A Wedding Invitation

by Vijaya Sarmah

Good evening, dear readers! I'm very happy to welcome another new writer to Indian Chai Stories today. Vijaya Sarmah's first contribution is a charming story about a very interesting character - and about a quaint practice that prevails in the tea gardens! Enjoy your read!

Lal was the name of our cook in Bungalow No. D. in Khonikor T.E. He lived just outside our bungalow. Lal was extremely polite and hardworking. He had immense strength and could single handedly lift big and heavy logs. He came to work around 8:30 in the morning, but before coming to the bungalow he went to the nearby forest, in search of firewood and wild herbs. This firewood he would sell in the daily bazaar every evening to make an extra income.

He had a big family - three children,a wife and a mother. Lal was the only earning member. However, it was not so much to feed his family that he had to earn money. His children were very small. He had two daughters and one son . The son was the youngest, and probably about two and half years old , while his daughters were aged five and six. His mother and wife were also thin and tiny women,who did not eat much. It was Lal who needed two kilos of rice every day. 

He ate rice like a demon from some mythological story. I called him 'Bakaashur', sometimes. He told me that he had tried to eat less at night, but he couldn't sleep well. He could eat the rice without the complementary dal or sabzi. Plain rice and salt was enough for him. 

 Lal cooked food in the bungalow, taking down my instructions. He was not an 'original' cook, not one of those descendants of the Mog cooks from the British era. In fact, he had actually been a gardener, and was engaged as a cook only a couple of years earlier. Still, he was making an effort to learn cooking, taking down my instructions carefully, and slowly he was able to whip up dishes on his own. 

Lal was sincere about his duty; he would come to work on time and never took any leave. Every evening,his three children would come to our place to play with my son. Lal's son was adorable.He could say a few words and would run around with his sisters. I enjoyed watching them playing games with my son who was the youngest in the group. The four of them would sit on the lawn, and eat biscuits ,cakes,chocolates, whatever I let them have. Sometimes Lal's wife too would come with her children.She called me 'Didi', which was refreshingly different from 'Memsaahib', which was so new to me; I thought only older ladies were addressed as 'Memsaahib'. She would come and talk to me for few minutes and then take her children back home. 

Vijaya in her garden

 Like Lal, she was also always smiling and was hard working. Lal had a happy and contented family. One day,Lal came to me in the early morning . I saw that he was hesitating to say something. 

'What is it, Lal?' I asked to make him feel at ease. 

Lal told me he needed five days' leave. 

I was surprised to hear this, as he never took more than a day off. I asked him why he needed the leave. Lal was looking down and smiling shyly. 

'What is it,Lal?' I asked him, a little irritably. 

'I am shy to tell you', he said. 

 'How can I give you leave if you don't tell me the reason?' I asked . 

 'We are getting married', he said. 

I was dumbfounded. Just when I was thinking of his happy family,was he going to abandon them.

'You are leaving your wife?' I asked.

'No, no, Memsahib, I am not marrying a new 'chokri', I am marrying my wife.'

'Have you not married her?' I asked him, perplexed.

'No, Memsaahib, actually we eloped from home. It is seven years now and our village people had given me a warning this time. I have to marry her now and give a feast or we shall have to pay a fine'.

 I had to bite my tongue hard to stop myself laughing in his face. 

'Ok, take your leave', I said him. 'Thank you Memsaahib!' Lal was elated. 

'Invite me too,' I called from behind him.

'Zaroor, Memsaahib!!' And he went whistling on his way.

Meet the Writer:

Vijaya Sarmah

It's been twenty two years in tea. I used to write one or two poems here and there for my college magazine but that was all. I did my Masters in English from Guwahati University.

Worked in local schools, wherever my husband got posted  - sadly nowhere more than two years - from Hatigor Army School to Bagrakote Army School in Dooars, then Naharkatia St. Mary's, again at Shankardev  Bidya Niketan, in Mazbat, Assam. 

 

We have two boys, both live away from home. I don't work anywhere at present, like to wield my pen now and then as I have nothing much to do in the house. I've published some poems in The Assam Tribune and  The Woman's Era magazine.

 

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! ADD THIS LINK TO YOUR FAVOURITES : https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/

Petrichor and Other Poems

Good evening to all of you, dear friends! Yes, Indian Chai Stories is back - with a new writer, as you might have guessed. And no, we don't have a story today, but a love story. Please welcome Reema Das, who expresses her love for tea life in verse! 

Petrichor

I dunk a chunk of biscuit

Into my lemon tea,

It doesn't let me

Leave my old die-hard habits.

 

It was raining heavily

Heaving, heady, the wet-earth smell 

and the fresh aroma of tea leaves

That is blown towards me.

 

 I look at the river,

A little far away from my wooden bungalow

Through the curtains of green trees

The whispering wind sometime drops the silvery leaves onto the ground

I realise that I'm lucky to watch all this

 - and have a dream like life to lead,

Staying beside the Dibru-Saikhua santuary,

At this time of pandemic

And vigour my quarentined panic and painful mind!

 

 Departing Winter

The slight chill wind tossed my hair

When I was walking through the pebbled path

Of the tiny north-eastern farm house.

The barking stray dogs, the smell of forest fire,

And the song of falling wild leaves under the deep blue sky

Bring a tinge of romance inside you

With a whiff of the departing winter.

 

The once bursting river, once devouring its surroundings,

Has now dried like the orange plantation.

All set to die, and ending its far and wide story.

 

As I stretch my legs after the long journey, at our tea estate bungalow

I get a few soft midnight knocks on our door as soft as the first flower blooms.

They say: it's the unrequited love of a British tea-planter and a tea- tribe girl!

The magic of their love still lingers

in the nooks and corners of this bungalow.

These spirited love birds must have faced adversity

Otherwise why would it surge every now and then,

That this poet could sense and feel it. . .

 

Evening Chai

While brewing black tea

It took me back to Upper Assam,

A lingering short journey to Dibrugarh,

how the strong aroma of tea in Panitola

would penetrate and rejuvenate the whole of me, purifying the soul;

that a dip in the Ganga wouldn't do!

 

While Earl Grey tea steals my heart,

like seeing your lover's eye fixed on you,

and the smile that sets, never dies...

To flavour more, green tea tightens my lazy bones and the muscles -

my first cup in the mornings

Sometimes CTC, graced with milk

would bring the memory of my school,

over the cup of tea , diluted with my students half- revealed or sudden

outburst or mystery grin

Or the laughter that would snatch my prime attention.

 

Having our breakfast

on the green lawn at the tea estate,

with talking leaves, tweeting squirrels

and the green manicured garden in the background,

endorsed with Orthodox tea,

seemed to be a transition

from madness to a responsible lady,

wearing a lady-like smile 

And nodding head languidly... 

 

 Oolong tea, O, it makes me drink sadness... 

a farewell treat that may not let me look back...

way to my most peppered life. 

Evening chai is something I still relish right here 

at the Assam tea estate with opened meshed - windows,

through which I surf the world.

 

Kissing my cuppa everyday is like kissing my birth place virtually; 

whose image I have painted in my eyes ! 

 

Meet the Writer:

Reema Das is an educationist and a poet. Currently she writes from a tea estate in Assam. Her debut book, Out of Shoes, is available on Amazon. She has contributed to leading newspapers of Assam, anthologies of national and international acclaim, and has been invited to literary conferences to present her work. She's had a short stint in freelancing.

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! ADD THIS LINK TO YOUR FAVOURITES : https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/

 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! ADD THIS LINK TO YOUR FAVOURITES : https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/

The Doctor from Baltimore

by Aloke Mookerjee 

Hello friends! It’s time to post another delightful story by Aloke Mookerjee - his 16th for Indian Chai Stories! The tea planter’s perfect recall never ceases to amaze me: you’d think he was writing about something that happened last week, not forty plus years ago. Let’s go, then, to Ghatia T.E., Nagrakata district in the Dooars. Thank you, Aloke, for story number sixteen. I wish we had a picture or two, but Aloke’s storytelling does away with the need for one. Happy reading!

‘My long tenure as an assistant manager of Ghatia Tea Estate was frequently punctuated by residence switches between the estate’s ancient ‘Factory Bungalow’ and the relatively new and popularly known, ‘Honeymoon Bungalow’ in the distant ‘Upper Division’. The two ‘chota’ bungalows were very unlike each other. The far-away Honeymoon Bungalow, was compact and contemporary in style with bright lights and fans that came to life by the crank of its own ‘AC genset’ installed within the compound while the old factory bungalow was built on stilts with thin ‘crete’ walls and wooden floors. The vintage floor, pitted and marked, creaked eerily with each footstep but still glowed with genteel charm by the vigourous rubs of ‘mansion polish’ it received at regular intervals! Unlike its far away counterpart, the factory-supplied electricity to this old bungalow did little for its lights and fans. The lights remained dismally dim and the dated DC ‘punkhas’, reminiscent of the ‘Raj’ days, revolved labouriously with ominous groans and grunts!

It was in this old bungalow of fading charm that my ex-wife arrived fresh from Calcutta as a new bride. In those wonderous days of discovery, minor discomforts of creaky floors and gloomy lights never crossed our young minds. The excitement to dress it up with ‘taste and style’ dispelled all other thoughts!

Being a passionate dog lover, Neena had no problem with my loving rogue, Panda, who had accompanied me from my earlier garden, Nagrakata. Panda took to his new mistress quickly. Soon after, we acquired through Bill and Topsy Grice, a yellow Labrador pup of an impressively long lineage authenticated by the famed Collinson’s Kennel in Darjeeling. Little Tippy immediately became the spoilt child of the family. Happily, Panda took to the adorable new addition straight away. They romped around the bungalow compound joyfully together all day long as two (disparate) peas in a pod. Sometime later we got a third dog. A beautifully proportioned miniature dachshund, whom Neena had left behind in Calcutta, now entered our household. This time, Panda was deeply disturbed. He made clear to us, the dislike for this male upstart from a city now trespassing in his own sublime country domain. It was only after a great deal of stern talk from Neena that Panda learnt to accept Put Put as part of the family, but only just so. He chose to remain aloof and indifferent to the ‘sausage’.

So, there we were now, quite happy with our three dogs in our antiquated little house when news arrived that an American friend of Neena’s mother would be soon coming upcountry to stay with us for a few days with his wife and two children. It thus transpired that, Dr. Gerry Schad from Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore (then working on a research project in Calcutta at the Johns Hopkins International Center for Medical Research and Training) arrived with his wife Donna, their perky nine year old son Eric and their adorable ‘doll like’ daughter Lisa, all of fives. On their arrival, the unique traditions of life in tea began unfurling before the Schads. Gerry was curious about the strongly entrenched British customs that were still very much in evidence in the day-to-day life of a tea planter. For the casual American, curiosity soon gave way to awe at the living standards - even at the level of an young assistant manager. He and Donna had never before seen a ‘mem-saab’ ringing a little hand bell to call the liveried bearer for service at the dining table or a bath being prepared for the ‘saab’ at the perfect temperature when he returned from work every evening or a glass of plain drinking water being brought in promptly and soft footedly on a silver salver whenever asked for!

The climax of such services, as seen by the Schads, touched new heights one fine day when we were seeking Gerry’s advice on how best we could get rid of the fleas that seemed to be emerging from the gaps between the old floorboards and settling on Tippy’s otherwise fine coat. We were applying a flea powder that was helping but not fully. Gerry wanted to take a look at the powder and so, the indispensable little hand-bell was reached out for and delicately shaken. On the prompt appearance of our bearer, he was asked to bring the tin of flea powder for the ‘bahar ka saab’*. Soon after, entered the bearer with the powder tin standing proud on a silver salver! For us this mundane act became a jaw dropping moment for our American guest, of what he perceived as a ceremonial act from a bygone age! He never got over the little incident and the story of the ‘flea powder on a silver platter’ spread far and wide amongst his circle of friends!

Eric, being the son of an eminent doctor/professor, knew a lot for his age, particularly biology. He had come armed with a butterfly net to trap the odd moth or butterfly that he knew would certainly be hovering close by in the clean tea-country air. He was not wrong! One beautiful balmy evening, the large French widows of the drawing room (without mosquito netting) were left wide open to let in the cool and pleasant breeze. At some point of time, it did also let in a huge colourful moth with a wingspan of about 8”. The lepidoptera floated around the room dodging the ‘fearful’ sweeping blades of the groaning ‘punkha’ and eventually parked itself on one of the thin crete walls. Little Eric jumped up and down in high excitement at this rare sight and in his stockinged feet quickly thudded off to the bedroom for the butterfly net. Meanwhile, the moth, perhaps disturbed by the commotion caused by Eric, flew off the wall only to succumb to gravity with a perpendicular dive down to the floor. 

Now sadly, for both moth and Eric, our ‘sausage’ Put Put who had been, so far, watching all the excitement quietly with the patience of an experienced predator now sprang to action. Skidding and sliding on the polished floor, he raced up to the moth and in one big bite and quick gulp, killed and swallowed up the poor creature. Thus vanished, in a jiffy, the slightest evidence of a ‘living being’ that was a reality only moments back. Having done with his body and soul satisfying deed, Put Put was quickly back to the corner in his usual supine position with what I thought was a look of blissful satisfaction! Just then, Eric races into the room, his net waving wildly. Screeching to a halt, he looks around for the moth that was there just moments ago. At the sight of the blank wall before him, his expression changes from thrill and expectation to utter bafflement. “The moth? Where is the moth?”, he eventually blurts out. In a serious tone I replied truthfully, “Eric you would be sad to know that Put Put has eaten up the moth”. Now visibly disturbed, Eric walks up to the fat sausage and looks down sternly at him with arms akimbo. He then shakes his head a few times and addresses offender with the firmness of a disapproving parent, “Put Put” he says in an admonishing tone, “YOU’LL NEVER LEARN”!

‘Put Put, you’ll never learn’ has since become an immortal phrase in our family and friends’ circles whenever one wishes to put another on line, gently but firmly! Eric was a bright, talkative and sprightly boy. We were unaware of his pet hate – spinach soup (we would soon enough to know of it)! Little blond Lisa, on the other hand, was quieter but sharp and observant.

Ignorant of Eric’s culinary dislikes, our cook decided one evening, to prepare the boy’s ‘bête noire’ as the first course for dinner. When the green broth was placed before us on the table, Eric took a long disturbed look and announced with steely firmness that he would not touch this ‘distasteful’ stuff. His seemingly unbreakable resolve, however, began to crack soon after by what seemed a convincing explanation from Neena, (backed by his parents) that, it was not spinach soup at all. The cook had merely added a green food colour to a plain chicken broth! Somewhat convinced, Eric started eating the soup albeit a bit hesitantly to begin with. Soon after, we realized with some relief that he had begun to actually enjoy the green broth. Now, all this time, little Lisa seemed unconcerned and quietly eating her soup with relish. Just when Eric had settled in comfortably with the regular spoonsful, Lisa still looking intently at her plate, was heard announcing very clearly, “It’s spinach soup, stupid!”. That did it! Eric’s spoon came clattering down and no amount of persuasion could get him to lift it again!

Memory also takes me back to the occasions when Eric and Lisa would entertain us in the evenings by performing little skits they had created on their own; and of Donna (who found it impossible to keep awake after dinner} quietly dozing off as we listened to Gerry's fascinating ramblings on the various types of frogs he had spotted in Ghatia or of his research on hookworms that took him into the villages of interior West Bengal.

Meanwhile, of our three dogs, Panda quickly became Lisa’s favourite. She would be seen spending all her time with the little scallywag with a ‘jalebi’* tail. Both appeared to enjoy every moment of their time together. This mutual love and admiration continued for all the days the Schads were with us.

The days went by and sadly, as we know, all good things do come to an end. The Schads’ holiday was finally over and the day arrived for them to depart. We were to drive them to Bagdogra for their Indian Airlines flight back to Calcutta. While their luggage was being loaded on to the car, Lisa quietly appeared before us and announced with great firmness that she had decided to take Panda with her. Her determination was very disturbing for Gerry and Donna who immediately sat with their daughter to explain at length why her decision was not a wise one as Panda would surely be very unhappy living anywhere but her own Ghatia home. Lisa seemed to understand this. Pensive but still unrelenting in the thought of parting with Panda, she appeared to have found a new solution. She now wanted to stay on with us in our bungalow, so as to remain with Panda and she would now not have it any other way! Her increasing determination was very upsetting for her parents and she was eventually forced into the car, crying loudly for Panda.

That day, little Lisa cried all the way to Bagdogra and in the airport for as long as we could see her. Donna and Gerry turned to wave us goodbye. They gestured from the distance that Lisa was still crying for Panda as they disappeared into the cabin. The aircraft took off with Lisa but alas without Panda!

Sadly, Donna and Gerry are no more. Eric is apparently a doctor in USA now and of the whereabouts of cute little Lisa, I have no information. Sometimes I wonder if Eric and Lisa have any recollection of their unique holiday in the tea plantations of India with Panda who was left behind and of the greedy Put Put who deprived a little boy of his prize catch by gleefully gobbling it up!

PS Much of Gerry Schad’s life and passion was unknown to us. Excerpts taken from his obituary that appeared on April 29, 2009 reveal a remarkably interesting and brilliant man: “Gerhard Adam Schad, 81, of Chadds Ford, a professor of parasitology at the University of Pennsylvania School of Veterinary Medicine for more than 35 years, died of cancer at home…Dr. Schad was an enthusiastic world traveler, wildlife photographer and fly fisherman. His first wife died in 1998. In 2003 he married Margaret Mulqueen in Cape May, where they enjoyed weekends birdwatching…In addition to his wife, Dr. Schad is survived by a son, Eric; daughter, Lisa; five stepchildren; and nine grandchildren.” “…He published more than 150 scientific articles. His recent research involved understanding how certain parasitic worms are able to find the people and animals they are going to infect… …In 1964 he accepted a position at Johns Hopkins International Center for Medical Research and Training in Calcutta. His work in India resulted in the publication of classic studies that are required reading for students of hookworm parasites.”

Meet Aloke Mookerjee:

 

I am a planter long retired from the Dooars  as well as Assam and Papua New Guinea where I worked in tea and coffee for several years. I have been writing about my life in tea. These are really ...the early impressions received by a young 'greenhorn ' of those times upon his arrival at the plantations.

 

Even after all this time, tea remains alive in my thoughts; those were the best years of my life.  I have relocated to Goa recently and its hot and humid weather is taking me back to my 'tea days'. Alas, I cannot say that of the cold weather here. Nothing could beat the wonderful cold months of NE India!

 

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's book, The Jazz Bug, is available on Amazon. Read about it here: https://notionpress.com/read/the-jazz-bug?fbclid=IwAR2HjxSU2rY6sq5cX_lzBxJY5oat1i_Z22qKdRRP1Tm77Dqp48B2CAlnGvY 

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! ADD THIS LINK TO YOUR FAVOURITES : https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/

They Also Served

by Rajesh Thomas

Dear friends,
I'm so happy that the 'drought' is over and we have new stories coming in. This wonderful 
thirst-quencher from Rajesh Thomas is about  the bars in tea clubs and the good men who preside over them. Cheers, all of you! 

To take the tale back to 1928: A boisterous farewell party is in progress at the High Range Club for a colleague departing in retirement to the isles. Probably ridden with emotion at the departure of a friend and senior whom they adored and respected, the partygoers hoist the planter in question, W.O.Milne, on their shoulders and on to the bar to a merry chorus of “for he's a jolly good fellow”, and prevail him to hang his bowler hat over the bar. 

Beginning thus a unique tradition of having planters with an uninterrupted tenure of thirty years in the district  hang their hat at the men's bar in recognition of their service. Over time, the hats symbolise the legacy of the men who shaped the destiny of these magnificent hills, the High Ranges, the jewel amongst all planting districts in South India.

Fast forward to the present and as one enters the men's bar of The High Range club, Munnar, it feels as if one has stepped into a distant world of planting history where time stands still. Wood-panelled walls, photographs of yesteryear, curios and artefacts donated by planters retiring to distant shores, animal trophies that stare at you from walls and glass cabinets of sporting trophies which tell tales of valour on the sporting field. But the thing that catches one’s eye is the magnificent arch over which is a collection of old planting hats and sola topees with names / initials and dates. W.O.Milne was the first, and now 52 hats adorn this arch. Curiously, two of Milne's sons, also High Range planters, hung their headgear over the bar and this was called Milne's hat trick.

 When one closely observes the other side of the bar, there are also three turbans that adorn the walls of this bar, belonging to retired head bearers and barmen of this club, keeping in tune with tradition, as they also had the distinction of marking thirty years of continuous service with the club.

A sign of respect the planters of yore had for the staff, who served them and the pride of place the bartenders had in the clubs.

As the joke goes, the master of ceremonies at a wedding reception announced for everyone to stand next to the most important person in their life, and the barman nearly got stampeded in the resulting melee. Likewise, for planters, the barman was their go-to therapist, who administered them the weekly elixir of life.

Thangaiah, the barman at the High Range Club

The gentleman bar man who had the privilege of hanging up his turban along with the doyens of planting in Munnar was Yohaan. Yohaan retired long before I joined planting and was revered by the seniors. Many a senior recounted stories of being helped on to their motorcycles after a booze up and he would steadfastly refuse to serve if he felt the gentleman could not handle any more alcohol. His successor at the High Range club and the present incumbent Thangiah is no slouch with handling inebriated Assistant Managers, and Thangiah can whip up a mean Bloody Mary.

Yohan’s contemporary at the Annamallai Club was Murugaya. Murgaya  probably wielded more influence than anyone else in Valparai town did. A jack of all trades, Murugaya seamlessly slipped into administration and looked after the club accounts too later on.

Annamallai club had a second bar for the kids, the barrel bar. As the name suggests in the shape of a barrel, where all the cool older kids hung around sipping coca cola and fanta and eating finger chips.

A characteristic of these legendary bartenders was they knew the choice of all the regulars, and one just had to walk into the bar and instinctively they handed you the right drink.

In the smaller planting clubs, these wonderful men showed they are multi-talented and in a lot of clubs they doubled up as the billiards marker or could hold their own in a tennis foursome when short of a fourth player. A skill they achieved with no formal training.

Balan the barman at the Meppadi Club, Wayanad and Kunhu Mohamed at the nearby Devarshola club across the Tamilnadu border, were some who pulled up double duty on the court and off the bar. A unique feature about the tennis courts at the Meppadi club was the court surface was of bitumen or tar.

The Bartender in the remote Highwavys club Manikam was a one man institution. It was he who dispensed the booze, made up a foursome on the tennis court, played billiards and snooker and if one felt peckish, rustled up a sandwich and generally kept everyone in a good mood. Manikam joined the club as a ball boy on the tennis court in the 1920s and gradually graduated to the green baize and then the bar. He continued to work well into his eighties and even then was reputed to dispense liquor accurately without the aid of a peg measure.

The Vandiperiyar and Peermade clubs of Central Travancore were two of the most lively planting clubs in South India. The old timers who dished out the moonshine were Dasaiah at Vandiperiyar Club and James at the Peermade Club. Besides keeping the spirits high, they were also adept at wielding the cue. Many Assistant Managers learnt the nuances of the green baize from these two.

The Vandiperiyar and Peermade planting districts of Central Travancore were next to each other and were reputed to have tough labour and even tougher management. The Managers and Assistant Managers caught between the two carried a reputation of being a hard bunch that worked hard and partied harder. At a luncheon party over a monsoon Sunday, an argument broke out between two planters as to who was the better snooker player, Dasaiah or James.Soon others joined in with each faction vociferously, claiming their choice was the better player. To settle this, the famous battle of the barmen was scheduled over a Sunday in a fortnight’s time, giving enough time for the contestants to sharpen their skills. I cannot recall who won the match, but a significant amount of money was reputed to have changed hands.

When one talks about barmen, mention should also be made of a unique club bar, the Kundale Club located in a small patch of heaven in the High Ranges, Munnar. A bar without a barman. The club has a unique system where the members pour their own drinks, write out their own chits and drop them in a box. The manager of one of the nearby estates, normally Chitavurrai or Yellapatty come periodically to tally and top up the stocks. Ironically, seldom is a shortage found and more often there is a small excess, like the factory tea stocks.

The Coonoor Club bar

Nathan the gent who doled out the hooch at the Coonoor Club in the seventies had a brood of leghorn chickens and he sold their eggs to the members to supplement his income. Once an English lady who wanted to buy eggs kept asking if they were “fresh and English” and Nathan kept assuring her they were. Unwittingly, she was delaying the next round of drinks to a bunch of impatient men. A voice from the end of the bar called out, "If you want any fresher or more English, you will have to lay them yourselves."

These fine men were not without their faults. During the days when getting imported booze was difficult, one planter had managed to get his hands on a bottle of imported vodka. He organised a golf foursome for the Sunday morning, with expectations of some good quality Vitamin V after eighteen holes. When they reached the nineteenth hole , the parched golfers found out the potato juice from Moscow had lost its potency. Apparently it had been watered down and Vodka had become Wadka, As the furious foursome turned to confront the suspect across the counter, our friendly neighborhood bar-man looked at the bottle and the owner and quizzically asked “was it raining in your estate?”

The Gun Bar at the Wellington Gymkhana, The Nilgiris

But these lovable rascals had a way of worming their way back into your heart. Thumba the veteran gin slinger who presided over the magnificent Gun Bar at the Wellington Gymkhana in the Nilgiris was one. A tale often related by my father’s colleague and friend Babu Jayaram. Babu Jayaram’s father Mr.K.K.R.Menon was the first Indian planter in South India and the Wellington Gymkhana was one of his familiar haunts. Hence Thumba knew Babu from his growing up days. As newlyweds, they were passing through the Nilgiris and were taken to Wellington Gymkhana for dinner by their friends. He introduced Thumba  to his bride at the bar and later proceeded to their dinner. When they asked for the chit to sign, the bearer replied there was no chit for the drinks and dinner as Thumba  had already paid for it. When Thumba was confronted on the way out, he just shrugged and said, “After all the years I have known you, the least I could do is buy you dinner when you get married.”

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

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! 

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

The ‘Taste’ of Tea

by Sudipta Bhattacharjee 

A note from the editor: Some friends asked me if the blog was still a going concern, because they hadn't seen many posts going up since the year began. Here's what I said to them: 'I don't pester people to send me stories. If they have one to tell, I know they will send it in. A story can't be produced on demand. It has to come straight from the heart.'
Sudipta Bhattacharjee's does just that. Thank you, Sudipta. Cheers!

My first acquaintance with a tea garden was at Kakajan in Upper Assam, when I was four years old. Hazy memories of a lush garden firmed up five years later, when we visited my maternal uncle, Sukumar (Dhruba) Sengupta, then manager at Majuli Tea Estate (then owned by Finlay) in Udalguri, Assam.

The drive from Guwahati airport whetted our appetites and as we neared our destination, the sylvan expanse of tea bushes filled us with a delicious sense of anticipation. Alongside the driveway there was a swing, which became a favourite haunt over the next few days.

My uncle had two dogs, a German Shepherd called Rex and a Cocker Spaniel, curiously named Tipu Sultan. I was so terrified of canines at the time that I steered clear of both. They were perfectly well-behaved pets but I always kept a wary eye on them as we gorged on the most delicious snacks at tea-time, served with typical garden fanfare.

The children were, of course, not allowed to sample the celebrated brew whose “liquor” and “aroma” the grown-ups extolled. We were served large glasses of milk that we abhorred. I once tried to taste some tea from my mother’s cup, but one stern look from my aunt, Tanima, put paid to such ambitions.

Young Sudipta gets her prize for topping the class!

One day, I was sitting on the swing engrossed in a Noddy book, when I saw my uncle approaching me, Tipu in his arms. When I looked up, he promptly put Tipu on my lap! I screamed, Tipu yelped; no prizes for guessing who was more petrified. Uncle very patiently picked up the pup and put him back on my lap. “Hold him, he won’t bite,” he instructed. I put my quivering arms around the warm ball of fur and was won over for life.

My uncle was so pleased with the success of his mission that he asked me what I would like as a prize. I said I would like to visit the tea factory. A planter to the core, he not only kept his promise but ensured a conducted tour. The resultant impact on a curious nine-year-old was an overwhelming desire to taste the forbidden brew. If it was only dried and rolled leaves, why could we not sample it?

As luck would have it, a tea taster arrived at the garden during our visit, generating a flurry of activity. It appeared to be a momentous occasion; we picked up the sombre vibes and the general alacrity with which the staff reacted. The situation was further compounded because a herd of elephants had trumpeted around the bungalow that night.

All this provided me with the ideal opportunity to finally quench my curiosity. Since my uncle and aunt appeared preoccupied with their official guest, I had ample time to approach my mother’s morning cup of cheer and take a guilt-ridden gulp! Oh, the disappointment! It tasted worse than our cocoa-flavoured milk!

Decades later, having learnt to savour the garden brew enough to distinguish the first flush from the second, we came across a tea taster during a visit to Darjeeling. In the course of our conversation on silver tips and oolong, he invited us to observe him at work the following morning.

It was an experience of a lifetime, the sight of the little bowls arrayed on the table as he moved from one to the other, sampling the brew and marking it. We marveled at the skill and expertise it entailed. When he finished his ceremonious trial, he asked us to try it for ourselves. As avowed tea drinkers now, it made our day.

To think it all began when a frisky little tea garden pup was unceremoniously dumped on my lap!

Meet the writer:

 Sudipta is a career journalist who joined The Telegraph in Kolkata as a trainee in 1985 and retired at the end of August as Resident Editor (Northeast). She moved to Shillong in 1992 after her husband was transferred to Meghalaya on a three-year posting and continued to report for The Telegraph from there. She travelled to the United States on a Fulbright Research Fellowship in 2004-5 and returned to base thereafter. Her tryst with tea gardens began as a four-year-old to Kakajan in Upper Assam, where her uncle, Sukumar (Dhruba) Sengupta was posted. She and her family visited him in Majuli Tea Estate in Assam in 1970 and 1973 and by herself in December 1975 to the Dooars, when he was posted at Damdim Tea Estate. She has visited gardens in Darjeeling (where a tea tasting session was hosted for her), the Nilgiris and Munnar, Sri Lanka and hopes to share her experiences through this blog, of which she is an avid follower.

Sudipta is now adjunct professor of media science and journalism at Brainware University. 

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!
ADD THIS LINK TO YOUR FAVOURITES : 

https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/

 

Spooky Places

 Hello again, dear readers! Happy to bring you a new story to mark a birthday - yes, Indian Chai Stories is four years old!! What could be better than a 'bhoot' story - and cha ka baba Dip Sengupta has sent us a story that we'll all love. So pick up your cup of tea, and say cheers - cheers to the spirit ( and the spirits ) of Indian tea! Over to Dip.

What is it about ghosts and pianos?

Growing up in tea gardens in Assam and North Bengal, I was no stranger to ghost stories. The setting of most of these tales were the colonial bungalows, some over a hundred years old , often located in the middle of nowhere . As a child, I have some memories of these bungalows. High ceilings, with wooden rafters where bats sometimes hung, fortress-like walls which would sound hollow if tapped, dark Victorian furniture, deep shaded verandas. And each room, every doorway hinting at more things than could be seen.

In short, spooky places.

And almost each bungalow had a ghost story. Old timers in these bungalows , usually the cooks or the ayahs , some of whom had worked for the British planters , would whisper about footsteps in the corridors, peals of laughter in empty rooms, voices which called out urgently, the tinkle of cutlery in the dining room well past dinner time. And in these isolated bungalows, with the heavy darkness that descended every sundown, such stories were believed.

As was the story of the ghost playing the piano.

This was a story I had heard from my parents. In one bungalow in Assam, sometimes, on moonlit nights, the old piano in the sitting room would begin to play a tune. No one would be at the keyboard, no one would be in the room, but the clear notes of a waltz or a marching tune from another time would break the silence. Even the old timers would shudder and sit closer.

The story goes that the planter who was the current occupant of the bungalow when the last instance of piano playing happened decided that he had had enough of the ghostly business and arranged to have the piano shipped all the way to Calcutta .There, in a famous piano shop on Wellesley Street, it was taken apart, piece by piece, chord by chord. Bits and pieces missing or broken over the years were meticulously replaced. It was rewired and re-tuned by experts who were called in from a renowned music academy. It was scraped and painted and polished till it become an almost new piano.

And then it was returned to the bungalow in Upper Assam, where on a moonlit night, with no one sitting at the keyboard, a tune from an earlier time played all over again.

When I first heard the story, I was a kid and I believed it with all my heart. As I grew older, I
believed less and less. In the bustle of city life, ghosts did not play pianos, much less in tune.

It was a good story to tell and that was that.

But years later, the unexplained came back to me.

On the last day of a road trip to Jaipur, we - my parents, my wife Kajari and our daughters were going around Nahargarh palace. Built on a steep wooded hill dramatically overlooking Jaipur city, Nahargarh was built by a king for his nine queens, each given an identical set of rooms to avoid jealousy. Narrow passageways, nine cupolas each crowning the nine living quarters , the ochre and peach of century-old vegetable dyes glowing in the afternoon sun - it was a step back into another time.

I remember we were all together in one of the queens' rooms, looking around and listening to the guide. I lingered on for a bit, while the others went up to the terrace. I wanted to spend a little time in this room, where long ago, a queen had lived, alongside her other eight sister queens. What conversations had these walls heard, what secrets did they hold? What little instances of love and loss? What conspiracies, what heartbreak, as each of the nine vied for the king's attention?

Wandering around the room, I saw a wooden cupboard which was open. It looked a little odd since the others beside it were closed. On a whim, I shut it.

The next instant, I could not stand. A sharp pain shot through my right leg forcing me to grab a part of the cupboard for support. I tried to hobble away, hoping the pain would go with some movement, but it just kept getting worse. I tried to rub my leg thinking the pain to be some sort of cramp, but to no avail. I was sweating now, and wondering whether I would be able to drive back to Delhi at all. The pain was like a vice around my foot. From the terrace I could hear Kajari asking where I was and why I wasn't coming up to see the lovely view.

It was then that an absurd notion occurred to me. If shutting the cupboard had brought on
this pain, would it go away if I opened it and left it as it had been?

I had stopped believing in ghosts when I left the tea gardens. I do not believe in the supernatural. But the pain in my leg was excruciating. I decided to give it a try.

The cupboard refused to open. I tried, normally at first and then with all my might. I pulled and paused and pulled again, with one hand and then with both. The pain forgotten in the strangeness of the effort, I focused only on opening the cupboard. I was frantic by now. An unexplained logic seemed to tell me that the remedy to the pain lay in opening the cupboard which I had closed.

I remember that I had almost given up, when with a small movement, the cupboard swung open.

At that instant, the pain in my leg vanished. Fully. Completely. As if it had never been there.

I walked without the slightest discomfort towards the terrace where the others were waiting impatiently.

What is it about ghosts and half open cupboards?

Meet the writer: 

 Dip Sengupta Dip grew up in tea estates in Cachar and Terai and the first words he picked up as a two-year old was not in Bengali but in “Madhesiya”, much to the horror of sundry relatives. He has a rich and varied experience of “Bagan life”, including elephants dragging out refrigerators from the dining room ,leopards on the porch and snakes in the storm drains. When memory overwhelms, he tries to put theses in writing and marvel at the wonder of it all. An advertising professional of 25 years, Dip now lives in Gurgaon, with his wife and two daughters. Occasionally he drives up to the mountains to feel once more the magical stillness of the tea- gardens and hear the sound of a leaf fall to the ground.

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!
ADD THIS LINK TO YOUR FAVOURITES : 

https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/

Four More Shots

Hello again, dear readers! I'm happy to bring you more stories by Dilip Syam - these four shots will have you laughing out loud. Thank you, Dilip, for a most enjoyable read! Waiting for more!

by Dilip Syam

'Bhejai Daw'

Unwritten law in the tea garden which still runs true to this day is that all garden sahibs and memsahibs must speak and communicate with the tea garden workers in Hindi -- native language for the workers. It was the garden dastoor (standard practice/custom of the gardens). Now that can be quite a significant challenge to me and non-hindi speaking sahibs, who with diverse background and cultures have never known Hindi, let alone how to converse in the language, prior to working in the tea gardens. Of course, we all learnt Hindi or specifically garden Hindi, through our interesting escapades with the language.

This was also true and a hard lesson for a newlywed demure Bengali bride of a colleague, who had just come from her native place in Shantiniketan. One winter evening the newly wed couple invited a few of us to their bungalow for tea & evening snacks. We were all enjoying the warmth from the fire lit in the fireplace with our backs facing the main door. Slowly with the evening setting, the cold air from the open front door started drifting in.

Our host called out to his wife and asked her to tell the bungalow bearer to shut the door. Caught unawares and needing to pass the message to the bearer, she told him, “Bahar se Dorja thu Bhejai Daw” (“close the door from outside” literally translating the message from her native Bengali). He looked at her perplexed and worried and then went away. Suddenly we felt a gush of cold and then we saw water flowing down from under the door and into the room. We were stunned as it wasn’t raining yet the water was flowing in.The host looked at his wife and called out to the bearer. He came panting and had a bucket in hand with water filled to the brim. On being asked what he was doing, he said that Memsahib had told him to wet (bhejai) the door (dorja) from outside (bahar se) and he obviously needed a 'Balti' - a bucket - to do exactly that. Of course, he did not understand why she said it but he only did what he was told to do by Memsahib.

The poor newlywed couple felt very embarrassed and stunned but after a while burst out laughing aloud.We all looked at each other in unbelieving silence and then suddenly we all burst out laughing. We mustered up some courage and congratulated the hostess on her excellent Hindi. She too burst out laughing and found it hilarious. She agreed that she better learn Hindi at the earliest or else we might have many such escapades at her expense. She said she would feed us dinner if the whole experience was never shared ever at her expense. Well we all solemnly agreed, and I promised that it would only be shared if I ever wrote a book and she agreed to it knowing very well that the book would never see the light of the day. Well, little did she know and here we are- sharing another garden Hindi misadventure with you.

 Cow Eats Coal

Cows are revered in the tea gardens especially as people feel they have supernatural powers. People offer prayers to cows and celebrate any auspicious occasion by buying new calves for the homes.

One such story which shows the extraordinary ability of Indian cows is shared below with you.

There was once a huge and sudden shortage of coal in the garden factory and there were no plausible explanations for it. Unable to find any solution to this scarcity, the manager notified the head office in London.Finding the whole matter strange and suspicious, the senior management sent 3 auditors to visit the garden to investigate the matter at the earliest. The worried manager called his head factory babu and informed him about the auditors and shared his concern about the whole sudden shortage of coal. The head babu was a senior member of staff and very experienced. He asked the manager for Rs 100 and told him not to worry and not to visit the factory for the next couple of days.

On the third day, the manager went to the factory with the visiting auditors and went to investigate the coal storage area. They were all surprised by the sight of 50 cows happily eating and munching away at the coal stored on the ground.The investigating auditors could not find any clue for shortage but reported the findings -- immediate requisition of fund for making proper fencing of coal storage area, as Indian cows eat coal. After the auditors left, the manager asked the head factory babu about the cows. The factory babu said that the Rs 100 went towards the purchase of 50 kgs of molasses which was mixed with water. He poured and covered the entire coal stock with the molasses.He gathered the cows from the local labour lines and had them ushered into the coal storage area just prior to the visit of the auditors. So, when the visit happened, all the cows were happily eating away all the sweetened water off the coal.

Manager was hugely impressed & factory babu was rewarded with three increments to his salary for his bright idea which saved the day! Thus came the story that Indian cows eat coal, and this can,of course, only happen in the tea gardens.

'Saram' :-

At the beginning of my tea career when posted at Khaspur - out division of Urrunabund T.E.-  I was almost physically assaulted one day because of my poor knowledge of a specific tea garden Hindi word & its real meaning. Generally tea pluckers as per their understanding feel - a tea basket must be fully filled with leaves in order to make it compact for higher weight, so that they are paid higher. In order to make it compact they usually jump on these fully filled baskets after putting the leaf in it. Seeing this I told a lady plucker “Didn’t they have SARAM (meant ‘shame’ in Hindi), jumping on the leaf!!”

After weighment exercise finished, I noticed some lady pluckers were surrounding me in a threatening mood, demanding an apology for using a dirty word SARAM which means RAPE in garden Hindi. Fortunately the field staff understood what I had meant & explained to all who were in an aggressive mood. Since then I learnt my lesson - not to use any Hindi word (especially with a local langauge association) without actually knowing the meaning of that word !!!

 Five A Side football

All my colleagues were very sports minded & we used to play all kinds of games such as cricket, football, golf, volleyball, tennis and badminton. Our children, along with other assistants' children (all between 5 –18 years) had assembled during their holidays & used to make their parents' life miserable with their antics. Once these boys' team challenged their fathers for a 5 –a-side football match supported by their mothers. Fathers team accepted the challenge & fixed a date. When we went to the field, we found quite a lot of spectators which included our wives, labourers, and staff with their families. When game started with our 2nd Clerk as referee we noticed 95 percent were supporting the boys team, sledging & shouting at us. In fact the wives were very vocal & aggressive. Half time ended goalless.

 At half time we noticed that all are surrounding the boys team encouraging them & no support for fathers team. Also noticed referee was talking with ladies. Two goals in favour of fathers team were disallowed by the referee earlier. Closer to match, fathers team scored a goal with the boys responding  in the dying minutes. Before the penalty shoot out  there were arguments & suddenly referee was noticed running away to save his life as the ladies were running towards him with chappals in hand. There was total chaos in the field, match was abandoned, but we all enjoyed the tamasha with all the fun & frolic that can be seen in the tea gardens only.

Meet the writer:  

Dilip at the Koomber office

Dilip Syam is a seasoned tea planter with over 40 years experience in the lush tea gardens of Assam and North Bengal and across borders too. Eldest of 3 siblings, Dilip and his sisters were raised by his mother singlehandedly after the loss of their father at the tender age of 7years. His maternal uncle played a significant role as a father-figure guardian of the young family. Dilip was a keen sportsman since youth and even had dreams of serving the nation in the defense services. He was honored to represent his state as a NCC cadet during the Republic Day Parade in Delhi on 26th Jan’1960. Unfortunately, family responsibilities took precedence and Dilip started his career in Tea in 1962 (4th generation in Tea following in his father’s footsteps).

Dilip started his journey in tea as a Trainee / Executive Asst. Manager with M/s. PC Chatterjee Group and grew slowly and steadily in his career. He joined Koomber Tea Estate in 1967 then a part of M/S Jatinga Valley Tea Co. (London) & in 1975 it came under Koomber Tea Co. Ltd. (part of Goodricke Group of Companies, incorporated in India). He covered multiple roles in India and Bangladesh with Goodricke Group of Companies. He finally retired as the Managing Director of Koomber Tea Co. Ltd. in 2004.

During his professional stint, he received many recognitions & awards – most notable ones being ‘The World Aware Award for Social Progress -1995’ from Her Royal Highness Princess Anne in London for his role in Goodricke Group, ‘Bharatiya Udyog Ratan Award’ under IEDRA (Indian Economic Development & Research Association) from Govt. of India in 2001. 

Dilip has decided to pen down his adventures, stories and learning spanning his life as a tea planter for people to laugh with him. Every one of us has a story to share and his Chai Bagan stories are an attempt to make people enjoy the lighter side of life and experiences, especially the new generation of tea planters and his granddaughters. Dilip believes that without the support and patience of his wife, Shipra and family, his stories may not have seen the light of the day. 

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!
ADD THIS LINK TO YOUR FAVOURITES : 

https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/

 

Tea in the Time of a Pandemic

Hello again dear friends, and all good wishes for a healthy, happy and prosperous year ahead. I'm delighted to present Shona Bagai's first contribution to the blog. Her story touches the heart and brings comfort in a way that only a tea story can. Read on!

by Shona Bagai

There’s just something calming about a cold winter day, when you have a hot cup of tea in your hand, and watch the snow fall softly to the ground just outside your window.

My mind is a jumble of thoughts today. The world around is in disarray. The pandemic continues to rage on with new names. Even the seasons seem to be in turmoil on the Pacific west coast of Canada. First, there was a heat wave this summer. It was followed by floods, only for the coast to be walloped by huge amounts of snow and winter storms. So many things are as they should not be.

All pix by author

My thoughts wander back to the cup of tea in my hand. I’m beginning to ration the loose-leaf black tea I usually bring back from India. I haven’t been home in over two years. I’ve dug out the reserve stock of tea. It doesn’t matter that it’s really dated. My father, of course, would consider it undrinkable, and unthinkable that the tea is past its prime. I still remember their visit to us one year. He took one whiff of the tea I had made and told me the batch was over a year old. No surprise. His connection with tea has spanned over half a century. He would know.

As a teenager I remember wanting to take a dive under the nearest table when we went places and, God forbid, somebody served us a bad cup of tea. There was a silent shaking of heads, some cluck-clucking, and wondering what the world was coming to.

Over the years though, I found the ritual of my mother’s tea-making very comforting. Whenever I am in Assam, the tea is still served in a tray lined with a delicate lace trimmed embroidered cloth. The beautiful teacups and saucers are perfectly lined up. The water is just right, as is the measure of the tea leaves. The time to brew is exact. 

It was always fun when my father was entrusted with the job of playing timekeeper. He would get lost in thought or conversation and the minutes would tiptoe by. The tea would over brew, and he would be reprimanded like an errant schoolboy for being neglectful. He tried switching the wrist on which he wore his watch so he would be more alert but even that wasn’t foolproof. Then there was the timer on the phone. Now a sand hourglass has replaced my father’s time keeping efforts (I could swear the tea always tasted better with the added drama though). Anyhow, once the tea has been steeped to the minute, the tea cozy is taken off, and the brew is poured carefully into the waiting cups. It is followed by a few drops of milk and some sugar. With the passing years, however, the quantity of sugar or the lack of it was dictated more by girth than by taste.

Now this ritual seems to belong to another world. In fact it is. Yet, it never felt that way when I was able to travel home every year. Across the expanse of land and sea that divides my two homes, I still drink my cup of tea, but with half the fanfare. I’m not even sure I know where my tea cozy is. My kettles are out of reach. And, as I sit nursing my cup of tea, I long for the tea my father helps make, and the cup that my mother brews. In our home, there’s isn’t one without the other. It’s the perfect blend.

Meet the writer:

Shona is a Chai Ka Baby who now lives in the west coast of Canada. She is currently an elementary school teacher but has worked as a journalist in the past. She was with The Telegraph and The Asian Age and has authored several non-fiction books for children. Some of her fondest memories are of her childhood and adulthood time spent in Assam and Dooars.

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!
ADD THIS LINK TO YOUR FAVOURITES : 

https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/