Ghenwa the Jewel: A Birpara Tale

by Gowri Mohanakrishnan

 
One of the tough examinations I've had to pass in life was the test set by the servants in my first tea bungalow.

Ghenwa was cook cum head honcho of the world beyond the dining room. He looked like some kind of tribal Amitabh Bachchan: tall, thin, arrogant and unsmiling. He was a handsome man, with thick wavy hair, large brown eyes and lips that could smile when they weren't being curled. He couldn't have been much older than me, but he filled me with nervous fear. 

 

I, who had quelled classrooms of undergraduate students not four years my junior with one look, just weeks before my marriage!

Mohan had been living in the Engineers' Bungalow in Birpara for about a year before we got married. Ghenwa was a trusted aide. Mohan left the running of the bungalow to him, and Ghenwa served him with devotion; in fact he quite doted on him. He felt let-down when Mohan produced a bride at the end of one 'chhutti'. From Ghenwa's point of view - I see it now - it meant the end of independence, and a reduction in stature.

 

Mohan didn't want me to bother with the kitchen for the first few days. I was grateful only because I was too chicken to enter Ghenwa's domain. The bearer Joseph was a cute, smiling chap, quite cowed by Ghenwa, like me. He became an ally. He'd serve our breakfast in smiling silence while Ghenwa, after finishing up the cooking and delegating toast making to some unseen hands, would enter the dining room in state and take up his position at Mohan's right hand. He would stand there and declaim - a sort of daily round-up or news bulletin - in what was a strange lingo to me, and Mohan would reply in the same lingo. If Ghenwa wanted to make me feel left out, he succeeded. This colloquy would continue until Mohan asked him in Hindi what he was going to serve Memsaab for lunch. 

The first time I ventured into Ghenwa's store and pantry, I made a hesitant suggestion about the food. He gave me the full Amitabh Bachchan stare, and said by all means, I was free to issue any commands, but he could not guarantee that his saheb would like what I suggested. I fled.

 

I was the encroacher in his little kingdom, and I was too ashamed to tell my new husband how inadequate Ghenwa made me feel. His hafta chutti was probably the happiest day of my week. 

Once this tyrant went home at night, the chowkidaar took over as my chief tormentor. Etowah - that was his name - stole everything that wasn't nailed to the floor. Mohan told me how he'd served him tea one chilly morning wearing his - Mohan's - socks. When Mohan bellowed at him, Etowah swore those were the socks that a departing Chhota Saab had presented him many years ago. 

 

Another time, Mohan surprised him when he had his head in the fridge and several fingers in a bowl of custard! Etowah could also make sugar and milk disappear from bowls without a trace. 

I was wretched. What kind of administrator was I, who couldn't even keep house for two without losing potatoes, onions, oil, milk and sugar by the kilo?

Life wasn't all housekeeping, though, and we had a lot of fun. Also, there were others like me, new to tea and with similar tales of woe. We all met regularly at the club or at one another's bungalows. 

There was a tradition of people coming in from the club in the wee hours to torment newly-weds in the district. We had our turn too. It must have been two thirty in the morning, when we woke to the sound of several cars honking outside our gate. We could hear voices yelling, 'Open up'! Once the crowd of merry makers was in the bungalow, there was much leg-pulling and ribald laughter, and it was impossible to feel anything but happy. Everyone clamoured for coffee. Of course, coffee! That was the reason they'd all 'dropped in' barely two hours after we'd said goodnight, for an early morning cup of coffee!

I wasn't embarrassed when they'd all pounded on our bedroom door and asked how much time we needed to dress, but now, I was red in the face. By now, I thought, Etowa would have drunk every last drop of milk, copiously sweetened with every grain of sugar in the bungalow. Still, I rang the bell and weakly asked him to bring coffee. Everyone around me continued to shout with laughter and have a good time while I sat and waited for the ground to open and swallow me up. What was Etowa going to serve ? There must have been a dozen people there!

The door swung open and in he sailed, with my best (wedding present) cups on a tray, each filled to the brim with frothy and fragrant coffee. The sugar bowl was full, too. My nightmare was suddenly magicked into a happy dream! Today the man had changed his act: he was making things appear and not vanish!

Some months passed, with one or two more riotous night time invasions. These were no 'intrusions of privacy'. We didn't know what privacy was in those days, and I don't think we'd have cared much for it. What we had instead was community - a family that pulled you into its fold - in a world far away from home. If loss of privacy was the price we paid to belong, we were happy to pay in those days!! 

'Family' Picnic

Ghenwa continued to dazzle and hold sway, and he must have been satisfied with my state of surrender. I had a brand new mixi and he had skill, and we'd started calling people over to eat. On one Sunday, we asked one of Mohan's oldest bachelor friends to breakfast. He'd - let's just call him B - he'd left Lankapara early in the morning and run into a colleague - T -in Birpara town. When he heard where B was headed, T called him a lucky man and said he felt like eating dosas too, so would he tell Mohan and Gowri that he'd be along soon with whoever was at the club?

 

That was T's style. Our club – well, all our tea clubs - were filled with eccentrics, both men and women. I could just visualise T going into Dalgaon club and standing at the entrance, announcing, 'Everyone's invited to Mohan and Gowri's bungalow for dosas! Chalo!!!' When B told us about this, my jaw dropped in horror. I could provide dosas, chutney, sambar et al for another couple of people, say three more at the outside, but the early morning tennis crowd from Dalgaon Club?? What kind of disastrous life had I let myself in for when I married this happy-go-lucky moustachioed man? 

The man turned out to be as big a crack-pot as any of his nutty friends. He laughed!! He summoned Ghenwa and told him to expect another dozen people and said, 'Tum pugaa do; sab ko khilayega!' (stretch your resources, feed everyone). He looked at me and said, 'Relax! Our man will manage!' What blind faith, I thought. Ghenwa piped in, 'Hum pugai dega, Memsaab! Aap log pehle kha lega!' ( I will manage! you should all eat first!') at which Mohan and friend B, the invited guest, expressed complete agreement. 

By this time, Burra Saab's jeep had rolled in, and Jusep Driver had unloaded a case of beer. Burra Saab and Memsaab would be along soon, he said, but they wanted us to chill the beer. I was fretting about place settings at the table but the two mad men in my bungalow urged me to eat quickly, and I remember I did eat, even though it choked me to think of what would happen when the crowds arrived.

It was Ghenwa's show all the way. In great good humour, he even treated me with kindness, bringing me my coffee himself with an air of deference. I was in shock, I think. 

 

The crowds came. Burra Saab and Memsaab, a few friends, some tennis players I knew only by sight and of course the villainous T. Ghenwa fed them all until they swore they'd had enough. 'Excellent!' 'Brilliant!' 'Genuine South Indian taste!' was what I kept hearing. The ladies wanted their coffee in what they called 'those little south Indian glasses and katories'. They got what they wanted. After coffee, beer flowed. Burra Saab and Memsaab were full of praise and thanks for a wonderful morning. 

 

Ghenwa had ensured that I didn't enter the kitchen, and I honestly have no idea, to this day, how he managed that show.  

Meet The Writer/Editor: Gowri Mohanakrishnan  

 I was teaching English at Indraprashta College in Delhi when I met and married my tea planter husband in 1986. He brought me to the tea gardens - a completely different world from the one I knew! Life in tea continues to be unique, and I began writing about ours many years ago.

Early in 2018, I started Indian Chai Stories to collect and preserve other people's stories from tea.

The first chai stories I ever wrote were for a magazine called 'Reach Out' which Joyshri Lobo started in the mid eighties for the Dooars planters. Some years later, Shalini Mehra started 'The Camellia' and I started writing there regularly. Shalini put me in touch with David Air, the editor of Koi-Hai, who gave me a page there.  My family has always believed that I can write, and that is what keeps me going, whether I agree with them or not.

Here is the link to all the stories I have written at Indian Chai Stories - https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/search/label/Gowri%20Mohanakrishnan

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/

Eight Years A Tea Mem

Joyshri Lobo

THE START

Its been an exciting journey from the parade grounds and cramped “bashas” in the Army; to a corporate Indo-Japanese venture at Swaraj-Mazda; to the lush green acreage, huge bungalows  and maali-baris in Tea. Some parts of it make for interesting reading.

1969: My Dad’s sister and I sang Ave Maria at his wedding. He was a tea planter, in the news because of his association with the first, Indian, “Miss World. “ The music for the bridal march had to be befitting of the exquisitely beautiful and delicate bride. Aunty Premo and I stood in dark corners, behind the altar, hidden from view. As a consequence we missed most of the ceremony. He was suave, urbane, unflappable, the epitome of good British manners and gentle, sarcastic humour. He was always at the end of a pipe or cigarette. Secretly I wished he’d been my knight in shining armour. I don’t think he even noticed me.

1976: At Jaipur, I suddenly woke after a disturbing nightmare. I saw my sister’s coffin carried out by four pallbearers. He sat against a Gothic pillar, in a huge cathedral, looking forlorn and lost. I asked him, “Will you marry again?”

“Maybe, “ he answered.

A few months later my sister Binny wrote saying their marriage was over. Stunned, I took an over night, back breaking bus from Jaipur to Chandigarh. They were the perfect couple. Sweet words, courteousness, roses and chocolates were their hallmark. Obviously I’d missed something while busy with a 24X7 Army routine. In true Quixotian fashion, I raced off to right wrongs. Unfortunately both said the relationship was irretrievable. At breakfast I asked him, “Will you marry again?

His answer, “Maybe,” was eerily familiar!

1984: We had been corresponding. I had two sons but my marriage too was seesawing off a rocky ledge. He was coming to meet me as a reciprocal gesture to my failed mission, eight years earlier. As he drove towards Bagdogra Airport, rioters stopped the car. He learnt that Mrs Gandhi had been assassinated. He turned back and rang me on a squeaky on/ off line, as the entire Birpara telephone exchange monitored our call. My Dadi was dying. She needed my ministrations. A promise was made to meet the moment we could.

January 1985: My mother’s words still ring in my ears. “What will people think?” she asked when I showed her the air ticket Oz had couriered.  Frankly I was beyond caring, as it seemed that most of the people I knew had tacitly remained silent as the world collapsed around me.

At Delhi airport, I sat on a baggage trolley for seven and a half excruciating hours. The delay was caused by a typical North Indian, winter smog.  I met every mother’s son and daughter I’d ever known. They too were off to different parts of the country, and wanted to know where I was going. I mumbled “The Dooars,” and refused to divulge more. A borrowed- from-my -mother, sky blue VIP suitcase shared trolley space. I wore a flowered red sari and chocolate brown phiren, the pre-arranged dress code in case he did not recognize me. He’d sent me a photograph of himself with a face covered by huge glares. I asked for a clearer picture. Instead a pale blue sweater and grey trousers were agreed upon. We had not seen each other since my miscalculated mission of mercy!

The plane landed at dusk. I saw a pale blue arm waving from the milling, anxious crowds. On the three-hour drive to Dalsingpara, I put my head on his shoulder and recounted the story of a confused, often hurtful life. That blue sweater had a most comfortable feel to it.

It was a blissful week of gentle introduction to the quiet luxuriousness of tea, a far cry from the male dominated, automobile firm I worked at. Mylee the “maalan,” a tiny Nepali woman, with no children, befriended me as I sat waiting for him to come home from the factory. She offered to bring the dancing girls for our wedding! I wasn’t even sure that would happen, but a week later we did make a promise to each other. He lent me his size 10 keds, with three fat insoles, as I’d brought no walking shoes. We ambled through tea bushes and talked non-stop. It was a completely relaxed way of life as compared to my structured, stressful existence, both in the Army and at Swaraj Mazda. Sitting on a dry log, he suggested we spend our lives together, I added a codicil: only if my boys could join me. He agreed and has been the most wonderful stepfather any one can hope for.

November 17, 1985: A lawyer and his two assistants drove in from Jalpaiguri. Imagine representatives of the court coming to the burra kothi to conduct a marriage! Only in tea can we expect and accept such  generous privileges. Oz and I exchanged wedding vows at the bar of his sitting room. Through out, in my hand I held a baby sparrow washed out from the storm drain. Unfortunately it passed on by the evening like the remains of my previous marriage. 

February 1986: Oz and I sat under the old bauhinia tree for breakfast. Ghosh Babu arrived. He looked at me and told Oz, “She’ll give you a son.” We were aghast as my boys were the only family we wanted but Ghosh Babu was adamant. In 1988, a beautiful baby boy arrived.  When he was three, Oz and I wanted Raoul baptised. The church declared it impossible, as we’d not been married in church. Father Fabian arranged for a second wedding in the house, with candle bearing, hymn singing nuns, followed by a lavish tea.  After the ceremony, Sister Anne asked if I felt like a “New woman.” She probably meant “cleansed woman,” but never mind…it’s been a beautiful journey over the past thirty- three years. Raoul is thirty now, married in Boston. Oz has been an exemplary, doting father.

                                                                                 Bridegroom Raoul with his father

                                                                        Raoul with his lovely bride, Deidra

  Joyshri's boys : From left, Jayant, Raoul and Rohit

1993: After Oz retired, we came to Chandigarh and helped my mother build a new school. I worked in a slum for a decade and with the Police Complaints Authority for three. I had my own column in the Tribune for seven years. Oz breathes, lives and talks golf.  We make long journeys to Australia to meet Jayant, Charu and Dhruv; to the UK to be with Rohit, Tanu, Ronan and Ronika ; and to Boston to visit Raoul and Deidra. 

Our life experiences have given us a unique perspective towards the world. Oz and I lead a comfortable, active life with our two cocker spaniels. After 33 years of marriage, we want to go out together, whenever that may be. The tea sahib from Goa and the Bong/ Punju mem from North India, have led a varied life peppered with arguments, laughter and meeting other chai wallahs. May it continue to be so.

Ozzie , Charu, Rohit and Joyshri

                                              A Dooars vista - near Phuentsholing, Bhutan

Meet the writer:

Joyshri with her husband Osborne

Three score and ten. That’s the biblical figure for a perfect life innings , whereafter we can hang up our boots or aprons, as the case may be. Two years short of fourscore, I can sum up my life in two words: “adventurous and blessed.”

I met my knight in shining armour, Ozzie Lobo, who installed me as his middle aged, pampered princess at his castle, Dalsingpara. Despite being complete opposites we’re still happily together, with an added member, Raoul. We try to meet up with our three boys and their families as often as possible, even though Jayant is in Australia, Rohit in England and Raoul in the USA.

After two hectic decades as an Army wife, tea garden life taught me that time could be spent in gentle contemplation, studying surroundings from the soothing roll of a hammock. That being in sylvan surroundings was like a free holiday at a resort. That meeting and caring for friends scattered over thousands of hectares required a huge effort and personal sacrifices. That when treated with compassion and understanding, labour and household staff give lifelong friendship and loyalty.

The vast spaces around the bungalow brought out the farmer in me. Raoul grew up surrounded by cows, broilers, layers, pigs, goats, rabbits, guinea pigs, a dog and a parrot. Snow white geese guarded the gate and fish swam in a pond. Could anyone ask for more? With peace in my heart, I painted and wrote and published a book each of stories and poems. Tea life allowed me the space and time to be myself. Ozzie’s retirement in 1993 brought us to Chandigarh.

The change was enormous. I went back to teaching, and a weekly column on gardening with water-colour illustrations. Later this changed to a lifestyle piece. I started working in the slums, got an understanding of how the majority of Indians live, and as a result was invited to be a “female” member of the PCA or Police Complaints Authority. Despite its misleading name, the three members actually heard and punished the police over complaints filed by the public. My three years there was a huge learning curve.

Blessedness and a desire for adventure have been the two pillars of my life. Each day has been a learning experience rewarded by blessings, too numerous to report. Each meeting with a person has been a reminder that we all have something of ourselves to share. I hope the rest of my days are full of sharing, adventure and curiosity, for all keep me busy and content.

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! 

 

P.S. Do save this link to your favourites: https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/  

You can always read the latest Indian Chai Story if you click on the link!!

 

Lessons from Tea

by Roma Circar

A recent picture of Roma with her Mistri Saab

I simply couldn’t imagine why he had been allotted to us, this feral, almost fey man – and that too as bungalow chowkidaar. A huge gap-toothed smile split his face into two hemispheres. He had a strange lope –long stride, dip, long stride – and he could barely speak an intelligible word, using bizarre gestures to get his message across. Several times in the dead of the night, when only phantoms and Mistri or Kol Saabs are ordained to traverse earthly soil, I spotted him executing a solo primordial dance on the illuminated veranda, baton in one hand and a crude cleaver in the other, through the curtained fronds of my bedroom window. Jugnu was his name.

“He frightens me!” I complained to my husband. “You’re away all night at the factory. What if something happens to me?”
“Nothing’s happened so far,” countered my better half, stifling a huge yawn. “He’s a good chap!”
“There must be many better chaps,” I whined. “The bungalow needs someone strong and able. If anything happens, I’ll have to protect him!”
“If he doesn’t do you in, first!” the man I abandoned civilization to follow said, with a chortle.
It is impossible to argue with a Mistri or Kol Saab for the simple reason that he is the proverbial nocturnal animal and the only grunt you can extract from him after daybreak is a snore.

Every night after my husband left for work, I would bolt the door, finger the Hanuman Chalisa under my pillow, occasionally clutch the steel penknife on the bedside table as I had been directed to do by my anxious mother, and pray that I would fall into a deep sleep. If I was going to be cleaved to kingdom come, I’d rather not know about it first. On nights when these remedies failed, I would cyclically clutch at my nightie, clutch at the curtain fronds and clutch my heart in some kind of pagan dance of my own, and watch Jugnu execute his intricate steps on the veranda as usual.

Circa 1980. Venue, Assam. The months glided by as they are wont to do, and soon we found ourselves straddling the onset of the Durga Puja. Bonus negotiations were growing acrimonious as the Company and the unions failed to agree on the bonus percentage. In a solid show of strength the unions decided to declare an indefinite strike until their demands were met. All workers would be withdrawn from their duties. In a particularly vicious stroke, the unions suspended all emergency services as well. To add to this, they announced, in no uncertain tones, that any member of the bungalow staff who dared to report for duty at the bungalow would be severely dealt with by their co-workers.
It was bad enough that the garden was on strike, but how were we to cope without any bungalow staff? Who would tend the malibari, milk the cows, feed logs into the drum for hot water, sweep, swab and protect the management staff from threats that could as well arise from within the estate as without, under the prevailing circumstances? There were plenty of hotheads among the workforce capable of instigating violence.

Burra Bungalow came with its own plethora of staff quarters. The indomitable and fiercely loyal Jeevus, undoubtedly christened after PG Wodehouse’s Jeeves by a British planter, would creep his way into the bungalow at the witching hour if required. If he was caught milking the burra mem’s cows, he would brazenly claim that he was doing it for his own family, and offer some to his interrogator as well! He was a smart cookie!

But Kol Kothi was a different kettle of fish altogether. Set up on a knoll beside the factory, it did not boast a single staff quarter, and was within clear view of, though distanced from, a number of labour lines. I was in a soup! No bungalow staff, however loyal, would be able to come to my help.
On the first day of the strike, all the management staff on the estate left for Jorhat for another round of meetings designed to resolve the impasse. I was alone at home, and suddenly I wanted my mother!
From my vantage point upon the veranda, my eyes swivelled around the expanse of green around me. They took in the factory, and the new suite of management offices, and then the road that led up to our bungalow. I blinked. Did I just see a series of long strides, dips and long strides coming up the path into the bungalow? My first instinct was to run inside and lock the door, but I stood my ground till Jugnu was clear enough for me to spot his trademark gap-toothed smile. Ignoring my presence, he walked past the veranda, to the kitchen at the rear, picked up the wood axe and began to splice the wood into logs for the hot water drum.

What was he doing? He was a night chowkidaar. This was not part of his job profile. I gathered enough courage to walk towards him. “Go away,” I said. “You’re not supposed to be working today!”
He paused for a second; then continued hacking at the wood.
The gate rattled ominously as more people entered the compound. Three tempestuous youth, they rushed towards Jugnu, clearly livid that he had showed up for work that he had been proscribed from doing. He stepped back from the pile of freshly hewn logs, raised the axe and bore down upon them in fury. They fled for their lives!
Undeterred, he continued with the task that he had set himself, seeking more work from me through sign language.

Jugnu showed up for work, 24 hour duties at his own behest, for the duration of the strike. A one-man army, short of rustling up cream of tomato soup in a silver tureen, he handled all the chores that a bungalow, by virtue of its size demands. Our malibari received water, vegetables were gathered, the cows were milked, there was plenty of hot water, and the house was swept and swabbed to perfection. I wanted to tell him to take a break, dance his dance, rest and relax, but he was like a man possessed. What’s more, no garden worker dared enter our compound to call him to account.
I believe that Jugnu was part of my learning curve. He personified the adage ‘Never judge a book by its cover.’ On days when we were alone in that chhota bungalow, just Jugnu and I, I found myself making a cup of tea for him whenever I deigned to make one for myself. It was a small gesture of appreciation for his loyalty – and for the huge lesson he had wordlessly taught yours truly.

                                                        
Meet the writer: Roma Circar

Says Roma, "At a fairly tender age, in 1979, I traipsed into the magical wonderland of Camellia Sinensis and shade trees.It was in this exquisite space that I began to give vent to my feelings, albeit in miniscule doses. A number of my short stories found their way into Eve's Weekly, the Telegraph,and The Statesman.

My experience with work in the organized sector, once we moved to Kolkata after three decades out in the sticks, was with e-learning in the corporate sphere. However, the long hours of slavery were not exactly my cup of tea. I now work from home. In addition to books, I am now turning more and more to reading what is churned out in this blog. It transports me to a slice of life that is already on its way to becoming an anachronism. Let us endeavour to record it for posterity."

 Click here to read all Roma's stories on this blog

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

The Gracious Hostess

by Sarita Dasgupta

 The Burra Memsaab: The Burra memsaab in the picture is the author's mother, Manjusha Das Gupta, who grew up as a 'cha ka baby'!
The hospitality of the tea planter and his wife is legendary. Any guest, friend or stranger, is treated like royalty. More often than not, the ‘Company Guests’ that one has to entertain arrive as total strangers and depart as friends. The lady of the house looks into each and every detail, no matter how small, relating to the comfort of the guest.  It’s not always easy, but regardless of the problems she may face, the guest will only see a gracious hostess.

Breakfast with guests

During my husband’s first ‘Acting’, I was 26 years old! We had the VA (Visiting Advisor) and a Director from London visiting the estate and having lunch. Fortunately, lunch went off well, although I was so nervous that I barely ate a morsel. Untying my tangled vocal chords, I managed to converse coherently and even shared a joke about the old school tie! (Imagine, I still remember that after all these years!!)

Cold weather breakfast on the lawn

On one occasion, we were expecting an overnight guest from England. Since he was due to arrive at around 2PM, I thought it prudent to serve a Continental meal so that except for the soup and the main dish, the rest (salads etc) could be served cold, thus saving time. Imagine my consternation when not one, but two gentlemen arrived – the unexpected visitor being vegetarian to boot! My husband and I looked at each other askance but welcomed them both warmly although my mind was working overtime trying to figure out what to serve the vegetarian gentleman in the way of soup and a main dish! It didn’t help that my husband muttered “fifteen minutes” meaning the amount of time I had to serve lunch! I managed somehow and till today, I don’t think the second gentleman knows that we were not expecting him that day… I made up for the hastily slapped up meal by serving him a sumptuous feast the next time he visited!

 

An elderly gentleman, whom we had never met before, arrived one Sunday afternoon, said he didn’t want lunch, informed me that he was a “strict vegetarian”, went into his room and showed no signs of coming out of it! Rather worried, I eventually sent the Bearer at around 5PM to find out if he was all right and wanted some tea.  The message came back that he didn’t want tea but would like an early dinner. So, a strictly vegetarian meal was prepared and served at 8PM. In the course of conversation at lunch the next day, he mentioned that his sons and their respective families lived with him and his wife, and that at every meal there had to be two or three kinds of non-vegetarian dishes to suit every individual’s taste.  Then he casually added that he also partook of the non-vegetarian dishes! Taken aback, I blurted, “I thought you were strictly vegetarian!” To which he replied that he ate non-vegetarian dishes if offered! I’m still trying to figure out this ‘logic’!

On another occasion, two guests stayed with us for about three days. The younger of the two did not utter a single word to me from the time my husband introduced me to them (which he ‘acknowledged’ by turning his head away) till the last evening. All that time, I thought the poor young man was ‘verbally challenged’ so one can imagine my astonishment when he suddenly spoke that last evening! His elder colleague had wanted to watch a programme on television so we had switched it on. When an advertisement for a very expensive brand of shoes came on, the so-far silent young man suddenly piped up wondering aloud whether the shoes were to be worn on the feet or on the head, and then clammed up again. I wondered whether I was standing on my feet or on my head!! When he uttered those words, I actually looked around “with a wild surmise” to see who had spoken! Seeing my astonishment, his older colleague explained in an aside that the young man’s mother had told him not to talk to ‘girls’ when he was away on work-related trips. Perhaps I should’ve taken that as a compliment as I was in my 30s then, married and a mother. I glanced at the young man (who was hardly a dire threat to any girl’s self-control, except, perhaps, in the fond eyes of his mother), nodded understandingly and hastily made an excuse to leave the room so that I could give in to the laughter which had been threatening to erupt!

On the tea estates, we have to rely on the staff not only to maintain the large bungalows which are a legacy from the past, but also to look after the official guests according to certain standards. One is fortunate if one has a good set of staff otherwise, each ‘visitation’ can be an ordeal! Here is my poem that says it all!

THE TRIALS OF A TEA MEMSAHAB

A Visitor is coming,

And wouldn’t you just guess?

That very day, my kitchen

Is in a total mess!

My Cook, the ‘prima donna’

Throws a tantrum in the kitchen

Because, he claims, the Paniwallah

Just won’t listen!

Before this reaches ‘crisis point’

I smooth ruffled feathers

Only to find, my Burra Bearer is

Feeling ‘under the weather’.

The doctor gives him medicine,

To ease the pain from gout

But where’s the second Bearer?

Drunk as a skunk, no doubt!

The Jharuwallah? He’s absent,

His wife has run away.

One can’t blame the poor woman

But did she have to choose today?

I somehow manage at last,

To hold my ‘ship’ steady;

I check the smallest details

And, satisfied, am ready.

The Visitor meets his hostess

Who is gracious and serene,

Showing not an inkling of

What she’s been through in between!

The ever smiling planter and his wife are the perfect host and hostess!

        

Meet the writer: Sarita Dasgupta

Sarita enjoying a warm cup of Kawakawa tea in New Zealand. 

Read about it here

 

"As a ‘chai ka baby’ (and grandbaby!) and then a ‘chai ka memsahab’, I sometimes wonder if I have tea running through my veins! 

I have been writing for as long as can remember – not only my reminiscences about life in ‘tea’ but also skits, plays, and short stories. My plays and musicals have been performed by school children in Guwahati, Kolkata and Pune, and my first collection of short stories for children, called Feathered Friends, was published by Amazing Reads (India Book Distributors) in 2016. My Rainbow Reader series of English text books and work books have been selected as the prescribed text for Classes I to IV by the Meghalaya Board of School Education for the 2018-2019 academic session, and I have now started writing another series for the same publisher.

More stories by Sarita here : https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/search/label/Sarita%20Dasgupta

 

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, 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/ 

Our Brave Jessie

by Madhumita Neog

My memories of Jessie have started to blur over the years. She was a black Labrador Retriever and came to my father when she was about a year old.  Mr Allen, my father's 'Burra Sahib' or Manager had decided to leave Jessie with my father while he was preparing to leave India.  This was in the January of 1973 when my father, better known as Charlie to his friends, had completed only six months in tea.

So Mrs Allen handed over a list of instructions on pet care and Jessica Joe or Jessie was adopted by my father. Jessie, took an instant liking to her new master and soon she was comfortable in her new home.

We loved her company and my fondness for Labradors could be attributed to her. I am yet to come across a pet with such levels of tolerance as Jessie's. I'm told that she displayed great patience when it came to being around with kids. She would always be the first one to greet my father as he entered the bungalow.

One evening, Jessie went out for her usual after supper rounds. She was gone for quite some time and there was some panic in the bungalow . The bearer, cook and watchman went out in different directions yelling out for her to respond but there was no sign of Jessie. It was dark; the torch lights provided limited vision. With every passing minute, the pangs of separation from her became unbearable. We simply had to find her.

Then, something called from a distance. There was a thud on the ground followed by a rustling of dry leaves. It came from the direction of the forested patch below; the bungalow  was on a  small hillock. It didn't take us a moment to realize that there was a leopard in the vicinity and in all probability, it may have been sitting on the lower branches of a tree. The thud on the ground could have been an attempt to pounce on Jessie. The rustling sound was an indication of a fierce struggle between the predator and the victim. With the sound of rushing footsteps and human voices coming closer to the spot, the leopard thought it prudent to retreat. The sight we all saw after that is so hard to document on paper; it brings tears to my eyes and fills me with pride, as I recreate that image before you..

Jessie climbed up the hillock in a show of great strength and willpower; blood dripping down her throat. She was determined to live. The garden doctor was present in the bungalow as well and on close examination it was found the the leopard had only got hold of her skin. Labradors have a thick layer of skin and this made it difficult for the leopard to get to her flesh when it jumped on her. Her wound was attended to with great skill-  liberal doses of antibiotics, ointments and a few stitches and she was bounding with energy again. This incident made her the 'super girl' in our lives !

A few years prior to this, Jessie had given birth to a litter of six puppies, each of these was adopted by fellow tea planters. Over time, her eyesight and sense of hearing was diminishing. Her end came rather unexpectedly on the eleventh year of her life. A motor car rally was being held in the club. We were then posted in Gingia Tea Estate. Jessie was lying down in a long passage that linked the bungalow to the kitchen. It was quite dark by then. An assistant , while trying to reverse his car, hit the sleeping Jessie, unintentionally.

 Like before, Jessie stood up again...this time she cantered up to her favorite spot in the lawn- the pink Bougainvillea tree that gave her respite from the Sun after playing with us on the lawn. She sat there and stared at us with her loving eyes that conveyed gratitude, longing and affection ; we couldn't believe that she had left us this time. Her lasting memories have led to the fruition of this piece. The pink Bougainvillea tree of the 'chhota kothi' in Gingia Tea Estate became her final resting place. She sleeps peacefully under that tree, tucked under a sheet of pink Bougainvillea blossoms.    

Meet the writer: Madhumita Neog
 

 A tea planter’s daughter, I have spent my childhood in Assam , Dooars and Terai. Am a keen blogger and an adventure buff . A celebrity nutritionist and wellness mentor by profession.
More of Madhumita's writings here : http://madz4ever.blogspot.com/

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

Freshly Brewed and Packaged Beautifully

by Ranu Singh Taragi

Tea garden in Cachar, Assam. All pix except author's portrait by Gowri Mohanakrishnan

I spent about fifteen plus years on various tea gardens in the Dooars and Assam. Moved there after I got married to a tea planter. Our children spent their childhood there...and it was a pampered and comfortable life.

I am not only taking into account the material comforts and perks - no doubt there were plenty. What I really wish to recall are the so called 'organic' privileges which we enjoyed every moment of the day ..and took for granted.

First, the endless stretches of green, unlimited source of fresh air - a haven to carry out yoga,or secluded enough to indulge in 'laughter therapy' advocated by Sri Sri, with no embarrassment whatsoever regarding onlookers.

Then, an appetizing supply of freshly grown vegetables, fruits and herbs, to boost the health. Huge malibaris (vegetable gardens ) and sufficient manpower to tackle all the manual work;of course with a barrage of helpful guidance from us 'memsahibs'....as we walked around rejoicing in the produce.

Lots of quiet time and solitude to connect with oneself. It was entirely up to us how much time we wished to devote to spiritual growth. Should one wish to read, the club library housed a store of books,some written by authors one had never even heard of, and many of them left behind by the English planters. Or one could exchange more current books with friends or order from Bibliophile, Reader's Digest....stock up our personal collection as well as the club bookshelves.

As mothers, we were able to spend quality time with the little ones, knit and stitch, go on rambles round the garden and point out the small colourful birds....exclaim with them over the spectacular beauty of the rainbow in the monsoon sky.

There was fresh dairy produce! Mostly all had personal cows - more like pets. Add dogs, guinea pigs and cats to the bungalow menagerie . We just had to play and enjoy the company of those adorable creatures...naturally there were enough hands to do the cleaning and grooming.

The list of all the enjoyable benefits were umpteen more. I could go on for quite a while. Of course, in all honesty, I do confess that now and then, when we got together for a good 'gupshup' over tea and cookies we did grumble, good naturedly, about how living in the wilderness, was cutting us off from life in the metros - how everyone was computer savvy or enjoying cable connections with lots of channels - how housewives were able to build a professional life and so on.

It is human tendency to suffer moments of discontent with our situation or location in life. How we wish things were otherwise....

Now, having moved to a city, I look back with appreciation and gratitude for the blessings we have enjoyed. Life offers us opportunities which are necessary for furthering our personal growth...it is up to us to accept the wake-up-call!

Today, as I read the trending articles, carried by the weekend newspapers advocating the benefits of a stress free outlook, a diet of freshly cooked organic food, joyful picnics 'far from the madding crowd' I smile to myself. For yeah...we had it all and more, only we never assigned fanciful names to our endeavors.

My one regret is that some of us took it all for granted. We weren't conscious enough of the good fortune that was our lot. Seeing how the world today is chasing - and spending heavily on - such a lifestyle, I can only say Life in 'Tea' gave us a headstart!

                             

Meet the writer

Ranu Singh Taragi, with her husband Naresh

Ranu lives in Dehradun with her tea planter husband Naresh. They moved there after almost three decades in the tea gardens of Dooars and Assam. Ranu has been writing since her college days, and her stories for children have been published in 'Children's World' Magazine and the Hindustan Times. 

Read all Ranu's stories on Indian Chai Stories here: https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/search/label/Ranu%20Singh%20Taragi  

The story you've just read was the first post to go up on this blog!

 

Is this your first visit to this page?  
In February 2018, I started 'Indian Chai Stories' because I believe one of the best things about tea life is story-telling.
 

The most improbable things happen in tea. The raconteur was a stock character - at the club, at your breakfast table, at a dinner party - everywhere. It all changed as people grew older, retired or went away. One rarely meets a storyteller in the gardens these days.   

 

You will meet many of them online at 'Indian Chai Stories'. 

Tea planters and their families are generous souls, and they have shared their stories for the sheer joy of the retelling!! Read stories by the chai ka saabs, memsaabs, 'baba and baby log' here. 

 

Do you have a story of your own to tell? Send it to me here : indianchaistories@gmail.com
  Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea!
- Gowri Mohanakrishnan