factory, with Tippy following at heel, and enter the premises through the drying room door. On my instruction, Tippy would sit outside and wait for me to reappear which I invariably did from the same door. We would then walk back together to the bungalow for the now long gone ritual of evening tea in the veranda!

One balmy October evening, after completing my office work, I entered the factory, with Tippy, as usual, sitting and waiting outside the drying room door. Inside, engrossed in an animated (and typically irrelevant) conversation with the 'Kal' Saab (as the Mistry Saabs in the Dooars were known as) I forgot my devoted dog and left for my bungalow by exiting through the rolling room door.

In the bungalow veranda, the vintage trolley pushed on by my vintage bearer creaked out laden with the pot of tea, cakes and curry puffs. After the busy work day, peace and quiet prevailed. A feeling of well-being was seeping through me gently while relishing the spread prepared by the old ‘Mog’ cook (I seemed to have specialised in old and dated house help!). Despite the tranquillity in the air all around, a feeling of something amiss kept nagging me.

Over my second cup and curry puff, the nagging suddenly yielded results and the benign mood jolted on realizing that my drooling and lovable Labrador by my side was missing! I left my tea instantly and rushed out fearing the worst – that she might be lost, wandering and desperately looking for me. I headed quickly, first for the drying room door where I had last left Tippy waiting.

I needed to look no further for there she was still sitting in exactly the same position as I had last seen her, only now with a distinctly forlorn gaze at the door! Ecstatic at the sound of my urgent call and appearance, she bounded up jumping all over me as we quickly began our walk back with her romping by my side in doggy delight.

Back in the bungalow, Tippy earned a well-deserved extra share of cakes and curry puffs that evening. Elated by the larger than usual helping of the delectable treats, I was happily granted a full pardon and my serious (never to be repeated) sin quickly forgotten.

Tippy lived on for many more years greedy for ripened bananas, curry puffs and cream cakes. She now lies in peace under a luxuriant (still the same I hope) Mary Palmer in the compound of the Borjuli Burra Bungalow in the North Bank of Assam.

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. There are over 120 stories of tea life here, all written by people who have lived in tea gardens. 

Add this link to your favourites: https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/ 

Happy reading! Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea!

 
Meet the writer: Aloke Mookerjee

Here's what Aloke has to say about himself : 'Long retired from tea, but still active in business. Even after all these years, tea remains to live strongly in my thoughts; they were the best years of my life. Other interests? Always loved Jazz music - still do and have written about this incredible genre. Love vintage airplanes (thus my love for Dakotas!) and cars, and intend to make this my next focus.'  Here is the link to all posts by Aloke - Stories by Aloke Mookerjee

Aloke has recently published a book, The Jazz Bug, which is available on Amazon. Read about it here: https://notionpress.com/read/the-jazz-bug?fbclid=IwAR2HjxSU2rY6sq5cX_lzBxJY5oat1i_Z22qKdRRP1Tm77Dqp48B2CAlnGvY 

The Ghost of Carrington

by V.R.Srikanth

Carrington. All pictures by the author

 The area towards the western escarpments of the Nilgiris is often referred to as the Kundahs. More about that later. The westernmost and most farthest estate is Korakundah, where a fellow writer and a good mate of mine, Rajesh Thomas is currently stationed. En route to Korakundah one passes through Thiashola, a tea estate of approximately 190 hectares that formerly belonged to Tea Estates India Ltd., which was a subsidiary of Brooke Bond. The Thiashola marks have for years represented the finest of Nilgiri Orthodox teas.

This story will be in two parts. In this first one here, I will attempt to acquaint you with this beautiful area, and in the second part, I will narrate the story. To the detail minded, one reaches Thiashola from Ooty and Coonoor via Manjoor. It is a total of around 45 kms from both the aforementioned towns.

Thiashola lives up to its name as it gives one the district impression of literally being chiseled out of the previously all pervading shola forests by the early pioneers of the tea and coffee plantation industry towards the mid 18th century. From the Thiashola tea factory at around 1900 metres msl, the road proceeds further up and westward towards the estate boundary for about 3kms as it enters the Thiashola Reserve forest area. About 600 metres further it offers two deviations at a Y junction with the Upper left proceeding towards Carrington ( a division of Thiashola measuring approximately 65 hectares and around 3 kms from that point) and Kinnakorai (which is the last settlement of the Nilgiris on the south west which is about 13 kms from that point). The road on the lower right proceeds towards Korakundah Estate.

The walk or drive from the Thiashola Estate Factory to Kinnakorai via Carrington and our property, Silver Saddle (approximately 10.6 kms from the Y junction and 7.6 kms from Carrington) is perhaps one of the most exhilarating journeys in the Nilgiris and in fact any tea growing area. One climbs from 1900 metres at Thiashola gradually to about 2100 metres at Y junction and Carrington and descends sharply towards Silver Saddle at 1825 metres msl and Kinnakorai at 1700 metres msl.

It is a walkers dream, with sightings - if one is lucky - of Sambhur, Dholes, Malabar Squirrels, Nilgiri Martens, the two big cats, Gaur*, Black Naped Hares, Ruddy and Striped Mongoose, Nilgiri Tahr**, Bonnet Macaques and Nilgiri Langurs. The walk is along a densely forested area inhabited by native shola forests where visibility on both sides of the road is restricted to a few feet on either side through most of the journey. There are spectacular views to be had along the way with a drop to the Kerala foothills towards the west of almost 5300 ft, and the Geddai Valley towards the East of almost the same extent of declivity. The sound of the wind whistling through the trees accompanied by numerous bird calls is constant.

One frequently pinches oneself to believe it is all true and thanks the Creator along the way.

The Kerala foothills, viewed from near Silver Saddle.

Part II

The sound continued for a few minutes and stopped. I started breathing more easily....

Although Thiashola was fairly well known to visitors to the Korakundah and Upper Bhavani area, the division of nearby Carrington was much less so, with visitors to Kinnakorai being the only ones to pass it on a regular basis. That is no longer the case now with bikers and motorists from chiefly nearby Kerala and to a lesser extent tourists from other areas to the Nilgiris, frequently visiting it. However for the major part the area from the Y Junction to Kinnakorai is largely bereft of any human or vehicular presence.

The only connection that residents of Carrington have with the rest of Nilgiris is by the means of buses and other vehicles that pass from Kinnakorai towards Thiashola, Manjoor and beyond. If they miss a scheduled bus, they have recourse to a steeply descending and slippery walk through the shola forest to the Thiashola factory. It is a well worn if not outright dangerous path infested with leeches, slippery rock faces, loose mud and a constantly changing undergrowth. The missed bus at Carrington can be boarded at Thiashola by means of this hazardous 20 minute walk.

The only regular walkers on the road from Thiashola to Carrington, Silver Saddle and Kinnakorai in recent times have been the estate workers, animals and me. In fact I first started doing the walk to Kinnakorai from 2008 onwards when we purchased the property known as Silver Saddle, which was the name given by me to the estate, post its purchase. My wife and I having purchased the property started living in a rented village house in Kinnakorai immediately thereafter. I would on returning from trips to Ooty and Coonoor, hand over my car to my wife at Thiashola and do the 17 km walk to Kinnakorai in the evenings by myself.

Carrington and Thiashola were planted round about the same time in the middle of the 19th century with Carrington having been the place where the first tea bush was planted in 1853, arguably being the first in South India to commercially do so. There is no denying however that Chinese prisoners were used to do this, having been incarcerated there in an open prison called “Jail Maatam,” after initially being brought from China by Clipper Ships, during the Second Opium war and marched up to Carrington from the North Malabar coast. Which brings us to the hero of our story.

I had frequently been informed first hand by amused estate workers that I met en route about the grave dangers that I could encounter on the route and these in the main dealt with passing animals. I have frequently hidden in the shola as herds of Gaur have passed by on more than one occasion and once even watched a pack of dholes*** cross further ahead while thankfully ignoring me. I have also seen wild boar and sambhur**** crossing frequently but fortunately no big cats or elephants.

On an occasion as I paused on a bench at the entrance of Carrington for a smoke break, a worker I used to meet frequently, informed about a ghost that haunted the “Jail Mattam” area or the Carrington Flat as I call it. This involved a distance of about 1 to 1.5 kms from the entrance to Carrington, towards Kinnakorai. I scarcely gave it any thought as I marched along homeward.

Now as a rule I never listen to music by means of an iPod or mobile as I walk. This is mainly to constantly be one with and enjoy the sounds of the jungle. As I covered two thirds of the flat, I could have sworn that I heard footsteps behind me with the odd beating of a stick on the road. I had been for enough walks by then to isolate that distinct sound from others. I paused and looked around to see if it was made by a worker cutting firewood in the surrounding forest or by cattle or its handler. I had a fair idea of the of distance from where the sound was emanating from behind me so although my presumptions of the cause of it could have been ruled out, I still proceeded to wait and observe by way of abundant caution. I observed no one.

The sound continued for a few minutes and stopped. I started breathing more easily despite the fact that I was on a flat path and there ought to have been no cause for even the ‘lightest’ heavy breathing. I still had about a 1 km to walk through in a steeply descending set of hairpin bends interspersed with some straight sections before I passed the southern boundary of Carrington near the second bus stop where I would normally pause for my second smoke and water break.

The noise resumed again after I crossed the first hairpin bend. I could have sworn that there was nobody around as I continued walking after having paused once again. It was getting dark and it was during the period and I was keen on reaching the Saddle early, which was still more than 6 kms away through some really dense forests and one known animal crossing point. The steps with the odd beating of the stick on the road continued and I could have sworn that I felt a tug at the back of my shirt and right sleeve, about 500 metres before the lower bus stop. I lit a nervous cigarette with the dual objectives of calming my nerves and secondly, ensuring that the now christened ‘Mr.Hu,’followed respectfully behind and not anywhere near my sleeves. I crossed the bus stop without stopping and lit another.

I covered the remaining distance to Kinnakorai in an hour which was really good going and proceeded to pour myself a rather stiff whiskey on reaching home. I have frequently encountered ‘Mr.Hu’ on my walks and have managed to calmly accept his presence.

I do greet him from time to time, which although inciting within me a reassuring feeling firstly of comfort and then familiarity, however does no good whatsoever in my self psychological assessment. Happily, I no longer take the support of a cigarette as I have stopped smoking, and also have never since felt a tug. Popular opinion within my immediate circle lends credence to the theory that I kept imbibing from my hip flask whilst on that walk. Which of course, I vociferously and indignantly deny. Thankfully, I have now stopped drinking alcohol too.

And of course, nobody believes my story.

Editor's note:
*Gaur - Indian bison, see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gaur
**tahr - a kind of wild goat. see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tahr
***dhole - wild dog, see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dhole
****sambhur or sambar - Deer, see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sambar_deer

Passing by Carrington while on the walk

Meet the writer: V.R.Srikanth

I am a resident of the Nilgiris. I am a retired Corporate Management Professional having done two brief stint as a planter, nearly thirty years apart, mainly in Coffee. I live on my estate growing timber, organic herbs and vegetables.

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!

The Inimitable Dharmam

by Saaz Aggarwal

I was just 11 when we left the last place where Dharmam and my dad worked together (as they had done for several years), and we never met again. And, even though I had never had much contact with Dharmam myself, the memory of who he was appears to have remained quite vividly. I suppose that’s because my father always held him with such a great degree of respect

I began working on a book based on plantation life in April 2013, first interviewing Uncle Sin (NSV Sinniah), who had started his career as a tea planter in Ceylon before moving to E&A, followed by a few more with other Ooty locals that year. In March 2015, I interviewed Ravindran and Ram Adige in Bangalore, both former E&A employees and colleagues of my father. It was a wonderful session, but the book took a back seat to other projects. So, when Ravindran told me in June 2019 that he had a collection of stories he wanted my help in publishing, I agreed at once and have enjoyed the process of weaving in context and fleshing them out with memories from him and others, including my own.

Working on this book took me back to an idyllic childhood, its pristine air-quality, vistas of sloping valleys of smooth green from the sitting-room windows, brilliant night skies, and a certain formal grandeur and privileged way of living compounding the fundamental isolation of plantation life. The sunsets at Prospect were spectacular: one time, driving towards the fork in the road that led into the estate, the sky ahead was streaked with clouds that carried every colour of the rainbow, the entire spectrum from purple to red, a sight that remains fresh in my mind nearly fifty years later.

Seated: Dharmam (his son Bimal Rajasekhar is standing next to him), Saaz, Situ, Bob and Ravi Savur. from Saaz’s album. High Forest, 1967

Out of the blue I remembered Dharmam, a mechanic at Prospect. I phoned Victor to ask and he said, “Of course I remember him, he was your dad’s favourite!” Victor went on to give me a few examples of Dharmam’s ingenuity:

At Prospect we used motorized power sprayers and to start them, we had to tie a rope around the motor and pull. But it was so cold right around the year that a simple pull never worked. We had to keep pulling, it took a lot of time, a lot of tries and a lot of strength, and they still wouldn’t start. Until Dharmam came up with a brilliant idea: he hooked the rope to a V-belt on one of the machines. When the machine was turned on, its rapid revolution started the sprayer in no time.

From Planting Directory of Southern inDia, UPASI, Coonoor (1956)

As I wrote this down, an image emerged from the deep recesses of my memory: the door to ‘Aladdin’s Cave’, a dark and perhaps windowless restricted-entry room in the Prospect factory, Dharmam’s secret stockroom. When anything needed fixing, Dharmam would retreat into the cave and emerge carrying a piece of scrap or spare or strange-looking tool, and get it working in a jiffy. Victor remembered that he never threw anything away; that he used discarded lorry shock absorbers to make stools to sit on.

My brother and I even had a car, which Dharmam had made using discarded metal sheets, a marvel of technology with a working steering wheel, a discarded lorry horn and discarded bicycle pedals.

Dharmam was a genius and, in different circumstances, could have been an inventor who formed the backbone of a national space mission or corporate R&D department.

His father, PA Charles, had gone to work at Dunsinane Estate, Ceylon, and rose to be teamaker there. After some years he quit to return to the family home in Nagercoil, Tamilnadu, and subsequently worked as teamaker at High Forest and Seaforth. Dharmam, well qualfied and highly skilled, joined High Forest in 1954. These facts I learnt from his son Rajappa. I had made many attempts to locate Dharmam’s children, and it seemed like a miracle to do so just days before this book went to print – particularly because, on that 2016 visit to Prospect, I had been informed (mistakenly, as it turned out) that Dharmam was no more.

Dharmam's family: Rajappa Charles and Bimal Rajasekhar, in cars fabricated by their father. Rajappa grew up to be an engineer, and Bimal is a doctor with a Master’s degree in Public Health from London School of Economics. Their mother Helen was a much beloved teacher in the estate schools. Dharmam retired from Seaforth in 1987 and they continued living there until she retired four years later.

In fact, Dharmam celebrated his ninetieth birthday in April 2019. And in September I learnt from him that it was a rotorvane that took Peter Sausman’s finger. A rotorvane is the machine in which tea leaves are loaded after going through the rollers, forced through a barrel by a screw-type rotating shaft with vanes at its centre. Peter evidently got too close. He lost a finger, but his sense of humour, as Ravindran describes earlier in the book, stayed on.

Visiting Prospect in 2016 I had asked after Hutcha too, and was told that he too was no more. Hutcha was a lorry driver in our time, and of English blood, as I deduced from an email from Denis Mayne in 2015, followed by a conversation with others who knew. Denis now lives in Belfast, and I had come across his post ‘When I was in India’ on a Bangor Aye blog, in which he described his initiation on Prospect, less gentle than Ravindran’s would be a decade later, with a manager who sent him off saying: I’ll see you on Friday. In the mean time you are in charge of four hundred acres of tea and four hundred men. Only one man speaks English and you can’t believe a word he says. Good Luck!

I was delighted to get connected to him through the blog, and through him to Carolyn Hollis; their words and photos have brought parts of this book alive. As for Hutcha’s biological father, you could probably spot him in the photo on the last page, one of the last grand collections of British and Indian tea planters c1958. Most of them are no more.

Chittu is long gone too. One evening at Kodanad in the 1980s, he went off as usual to run around and do dog things, and never came back. “Dog eating panther,” as the butler English of our days described it, not an unusual end for an estate dog, much mourned by all of us, especially my dad, who would now have to ride out to the fields on his own.

Epilogue:
 
Meet the writer:

Saaz Aggarwal is a contemporary Indian writer whose body of work includes biographies, translations, critical reviews and humour columns. As an artist, she is recognized for her Bombay Clichés, quirky depictions of urban India in a traditional Indian folk style. Her art incorporates a range of media and, like her columns, showcases the incongruities of daily life in India. Her 2012 book, 'Sindh: Stories from a Vanished Homeland', established her as a researcher in Sindh studies. 

 

The book on plantation life co-authored by Saaz, An Elephant Kissed My Window (and other stories from the tea plantations of South India) is available on https://www.amazon.in/elephant-kissed-window-stories-plantations-ebook/dp/B07YJDZZF7

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!

Just One Drink

by Indi Khanna

In 1983, working with Warren Tea Limited, I was the Garden Assistant on Dhoedaam Estate in Upper Assam in the Doom Dooma area. Regardless of the age difference and the disparity in our seniority levels, Himmat Singh - many years my senior and a Senior Manager on Tara, another one of the Warren Estates in the district - had become one of my very close friends. One of the many friends whose bungalow we would happily drop in to unannounced.

This being well before not just mobile services, but also any other form of telephony, our normal mode of communication was dependent upon letters delivered to each other via the estate 'mail service' (a messenger who would carry official and unofficial letters and the like between estates); our terrestrial alternative to pigeon mail.

Received a letter one day mid-week from Himmat telling me that his wife Krishna was away on holiday in Jaipur and that since my wife was also away on a jaunt, would I like to drop in that evening for a drink. Never one to refuse a good offer, come the evening I headed off to Tara. It was one of those lovely Assam evenings when nature would routinely open all the sluice gates and send down enough rain to put the Niagara Falls to shame, all the while lighting up the sky with millions of volts of electricity and an equal amount of decibels of thunder. In short, just the sort of conditions which would have made Shakespeare rub his hands in glee and call on the three witches to make their appearance.

Drove into Tara around 2030 Hrs to find Himmat waiting for me in his 'Jalli Kamra', enjoying the lovely weather. Being almost par for the course, the thin spray of rain hanging over one's heads akin to a personal cloud accompanied by the occasional wisp of mist finding its way into the Jalli Kamra was never taken cognisance of.

 Settling down, my first statement to Himmat was that I wanted an early evening since I had a very early start (when was it ever not an early start for us?) and needed to get my beauty sleep before facing the formidable Bahadur Singh (my boss) in the morning, and to be well in time for my Kamjari.

Almost knocked the socks off me when Himmat tells me, "We'll have just one drink before khana" and then shouts "Jannu, saab ka aur mera drink lao". In toddles his faithful Jaanu with two VERY large brandy snifters and two bottles of our favoured tipple, Beehive brandy.

Quite obviously having been instructed in advance of what he was required to do when faced with this strange order, Jannu very nonchalantly unscrews the tops of the two bottles to break the seal and proceeds to pour the contents into the two snifters. To say I was aghast would be an understatement.

My "Himmat, what the hell is this?" was met by an almost angelic smile and a "Well, it is only ONE drink", following which statement Himmat decided to become stone deaf and took on the majestic appearance of Mount Rushmore!

By 2200 Hrs, one small sip at a time, I had managed to bring the level of the brandy down just below the rim.

"Himmat, can we eat?"

"Don't be silly, we have to finish our one drink!" And then back to being Mount Rushmore.

2400 Hrs
My "Himmat, I need to get back and am bloody hungry", was met by a glare which made me decide to shut my mouth for a mite longer.

0200 Hrs my next request for dinner met the same fate as did the one an hour later.

Finally at 4 in the morning, in total exasperation I was left with no option but to say to Mr Stone Deaf that this was it and that I simply HAD to leave.

 And what does my host do, "Jannu, Saab is not finishing his drink so cover his glass and keep it in the fridge for him as he'll be coming back tomorrow to finish it and have his dinner!"

Cold, very hungry and somewhat miserable Mr Khanna drives back to Dhoedaam. Got to my bungalow, wolfed down a packet of biscuits, changed into my shorts and dragged myself to my Kamjari office.

Oh yes, during the day Himmat received a letter from me by way of the terrestrial pigeon post thanking him for his hospitality and the "ONE DRINK"!

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!

Meet the writer:

Indi Khanna with Xerox

With an industry experience and a tea knowledge base of four and a half decades and counting, I literally live and breathe tea. 

Starting my career in 1975 as an Assistant Superintendent with Malayalam Plantations Ltd, rolling up my sleeves by 'dirtying' my hands at the grassroots level and having literally 'grown' in the business, my experiences have matured me into a ‘one of a kind’ unique entity in the industry.

My journey which literally starts from the tea nursery and stretches all the way up to the consumer shelf, is in many ways unique. Regularly roaming the tea world, delving into the most remote areas wherever tea is grown or consumed, constantly interacting with Tea folk, I have always been learning and innovating. The invaluable experiences along this very interesting route have culminated into a unique new venture, a one-of-a-kind specialty tea manufacturing facility unit in the Nilgiris - www.teastudio.info.

My life has been and continues to be blessed.

Thankfully this very interesting Tea journey continues as an ongoing learning experience.

Characters!

by Rajesh Thomas
Disclaimer: Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is not the result of chance. It is deliberate.
 

To be a successful planter one must be a concoction of unusual things. Firstly, a love for agriculture and a knack to make things grow. Then have a deep biased love for his garden and its inhabitants. Also be a businessman, legal brain and public relations officer.

Little bit mechanically minded to see the engines in his factory run smoothly and the vehicles keep plying on the dirt tracks. A dash of civil engineering to lay a new road or to build a new building. Become fluent in an alien language. To enjoy long stretches of loneliness, solitude, and boredom. And most important of it all to be balanced to take all his power with a grain of salt.

In spite of all the above, the gardens are full of cranks, oddities, and half-brained fanatics. It takes all sorts of characters to make the world and the world of tea is full of them. Here are a few and you are welcome to add to it.

The Rules Man

The Rules Man – A stickler for rules. He is very rigid, and lives in the shadows of the black and white ink of policies and procedures. In his estate, rules dominate and regulations have only one interpretation. Change is not only avoided and feared by him but also ridiculed and scorned. Very fond of Managers and Assistant managers of similar ilk.

The Disciplinarian – To him discipline is everything. His first love was the army and planting was his alternative option. Tries to run the estate like a regiment. Gets very annoyed if things are not kept in a row or when workers do not walk in a single file.

The Brown Sahib – if you close your eyes and talk to him you would be transported to old blighty. Will be immaculately dressed. He will have a fine collection of jackets and blazers; very fond of ties and cravats. Most conversations will start with “in the good ole days “ Sadly a dying breed.

The Hermit – The hermit is the most elusive of managers. The hermit likes to remain isolated from the rest of the estate and hide behind closed doors in the estate office, which is treated as the sanctum sanctorum of the estate with the access normally controlled by the Section officer or the Office Babu, who act as gatekeepers. Normally a very Senior Manager who has been bypassed for promotion to head office and has a few years to his retirement. 

The Spy Master

The Spy Master – A man of intrigue. He plays his cards close to his chest. Has spies all over the estate. Spies mostly will be the estate drivers and watchmen. Each spy will have his regular spot where the manager will meet him on his field rounds. Mainly to keep tabs on the activities of the Assistant Manager and the Senior Staff. But funnily the spymaster will rarely act on the tales carried on to him, as he will rarely have the courage to act on it or have a face to face confrontation. Nowadays his life has been made easier for him after the advent of the mobile phone, he doesn’t have to rely on the bush telegraph, he gets all the gossip straight on his phone before breakfast.

The Henpecked --This manager will be in office till very late in the evening, keeping himself busy with a list of silly tasks for himself and the office staff. While everyone else thinks he is very hardworking, the truth is he is scared to go home. Till a sharp rebuke on the phone from the missus will send him scurrying home.

Can’t take a Decision – Decision-making paralysis is his wont. Can conjure up impossible scenarios before making a decision. Even a making a simple decision stresses him out.

Mister Tough Guy

The Tough Guy - Public school educated, and mostly would have boxed in school. Walks with his chest out and stern face. Workers and Union Leaders are mortally scared of him. Loves a confrontation. Projects the tough guy image at the club bar too. Actually, in most cases, he is a softie at heart.

The Golfer – As he is walking along the rows of tea amidst the pluckers he imagines that he is in the bunker at the fifth hole of the local golf course wielding a sand wedge. The pluckers have seen it all before and turn a blind eye. Common indicators his golf averages fluctuate in correlation to his crop and sale averages. A major variant is a cricketer who practices the forward defense between the withering troughs. A minor variant is the tennis player and the angler.

The Numbers Man

The Numbers Man –To him the world is numbers and spreadsheets are his things. Sits the whole morning in office twisting numbers to prove to Head Office that he is superior to his contemporaries. Specialist in formats. Normally one will find different colors of pens and highlighters on his table, to prove his point on the monthly statements. This type has become more common after the advent of the computer.

The Yes Man – Mostly a talentless manager, whose rise is based upon unquestioning obedience and loyalty to the powers to be. His motto in life is ‘above you God, below you dog'.

The Wiggler – The manager who cannot be pinned down. Any fault is the Assistants Mistake. His daily perspective changes with the flow of the situation. Statements like “I never said that” or “I didn’t mean it like that” are very common, especially when there is a visit by a higher-up.
Changing viewpoints is an everyday occurrence making the rest of the estate unsure of how they should view anything new. Every day is a new day under him.

Epilogue – The inspiration for writing this piece came when I was introduced to a senior army officer at a dinner and when he found out that I was a planter, he had this to say “ I thought I had seen all kinds in the army, till I happened to meet a few planters”.

 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!

Meet the writer:

  Rajesh Thomas introduces himself:
"A second generation planter. Born and grew up in the planting districts of Southern India. Started my career in the High Ranges and Annamallais Planting Districts for twelve years. Had a stint in Africa for two years. Since 2009 been planting in the Nilgiris.

Read all of Rajesh's stories at this link: https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/search/label/J.Rajesh%20Thomas

ADD THIS LINK TO YOUR FAVOURITES : https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/Indian Chai Stories.
Happy reading! Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea! 

I Have my Licence

Lataguri. Gorumara. These are names you see on travel websites advertising holiday stays at 'resorts' in the Dooars. There was a time when the forests of Lataguri and Gorumara were dense and forbidding; they were dark, even during the day. Venk's story brings that era to life.

by Venk Shenoi

Pic of Venk with the Tata Nano in which he went round India in 2013

Grassmore Tea Estate is spread over 2,000 acres of land and getting around on foot at all hours of the day was not practical. I had my trusted Hind bicycle which gave me four years’ service during my student days in Kharagpur. Pedalling up and down the *Mela-tracks was hard work particularly in hot-weather and rain, and you were dependent on others for lifts to the Club.

The company offered loans – up to 15,000 rupees for cars and three or four thousand rupees if you got a motor cycle. A Hindusthan cost Rs 11,000 and a Triumph Herald Rs 9,500. I opted for the cheaper option and preferred the freedom of the elements on my face at speed. 

My motorcycle, the latest Rajdoot in 1963 (see photo) cost 3,400 rupees and arrived from the agents in Siliguri on the back of a lorry after a month’s wait. The driver gave me basic lessons – start, stop, turning my head looking for oncoming traffic and rudimentary hand signals, although I was not sure how I could give hand signals while gripping the throttle on the handle bar. May be the instructor was talking about driving a car.

I got the hang of it in no time. For a while I dashed around the estate tracks falling down occasionally on the slippery slopes crossing the jhoras - rivulets - and burning skin off my left calf on the exhaust pipe. That was really painful. Getting up after a fall and lifting the bike up on the slippery track was a skill I acquired after some practice.

I soon realised I needed a licence to take the bike on the road. The chief Babu in the office arranged to get me a learner’s licence from the District Office in Jalpaiguri in no time and I was on my way to train myself towards getting my first licence. No matter the falls and occasionally dashing against a cow or buffalo trying to cut across my path uninvited.

The day arrived when I had to present myself for the test. Getting up early I started for Jalpaiguri some fifty miles away via Mal and the kacha-roads through Gorumara forest on to Lataguri and Moynaguri to the Eastern banks of the Teesta River which was several miles across in the flood-season. An island which changed its shape with the water level lay in the middle of the river and you had to take two ferries to cross over to Jalpaiguri Town.

The first crossing brought you to the sand banks and the motor cycle wheels sank in the loose sand. So pushing hard with occasional help from those around, I made it at last on hard ground in Jalpaiguri. It had taken nearly four hours including the two hours walking and ferrying across the river. Excited, I managed to find the District Transport Office and presented myself to the chaprasi. It was 1.30 pm and the Licence Babu had gone for lunch.

Hungry, I managed to get some tele-bhaja and chai by the road side and waited for the Babu to arrive. He came at 3.00, and apologising profusely that I had had to wait so long. took out his note book and wrote down my name and address and scribbled that this was a provisional motor cycle licence which required formalising within six months after Police checks. Feeling cheated, I asked – ‘Thank you Babu, but what about my test?’

‘What test?’ he exclaimed. ‘How did you come here?’

‘On my bike, Babu’, I said politely.

‘So that was your test!’ he retorted, somewhat annoyed that I had dared to question his decision.

Never one to give up, I insisted he gave me a proper test according to the Highway Code for which I had been practising for weeks.

‘Achha Paagol**!’ he said and we went together to the field behind his office.

He asked me to do four rounds of the field and stop in front of him sharp which I did obediently. He then asked me to look right and then left and turn right and then left and return after two more rounds.

He was in better humour by now and asked me, ‘Are you satisfied with your test?’

‘Yes, Onek Dhonnobad’,*** I mumbled.

‘So you have passed your test now properly and can ride your motorcycle safely’, he said.
‘Thank you Babu’, I said as he handed me the hand written note which was supposed to be my licence. He also stamped the paper. I had passed my test at last.

It was four o’clock by now and I had to return and cross the ferry across the Teesta and it would be dark soon. The return crossing only took an hour and a half and I was on the Moynaguri side as darkness fell.

The road back through Lataguri and Gorumara was hell on earth as torrential rain hit me in the dark. Millions of insects splattered across my face and glasses as I progressed slowly, hardly seeing the road ahead and trying to keep my balance as I approached the edge of the road. The head light on the Rajdoot was not up to cutting through the rain or the cloud of insects as I progressed towards Grassmore. It was a long, long journey.

Yes, I made it at last after three hours ride in blinding rain, soggy and wet.

Yes, that was my real test, and I knew I had passed.

*Mela - tea plucking row. This is called 'Mela' in the Dooars and 'Padhi' in Assam

 **Paagol - madman

 ***Onek Dhonnobad - many thanks

 
Meet the writer:

Venk and Anna Shenoi

 

Over to Venk: 'Born in Chertala, Travancore (Kerala), grew up in Chertala, Calcutta and Bombay. Can read and write in Bengali (my best Indian language), Malayalam, Hindi and Marathi apart from English, smattering of spoken Czech, German, Mandarin Chinese, Tamil and Konkani (my mother tongue, which I have forgotten for all practical purposes). 

Was a Dooars Tea Company Assistant Manager from 1962 – 65, posted at Nagrakata and Grassmore T.E.s.

Went round India on a Tata Nano in 2013. 

Member of the Conservative Party, and served two terms as an elected District Councillor in the Forest of Dean Gloucestershire where I live. Apart from travel, visiting museums and archaeological sites, history, radio, photography, vintage fountain pens, concerned about world population explosion and resource limitation leading to extinction of man on earth soon.' 

Read all Venk's stories here: https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/search/label/Venk%20Shenoi

Is this your first visit here? Welcome to Indian Chai Stories!
You will meet many storytellers here at Indian Chai Stories, and they are almost all from the world of tea gardens: planters, memsaabs, baby and baba log. Each of our contributors has a really good story to tell - don't lose any time before you start reading them! 

 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. 

You will find yourself transported to another world! Happy reading!
Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea! 

ADD THIS LINK TO YOUR FAVOURITES : https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/Indian Chai Stories  

Johnny Hodges & I

Here's a story that has nothing to do with tea - but I am sure our readers will enjoy it, because it is a planter's story after all!

by Aloke Mookerjee 

Soon after college in Calcutta, I joined the global commodities trading firm Louis Dreyfus, located in Brabourne Road. In India, however, Louis Dreyfus remained a small outfit headed by a Frenchman who resembled Kirk Douglas, or so I thought!

Their main business here was in the domestic trade and export of jute goods – gunny sacks and hessian cloth, which was then popular worldwide as an economical and durable material for bulk packing. While learning the ‘intricacies’ of ‘B’ Twill Bags (with three blue stripes!) and 40”/10oz. hessian cloth, I realised quickly that my work was as dry and unglamorous as the goods Louis Dreyfus was trading in! I decided then that, as a profession, this would not be mine for long. Being barely twenty probably accounted for such definitive views and paved the way for my escape to the Dooars in North Bengal about two years later.

Meanwhile, a regular salary coming in while ‘counting bales’ kept me going rather happily! A friend and I decided to share an apartment we found available on rent. It was tiny but very airy and very bright. We hired some furniture, a small battered fridge and a kerosene cooker. We bought some curtains for the windows and pictures for the walls. I remember the curtains as being rather loud and garish, matching well with our ways then, I guess. We also bought some china plates, cutlery and some cooking utensils. We hired a man servant. This was necessary for while we both loved good food, we were neither inclined nor adequately versed in this esoteric art. As a final and essential touch to the apartment, I set up my precious music system; my father’s old valve radio hooked onto a turntable that played my collection of 12”, 10” & 7” vinyls – all jazz.

Despite the ludicrous (by today’s standards) monthly emoluments and the crushingly dull work schedule (compensated partially by the vivacious Anglo-Indian secretaries spreading their smiles along with a huge wave of scent as they passed by!), life was good. The beer sessions on Saturday afternoons were now more frequent as were the weekend sprees to the famed (and gratefully affordable) Calcutta nightclub ‘Scheherazade’ for Sonny Lobo’s big band jazz sounds! Trincas, Mocambo and Magnolia filled in the other evenings with jazz and the Sunday mornings with their jam sessions.

We had no car but the public transport was reasonably efficient and when occasion demanded, the ubiquitous black and yellow ‘Ambassadors’ with their cheerful ‘Sardarji’ drivers were always available for the feel of being ‘chauffer driven’ to our destination. The distinctive charm of Calcutta had not yet faded.

One such Saturday afternoon was going rather well in our tiny apartment. Beer was flowing with Brubeck thumping (rather loudly) from my LP spinning on the turntable. Despite the absence of Eugene Wright and Joe Morello in this particular concert, ‘Jazz at Oberlin’ remains to be one of my favourites in amongst other Dave Brubeck performances. The high decibel sounds must have penetrated the apartment to reverberate outside with considerable force for suddenly, a loud knock overpowering the din inside, could be heard emanating from the entrance door. Expecting an irate neighbour demanding immediate consideration, I hesitantly opened the door and saw myself facing a white man towering over me. He turned out to be an American of at least 6’6” in height, with two long playing records in his hand.

“Isn’t that Dave Brubeck I hear?” he asked looking down from a great height! “Yes, so it is” I replied. “Well, I have never heard this recital of Brubeck's before. May I come in to listen?”. “Sure, do come in”. Soon, settled in our rather hard straight-backed sofa, he seemed comfortable enough and happy with what he was hearing – evidently for the first time. He then showed me his two LP records. One was Miles Davis’ path breaking ‘Birth of the Cool’ while the other was a Duke Ellington, the name of which I have forgotten.

He introduced himself as Johnny Hodges (not to be confused with the great African American alto saxophonist of many years in Ellington’s band), in the midst of his travels through South East, South and West Asia, primarily with an aim to promote jazz. A few cold beers and more music later, our Johnny Hodges realised full well my love for jazz. A lunch of hot chapatis with a mean mutton curry followed and was greatly relished.

Finally bidding farewell, he came over to me and handed the two records he had been holding on to. “Very happy to do so”, he remarked, adding that the vinyls “would surely remain well cared for in the good hands of a true jazz lover”. That was the first and last time I met our Johnny Hodges.

NB: I had those LPs for many years till my move to Papua New Guinea when I lost all my jazz collection in transit.

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. There are over 120 stories of tea life here, all written by people who have lived in tea gardens. 

Add this link to your favourites: https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/ 

Happy reading! Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea!

 
Meet the writer: Aloke Mookerjee

Here's what Aloke has to say about himself : 'Long retired from tea, but still active in business. Even after all these years, tea remains to live strongly in my thoughts; they were the best years of my life. Other interests? Always loved Jazz music - still do and have written about this incredible genre. Love vintage airplanes (thus my love for Dakotas!) and cars, and intend to make this my next focus.'  Here is the link to all posts by Aloke - Stories by Aloke Mookerjee

Aloke has recently published a book, The Jazz Bug, which is available on Amazon. Read about it here: https://notionpress.com/read/the-jazz-bug?fbclid=IwAR2HjxSU2rY6sq5cX_lzBxJY5oat1i_Z22qKdRRP1Tm77Dqp48B2CAlnGvY 

Listen to Dave Brubeck's 'Jazz at Oberlin':

and here's a short piece, just to get a taste of the music!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KAlVasHbipo

The Saga of the White Snake

by Simran Sandhu 

This one is of me in the maali bari and the tall dahlias I have mentioned

So we had moved from Sagmmotea to Nahorani ... Misa club to Thakurbari club. This was a bigger "chang" bungalow with a much longer, winding drive. It was nestled among mature, very tall trees and had some amazing shrubs some very tall dahlias, cosmos and many other varieties of flowers and come winter, the inevitable "baraf", those multi-coloured little gems edging all the flower beds.

Mesembryanthemums

I had a penchant for lamps ( I still do), a penchant almost bordering on a mania, so I had hanging lamp shades made in all shapes and sizes from a local craftsman ; the lamp shades ranged from being round to a square, a hexagon, an oblong, a rectangle and anything in between They were simply and perfectly woven in bamboo .

The next thing was to find a suitable corner to hang them from.. and of course what better place but my happy place- the " jaali kamra",a lovely square space with ageing floor boards and wooden beams and a (not very new) wire mesh to keep the various creepy-crawlies from creeping inside .

Very soon, a corner of my "jaali kamra "was adorned by the six hanging shades of varying shapes and lengths adding a rather mellow and magical ambiance in the evenings whilst we sat around the round table listening to Queen, Bryan Adams over GT's and Rum and Coke. My mother, on one of her rare visits to us counted 45 lamp shades in our house..!

The Jaali kamra with my mom and dad and the bamboo shade in the background

Hindsight is a wonderful thing and now when my very eco-friendly daughter hears of the 'lampshade saga', she is appalled and gives me a very well deserved dressing down for having wasted so much electricity and being one of the millions of individuals who are instrumental in causing the environment harm. 

I cringe, but in my defence, hasten to explain that I needed all these lights to light up the dark nooks and crannies of the huge rambling bungalow with its creaking floor boards,temperamental water taps, stained bath tubs and sometimes leaking roofs .To add more substance to my defence, I also add that these bungalows were more often than not inhabited by bats and lizards and snakes and apparitions in white... more so than humans!

This bungalow was not in the best condition, it was only the first and the last bungalow where I had kept a little "goru"a cow so I had a small “ goru ghar” i.e cow shed made of bamboo in one corner of the “mali bari”!

One of the three chowkidars (that we inherited) was a surly, middle aged chap, one of the very rare workers who supported a sizable belly. He was obviously very well fed and did not get much exercise. He was a man of very few words but over the months since we moved in he began articulating a bit more. I am not sure if was the locally sourced alcohol or the charms of my rather attractive, very slim,always pristine, clad in white mini (maid) who had travelled with us from the previous garden.

I was expecting my first born and prone to cravings and also quite moody (as is expected). In addition to the rather abnormal cravings for the very spicy "Haldiram bhujia" that the young mali Neelambar got packets of from the nearby town of Rangapara (in hordes without the knowledge of my husband), I was also a bit petrified of the dark nights and of being on my own - especially when my husband was in the factory.

Ranjiv with his sister and brother in law

The portly chowkidar had been instructed to stay upstairs in the lampshade “infested” jali kamra as I watched endless videos of the James Bond 007 series over endless cups of "ketli chai" that was constantly replenished, Marie biscuits and spicy Haldiram bhujia almost soaking in the spicy Maggi hot and sweet sauce ( something that I gorge on in times of stress even now twenty four years after ).

One night - and it was a rather stormy one at that - with the eerie sound of the wind amongst the tall trees...the occasional hoot of the owl, the shadow of the bats as they set about on their nocturnal flights, the rustling of the little rats that I knew had a permanent home in the confines of the “faltu karma” and the maybe even the kitchen amongst the grimy aluminium pots (on which no amount of scrubbing had ever worked) the chowkidar knocked on the door, gasping for breath. He stuttered that he had just sighted a “boga saamp” i .e white cobra near the “ goru ghar”.

He was pale and agitated and profusely sweaty. He said the “ boga saamp” is the undisputed lord of the garden and that it was bad luck to disturb / kill it. He had seen it slithering and moving and he was convinced it could easily slither across the garden into the house!!

I became agitated and tense and in incoherently "walkie talkied" my husband about this. Within ten minutes, I heard the sound of his car and his deep authoritative voice questioning the chowkidar.

Out came the big torch and armed with lathis ,the three chowkidars and my husband marched towards the corner of the garden near the lotus pond aiming to get rid of this white snake !

After a while they all came back ... with nothing to report except some very muddy boots and drenched clothing as it has started to rain. Assam and the blighty do have the one thing in common- the big W-vagaries of weather. The portly chowkidar, to his chagrin, got a firing for leading everyone up the garden path ( pun intended ) in the middle of the night!

Of course, by now it was the beginning of dawn and it being a Sunday, my husband without a second thought rounded up his Wilson 2000 and off he went for a round of golf leaving me, the “golf widow” to my own devices .. yet some more tea and biscuits ...sigh!

That evening, just as we were about to set off for the club, this chowkidar ambled up to me and without quite meeting my eye, said, and I quote,

“ ..Memsahib, hum maalom kiya hai .. woh boga saamp nahin thah .. Wo toh aapka mini thah, woh boga saree mein maali bari mien doosra chowkidar ke saath mohabbat banata hei” 🤣

Simply translated, “I have found out that it was your maid in her “white saree” in the throes of an intimate act with the other chowkidar.”

Of course our good man, this chowkidar, in his inebriated state mistook the writhing in the white saree to be that of no less but of the white snake !

Suffice it to say the bungalow was soon bereft of both ..the mini and her amour !!

As for the “ boga saamp” I am certain it still resides somewhere amongst the shrubs in the far corner of the bari !!

1.Chang bungalow-- A house on stilts.
2.Barf Phool - Mesembryanthmemum
3.Jaali Kamra - Deep verandah with mesh windows
 4.Goru- Cow
5.Goru Ghar -Cow shed
6.Mali Bari- Garden
7.Ketli chai -Tea in a tea pot
8.Faltu Kamra -Guest room
9.Boga saamp- White snake
10.Walki Talkie - Wireless
11.Chowkidar- Guard
12.Mini -Maid

Meet the writer: 

A Word from Simran:
Hello chai people
I left tea many years ago and life has been a real roller coaster; one that I have learnt from and loved every minute of , but the lush green of the tea bushes and the time spent in the “Jaali Kamra”,my happy place, is as vivid today as it was all those years ago. (Wish I could build one here but not sure if I will get the planning permission from the old fogies of the local county council 😊) 

I now live in the “blighty” with my two children and I work for the local government. I paint watercolours occasionally (time permitting ), love reading, antique fairs and long drives in the rolling Peak district. I often surprise all of my British friends when I bake cupcakes and scones , vol-au-vents and stuffed chicken, not to mention serving them in a tea trolley replete with perfectly starched napkins and bone china … a throwback to the "chai" days that I still hold very dear to my heart as I do all the lovely friends and memories made all those years ago. 

Is this your first visit here? Welcome to Indian Chai Stories! 
ADD THIS LINK TO YOUR FAVOURITES : https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/Indian Chai Stories
There are over a hundred stories here, and they are all from the tea gardens! Our storytellers are tea planters and their memsaabs, baby and baba log. Each of our contributors has a really good story to tell - don't lose any time before you start reading them! 

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!