November
13 2005
Jeff
thanks again for your Snippets
An
Unequal Encounter
Tasati
Tea Estate is a thousand acre plantation that straddles the road
from Dalgaon that cuts through it on its way to Alipur Duar. The
eastern border of the plantation is demarcated by a winding
shallow river, whilst the south-eastern boundary abuts a small
thick forest well stocked with pig, deer, and the odd leopard.
Being tucked behind a large tea plantation the forest was
undiscovered by the local hunters and so retained its stock of
wild animals some of which would make their way across a nullah
into the plantation. Night-long barking of labour line dogs
would warn us of a leopard on the prowl looking to pick up easy
prey.
David Gibbs was the manager of Tasati. A lanky, lose
boned individual of few words. He ran a 'tight ship' and
expected unquestioned compliance. His piercing look would
intimidate most who picked up courage to approach him looking
for a favour. If this stare didn't work, David would deploy his
next weapon: a short clipped, "Kya mungta hai," said
not as a question, but barked out as, "f…k off, you
bugger." Should the person be intrepid enough to withstand
these intimidations and state what he had come to say, David
would bring out his secret weapon…he would pretend deafness,
shrug his shoulders and walk away saying, "Nai samajta hai."
When
I married, in 1962, I brought my new bride to Tasati and was
allotted the lower 'Neel Kothi' bungalow: a compact two bed
roomed house with detached kitchen. The bungalow was cited on
the eastern boundary of the plantation 200 yards from the
meandering sandy banked river. The approach to the river, from
the bungalow, led across a short expanse of grass and scrub -
which we cleared to create a scenic picnic spot - where my wife
and myself would often have our evening tea laid out. The view
from the veranda looked across the river to miles of paddy
fields stretching way away. Full moon nights were a special
treat for the moon seemingly rose from behind the paddy fields
lighting up the river which shimmered in the gathering
dusk...idyllic settings for a newly wed couple.
A
leopard from the forest, during this period, was becoming quite
a menace on the plantation. It was picking up dogs and goats at
night and to make matters worse, took to lying under the cover
of tea bushes during the day, thus disrupting work in that area.
It would emit a rattling growl, when the unaware plucking women
got too close, causing complete mayhem. The 'pluckers' would
scream and rush out on to the road – some would keep running
all the way back to the safety of the labour lines.
When the work force departed for the factory at close of
work, the leopard took to roaming the lonely internal plantation
roads, as all was now quiet. Its strolls took it past the
manager's bungalow where it eyed the manager's fattened dogs.
The dogs would, of course, bring the house down with their
barking.
David came up to me a few days later and asked if I could
do something about the leopard before it made a meal of his
dogs. And so I took to driving around the lonely roads at dusk
hoping to meet up with the marauder. And a week later I did. It
was an unequal match for the .450-.400 bullet weighing 465
grains, projected at over 2000 ft/per sec. and packing a punch
of 4100 ft/lbs/inch, tore into the leopard throwing it clean off
its feet…it had not stood a chance. David was pleased; his
dogs were safe.
The
marriage season was upon us and the 'Garden Babu's' daughter was
to be married to a boy in the Binaguri area, twenty odd
kilometres from Tasati. The 'babu' asked me at work, if the
manager would allow the company truck to transport the marriage
party to Binaguri on Saturday night and also on the following
Sunday when it would not be involved in plantation work. There
was no way I could form an opinion on this as it would depend
entirely on the mood the manager was in.
I was present when, at the close of day, the 'Garden babu':
(thickset, a ready smile and gleaming teeth) reminded David for
the use of the truck for the wedding. David was standing in
front of the open plantation safe – a very inopportune moment,
I thought, to ask a favour. The conversation went something like
this:
"I spoke to you about the truck, Sir. Can I take it
for two nights?"
"Eh, what's that?"
"The truck, Sir…"
"What about the truck, babu? What are you blathering
about?"
"The truck, Sir, for the wedding."
"What wedding? Speak up, babu!" David was
pretending deafness – not an auspicious sign.
This went on for the next ten minutes with David
pretending complete amnesia as well. He finally accepted that he
had been approached about the truck and the conversation now
went thus:
"You can not have the truck for two nights, babu,
only one night!"
The 'babu' scratched his head and thought about this.
He'd better take what he was being allowed. The manager was
quite capable of doing a complete u-turn and cancelling the
sanction altogether.
"Ok, Sir, but can I have it tonight?" It was a
Saturday.
"No, babu, I told you one night only!"
"Yes, yes, Sir, but can I get it for tonight?"
He pronounced it, 'too night'.
"No, babu, No, No, No! One night only!"
"Yes, Sir, I understand, but can I have it for
too-night?"
"You are annoying me now, 'babu'. Go away!"
He slammed the safe door shut and twisted the key in the
lock. I thought I'd better intercede and stepped forward. David
turned to me and let his left eyelid drop in a wink. I
understood David was having his way of fun. He had reduced his
faithful 'garden babu' who had worked with him for a number of
years to a nervous, stammering wreck. He strode out of the
office, leaving the 'babu' standing stunned, in the middle of
his office. I followed David out.
"Let him have the truck for two nights," he
whispered to me and jumped into his jeep and left.
He was soft hearted, but didn't want to seem a pushover.
________________________________________
November
7 2005
A
Planting Episode
by
Jeff Tikari
Tea
Planters, in those days, were a wild lot. 'We drink hard and work
hard' was what one would hear them say of themselves. And it was
true. One was up before
6 o'clock
and quite often knocked off after
9 p.m.
If ones name happened to be on the roster to
help out at night in the factory, then getting home at 2 or
3 a.m
was normal. Mind you, most Managers would
allow a concession and allow one to report at about
8 a.m
the next morning for having worked at night in
the factory. At least Alec Hayward did so.
When I joined Bhogotpore, in March, it was towards the end
of the planting season and 'tipping' of the pruned tea had
commenced. The factory produced 'Legg cut' teas and so production
started as soon as enough tea was collected in the 'chungs' (there
was no withering in this system of manufacture). My name was added
to the factory roster for night duty so I would learn the ropes
quickly and become a productive member of the Managerial Staff.
At five in the morning, in the darkness before dawn, I
would hear Tota driver drive up to my bungalow (in the oldest
truck there was on the plantation) to pick me up for 'planting'. I
would be up and ready after having finished the last sip from my
cup of tea – I would have ample time to do this for I could hear
the truck (two kilometres away) groaning and rattling along making
its way to my bungalow – I had no transport of my own.
Daya Sehgal met me at the planting field and tutored me to
keep an eye out for any short-cuts the labour might employ to
finish early ('dhurmush' the plants thoroughly to ensure no air
pockets are left inside, I was told, and ensure the planting lines
are poker straight!). It would be years before I learnt that too
much 'dhurmush' was bad for the plants and that if a plant was a
centimetre out of line, it hardly mattered as every plant grew in
its own way and within a few years the tea would cover the entire
ground, anyway.
Daya would, usually, go off to attend other works on the
plantation and I would remain to finish off the planting. I would
then catch a lift on Tota's trusted steed to the bungalow for
breakfast.
That night it was my turn for factory duty. "Pop in
after tea – about sixthirtyish. There isn't much leaf so the
factory will close early." I was told.
I walked down from the outer division bungalow to the
factory at about six thirty.
Daya
dropped in to give me some confidence and show me the ropes.
"You don't have to do anything," he said. "Just the
fact that you are here will ensure things get done properly."
He then left to go to a nearby plantation for drinks and dinner.
The green leaf finished before
midnight
, but by the time the washing and cleaning was
completed, it was
2 a.m.
I trudged home and, it seemed, had just got
into bed when I heard Tota's truck wheezing its way to pick me up
for 'planting'. That morning I had to drag myself out of bed –
Tota even had to squeeze the rubber bulb horn to hurry me along.
Anyway, I consoled myself, I would get a full night's sleep that
night as I had no factory duty.
That day was rough – I was not my sprightly self and by
late afternoon it was worse. Around six thirty in the evening when
we were preparing to call it a day, Arun Majumdar, the Assistant
on the other out garden, Kurthi, approached me to ask of a favour:
"Hey, Jeff, could you do my factory duty tonight and I'll do
yours day after, please?" I felt I was in no position to
refuse any favours to my seniors and readily agreed.
That
night/morning I hit bed at about the same time as on the previous
occasion, feeling dead beat. The factory
babu had urged me to go home at around
11 P.M.
saying no sahibs stayed around all night –
but I thought he was trying to get me out of the way so he could
steal tea.
I dreamed that night of the smoke belching steed coming to
get me; I dreamt of Tota repeatedly squeezing the rubber bulb
horn…but it was blessedly all a dream…it was, eventually, the Chowkidar
who almost broke the bedroom door down that awakened me with a
start.
Tota had started the truck and was on the point of
departing without me. I rushed to the window and hollered,"
Wait, wait for me." I threw some water on my face and
squeezed some toothpaste into my mouth. I took the 'chung'
bungalow steps three at a time.
I realise now how resilient we were at age twenty-one.
Though the body needs more rest at that age, we can force it to
keep performing almost non-stop. And tiredness and pain are just
annoyances.
By the end of work that evening, I was feeling quite bushed
and longingly looking forward to 9-10 hours of blissful sleep.
But…it was not to be!! Oh, God, fate was tripping me up!
I couldn't believe it.
Daya wiggled a finger at me,
"Yes, Daya?"
'Arun and I are invited out to dinner tonight. Would you do
my factory duty tonight?"
"What's the matter, won't you do it?" he asked
when he saw me hesitate.
"No, no…I mean yes, of course I'll do it. I was
thinking of something else. You both go ahead; I'll look after the
factory."
I trudged home at
2 A.M.
weaving like a drunk – my mind blank.
The next morning at 'planting' I nearly fell down – I had
nodded off standing leaning on a walking stick.
Daya walked up
to me: "Have you been drinking?" He pulled off my dark
glasses. "Why are your eyes so red?"
And I told him everything.
"You silly bugger, why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't want it to sound like I was making an
excuse." I said.
"You bloody fool, take the day off and sleep it off.
Don't worry about Alec, I'll cover for you. And you don't have
'Factory Duties' for a week."
Bye-bye, fire belching steed, you can no longer haunt me.
____________________________________________________
SNIPPETS
FROM TEA -- NUMBER ONE
I
arrived at Grassmore airstrip in a Jamair Dakota early in the
morning of the thirteenth day of March (that too a Friday!), in the
year, 1959. The flight had originated at Dum Dum at three
in the morning (what morning – it was pitch dark!) and I was
attired in a brown three piece suit (a lot of us arrived
wearing three piece suits), having boarded the flight
straight after a farewell party (a fair few of us did this too on
the eve of departure). I was put in a 'strap-down' seat behind a
load of cargo that shifted ominously with every bump.
Earlier I was congratulated roundly by friends in Calcutta for
having landed a plum job that paid the princely sum of Rs 650 per
month – a large sum, it was considered in those days as starting
pay for a youngster.
"Tota" driver, driving a rattley old Ford truck which
belched more smoke than a steam locomotive, met me at Grassmore
air-field. He kept me waiting an eternity whilst he collected 'cold
stores' for the senior staff – I would soon learn what an
important lifeline those 'cold stores' from Calcutta were for us.
Daya Sehgal, 'tall, dark and handsome' grinned widely when he saw me
alight from the smoke belching truck (it was only later when I had
been inducted into and accepted by the bachelor fraternity that I
learned what a comical figure I had cut in a three-piece-suit!).
"Take the sahib to the AG Division bungalow." He told the
driver.
"I'll pick you up in an hour, when you have settled in."
he said to me. "And put on shorts and half-sleeved shirt,"
he said with a twinkle in his eye, "Save the suit for Hogmanay."
Any thoughts of a swanky first-impression evaporated rapidly.
I
had schooled in Darjeeling and so did not make any 'arsehole
comments' about the tea fields. But the shade trees looked
magnificent in their white-washed glory – there were no shade
trees on the steeply sloping Darjeeling plantations, but I held my
tongue.
That night at the Nagrakata club, I was greeted like a conquering
hero by all the Dooars Tea Co. staff. I was overwhelmed – at last
I was appreciated for my flair and style! But alas, it was not so.
My appointment had removed the anxiety the company executive staff
had been suffering under…the rumour was that the Dooars Tea
company may be on the 'sale list' and my appointment allayed those
fears. Two crushing blows to my ego in twelve hours took away
something from the euphoria of landing a plum job at age twenty one.
But I salvaged some of my deserting ego that night by
drubbing all and sundry at the billiard table. "You have
obviously had a wicked upbringing," commented a senior manager-
scuttling the progress I had made with salving my ego.
All youngsters get a certain amount of 'leg pull' on first joining.
A senior manager, that night, climbed onto the bar and held a full
glass of whisky against the ceiling, "Get me a billiard cue,
lad," he said to me; I promptly obliged. "Now see if you
can hold the glass pressed tightly against the ceiling with the cue
supporting the glass to keep it from slipping," he said.
Gosh,
of course I can, I thought to myself, waiting for the next move in
the game. Does the 'old fogy' think I can't? The manager hopped off
the bar and joined his cronies in conversation at the far end of the
bar. I looked around…all seemed to have lost interest in the game
– I was left holding the cue supporting the glass tightly against
the ceiling twelve feet above me.
"Hey, what do I do next?" I said to Daya who was closest
to me. He shrugged his shoulders and looked away.
I had been had! I could see amused looks being thrown my way from
the senior manager's end of the bar. You bloody cad, I said to my
self – you've been taken! But I was young and agile and a fair
cricketer – I could easily catch the glass once I discarded the
billiard cue – I would wipe the amused smiles off the faces of the
perpetrators – they had chosen the wrong guy – They did not know
how facile Jeff Tikari was.
I smiled confidently at the amused onlookers – they would soon be
eating crow.
I flung the cue away and very easily caught the descending glass…
But they had won!
I was covered with Scotch whisky which dripped off my hair into my
shirt collar and into my eyes.
Loud hoots indicated I was now accepted as a good sport.
Alec Hayward, my manager, big built, bushy eyebrowed, and ruddy
complexioned hugged me and I knew I had won
approval.-----------------------------------------------------------
Snippet
Two
Jaldhaka Forest
Reserve
by Jeff
Tikari
Bhogotpore
Tea Estate in the Nagrakata area is three kilometres from the
Jaldhaka forest where I went as often as I could get away from work;
my trusted .450/400 rifle always by my side.
I would pull out the front lower seat of my Ambassador and
place it so I could use the front bumper as a backrest. The forest
ambience, the sounds of the forest and bird song would soon calm one
down. All the irritation and tension of work would flow away.
I would pour coffee from a flask into its screw top plastic cover
and settle down with a Wills navy cut cigarette to gaze down the
long stretch of forest road. A
samber or spotted deer crossing the road would alert me and I would
pull out my binoculars and train it on them. I had a shooting
licence which allowed one tiger or leopard, six deers, and an
unlimited number of pigs to be shot per annum.
I often took a pig back to the plantation and distributed it
amongst the bungalow staff and friends; keeping a prime cut for
myself and trash for the dogs. Loading a pig into the boot of the
Ambassador was tricky. If it was a large pig, I would have to drive
to the forest village to pick up a couple of men. That way I got
known in the village.
One day a man from the village arrived at the plantation
looking for 'Chota Sahib'. A tiger had killed his young bull, he
related with pathos in his voice. This was the second animal it had
killed the loss of which had destituted him. He would have to hire
bullocks to plough his land. He was afraid his milch cow may well
appear on the marauders menu next
My manager, Laurie Ginger (a keen hunter himself), gave me
the day off to visit the village and set up a machan over the
'kill'. I took my trusted 'Man Friday' Kusang Lama – a Sherpa from
Darjeeling – along to help.|
We were led to the 'kill' which lay in a thicket and was
swamped with blowflies. The tigress (judging from the pug marks) had
not eaten much. This was a good sign indicating she would be hungry
and may well come early to her 'kill'. On the other hand, if she had
been disturbed, she would be very careful and may sit for hours in a
nearby thicket to insure all was clear. It was my turn for 'factory
duty' that night so I hoped the tigress would come early, hopefully
at sundown.
I supervised the construction of the machan, making
sure the leafy branches, used as camouflage, were of the same
variety as the tree on which the hide was constructed. No cut marks
were showing and all seemed in order. I left with my bearer, telling
the villagers I would be back before sunset.
I sent a note across to Daya Sehgal, asking him to stand in
for me at the factory should I be late. I would ideally have liked
to skin the tigress that very night; for the pelt comes off cleaner
and easier when the body is still warm. But, unfortunately, I would
have to leave it until the early hours of the next morning. I'd best
be back in the factory as soon as I could to relieve Daya and let
him get home to catch up on sleep. Tomorrow I could wrap the pelt in
polythene, cover it with hessian, and send it by Jamair to Calcutta.
My brother there could then redirect the parcel to Van Ingen in
Mysore
I checked my
rifle, broke open a new case of ammunition, and clamped my five cell
torch over the twin barrels adjusting it to shine exactly where the
sight was pointing. I strapped my hunting knife to my belt and was
ready. Kusang would accompany me and sit behind me. We smeared
ourselves with Odomos and headed for the forest.
We were early and I used the time to get properly acquainted
with the setting. Kusang climbed up and let down a rope to winch up
the rifle and torch and then to pull up the bag containing coffee,
Odomos, etc. I then clambered up and slid into the hide. I practiced
throwing the rifle up to my shoulder and checked to see if it was
pointing, every time, at the bloated carcass of the bull.
I had two 465 grain soft nosed bullets resting in the breech
of the double barrels; the safety catch was eased off so there would
be no click when I wanted to use the weapon and Kusang received last
minute instructions: if he heard anything he was to slowly touch my
back. All was ready and now we sat waiting.
We couldn't see the sun which was hidden behind miles of
forest. Dusk was gently gathering and throwing a blanket over the
trees. Soon the birds had quietened and the flies from the carcass
departed after laying their 'maggoty' eggs. The insect chorus
tentatively tried a few screechy notes and soon picked up confidence
to fill the night silence with their nocturnal mating clamour.
We waited. A few mosquitoes, with bloodsucking intensions,
made power dives at our faces, but left us alone when the Odomos
scrambled their smelling powers. Fireflies were out making a
flashing entrance into the blackness around us. I have always been
mesmerised by their brilliant fire-dance.
…I heard a swish – a large body brushing against a bush.
I cocked my head and waited…there it was again, quite distinctly.
A little later it exhaled – I heard a soft rush of air to my
right. It was circling the 'kill'. I would wait. I would wait until
it started eating – the sound of its eating and cracking bones
would cover any sound I made in getting into position.
…There was an explosion of sound…the sound of water
falling from a great height. It rent the silence of the tension
filled moment. The sound was from behind me. I heard the tigress
cough and rush into the forest. What was this sound, had the coffee
flask fallen over and disgorged its contents? I switched on the
torch.
Kusang sat with his back to me, peeing onto the undergrowth
below. The thought of a tigress so close had unnerved him. I had
overlooked taking an empty bottle for just such an emergency!
Jeff Tikari
******************************************
*******************************************
Good
Deed in the Rain
Based
on a true story--by
Jeff Tikari
Bobby turned to Edna, "Well, are we going to the club,
"In this rain?
Edna glanced at the window. It was raining steadily and had been
raining all day"It's not like we have to walk, you know. My car
is quite leak proof."
Edna caught the sarcasm – she'd better not argue and
spoil the evening. Bobby and Edna were posted on a tea
plantation fifteen miles from the club at Mal Bazaar. Saturday club
nights were well attended by the planters: there was dancing, a
movie and, of course, drinking and merry making
They had a leisurely tub bath and dressed for the club: she
in a red dress that highlighted her auburn hair, and he in white
shirt and trousers with a red tie to match his wife's dress. It was
a special night at the club.
'Club attendance will probably be low," said
Edna. "This constant rain may put a lot of people off."
"I don't think
so," Bobby retorted. "There isn't much in the way of
entertainment in the middle of the season and a club break is always
welcomed by all…or, at least by most."
The driver was on leave so Bobby would drive their eight years old
black Ford to the club.
"I hope you won't
get too drunk. Remember, you have to drive back on these kutcha
roads."
"Will you stop
bickering, woman; we haven't even got out of the gate, and you've
started on my drinking."
At the gate they saw a plantation worker standing under an umbrella
in the slashing rain. Bobby stopped his car and lowered his window a
bit: "Where are you going? he asked.
'Mal Bazaar," was a mumbled reply faintly heard over the
drumming of rain drops on the roof. "My in-laws live
there."
Bobby looked at Edna, "Shall we give him a lift? The poor soul
looks drenched already, and Mal is a long way off."
Bobby stretched and opened the back door. "Hop in." he
said.
The man
hesitated, unsure of what to do. "Come on, come on! I
haven't got all night. Get inside!" he said sternly and slammed
the door after him.
"I would have
thought he would be grateful that we are giving him a lift all the
way to his destination in this rain. I may be wrong, but I thought I
saw a not too pleased look on his face, the ungrateful
bastard!"
'He probably didn't
understand you, darling. He perhaps can't believe that the Burra
sahib is giving him a lift in his fancy car."
Bobby
glanced at the rear view mirror, "Just look at the bugger! He
is sitting there huddled up and looking sourly as hell! I have a
good mind to kick his skinny arse out right here." An
hour later they were at Mal Bazaar. Bobby pulled up and opened the
back door from inside.
"You go where you have to go. I and memsahib
are going to the club."
The man took his time lowering himself to the road. He looked
bewildered and hesitant – like as if he wanted to say something.
Bobby was getting impatient:
"Come on, move it
man. Go on Jao, beat
it!" And Bobby let the clutch out impatiently.
"The fellow didn't
smell of alcohol, but he must be on drugs! Did you see how
uncoordinated he was? Was he imagining I would take him to his
house? Stupid idiot!"
Edna too noticed how
reluctant the man was. Perhaps he was on something. "Don't get in a huff, darling, don't let it spoil
your mood. We have an enjoyable night ahead of us."
The club was
decorated with streamers and Chinese lanterns; the large Philips
speakers were 'belting out' Frank Sinatra's 'Strangers
in the Night', and a few had taken to the dance floor. Bobby saw
Ron and headed towards him. "What are you drinking, Ron. The
first drink is on me." Bobby drew a lot of
laughter relating the story of his Samaritan act. "I'd
suggest you check it out tomorrow." said Ron (a neighbouring
plantation Manager). "If he is on drugs, you would do well to
'nip it in the bud' for once it catches on…your labour force will
be neutered! This could be serious.
"No, no,"
interrupted Bobby. "It's probably all in my mind. The idiot was
likely disoriented and in awe of the car ride. Perhaps, he fell
asleep and was groggy with sleep."
"Okay, but grill him at the morning bichar
on Monday." 'Yeah, I'll do
that."
Bobby stood bent over hugging the bar– where was Edna, he looked
around and shrugged his shoulders – long as she wasn't hassling
him to go home it was fine. He ordered another large Red Label with
soda. If Edna was to extricate herself from Larry's embrace, she
would see that Bobby was past the slurring stage and had progressed
to the 'fixed smile' stage.
The festivities were
slowly winding down and members began to 'head home' in various
stages of inebriation.
"Only two fights!" commented Hugh – three fights would
elevate the evening to a 'very good night' category.
"Tony is always in
the thick of it – but, did you notice, even Gerry was stroking his
hair back and looking belligerent! If Gerry had mucked in…that
would be something again – he's an ex commando! God that would be
something."
Bobby decided it was time to negotiate the road home. He
carefully stepped out into the rain. Edna kept her peace…he looked
pretty sozzled, she thought; anything she said now would start a
shouting match in the car; Bobby was likely to claim he was a little
under the weather, but sober. Definitely Sober! She knew she would
suffer a night of heavy pawing – he wouldn't be up to more - and
then a nightlong dose of drunken loud snoring. But she too had
enjoyed the night: Larry had danced with her through the night; they
had tangoed, waltzed, cha chaed and…held each other tight during a
fox-trot, and kissed lip-to-lip in a darkened area of the dance
floor. She
was tired now and would love to fold her legs under her on the front
seat and fantasize Larry's many charms. But Bobby was lurching all
over the road and she would have to keep him awake. She started to
sing – Bobby loved that. He loved her clear soprano voice and so
she sang elatedly. Bobby glanced around at her appreciatively. He
attempted to kiss her – "Keep your eyes on the road, my love,
let's get home first".
Presently the plantation gate loomed up and Edna
inwardly thanked the Lord; another five minutes and either Edna's
voice would give out or Bobby would slide off the road – his head
was starting to nod and his stare through the misting windshield,
was becoming glassy.
After a few jabs of the horn, the Chowkidar
tottered out of the gatehouse holding his hand over his eyes to
shade them from the headlights. He fumbled with the keys and finally
got the gate open. Also standing outside was a man waiting for
the gate to open. Bobby lowered his window and peered at
him. "Isn't this the chap we gave a lift to?"
he asked Edna.
"Yes it is." Edna confirmed.
"Hey, you!"
Bobby addressed the man. "What are you doing here? I gave you a
lift to Mal Bazaar – weren’t you going to visit your
in-laws?"
The man joined his palms in supplication,
"Please, Sir," he wailed. "I was with my in-laws for
the last two days and walked back today all the way in the rain and
reached here when you took me back again. I have walked all night in
the rain to get back. Please, Sir, please spare me and let me go
home to my wife and children. I'm very tired now."
Bobby sat stunned. In his bid to do 'good', he had, instead,
inflicted so much pain.
****************************************************
June 27th
An
Amusing Anecdote
--- By Jeff Tikari
The
basics of this story originated in the tea plantations of North
Bengal (Dooars) India. Some claim it is true. Whether true or
fictitious it is a good yarn. All names are fictitious.
However, those invitations were sadly like the
proverbial 'blue moon'. Weekends were fine, for one usually took
part in sports at the ‘Planters Club’, danced like 'wolves', got
slurring drunk and flirted
outrageously.
Saturdays were movie nights when one saw an
outdated‘English’ film and afterwards argued animatedly at the
bar. When married planters left with their memsahibs,
conversations became more colourful: talents of bachelor friends and
their prowess’ with the opposite sex were loudly debated, derided
or ridiculed, swear words became more the norm than the exception.
Sundays were recuperating and nursing-hangover
mornings.
By
lunchtime there would be a gathering at the club to down that hair-of-the-dog,
usually, with pink gins and beer. The vigorous types would sweat
it out on the tennis court or the golf course and 'beer' after.
But soon one felt the weekend slip away and it was back home to face
the grind at 6 a.m. next morning.
Ajit and Pratap did their normal share of merry
making on weekends, it was the evenings
after work that were like being marooned on a lonely island. Of the
options available to bachelors, Ajit and Pratap chose to add company
to the island and so visited each other every second day. The
evenings were then pleasant. Ajit had a radiogram and a collection
of long playing records, which made it an obvious choice to meet at
his bungalow. Pratap would drive across along with his bottle of
whisky. The two drank, and argued until dinnertime. Dinner was
unerringly ‘Western fare’ starting with a soup and going through
to a desert. They would end the evening with their usual
postprandial peg of sherry and cigars.
This pleasant way of using-up long (otherwise
lonely) evenings became routine treasured by both; and if one of
them postponed these evening get-togethers, the other would
banteringly ask whether the errant partner was finding the present
company boring or had found solace in the arms of one of the local
bazaar women.
The planting community looks forward to the onset of ‘cold weather’;
the climate then is pleasant and work is at a minimum. All picking
of tea leaves is over; the factories are dismantled for the yearly
overhaul, and club activities reach their peak. This is the festive
season: a season of parties, fetes and club sport championships
(tennis, golf and some indoor games). It is a season when planters
travel far and wide to other districts to join in the revelries
offered. A club-hosted dinner is part of the function. Each club
also has its yearly ‘do’ then, replete with a live band, to enliven the
occasion.
Ajit and Pratap awaited this season of revelry –
like parched amphibians do to the onset of the monsoons. Teenage
daughters of planters would be back on ‘cold-weather’
vacations to liven club evenings. The mood change of the friends was
discernable; their banter was easier and lighter and drinking a bit
heavier. Their prized bottle of sherry too appeared to take on a
joviality of its own, for it emptied its self faster and quicker.
This concerned the two friends for the sherry was imported and
considerably more expensive than the local whisky. They questioned
the night watchman as to how the level of their favourite tipple was
dwindling so alarmingly, but he ‘straight facedly’ claimed
to be a teetotaller. The house bearer too claimed ignorance but
admitted that when he did have an occasional drink, it was always
‘local country’ hooch - haria
The two young executives were
not too happy with the excuses they were
being fed by the servants, and over the following weeks hatched a
plan to expose the culprit. They conspired to almost finish the
sherry that night and fill it up to the half way mark with their own
urine. They rubbed their hands in glee in anticipation, for this
would surely expose the secret toper.
When next they met they eagerly checked the
adulterated bottle of sherry: the level
had gone down by a good peg and a half. The
friends were stunned. ‘Let’s not say anything yet,’ they
decided. ‘Let us see what happens tomorrow.’ The
following night the bottle was a further large peg down.
‘Impossible!’ said Ajit, ‘do you mean some idiot can’t tell
the difference between Old Sack
sherry and our piss?’
This called for a thorough investigation, the
servants were lined up in the sitting
room. Questions as to how their cherished sherry was dwindling were
getting no answers or admissions.
‘Come on,’ bellowed Ajit. ‘Own up or the lot
of you will be
sacked
from bungalow work and be relegated to field work.’ The
servants were shaken and nonplussed; they shifted uncomfortably
and looked at each other accusingly. The kitchen help quaveringly
piped up in a small voice, ‘Sahib, I…I have seen the cook
opening the drink cabinet. Perhaps he should be questioned.’
The cook was summarily fetched who, like the
others, claimed he did not drink.
‘Who then has been drinking my sherry?’ Ajit
flashed the bottle for all to see. ‘We
haven’t had a drink from this bottle in the last two nights and
yet it is short by two or three large pegs?’
He
glared at them fiercely to hide a chuckle that was rising
in
his throat; for who ever admitted to this dastardly felony would
soon be writhing on the floor with disgust when he learned he had
been drinking his and Pratap’s urine.
The gathered employees looked goggle eyed at the offending bottle.
‘But,
Sir,’ stammered the cook looking bewildered. ‘I…I
mean that is the sherry drink, Sir, a peg of which I put in your
honor’s soup every night.’
************************************
June 25 2005
A TEA
EPISODE –
By Jeff Tikari
Prologue
The
story opens in the late 1950s in the tea areas of North Bengal known
as the Dooars. Most plantations had their
head quarters in England. A
Visiting Director, usually, visited India once a year during the
cooler months. His itinerary, normally, required him to visit the
Calcutta Managing Agents and then travel upcountry to the
plantations where he was put up by senior Managers or the
Superintendent.
Indians were
being employed in larger numbers at this time as Assistant Managers
some whom had made it to the post of Managers and to
Superintendents. The social fabric closely followed the British way:
clubs, dances, flower-shows and other social activities that reflected the British way of life to
which the Indians adapted adequately.
Tea
grows and flushes in the humid climate of North East India where
rains commence in March/April and strengthen to a monsoon deluge
around June and continue to the middle of October when they weaken
and give way to the “Cold Weather,” - as planters like to call
the winter.
This
is a time of the year that planters get to
enjoy an otherwise humid and oppressive climate.
*****************************************************
The
story
Toast, bacon, and fried eggs were laid on the
damask covered breakfast table on the spacious veranda that opened
to a view of the massive Himalayan range comprising the Darjeeling,
Kalimpong and Bhutan ranges. Nitin loved this time of the year: the
wet period was over and the 'cold weather' was just beginning to
make itself felt. The morning air was crisp and clear and carried
the soft aromas of the flowering shrubs lovingly planted around the
veranda. A sparrow hawk rode the thermals high above the valley, its
plaintive calls carried in the cloudless crystalline air: “Karee!
Karee!”
Urmilla, fresh from a hot bath, joined Nitin at
the breakfast table. “Hello, darling. Did your morning kamjari
go well?” She poured him a cup of tea - recently manufactured in
the factory at the bottom of the hill.
“Yeah, I guess,” said Nitin looking
affectionately at his wife. “The unions are going to agitate about
the Puja Bonus…buggers! These union chaps
have nothing better to do.”
The turbaned, uniformed, house bearer appeared at
Nitin's elbow. “There is a call, Saheb, for you from
Siliguri.”
“From Siliguri?” Nitin repeated a bit annoyed
at being disturbed at breakfast. “Yeah, hello! Who is this?”
“This is Tim Saunders, Nitin. Do you remember me?”
“Tim Saunders… from the London Board?” asked
Nitin, his voice now much subdued.
“Yes, right Nitin. Look, I’m terribly sorry to
disturb you like this, but I am in a bit of a fix.”
“Yes, Sir, carry on, please tell me how I can
help?” Nitin was now almost standing to attention.
“Well, you see…I actually had a few days to
spare in Calcutta when somebody suggested a few days at salubrious
Darjeeling. Why not? I thought to myself and without further fuss or
dithering I got the Calcutta chaps to get me a ticket to Bagdogra
from where I'd take a taxi up the hill.”
Nitin was still wondering what all this had to do
with him –keeping in mind that he was a very junior Manager.
He had heard that a board director was coming out to India,
but he was only supposed to visit the head office, straighten out
some snags, and then head back to London.
“Well, and so I’m here,” continued the
director. “That bloody earth quake last night – you probably
felt it - has caused a landslide and the road to Darjeeling is
blocked.”
Nitin’s mind was racing; he almost anticipated, with dread,
the directors next words. “I am just wondering Nitin, if it’s
not too much of a bother, could you possibly put me up for the
night.”
Nitin was still finding words to say, but his mind wasn’t
supplying them. In a flash his mind was looking for alternatives. He
had just received his new jeep, so transport problems were out.
What? What then? Why couldn’t the bugger stay in one of the hotels
there in Siliguri?
The director’s voice continued, “As you are
near Siliguri, I thought you could pick me up and tomorrow morning
your driver could drop me back for the afternoon flight to Calcutta?
How does that sound?”
“P…p… perfect, Sir! I’ve just finished
breakfast and shall be off in a jiffy. I’ll pick you up at the
hotel on the main Hill Cart Road.”
“What happened, darling?” asked Urmilla,
“you look like you’ve just spoken to the vassals
of misfortune.”
“Worse, worse, darling. Tim Saunders…” and
Nitin told her
the
whole story. She listened and her eyes turned larger with alarm.
“What are we going to do?” she wailed. “We
don’t have
proper
crockery, cutlery or decent curtains in the spare room, and what do
I do with all the children’s toys and paraphernalia that are
strewn across the spare bed room?”
“Bundle it all up, darling, and send it to the
Assistant Managers bungalow for the night. And ring up one of our
friends and borrow a decent crockery set. I am sorry, darling, but
I’ll have to rush. I wish I could stay and help organize
things, but I shall have to rush and leave every thing to you. Do
your best, darling, what else can I say? Send the kids somewhere for
the night. See you for dinner.”
“English Dinner?” She asked
tremulously?
“Yes, of course. What else? Ask Sheila to lend
you her cook for just the one meal.”
Nitin jumped into the jeep and raced the engine.
He looked across and waved to Urmilla. She was already on the phone.
The Director was in a good mood and chatted
elatedly with Nitin over a Kingfisher. He mentioned how much he
looked forward to these trips to India and how disappointed he was
to miss going to Darjeeling. He had even planned a trip to Tiger
Hill to view Mt. Everest. “Nitin, I don’t wish to sound uncaring
or anything like that, but I seem to have this memory lapse. You
know, meeting so many people in India one just gets a bit muddled at
times. Tell me, Nitin, you are married, aren’t you? I feel so
stupid asking you this. But I hope you will understand.”
“Yes, Sir, I am and I have two daughters: two
and five years. You’ll meet them all.”
Obviously the director was not supposed to make this halt and
meet Nitin and so the head office had not briefed him on Nitin’s
family.
“I haven’t met your wife though,
have I?”
“No, Sir, I don’t think so. But, as
I said, you’ll meet her soon.”
Of course he had met her, remembered
Nitin, during a cocktail party in Calcutta, and the bugger was
pissed. He had taken quite a shine to her. But Nitin didn’t want
to embarrass the director.
“I say, Nitin, I hope I’m not
putting you out too much at such short notice, or hardly any notice
at all. I don’t want to be a pain.” The fifth bottle of beer lay
slaughtered.
“Not at all, Sir, it is a pleasure.” said
Nitin, “An honour to have you with us. I shall be the envy of all
Company Managers.”
“Well, I don’t know about that. But just a
quiet night and I will be away first thing tomorrow morning. Sorry
to impose on you like this.”
`
“No impositions at all, Sir. Don’t embarrass me. We’ve
arranged a little party for you, just our close friends.”
Nitin
realized he had got carried away. What party? He was even dreading
putting up the Director.
“Hey, that’s pretty capital of you.
But have you really?”
“Of course, Sir, nothing elaborate,
just the people around”.
Gosh! What am I saying? What am I doing? What
party? I am pissed! I’d better ring Urmi and tell her. She’ll
kill me. O’ God! What’s wrong with me? But how do I get out of
this?
“Hey, Urmi,” said Nitin over the phone,
“this chap is expecting a party. He’s bloody mad! But what can
we do? Do you think you might be able to get a few friends together?
You think some of the senior blokes may condescend to come across?
Urmi, I’m drunk. I told him we are having a party for him, anyway,
if that doesn’t happen I am sacked for flibbing.” he slurred.
And
as happens so frequently in that area, the phone went dead.
Nitin was apprehensive on the drive back. What
questions would the Director ask him? Would Nitin have the answers?
Tim had just visited Calcutta where he was looking at figures and
assessing performances. Nitin would have to know the right answers;
there was no way he could bluff his way through.
“So, what was the crop like? Were you happy with
it?” Here it comes, thought Nitin. ”Yes, Sir, I was happy with
the ‘out-turn’. It was almost an all-time record crop.”
“Yes, your plantation did better than the
others.”
And that was it. No more was said about the plantation
throughout the trip.
It was dark by the time Nitin turned into the
bungalow. The lights were ablaze and quite a few cars were parked on
the lawn. Nitin’s heart gave a leap. Urmi had done it…thank God!
He had saved face. And then his eyes opened wide: coming down the
steps was the Visiting Director of the neighbouring Estate. How had
Urmi managed this? The woman was a miracle worker.
The evening was a blur of dancing and drinking.
The Visiting Director and Tim Saunders were old friends and were
thrilled to meet up again. Drinks flowed - where had it all come
from? Dinner turned up trumps: a five- course serving ending with
cheese, cream crackers and coffee.
Nitin walked around in a daze. The house looked
different: the crockery; the cutlery; the beautiful tablecloth; the
decoration pieces; the table lamps. Where had it all come from? He
kept shaking his head in wonderment. He hadn’t realized Urmilla
had such organizational talents. “Wonderful, darling,
wonderful.” he kept whispering every time he came close to Urmilla.
Finally it was time for the guests to leave.
Everybody was in a jolly mood. Urmilla and Nitin were thanked
profusely. Nitin’s hand was pumped by all. “Damned good show, I
say.”
The driver took Tim Saunders to the Airport next
morning. Before leaving, Tim gave Nitin a little present as a token
of his appreciation: a Mont Blanc. Life settled down to its normal
pace after that. Urmilla was kept busy writing thank you notes to
all who had so generously helped-out to make the evening memorable.
On the eleventh day after the departure of the
Director, a heavily sealed envelope arrived for Nitin. With curious
apprehension Nitin ripped open the envelope.
“My
Dear Nitin:
The
Board of Directors is pleased to offer you the post of Visiting
Agent for the Bengal & Upper Assam Tea Co. Ltd. The incumbency
is vacant as of date and requires your confirmation of acceptance.
Your'
Terms & Conditions' is attached as Annexure No. 1. You will
notice it offers a substantial elevation in you employment status
and emoluments.
I
will take this opportunity to congratulate you personally. I am very
impressed with your organizational abilities and enthusiasm and hope
you will infuse this energy into the day-to day working of the
company.
Please
convey to Urmilla my heart felt thanks for a very enjoyable stay on
your plantation.”
The
letter was signed, Sincerely, Tim Saunders.
Nitin
was dazed: “My God! Just looking after a Board Director
could do such wonders”? He wanted to immediately ring
all his friends and tell them the good news. But he waited. He
allowed time to let the news sink in. He did an assessment of his
performance as a Manager against the other company Managers. His
plantation had certainly picked up since he had taken over. A
straight out comparison of his personal achievements against those
of the others would well nigh be impossible for Nitin rightly
realized that in his mind there would be a natural bias in his
favour.
He mulled over the contents of the letter and the
offer all day. The office staff noticed his preoccupation and as the
day wore on, his expression became grimmer. By evening when it was
time to break off, Nitin wore a stern and determined look
That evening, after a steaming bath and whilst
sipping his first peg of whisky, he pulled the letter out of his
pocket and offered it to his wife. ”What do you think of this,
darling?” She unfolded the letter with a little frown. As she read
the letter her frown changed to wonderment and then to plain
delight. She looked up from the letter with a huge smile.
“Why? That’s fantastic, darling. Yipeee! Gosh
how lucky!” She studied his face again. “Hey, what’s the
matter? Why are you so serious? Why aren’t you jumping with
joy?”
He caught her by the arm and sat her down on the
settee. “Listen to me carefully, darling… I can’t accept this
position.”
“Oh, I see…and why ever not?” she looked at
him in bewilderment. “For Heaven’s sake, why not? Tell me. I
don’t understand.”
“OK, listen: Tim Saunders was here a fortnight
ago. Yes?”
“Yeah,
yeah, so?” she looked perplexed.
“And
he was very impressed with the party. Yes?”
“So
was every body else. So what then? Come on give it to
me
quick.”
“He said the party was very well organized.
No?” Urmi nodded her head, “Yes!”
“Well, he thinks I organized it and he is
judging my organizational skills by the smoothly organized party.
Well, I will have to tell him who really did it. That it was you and
you alone. You need the kudos not me. I can’t let him promote me
under a false premise.”
Urmilla felt her anger rising. “So what was all
that crap you have been feeding me that you got the highest crop per
hectare in the company?”
“That
was no crap.”
“And that bull about you getting the highest price
for your teas.”
“Hey, easy. That’s no bull.” Nitin was on the
defensive.
“So are you telling me that to pull a plantation
to the top position in the company doesn’t require skill and
organizing? Is that what you are saying?”
“No, no, don’t get me wrong. Of course it
requires skill and organizing.” Nitin conceded. “But all that
considered I fear it was the party that really, really tilted the
balance in my favour.”
“I see…in spite of there being no mention of
the party in the letter? So what do you intend doing?”
“I have thought about it all day and have
considered it from all angles. I’m afraid I shall have to
regretfully decline the offer and continue as a lowly junior
Manager.” Nitin produced a little half chuckle.
Urmilla looked into his eyes. “I’ll say this
once, Nitin, and you’d better hear me good. There are deeper
issues involved here than the simple declining of an offer. My
advice will be final and binding. Do you accept? ”
“Yeah, o.k. shoot. I’m all ears.” Nitin saw
the seriousness in Urmilla’s demeanour.
“Take the offer, Nitin, for I am not going to
accept this voluntary subjugation of your EGO in my stead.
This misplaced martyrdom will become the caning stick that will hang
over my head for all time to come and will destroy our relationship.
I can not and will not have that!”
Nitin
could see the rationale in Urmilla’s assessment. He slowly nodded
his head.
“Okay
Urmilla.” he said. “You win, and I suppose you are right-I
needed your assessment”.”
Urmilla
smiled and offered her hand, “Congratulations Mr. Visiting
Agent.”
*****************************************************
June
24 2005
THE
BROWN OWL
A
true story from Bunum Wo plantation in Papua New Guinea
After a tiring day’s work, I
relaxed on the verandah of my bungalow with a peg of my favorite
libation: bourbon. It was evening and the air carried the smell of
magnolias and the subtle aroma of the nearby tea fields.
I took a long deep breath and gazed languidly at the
reddening sunset. The roosting sounds of the birds chirping in the
trees around the bungalow soothed the tiredness of an arduous day.
Night was gathering and gently closing the day.
Life of a Planter involves mainly
outdoor work: looking after and supervising the tending of acres and
acres of tea and coffee fields. The tea picking labour in Papua New
Guinea comprises mostly casual labour: short stocky men, physically
muscular; the women: stogy and strong. Very simple people, but an
inherent violence runs through their buildup and apparently imbues
in them a senseless destructive trait. Tribal warfare, I supposed,
had colored their basic attitudes in life. Amongst their arsenal of
weapons of warfare, fire played a major role of incineration and
destruction.
Hearing the deep resonant notes of
an owl, I stepped to the verandah’s edge and looked up into the
branches of a Casuarina tree. I espied a ‘Brown Owl’, bobbing
its head and looking around with its large gray and yellow eyes,
hooting a deep, ‘Hoo, hoo’…some people consider the hooting of
an owl at sunset inauspicious.
“Shoo it away!” said my wife
coming on to the verandah from within. “It brings bad luck!”
I turned around and smiled at her
“You don’t believe that, do you?” But she wasn’t looking at
me, her eyes were widening with alarm and confusion.
“What
is it?” I asked, seeing her agitation. She pointed into the
distance, “look!” she said. “What is that flame?”
I turned around and stared horrified. The fire appeared to be
within the boundary of the plantation; I judged the plantation
‘Trade Store’ was on fire.
I jumped into my car and raced down
to investigate. By the time I neared the store, the canned preserves
in the store started to explode like muffled bombs. Soon the air was
heavy with the smell of roasting meat preserves and tinned fish. I
had to stop at some distance: the exploding cans could be dangerous.
On investigation, the following turn
of events was narrated to me: after work in the field, a group of
labourers decided to have a little ‘get together’. They lit a
bonfire and sat around it in family groups, singing and passing cans
of San Miguel around from mouth to mouth. Just after twilight, a
band of men approached the revelers; they were travelers, they said,
and had come across to warm themselves before proceeding to Kimel, a
plantation a few kilometers down the road. The visitors were made
welcome and beer was passed to them as well.
Soon, thereafter, one of the
visitors picked up a burning stave off the fire and threatened the
store keeper asking him to open the store to them. The store keeper
refused and a scuffle ensued. Out of sheer cussedness the intruders
set fire to the store and decamped.
I was aghast at the sheer
pointlessness of the destruction. No one had gained by this wanton
action. My wife’s warning lurked at the back of my mind.
Had the
hooting of an innocent owl foretold the fiery end of the Trade
Store? Or was the beautiful, but fiery sunset an omen?
*****************************************
June 21 2005
A Surge of Blood
A
story based in the tea plantations of Assam, India
By Jeff Tikari
Introduction
The
setting of this story is loosely placed around the early 1950s in an area of
eastern India - the Tea Plantations. ‘Perks’ to the executive staff included
a large retinue of servants who looked after their needs and maintained the
company bungalows. The executive staff consisted mainly of English and Scottish
planters, many of whose family lived at ‘Home’ in the UK. The expatriate
staff, however, was, at that period, being largely replaced with Indians
The
story
I rang the bell again – a long sustained angry ringing; the kind of
ringing that would tell the house bearer that I was now getting impatient and
annoyed and that he’d better drop anything he was doing and hurry to my
bidding – in my senior years I was becoming demanding and, I suppose,
crotchety.
No one answered. No body came. I swung my legs to the floor and padded
down to the pantry in my stockings… not a soul there – only the stale smells
of a pantry. Where were they all? This was unusual, the house bearer knew the
routine, at 3 pm it was my teatime: a cup of tea before I left for work again. I
am a stickler for time.
I looked out the grimy kitchen window – no body. There was a
woman washing at the tube well. I shouted asking where everybody was; not
realizing that the glassed outer window was shut and the woman could not hear
me. I was getting annoyed. I put my hand through the window grill and undid the
latch… the woman stood up –
she was topless… her figure was stunning! I stood there with my blood
surging. Her wet flimsy white underskirt outlined her young voluptuous body in
tantalizing detail. God! I gasped.
I heard footsteps and the girl covered herself. | 
