The Lord of the Garden Gypsy

by Ranu Singh Taragi

 

Tea Garden bungalows are mostly huge and a plethora of staff, inside and outside, ensures their day to day running and upkeep. 

Each position is recognized by a name, which gives a clue to the duties that go with it. So you have a ‘bawarchi, a paniwala, a bearer( or two), a sweeper, the ‘babalog ki ayah’ , the bagaal (incharge of the cows and the ‘gohali’ ), a bada (senior) mali plus his team, the chowkidars (day and night) and so on. 

From my experience in ‘Chai’ there is one more person who enjoys a prominent and elevated position….the ‘Burra Saab’s driver.’ 

Walk into the bungalow kitchen around breakfast time and spot him, lolling comfily on a stool. While his ‘saab’ enjoys his porridge and eggs, this man is no less pampered by the kitchen staff. In all probability, he could be tucking into a hot paratha! Most instances, their rounded physique is ample proof.

Come weekends, when the Saab and his family visit another planter, looking forward to some sumptuous hospitality, the driver has an equally entertaining time, exchanging local news with the bungalow staff, the other end.

There are plenty of outings - the club suppers, the sports events, annual picnics...the fun list is long. But in all seriousness, this man has important responsibilities. Familiar with the garden roads, he drives the Manager on his garden rounds. More often than not, he has prior inkling of brewing labour dissatisfaction and impending gheraos, so diverts through alternative routes. He drives the manager to district meetings and union negotiations, and behaves discreetly when he is privy to important information.He receives the visitors from Head Office when they land at the airport, and his attitude and small talk makes them welcome. 

…And then there are times when he too enjoys letting his hair down ...on weekends. I recall our driver on a garden, which was positioned about an hour’s drive from Siliguri. We were quite happy to spend our Sundays catching the latest movie...or treating ourselves to hot dosas. Our driver, left to his own devices, had this incorrigible habit of imbibing a hearty amount of the local brew ‘handia ’ which was sold in the inconspicuous roadside shops. So most holidays, we’d drive back home, with Naresh at the wheel…..with a gently snoring driver stretched out...full length, in the back seat! 

My mind also drifts back to a time when I didn’t know how to drive.   Then, one morning, I caught sight of a young memsaab bride drive into a football do , smartly swishing her Maruti Suzuki 800 between two managerial Gypsies…and at that exact moment, the desire to repeat this fine feat, reached a feverish pitch.

I hounded Naresh into giving me driving lessons --utter disasters, enveloping us in clouds of dislike. Many of you will agree that personal cars are prized possessions on the tea gardens.

The next sensible course was to take help from our driver. So, a couple of times a week, when he could be spared, ‘Taetra’ would turn up at the bungalow….and this is how the lessons began:

Bungalow Six had a vast area around it, split into three sections. The middle housed the seasonal flowers and fruit trees and flowering annuals adorned the second, while the third part was a big bare field. It was here that the tractor-trolleys would trundle in, to off-load the firewood, gas cylinders  etc. Most mornings, the bungalow cow would be let loose for a gentle walk-about cum munching session.

Taetra  announced that we’d begin here. So with memsaab at the wheel and him settled as passenger, we began. We lurched up and down this field and my confidence grew. And then, all of a sudden, coming face to face with the cow caught us both off-guard. Instead of the brake, I accelerated in panic. The bovine was equally alarmed, and took off,  with her tail high in the air…and only Taetra kept his senses. He wrenched the steering to safety. Whew! As for the cow, she kept away during the lessons.

After a couple of days, Taetra decided that I was ready to tackle the garden roads. I welcomed the news with nervous excitement, but obviously my instructor had faith in my readiness.

However, there was to be a change in the seating arrangement. Having no second set of floor pedals, as in the vehicles of motor driving schools, Taetra and I would have to share the driving seat!! So with me at the helm and him towards the door we set off.

Dear Taetra, the perfect gentleman was now half out of the window -- much like a black cat commando atop a VIP car! From this vantage point, he kept survey of the garden roads and lo! if any tractor trolley loaded with fresh leaf or a brisk line of workers, bringing in the morning patti came in sight he would wave them off, never mind where they scrambled! He would vociferously holler, ‘MEMSAHIB  Ayunche….Rasta denu!’ 

The lessons gave me a taste of what Royalty feels like on a freeway, and needless to say left me ill-equipped for a venture into real ‘live’ traffic. It was only years later, in Dehradun, that I mastered the speedy juggle between ABC….accelerator, brake and clutch.

Life in the wilderness can take sudden frightening turns. We had barely settled in a garden, in the Birpara area of Dooars, where the workforce was notorious for its strong reactions. Each day brought us face to face with new emergencies: there was hardly any breathing space. 

One evening, hoping to get away from all the problems, we headed to our nearest neighbouring garden. There were four of us, the driver Ganeshi, our four year old son, Naresh and I. We set off in the garden Gypsy. Just about to drive out of the barra bungalow, our cook suggested diffidently in an aside , that we should halt at the garden temple and take blessings. We never found out why he said what he did, but we did take his advice.

Anyway, just as we prepared to sit in the Gypsy, something prompted Naresh to change the seating. He decided to take care of the driving….I seated myself in the passenger seat in the front, with our son on my lap…while Ganeshi was now free to sit behind the driving seat.

On the way, there lay a dry river bed, with a sharp incline ,in and out, both sides. So one had no way of knowing what lay in the depression, till you were already half way down the dip.

It was dusk when we entered the river bed. We were shocked to see masked men, racing to close in, around  the vehicle, brandishing country rifles. Naresh speeded up - the only way out was to race up the opposite incline.

Noticing that we had no intention of slowing down, the men raced closer...one of them gave a vicious knock to the windscreen. It was fortunate that Naresh shouted to me to duck low while he did the same. I pushed our boy to the floor of the Gypsy and crouched over him. Just in the nick of time - for a second later we were showered with the shards of the smashed front glass.

Naresh kept his wits about him and didn’t drop the speed of our car. At the same time he yelled at the hitherto frozen Ganeshi to lean over his shoulder and help him manoeuvre us up the incline. 

This presence of mind and teamwork saved our lives. We roared up the slope, on to the highway .and soon reached our friends’ place. Hot cups of tea, loving fuss to soothe us …it all felt good. But as long as we stayed in that area and every time we crossed the river bed, memories of that evening came back. Anything could have happened and only the blessings of God protected us.

Residing in remote locations, such shared experiences tend to dissolve boundaries and forge friendships, based on mutual reliance.

So today I raise my mid-morning ‘cuppa’ to the lord of the garden Gypsy! 

       

Meet the writer: Ranu Singh Taragi

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. Have you read all Ranu's stories here on Indian Chai Stories? The Elephants Come Calling: Tumtumpara Tea Estate, 
 The Lord of the Garden Gypsy, The Dance by Barkha and Pavan  and Freshly Brewed and Packaged Beautifully (which was the first post to go up here on Indian Chai Stories!)
Is this your first visit here? Welcome to Indian Chai Stories!  
If you've ever visited a tea garden or lived in one, or if you have a good friend who did, you would have heard some absolutely improbable 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. The blog is updated every two to three days. You will find yourself transported to another world!
Happy reading! Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea!

The Ghost of Namdang Factory Bungalow

by Larry Brown

 

 When I moved from the Burra Bungalow at Namdang and was sharing with Polly in the Factory Bungalow, he and I would often be asked by the senior planters of the district 'Have you seen the Ghost?'  

Polly and I laughed about this and paid no attention. However, one night, I had just got into bed , ready to go to sleep, when Jimmy Beven drove past en route to the Teela Bungalow where he lived. As was usual for Jim, he sat on the horn as he drove past our bungalow in his big white monster of a Buick or Dodge!   At that time he was courting Jean Filshill, whom he later married. Jean was Matron of Digboi Hospital and was a lovely, lovely person. Anyway, I ruffled up my pillow, looked at my watch, saw it was 1 a.m. and thought Jim has had a long courting session, plonked my head on the pillow-and froze!!!

Starting from my ankles I could feel every hair standing on end. I tried to raise myself but couldn't move. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a luminous figure gliding into the room. I shut my eyes and tried to move but I couldn't. The apparition glided across the floor and while I was praying to Jesus to make him go away- I was absolutely terrified - 'it' leaned on the bedstead end and leaned forward to look at my face. By this time I was talking and asking him to please go away. He looked at me again and then I felt his presence receding- passing through the closed door. I lay there calling myself a wimp, etc. and on the count of three I jumped out of bed and switched on the light. There was nothing, but I left the light on all night.

In the morning, when Polly and I were having breakfast I asked him if he had noticed anything strange about last night – he said yes, “something threw me out of bed, and it took me some time to get to sleep again.”

As I later learnt, 'he'  the ghost, had been a young man who had caught blackwater fever at Namtok and was brought to Namdang. He was put in the same room and  the same bed that Polly was sleeping on, and he died.

The story didn't end there because a couple of years later, when I was the sole occupant of the Factory Bungalow he kept visiting me, sometimes three times a week. I think there was a special affinity between us as I had been told that 'he' had died when he was 23 - I too was 23 when I first moved into the Factory Bungalow.

He started visiting in March and thereafter paid me regular visits. On these occasions my dog would get its hackles up and slink away. I would get an icy feeling on my cheek when I was reading a book or listening to music, and enjoying a roaring fire as was normal in the cold weather but he kept on visiting me and I knew he was there when he brought that coldness.

Eventually I spoke to him and told him that he was a young planter who had been on the Namtok outgarden and when he was sick he was brought to the Factory Bungalow and  had died from blackwater fever in the bed in the next room.

 I walked into the room and showed him the bed and told him if I could help in any way I would do so, but  I also told him that he was scaring me out of my skin and that he should leave me alone. I asked if he was satisfied with my explanation. He never returned.

 I later learned from the servants of many 'happenings' at the bungalow but I was happy that the tormented soul was at last at rest.

Postscript:

Jimmy Beven visited Namdang in November 2006. I phoned him from Australia and I naturally enquired about the ghost,and apparently he's still there!!!! I obviously didn't exorcise him completely and he still continues to send shivers down the spines of young assistants!!

I visited Namdang in December 2014 after an absence of 54 years and I went to the Factory Bungalow which now had a new kitchen and airconditioning- -a complete renovation. I visited the bedroom where the young man had died- -it was very still and quiet and I felt that he was still there.  

Editor's note: Many thanks to Alan Lane for sending us this story and the photograph from Larry Brown in Australia.

Meet the writer:

Larry Brown lives in Southport, Queensland, Australia. His story The Ghost of Namdang Factory Bungalow is a great favourtie with our readers. Here are two pictures of Larry - one from 1960, and the other from 2014 when he revisited Namdang.

At Namdang Factory Bungalow steps, 1960

 

 

 

Larry revisits Namdang, 2014

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/

To Embroider a Story...

Reminiscence of the Camellia kind
by Sunayana Sarkar

The Camellia Sinensis territory in India has a class of its own. It maintains its own quirky dictionary, its own set of rules, own range of recipes and unique loyalties. Once a tea kid, always a tea “kid”, even when you are pushing 70!! 

Photographs and  table linen by the author

I was not really a Chai ka baby by strict definition but with Kamjari* clad Dad, working as a serious agronomist and soil scientist at Tea Research Association, I was no less. We ended up following the same principles of simple, easy but extremely comfortable living and stress-less existence, cocooned amidst verdant expansive experimental plots, which were pretty much like any tea estate. 

Some of the growing tea kids who took to sociology and its variant subjects in their later years perhaps shunned these elaborate luxuries, as being a derivative of indentured labour practices and more, but I am inwardly convinced that each one of us will remember the quirky nuances, secretly or otherwise, with much love, till our graves. 

Now that is what is important. The “Bagania” years have managed to consolidate us as a large extended family, for life, however extinction-phile our generation might seem, at this point in time.

Of the many niche life habits that we may have unconsciously picked up in the tea way of life, the affinity for good table linen is perhaps an integral one. It just had to be perfect. 

Casement fabric ruled supreme.  The available colours were mostly pastel shades of cream, pink, green, blue and yellow. The Ladies Clubs staunchly supported such sewing projects. If the “memsahib” was accomplished with such talents, half the battle would be won. 

Time as a parameter was in excess. Evenings could wear long and quiet against the chirping of crickets. Crochet, knitting, sewing, embroidery were not just hobbies back there, but necessary endeavours to supplement the ever increasing need to have unique table linen at a party, bordering almost on a sense of pride and silent competition. Swapping patterns and having crochet or knitting parties to celebrate the seasons, were run of the mill. 

Each year special dinners would be organized, keeping the table décor in mind. Colours had to be matched and so annual trips to the then city of Calcutta obviously included a complete day kept aside for hunting out perfect colours in the skein of embroidery catalogues. In retrospect, these excessive obsessions with table linen may seem ridiculous now, but the fact remains that we have been moulded for life, latently.

Back then we were brand and label conscious too, although in completely different perspectives. The Memsahibs did not really care where they bought their party sarees and jewellery from, as long as they were beautiful and elegant, but when it came to table linen, there were stalwart stores, that most frequented. 

Good Companions, on Russel Street, Calcutta, satisfied much of this appetite. They stocked on both fine embroidered tatting lace edged organza table napkins (Ridiculously impractical for use, I always thought, especially when they would be starched and unwieldly till kingdom come!!) to coarser casement varieties. The embroidery patterns were so unique that the “Label” could easily be recognized. While visiting for the linen, the memsahib would also stock up on pretty party dresses for the baby in the house and elegant “House Coats” for herself. The attendants there didn’t look incredulously clueless when you asked for a tea cosy cover (these days, store attendants think I am speaking in Greek if I do enquire for one, most of the time!!)

Women’s Friendly, tucked away in a gorgeous old high ceilinged bungalow beside a snaky bye-lane off upper Park Street in Calcutta was a slightly poorer cousin in terms of pricing and skill of workers, but in my opinion had prettier pieces than Good Companions sometimes. They too catered healthily to the tea bungalow’s pantry requirements. I especially liked the enamelled metallic paper tissue holders, often with hand painted roses. These were mostly black in colour and the roses seemed brighter with the dark background. Most of you will also remember the circular net glass covers with simple crochet along the edges entwined with heavy glass beads to weigh them down. These were used for the milk pot, both on the tea tray or trolley or the milk jug served beside your cornflakes. Heaven knew that they did not, even for once, stop dust particles from falling into the liquid that they were meant to protect.

Bengal Handloom Industries, diagonally opposite the Calcutta Club, on Lower Circular Road, Calcutta, was in a strategic position for the memsahibs if gingham checked linen material and cut work napkins were on the agenda. They also stocked well on carved wooden bowls, that worked so well as dining table centre pieces.

“Sandwich covers” were these intricately cut pieces of square fabric and it definitely does not exist in the usual list of words in the “thesaurus of table linen” anymore. You don’t even find them in the mentioned stores. So I prefer to make mine. These would always have embroidery of either a rooster, platter of cucumber or a basket of eggs to indicate the filling of the covered contents. I prefer to make French knot roses instead. 

Bathrooms were places of sanctity. Usually large, spacious and invariably the size of a studio apartment in modern Mumbai, these were easels for the Memsahib to practice her theme scheme skills, right from linen to accessories. Double-doored, the one opening to the lawn outside or the Chang Bungalow deck would always remain open if not in use. The ladies went berserk with their ideas.  

Annual sea- side holidays would end up as a sea shore theme in one of the many bathrooms. All of a sudden, the bath and hand towels would become teal, in colour. Beach photography would surreptitiously go up on the wooden frames hanging on the bathroom walls. Carefully collected sea shells would carelessly adorn the white painted wooden long legged table beside the wash basin. If the collection spree had been a lucky one, then the proverbial starfish shell would also find its rightful place.

“Coniferous Cave” was perhaps a more common bathroom theme. Quick unplanned weekend getaways to either Shillong or Darjeeling as the geographical terrain may have been, concluded in the car boot being stuffed sufficiently with pine cones of various species, collected off lonely hillsides on the drive up. 

Back home, these quickly embellished tooth brush holders or ended up as cistern dry flower arrangements or as topping decorations on the humble cane basket being used to cover the otherwise aesthetically ugly looking “Sanifresh” bottle. (Kindly note, in the days of yore, “sanifresh” was sold in glass bottles and not environment unfriendly plastic refills). Today I realize why our bathrooms smelled so fresh. It was because they had natural deodorizers like pinecones as well as common salt in open hidden pots. 

Hand towels existed in pairs. Never figured that one out in all these years. And the embroidery or applique (Yes!!! That was one other popular technique!) would always feature on one of the short sides. Christmas party handmade gifts invariably turned out to be hand towels. That’s why Mamma never bought any at the stores, I guess. The year’s supply would emerge from the gifts that always came with the dakwala from the gardens, along with New Year and Christmas cards.

The Jalikamra, Golkamra or dining room had one thing in common. Table runners; these varied with the space of course, in terms of design and type, but no polished teak table surface worth its salt would ever be caught without one. These would hide some part of the table, display the rest and be a canvas for the pretty brass and copper knick-knacks. Over the years, table décor gave way to crystal and cut glass replaced the humble metallic artefacts overnight. Mamma however stuck to the metal figurines and ashtrays. Heavy duty usage of “Brasso” was inevitable but the polished metal lent a warm glow that cold aquiline crystal alone, never could.  

The stories haven’t begun yet. Such a motley crew of those to share, perhaps with a generation that will cease to exist in a few decades. 

  

 Editor's note:

*Kamjari - What a tea planter wears to work - usually shorts ( with large pockets to carry magnifying lens, tape measure, etc.), cotton shirt, socks and stout lace-up shoes.

A Jali Kamra is a room that overlooks the garden in a tea bunglaow. It has a wall on one side, and is open on three sides that are covered with a 'Jali' or wire mesh. The best place in a bungalow to look out on the garden, and to sit and sip morning and evening tea, as well as evening drinks.

Gol Kamra is the drawing room - not necessarily a round room; though it is called 'gol' (round).

 

 Meet the Writer: 

 

Hi! I am Sunayana Sarkar. My father Samir Kumar Sarkar is a tea researcher. He worked at the Tea Research Association for all of the 70s and the 80s ad quite a bit of the 60s too. He was posted in Jorhat, Darjeeling, Cachar and then once again at Jorhat for a re-run. He is still working as a consultant at a few gardens in the Dooars region. The romance with the tea bush is eternal, I suppose!! 

 

I was born when the parents were at Darjeeling. Living in the Sub-Himalayas has its perks and influences. Waking up in the verdant greens and sixty shades of grey rocks has its effects too. I fell in love with nature and this planet and went on to finish a PhD at IIT Bombay at the Earth Sciences Department. I now work as professor at the Cvil Engineering department of the Narse Monjee University, Bombay. (I just realized my colonial alignment towards these old names for these cities - another effect of the tea life I suppose!) So, the romance with rocks is real and true. I also have some ongoing research going on based upon the Shillong Plateau and the plate tectonic makeup of the region and its effects on seismicity. 

 

Garden life meant looking for different ways of entertaining oneself. The babas and babies seldom had access to music and art classes and therefore the stocky stereo systems took centre stage in our lives. I listened to so many hundreds of vinyl records that I ended up being a professional musician sans training! I am the lead singer in a Blues/Rock/folk ensemble called Melange and we perform regularly. Embroidery, reading, writing, cooking, traveling, wildlife conservation, drinking tea, gardening and crochet are other equally deep passions that I try and divide my time between. Digging tea history is another quirky pastime. I love them all. 

 

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/

The Mystery of the Missing Pumpkin

Dhiraj Kumar Barman

There is no denying the fact that tea estate Burra Bungalows are self-sufficient in fruits, vegetables and milk. The Burra Memsaabs take pride in declaring the same during Club get-togethers and kitty parties. 

As a young assistant in _________ T.E., I always expected to receive some fresh fruits & vegetables from the Burra Bungalow either directly or by coaxing the Mali. Only those very close to the Burra Memsaab there used to get a share or two. Also the local fruit seller, who had direct access to the Burra Memsaab bid the highest price much before the fruit was ripe!

The Burra Bungalow pineapple (as they called it, “Singapori Anarash”) was in demand for its massive size and sweetness.  The lychees were also a big draw in any fruit & vegetable exhibition where Burra Memsaab participated, not to talk of the high demand amongst the local fruit sellers.  The lychees were as big as golf balls, very sweet  and fleshy with a tiny seed. The trees were laden with lychees during the season. The duty of the night chowkidar was to guard them with a catapult  -- not from human beings, but from bats.  

Extraordinary care used to be taken by the Burra Memsaab in supervising the "Mali" and the "Bagals" for the optimum output at work.  Being an intelligent lady, many innovative measures were applied by her. 

The following episode of solving the Mystery of the Missing Pumpkin remains fresh in my mind.

In one of her innovative ideas, Burra Memsaab decided to put serial numbers on the pumpkins in the "Malibarie" so that she could keep track of their growth and future value per piece at the vegetable market. As the pumpkins grew, it was easier to write numbers on them with lime so that they were prominent when seen from a distance. "Burra Kothi" pumpkins were famous and the bidding price was high.

To protect them from the evil eye, the Mali decided to put up hand-painted sign boards with a skull and crossbones instead of a scarecrow.  Seeing this, Burra Memsaab was very happy, appreciating the Mali for his initiative and thoughtfulness. To her regular enquires the Mali replied, "Memsaab, sab thik hai".

As the time approached, the pumpkins were ready to be disposed of.  Memsaab decided to send her trusted ‘Bawarchi’ to the Malibarie to check them.

Bawarchi frantically came running and reported, ‘Memsaab...9 number kaddu chori ho gaya! (Number 9 pumpkin has been stolen!!)’ Furious and agitated, Memsaab scolded the Mali for his gross negligence, and decided to report the matter to the Burra Saab.

I, being the only Assistant, was called by Burra Saab to do ‘bichar’ and to find the culprit. The Mali was summoned to the ‘kamjari office’. He expressed his ignorance with folded hands.  Finally I decided to visit the spot myself. 

As luck would have it, the Mali, a garden school dropout, had somehow written Serial Number 6 twice on two different pumpkins instead of 9. The pumpkins were at a distance from each other, hidden below leaves – and Memsaab had failed to notice the mistake.

Within no time the truth was revealed.  Burra Memsaab thanked me as all the pumpkins were intact... and heaved a sigh of relief, as  Burra Saab was all set to lodge an FIR at the local police station for the missing No.9 "kaddu"!!

For a job well done, I was treated to a cinema show and dinner in the Planters’ Club!

 

                        

While Welcoming the VA

As a young Assistant, I had the opportunity of witnessing certain unusual and hilarious misadventures in the Burra Bungalow at _______ T.G. My Burra Saab, though senior in age, got his billet in a small garden where there was no bungalow for the Asst. Manager.  I, being the only Asst. Manager appointed by the company, was accommodated in the Annexe of the Burra Bungalow.

It was the first time that a Visiting Agent was due to visit the garden.  My Burra Saab somehow did not like the idea of someone superior to him coming  to the garden...to bother him. However, Burra Saab's personal Ambassador car was sent to the airport, and the driver was briefed to receive him.

As the V.A. got out of the aircraft, may be due to the change of weather, he was sneezing and he gradually began feeling miserable. The road from the airport to the garden was pathetic, which aggravated his problem.

The V.A. reached the Burra bungalow and was made to sit in the ‘Jali Verandah’ for some time. Burra Saab took his time, and showed up in a fresh pajama-kurta. The meeting was brief with some exchange of words, and the V.A. decided to retire for the day as he was running a mild fever.

The guest room was decorated with fresh winter flowers. The V.A. went inside and closed the door. Somehow he was allergic to the smell of the flowers and he wanted them to be removed from the room.  The call bell by the side of the bed was pressed.

For very long there was no response to his repeated calls. Finally he decided to come out of the guest room towards the dining room. There he met Burra Memsaab and requested her to remove the flowers and also complained about no one responding to his call bell.

The V.A. was now fuming, thinking that these things were all deliberately done. He decided to have a hot water bath. The bearer was asked to put ’Ghusal pani' in the bath tab. The hot water pipeline to the Guest Room was through the "kitchen chullah".

The bathtub was filled with hot water. The V.A. lay down for some time and found it soothing. The hot water made the fresh white paint in the bathtub soft.

Soon, there were shouts from the bath of the guest room but it was closed from all sides. Somehow the bearer broke open the door  to find the guest stuck to the bath tub with the  paint. The bearer ran frantically looking for kerosene oil.

The V.A. managed to spend the night, and demanded to be dropped at the airport the next morning.