Gowri Mohanakrishnan
We
are indebted to Gowri Mohanakrishnan for her contributions to make
this site interesting and up to date--thank you--Editor Return
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Please click
the headings of the story you wish to read
#Life Today in Dooars
#Doomsday
in the Dooars
#The Monsoon breaks in the Dooars
#A Sunday in the Dooars
#Niren Baruah
#When April comes to the Dooars
#Gowri's life in Tea
#Old men at war
#Blues for Tea
#Mrs Dobson
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September
22 2008
We are grateful to Gowri for
giving us such a clear picture of life today on Dooars
gardens--thank you young lady--Editor
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A little
Dooars 'report' on the activity in tea gardens and the town nearby as
the festive season gets underway
September is almost done, and Puja is on its way. Planters now look dourly on early sunsets and pleasant evenings and begin to grumble about ‘autumnal flavours’ and an early end to the plucking season. It is really the beginning of a season of economic activity of another kind. Almost all the gardens in the Dooars have paid annual bonus payments to their workers. The weekly ‘Sunday Haat’ at every little town has transformed into a ‘Bonus Bazaar’. In the old days, the workers confined themselves to buying cows and bicycles, but now they like buy washing machines, motorcycles, television sets, fridges or cell phones with their bonus money.
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There
are any number of people waiting to relieve the workers of their
earnings. The first among them are the ‘Kabuliwalas’ – money
lenders – who might
have lent them sums at exorbitant rates of interest. There are the
unions who want to collect their subscriptions as soon as the
workers are paid. Then there are those selling the local brew. ‘Haria’,
or rice beer, is available everywhere. Women try to keep the big
drinkers away from these stalls, so that they don’t lose the
entire bonus in a few merry hours.
This
is also the beginning of what is called the ‘Dacoity Season’.
This violent criminal activity is also assigned a season here, and
blandly given a name. Criminals who are waiting to loot Puja
shoppers begin their own round of economic activity. With the sun setting as early as six p.m., looters waylay
people heading for towns located on the highways. Their favourite
method of operating is to cut a tree and throw it across the (single
lane) highway, forcing vehicles to halt. People rarely venture out
on cycles or on foot after
dark, because of the fear of
elephants. Those who go
out in vehicles, hired or personal, have to rely on quick reflexes,
a good eye and the ability to reverse for up to one kilometer at top
speed to escape attack. The highwaymen are always armed. With the
national highways in their present condition, no one can speed away
from the scene of a robbery. The local administration and the police
do take preemptive action and round up the known hoods for a while.
It doesn’t seem to help much, though.
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September
14 2008
Today
we are privileged to have some comments from Gowri together with
photographs to show the Dooars today and the effect of the Big Bang
theory on the Tea Estates
Doomsday in the Dooars
News
of the Big Bang experiment taking place in far away Switzerland
arrived in the Dooars with - well, a bang. Satellite television
channels and the local newspapers - in Hindi, Bengali and
Nepali - pushed the story for all it was worth. School
children in tea gardens read out the story from the papers
to their parents. The world, everyone was saying, would come to a
sudden and complete end on the day of the experiment, 10 September,
2008. A girls' school in a town nearby declared a holiday.
Dozens of workers in our garden stayed away from work. They were busy
at home slaughtering all their poultry and livestock in preparation
for one last, grand, chicken and mutton lunch. Liquour shops did
brisk business as well.
One of the malis, who stayed away from work in our bungalow,
was questioned about his absence by the others. He said he stayed
home, kept his children away from school and stopped his wife from
going to work as well, so that they could all face the end together.
For some reason, the time fixed for that event was 12 noon.
These
days, the PH factor plays a big role in determining whether we
go out at all. In this case the PH stands for Pot Hole. The roads through most
of the Dooars have not been repaired for months. In some areas,
they haven't been maintained for years. Just why, remains a mystery. National
Highway 31 and National Highway 31 C, which pass through Siliguri,
and then go east through the Dooars, including Jalpaiguri and Cooch
Behar districts, connect the North Eastern states to the rest
of the country. These pictures were taken on NH 31C, between
Banarhat and Mal Bazar (a distance of around 45 kms). They tell
their own story.
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July 9 2008
Once again
our friend Gowri has produced some first class and very
expressive photos of the Monsoon in the Dooars--Thank you Gowri
The words under each picture tell the story
 Clouds roll over a peak near Phuntsholing Bhutan |
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The faithful black 'Chhata' - Mitkoo with his
Umbrella
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---------------------------------------------
Thank
you Gowri for another fine story of life in the Dooars
today
A Sunday in the Dooars
The other day we drove away from the tea gardens towards the agricultural lands that lie to our south, near Falakata. On Sunday evening drives, you get to see the jolly sight of people returning from their trips to the weekly bazaar.
Not
everyone was celebrating, though. This is a bad time for potato
farmers. Our district, Jalpaiguri, and the neighbouring Cooch
Behar District, are big potato growing regions, and produce high
yields to the hectare. Prices have crashed, and no one wants
any of this year's crop.
Read more at http://www.thehindubusinessline.com/2008/03/29/stories/2008032950531200.htm.
The problem is aggravated by the absence of sufficient
storage facilities, or of organised agro-marketing. We
saw this dismal looking group waiting for a pick-up truck.
Last
week we saw long lines of potato-laden trucks at the gates of the
few cold storage facilities in the area. The gates remained firmly
closed. The trucks caused major traffic snarls on the national
highway, and local drivers started referring to these as 'Alu Jams'.
No
wonder most farmers are now dumping the potatoes in the fields where
they lie.
Some
ten years ago, this happened with the tomato crop.
The roads around the farming areas turned red as the
distraught farmers dumped their produce there.
A
young goldsmith and jewellery shop owner from the nearby Banarhat
town lost a lot of money in a get rich quick potato-growing
scheme some years ago. He had to close down shop. For
some months after, he could be seen roaming around aimlessly all
over the town. On one occasion, he was reeling about
talking to himself, quite drunk. I last saw him hard at work as one
of the many karigars (workmen) at another goldsmith's --
formerly a rival outfit -- looking as dignified as ever.
April
5 2008
Niren
Baruah, Artist
I
was thinking of Baruah as I was baking biscuits yesterday. When
Baruah was around, we got freshly baked rolls and bread. We got
soufflés of every flavour and description. His tarts, biscuits,
puddings and cakes stayed in our memories—and on my hips—long
after we’d eaten them.
If
Baruah had a sorrow, it was that we were vegetarians. Once he’d
forgiven us for not eating any ‘real’ food, he used his
ingenuity and substituted meat with soya, cottage cheese or
vegetables and baked us savoury pies and rolls fit for a King’s
table.
He
was a great cook and a good man, Baruah.
We
moved to a tea garden called Ambari early in 1996. We didn’t know
what lay ahead. We were prepared for any kind of adventure. This
would be the second garden my husband was taking over as Manager. We
received a warm welcome there. The bungalow was pretty, though it
didn’t look too much like a traditional tea garden structure. It
had a happy feel about it, and with our two little girls aged eight
and six years old, that mattered a lot to me.
We
found the table laid for lunch and sat down to quite a nice meal
soon enough. It was a carefully cooked meal, rather guesthouse
style, not leaning too much in any direction. It was ‘standard’
tea garden fare. Whenever a new ‘Saab and Memsaab’ moved into a
bungalow, the cook, or Bawarchi, would prepare a meal that didn’t
reflect his real style of work. It would be dal, rice and vegetables
cooked without a trace of imagination or a personal touch. It was a
way of saying there was room to adapt to our preferences and also of
saying we’d have convince our new Bawarchi that we deserved good
food!
Living
with a number of servants, or helpers, including a Bawarchi,
bearers, ayahs and gardeners is a part of life on tea gardens. The
bungalows and their surrounding grounds are large, and a number of
hands are required to maintain them. There has never been a moment
in my life in tea when I have been absolutely alone at home.
Wherever we have lived, our helpers have become a part of our
extended family. We accepted long ago that we didn’t have complete
privacy. And after all, we shared our space with people who helped
us and made our lives easier. It was also very important to get off
to a good start with them whenever we moved to a new place.
A
smiling bearer, Shamoo, served us lunch. The Bawarchi would report
at five o’clock, we were told. His name was Niren Baruah.
Immediately my husband and I exchanged a look. Niren Baruah. A Mugh
cook!
Mugh
cooks were rare in 1996 and I'd never dreamt I'd have one working
for me.
They
enjoyed a formidable reputation and were much sought after. They
could ask for, and succeed in getting, a salary higher than other
employee in the bungalow. They were experts at continental and
English food. Anyone who’d succeeded in getting a Mugh cook to
work for them would do anything to keep him, and to keep him happy.
I’d once heard that if a Mugh cook were asked to make a paratha or
a roti he might resign on the spot. That was not a job for a master
chef.
The
Mugh cooks originated from Chittagong and Sylhet Districts, both of
which were once part of India, but went to Bangladesh after having
been part of East Bengal, Assam and then East Pakistan till 1971.
The word ‘Mugh’, it is believed, was once used to describe the
people of Burma, and it is quite likely that these people were of
Burmese origin.
I
was frankly nervous about my first meeting with this Niren Baruah.
At our first interview, I was sure, it was I who was going to be
scrutinised, examined, summed up, and found lacking.
Baruah
reported at five in the evening for our interview.
He
was in his mid fifties, a round faced, balding man with fair skin,
large eyes and a white moustache. He had a rotund figure and wore
pyjamas and a shirt. In a suit he would have looked like a
professor. His expression was serious. He was dignified.
I
too tried to be very dignified. And all I told him was to carry on
functioning as he’d been doing in the past. I said I would see how
things worked here, and then if I wanted any changes I would let him
know. I also told him we’d had a nice lunch. I needn’t have
lied. He didn’t thaw.
We
conducted daily meetings at five in the evening, when he would take
orders for the evening’s dinner and our lunch the following day.
It was during these early days that he found we were vegetarians.
That damned us in his eyes, for a start. His spirits rose when my
little oven was unpacked. Sadly, the bungalow hadn’t had an oven
in the kitchen. Later I realized what a serious handicap that must
have been for someone like Baruah.
Gradually,
I succeeded in getting Baruah to treat us to his special cooking. He
stopped churning out ‘standard fare’ soon enough and we found
delightful new flavours in our food. Then he started preparing a
sweet every other day. He made us superb desserts.
The
oven had made him happy. He asked for yeast and started producing
heavenly little dinner rolls, which filled the kitchen and dining
room with a lovely aroma and melted in our mouths. Sometimes the
rolls were stuffed with savoury fillings, which came as a delicious
surprise. I began to eat a lot. We lavished praise on him. But he
continued to be a little sticky – unlike his superb soufflé --
and aloof. He never let me enter his domain. The kitchen was firmly
out of bounds to this Memsaab.
That
was when I realized that it is as important for the bungalow staff
to start trusting their new employers as it is for us to start
trusting them. I’d never thought of it from that point of view
earlier.
He
wasn’t above letting me down, either. We called a couple of
friends over for dinner. That was it, just a couple. He made a dal,
one vegetable and a paneer dish with parathas and rice. I made ‘avial’,
a South Indian speciality, because I wanted the meal to have a
personal touch, and a ‘home’ feel. The avail was the hit of the
evening. Little wonder, as Baruah – due to some quirk of
temperament—had made ghastly, over spiced,
soulless food. I felt wretched with every mouthful. And it wasn’t
as if the dessert was any compensation, either. It was equally
soulless.
I
wondered what had gone wrong. There was more to come. Upon
inspection of stores the following day, I saw that three fourths of
a litre of oil had been used to prepare the disastrous spread of the
previous evening. Seven hundred and fifty ml of oil for TWO extra
heads, I asked Baruah, amazed. With that much of oil, I told him, we
could have catered for a small party. Party! He scoffed. For a
party, he said, he would need two to three litres of oil. I was
miserable. I couldn’t yell at this man. We were new to each other,
and this was a first offence. I couldn’t allow him to make a
second, though, and I hoped my silence conveyed my displeasure. I
resolved not to invite any more people until this headstrong and
surly man who was newly ruling my life became manageable – if at
all.
I
can never forget another of his disasters. This time, luckily, only
the family was subjected to it! I’d ordered a continental lunch, a
savoury cheese soufflé and and a salad to go with it. We’d got
lots of healthy looking spinach, so I said, ‘Make it spinach.’
Baruah stopped to check if he’d heard right, then he shrugged and
walked away. The girls and I came home from school, starving, and I
couldn’t wait for the lovely meal I’d ordered. Strangely, we got
rice and roti with dal and subzi. Funny, maybe Baruah had forgotten
what had been ordered. I was too hungry to care. When we got up from
the table, the bearer asked us to wait for the sweet. Oh great,
he’d done us a sweet; we were thrilled.
Out
came a glass bowl with a quivering, creamy concoction in bright
green. It was a soufflé, flavoured, just as I’d instructed, with
spinach. The girls collapsed with laughter. They were hooting; they
had a legitimate excuse to make fun of Mamma! They insisted
on my tasting a spoonful of the beautiful looking
dish. I can’t forget the taste in a hurry. It has remained an
unsolved mystery with us. Why did Baruah goof up like that? Was he
being cussed? Or was it a genuine mistake?
He
started liking us eventually. Who wouldn’t, when he had praise
heaped upon him after every creation of his had been had been
demolished? He went so far as to allow me to enter the kitchen and
initiate him into ‘Idli’ ‘Dosai’ and ‘Vadai’ making. In
no time, he’d mastered these, our favourite South Indian breakfast
dishes. His ‘Rava Dosais’ were light as lace doilies, buttery
and crisp.
I
had to indulge a number of his quirks, but I found it a small price
to pay for the privilege of employing such a craftsman. He was like
an artist, really, in his approach to his cooking. So I didn’t
grumble when he scoffed at home made or shop bought cottage cheese
and insisted he’d only use the tinned variety. Or when he dictated
the lists of masalas I had to buy separately for the preparation of
each dish. Or even when he turned up his nose at ‘Desi’ or local
vegetables. Only English vegetables like cauliflower, cabbage,
peas, carrots and beans were good enough for him.
He
became quite friendly in his manner, first because I went to work as
a teacher at the girls’ school and therefore stayed out his way,
and secondly, because even though we were vegetarians, we liked to
try out different kinds of cuisine. And then I never questioned him
about his shopping expenses. He was uncrowned king of the kitchen!
Baruah allowed me to play the role of helper once in a while. He
permitted me to beat up cake mixes. He was actually giving me little
lessons. He even taught me how to grease and flour a cake tin
thoroughly.
This
was quite something, because the old Bawarchis were a crafty lot who
didn’t want to train youngsters but
guarded their secrets jealously They wouldn’t show anyone their
special techniques. On days when they had their ‘hafta chhutties’
or weekly day off, the family would be subjected to what fare the
second in command could churn out. Not one of the other hands in the
bungalow could ever replicate a dish from the Bawarchi’s
repertoire. It was interesting how their sons, probably the only
people they’d have been willing to teach, never wanted to train as
cooks.
Baruah
stopped looking grave and serious at our evening meetings. He’d
roll in looking jolly and grin at me. These meetings had turned into
regular chat sessions from the earlier crisp passing on of orders.
He would look very happy when he saw me sitting with big piles of
books. He thought I was a great reader and writer. He couldn’t
read or write at all. I now marvel at how he remembered every recipe
with no aids such as books. He’d ask how my day had been, and that
was a signal for me to make an appreciative remark about the lunch
or the little tea time treat he’d prepared and left carefully
covered for me as a surprise when I arrived home from school.
He
would twinkle at me and ask me if I really liked what he’d made,
as if I were a little child whom he was indulging. Then he’d tell
me what he planned to make for the next ‘treat’. He behaved like
an elderly uncle and not like an employee. On Sunday mornings, if we
lolled about delaying our breakfast, he would come out of his
kitchen and thunder, ‘If Sahib and Memsaab take so long to come to
eat I will get ulcers!’ We would be at the table, quiet as
children, as soon as we heard him.
He
once told me he’d stopped wanting to work as a Bawarchi when
he’d been questioned too closely about kitchen accounts and
leftovers by some people in the past. It hadn’t been any fun
cooking for them. In real sorrow he told me some of them actually
made him stand at the storeroom and measured out ingredients before
handing them over to him for the day’s cooking, as if he’d been
a novice. He said sadly that everyone hadn’t been like me. What
did he mean by that? He searched for words to make his meaning
clear, and came out with, ‘Gentleman type.’ I grinned hugely
like him when he said that!
I
could never bring myself to question Baruah too closely about
expenses in the kitchen. He had stature. I always felt things would
go smoothly if I trusted him and left the management of the kitchen
entirely to him. Maybe I’d save forty or fifty rupees in a month
if I breathed down his neck over purchases. I didn’t think it was
worth the trouble. I couldn’t function without complete faith in
the people who worked for me.
He
enjoyed talking about the old days. During the Second World War,
he’d worked for the Army. The British officers were good to him.
He said that he had many tales to tell me, if I would listen to him
and write his stories for people to read. We never had the time to
get down to story telling and writing.
I
was interested in whatever he could tell me about his community. He
had a cousin who had worked for Indira Gandhi, and became so
exclusive and superior that he never spoke to Baruah or any other
members of the family.
He
mentioned how their numbers were dwindling. His son ran a shop, and
had never wanted to work as a Bawarchi. Baruah himself had left one
of the gardens in a huff and sat at the shop for a year until he’d
been tracked down and coaxed to join here in Ambari by one of the
erstwhile Bara Memsaabs. She’d moved into Ambari and painstakingly
brought the bungalow and its flower and vegetable garden to
standards of excellence that had, alas, fallen by the time I moved
in.
Fortunately,
the owners of the garden really appreciated Baruah and his skills
and treated him with affectionate indulgence. They cut maintenance
costs everywhere, but Baruah continued to enjoy the special
privileges with which he’d been tempted here in the first place,
one of which was a job for his son! Baruah served his maliks
faithfully. He worked overtime without grumbling when they came to
stay – at alarmingly frequent intervals – and prepared all their
favourite items for the table. He had even invented an eggless
variety of soufflé for them, because they were vegetarians.
It
wasn’t Baruah who left us. It was quite the other way around. My
husband had a good offer and was asked to join a garden nearby as
soon as he could. So before we had stayed even ten months at Ambari,
we were packing. We’d been so happy here. The house had proved
true to its promise. Our younger daughter wept loudly and clung to
her ayah who kissed and hugged both the children with tears
streaming down her face. It broke my heart. We were all wearing huge
garlands of flowers. We said goodbye and all the servants promised
to visit us at our new garden.
I
never expected Baruah would come around visiting, but he did. We
welcomed him very happily. He approved of our new garden, the
bungalow and its compound. We asked him to have lunch. He laughed
and blushed a little, and agreed. After lunch he was ready to chat.
He’d wanted to come and work for us. He wanted a change, and I
could tell he hadn’t been too happy. He didn’t let on, though.
He told me, in his inimitable way, that he approved of the cook who
was working for us. He’d liked the food he’d been served. Then
Baruah said his bye byes and left.
We
didn’t hear of him for a long time. Then we heard he hadn’t been
keeping well. He went away to Hashimara, the town where his son ran
a shop. Someone who had no connection with Ambari told me when he
died, and it was a complete shock to us. I wonder when the people
who’d worked so happily with him in Ambari came to know about his
death. I wonder if they could go and pay their respects to him or
whether poor Baruah died far away from the people with whom he’d
spent so many years.
Had
they told us on time, we would have tried to be there for Baruah.
I
remember the promise I’d once made him — that I would write the
stories he never did get down to telling me.
April 3
2008
The Editor is delighted to be
able to show the photographic expertise of Gowri to remind us of
what the change from the cold weather was like with April rushing
in:
Thank you Gowri
When
April comes to the Dooars, it is a beautiful time. Cold weather dust
settles down after the first few showers of the year. Planters are
excited at the onset of a new season, but continue to fight their
fears of drought, hail, and pest. At any rate, April is too early to
worry about the monsoon!
When
it does rain at night, the morning that follows is bright, but cool.
Birds are busy building nests and the air is filled with their song.
All the vegetation around us seems to have put on a new coat of
foliage. There are many shade trees in the garden which haven’t
yet got down to shedding their cold weather coats. They look
beautiful now that the dust has been washed off them!
The peepul, which grows in abundance, has some of the prettiest new
foliage.
The
new leaves range from rose pink to apple green. Here are some
pictures of peepul trees taken in Jalpaiguri town, by the pond
near the old royal palace temple.
This
lovely jharul (Queen’s Flower) tree will burst with blooms in May
and June. For now, it has orchids flowering all over it!
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Return to
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January
24 2008
Below is the story of Gowri's life in Tea--the views from the estate
are excellent -We thank her for sharing this with us
 |
| This
is Moraghat Burra Bungalow, where we've lived since 1996. My husband Mohan came to tea in 1980, when he joined Duncans. We married in 1986. I finished my M.A. and taught English at Delhi University for a year before that. Ever since, I've been fighting off attempts by helpful people to get me teaching appointments. I like to stay at home. Mohan left Duncans to join Anandapur Tea Estate as Manager. We moved to Moraghat in 96. We're both South Indians from Tamil Nadu, but have never lived in the South. Delhi was home till we came here. Our two daughters - undergraduate students - now live there. |
A
view of the hills from the garden. The Kanchanjunga is |
Gowri
in Kalimpong - Her favourite hide-out! |
Gowri's favourite man --her husband Mohan |
Moraghat Tea Estate |
February 2 2008
Old men at War
We
lost two really good craftsmen in Moraghat in the same year. One was
Bawarchi, the Burra Bungalow cook. His name was Lakshman Singh
Pradhan but everybody only called
him‘Bawarchi’. The other was the garden carpenter, the 'Kath
Mistri', Biren Sarkar.
Each of these men could be described as a ‘character’ in his own
way. Each one had a strong sense of tradition and of his place in it
Bawarchi was one of a kind. He was already a very old and frail man when we got to know him. At the beginning of every cold weather, he would announce that he was going to die. The poor old man would arrive at work early in the morning, hunched up and shivering. He'd go home for his breakfast and bath and come back at around eleven o'clock, now walking straight, and actually looking younger. We would ask him if he was himself or a younger brother. He'd give us his trademark crooked grin in reply.
Bawarchi's shopping lists were unique. He had a strong sense of loyalty to the old British Sahibs and his idea of 'essentials' seemed to be based on a longing for those bygone days. At the top of the list, I'd find, not rice, sugar, and atta and so on, but corn flour, Worcester sauce, beans and carrots. He once told me the British sahibs would eat potatoes with their meat instead of eating bread, rice or chapattis. He seemed to like the idea quite a bit!
Bawarchi was old, but he cooked like a dream. His soufflés and cakes were light and lovely, and he made wonderful Indian and Chinese food as well. His 'pandraas’, cutlets and pancakes stay on in our memories. The only 'baksheesh ' that the old man ever wanted was a 'Thank you!' And he got plenty of heartfelt thanks in his time. Poor old man, he died of TB. In the cold weather, as he’d said he would.
Biren
was an old timer too - he was painfully thin; he had a weak heart,
was very shortsighted, and lame in one leg. He'd come limping to the
bungalow with a fine walking stick which he'd made himself, and he
had a helper who carried all his tools.
Biren
was really an artist. Wood was something he understood, and he must
have picked up his craft from the Chinese carpenters who worked in
tea gardens many years ago. There are some glass fronted cupboards
made by him with carved wooden frames of classic Chinese design. He
once made an oval picture-frame, and gave it a perfect gloss. The
joints in the frame are invisible. He carved us two or three fine
walking sticks as well. He loved appreciation, and he had a lovely
smile that lit up his face with kindness and goodness. Biren’s
helper had to bear the brunt of his tongue, though. He was quite
tough with him.
It
was decided that Biren would make a wooden frame for the fireplace -
a complete wooden mantelpiece, and the entire design was to be of
his choosing. He was really happy. He loved the idea, the challenge,
and the thought that he was going to contribute something to the
bungalow that would be a source of pride and joy for years to come.
It was, in fact, his final masterpiece. He retired some months
later, and he died soon after. That was some months before Bawarchi
died.
Biren would have to do the entire job of the fireplace in the bungalow. There was no way he could take anything to the factory, as he’d have to keep taking measurements during the course of the work. The old man was worried about his morning tea break. How could he manage to walk all the way home for his eleven o'clock meal then back to the bungalow, with his leg being what it was? Well that was simple enough, he was told: he could have a meal in the bungalow. Bawarchi was instructed to provide Biren with breakfast; chapattis and eggs, every morning.
No
one anticipated the storm that the two proud old men would
manage to brew up between them. To start with, Bawarchi was
outraged. Did anyone realise who and what he was? He'd been working
for years -- so many years! -- first in Assam, and then in the Andrew
Yule Company Kothi in Karballa. He'd seen so many sahibs and
memsahibs, and from the British days! He'd cooked for such grand
parties, he'd turned out a hundred and fifty perfect tandoori
chickens on one night, and now, in his old age, he was being asked
to wait hand and foot on this – this Biren Mistri!!
Biren
addressed him as ‘ay!!’ and ordered him about, he said.
One
of the complaints Bawarchi made was absolutely ridiculous. He
claimed that Biren was profiting unfairly from the situation. How?
No one could understand. So he explained. We bought eggs from
Biren’s house, where one of his sons ran a small poultry business.
And then, Bawarchi said, stressing the
point, he was fed one of those eggs everyday. How could Biren sell
us an egg and then eat it himself??
Biren,
for his part, ranted about how Bawarchi deliberately took advantage
of his dependence on him for food. He insulted him in every possible
way, he said. He made him wait, and purely out of spite. He
couldn’t bother with cooking him even chapattis properly. He
grudged him every mouthful that he ate. Who was he to counter Burra
Saab's orders anyway? Biren Mistri could not handle the daily
humiliation, he said. He would go hungry, but he would not tolerate
the Bawarchi's insults, insolence or arrogance.
Now
this was a Situation. Neither Biren nor Bawarchi could be ticked off
and told to stop behaving like a child. Each one was given a patient
hearing, and then offered a suggestion. Biren's meal was to be
served to him at a fixed time. All that Bawarchi had to do was to
see that it was cooked beforehand, so that when he went home to eat,
one of the boys could serve Biren. The arrangement worked well for a
few days, and there were no fireworks in the kitchen.
And then one morning, Bawarchi started off again.
He had found a rotten egg. He complained, and then he raged about the villain who'd sold it to us. He brought it in a cup and waved it about, shouting about dishonest people and the bad stuff they sold, and how it was he who was accountable for everything that found its way into the kitchen. Who would have to take the blame, after all? It was so unfair. He was simply delighted that he’d got some tangible proof of his enemy’s villainy. He was going to take full advantage of it!
Once he quietened down, Bawarchi was told that the egg could easily be replaced. Wasn’t it always? No, he said, if we wanted any eggs replaced, ‘they’ always asked to see the bad egg in the first place. Well, then, he was told; he could go and show them the bad egg and ask for a replacement. There were other eggs in the house for now. That seemed to be the end of it.
The next day, Bawarchi went about looking less grumpy than usual. His sudden cheeriness made me stop and ask him about the bad egg. Had he managed to get a fresh one in its place?
'No,'
he said. He smiled his old crafty smile.
'I
cooked it and fed it to Biren Mistri.'
Below is Biren Mistri's
Masterpiece
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January 21 2008
The
picture is of Gowri’s good friend Raj of New Dooars T.E., in a thoughtful mood
at a picnic held last cold weather at Telepara Tea Estate, Binnaguri.
Gowri chose it because Raj seems to be looking out into the
distance, as if she's wondering what lies ahead...Gowri thought it
go well with the 'Blues for Tea'. The jhhora river originates in
Telepara T.G. and flows into the Angrabasha in Gairkhata.
Last
weekend we had the Annual General Meeting of our Tea Association,
and almost all the families of the tea garden managers and
assistant managers in the Dooars were present. It’s a time for
friends – old and new, old and young. Dolly, who’s almost
fifteen years younger than I am, is a joy to meet. She's young and
fresh and her two lively little ones keep her active and smiling. I
always look forward to seeing her at this big get together every
year. It’s the only time we meet, since we live so far apart.
We
finished exchanging all our news, and then she said, 'We value you
and your husband because you represent an era when
etiquette and values mattered. There are not too many people left
from that time.'
That
knocked me out. To someone of Dolly's age, I suppose I would look ancient!
When my girls were little, how elderly the senior manager's
wives, our Burra Memsaabs, appeared to me! What Dolly was saying
sounded like what I used to say to some of the older ladies
just a few years ago. I've hardly been here too long -- is
twenty-two years a long time? Not to someone of my age. And am
I a representative of the good days of tea life?
How
much -- how little -- of the good old days have I seen?
Sitting
by the fire in the evening, I gave some thought to the
values which were talked about when I married and came to
tea in 1986. Unfair practices or
self-advancement were never tolerated at our clubs, and anyone
guilty of such offences was booed down, ridiculed and later
avoided by everybody. Toughness was considered a desirable quality, as
it was understood that plantation life was tough, for both men and
women. Toughness and honesty went together. Outspokenness was
positively encouraged. Fights were common at the club - the men
would 'sort out their differences' outside, and then have a drink
together afterwards. High standards of quality were sought in
the organisation of club dos and ladies' meets. There
were no professional caterers at the time, and the ladies were all
given their share of the cooking to do. Recipes would be handed out,
since more than two people might be making a portion of the
same dish. Shoddiness was unpardonable, and no one made excuses
to the senior ladies who'd delegated responsibilities. Their word
was law, and they in turn ensured that they appreciated every
effort that the younger girls made. Inclusiveness, generosity and sharing
were encouraged by example. I'm not glorifying the past, but
people did have ideals then and they tried their best to live
up to them. Those who didn’t try at least talked of doing so.
The
ladies whom I admired were really remarkable. They were gracious, they
laughed a lot, and they enjoyed every minute of all the good times
we had - cheering the boys energetically at football and cricket
matches, playing tennis and golf under the hottest sun or through
miserable pouring rain, working for hours decorating the club
house for children's parties, slaving in their hot kitchens with hot
headed cooks to produce delectable feasts, throwing open their
bungalows to everyone; and never pulling rank. They were all-rounders;
good at games, good at gardening, cooking, baking, sewing and
knitting. They lived in Burra Bungalows which were run with smooth
efficiency, and almost all of them had to send their children away
to boarding schools from the time they were seven or eight years
old. They took it in their stride. They lived most of their
lives in tea without televisions or telephones, and with
newspapers that arrived two days old. Some of them lived in
gardens which were completely out of the way, deep in the interior,
and accessible only through mud tracks that passed for roads. They
could only meet people one day in the week, when they left the
garden to go to the club.
Anyone
who got on the wrong side of these Burra Memsaabs and had to face
their wrath was to be pitied. I have seen one Burra Memsaab refuse
outright to cater for a games meet unless the budget was revised -
and the secretary of the games association, who had been trying
to cut corners everywhere, was almost weeping when he was told to
'manage' on singharas (samosas) and jhal muri from the town for his
money! And this was after all the cards had been sent out inviting
nearly two hundred people to the event. He revised his budget,
apologised to the lady, and was humbly grateful to her for
everything ever after.
One
of our Burra Saabs and Memsaabs organised the company picnic every
year. I remember one particularly well. We had to reach Lankapara
Burra Bungalow early in the day, and then we were all loaded into
lorries to reach the picnic site on the banks of the Torsa. The
merry making finished at sundown, and back we got into those
lorries, tired and dreading the long drives home. We weren't
allowed to go home, though. We were all -- fifty to sixty people,
men and wives, with children, babies and ayahs-- invited
into the bungalow by Anjali, the Burra Memsaab, who'd been with us
at the picnic all day and must have been more tired than anyone
else. All the chairs in the house had been arranged around
a brightly burning bonfire in the centre of the lawn. The drawing
room had mattresses laid out for us to make our children take naps
or for us to stretch out for a bit before starting another round of
festivities outside. Bearers went around with hot milk for the
babies, whose bottles had been collected and boiled in the kitchen
earlier. Anjali's daughters served us all tea and coffee after
we'd washed our faces and freshened up.
Our
men were also served liquid refreshments which, strictly
speaking, they didn't need.
The
same men had been worked hard through the season. The company
always organised games and picnics in the cold weather so that they
could relax and enjoy life for a bit before staring off all over
again. 'Work hard, play hard' they said, and back then, they meant
it.
That
is the biggest difference between those days and today, to my mind.
Recreation, rest and relaxation are given low priority today.
Traditions, ideals and values are abstractions. It takes
something tangible to make them attractive, or even meaningful to
young people. People ask repeatedly why ‘good boys’ are
hard to find and why standards are going down in tea. The answer is
simple. If boys are to be drawn to a career in tea today,
companies need to offer them better pay packets, better housing,
more holidays and more goodies to make up for the absence of city
lights and the lost glamour of those old days.
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We are indebted to Gowri Mohanakrishnan for this interesting and amusing story from Birpara Tea Garden dated the late 1980s --Thank you Gowri----Editor
Mrs Dobson
She had yellow eyes, black
hair and very dark skin. She always wore white and was much
taller than the other tribal women; almost five feet five
inches. She carried a stout bamboo stick at all times.
Everyone said she was mad. She looked terrifying. We all knew her as
'Mrs. Dobson'. No one knew what her real name was. One Mr.
Dobson had been the 'Burra Saab' of the tea garden many years ago.
He had presumably found the yellow-eyed woman irresistible. He'd
gone back to England around the time when all the British sahibs
left tea for good.
Mrs. Dobson lived in a little 'kutcha' house. Her house stood all
alone. No one in the garden wanted to live anywhere near her. She
left home every single day at around four-thirty in the evening and
walked all the way to the office, tap-tapping her stick on the
road, smiling fixedly and with bright eyes. Others on the road
gave her a wide berth. She knew she frightened people, and she was
proud of it.
A tea garden office is a busy
place in the evening. The work is centred outdoors during the
major part of the day, and the focus shifts to the factory and
office in the evening. Burra Saab and his Chhota Saabs also
make themselves available to the workers to listen to their problems
and complaints. Mrs. Dobson would head straight for Burra Saab's
office and call out in clear tones, 'Pyaare Lal!' Burra Saab's name
was not Pyare Lal. She called him that because it was a term of
endearment, meaning, 'Loved One'.
Since she'd been the beloved of one Burra Saab in the past, she gave
herself the right to address all his successors in equally
intimate terms. The Burra Saab was a tough man, but he liked to stay
away from heckling women if he could. And this one was no
ordinary woman. She was completely unpredictable, and quite
menacing. No garden worker would ever tangle with her; no one would
step forward to take her away. One of the Chhotta Saabs would
quickly intervene and tell Mrs. Dobson to talk to him instead.
She'd start off in loving terms with him as well. 'My dear
brother-in-law,' she'd say, with her mad smile, 'Make my son a
man, wont you?' The youngest Chhota Saab once sniggered at this,
deliberately choosing to misunderstand her request for her son
to be given a full adult wage. She turned on him to ask, 'Oh,
you laugh, do you? Had my Pyaara Dobson been here you would
never have dared to insult me!' The youngster shut up at once.
Mrs. Dobson was always made out to be a bit of a joke when they told stories about her, but everyone admitted it was scary to be in her presence. There was one Chhotta Saab she never could frighten, though. The fiery Mohan Saab would shout at her and send her back home everyday. She'd go, muttering, 'This Pyare Mohan! Ever since he came here, I am made to look like a dog!'
Mrs. Dobson did not work in
the garden, but she had a house to live in, and she received her
quota of rations, tea and firewood, bamboo or thatch whenever she
needed them. This benevolence was nothing unusual in those
days. Mrs. Dobson, for all her madness and wild mutterings, managed
to keep house for herself and her son who was what is called a
'laata' - not too intelligent. They pulled along, somehow.
It was said that a Postal Order from the U.K. arrived every
Christmas in her name. Mrs.Dobson was handed over the money at the
office meticulously every year.
One evening, she tap-tapped her way into the bamboo plantation and surprised Burra Saab and the Visiting Agent or 'Company Saab' from Calcutta who were out on an inspection. Her face lit up when she saw the two men, while they shrank from her. 'Pyare Lall!' she exclaimed, 'and my dear Company Saab brother-in-law!' She went forward eagerly, but unfortunately for her, Mohan Saab was in attendance. He ran forward and jumped in her path, and Burra Saab and the Company Saab moved on quickly, continuing with their tour while poor Mrs. Dobson, her scene quite ruined, was yelled at, in tones louder than her own, and actually threatened with a sound thrashing. She made a quick about turn and hurried away, cursing 'Pyare Mohan' under her breath.
One year at Holi the Burra Saab, Chhota Saabs and all their families had gathered at Beech Bungalow, the Senior Assistant's place. There was much laughter, and lots of beer, pakoras and tuneless singing. Suddenly everyone heard that loud familiar voice and looked up to see Mrs. Dobson's face leering at them from over the boundary hedge. This was awful. She'd never turned up at any of the living quarters, ever. She knew the merry making would stop as soon as she started her performance. 'All yours, Mohan!' said the Senior Assistant under his breath, but Mohan Saab was already off, running at full speed towards the menacing woman. Everyone was quiet, waiting to see what would happen. The Holi revelry had had a good effect on Mohan Saab. He was in top form. He reached Mrs. Dobson in no time and roared wordlessly at her. The silence grew intense around his listeners while he shouted at Mrs. Dobson to clear off. Mrs. Dobson dropped her plans to disrupt the festivities. She turned around and started hurrying away, while Mohan Saab continued to shout threats at the top of his voice. The tension was over, and everyone on the verandah laughed and laughed - and not only at the defeated would-be party pooper. They were going to rib their colleague and have him re-enact this performance time and again!
Another time, she followed two of the young Chhota Memsaabs who were out on their evening walk. They heard her stick tapping behind them and quickened their pace. She was a very strong woman, and outpaced them in no time. 'Mohan's Radha and Rukmini!' she jeered, turning and looking into their faces. Mohan was another name for Lord Krishna, and Radha and Rukmini were his two wives. The Chhota Memsaabs were really embarrassed, since neither of them was the wife of Mohan Saab. 'When my beloved Dobson was here, I too would rush to the bungalow as eagerly as you do!' she continued. The girls confined their walks to their bungalow compounds for many days. Mrs. Dobson's evening walks, however, went on as scheduled for many years.
Mrs. Dobson
died some years ago. I don't know if the man who once loved her and
sent her money at Christmas was informed of her death.
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