ASSAM: A Tea Garden Story

tea-bunglow ....Cinnamara T.E.

"There is something in the nature of tea gardens that lead us into a world of quiet contemplation of life .

It’s been over 25 years since my father passed away. Belonging to an era where there were no Jacksons blaring over the Mike and no Bills knocking at our Gates, he lived a life of splendid, serene isolation in the tea-gardens of Assam. Coming by a job was not a herculean task those days. Three good references and a solid pedigree were sufficient to fetch one a position in a sterling company.

So it was on a fine May morning in 1947, when the Company’s Morris Minor rolled into the ancestral home to take my father to his first place of posting as a tea planter. He left behind old values and set mores and geared himself for a society with a different ethos. It was a turning point in his life which was to determine all the events to come.

Weekdays meant hard work, temperamental labourers, snakes, leeches and sometimes leopards. Weekends were for unwinding. At the end of the day he would wash down his tiredness with a bottle of cold beer and call his life “gustatory heaven.”The local tea club was the hub of social activities. Gossiping, guffawing and sometimes even rubbing shoulders with the “Gora Memsahib’s” were a part of the drill. Father would delight himself looking at the young “Mems” through the corner of his squinted eyes.

Life was a perpetual kindergarten, for he learnt by the day. The finer nuances of better living, the essentials of wining and dining and the graceful steps of the fox-trot were imparted to him by his boss’s wife, Mrs Holmston.

Yet amidst the oomph, opulence and the frills that edged the job, what gnawed at the heart of the young recruits was the loneliness. Enveloped by acres of green plantations, bereft of the latest electronic gizmos that we enjoy today and the nearest town being thirty-five miles away, loneliness was a malaise which spread like forest fire among the new comers especially with the young British assistants.  Some took to reading books, others took to “Shikar” and yet there were a lot who hit the bottle.

And so it was the bottle that got hold of Mr. Smith of Yorkshire.

Living in a sprawling bungalow, Mr Smith’s life had all the ingredients to make a cocktail of isolation---parents and friends were far away, letters and newspapers took weeks to reach those days and the language barrier made matters worse. A drought, a sip, a gulp a swig ---anything would do to keep him company. He would drink himself to the ground.  His incorrect habits were noted by the boss. Fatherly advice was administered, but nothing deterred young Smith, and he continued drinking a drop too much.

Matters came to a head when the Yorkshire lad took to consuming the local brew. (Fotika) .The boss was not only perturbed but also embarrassed by the English-man’s commonness. Mr Smith opened a Pandora’s Box. The European planters met and secret confabulations continued. Plans were envisaged but nothing worked. “Shame,” they whispered. “Poison “they screamed. A few more weeks of trial, failing which he would be shipped home!

As Fate would have it, one afternoon ,they were returning on their bicycles from “kamjari” of the tea-sections when the sozzled Smith was seized by the need to respond to nature’s call. Like men of old who were bold he decided to water Mother Nature along the roadside.  Immediately, the shame-plant “Mimosa pudica” (touch-me-nots) which edged the dirt-track closed, folded inward and drooped as he emptied his bladder on them. Horrified, he told my father about it with stark fear in his eyes.
 Without batting an eyelid, my Dad explained it was the local poison which he drank that was killing the bounties of nature. Soon he too would be facing the same fate and making his way to the Land Beyond!!Only hope in hell could save him or alternatively give up "mahua."Period.

Mr Smith stayed on for thirty years in India. He remained a teetotaller forever and found a good friend for always.

                                    "Tea is the elixir of Life."  

       

Why water colours?

Why water colors ? They don't appeal to art critics, they don't sell , they don't last . Water color artists are not as well known.....  but water color is simple against the harsh world , the simplicity which pervades your being and calms you .

My penchant for the medium started in school, where in our Art and craft classes we often ventured to paint a scenery with the medium . I never got enough attention from my teacher because it was not in me......she would meander her way to girls who had an innate talent to create beauties. Yet we did pick up a few techniques by observing the teachers and classmates. That we had to moist the paper before actually using the paint, that you could produce new colours by mixing the primary colours.....

Today was my second day at Art school and I am 54 years old.Shakti,my guru , asked me to buy a 0 and 000 numbered brushes and a few thicker ones. An eraser , a cloth, pallette, colors, HB pencil along with the paper. I picked camlin brushes and paints.

He taught me how to paint leaves in different shades of green,rust, brown, out-lining the veins ,darkening certain lines and softening others . Two hours on the same subject yet iI was engrossed , taking delight in the strokes, the shades , the transperency ..trying out my own combinations and lines.  

The Journey - 35 years and counting.

[Disclaimer : This entry has not been written by Arundhati Kakati, but rather for Arundhati Kakati. So groupies of Mam Kakati, you have been forewarned.]

Today my parents will be married for 35 years. That is a very long time. I mean, I haven't even lived for so many, let alone be married that long. So what is the secret to their happy union, you ask?

"Everyone likes a good argument, consensus is less interesting." That is line from a popular soap opera, and I think it basically sums up my parents. They are different, polar opposites.

My father is a man of hard science (he studied Physics and Mathematics), whereas Ma majored in history, enjoys poetry. Baba enjoys the precision and patience required in carpentry which he delves into, in his free time; my mother likes to write and pot varied flowers. Even when they cook, their approaches are very different. If Baba is cooking for two people, I can assure you there won't be a morsel left over for a third person. Ma cooks with a freer hand. Sometimes we eat party leftovers for days. 

So how do they make it work? Shouldn't they be warring constantly? They do, a wee bit. But I will get to that later. First, lets talk about happy stuff, shall we?

What they do have in common, is a love for new experiences. That's the thread that binds them together. They can find something interesting to do even in the most godforsaken place on earth (many of which my father has been posted to). I have this theory, that you can send my parents into any warring zone (Gaza, Syria, Newshour Debate with Arnab; take your pick) and somehow they wouldn't be just alive, but dancing to a bootlegged copy of 'Happy by Pharell."

So here is how opposite forces work. They just rub into each together. I have sat through many a boring discussions in my adolescence, where I have heard my Mother passionately explain the meaning of 'Charge of the light brigade', and Baba, patiently listening and then countering her interpretation. And roles reverse when Baba lectures her on the Keynesian theory, black holes, Planck theory and she dutifully listens and then rushes to the Encyclopaedia (remember those fat books) to create a counter.

Yes, of course sometimes arguments run too long and turn bitter. Ideas and principles log heads. But what I find interesting is their accusations. She goes, "You're mad. I am sure you are a little mad. All very intelligent people are mad. Look at Einstein". And he counters, "You are so dramatic. I know, it's because you are a cusp (half Pisces, half Aries), that makes you such a diva!"

Einstein! Diva! I wonder sometimes do they even realize, that they are actually lauding, while they are trying to hurl insults at each other? If I didn't specifically mention that they were arguing, I wouldn't blame you, for thinking that this is bedroom talk going on.

In tragedy, they find admiration. Well, they also do find admiration in tragedy. Read on.

 Once we were travelling in the standard government issued gypsy with us kids in the back and Baba driving. Suddenly he started belting Bhupen Hazarika's Moore Dusokue suwa ghone ghone (which he swears that the bard wrote with him and Ma in mind), and he leaned over very romantically to kiss Ma. And the gypsy swerved right into a pothole. Mind you, it is easy to assume that he had a few too many, but he was as sober as a nun. Drunk was he, in love. Can you imagine what a tragically comical headline it would have made if the pothole had been something deeper: "Cop & family perish while kissing on the wheel."

They are a team, a tempestuous one, no doubt but still a team. They have done a good many things together, even added on the inches together. They brought up two kids, to be decently successful upstanding citizens (well, at least my brother is!)

Many young mothers ask Ma, how she raised her kids with such efficiency. My mother spouts an eloquent philosophy which young Mommies eat up. But I'll tell you the real dope. Talk, talk to your kids. Never allow that channel of communication to close. My parents never did. Even today, (I am married and almost 30), I find an open door.

I idolized my parents as a child. I not only wanted to please them, but I think both my brother and I never really had too many close friends while growing up because very few could match up to my parents. And it remained so, until I became an adult and the idolatry converted into a deep mutual respect.

So happy anniversary, kids. I'm sorry I am not closer, but promise to be there for your 50th.

Teeming Bangalore

This is my 5th visit to Bangalore over the last 35 years. My eye-balls cannot take in anymore. What was a small cantonment town, where we would find a lot of retired officers in cozy and comfortable bungalows, leading a laid-back life, undisturbed and serene has become a 21st century metropolis with all the expected features. The contour of the city, the skyline and the demography has evolved to take on a cosmopolitan and global outlook. Bangalore has perhaps the largest English –speaking middle class out on the streets. Be it in the Malls, metro train or restaurants it’s the young, confident and educated who have taken over. With eateries all over, I often wonder whether they eat home food at all, which makes me worried about their health. With consumerism high, garbage disposal seems to be a humungous problem and this I guess applies to all cities. Where have the aged gone? Do the young have time for them? Or have they become chefs, maids and ayahs to look after their grandchildren while the double income parents go out to work. Bangalore is a great city; let’s hope the seams don’t burst!

Wedding

Ramesh’s mind was a tempest as he tossed in his bed till the wee hours of the morning, not getting a wink of sleep. He couldn’t accept the truth. The chiseled teeth of pain gnawed at his heart and he felt defeated and deceived by the family who had left for the wedding. His daughter, Ragini ,was getting married to her childhood sweetheart against his wishes.

 Over the years Ramesh controlled the household  with a heavy hand, building his business empire brick by brick, meticulously and with intelligent application which enabled him to wield power over his men, created awe in his family and at times influenced the Government.  But to-day he laid crushed emotionally, and physically exhausted, and wondered where he had gone wrong.

Ramesh’s daughter, Ragini was different. Ferociously independent, she lived life on her own terms often breaking the rules laid down by her father. Lovely Ragini, the youngest in the family was going to pronounce her wedding vows to the boy Ramesh abhorred. Lowly in birth and breeding, he was no patch for Ragini, the astute one, who would have befittingly inherited his business. With tears glistening ,he lovingly recalled one day  when in a red-and-white striped dress Ragini picked  up the broom to sweep the floor .He chided  the servants for letting her do so . A broom in her hands was not to be.

He had great plans for her.  She would inherit his business world. He would teach her every rule of his trade. Her gaiety and laughter filled every nook and corner of the house; her very presence compensated his not having a son.

Ragini’s passion for her sweet-heart, Biraj, was frightening. She possessed him like a witch, twiddling him on her thumb, getting things done by him, planning his life and getting him educated with her pocket money. She dreamed of him as an erudite partner, well-heeled in society .  He already had the Charles Bronson look, rugged and handsome .With a little grooming he would turn many a head. Above all he was loyal. And now, the icing on the cake which Ragini could not resist was the plum job that he got for himself in a coveted company. She had made up her mind .She was going to marry him despite her father. She left home to be wedded to her beloved leaving her father shattered.

On the wedding date Ramesh stirred out of bed, despondency weighing heavy on his head. A cold shower, however, woke in him an innate energy that he always possessed. Like a lion stirred out of his stupor, he sought solace for the grief that he nursed. A wedding in the house was what he sought .He  placed an order for an extravagant variety of delicacies with the caterers.An array of flowers that included every hue of lemony yellow decorated the pandal, a canopy of sweet smelling rajnigandhas were put up at the entrance,  musicians were brought in ,neighbors and friends were invited . Ramesh was going to get his faithful servant of twenty years, Tuphan, married to his beloved Maya, the pale, moon-faced girl from the orphanage.