It took a few minutes for the tea pluckers to process the scene that met their eyes. They gawked open-mouthed at their favourite Chota saab, who was perched up on the mudguard of the tractor instead of his motorbike. The tractor noisily approached the main division of Aibheel TG. Anup dismounted from the tractor and limped towards the “mela”. “Salaam saab,” greeted the Sardar.
The Kaamjaari Tractor
The previous evening, Anup was sipping his cup of tea on the vast verandah of no. 15 bungalow situated on top of a hillock. The swirling clouds in the monsoon sky always instilled a tranquillity in him. “Look at that cloud,” he pointed towards fragments of grey woolly clouds that adorned the sky to his four-year-old son, Monu. “It’s going to rain,” said Meera – his wife.
She patted Brute, their pet German shepherd, sensing skittishness in him. All of a sudden, the wind howled eerily. Brute scuttled and hid under the wrought iron chair. It seemed as though the pretty woolly clouds, the pleasant breeze and the ambience of the verdant valley had gone to bed and sent ominous versions of themselves to replace them. Thunder roared announcing the arrival of rain.
The lights flickered for a split second and then winked out, engulfing them in darkness. Anup raised his eyes to the heavens with a sigh and went to look for the torch groping his way to the master bedroom. Rummaging through the drawer, he pulled out the torch to find that the battery had almost died down. Meanwhile, the bearer approached the hallway with a candle on the brass stand and announced, “Memsaab, yeh last candle hai.”
“Meera, I’ll get some candles and batteries from the kaiyah shop,” Anup said to his wife.
“That must be at least 6 km! Are you sure?” Meera asked, the subtle lines on her forehead visibly creasing, as she took a few involuntary steps towards the car. “I will be as quick as possible,” he assured her. “I’ll also come with you, papa!” Monu climbed into the front seat excitedly. They drove out, working the wipers furiously fighting the raindrops that were so thick that Anup could barely see a yard. The trees creaked straining against the onslaught of the winds. The two successfully completed their mission of procuring the candles and batteries from the shop and now all they had to do was head back with their loaded arsenal.
But the skies seemed to have upped the challenge as the weather worsened. The reality of torrential rains and thunderstorms washed cold over Anup’s face. He silently prayed for it to stop but peripheral winds rustled, rousing the trees in a vortex of dance. However, a different fate awaited. Out of nowhere, the car came to a standstill. Lightning struck the sky with great networking forks.
Anup accelerated several times but in vain. Flustered, he alighted to see that one of the tyres of the car was caught in a massive boulder. The rain had washed away the soil of the kutcha road, hence exposing the boulder and creating an obstacle. The currents of the water were so strong that he felt as if he was in a river rather than a rain shower. But he had to focus on getting his car out. He nudged and trudged but the car wouldn’t budge. Menacing thoughts flooded his mind. He pushed them aside and concentrated on the matter at hand. With a resolute spirit, he fixated on the last bastion of hope.
Wiping the water droplets trickling down his eyes, he peered into the driver’s seat and told his son, “Monu sit here and hold the steering wheel as tight as you can.” The four-year-old Monu was overjoyed to be given the charge of being on the wheels – blissfully unaware of the gravity of the situation. With all his might Anup pushed the car praying and chanting to find the strength and faith within him. Then miraculously, as if guided by divine power the car moved forward. It began rolling down the gentle slope. The little kid, with wonderment in his eyes, looked back to see his father running towards the driver’s seat. “Open the door Monu!” Anup screamed his lungs out. Confused, Monu looked through the window, his head soaking in the rain. Anup ran and pulled the handle of the door and wriggled next to his son in the driver’s seat, taking charge.
Meera and Brute had been waiting by the window of the bedroom. They watched the car’s light illuminate the driveway of the bungalow. With a spark of relief, Meera walked towards the door as there was another loud clap of thunder. Brute followed Meera behind her heels, wagging in anticipation. “Stay Brute,” Meera said, lovingly patting him. It was Brute who had kept her sane in the past hour, whilst she waited in the candlelight for her husband and son to return. “Woof” barked Brute and was on the floor in gay abandon, slobbering Monu’s palms oblivious to their drenched adventure.
They washed up and the four of them snuggled on the bed. The candle flickered on and in spite of the weather, they began to enjoy the evening. Anup narrated the incident to Meera and groaned with pain rubbing his ankle.
The bearer knocked at the door, “ji saab, lorry ka khalaasi aaya hai.” In the year 1984, when secluded estates nestled amidst the untamed wilderness and solitary bungalows stood as isolated havens, an unwavering lorry undertook regular rounds to bridge the gap. In this era, devoid of instant communication, handwritten chits became the lifeline, entrusted to the diligent khalaasi of the lorry.
Anup handed over the chit to the khalaasi for his bada saab, Mr Surendra Mehra informing him as to how he was stranded on the kutcha road but now safe at home. “I have sprained my ankle,” he wrote.
The next morning, Anup was astonished to see a tractor parked in his bungalow! The driver told him that bada saab had sent the tractor to take Anup for his round of kaamjaari. Anup was grateful for the kind gesture and concern of his bada saab.
Feeling like a Bollywood action hero, Anup took the tractor to the pathway where his car had been stuck the previous night and was shocked to see that the road had been washed away, leaving a 10 feet gorge in its place! A shiver ran down his spine as the realization seeped in that they had had a narrow escape. “Saab, aap bach gaya,” said the driver, “kal raat 22 inchi paani hua hai.”
Anup and Meera Capoor
Glossary:
Mela: Plucking squad
Sardar: Supervisor of the plucking squad
Kaiyah: Grocery/ convenience store
Ji saab, lorry ka khalaasi aaya hai: "Sir, the navigator of the lorry is here"
Saab, aap bach gaya: "Sir, you had a narrow escape"
Kal raat 22 inchi paani hua hai: "22 inches of rain fell last night"
Very nicely written Anoop. Brings back nostalgic memories of my life in tea. How I remember the days together in Chalouni with Mr. Mehra ! By the way I’ve written my autobiography too. The book should be on the shelves early next month ! Will send you the details on WhatsApp
Beautifully presented Nandita👍🏻could visualise the incident vividly as if watching it myself… that’s the beauty of a well written story. Many applause to you for giving us a wonderful read time to time. Thanks!
Great narration ! Wonderfully written.
Thank you Nandita - stories of Aibheel always bring back nostalgic memories - the garden where I spent over 4 years (1988-1992) has always been very close to my heart. The 15 No. bungalow where I stayed for over 2 years and shared with Ujjal Roy and Maharaj SINGH holds many fond memories ... Thank you for sharing the photo of the bungalow 👍👍.... the whole story has been penned so vividly that one can feel the excitement and tension of the experience...
Though I'd only a short stint at Hunwal when Mr Ata Khan was the Manager but preferred a job of a broker & taster @ JT but have been closely associated with the tea industry since 1982 and have been traveling to the estates till this day. These real life stories are most exciting.
I must thank you Nandita to be kind enough to share them with me and I really like your style of writing. Keep it up!