Higher-archy

When you hear a good tea story, you always want to tell one of your own!! I read Indi Khanna's story and my mind flew back to 1986, when 'reception' referred to one thing only - television!

by Indi Khanna
Prefaced with an advance apology to Mac. Some literary licence having been taken, never any offence meant!

1984. Upper Assam. I was at that time the Mistry Sahib (Factory Assistant) on Rajah Ali Estate.

All pix by Indi Khanna

Other than the fact that the Burra Sahib would at regular intervals shake one up with some "earth shattering" issue or other (earth shattering as defined in 'his' book), those were blissfully peaceful days. Peaceful to the extent that the only 'idiot box' we'd ever encountered was the one constructed with good quality timber, firmly lodged between the ears of at least a couple of the venerated gentlemen who made up the planting community.

Tingrai Club

And then the powers that be went and shattered our serene existence and disrupted our club life (the very centre of our existence) by taking a giant leap towards development by plonking the first TV repeater tower across the Lohit river in Arunachal Pradesh. The upshot was that club evenings ended up with only a couple of die-hards perched on their bar stools having an animated conversation with the bar man, while the rest had all but disappeared from the scene, at home and glued to their respective idiot boxes.

On days when the avid TV watchers did venture out, the first question each one would ask the other as soon as they stepped into the club was 'how was your reception today?'
Not that there was much that those folk were watching which would excite anyone with even an ounce of grey matter, because the only response to this all important question was a 'wow' or words to that effect - and then on the odd day, 'today my reception was in colour'. Which simply translated into the fact that instead of staring at the usual black & white blizzard on the screen, the snowflakes on that particular day had been viewed in all the colours of the rainbow.

Major excitement which kept the whole of Upper Assam agog for the better part of a year!

Lohit Valley 1988

A year later, returning from our annual leave, we were driving back to Assam from Delhi. Since we had the whole back seat of our trusted Ambassador free, and having been told of the major development in entertainment in Assam, my sister gifted us with a 21" Niki-Tasha colour TV set. We did actually require the whole of the back seat of the car for the 21" because the cabinet for the TV was about the size of a very large fridge. And so, duly hemmed into the Ambassador with this monster, we happily took the usual five day drive back to the estate from Delhi. On arrival in Rajah Ali, the new acquisition was duly placed in one corner of our bedroom.

To bring the system to life, the very next morning the factory head fitter, Naranjan Singh, a wonderful Sikh gentleman who managed to keep the factory running with sheer ingenuity and common sense was given the task of installing the TV antenna in the bungalow backyard. Ever tried to lift up a 20' length of lead piping with some weight at one end, from the horizontal to the vertical position? If you haven't, I can tell you from experience that it's not quite the most easy or pleasant of tasks. The installation took on the air of a rather complex military operation.

Accompanied by a barrage of screaming and shouting of instructions, a number of times the pipe with many pairs of strong hands working at it rose to about a 45 degree angle to only land back on the lawn with a thud. Three times, when coming back to terra firma during the operation, the antenna lost one prong or the other from its cluster. Since we had no gas welding equipment on the estate, each time it broke, N.Singh would hop on to his scooter and head off to Duliajan, the closest 'town' to Rajah Ali. Each trip resulted in the antenna coming back more and more misshapen and with extra bits and pieces of aluminium welded on to hold it together.
Regardless and with shouts of achievement we finally had our antenna, atop one full length of 1" piping, lording over the Rajah Ali Mistry sahib's bungalow.

The antenna having been duly plugged into our Niki Tasha, surrounded by the whole gang of artisans and workers who had been instrumental in getting it up, when the idiot box was switched on you could have knocked all of us down with a feather - because what we got on our screen was an almost crystal clear picture in full blown Technicolor. Not the signs of an impending blizzard which others in the district had been 'enjoying' all those months, but an honest to goodness actual TV picture. Much excitement all around followed by tea and samosas for the large gang of achievers!

In course of time word got around that the district had been blessed with a TV which actually 'worked'! Which - not that this required any prompting - led to an acceleration in what is the usual evening social practice in all planting communities, with many friends and colleagues dropping in to Rajah Ali to spend the evening with us, with the added excitement of watching 'Chitrahar' on our fully operational Niki Tasha.

About a fortnight into all this excitement Mac (Mr R.S.Makoll, the Executive Director of Warrens) whose bungalow was about 10Km away on Deohall Estate, decided to bless us with a factory visit. The hour long visit went along totally predictable lines – that nothing at all was up to the mark in the factory. Which berating all Mistry Sahibs simply took in their stride since nothing ever was up to the mark in any factory.

As we stepped out of the factory into the tasting room Mac casually puts an arm around my shoulder, and shifting from English to Punjabi, mentions that he has heard through the grapevine that the TV in my bungalow is functioning in the manner which TVs are designed to and that would it be possible for us to go across to check it out.

Which we did. I obviously had no answer as to why our TV should be behaving itself. And so, having checked out everything including the location and the installation of the antenna, Mac wanted to know who had been responsible for its installation, which led to my being requested to despatch N.Singh to Deohall to wave his magic wand on the E.D.'s bungalow entertainment system.
Next morning N.Singh's Kamjari (task) was to head off to Deohall with a couple of jugalis (helpers) to do his bit.

This was on a Monday. Come Thursday, by which time my CTC rollers had to be changed and a whole lot of other minor issues had to be attended to, I could still see no signs of the gentleman. The line chowkidar (the watchman responsible for ensuring that the factory personnel were on duty) being asked why the Head Fitter was AWOL, told me that as had been happening since Monday, Singh had headed off to Deohall with his jugalis in tow.

I was livid at the fact of one day's work having been stretched into four, and so promptly hopping on to my bike I got to the E.D.'s bungalow in Deohall. Having got the watchman there to find and get hold of the Rajah Ali fitter, I saw N.Singh walk out with an ear to ear grin, looking pleased as punch. I, needless to say, waded into the hapless soul, taking him to task for him having been missing all these days. N.Singh's response being that instead of me blowing my top, would I like to come to the rear of the bungalow to understand why.

Walking across to the bungalow backyard, what I saw left my jaw hanging. In front of me was progeny the parent in Paris would have been proud of, a scaled down replica of the grand Eiffel Tower rising about 20/25' from the ground. At the top of our very own mini Eiffel Tower was a 20' lead pipe with a TV antenna perched on the top.

Closer inspection showed that the pipe was housed in a large ball bearing and had two prongs attached to the pipe to make a handle, much like a submarine periscope which one had seen in movies, to rotate the antenna to catch transmission airwaves from whichever direction they happened to find their way into the Deohall bungalow backyard.

Finally finding my voice I had only one question for N.Singh – "WHY?"

His response, which I simply adore, has stayed with me all these years. "Makoll Sahib said that if that factory assistant can have an antenna 20' up, mine has to be at least twice that height!"

The post script to L'affaire á la Eiffel – Regardless of the 'periscope' being rotated every which way thorough 360 degrees, the only thing Mac and Dinda (Lovely Mrs Makoll) ever got to see was the usual 'Upper Assam Blizzard' - albeit, once in a while in full blown colour!

 

Is this your first visit here? Welcome to Indian Chai Stories!
Do you have a chai story of your own to share?  
Send it to me here, please : indianchaistories@gmail.com. 

My name is Gowri Mohanakrishnan and I'm a tea planter's wife. I started this blog because one of the things that I wouldn't want us to lose in a fast changing world is the tea story - a story always told with great seriousness, no matter how funny - always true (always), maybe a tall tale, long, or short, impossible, scary, funny or exciting but never dull.
 Happy reading! Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea!

Meet the writer:

Indi Khanna with Xerox

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

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

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

My life has been and continues to be blessed.

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

Our Childhood Picnics

by Mandira Moitra Sarkar

I came across this picture today of my sister and me at our usual childhood picnic spot, and given the non-picnic weather this week, I began to reminisce....

Memories abound of elaborate preparations before the actual event with Monglu our cook presiding over what almost seemed like a wedding celebration. On the much awaited day, the excitement started with jeeps with trailers arriving to the house at dawn to be loaded up not only with prepared food but everything from rice to chicken, pots and pans and an army of staff. The heavily laden jeeps would set off on their two hour journey to the usual picnic spot on the banks of the majestic Bhareli river and the cooking would begin in makeshift open air kitchens ready for us when we arrived in time for breakfast.

Lunch was usually steaming, freshly made Khichuri served on dining tables set up with proper linen and bottles of beer / drinks conveniently chilled in the the crystal clear waters of the river.. The afternoon would wear off with games and music, laughter and lazy cups of tea until my dad made an appearance in the setting sun, sailing down in his rubber boat after a day's fishing accompanied by his faithful Miris (fishing assistants) Magairam and Mohan.

There would usually be a not insignificant catch of the golden Mahseer tied to his boat which would then be swiftly taken away by the cook as an addition to the evening menu. Dinner was a magical affair usually a clear moonlit night.. the gleaming, sparking waters of the fast flowing waters reflecting the moonlight, the forests on the opposite bank aglow with fireflies and the occasional trumpet of a wild elephant or even a leopard.

Gradually as the night wore on, the kitchens would be cleared, open fires put out and we would pile back into the cars to make the sleepy journey home... until the next time.

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.
 Happy reading! Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea!

Meet the writer: Mandira Moitra Sarkar

'I consider myself a true Chai Ka Baby. Apart from being born in tea, I am probably one of those few people whose grandfather was in tea and whose parents were actually married in tea . So the groom, bride, best man, wedding, honeymoon, children etc. etc. were all from tea!!! I have had three proper homes in tea - parents, grandparents and Mama ( maternal uncle) all being tea planters in addition to friends. I currently live in leafy Surrey in a chai inspired colonial home ( I think so at least!) with my car mad husband and very grown up teenager. After 17 years as a management consultant, I finally started Surrey Spice which aims to bring proper Indian food inspired by the regions, seasons and festivals of India. Apart from cooking , I love to travel and am a passionate blogger - and still live (mentally) amongst the verdant tea bushes of Assam.'

Here are links to more stories by Mandira on this blog : https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/search/label/Mandira%20Moitra%20Sarkar  
https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/p/mandira-moitra-sarkar-cooks-up-story_6.html
Read about Manidra's Kitchen here: https://www.facebook.com/MandirasKitchenSurrey/

Bungalow Bijli

by Alan Lane

Jackie and I really miss the monsoon period in Assam.

Jackie still misses the noise of the bamboo rubbing against each stem in the wind, and the trees whipping around in the wind just before the rain came – also not forgetting the calls of the Koel (Your’e ill) and the Indian Pied Crested Cuckoo (Make more pekoe!).

The build-up of mould on your shoes and clothes! We used to put a small electric heater or light bulb in the wardrobe to keep it with a dry heat. Of course in those days the electric supply was 110V DC – sometimes from the factory, but mostly from a small diesel engine that was situated in an engine house separate from the bungalow, purely for the supply of power for lighting, and punkahs.

The one we had at Nagaghoolie bungalow was located in an engine house about 75 yards away, so if there was any problem at night we would have to go out and walk through the tea with a torch to rectify the fault – usually an airlock in the fuel supply. It was a bit disconcerting walking along in the night to the engine shed as there were still leopards around those gardens in the 1960s, plus the snakes, as always. Naturally, in the monsoons we had to use an umbrella against the rain.

The photograph attached shows the Nagaghoolie bungalow, with the daughter of the Crossley engineer who lived there in June/July 1964. This bungalow was demolished not long after, and transported to Rungagora TE, near Tinsukia. It was rebuilt there on the banks of the Dibru River, and Sandy and Dorothy Cowe moved there from Greenwood TE. A few years later, this bungalow was washed away by the Dibru River. Pic by author

Yet again at Nagaghoolie, not only were there plenty of jackals around giving their pheiow calls , but as you might expect, we had to divest ourselves of those little pests – the leeches.

One always thought that you had found them all, but somehow there was always one that managed to get through your Bata boots laces, and it was only when you felt the squelching in your boot that you realised that you had missed one!

The small engine room shed, as mentioned, was about seventy-yards away, and the Lister CS engine (single cylinder, twin flywheels) was supposed to operate on the ‘start-o-matic’ principle. This system had a rather ingenious method of starting the engine when the bungalow lights were switched on, and then when the last light was switched off, the engine would shut down, however, if punkahs were operating in the bungalow the engine would continue to supply power. Needless to say, that did not cover the eventuality of an airlock in the fuel (sometimes caused by a fractured fuel pipe, or running out of fuel in the overhead tank). The disappointment was always quite evident by the expletives shouted when the lights began to dim at these times. Sometimes, the engine, for no particular reason, would pick up and then the lights would start to get brighter, and brighter, and brighter, until we thought the light bulbs would go ‘pop’, but, that gallant little governor in the engine would really take over properly and control the speed again. Or, ‘over control’ and the engine would be in its last gasp. Not particularly good when a monsoon cyclone was in full blast.

“Oh dear (the decent expletive!) we have to go to the engine shed and fix the problem.” I remember once walking through the tea on a pitch black night, a deluge of rain, and wind bending all the shade trees, and bamboo clumps around when I felt something wet and cold jump on to my leg (as normal, men wore shorts). I can tell you that I had a real fright (actually s**t scared!) and wondered what it could be. On shining my torch down I found that I was looking squarely at a tree frog, with those sucker legs. “Thank God for that”, I said, and brushed the little fellow off onto a tea bush – I am very good at understating expletives!!”

There was event that I recall that happened in July 1964 at the Nagaghoolie bungalow.
This particular night, there was a typical monsoon storm (more like a cyclone with a deluge of rain) and we had all gone to bed.

It must have been the middle of the night when there was an almighty flash/bang, and the punkah suddenly threw sparks out and then caught fire, with bits of the windings from the motor dropping on to my bed. As the flash/bang had woken me up, and I'd noticed the embers from the fan, I quickly put out the burning bed sheet with a glass of water. Of course there was no electricity (110v DC) so had to operate with the aid of my torch (which I always kept beside my bed) and had a look outside on the verandah. There was no problem there, so, unpleasant as it was, I went back to sleep.

Later on waking up and going for a shave, I got a shock off the sink taps. On checking outside we could hear the main supports of the bungalow ‘buzzing’ so kept well clear of them.

It was evident that the bungalow had been struck by lightning, so we had to keep away from any part of the bungalow frame. The taps were still giving us mild shocks for two days after the strike.
Finally, one day I was going from Panitola to Hazelbank TE and took the short cut through Nudwa TE from the AT Road. Yet again there was a typical monsoon storm going on, and as I drove my jeep on the garden road, nearing a leaf weighment shed – about a hundred yards away, there was a flash/bang and the weighment shed collapsed, and a nearby shade tree split its trunk, and started smouldering. Hmm, I was glad that I had not been nearer.

Somewhere near the Brahmaputra at Oaklands, Upper Assam. Pic by Gowri

Those monsoon storms were just something else. It was very eerie that just before the storms and rain struck, when the wind used to bend every bamboo clump, and shade tree, all the birds would fall silent.

If you looked across the Brahmaputra to the hills of Arunachal Pradesh, you would see the continuous lightning going from West to East, and the evening sky with heavy clouds constantly lit up.

Is this your first visit here? Welcome to Indian Chai Stories!
Do you have a chai story of your own to share?  
Send it to me here, please : indianchaistories@gmail.com. 

My name is Gowri Mohanakrishnan and I'm a tea planter's wife. I started this blog because one of the things that I wouldn't want us to lose in a fast changing world is the tea story - a story always told with great seriousness, no matter how funny - always true (always), maybe a tall tale, long, or short, impossible, scary, funny or exciting but never dull.
 Happy reading! Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea!

Meet the writer:

Alan Lane, a 'cha ka baba', was born in Bombay. His contribution to Indian Chai Stories goes beyond the written word: he keeps a large number of people all over the world connected with their roots in India. In his own words, 'My wife and I still have lots of connections with India and we are, as you may well say, ‘Indophiles’.' Alan and Jackie Lane live in the UK; they left India a little over fifty years ago. Read the story of this cha ka baba's return to the tea gardens of Assam as a Crossley engineer here: Indian Chai Histories.  You will find more stories by Alan here.

Butler English and more

by Mirza Yawar Baig
You all know my butler Bastian whom I have written about earlier.
Bastian, like most of his tribe, spoke ‘Butler English’ and was very snobbish.

Bastian had a habit of translating Tamil names into English and announcing anyone who came with his translation of the person’s name. He didn’t do that with the Doraimaar (Manager class) but did it with anyone else. Workers or union leaders didn’t come to the bungalow to meet the Manager. We met all workers, supervisors, staff and union leaders only at the morning muster or in the Estate Office.

This was a universal rule in all estates which was strictly adhered to. This has nothing to do with being snobbish or class conscious but with maintaining boundaries of work and personal time and space. We lived on the job, as it were, and if we didn’t do this, we wouldn’t have had a single day’s peace. Having said that, there were some special people who had special privileges. In my case these were my tracker, who told me about the movement of wildlife in the forests adjoining our estates in the Anamallais, the supervisor who built the hides in trees or rocks for me to watch wildlife, and the two Ramans who accompanied me on my hikes on Grass Hills. All of them came to the bungalow if they needed to meet me.

The norm was that they would first go to the back, to the kitchen and Bastian’s pantry and he would give them a cup of tea and they would chat. Then he would see what I was doing and if I was free, he would announce that so-and-so had come to see me. But the way he did it was, to say the least, very funny. He would say, “Master, Seven Hills is here to meet Master.” Seven Hills being the literal translation of Yedumalai. Or he would say, “Master, Golden Mountain is here and wants to meet Master.” Golden Mountain being, yes you guessed it, Thangamalai.

When I was in Paralai Estate, my bungalow was just off the main Valparai road, opposite the Iyerpadi Estate Hospital, the domain of Dr. John Phillip and his charming wife, Dr. Maya. John and Maya were very good friends. John was one of the finest diagnosticians that I have ever had the pleasure of knowing, who could tell you what was wrong with your soul by looking at your toenails. Maya, in addition to being a physician, was a very creative artist and painted and made all kinds of beautiful things.

One day, I had almost finished my morning rounds and had a nasty headache. So, on the way home for lunch, I dropped in at the hospital to meet Dr. John and get something for my headache.
As I drove into the hospital compound, I saw a lot of urgent activity with nurses and attenders running here and there. I asked Mr. Karunakaran, the Pharmacist, who held fort when Dr. John was away, what was going on. He said that there was a woman in labor who was terribly anemic and needed a blood transfusion. They were trying to find her family to donate blood.

I said to him, “Take mine. I am O + and a universal donor.” Karunakaran looked surprised. A nurse standing by him, looked shocked. “You will donate blood for a worker woman?” she asked. “We are trying to find her people (Dalits) to donate blood.” I said to her, “Look, I have no time for this. Take my blood and give it to her. You don’t want her dying with her baby while you hunt for her relatives.” While all this was going on, Dr. John came on the scene and on being informed that I was offering to donate blood and the reluctance of the staff to accept it, he said, “He wants to donate his blood. What is your problem? Just take it.”

I was duly laid down and bled to the extent of two bottles of blood. It was thick and almost black with hemoglobin and had my friend John smiling in satisfaction. They disappeared with the blood into the operation theatre. I was kept under observation for a while and given some tea, just to ensure that I didn’t croak. I realized that in all this, my headache had disappeared. Clearly donating blood cures headaches. I then went home and had lunch and went off for my siesta - a most civilized practice that I learned to do in the plantations and have adhered to ever since. I am told it is also very good for the heart. It is certainly very good to rejuvenate you for the rest of the day.

After my siesta of about forty-five minutes, I got up for my cup of tea, when Bastian announced, “Master, Golden Mountain and the entire Works Committee are here to meet Master.” I was surprised because it was my rule that I never met any union leaders at home, and everyone knew and respected it. What was so urgent today that they couldn’t meet me in the office?

The land you are born in is not your motherland. It is the land you die in and are buried in that belongs to you.

I walked out on to the veranda to see Thangamalai, who was the head of the union, Madasamy who was his Deputy and entire Works Committee with them. I was a little apprehensive also, because usually it is not good news when the whole committee wants to meet you urgently. We made our greetings. Then I asked them why they had come. They didn’t say a word. Thangamalai stepped forward and bent down to touch my feet. I stepped back in amazement and irritation because I never encouraged the touching of my feet. They knew this.

I told them, “Why are you touching my feet? You know I don’t like this and don’t allow anyone to do it.” Thangamalai said in a grave tone, “Yes Dorai, we know. But today you will have to allow us to touch your feet. So, please don’t stop us.” He then bent down and touched my feet. And all the others followed suit. I stood there, totally amazed at all this. When they had all finished, I asked them, “So, tell me, what is all this for? What did I do?”

Thangamalai said, “Dorai, today you did something that has never happened in the more than one hundred years since this tea was planted. You gave your blood for one of us. No manager ever did this. So, we must thank you.”

I said, “What is so special about that? Wouldn’t you have done the same for me?”

“Yes Dorai, we would. But Doraimaar (Manager class) don’t do it for us. You are the first one and the only one who ever did it.” Then he said something which has stayed with me ever since. He said, “Dorai, this is our land. It is our land not because we were born here but because we will be buried here, if we die. It can never be the land of the Managers, because if you die, they will take you away to your hometown to bury you. They will not bury you here. The land you are born in is not your motherland. It is the land you die in and are buried in that belongs to you. But from today, this is also your land because your blood is now our blood.”

I had tears in my eyes and to this day when I think of this whole event, it fills my heart with warmth and love for these simple, lovely people. I have never believed in caste and class divisions and never practiced them and that day, they accepted me as their own. I was a Dalit for them and for me that was the greatest honor. 

Lower Sheikalmudi Manager’s bungalow where we used to live ( Pix by author)

 There is a very happy ending to this story. Almost twenty-five years later, in 2010, I returned to the Anamallais with my wife Samina and some friends of ours from South Africa and my nephew Aly, to show them one of the most beautiful places on earth. We stayed for two nights in the bungalow we used to live in, the Manager’s bungalow on Lower Sheikalmudi Estate. We walked the trails that I used to walk and met all those workers and staff who were still there. Many had retired. Some had passed away. But those who were there, remembered me and left their work and came to meet me. I was taken in an informal procession and ‘installed’ in my old Muster. Someone put a shawl on the chair for me to sit upon. Others brought tea and vadas from the teashop which every estate has. Many of my old workers brought their children to meet me and told them, “This is the Dorai we have told you about.”

One young fellow came up to me, greeted me with, “Vanakkam Dorai.” I returned his greeting. He asked me, “Do you recognize me?” I always find this question very disconcerting. If you don’t remember them, it puts you in an embarrassing position. You can try to wing it by saying, “Of course I remember you. How can I ever forget you?” But some horrible fellows won’t let you get away with that. They will persist, “Then tell me who I am!” Then you must say, “You are the one for whom I pray every day that your socks should shrink in the wash and that you should discover after having showered that you forgot your towel in another room and that when you are in a rush to urgently go to the toilet in the airport, after you have done the deed, you should discover that you were in the toilet meant for the opposite gender.”
 

 Manjaparai view – Sholayar Dam in the distance (Pix by author)

No, I didn’t say all that. I said to him, “I am sorry I don’t recognize you.” He said, “Not surprising Dorai. The last time you saw me was twenty-five years ago. I am the little boy who you would always give a ride to school on your bike. I would be walking down the road to the school and you would come down from the office and you would always stop and ask me to hop on behind you and you would take me to school. I can never forget you.” Then I remembered him of course. For me it was such an unremarkable thing to do. I like children and this little fellow was so happy to ride behind me and it made him such a big shot before all his friends that I always gave him a ride. Of such simple, unthinking, spontaneous actions are enduring memories made.

The day after we arrived, word got around to the workers of Paralai that Baig Dorai had come after twenty-five years and many people came to meet me. In the course of that, came two women and a man. The man was an old servant of ours who had worked as Bastian’s assistant, Asaithambi. He greeted me, “Vanakkam Dorai.” Then he gestured to the two women to come forward and asked me, “Do you know who they are Dorai?” I had no clue. He said, “This one is the one you gave your blood to. And this is her daughter. Without that blood they would both have died that day. It is with your blood in their veins that they are living. And Dorai, this girl is studying medicine in Coimbatore.”

I wept with joy and gratitude. That is all that I could do.

Is this your first visit here? Welcome to Indian Chai Stories!
Do you have a chai story of your own to share?  
Send it to me here, please : indianchaistories@gmail.com. 

My name is Gowri Mohanakrishnan and I'm a tea planter's wife. I started this blog because one of the things that I wouldn't want us to lose in a fast changing world is the tea story - a story always told with great seriousness, no matter how funny - always true (always), maybe a tall tale, long, or short, impossible, scary, funny or exciting but never dull.
 Happy reading! Cheers to the spirit of Indian Tea!

Meet the writer: 

Mirza Yawar Baig. President, Yawar Baig & Associates (www.yawarbaig.com). Business consultant specializing in Leadership Development and Family Business Consulting. Was a planter from 1983-93 in Anamallais and Kanyakumari. Author, mentor, photographer, speaker, inveterate traveler. Working across boundaries of race, religion and nationality to bring hearts together. I was in tea for seven years and in rubber for three. Also planted coffee, cardamom, vanilla and coconut. 
You can read all Mirza Yawar Baig's stories on this blog here: https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/search/label/Mirza%20Yawar%20Baig 
It's My Life,  Yawar's book, here: http://amzn.to/28JpEC2

Blazing the Scholastic Trail

by Roma Circar
At the best of times they were long, winding and gleaming with asphalt; and at the worst of times, they were long, winding and as cratered as the lunar surface that Apollo the 11th touched down on that July afternoon in 1969. Either way, the rete of roadways that criss-crossed the tea districts, looping in the estates usually in oxbow fashion, was more bane than boon –but we could not live without it.

A bit of the good stretch on the National Highway near Binnaguri in the Dooars (pic by Gowri Mohanakrishnan)

Like the blood circulatory system in our bodies, roads were integral to our survival in the estates. Quite apart from the regular functions of facilitating the supply of essential commodities and keeping us connected with the outside world, mainly with each other and the clubs, they were the trickle (and I use this word after careful thought) of earth our children traversed each day on their way to and from their schools.

Of schools in the Dooars there was no dearth, but the more popular ones were a fair distance away from most tea communities. Most of our children began their academic journey in the army or air force schools within cantonments in the vicinity. After a rattling drive through our own garden roads, they would catch a smooth highway, maintained by GREF or the armed services, to their schools. These were joyrides in pool-cars that left them woefully unprepared for the rigours of life to come. From the point of view of the parents, these small kindergarten-type schools served the purpose of easing their children into scholastic life – although a great deal of time was spent thereafter on ‘unlearning’ the lessons learnt in their nascent years!

The teachers in my son’s very first school were impeccable personalities. However, those allotted to the infant sections were justifiably selected on the basis of their compassionate and nurturing qualities, rather than their language skills. They tended to be deficient only in the medium of instruction that the school purported to follow. Holding his school reader at the level of his navel, we were astounded to hear our son read aloud the following sentence: “There was a beer in the forest!”

“No!” protested my husband. “There’s a beer in my fridge!”

“In the forest too!” insisted our first-born.

“You mean a bear?” I suggested helpfully, scanning his page from a distance. “There are many bears in the forest.”

“I mean ‘beer’!” said the Imperious One.

My husband and I exchanged glances.

“Beer is only found in the fridge, Baba,” said my husband. I could see his patience running thin. “In the forests, you get bears!”

“Ma’am said there was a beer in the forest,” said young Viraj firmly, clinching the argument.

“Let’s go there for a drink then!” sighed my husband, conceding defeat.

We held our tongues with great difficulty when Viraj got to the poetry section of his reader. “Cats in the cup board, hahaha!” he recited with exuberance.

Cup board?? Really? But which parent is mighty enough to compete with a teacher?

St. James’ High School in Binnaguri followed – it was the inevitable trajectory of a tea child’s life. Mornings began at 5.15am, irrespective of whether you were at the eastern or western tip of the Dooars. Fathers would roar their offspring off to a designated petrol pump on the highway, on their motorcycles or Gypsies, before heading to work. This was where the children would foregather before boarding the school buses that would trundle them to school. There was a driver and a helper in each school bus, and a clutch of teachers who lived on sundry estates.

The eastern Dooars bus had PT Ma’am (no relative of PT Usha) who lived in Satali. She was a blessing for parents in those pre-mobile days of yore, and a terror for the bullies on the bus.When the eastern Dooars bus was introduced, the road to Binnaguri was as smooth as a freshly depilated Anne French limb where the voiceover claimed “the chiffon scarf just glides off”! A drive each way took all of forty-five minutes. Then came the monsoons, and another, and another; and without repair or restoration the tarmac crumbled from the sum of its parts to the bituminous mess that our children had to oar through each way.

The Western Dooars bus had a marginally better route, although the loading point was also a large petrol pump. The helper on the bus had a nickname for all his charges. My daughter, Mallika, was Sushmita Sen, on account of her swinging ponytail. Patri Bhaiya, as he was called by the children, was an ordinary man who performed an extraordinary service. When we moved to Nagrakata, it was he who gently ushered our kids off right at the gates of Nagrakata Club on Friday afternoons, from where they would charge in like a swarm of hungry locusts in search of grub! It was much later that we discovered that Patri’s moniker was actually Patrick.

The uncertainty of those days verily hinged upon the state of the roads and reams could be written on how substandard they were. Buses returning from school inevitably docked at port later and later each year, frequently getting lodged in asymmetrical cavities or breaking down altogether. Somehow word would reach the affected estates and vehicles would set off to collect the children and bring them home. While mothers wrung their fingers in anxiety, the children had a wonderful time devising games to play on the bus. Mobiles and computers were still far from a reality in our neck of the woods, and recreation was as organic as a freshly laid desi egg. Fortunately there were no encounters with leopards and elephants, our reality, and I can assure you none with that beer in the forest – because as we all know in the plantations, beer is only found in the fridge!

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 Late Cut

by Bernard VanCuylenberg
This is a tale of a planter who called the bluff of the union leader and the union, who in turn called his bluff which climaxed in an amusing finale ! For reasons of privacy I shall use a pseudonym and call him Les Parker-Bowles. LPB was a very popular member of his club, the planting fraternity in general, and in short the public with whom he interacted. A model of physical fitness, he was a superb rugger player a member of his district clubs rugby XV team, and this enhanced his popularity and reputation with lovers of the game. He played some cricket, but Rugger was his forte. He also had a reputation as being a strict but fair minded Superintendent of the plantation he managed, and was well respected by the community. In a word, he worked hard, and played hard.

Among the myriad problems that crop up in a planter's life, dealing with the labour unions could at times prove very testing. On the estate which he managed, LPB held a fortnightly meeting with the union. At these meetings any labour problems were thrashed out, and as far as possible 'resolved' to the satisfaction of the workers and management, thanks to mutual negotiations and the diplomatic skills of LPB. Discussions were always frank and open and in time the Union leader (the 'Thalavar') cultivated a healthy respect for his 'Dorai' and opposite number during such meetings.

Then one day the proverbial storm followed the calm ! At the next meeting LPB was surprised to receive from the union a list of demands (there were seven in total), foremost of which was the demand which stipulated that the number of bushes to be pruned by a worker should be reduced to 150 instead of the standard 200 which was the requirement at present. Up to this time LPB had been batting on a friendly wicket, but suddenly he had to face a barrage of hostile bowling with bouncers a plenty !

He did not flinch but was the epitome of sang froid and composure, displaying no adverse reaction at all. He calmly proceeded to take up the demands with the 'Thalavar', all the while maintaining eye contact with his opposite number which was part of the psychological weapon in his armoury. This took the wind out of their sails because they fully expected to bring him down a peg or two thinking he would ask them to reconsider. He then told them he would have to peruse their demands in detail and he needed time. But regarding the demand for a reduction in the number of bushes to be pruned, he despatched that one clean over the boundary for a massive six ! He insisted that there was no way that this demand could be met and 200 bushes was the final total.

Image sourced from Robert Wilson Ceylon Tea's 'Field Works on an Estate'

At the next meeting, the Union was more belligerent. They began the meeting by spear heading a hostile bowling attack ! They said that if at least six of the demands were not met to their satisfaction strike action was inevitable. The meeting ended with some tension, although LPB maintained a cool demeanour. By now the union leader felt he was holding a winning hand . Not losing the momentum, and being carried away at the thought of winning some of the demands, he played his trump card at the next meeting!

He may have had the proverbial rush of blood which lulled him into a sense of euphoria, and he said "Dorai - if YOU can prune 200 tea bushes with the pruners in a day, we will withdraw all our demands and not resort to any strike action !" He thought he had LPB on the ropes. They all knew how meticulous their "Dorai" was about his field rounds, but none of them had ever seen him wield a pruning knife,. There was no way he could prune 200 tea bushes - (even 100 bushes) - which was a very labour intensive task , and they thought they had him on the back foot !

There was a collective dropping of jaws when LPB calmly told them he would take up the "challenge". A day was then fixed for "the clash of the Titans" , although some of the workers were still convinced they had called his bluff.

D-Day arrived and the pruning field resembled a Roman amphitheatre with the pruners like infantrymen ready for battle. They stood by their rows knives ready, awaiting the arrival of their 'nemesis' whom they would vanquish that day. The pruning Kangany stood his ground like a centurion, handed LPB a pruning knife after he arrived, and assigned him a row.

And the arduous task of pruning got underway. It was then that the surprises sprung fast and furious ! By the time the veteran pruners had completed sixty bushes, they were awe struck to observe that LPG had completed pruning 65! He was wielding his pruning knife with the same dexterity and speed with which he handled a rugger ball on the playing field !!! His 'sleight of hand' and lightning strokes wielded the knife swishing left, right, up, down, and sideways, and one never saw a better and cleaner pruned tea bush anywhere ! In a word he was 'The Master Pruner'. And to drive the point home - or to score the winning try - he pruned five bushes extra for good measure thus pruning 205 bushes in total, and in record time !

True to their word, the Union in stunned disbelief withdrew all their demands, and all threats of any strike action vanished like the mist evaporating in the morning sun ! LPB's reputation was further enhanced after this incident, and he continued managing this particular plantation until he retired from planting and left for England in the mid sixties.

Dorai - boss, saheb
Thalavar - leader, head
Kangany - supervisor

Meet the writer: Bernard VanCuylenberg

My late Dad was a tea planter...hence memories of the tea plantations are precious to me. My memories of childhood, growing up in the salubrious climate of the tea country are very dear to me, because my brother, sister and I had parents who were angels.

Prior to migrating to Australia my working background was in the field of tourism and hospitality.

In Australia I worked for seventeen years as an Administrative Officer in the Victoria Police Department, and retired in 1999. I played lead and rhythm guitarin two bands ( in Sri Lanka, and in Australia). I loved the Sitar and always hoped I could learn it one day. Ravi Shankar was my idol. 

Here is a link to all Bernard's stories on this blog: https://teastorytellers.blogspot.com/search/label/Bernard%20VanCuylenberg

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 Lost Sounds Of ‘Tea’

by Sarita Dasgupta

 “I hear the sounds, of distant drums…. Far away, far away…………………….”

I remembered these words from an old Jim Reeves song, and thought nostalgically about the rhythmic, hypnotizing sound of the drums that would waft to our bungalow from the workers’ Lines every evening, borne gently on the breeze. It was an integral part of an evening in the tea estates of Assam during my childhood. In those days of simpler living on the estates, sans such things as TVs, the workers would sing and dance to the beat of the drum after a hard day in the field. Now, the drums come out during festivals only. Whenever I hear them, I’m taken straight back to the halcyon days of my childhood. We used to join enthusiastically in the ‘jhumur’ dance when the workers came to the bungalow to dance on a special occasion. By the time we learned the steps of one movement, the dancers had moved on to another! But it was great fun, and as the song says - “The rhythm is gonna get you” - it did!

Dancers, photograph by Venk Shenoi, Nagrakata area, Dooars, c.1963-'64 

Speaking of drums and music, we had a sweeper once, who tied his hair in a small bun at the nape of his neck, a little towards the left. This was sufficiently out of the norm to intrigue us. He was a taciturn man, so we didn’t have the courage to ask him the reason. During one of the festivals, a party of musicians and dancers came to the bungalow to entertain us, and lo and behold, if it wasn’t old Budhu, with hair down to his shoulders, playing the ‘ektara’ and singing folk songs! My excited brother kept calling out to him, but he completely ignored us. The next day, the old, taciturn, Budhu was back, wielding the broom instead of the ‘ektara’! But my little brother looked on him with new eyes. It was rather like having a Pop Star working ‘incognito’ in one’s house!

Another sound one hardly hears nowadays, is the howl of the foxes. One of my younger sister’s favourite words, (‘sounds’, rather) was ‘hukkahuwaa’ - this being her take on the foxes’ cry. I must say, it was a fair imitation! We were taken out for a walk every evening, and it was the first call of the fox which told the ayah that it was time to turn back home. First, one fox would call, then another, and another, from different sides, till there was quite a chorus going on, happily joined in by my sister! After I got married in the early 80s, I wondered where all the foxes had gone till one shot across the garden road one evening sometime in 2005. My husband was surprised at my excitement, which, to him, must have seemed rather excessive. But, to me, it was like seeing an old friend after a long, long time. My only regret - the fox hadn’t howled!

An old dastoor on the estates was for the factory chowkidar to beat a gong (ghanti) on the hour, every hour. Other strategically placed gongs all over the estate would follow suit, till everyone knew the time. The sound of these gongs was another integral part of life on the estates. I had quite forgotten this, till some years ago when I spent the night at an estate that still follows this practice. At first, I was happy to hear this lost sound from my childhood, but, I must confess, it became less and less enchanting as the night wore on… my sleepiness wore off… and my nerves wore thin! However, after I’d recovered from the experience, I was nostalgic about the gongs all over again!

The other sounds I miss are the sounds of words no longer heard on the estates. Everyone says ‘factory’ nowadays, but when my father was a mistry sahab his duty lay in the kol-ghar! In those days we had someone called a din-chowkidar, who came on duty in the afternoon when the other bungalow servants went home for lunch. One rarely hears of a maliani (female mali) these days, and certainly not of the gobar-buri who used to come to the bungalow every day to make fuel cakes out of dried cow dung and coal dust for that huge cooking range! Gone are those ranges. In fact, gone are those kitchens, separated from the rest of the bungalow by a long passage-way. Now, the kitchen and pantry are one entity, and so the word botol-khana is going out of the bagaan vocabulary too.

I suddenly and most unexpectedly heard the sound of a cricket (cicada) two nights ago on my 7th floor balcony here in Kolkata. I was rooted to the spot physically but taken back to the tea estates mentally…that constant, shrill sound that irritated me no end while I was there, is actually music to my ears now!

Most of all, I miss the sounds of birds cheeping and chirping early in the morning. Here, it’s the hoarse ‘caw caw’ of the crow that awakens me! I would welcome the sound of the factory siren any day in place of that!

Change is inevitable, and most changes take place for the better. However, like scents, sounds are also evocative, and these lost sounds, if heard unexpectedly, take one back to certain places or happy times in one’s past, where one dwells in spirit for that infinitesimal moment, and comes out smiling.

Editor's note:  The video ( of the cicada in the tree ) was shot at Burra Bungalow, Thanai T.E., Assam

Meet the writer: Sarita Dasgupta

"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.

Read more bySarita 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, 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
 
Sarita mentions this lovely old song - for those of you who started humming it, here's the video!

The Extension Interview

by V.R.Srikanth

The year was 1976, and armed with an Honours degree in Political Science, I embarked on my journey to Cochin for my first interview ever, with any company, and this one was Malayalam Plantations Ltd., one of the very best. We were interviewed in the afternoon, the first day, and were asked to appear for an examination the next morning on general knowledge and mathematics.

Having successfully negotiated that, we were asked to appear in the afternoon, the same day, and some of were asked to proceed to various estates for an extension of our interviews. Being new to this process, I was completely unprepared for an extension interview and just didn't have the right clothes, having just packed my best formal clothes.

I drew a test estate in the Vandiperiyar area along with another candidate: I.K.Anil from Coorg. We were handed letters of introduction to our respective estate superintendents and and asked to present these to them at the Vandiperyar Club.

So having been packed into an Ambassador taxi, we sallied forth from Cochin in the early afternoon, hoping to reach there by late evening as originally scheduled. But there was a fallen tree and a small landslide en route, and with communication facilities being poor those days, it took a while to get cleared. Armed with a pint of rum each, IK and I took regular swigs while warming up to the conversation that we were having. The block being cleared, we resumed in our journey and set off in the last evening light.

It was dark when we reached the Vandiperiyar Club, and as I recall, we strolled up to the snooker room, which if my memory serves me right was rather prominently located near the entrance. A Senior Assistant Manager from Wallardie Estate, whom I shall not name, welcomed us and informed us that our Superintendents had left the Club earlier, having waited for us, leaving instructions for us to proceed to their respective bungalows.

Before we could do so he ordered a couple of double large rums for us, to be downed in a gulp, in keeping with the time honoured Malayalams' tradition, as he put it. Having happily obliged, a very self assured IK and I proceeded to the Wallardie Bungalow first. Somewhere along the landslide halt both of us had removed our ties and stowed them in our bags as we retrieved our rum. Just as we reached the Wallardie Bungalow gate, I pointed out to IK in total darkness that our ties were not on. So we groped our way into our bags and found them and managed to put them on somehow, being very skilled at this.

Wallardie, pic by Outlook Traveller

 The Wallardie Estate Superintendent’s Bungalow, as I recall, had a long passage with rooms extending out on both sides. As you entered it, the first room on the left was a day office room and I saw a man sitting before a crank telephone sporting shorts and a t shirt, and speaking in fluent Malayalam.

Having known that the Superintendent was a British expat, and finding that this gentleman sported a prominent tan - and maybe it was the rum -  I took him to be one of the bungalow staff.

I asked him rather nervously in Malayalam, for I was not totally sure who he was, "Dorai Undo" which meant, “is the master home.” He looked at me rather incredulously, turned a bit crimson and replied after a little while, "He is, and you are bloody well looking at him. It’s about time you bloody well got here."
I sobered instantly, and thought to myself, "You’ve made a fine initial impression and got off to a flying start, haven’t you Mr.Srikanth."

I proceeded to introduce IK who was a most amused spectator to this tamasha and who was rather anxious to leave to meet his Dorai, wondering what lay in store for him. For sure he would be treading rather warily, as opposed to the the candidate whom he just dropped.

I was shown to my bedroom and asked to appear in the drawing room after I had cleaned up. The Superintendent was a bachelor and a gracious host. He obviously was looking forward to my company and to assessing me thoroughly.

After a few minutes in the tub, scrubbed and tubbed, I was back for my first real trial. He offered whisky and I was ready to accept anything, considering my anxious state after the initial faux pas.
We covered a variety of subjects that evening. Starting with my background, education, hobbies and pastimes, discussion on politics and various until subjects until dinner.

Post dinner it was back to a nightcap and more conversation until the clock struck midnight, when he asked me if had brought my pair of shorts. I instantly replied stating what a pleasant surprise it was to find that there was a tennis court in Wallardie. He looked at me incredulously again to say,  "You're a funny bugger aren't you. You are supposed to be in the fields at the first light. The Senior Assistant Manager will pick you up and drop you back for breakfast." I promptly bid goodnight and trudged softly into the bedroom congratulating myself for a second faux pas.

Well, the next day passed being shown around the estate, and after breakfast with the Dorai, it was again back to be shown the routine field and factory operations for the day. Lunch however was hosted by the Senior Assistant Manager at his bungalow along with another Assistant Manager in the estate.

When I returned to the Superintendent's Bungalow in the evening, he was in the garden enjoying a spread of tea with a lady guest who I found was the wife of the Manager of a neighbouring estate. As he looked at my soiled appearance and the havoc the estate had played on shoes and my formal trousers in particular, he agreed to my cleaning up first before joining them.

During the course of that evening he divulged more information about the company and what was expected from me. I found out that I had to remain a bachelor compulsorily during my first contract for four years. I replied that it was quite impossible for me to do so as I was already engaged and that my fiancée would certainly not wait for four years.

He looked at me incredulously for the third time and asked me if I was quite certain about what I thought of turning down. I replied that I was. After berating his company about not letting me know about this policy in the first place, he suggested that I meet a Director of the company at Cochin, who would help place me in another company which had a more relaxed policy about marriage, based upon his personal recommendation. He even suggested another prominent company based in Munnar. He also added that if I missed out on the right girl, I might not find the right one again, but I could always find another job.

I didn't finally take the offer of employment made to me. I joined an Indian plantation company based in South India that has a more relaxed "marriage policy."

Meet the writer: V.R.Srikanth

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

Is this your first visit here? Welcome to Indian Chai Stories! 
 
Do you have a chai story of your own to share? Send it to me here, please : indianchaistories@gmail.com. My name is Gowri Mohanakrishnan and I'm a tea planter's wife. I started this blog because one of the things that I wouldn't want us to lose in a fast changing world is the tea story - a story always told with great seriousness, no matter how funny - always true (always), maybe a tall tale, long, or short, impossible, scary, funny or exciting but never dull. 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
 

Ring, Ring!!

by Gumi Malhotra
Just a few lines on ( the lack of ) a telephone!

Living in the Chhota bungalow was blissful, there was a comfortable feeling of being ‘one of the younger ones’ which I enjoyed and played to the hilt.

If there was an object of envy in the Burra bungalow it was The Telephone and that too with STD facility. Out station calls were half the rate after 8 o’clock and a quarter rate post 11 pm.

One would wait for the breadwinner to come home, persuade/nag/ plead for the phone call, quick cup of tea and an hour to forty minute drive to the nearest town for the weekly call home.
Then came the big bonus.

The Manager of the estate probably remembered his phone struggle days and once the office closed the telephone came home to us. Literally. No kidding. It was disconnected in the office and arrived home with due respect on a tray with the bearer saying, “Memsahib phone aya hai”!!

We didn’t realize then that we’d never look back. Henceforth, we would always be at the end of a line.
 

Does this song ring a bell? 

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. 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


 Meet the writer: Gumi Malhotra

Gumi Malhotra

Hello chai people, here’s my first attempt to pen down one of the million memories I carry with me. We came away twelve years ago with our hearts full ( not so much the pocket) of such nuggets. We live in Bangalore now and what started as a hobby in the gardens has become my calling. I paint pet portraits. The happiest days spent in tea were in the Jali kamra with my paints, the boys occupied with make believe cars and a steady stream of tea flowing from the kitchen. Cheers!