“There are a few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to afternoon tea”- Henry James wrote these lines in his book “Portrait of a Lady”- and we the tea ladies of this estate of Amgoorie celebrate this ceremony by getting together once a month, for a tête-à-tête, fun-filled games, exchanging recipes or generally sharing our views on this and that, over a cup of tea, sandwiches and cake.
This afternoon happened to be “Burra Bungalow” and we all arrived there, to be greeted by the “Jharuwala” (sweeper and cleaner) of the bungalow. He in his khaki uniform ushered us in with a “salaam” with gnarled palms. That is when we came to know that he had been working there as a “chokra” since 1945, about six decades or so.
We made ourselves comfortable and the topic for the afternoon hovered around the Jharuwala. He is an emotional person with a great sense of commitment to his work. Today, when loyalty is not even a quality, his is unquestionable. He is one of the rare gems of Amgoorie Burra Bungalow. He may be illiterate but to him, the wisdom and knowledge is his punctuality and passion for his work. He has a count of each and every door and window of the bungalow and the exact time each of them needs to be open or shut. Sparkling bathrooms, shiny floors and well-polished shoes of the occupants is his religion.
The old wizened man stays all by himself, his needs are meagre. As is the dastoor of the tea estates, he collects his wages every fortnight and carefully and neatly keeps it in his old iron trunk, the key to which is tied around his waist. He is one of the rich people- say his neighbours- “he has a lot of currency saved”.
While we were pleasantly surprised by his passion, we wanted to know more. In walked the maid of the bungalow with a confused and urgent look on her face. She informed us that the cops, the media, the press and its crew are all scampering around one of the garden residents’ home. We all decided to go there and see what the confusion was all about. As we were getting ready to leave, the maid rushes in again, with an urgency in her voice, saying “Mem-sahib, we need to save the old man, the police have pointed a gun at him”. We were shocked and confused. We rushed to the scene and were relieved to see our husbands there too.
This was four weeks after the BJP government had demonetized. The demonetization by PM Mr N Modi was a big step for the nation and also for the tea gardens. All the managerial and clerical staff got busy trying to arrange the new currency for the wages of the pluckers. It was a mad rush and a harrowing time as the responsibility of approximately two thousand pluckers rested on the shoulders of the management. So we ladies decided to help all our bungalow staff exchange the old currency.
Although now, this obstinate old man, who projects himself as a dweeb was prepossessed with the idea that the management, the bungalow staff, the clerical staff were all conspiring against him. All were out to steal his hard-earned money. He was even given an old currency note of five hundred rupees and ordered to buy something, so as to test if his theory might be true. He would not believe anyone. Each one of us tried to explain the demonetization to him but he would not relent. This news spread like forest-fire to far and nearby small towns. So the media wanted to cover this story and even the police from the local station came in to explain and help the old man. However, the man stubbornly stood his ground.
Our husbands grumbled about us having come to the scene but we were happy to see Birsa, sitting next to his iron trunk with a glint in his eyes, carefully unfolding each layer of old currency, some even dating back to the 1940s. That is when we came to know that when the management along with the cops suggested that he have his old currency exchanged, the frenzied old man grabbed the gun of the police and placed the nozzle in between his chest and declared “Shoot me but I won’t part with my hard-earned money.” We all watched in utter disbelief and helplessness.
The next day he was back to work, dot at 8 o’ clock, working passionately as if he owned the bungalow. Every day at around 11, he sits in the backyard sipping his salt tea whilst narrating tales of the old times. He goes on to say that he has worked with many of the British superintendents when the other bungalow staff was not even born. With a sigh, he says “those were the days” with far-away dreamy eyes as if savouring those bygone days along with his tea.
This piece is a tribute to him and kudos to him for all those of us who have known him and for his passion to the Amgoorie Burra Bungalow. There are many more of these cynical incidents which can perhaps be shared at a later time. If only he’d have known that the real treasure is he himself.