A Sahib's Daughter (4 page)

Charles arrived home from work one day to find the letter he had been waiting for. It was from the Dooars Tea Company. He ran upstairs to his bedroom and opened it filled with trepidation, scarcely able to take in its contents. They were offering him the job! He was the successful candidate! Pauline was downstairs cooking dinner. She was still in her scrubs, her hair pinned back. He didn’t know how to break the news to her and wished he had confided in her sooner to prepare her for the shock.

“Who’s the letter from, Charlie?” she asked, as he entered the kitchen, envelope in hand.

“It’s about a job,” he said, buttering a piece of bread apprehensively. “A job I applied for a while ago. I never thought I’d be successful.”

“I didn’t realize you were looking for a new job. Aren’t you a dark horse! Where is it?”

“Well, the thing is, with breaking up with Sarah and everything; I thought it might be a good idea to get away for a bit. Then I saw this job in the paper and thought I’d give it a go, never really thinking….”

“Well, go on,” she said, fascinated.

“The thing is... it’s in India, in the tea plantations. Would you be very upset if I were to accept it and leave you?” He looked at her questioningly.

“India!” she cried. “Isn’t that a surprise? I’m not sure…but, yes, of course, of course, you should accept. It’s the kind of thing you’ve always wanted to do.”

“You’re sure now?”

“Course I am!” she said, not able to comprehend the magnitude of what he was suggesting. “Long as you let me come visit.”

“Course, I will. I would love that. Thanks, Sis. I’m positive this is the right step for me.”

And it was only a few weeks later that he boarded the
Adventurer
for the three-month voyage to Bombay. Now the battered Ford Austin was dashing headlong toward the Queen Victoria Hotel from where he would take the Great Peninsular Railway to Calcutta on the second leg of his journey to the tea plantation in the Dooars.

Chapter 3

Dooars, 1946

The remote region known as the Dooars was nestled in the foothills between the low-lying Ganges plain and the towering Himalayan Mountains on the northern border of India. With its undulating hillsides and summer rains, the conditions were perfect for the cultivation of tea, not perhaps with the high aroma of Darjeeling tea, but with a larger yield that compensated for any deficiency in flavor.

Although the newspaper advertisement and the executives in London who had interviewed Charles stipulated that the successful candidate required ‘patience, fortitude and guts’ to endure the difficult conditions year after year, there was compensation for the loneliness and seclusion of life on the tea estates. Pioneering planters saw no reason why they should not make themselves comfortable and enjoy what local benefits were available to them.

There was money to be made in tea, and planters were given every incentive to remain loyal. If they were dismissed, it was usually for insubordination or drink. Land was cheap and plentiful, labor even more so. They were housed in airy bungalows with expansive grounds and retinues of servants to maintain them. But the loneliness could be soul destroying and wasn’t for the faint of heart. Suicide by planters unable to endure the isolation was not uncommon. The life called for a certain level of endurance. India demanded it, the isolated plantations even more so.

Charles woke to unfamiliar and unrelenting bird song from outside his window. He dozed on and off, exhausted from his travels. He vaguely recalled a bumpy ride on narrow roads in the dark the night before and the estate manager’s driver taking him to his bungalow.

“Sahib e-sleep,” he was instructed, in broken English. “Eat and e-sleep. Burra Sahib coming tomorrow.”

He remembered a long soak in the tub, ridding himself of several days’ soot and grime from the steam locomotive that had hissed and puffed its way across the vast country. His dinner of fish cakes, peas and mashed potatoes served by the night watchman was followed by a blissful night’s sleep in a bed covered with a white mosquito net.

He saw that a tray had been placed on a wicker stool beside his bed and that someone was pouring him a cup of tea.

“Salaam, Sahib. Chai,” said the man, saluting and placing the cup on the bedside table. Then he pulled the curtains open and left. A groggy Charles sipped the tea, which was strong and delicious.

“Probably freshly manufactured as well as freshly brewed,” he thought to himself. He wondered what time it was. Feeling a little more alert, he walked over to the French windows that opened into a verandah skirting the front of the house. He stepped outside the room and was greeted by the astonishing sight of a garden with an abundance of flowers, shrubs and trees that were strange and foreign to his untrained eye. Surrounding the compound, as far as he could see, were low bushes with satin leaves which he assumed were tea. Fragile trees interspersed between the bushes cast down puddles of shade.

In the distance, he saw forested hills with a canopy of blue sky above them. The only sounds were the birds that had woken him and the clatter of dishes in the house. He went inside to wash and dress and suddenly realized that he was starving.

As Charles emerged from his room, the bearer appeared again and pointed him to a wicker table on the verandah for a breakfast of porridge, scrambled eggs and toast. Just as he was finishing his breakfast, Charles heard the sound of a vehicle approaching. One of the gardeners opened the gate, and the jeep he had ridden in the night before swept up the driveway scrunching on the gravel. A burly man with red hair jumped out and came up the steps.

“Hallo, hallo, hallo! Charles, welcome to Ranikot!”

They shook hands. Charles recognized by his accent that the man was a Scot.

“How d’you do? It’s Greg, isn’t it?”

“Greg Moorhead. Very pleased to meet you. I hope you found everything to your satisfaction. Do you have everything you need?”

“Absolutely,” said Charles. “I had no idea what to expect, but it’s been wonderful so far.”

“Splendid,” said Greg. “I’m relieved to hear that, to say the least! This place isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. Pardon the pun.”

Charles offered him breakfast.

“Thank you, no, I’ve already eaten. Must get back to the factory. Are you up to it? Splendid. Don’t forget your topee. The sun can be lethal.”

“I’ll try to find it. I’m still somewhat disorganized.” He went to his room and rummaged for his hat. In a trail of dust, they set off in the jeep.

“Every tea plantation stretches for hundreds of acres, with a manager in charge, and one, maybe two assistants, the office staff, known as baboos, and a large labor force, sometimes in the thousands, to pick and process the tea,” Greg shouted over the engine.

When they arrived at the factory, the first thing that struck Charles was the aroma of fresh tea. Greg explained that raw green leaf delivered from the plantation was laid out on racks in tractors, ready to be fermented, rolled and dried. The manufacturing process transformed the leaf into coarse, black grain, rich and pungent, as it came off the drying belts. The tea would be boxed in plywood chests and shipped to auction houses in Calcutta and London.

Charles was shown his office, a tiny room off a narrow corridor. In it was a desk piled with files, a wooden chair and an ancient filing cabinet. Everything was covered with a film of tea dust. A small window overlooked the dingy flowerbeds outside. The room was humble and basic, but to Charles, remembering the fourth-floor cubicle in London where he used to spend his days, it was heaven.

“Sorry, there’s a lot of paperwork waiting for you, but not all of it’s urgent,” said Greg. “And paperwork is only a small part of your job. The majority of your time will be spent on the estate, checking the machinery and making sure things are completed on time. You’ll drive the jeep when I’m not using it.”

“I’ll have to learn how,” said Charles. “I didn’t have a car in England.”

“Not a problem, old chap,” said Greg. “We’ll have you running around in no time at all.”

This was getting better and better! He didn’t have to spend his days pushing paper any more. He would be outdoors exploring these wonderful surroundings.

His first real opportunity to explore his bungalow came at lunch time. Greg showed him a rickety bicycle he could use until he had learned to drive and bought his own vehicle. He pedaled the half mile or so to his house which was an elevated structure with white walls and a green corrugated tin roof. No sooner had he ascended the flight of steps than his bearer, as though reading his mind appeared with a chilled lime drink.

On either side of the living room were bedrooms with adjoining bathrooms. The rooms were adequately, if sparsely, furnished. In each bathroom was a claw-foot bath tub and ancient, vitreous china sinks. Hot water was supplied from a boiler in the outhouse kitchen. Charles noted that his trunk had been unpacked and his clothing neatly hung in the wardrobe. Would he ever have to do anything for himself? He had never been more pampered in his life!

Both bedrooms and the living room opened to the front verandah where Charles guessed he would be spending most of his time. The wicker dining table and chairs, on which his breakfast had been served that morning, was at one end and a pair of planters’ chaise lounges, made of wicker and teak, at the other.

The kitchen was a short distance from the house. There he met the cook, who wore a threadbare vest and sarong and was sweating profusely in the heat given off by the Aga range. Apart from a dilapidated sink and a small, mesh cupboard, there was little else in the room. Food was stored in the pantry at the back of the house, which was just as well, given the intense heat of the kitchen.

Lunch was an Indian curry, a dish he had first tasted on the train. Fragrant and spicy, it had been served in metal bowls with a dollop of rice on the side. Here it was served in white porcelain china on the polished mahogany dining table. Charles communicated with the servants in nods, gestures and the occasional word, realizing that he would quickly have to learn Hindi.

After lunch, he pedaled back to the factory feeling the full force of the afternoon sun bearing down on him. He stopped, fascinated, to watch coolie women picking tea. They were dressed in gaudy costumes with blouses that revealed bare, brown midriffs and scrawny breasts. Their earrings, nose rings, bangles and anklets clinked and jingled as they moved. They swiftly and skillfully picked leaves off the tops of the bushes, chattering and singing as they worked.

He heard the cry of a child and saw in a shady clearing an improvised “crèche” where babies lay in wicker baskets. Small children scampered and played around them. His mind went back to the women in the office at Kings Cross. They, too, wore jewelry to work, although nothing nearly as flamboyant as these women were wearing. In London they were not permitted to sing and chatter as they worked and most certainly didn’t have their babies and children close by.

In the afternoon Greg drove Charles around the plantation.

“We have a workforce of about twelve-hundred, so it’s important to take charge and make a show of strength. Any sign of indecision is seen as weakness. Some workers are rather tough to deal with, and it is getting more difficult these days with laborers making increased demands. They’re not as unsophisticated as they used to be, which the Dooars Tea Company is notoriously slow to recognize.”