Pastels for Summer

Tiny zinnia seedlings have gone into flower beds, but may never live to grow and bloom, as caterpillar-s are eating them up. The shrubs around the garden are putting out flowers now, and little dots of colour are appearing in new places every day!
When the heat builds up, and the days are humid, these are the coolers that soothe tired eyes and lift our spirits!

Hydrange-as



Wisteria in its corner

Crotchety Craftsmen : A True Tea Garden Tale

We lost two really good craftsmen in Moraghat Tea Estate in the same year. One was Bawarchi, the Burra Bungalow cook. His name was Lakshman Singh Pradhan but everybody always 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. He wore a woollen hat all the year round, shorts, shoes and socks, and a pair of very thick spectacles.
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 Mistri's Final Masterpiece

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.'

Have You Seen the Light?

The Olympic Flame has reached Delhi.
Before the torchbearers could set off on their ceremonial run, hundreds of supporters of Tibetan freedom ran a parallel torch relay.
All during the elaborate 'security run-through' involving thousands of law enforcement personnel.
The day's papers and the news channels on TV have reported that security arrangements are at a higher level than those for Republic Day, when terrorist attacks are feared. Citizens of Delhi, watch out for yourselves today. The police are away on a 'red alert' assignment.

What is today's elaborate bandobust in aid of? Is it to show the world (through TV cameras) that India is willing to drop everything to protect a torch, which is, at the most, a symbol?

The third, and parallel rally of the day, is of course the media tamasha. Photojournalists and reporters are running frantically. Every news channel on television is fighting to get footage, so its smart young things can assure us brightly in careful tones that 'the flame is safe.' Oh, what a relief. How much sleep did anyone lose over it anyway?

Standing Tall

This beauty is a kind of semal, or kapok tree. Its special feature is the four-cornered base, almost like the base of a dart! The boy standing at the base of the tree is one Bala. The pictures of these giant American trees, below, were sent to me by another Bala.

Redwood Tree in Redwood National Park

Wawona Tree Mariposa Big Tree Grove Yosemite National Park

Potato (Mish) Mash

Yesterday we drove away from the tea gardens towards the agricultural lands that lie to our south. 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 yesterday, 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)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 there were 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 potatoes in the fields from which they were harvested.

Some ten years ago, this happened with the tomato crop. The roads around the farming areas turned red, as 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 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 Love

Thank God for April. The cold weather is officially over, but we can spend hours outdoors in this season. The best part of living in the Dooars is the amount of time you can spend outdoors in the year.

The cold weather is the time for cultivated blooms, but come April, and you can sit back and watch things grow. March is still 'winter' in this age of climate change, but days get hot because it remains dry.

April is a time of growth and of destruction. The storms that occur at this time of year, the 'Kaal Baisakhi', as they are called here, are like tornadoes. They begin with sudden cloud formations, high speed winds, and, if tea planters and the local farmers are very unlucky, hail! Then the welcome rain comes lashing. Tea garden managers rush out after each storm to assess what damage -- if any -- has been done, and they send up heartfelt thanks for rain. However, I am sure their petitions to the Almighty are peppered with many conditional clauses. It is impossible to find a planter who is entirely happy with the amount of rain he's received, and how, and when, and in what concentration.

On most mornings, I see something in the garden which makes me rush back inside to get the camera. The dark, poky, secret corners of the garden often house shy beauties like this wisteria, which has been growing here for years. Nature lovers have to venture into these corners in the tolerant spirit of acceptance, and be prepared to face snakes, insects, or painful bites from hairy caterpillars!
 Petrea - at the time of writing this post, I mistook it for wisteria
This star apple tree has no fruits on it now, but offers a nice place to hide in (and to sulk), if anyone should need to do so.
 The garden has many little hidey-holes for a child to play in. Our girls have left home now, so I particularly enjoyed having our friend's daughter, Susan, a sunny sixteen year-old, stay with us while she prepared for her board exams. Like all tea garden children she would wander about outside with the dogs, lost in her own world.

One of the things the Mali has learnt over the years is the art of seed propagation in plants which are traditionally grown by other means.

Plants like lilies are generally propagated through bulbs.

Easter lilies always produce thousands of papery black seeds which burst out of tight pods, though we never used to bother with collecting them. Mithoo, the Mali, scattered some of these seeds around, and behold, what emerged was this striking flower, almost a Tudor Rose of a lily, combining red and white so perfectly !

Picture Post : Peepul Tree and Tree People; at Jalpaiguri Town and Teesta River Bank

March Past

One of the best things about the garden is that you can enjoy it round the year. When the 'Peak display' season is past, and when even the most houseproud of gardeners have stopped patting themselves on the back for their success with cold-weather annuals, there are a few showers. The grass turns green again after winter's crackly brown; summer's birds call out all day long, and Nature takes over. All is as it should be.

The last of our valiant dahlias make showy, if slightly minimized, appearances, mistaking every cool rainy evening for a return of 'their' season. The beds which we'd planted out last of all in early December burst with blooms. These are generally the 'leftovers' beds, where miscellaneous seedlings are planted after the regular beds are full. One such is near the back gate.


It's a variation of the riotous border, and colourfully named 'Pagla Palang' by our Dooars gardeners. 'Pagla' means mad, but is used here to mean 'not regular'. The Pagla Palang is planted out in the generous spirit of inclusion. No flower is too 'common' to be a part of it.

Out in the front lawn, while we're looking out for Easter lilies, one of the prettiest flowering shrubs of the region gets into its act.



It's called 'Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow'. The blooms are mauve on the first day, lilac on the second day, and fade to white on the third day. The garden is filled with the mild, soothing, lavender-like fragrance of the flowers all evening.

And then there are the Late Latifs. That's what hollyhocks are. This white beauty was certainly worth waiting for.




(You might like to read about the same garden at another time)

Click HERE to see More Flowers

As the Flowers Go By...Sikkim

Sikkim : All In Order

Progress has its pleasant side, too. Gangtok's main street, MG Road, is now closed to traffic. It has a nice new paved surface, and there is a wide granite road divider down the centre of the street, with benches placed on either side. The street was looking all festive for the International Flower Show. All of the town's residents seemed to have gathered at MG Road after dark on the inaugural evening of the Show. (The camera never came out of my bag for this reason!)We were told that they were waiting to receive 'VIP's. Not again! No, this time, we heard, they meant the Chief Minister and the Governor, and some bigwig from Delhi. When we saw that the crowds were growing, we decided we'd leave while we could.
Sikkim's people, we realized, are orderly in crowds. Nowhere in the region have I seen such large numbers of people move around without shouting, or shoving, or getting angry with one another. Before we could say 'All hail!’ the heavens opened. It was hailing! The crowds were still orderly, though in a hurry. We found shelter in a little tour operator's office and watched the hail turn the streets white in no time.
Oh, the beautiful flowers! What would become of them?
The next morning, to our relief, we found that Saramsa Garden had had only had a little rain, and no hail at all!


Among the attractions at the Flower Show were the performances by army bands, both at Saramsa Park, the venue of the flower show, and up at MG Road in Gangtok.

Sikkim : Peak Practice

Elegant Young Ladies of Sikkim

Preservation of the environment comes naturally to the Sikkimese people. Conservation is a part of their tradition; it's as old as the hills. They worship lakes and mountain peaks. On every visit to Gangtok, we have headed to the nearby peaks of Hanuman Tok, Ganesh Tok and Tashi View Point. The last named has a little cafeteria at the base of the hill, and a steep, short climb -- over stairs -- to the peak. I have often seen a Sikkimese man or woman leave a little heap of smouldering dried pine leaves at the hilltop, as a gesture of worship. When we visited last weekend, it was after a gap of a few years. I was horrified to find the peak 'occupied' by a large, three-storied polygonal building with a glass-fronted top floor. What an ugly piece of unnecessary construction! It completely took away the charm of the little peak. We expected the same developments at Ganesh Tok, and sure enough, that peak,too, which once housed the tiniest and simplest of shrines, had been built up in a big way.

...Cooling off at Tashi View Point Cafe!

Sikkim Flower Show

An International Flower Show was held at Saramsa Garden at Ranipool, near Gangtok, Sikkim, last weekend. We drove up on the inaugural day.
When we crossed the border from West Bengal into Sikkim at Rangpo, we saw that the check post and entry gate were decorated with large numbers of potted petunias.
Musician Welcomes Guests at Rangpo
We were surprised to see a little squad of men with masks and chemical sprayers. They sprayed the wheels of our car, and then asked us to get down and cross the border on foot -- walking over disinfectant-soaked sheets of sacking -- and I was reminded of those movie scenes of prisoners entering concentration camps. Meanwhile they gave the insides of our car a good blast with their sprayers. Why, we wondered. 'Bird-flu! Bird flu!' was the answer.
Our cars were stopped again, just after Ranipool, and we were told we'd have to walk the rest of the way to Saramsa (almost 3kms). The prisoner motif popped up again when a policeman at the parking lot allowed us to use the toilets in what turned out to be the local station's lock-up! There were large crowds walking down to the flower show.
Saramsa Garden, viewed from the highway 
'Only VIP cars allowed.' The 'VIP!' word filled the air. This seemed to be a rather ambiguous and inclusive term. It covered people like tourists (especially overseas visitors), government officials and participants! We were welcomed at the entry gate after our long trek as some variety of 'VIP' on the strength of our touristy hats.
It didn’t take long for us to realise that the show did not have much 'international' participation. What it did have was participation by a small number of Indian states, horticultural departments, nurseries and professional horticulturists of the region.
"


They displayed some wonderful orchids, roses, liliums and anthuriums. There were beautiful exhibits of exotic flowers imported by private businesses in Delhi and other places among the stalls, but that wasn’t quite what we had expected.
The real marvels were the plants growing in the Saramsa Garden itself - Primulas; Sikkim's special flowers, pansies, petunias, cinerarias, and klanchoes, in beds after beds, in borders and niches.
  Primulas
Petunias
The local paper explained that the farmers of the region had been handed out seeds some months before the show. They brought back thousands of flowering plants, which were bought off them and then placed all over the garden. Really ingenious as a cooperative effort - and the farmers benefited from the show thanks to this bright idea!

With some of the Beauties of Nagaland!





















My planter husband inspects the exhibits!!

Red and White

Easter is a big flowering time in the garden. Ever since I can remember, we had Easter lilies (Hippeastrum) growing at home. Huge trumpets of red lilies and lovely succulent white ones. These gorgeous lilies bloom once a year, and only for a few days.



All lilies are really easy to care for, and they propagate like anything, if you take the trouble to separate bulb clusters and plant out the bulbs. We had a clump of them growing here when we moved into Moraghat -- in a little bed behind the bathrooms, at the back of the house! They were removed carefully and planted out in the front, and for the last eleven years, they've bloomed in thousands. No credit to anyone. They are hardy plants, and are just waiting for a chance to thrive.

My friend Lesley had another variety of Easter lily, Amaryllis, growing in her garden in Gandrapara. She gave us a few bulbs, and now there's a profusion of these, waiting to burst into bloom. These are pure white in colour and have a lovely fragrance. Up in Sikkim at Saramsa Park last weekend, I saw them in another colour. They were in beds as big as small lawns, and only one or two of those hundreds of plants had opened a few buds. They were in the colour that was called Crimson Lake in our school paintboxes. To think that that garden must be in full bloom now!



Over the last few years, our Easter lilies have bloomed and disappeared well before Easter. Sometimes, however, they bloom as late as April, in time for our Vishu Kani. Today is Good Friday, and they're just beginning to peep out. The red always bloom first, and when they have almost all wilted, the white ones come out. It's as if they're telling the story of the Passion (suffering) and the Resurrection of Christ.

P.S.Today is the first Sunday after Easter, and a number of white lilies are out in the garden.

Time Out

There are some evenings that make you feel as if time has stood still. Yesterday, 20 March, was one of them. The hush that fell all around shortly after sunset was almost sacred. One couldn’t disturb it. Looking around, I got the feeling that I could have been anywhere, and of any age; seventy, or seven, and it wouldn’t have made a difference. The stillness, and that moment, which were bigger than time and space, would have had the same effect on me. A huge, nearly full moon rose in the silence. It was pale, and grew golden by the moment. The tree behind which it rose grew darker, until it became a silhouette. Suddenly the electric lights came on, and it was all over.

Dahlia Daze

Dahlias are the chief attraction in gardens during the cold weather across the plains of North India. Most people in the Dooars manage to grow a few every year, regardless of where they live: town, tea garden or busti. They have the luxury of space, which city dwellers lack.



Dahlias are easy to grow, but anyone wanting to grow blooms of good size and shape has to make a special effort. Dahlias are propagated from cuttings taken from tubers, or bulbs. This has to be done in the first week of September. The little seedling plants are carefully nurtured and protected from rain for about six weeks until they're ready to be transplanted into well manured and aerated soil. Here we have to be extra vigilant at the time, because of freak storms that strike in late October and early November.



Once they're in their beds, the plants have to be fed carefully. Sunlight and water are the chief 'food' of the dahlia plant, and regular manuring is required. The flowering season begins in December and carries on through March. Dahlia plants could grow up to six to eight feet in height.



The largest of blooms could grow up to a foot in width, while the smallest could measure just two inches across. There are thirty six species of Dahlia, and the variety seems endless.



The one that has flourished in my garden this year is the miniature hybrid variety. These plants are not grown from cuttings, but from seeds. The seeds were sent to me by my brother Raja, from Delhi.



The tallest plant is no more than a foot and a half in height and the blooms vary in size from two and a half to three and a half inches across.
Strictly speaking, neither plants nor blooms are 'miniatures'.
There are many colours in the lot and some flowers are bi-coloured too. Some have a single layer of petals while others have multiple layers, almost looking like lotuses.



What sets them apart from everything else in the garden is the perfection of each flower. Here are some pictures of this year's beauties. Sitting among his flowers is the proud 'Dahlia artist', Mithu Oraon.




(See http://seventhchords.blogspot.com/2007/09/same-garden-some-other-time.html)

Blues for Tea

My friend Raj enjoying a quiet moment at a picnic in Telepara Tea Garden

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.

Mrs. Dobson : A Tea Garden Story

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.

Time Is On My Side

Does it pay to be slow? The world is in a hurry. Everyone wants everything at top speed and no one has time to wait. This is an age when people's lives are packed with activity and no one has time to sleep for long or to sit about doing nothing. And as for those who do nothing, they know that very few people waste any time on them! Which is why it was refreshing to read about an exhibition in Bogota, Colombia, which celebrated a week of laziness.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/7173527.stm

'A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.' wrote W.H.Davies, the hobo poet.
John Lennon sang, in the beautiful ‘I’m Only Sleeping’

'Everybody seems to think I'm lazy
I don’t mind, I think they're crazy
Running everywhere at such a speed
Till they find
There's no need, there's no need.'

And, even better,

‘When I’m in the middle of a dream
Stay in bed, float upstream, float upstream.’

It doesn’t pay to be slow -- but it just might be a good thing if you choose not to worry about what pays! (And this is definitely not a campaign to ask people to slow down at the work that they are paid to do.)
Maybe nobody actually likes waiting for trains or buses, at airports and restaurants, at the dentist's or the doctor's, but there are people who don’t really mind when they have to. How restful it is to empty the mind. How much more refreshing it is to let it fill with the impressions of the moment. It is nearly impossible to empty the mind entirely, but one could come close to it at certain moments before sighing deeply and picking up those burdens of daily existence again.
Why pick them up at all? Or why not carry just one burden a day? The Reiki Way teaches how to take just one step at a time, and each of the Reiki resolutions is made with the prefix, 'Just for Today'. One is 'Just for today, I will not worry'. It isn’t possible to do too much at one time without worrying, or panicking even, and definitely not without getting stressed out. Deadlines give you a heady rush, but that feeling takes away more energy than it gives.
There is a poem about some dry leaves by the roadside that are whirled into movement by a passing truck. They start believing that they have a life of their own. Once the truck has moved on, they lie dead and motionless again. The poem beautifully illustrates the emptiness of actions that have no meaning. All activity is not physical. There is a life of the mind, as well. Reading a good book, listening to a good piece of music, or watching a good sports performance can energise and enrich us. So can conversations with friends. So can a good daydream. ‘Stay in bed, float upstream, float upstream.’

Some people want to slow down; to stop to think, to savour and assimilate one experience before moving on to another. Most people today keep moving, investing every experience with intensity and never flagging. They have enough energy to make up for those who stop to dawdle, or take time off to rest and just be somewhere. You might meet holiday makers of both kinds. For many, a holiday means exchanging one set of activities for another, while some resolutely stay put at one spot, lazing and gazing. We cannot mock at either kind.

Everyone today realises how important it is to take a break. There is a lot of awareness about the value of relaxation, and people take to Tai Chi, Yoga, Art of Living, meditation or Reiki. Tai Chi teaches slow movements. Yogasanas, among all the things they do for you, also actually slow down breathing to a point where it is shallow and minimal. Reiki treatment slows down the breathing rate in no time at all and automatically brings about complete relaxation within minutes.

All this is not meant for young people. The young like to sleep or rest or ‘chill’ as they would have it, only so that they can move on to do more things.
Something like Tennyson’s ‘Ulysses’:
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life!


My dad used to talk about how things should be done in a measured manner. He didn’t exactly say it like that -- I wish I could recall and reproduce his exact words, but he illustrated how things could be done with thought, and in a considered, deliberate way so as to make them meaningful. A daily routine became almost a thing of beauty. He enjoyed life hugely, laughed and made others laugh, and made a little happiness go a long way. When we were younger and we wanted to do a whole lot of things at the same time, or have several treats or goodies at once, he would advocate a little at a time - whether it was cashews, or plantain chips, or anything at all. He'd ask us to stretch the pleasures out, to make the happiness last awhile.
With middle age, and a natural slowing down, I recall his ideas with joy since I can understand them so much better.

There's much to be said for moderation.
There are people one comes across who career off from some hectic schedule of activity to a 'Vipassana' meditation camp where no activity or communication is allowed for fourteen full days. This crazy zigzagging between spiritualism and partying is like binge eating followed by crash dieting!
There are many people who cannot take too much. Not too much company, not too much food, not too many activities, and not even too much rest.

What of those who have no choice? The elderly, the very ill or the unemployed must have a very mature understanding to value the quiet life when it is the only life open to them. It takes wise people to value solitude and repose even when they have not been chosen consciously, but are a part of life as it is for them.