October 3 2006
 Our thanks to Gerry Halnan 
These two stories about maternity care in the remote tea areas are sure to evoke memories for men and women who had similar experiences.

A Look Back At Maternity-Part 1

I have three photos, discovered in a dusty drawer of a tea garden office desk, long ago.

They depict a factory building, a Burra Bungalow and what purports to be a dispensary.

Taken in the early 1920's they all have a dejected look, particularly the latter, with its forlorn and shabby porch and walls, verily a mean structure. What medical aid was `dispensed' from this unwholesome and unhygienic structure one shudders to think. Maternity could hardly have been a consideration.

However, in the fifteen years following World War II giant strides were made towards modern medical support.

New hospitals were built and extra staff enrolled. My estate offered a main building accommodating 28 beds and an isolation wing of three wards.

It was staffed by 2 doctors, a nurse and a midwife, the latter recruited to support the then drive by Government and the I.T.A to encourage mothers to give birth in hospital, rather than `at home', which was part of the campaign to control the birth rate.

As this was `fronted' by a well meaning and highly qualified matron, in flowing sari, who lectured our medical staff on how to persuade the labour force to `abstain' and/or `insert' the prescribed preventatives.

Unfortunately the lady although mature, had never had any children herself and my two Dr Babus had families of 7 and 9 children themselves which hardly presented a shining example.

However, the scheme went forward with some success as child bearing in hospital rose to 60% from 5% in about 4 years. Birth control measures however were less successful. Like the proverbial `Curates Egg'- good in parts. Good for a laugh was the case of one labourer, who complained avidly that his wife was again pregnant, despite his swallowing the tablets regularly as directed, not having realised that they had been prescribed for his wife to 'insert'!

So we reached a stage of enlightenment, but back in the 20's arrangements were very different as my old Burra Sahib Jim Harper informed me.

Recently married, he was posted to a small tea garden in the plains, surrounded by paddy fields and jungle and connected by a private road, seven miles in length to the trunk road. This had to be repaired and maintained by the garden itself, and in those days was little more than a cart track, deep rutted and nigh impassable in the rains.

Malaria was rife, and the `delights' of kala azar, dengue fever, hookworm and the like, were rampant.

Notwithstanding, nature would have her way, and in the height of the Rains, Jim's wife Claire was ready to give birth to her first child.

Somehow, Jim had been able to communicate with the district doctor, who owned a model - T Ford, and even that rugged machine was unable to negotiate the boggy estate track.

Arrangements were made (by runner) for the Dr Sahib to meet Jim and his wife at the junction with the main road, and he would convey the pregnant wife to Darjeeling Nursing Home, a distance of some 140 miles.

In conditions of atrocious Bengal storm she was `placed' as comfortably as possible on a secured `charpoy' in a covered buffalo cart and the seven mile journey commenced to the main road.

Jim accompanied his wife, insisting he travel on foot, helping to heave the cart wheels out of the deep sludge pot holed ruts. His description of that journey was harrowing, to say the least, and how many hours it took I cannot recall.

However, contact was eventually made, the precious cargo transferred and husband and wife went their separate ways.

Reunited some weeks later, mother and healthy son were back in the old dilapidated bungalow, but happiness was short lived, as the infant contacted some virulent disease and died before medical aid could be obtained.

Several years later when Jim had been promoted to Choonabhutti T.E. in far more `civilised' surroundings, Claire, I believe, went off to a suitable hospital to have her second child, a daughter, who grew up healthy and eventually married and had a family of her own in England.

The loss of his only son, left in Jim's soul, a stress of pain and anguish, manifestly obvious in the intensity with which he recounted the events to me, many moons later.

25 years on, my own trials as an expectant father were yet to come.

A Look Back At Maternity-
(Part 11)
After six years of courtship and three years of engagement, much of which was spent in writing to each other from distant locations, half way round the world, my company beneficently permitted me to fly Joan out from England (at my expense) which 5 - day flight was quite expensive in 1948. We were married in the old Cathedral, Calcutta, and after festivities accompanying the nuptials, we headed north by train for Siliguri, and thence to the Binnaguri district of the Dooars.

Two years later, we were living in the Chota Bungalow on Palashbari Division of the New Dooars Tea Estate, and in January Joan, to use the old expression, was heavy with child. The district medical officer at that time, was Dr Mahler.

A Jew, born and domiciled in Vienna, he and his wife Olga had been `whisked' into a concentration camp by the Nazis, and no doubt survived because of his proficiency as a `medic'. This experience and exposure, had bred in him a tough exterior, and a bruskness, which when balanced with his capability was perfectly acceptable to his male patients, was hardly conducive to the bedside assurances normally desirable for a young woman expecting her first child.

On one visit, Joan overtly complained to him, that he was upsetting her. His curt reply was, "Then I will not come!"

Tearfully, she withdrew, and after placatory overtures, I gained from him the advice that I should make arrangements as soon as possible for my wife to be transported to the Darjeeling Nursing Home, as his diagnosis indicated a 1 month premature birth was imminent!

My 1936 Austin 7 was without an engine, the latter being rebuilt on a table in the spare room, as and when I had time.

Although our plight was known in the district, offers of assistance were conspicuously absent, and I contacted my previous Burra Sahib, Jim Harper some miles up the road requesting help.

Unfortunately his car at that moment was also off the road, but he suggested, and arranged for me to collect the old Chevrolet ex - NBMR ambulance, which had been lying unused for three years in the care of a planter in the Dalgaon district.

The vehicle, though old, appeared to be in reasonable condition, apart from the custom made bodywork, which though sound, was heavily constructed, which together with the spongy long leaf spring suspension, combined to allow the wheel arches to thump and chafe against the wheels at every turn. However, the engine was sound and I embarked in good heart.

My only bearer had to remain to look after the bungalow, so having stowed Joan horizontally in a stretcher like bunk, the rear doors were closed and I `took off solo at the wheel.

With Dr Mahlers warnings ringing in my ears, I was at pains to drive carefully, avoiding every pothole, particularly when having to negotiate the rutted verges.

Stopping every half hour to apprehensively open the back doors to see how Joan was riding out the oscillations of her high perch, and dreading the sound of pain, or even infant voices!

In this way we reached Siliguri in about four hours and prepared for the ascent to Darjeeling.

This was new to me, and as darkness was gathering, I put on a spurt, short lived as I entered the first bend. Night closed in fast, and with it a shrouding mist prevailed, cutting visibility, despite the headlights, down to 10 yards. There were no road markings, but fortunately the continuous stone wall was my guide, as I negotiated one hairpin bend after another. My rising confidence was cut short by the shriek of a steam whistle which sounded almost alongside me, and suddenly I remembered the narrow gauge mountain railway, snaking its way in and out of the road path, crossing at times by tunnel, but most frequently by unmarked, unmanned level crossings.

This became obvious and unnerving to me as the glint of rails would suddenly appear through the mist ahead, simultaneously with the audible `chuff- chuff of a locative. Slowing down appropriately, it nevertheless became for me `the night of the long knives', etched into my memory for ever, but we survived and reached our destination intact (if not virgo!).

Locating the Nursing Home, Joan was swiftly and safely installed and kept in overnight, while I retired to the adjacent Planter's Club for a well earned `tot' or two, among congenial, if bawdy and `mickey taking' Koi - Hais.

Next day, sobered up I visited Joan and was informed that nothing had happened, nor expected for some time! I left and wended my way, (this time safely by daylight) down the hill and back to New Dooars.

Subsequently Joan was lodged in an adjacent small hotel, owned and run by Mrs. Wrangham-Hardy, who was kind and attentive, having been herself a midwife.

In the event, despite daily exercise and the climbing of multitudinous Darjeeling slope steps, the birth delayed until its due date, though `delivery' was complicated, and a healthy little daughter weighing only 6 lbs was born, to be later christened Jennifer.

The next six months in the remote Palashbari Bungalow became at times quite harrowing, as Jennifer developed serious intestinal problems, and fetching the Doctor Babu out from the main garden 1¹/2 miles away in the middle of a monsoon storm at midnight, and on bicycles, is an experience I will not forget.

Thereafter all drinking water was boiled, filtered, and boiled again!

Breast feeding was curtailed and Jennifer was succoured on tins of powdered Cow & Gate, or Ostermilk, purchased (at great cost) from the store of Kali Babu, in the Banarhat bazaar.

Having left the army with £800 in the bank, I had been relatively well off, but after a costly marriage and 3 years in tea on junior assistants salary I was in danger of dipping into the red despite our austere standard of living.

Fortunately my parents, sensing the predicament, sent me a cheque that `tided me over' and `we three' having been moved up to the `Maj ala Kote' duly boarded the S.S. Canton for a relaxing and enjoyable `cruise' home, on long leave.

The saga of my hardest years in tea, was over

Note
Jennifer is now 56, happily married, as is our 54 year old son Clive, (born in Darjeeling in 1952). Joan and I have 5 grandchildren and 1 great grandchild.

Jennies eldest son Russell is an Airline Pilot, her other son Jamie has an MSc in Multimedia and Internet and is working as a Computer Programmer, while her daughter Joanna has an MA in Performance Sports Wear and is a Senior Fashion Designer.

My sons daughter Amy has a BA (Hons) in Packaging Design and works as a Graphic Designer and his ^-son, Matthew is in-his final year-at-the .­University of the Arts, London - London College of Communication studying Graphic and Media Design.

They are all fit and well, thank God.

Gerry Halnan
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  June 14 2006

We wish to thank Gerry Halnan for another very fine story from his memory bank

A Portrait of "Tiger Tim"

Tiger Tim came to me as a fledgling assistant when I had 
recently taken over my last tea garden, which comprised over  1,100 acres and employed 1,750 workers.

Perhaps `fledgling' would be inappropriate, as he was well built, and turned out to be something of a `cuckoo in the nest'.

One of the last English assistants to be employed by our 
company, I was pleased to take him under my wing, as his 
appearance was eminently promising. Son of a Naval 
Commander, educated at Gordonstoun, somewhat above 
average height he sported the frame of a field athlete, which,  coupled with healthy fair freckled skin, light ginger hair and  moustache and a pair of piercingly brilliant blue eyes, augured  well for the future.

He shared the Chota Bungalow with my senior assistant 
MacDonald and settled in without a hitch, and his initiation  commenced.

From the start it was obvious that he was a young man of 
singular principles and ascetic habits.
Taught amidst the rigours of his school and subsequent two  years National Service in the Royal Navy he had forthright  opinions about the world around him, which he did not hesitate  to express profoundly to any audience, however humble or  elevated.

I had been warned by our Superintendent Harry S. that I would  find him somewhat unusual and would need special circumspect  handling. This worried me little as after five years in the army  and ten more in tea I was used to accepting the broad range of  vagaries displayed by the human individual.

Tim was polite, punctual, clean and responsive to instruction,  which he would query extensively if he did not assimilate or  entirely agree with.

He had enjoyed his service in the Navy, on which experience he  often extolled, and which appeared to be spent mainly in the  Mediterranean, and usually in port, where Tim appeared to  spend much of his time slung over the side of a destroyer with  scraper and brush.
 Much later, I was to sense an empathy with his captain.

On shore he had been happy mixing and socialising with the  native Maltese and Gibraltarians, whom he constantly referred  to with approbation. He seemed to love ordinary people and  emanated the aura of a totally wholesome individual.
Nevertheless, there was something disquieting about his mien,  the first indication of which was his habit of wearing a large pair of Wellington boots on the mela in all seasons, including the  height of the rains, which must have been uncomfortable if not  flagellatory.

He preferred to walk rather than ride to the mela where his work  in controlling standards of plucking, hoeing and pruning were  satisfactory, but planning, marking out and entrepreneurial skills  were not his forte. Sensing no guile in him, the labour force and  staff accommodated his mild eccentricities, and I think may  have warmed to him, nevertheless referring to him (kindly), as  the `Pugla Sahib'.

Tim was much of a loner. He hardly visited the Club and 
showed little interest in sports, neither field, nor 'blood'. In this alone he was unique among his fellow assistants. Hardly any  alcohol had passed his lips, certainly no smoking, and he showed no undue romantic inclinations.

Happy off duty alone with his two mongrel dogs, he passed his spare time away in indoor body building, which activity was brought to my attention when a coffin sized crate arrived from the U.S.A. containing dumb bells and all the impedimenta for weight lifting to Olympic standards.

It was about this time that my neighbours wife Jan Truss, fresh out from home, decided to liven up the social activity of the Binnaguri district, by putting on a play, `Money makes a Difference', and though none of us had done any acting, since leaving school, such was her personality and drive, that not only myself, but also Tim were persuaded to take a part.

My role was that of a farmer, and Tim, his son. The Binnaguri Club was set up with stage and curtains and we rehearsed throughout the week in the evenings after work. It was mid- Rains.One night when the monsoon was doing its `damnedest' and windscreen wipers could hardly cope, I gave Tim a lift down to the club about seven miles away. The night was pitch black and roads were awash like rivers, nevertheless I chugged down in my Ford Prefect at 30 miles per hour.

We were about 1/2 hour into rehearsal. I was sitting in an arm chair on the set, while Tim was standing by the mock fireplace, when down the aisle came running a rain sodden black dog which jumped into Tim's arms where he stood and licked his face. Apart from a smile of welcome Tim carried on with his dialogue, unhesitatingly.
Somehow that hound had followed us up through impossible weather, to a place he had never visited before. A great pity we could not keep it in the script!
So here was another facet of Tim's charm.

However, somehow, like Frank Spencer in the comic soap `Some Mothers do have `Em', Tim's endeavours were so often fraught with disturbing consequences.

There was the time when Joan and I were having Sunday 
morning breakfast in the Burra Bungalow and our bearer 
agitatedly summoned us to the front verandah, where, to and behold, Tim, on the pad of a large elephant was urging the mahout to `goad' his enormous `mount' into ascending the steps and give us a `salaam'.
I shouted "No! No! - but to no avail.

At the third step there was a sinister crunch as the brick arch over the storm drain gave way and sank several inches. Thank goodness the elephant responded swiftly, turned, and the trio made their accelerated exit through the main gateway, partly removing the ornamental flowering Bougainvillea archway with them as they left.

Wanting to send some tea home to his parents, he had a hefty box made up by the carpenter and took it to the Post Office, with the request that it be despatched by air mail to its U.K. address.The Bengali clerk inspected it, weighed it and pronounced it  would be expensive to convey. "Never mind" said Tim, and the  transaction proceeded. Stamps were affixed and the parcel registered. The clerk then extended his hand for the money, but Tim astounded to hear the amount, changed his mind and protesting, cancelled the transaction.

By this time, the package was resting on a shelf to the rear of the clerk and he remonstrated that now the tea was in the care of the Postal Authorities and registered, it would have to be sent. Tim, growing angry, vaulted the high counter, thrust the  protesting Babu aside like 'chaff', vaulted the counter once  more and nursing his precious bundle sprinted back to his  bungalow.

Of course, the first thing I knew of this incident was the receipt of a letter the following day, written by an incensed Superintendent of Post Offices, threatening all sorts of dire consequences.
After due admonishment, Tim returned with his parcel to the Post Office, making suitable apologies and paid up without demur.

The next such incident arose, when I received a letter from none other than the Deputy, District Commissioner.
One, Monday morning Tim presented himself `in office', and gleamingly recounted an incursion which he had made on Sunday, into Bhutan. I was appalled. Bhutan was a forbidden kingdom to foreigners, permission to enter which was rarely requested and seldom granted. He proudly told me how, at the drop of a hat he had set off after breakfast and penetrated about 10 miles, ascending several thousand feet to some distant `dzong' where he was welcomed with open arms, regaled with food and refreshment and entertained sumptuously, as if he were 
from an alien planet.
I explained to him the error of his ways, hoping naively that his visit would have passed, unremarked.

Not so! Within 48 hours the aforementioned letter arrived in my in-tray, enquiring in the strongest terms why I had permitted my assistant to so flagrantly breach the terms of a treaty, sacrosanct  since 1909, or some such date,' and demanding an explanation forthwith! Wrong footed again, I sent my abject apologies, and assurances of no 'repeats'.

One day, I was discussing the work in hand on a section of tea with Tim, in company with the Head Garden Babu, when several teenage cyclists in white dhoties began to flash past us,shouting to each other and splashing up the mud within inches of us. I shouted out for them to dismount and approach me, when I realised they were the sons of staff on the adjoining estate, using our road as a short cut to the bazaar, which was quite acceptable. However the `mode' was not to my liking, and asked them if they knew who I was.
Yes! came the reply. "The Burra Sahib of this estate". I then impressed upon them the desirability of observing traditional courtesies by dismounting and exchanging `salaams'. They salaamed' and I returned the gesture and off they went. Turning to resume my discourse, I was confronted by the stern faced Tim who ejaculated before a close audience "I call that arrogance!" I gave him short shrift on that one!

A further unsolicited criticism came, when Tim, seeing my 
bearer bring a bowl of warm water and a towel to my seat on the  verandah, where I sat, kicking off my muddy mela-worn boots for the customary wash down, remarked "I call that feudal - no one should be expected to wash the bosses' feet in this day and age".

Afterwards, I cogitated on his remarks, and asked Joan to tell Gurucharan, bearer, that I would no longer require him to perform this age old tradition, as I had a perfectly modern bathroom where I could attend to myself.

On the following few days, Gurucharan, dutiful as ever, seemed to be avoiding my glance and appeared to be `in sulk'. I mentioned it to Joan, who said that he had been `hurt' and sharram kayoed' by my withdrawing this essential 'privilege'! I reinstated the privilege promptly and the next day Gurucharan beamingly performed as before.

Two other incidents spring to mind, which both concerned electricity in different forms.

One night we experienced a particularly violet storm that 
continued through till morning, with blue flashes of forked lightning every few minutes. That morning in office at about 7 a.m. I was confronted by a bedraggled and unshaven Tim, white faced and unduly lined, who accusingly complained that while running the taps of his bathroom basin and dipping his hands into the water, he had nearly been electrocuted, but saved no doubt by the wearing of his ubiquitous Wellington boots.

Pacified and consoled I promised to investigate the cause. We discovered after considerable research, that a steel lamp standard to the rear of the factory had been struck by lightning,the charge arcing through the damp soil to the adjacent steel water pipe feeding the water supply to the labour lines and the Chota Bungalow. The puzzle was that the pipe supplying the latter was of asbestos, and therefore the shock must have been 
transmitted through the water itself. Fortunately Tim's robust constitution withstood the worst that nature could throw at him and it did nothing to subdue his exuberant buoyancy.

Shortly afterwards I decided to practise, together with Derek, my senior assistant, and the electrician, the procedures for changing over the electric supply to our grid from each of the prime movers and auxiliary generators in turn and familiarise ourselves with the system. As the `gaps' between change over were not thought to be more than 2 to 3 minutes duration, and 
only lighting was involved, I had not bothered to inform 
everyone. I had reckoned without Tim! Next morning, there he was, glowering down at me and making his complaint.

As the lights went out around him, he had just hoisted his 
heaviest weights above his head. The thought of Tim swaying in the darkness surrounded by furniture, a coffee table laden with crockery and a couple of sleeping dogs, created in my mind a picture too comical to repress. Poor Tim was inconsolable.

Our superintendent Harry S. informed me that Tim was shortly due his long leave and suggested that for his own good and the good of the company it would be advisable not to renew his contract and that he would be advising Head Office accordingly.

Shortly before his final departure, one morning, he told me that he had had a dream. He had left `tea', and wanted to get as far away from it as possible, seeking for pastures new. Pausing for a short, well earned holiday in England, he took ship for Canada, working his passage. Crossing the continent Tim reached British Columbia and made straight for the hills, and found himself in a beautiful valley dominated by mountains.

Cattle were grazing, and seeing a substantial ranch house he approached with the intention of seeking employment, as a hand. As he reached the steps, a figure emerged onto the porch.
"And you know what?" he, accusingly said, 
"It was You! !"  Tim turned and sauntered off, with the hint of a nautical roll, satisfied, no doubt, that he had fired his last salvo, and againsinged the King's beard!

(G. W. W.Halnan)
June 2006
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  March 31 2006

A Picnic in Jaldacca

There can be no more exhilarating fresh water fishing experience than wading below white water rapids, cascading down from the distant Himalayas, especially when the genial Cold Weather climate invites you to be clad in nothing more than canvas shoes, a pair of shorts, and a broad brimmed hat, or less.

It was there for with eager anticipation that on the completion of a disappointing visit to Darjeeling (weather had been execrable).

Joan and I were due to call in and stay the weekend with Tom and Marjorie, our great friends at their tea garden , ‘enroute’  home.

Safely arrived at Dalinkote with our two children, Clive aged two and Jennifer four, we settled in and it was proposed that we should embark on a ‘shikar’ picnic the following day.

Immediately after breakfast we boarded Tom’s Ford van and our car bound for the Jaldacca Reserve Forest, flanking the river of that name.

These trips were always exciting, as the forest was home to “Sambar” (Indian Elk) Chital (Spotted Deer) Barking Deer, wild boar, a few rhinos, a herd of elephants, Leopard and tiger. Usually sleeping up during the day, but moving if disturbed.

After 5 miles we arrived at a suitable riverside clearing, shaded by a few trees and set out tarpaulins, blankets and other impedimenta for the ladies to carry on with the good work, while Tom and I hastily assembled our tackle and made off down the river.

Tom lent me his old split cane10ft salmon spinning rod with silex real and oiled silk line, while he used his ‘new ‘

Verona fibre glass with Ambidex reel  and 20lb B.S. nylon line. We used spoons of chrome, brass or copper in various sizes and shapes from arrowheads 1.5” to 2” desert spoons.

We selected the confluence, where the minor Diana stream flowed into the much larger Jaldacca. The Diana was in flood and tinged with chalky white sediment and coming from a higher shoulder of land, tumbled over boulders for fifty odd yards down a 6ft. drop into the clear jade waters of the Jaldacca, the two separated by a heaped up bank of rocks and pebbles which narrowed down to a wee peninsula.

It was from this perch that Tom, after wading the Diana some distance  up stream, decided to cast his line leaving me to cast into the large ‘salmon’ pool below.

We had not long to wait. In his second cast allowing the spinner to emerge from the chalky stream  into the pool , it was taken with an almighty rush, his rod pulled to the horizontal with the line screeching out from a protesting clutch which Tom was frantically attempting to adjust to increase the ‘drag’.

This he managed to do, but to no avail as the line continued to strip out  downstream.

Crossing the Diana to gain the left bank at this point was impossibly hazardous and he raised his rod as high as he dared to slow things down.  By now most of his 100 yards of line had been taken, but suddenly the fish sulked.

Simultaneously, horror of horrors, I saw the end of his line depart the fixed spool where presumably it had been inadequately secured.  Like a slow motion ‘you have been framed’ I watched Tom snatch at the slowly retreating line’s end as it fell from ring to ring, finally relinquishing the rod altogether and disappearing into the depths.

Returning to my bank below, Tom relieved me of the heavy rod, and placing a weighted spoon on the cast, began combing the depths, hoping to entangle his 100 yards of trailing line, a dodge he had used successfully in Scotland before. 

Meanwhile he had equipped me with his short rod and fitted a second spool to the reel which sported a 10 lb B.S. nylon line, and directed me to fish from the dubious spur that he had so recently vacated.  As he was now monopolizing the main pool, I had little option and was soon ‘plying my rod’ from that unstable foothold.

As my lure left the white milky water and entered the clear, it was taken with firm determination and the line in turn began to sing out.  I shouted to Tom, who abandoned his trawling and ran up the bank to a spot opposite to me.  He gave his instructions to his syce (groom) who on these forays became the gillie.

As the syce went upstream to work his way round to me, Tom shouted instructions above the swish and rumble of the tumbling waters.

By this time half my line had gone out and was still slipping the clutch as the fish remorselessly tugged its way to deep water.

The line was still paying out as the syce came up behind me.  There was not sufficient line left for me to back up, so clasping me firmly round the midriff, we edged into the tumbling water.  In this manner, even when the water was up to our waists, as a four legged ‘unit’ we were able to take short jumps sideways, and buoyed up the the rushing water, were able to hop from boulder top to boulder and reach the left bank.  All this time line had been steadily paying out, but just in time I was able to run down the bank and retrieve half of it.

Then came the ding-dong of battling a determined fighting fish, which continued the struggle despite my being below him.

He never ‘showed’ but tugged doggedly to the bottom, and then, the line refused to budge, pull in any direction that I might.

This chap was adopting the Mahseer strategy of clinging to a smooth boulder on the bottom with its sucker mouth like a sink plunger.

Tom had the answer again, he, and the syce started heaving brick sized rocks into the racing water above where the fish was lying, probably 10 ft. deep.

That did the trick and after a further ten minutes of lively action, I beached our quarry, a beautiful 10 lb cock fish dribbling copious milt on the pebbles as a lifted him out.

Not a large specimen, but memorable for the accompanying events, and tips learned.  Tom never retrieved his line, which no doubt was discarded by a much larger fish, probably then making its way back to the Ganges!

Happily, at the end of a perfect day with shadows falling, we chugged back up the forest trail, and in the North the Himalayas caught the last rays of the setting sun, Kenchenjunga’s white plumed crest reflecting a myriad hues.

Strange, how one such day can wipe a week’s depression off the slate! 

_______________________________

February 18 2005

DEREK PERRY'S HOLE IN ONE

Among my recollections of golf in tea, now fading with the years, certain incidents stand out, as if of yesterday. A planter who had lost an arm during the war, whose one-armed drive was squarely 'whacked' and which while lacking distance, was made up for in consistent alignment. Another who stuck to one club, always returned a commendable card.

In Assam our local doctor, who gained the upper echelons of North India's championships, managed to smite his wife with an ill-aimed drive from 100 yards, in the middle of her back as she chatted with me in the outside shamiana of the Club. Slumping over the peg table, she gasped a little, refused assistance, straightened up taking a deep breath and retired to the ladies room, uncomplaining, while the errant ball rolled innocently across the floor. Her husband (to give him his due!) abandoned his game.

I could go on, but forbear, and proceed to recounting an event, which though light hearted, nevertheless stands out, amongst the many.

Derek Perry had been my assistant, but on the golf course our roles were reversed.

Coming to me in Khowang in 1955 as a 'green horn' he had instructed me in the 'preliminaries' of golf, the stance, the grip, the swing etc. Wartime service had excluded such luxurious pastimes for me and so, I was eager to learn.

Some years later, when I was managing Banarhart T .E. in the Dooars, Derek, still an assistant caught up with me and one Sunday invited me to make up a foursome, the other two participants were his fellow assistants~ one of whom, might have been Bob Struthers, fresh from fighting the Mau-Mau in Kenya.

We were all in good humour when we met that bright morning at the Binnaguri Club and lost no time in gathering at the No 1 tee, overlooked by the Georgian windows of the club house.

Partners were selected and a coin spun. I was invited, magnanimously, (have no doubt Derek was in patronising charge here), to lead off.  

Taking my stance, and well aware of my critical audience, I addressed the ball, as well instructed, raised the club above my right shoulder, swung, and chipped the shot forty degrees to the offside of centre. The ball cleared a high fence and landed somewhere in the rear compound of a Staff bungalow.

The prospect of making a detour and addressing a disturbed Babu with the request, "Can I get my ball mister?" -did not appeal to me.

Derek, smiling, insisted on my having another 'go', which I did, with more commendable, in fact, laudable results.

 The two assistants followed, with mediocre performances, each presentation being followed by a cryptic comment from our 'maestro' Derek

 Now came the time for him to take to the 'podium', Spick and span in immaculate attire, including gloves, spectacles and broad brimmed hat, he took up his stance.

Such elegance, such poise, and then the swing, poetry in motion. Entranced, we watched as his driver hit square with the authoratative smack of a chairman's gavel.

Under instruction, we gazed in admiration.

However, unlike Derek, we were following the trajectory of the ball, which travelling at bullet like speed, rose no higher than six feet and continued parallel to the ground on its way, 'Bing Crosby' style -straight down the middle.

In those days, players were often hindered by the wanderings of stray cattle grazing haphazardly across the course.

As they were not numerous and could be chased off the fairway by a chokra, (but no chokra was to hand), we offered to clear the field of an off-white cow grazing about ninety yards ahead and which had drifted into the line of fire. Derek disdained our offer.

However, his drive was not lofty as narrated but hugged a lower altitude and it became instantly obvious to us, that an impact was inevitable. Hypnotised we followed the horizontal trajectory. As if anticipating an intrusion, with rear end on, the tail of the beast slowly rose, and Derek's ball hit dead centre of the orifice, without a sound, and disappeared.

The tail continued to rise, the animal leaned forward slightly, still cropping, contentedly and nature took over. An urgent ejaculation of considerable magnitude cascaded in green/brown slurry onto the turf, in which we glimpsed a flash of white.

Momentarily we were stunned with disbelief, then seeing Derek's mixed emotional expression of crest-fallen frustration, his audience burst into uncontrollable laughter and jibe.

Poor old Derek. We volunteered no aid as he probed and prodded for his ball -ultimately retrieved, and wiped down, (I can't remember how?), and dropped over his shoulder for the continuation of the game, which despite his 'stroke of luck' he resumed with his customary aplomb!

Gerry Halnan

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