A tea kid

For those of you who are familiar with the ins and outs of tea life, the sentence is self-explanatory. Almost to the extent of abracadabra. One can almost visualize a tiny tot, who comes into this world, after endless months of patience, with expectant parents under half-baked medical conditions, and lack of communication to share the joy. In those days it was the postman, who carried the news far and beyond, and if you were lucky, a letter of congratulations back as well. There were very few cars then, and if you were lucky, your parents owned one. Everybody knew the “who is who” of the entire Northern Bengal.

Yes, the mention of tea, immediately brings the hills of Assam and Darjeeling to mind what with movies like Chameli memsaab and, more recently, Parineeta. But my dear friends, tea life extends way beyond that, even to the foothills of the Himalayan Range, the Dooars area. Life upcountry is very different from the layman’s imagination. The Britishers had long left the country and gone, but their culture still remains in this part of the world. For the unsuspecting, it is the place where the grass is always greener.

Blessed with a not so tiny farmhouse accommodation, a house full of servants, with all of them at beck and call, is much better than a five-star hotel accommodation. The servants were always too eager to please. Half-witted simpletons and really nice people at heart. The cook would take pride in his baking, and would come up to show-off his fresh baked biscuits, asking you to sample them. The gardners were busy round the year, mowing the lawn, planting flowers, fruits and vegetables, watering and manuring them, whenever required. If the lady of the house, the Memsaab, picked up a few flowers from the garden for her flower arrangement, it was the gardener’s lucky day. An additional duty was to keep the garden of the house free from any snakes. One or two would pop up in autumn, and the gardeners had to be careful, in case the Saab or Memsaab or their kid would want to walk around barefoot in the garden. What fun it is to bask in the warmth of the sun during the rainy season, or to chase a dog barefoot in winters, to be able to rise in the morning to smell the flowers, to smell the newly opened roses and to squeeze lavender pods, for the aromatic water, which left one feeling fresh and fragrant throughout the day. Those endless winter hours on the lawn, reading a book, actually more of looking around, than reading. The chirpy birds, the pets, the flowers, the blossoming trees, the tea bushes, and an occasional rainbow, made a beautiful sight. Summers were more of playing in the sand or in dried hay, and tiring oneself out completely.

No one can forget the sweet fruity aroma of fresh tea being made. As a child, the joy that one feels in having a cup of fresh made tea, while the rest of the world is left to enjoy whatever is stored, packaged and sold, months later at a retail store. The whiff of tea, as one neared the factory, was enough to make you want to become a tea-taster. And hundreds and thousands of workers, just stopping to have a look at the planter’s kid, was enough to give you the feeling of being someone really important, even as a kid.

In Tom Hank’s movie, “Forrest Gump”, his mother says, “Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’ll get.” This child then steps into the real world, the world of school. St. James School, with the Christian Missionaries, has proved to be a boon to planters, since time immemorial. Even planters, who live about 100 kms away, prefer sending their kids to this institution. There are others who are not so willing to take up responsibilities, and prefer the boarding for their young ones, their choices chiefly being Mayo, Doon and Darjeeling. In terms of education, St. James has a lot to give. All planters’ children, who have passed out from here, have gone to different parts of the world and made it big. There is something about career orientation, and a will to conquer that this school instills in you that can be compared to some of the best schools in India. The personal attention that the teachers give to the students is unimaginable. The extra-curricular activities and sports are given a lot of importance, which helps in an overall growth of the individual.

Weekly Club was more of a fun-time affair, where over a hundred planters would meet with their families. The late afternoons and early evenings were filled with football, tennis, badminton, golf and table-tennis. After sunset, while the uncles got busy playing bridge or snooker or over the drinks, the ladies would usually have a chit-chat over their kids, pets, plants, latest recipes, servants and finally husbands, though not necessarily in that order. There were a few flash players as well. The ladies’ rest room was more of a meeting room for the maids who accompanied the children. The children usually got busy playing hide and seek, or catch me if you can, running around the whole club, trying to bring the roof down. Occasionally they were allowed to ruin the ancient Piano with some of them pretending to be incarnations of Lata Mangeshkar or Bryan Adams, Madonna or R.D. Burman. Then there were a few serious and voracious readers, who always occupied the library of the club, issuing and returning books and straining their necks to the highest rack of the library in the hope of finding something new. Some digging into thrillers, adventure and mystery, others into romance, yet others into literature or history. There was a children’s section as well, with Enid Blytons’, Alfred Hitchcock, Nancy Drew and the likes. Surprisingly, the magazine rack was always empty. Occasionally there was dancing, with a crooner who would come all the way from Calcutta. Dinner and the regular round of thank-yous would usually follow this.

“It was the beginning of the rainy season. Frogs and snakes are quite common during that time of the year. Telling my city (Birpara Bazaar) dwelling friends that Mr.Frog pays me a visit every day was a little unbelievable for them. Frog Prince is a story many girls grow up with. This little fellow, just sat there, green and ugly as ever, and in his most melodious voice croaked, and looked at me from the broken bathroom window. As if it was a sin to have a broken window. One day, instead of throwing him out, I caught him in the soap dish, and carefully transferred him to my lunch box. You can well imagine my friend’s surprised face when she opened my tiffin box and our dear friend leapt at her face. He got his ‘legendary kiss’ but we saw no prince around. Sadly, she wasn’t transformed either. It was truly an affair to remember.”

This forms the baseline of the story, of the life of a planter’s daughter. Incidentally, she signs her name as Dr. Ritu Arora.

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Dr.Arora is a freelance corporate trainer, Reiki master, feng shui consultant and aromatherapist. A periodontist by education, a Toastmaster by passion, she has been actively associated with radio, theatre and fine arts. Visit her websites www.mentalsparks.com and www.camelliastory.com.