The weather was hot and humid. The narrow paths running through the tea gardens were muddy. The paddy fields too were half-submerged in water. One sank to the knees in the mud while trying to walk on the riverbank. Hordes of mosquitoes attacked relentlessly. To add to the misery, snakes, leeches and centipedes proliferated. Weeds and wild creepers were growing rapidly at the Atharighat Tea Estate. On the northern side of the estate, a few akashilata creepers could be seen. This air-sucking creeper quickly covered the trees. The ferns at the base of the tea bushes raced to keep up with other unwelcome plants. The plantation urgently needed intervention; the quality of the tea would suffer. The fast-deteriorating garden waited eagerly for the welcome hands of labourers. But where were they?
This was also kolom time – the bushes needed trimming. For the past 15 days, it had been raining without a break. If it continued like this, the tea garden would soon go to seed. Thankfully, the sirish trees planted to give shade to the tea bushes were growing well. They also held on firmly to the soil and did not let insects build nests. Their usually green branches were full of yellow flowers now.
After the fortnight of rain, the sun had come out at last. The green leaves of the tea bushes, the sirish tree branches – a palette of green and yellow – all sparkled under the bright sunlight. A flight of parrots suddenly appeared chirping noisily and then as suddenly disappeared. It seemed as if a green shower had drizzled over a green sea below. The sun now broke into many fragments. Soon, a flight of cranes came into view like white bouquets of flowers as they merged with the yellow blooms of the sirish trees.
Jonathan sahib was sitting on the verandah of the high chang bungalow, its wooden floor built on stilts, observing all this. He rested on a rocking chair, his legs stretched out on a small round stool. He was rocking absentmindedly and his forehead showed deep crevices of worry. From this verandah, one could see the garden stretching into the distance. The bungalow, surrounded by flowering trees, had been built under his own supervision. It stood at a height of fourteen feet from the ground on a base of iron stilts. Some gardens used wooden stilts, but in this climate, it was not advisable, especially since the feared termites could attack wood easily. So, Jonathan sahib had sent for iron rods from Calcutta. By the time he had come to Assam, steamers from Calcutta had started plying regularly on the Brahmaputra. He had also brought lots of things by ferry to furnish the bungalow.
Jonathan sahib had first joined as an assistant manager. At that time, Atharighat Tea Estate was still in its infancy. The Williamson & Magor Company had started three plantations in the area – Dharamjuli, Paneri and Atharighat. Even before that, the Logan Brothers of Scotland had started the pretty Corramore garden on an undulating patch of land nearby. Jonathan sahib had not met Logan, Mckenzie or Lyell. He had only heard about these pioneers. The Company had sent Jonathan to look after the nursery for tea bushes at Atharighat. The plants flourished in the fertile land washed by rain and warmed by sunlight, both so necessary for the growth of the tea plants.
Jonathan sahib was in a bad mood today as he looked with distaste at the creepers and weeds that were threatening the bushes. He was soon going to return to England. His wife, Mary, and his two sons lived in his ancestral villa three hundred miles away from London. Everything was going very well indeed. Jonathan sahib, of course, had made a lot of money in Assam. His family did not lack anything.
Frankly, Jonathan was not worried about his family back home. He was worried about the shortage of labourers in Atharighat. The local people who joined work sporadically had left for their own paddy cultivation. They worked in the garden to earn a few extra bucks only when the paddy fields did not need their attention. He was distressed at the neglected state of the plantation, which he had laboured so hard on to bring up from the nursery stage. Malaria had killed a few coolies recently. This was the high season for plucking tea leaves and look at the state of affairs! Atharighat’s reputation was at stake. The man who never gave in to anxiety, disappointment or despair, was really worried now. He was waiting for the arrival of a new lot of coolies, but there was no news of them. He had been told that about two hundred of them were on their way, recruited by the arkathias. God only knew how many would finally arrive. He was also informed that cholera had afflicted the ferry’s inmates and a few sick ones had been left behind in the jungle on the way. Jonathan remembered the incident of a ferry in which, when it laid anchor at Nimatighat near Jorhat in upper Assam, not a single coolie out of more than two hundred had survived. All had died of cholera on the way. Even among the crew, only four survived. People said they could hear a wailing sound from the ferry anchored at the river port at night. Gopal Hazarika of Golaghat town, who was employed by the steamer company, took two months to fumigate the ferry. For his work, Hazarika was lauded by the government, and he received a certificate in appreciation.
Jonathan sahib met Gopal Hazarika on his visit to upper Assam. Except for the slightly yellow tinge on his fair skin and the traditional dress of dhoti-punjabi, he was as good as an Englishman in manners. Jonathan was amazed at his work style, discipline, energy and familiarity with the English language.
Gopal Hazarika helped Jonathan on many occasions. The gardens in upper Assam had fewer management problems compared to gardens at the foothills of Bhutan where Atharighat was situated. Many of the British planters who worked in upper Assam found themselves on unfamiliar ground while dealing with the gardens on the north bank of the Brahmaputra. Gopal Hazarika was on good terms with most of the garden managements in upper Assam. Without the help of the steamer companies, the tea gardens would have been in a quandary. If there was any issue with the coolies brought in by the ferries, it was Gopal Hazarika whom the managers turned to.
Jonathan kept in touch with Hazarika through letters. He really respected the man. Usually, he did not hold the brownskinned in much esteem. He did not allow anyone to ride a bicycle or open an umbrella while passing the road in front of the bungalow, even if it was raining heavily.
Jonathan had written to Hazarika enquiring about ferries available for importing coolies. He was now awaiting a reply.
The bearer brought a cup of tea without milk. Jonathan sahib was very careful about his food these days. When his wife Mary was with him in Assam, he drank alcohol, but within limits. But Mary was worried about her children’s education and she went back to England. Once she left, Jonathan started drinking more. Soon the infamous “Assam Liver” which afflicted so many of the planters, caught up with him. He was much better now after treatment, but he was more watchful about food and drinks these days. Another year, and he would be home. He had to keep fit. He knew well that many of his compatriots died of the “Assam Liver”.
The way he sat and the wrinkles gathering on his forehead told his long-time cook, Ramdeo, that the sahib was in a foul mood. The local Assamese labourers had left en masse. It was high season for paddy cultivation and there was no hope of getting anyone from the vicinity to work in the garden any time soon. Ramdeo understood why his boss was so worried. He had joined this garden as a young man, now he was middle-aged and knew very well the moods, the idiosyncrasies of the sahibs he served.
He knew that his sahib had not slept well last night. The stomach pain had recurred. Ramdeo had followed his instructions and given him the medicine. After two doses, Jonathan felt a little better and towards dawn he could catch some sleep. As Jonathan sahib took the soup bowl from Ramdeo, he relaxed. Ramdeo climbed down the stairs from the verandah. It was time for the dakwal, the postman, to come. He would ring his brass bell at the gate to announce his arrival. The dakwal always came at the same time. He had to be punctual, keeping strictly to the hours of the garden. Otherwise, it would be the end of his employment.
There, the brass bell rang. To Ramdeo’s surprise, the sahib himself came down the steps to meet the postman, took the letters and sat on the chair laid out on the lawn. Ramdeo surmised that breakfast was to be served al fresco. He brought Jonathan sahib a bowl of soup with a baby chicken cooked the way Mary memsahib had taught him.
There were quite a few letters. The ones from the Company arrived on the Dakota planes which flew in from Calcutta, ensuring speedy delivery. Those from London took longer. Jonathan looked at the letter in his hand. Mary’s cursive writing on the envelope was unmistakable. She was efficient and took care of everything. His mother had died but his father was still alive and was waiting for his son’s return. It was what made the old man cling on to life. He put aside the Company’s letters and picked up another eagerly. The address was in fine writing in blue ink and a few lines were underlined in red. It had to be a letter from Gopal Hazarika. Jonathan knew that after a few days another letter, an exact copy, written in blue ink with the important sentences underlined in red would arrive from Hazarika; just in case the first letter was lost somehow or became illegible on the way due to rain or something, the copy would serve the purpose. No wonder Jonathan sahib respected Gopal Hazarika. At first, he checked the sentence underlined twice in red. It said, “The steamer with the group of coolies will reach Uzan Bazar Ghat after two days.” Then he read the sentence underlined once – it was a question: “Will the coolies be transported through the Rangiya railway station and then to Khoirabari station? Or, should they be sent via Kuruwa on the Bornadi river and then to Atharighart?” Next to it, within brackets, marked in red was the information that due to cholera quite a few coolies had died on the way, a few even had to be dropped off midway in some remote location. Jonathan knew what was implied.
Excerpted with permission from Moonlight Saga, Arupa Kalita Patangia, translated from the Assamese by Ranjita Biswas, Speaking Tiger Books.
