He was in a dilemma whether to confess or let it remain a secret. It had been an experience- peculiar even for the well-seasoned planters and he was but a young new assistant. He stared at the reflection of his clean-shaven square jaws in the mirror that adorned his spacious bedroom of the South bungalow of Gandrapara Tea Garden. He took a moment to bask in the glory of the compliment he had received from one of his peers, admiring the growth of his personality. Just a few months back he had gone to work for the first time enthusiastic and naïve but now each morning was spent doing the necessary preparation on autopilot. He would take out his motorcycle reversing it from the garage at 6 a.m. sharp, mount the bike and turn the key, sit for a few moments listening to the throbbing of the engine getting ready for the day ahead for kaamjari.
One summer day in 1982, his brain prepared for every possible scenario while admiring the fluorescent green tea, the golden sun rays hitting the tips of the well-spaced bushes as if a scene projected directly from heaven. The picture-perfect morning was muddled by his thoughts on how and when to deploy the pluckers, what sequence to tackle his work in, for the day and many others which seemed to flow in a continuous stream. His train of thought was broken as he paused to soak in the stillness of his surroundings. But wait- he could hear something!
Was it the cattle of the villagers again! He looked around, simultaneously dismounting and parking his bike. Remembering the advice of his Burra saab that he was to walk as much as possible in the gardens, he began to do so on the narrow path through the tall Guatemala grass, clearing the trail ahead of himself with his bare hands. Just then he heard a murmur of some people which quickly faded away and there was silence all over again except for the whispering winds, swaying of Guatemala leaves and twittering of birds. He walked a little further and he could hear some trinkets or maybe the sound of small bells swaying in the breeze softly. “Kaun Hai?” he called out.
From behind the Gautemala peeped a young girl. She had a glowing face. Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead, her hair oiled and securely tied back. Her black eyes sparkled radiant and beautiful. There was a shyness to her, hesitation in her movements. He stared at her. In a soft voice, she called out “o boini!” Two of her friends appeared with sickles in their hands. One of them was trying to balance a heap of grass on her head and at the same time smoothening her sarong which was billowing due to the breeze. She greeted him with a “Saalam Saab”, while the third hurled the bundle of sickled grass fastened with a jute rope, over the fence. Though Ishwar Lama had been kind and soft-hearted to all but here, on the outside, he had to be tough and composed. He strictly reprimanded them.
This chhota saab now loudly ordered them to hand over their sickle as he approached his Yezdi. The area was out of bounds, especially the young tea and unless they learned it the hard way, these actions would be repeated. He untied the jute rope from the bundles of grass and carried it with him. This way even if they decided to take some of the fodder, it would not be an easy task without anything to secure it. The three women followed him pleading to be forgiven. He tried to maintain his strict demeanour and paying no heed to their pleas. Through his rearview mirror, he could notice them whispering and giggling. He had no inkling about what they were up to. Out of the blue, one of them rushed towards his mo-bike, grabbed the keys of his Yezdi and slid it into her blouse! Stunned he stared at them.
In the depth of his eyes, one could see an intensity, honesty and gentleness. Perhaps that is what it means to be a gentleman. But these women looked at him with a victorious smirk on their faces. Still trying hard to maintain his stern conduct, he questioned them about this disagreeable behaviour. These women though were not to be outdone and made a bargain which was far from pleasing. He had no way out of this plight but to hand over the sickle and jute ropes in exchange for his bike keys!
Although Ishwar recalls his Manager tipping back his silver hair and erupting into hearty laughter on hearing the narration but over the years, his memory evades him as to how he or his burra saab handled this situation.
How would you have…?
