by Isla Blair
NINE
Two Leaves and a Bud
I thought of the endless cups of tea I’d drunk at school, a thick, brackish brew, almost orange in colour, that left your teeth with a film over them and in need of a good brush. Betty Henderson liked tea that was very pale yellow and tasted of jasmine blossoms. The tea at Newtonmore was just tea, not too strong not too weak and on special occasions Molly put a spoonful of Earl Grey in it so that it tasted of bergamot and lemon peel. Jack said it was a sin to adulterate tea in this way, but I liked it and still do. Granny Paterson had tea that she left to stew and she kept heating it up so it was thick and bitter.
Tea was drunk by all sorts of people on all sorts of occasions and was especially enjoyed in Britain, it seemed. It warmed and comforted you when you were cold and it was thirst quenching when you were hot. Tea was a sort of miracle drink and Daddy wanted to teach us all about it – not because it would be useful, but because it was an interesting process and so, indeed, it turned out to be.
It started with the tea pluckers, who were always women. They looked amazing in their colourful saris of vibrant greens and purples and oranges. They wore a light blanket or cumbli over their heads and the rope of their tea basket went on top of this; they plucked their “two leaves and a bud” with dazzling speed.
Their baskets would be weighed at the end of each shift and they would be paid according to weight. I was impressed by how they could stand unperturbed by the leeches in the monsoon months; they just let them bite and then waited for the great, black, blood filled creatures to drop off. Sometimes the bites became infected and had to be treated. Snakes were taken more seriously, but the women only occasionally got bitten and there was usually serum to treat them back at the factory. However, I admired their calm.
Tea pluckers
In fact, leeches were taken seriously, very seriously. If you went into the jungle, either for sport or to search for a dangerous, wounded animal – perhaps one that had become man-eating, one that had to be put out of its misery or “dealt with” – you never went alone. If you had an accident, broke a leg for example and could not walk, a shotgun might protect you from the panthers, the jackals, or even the snakes – but it could not protect you from the leeches. In a matter of hours, you could be covered in the little bastards and they would not take long to simply drain you; like the worst sort of Hammer Horror, even Dracula could not compete with leeches. So that was the rule – never go alone. And go with someone you trusted!
Most estates had their own factory. The smell in the factory was utterly distinctive and utterly delicious. It’s hard to describe, sweeter, more intense than new mown grass. If you stick your nose in a newly opened packet of tea (posh tea, maybe from a single estate and not blended), you will get just a hint of the scent. If you didn’t prune the tea bushes, they would grow to about 60 feet and would flower and fruit. They would produce a single, pure white flower, similar but slightly smaller than a camellia (they are from the same family).
The freshly plucked leaves, two leaves and a bud, so soft, young leaves, are first “withered” in troughs, under strictly controlled conditions of temperature and humidity, for between 12 to 20 hours, depending on the season. The “withered” leaves are fed to rolling machines that twist and break the leaf, thereby releasing the sap. Fermentation is carried out by spreading the rolled leaves in layers in a carefully monitored environment for a specific duration. They are then dried and fluidised in bed dryers, cleaned of stalk and fibre by electric static machines and sorted into various commercial grades by sieving, breaking, cutting and winnowing operations.
That was the orthodox method that was used up until the early 1970s. It all sounds a bit technical, but in truth it was fascinating to watch this in progress.
The tea was then graded into categories. Orange Pekoe was generally thought to be the top category – wiry, whole leaves were used to produce flavourful, fragrant and light–coloured liquor. They would grade downwards until what was called “fannings” or “sweepings”. These are small particles, quite rich in colour, and generally used for quick brewing. I remember my father saying he would avoid tea bags as the “fannings” were used in them, making the tea strong, but less delicate in flavour. There were never tea bags in our house.
The tea made from Kalaar estate tea alone, unblended with any other, was exquisitely delicate. Tea-time was a time we looked forward to as young teenagers. I relished the tea, which was always served with some ceremony in pretty cups and from a silver teapot. We usually had a newly baked cake with it, or light floury scones and butter from our own cow. (We kept a cow and several chickens). I think teatime was a civilised gift the Edwardians and the Raj left to us. I like everything to do with tea: the china and silver teapots and strainers and sugar tongs and all the accoutrements that go with it. Tea at the Ritz is a serious and posh affair, as it is at the Savoy and Claridges and the Waldorf in the Aldwych.
On visits to London when I was staying with my mother’s sister, Ailsa, and her warmly welcoming and accommodating children, my cousins, Pam and Brian, we would visit the Ceylon Tea Centre in Lower Regent Street. It was always packed, as the tea was really delicious, fragrant yet strong, and the taste of it always pulled me back to India and the sitting room at Kalaar with the log fire spitting and the radio crackling with the BBC World Service News.
At the Tea Centre, you had a choice of sandwiches, a bun, a crumpet or scone followed by a choice of cake. The women serving looked so beautiful in their saris and were gracious and elegant. I wanted so much to be like them, reed slim with small wrists and calm eyes.
One of the nicest places to go for tea now is to the Wolseley in Piccadilly. The cake stands and teapots and starched linen table cloths give due seriousness to this brew that began its life thousands of miles away, under the Anamudi Mountain in the blue, blue hills of the High Range, and ripened into two leaves and a bud under the Indian sky.
Tea has many therapeutic uses apart from just drinking it.
If you have a late night and you wake up with suitcases under your eyes, the whites of which look like uncooked egg whites, only bloodshot, lie down for ten minutes with a couple of cold teabags on your eyes. You will get up with your eyes looking and feeling better – really – I’ve tried it. It works!
Uses in the kitchen:
Rub a pan that still has the smell of onion or fish (the latter never in my house of course, because I hate fish!) with damp tea leaves and the smell disappears.
You can use it as a cleaning agent. Dip a cloth in cold tea and wipe over mirrors or chrome and it will gleam.
And of course feed houseplants on tea; they love it. Not every day, just as often as you would normally feed your plants.
In theatre companies, the wardrobe mistress often uses a dilution of tea to “dip” shirts or lace, giving it the colour of a soft sepia photograph.
On the other hand if you want to remove those stubborn brown circles of tea from a white table cloth, drop a few drops of lemon juice on the stain, leave it a few minutes and then wash out.
For a very old tea stain – water mixed with glycerine. This does work.
Tips on serving tea:
Always heat the pot, but never add “teaspoons – one for the pot”; it makes the tea too strong. Use filtered, cold water to boil up and pour it on the tea as soon as it’s boiled. Leave it for three minutes if it is Indian tea, a little longer if China tea. If you are not serving it immediately and you think it’s brewed, strain it, to prevent it becoming stewed and bitter, and stir it. If a cup of tea is too strong, poor some water into the cup first and then add the tea – don’t add it to the pot.
Which brings me to the vexed question of milk first or tea first? My father used to get quite animated about this. In posh circles, the etiquette was tea first, followed by milk. Apparently if your porcelain was not of good quality, the boiling tea could crack the cup, hence milk in first. If your porcelain was of excellent quality, it would withstand the hot tea
being poured in first. I’m told that is how it started. Who had the best china – the richest, poshest people. So it became a sort of class snobby thing. Very cucumber sandwiches and Lady Bracknell. My father (and I must say, all his tea planter colleagues) insisted on milk in first and to hell with the snobbishness. It was the same thing as putting hot water into the cup then the tea if you wanted to dilute it. The tea mixed better, swirled around more if it followed the milk into the cup. To this day I am fussy enough to have my tea in porcelain cups instead of chunky pottery or thick china mugs. I just like it in cups; it feels more refreshing and gracious, it is more calming – to me anyway.
Tea with lots of sugar was considered good for shock of course. Remember all those war films. “Here you are dear, a nice cup of tea.” And who will forget those scenes in Brief Encounter, agonising over cups of tea on station platforms, supposed to soothe troubled breasts.
Tea reached Scotland somewhat later than it reached England. In 1785 the Duchess of Monmouth sent a pound of tea leaves to a relative who chopped them up and boiled them and ate them as one would eat spinach. What can it have tasted like?
TEN
Gin and Nimbu–Pani
I’ve so often been asked by people in response to the story of my upbringing, “Why, Isla? Why did you have to be sent home? Why couldn’t you stay with your parents?” I’ve become quite tired with searching for answers that are beyond “because that was the way of it, what was expected, what happened.” Did I mind? Of course I minded, but I daresay I would have minded a good deal more if, when living all the time with my parents, they didn’t love me, neglected me, mocked me or put me down. I accommodated the temporary loss of my parents, making each reunion sweet, each parting a little grief, but with the promise of the next reunion full of anticipated and real joy.
Besides, the pain, the real pain belonged to the parents who lived without their children. I am a recent grandmother to two beloved little girls and the pain of parting from them even for a short while is like the pain that only those in love really understand. I miss their smiles, their chatter; I miss it so much it’s a physical pain. I think of them both when I wake up and I think about them just before I go to sleep. Love for them makes me sentimental. The anticipation of seeing them when I go round with pounding heart to ring on their door bell and hear their voices cry out, “It’s Raderah Isla ... coming Raderah Isla.” The door opens and there stand my girls – arms outstretched to me and I fold them up into the hug I’ve so needed even if I only saw them yesterday. I love being called Raderah, their name for me, because they couldn’t say Grandma.
This is what those parents missed – all of them, not just mine. Perhaps the pain lessened in time; perhaps they simply learned to live with it, even becoming dependent on the pain, because it connected them to their babies. But I don’t know and can only speculate by imagining my feelings, not theirs. If they felt the anguish I imagine they did, I can only feel for them and admire their restraint and their stoicism. Stiff upper lips are out of fashion, but I like them. There is so much spilling of emotion and feelings nowadays that would be far better being kept private – in newspapers, on TV, in reality programmes and dramas. In drama – or in life, for that matter – I am far more moved by people trying not to show their feelings than people who exhibit them. I don’t think there is anything so very bad about control and reserve and nursing a private sorrow close to one’s chest. Counsellors and psychiatrists may tell me I am wrong, but occasionally giving voice to a pain doesn’t make it go away, rather it turns it into something solid, that demands attention for something to be done about it, at whatever cost.
Women left behind in India as their children were sent home had had their choice in some ways made for them. Be with your husband and lose your children into the arms of strangers, or go home with your children and lose your husband into the arms of a mistress. The older women in the High Range warned young brides that their duty lay with their husbands, or they could lose them. Besides, “Children are resilient, they get used to anything.” But they were left with the loneliness and grief, for it was a kind of bereavement, loss temporary or permanent felt by my parents and their friends on giving us up, knowing, hoping it was the right thing to do for us, for our future. Maybe long, lonely empty days were spent without the laughter of their babies in the struggle to remember the sound of their voices, trying to visualise their growing, changing bodies. So many milestones missed – first day of the holidays, being picked for the hockey team, suddenly being able to swim, getting the solo in the school choir, finding your first pubic hair, getting your first period – all those things they weren’t able to see or be told about. So they were excluded by time and distance and lack of – well, being there. Could the tennis parties, nights at the club, gymkhanas, polo matches, walks through the hills make up for this sacrifice? Anxiety and longing filled their mornings, and maternal arms must have embraced many sunny afternoons and found them empty. Maybe my parents learned to shut out pain because nothing could be changed; tradition could not be altered. You would somehow be depriving your children of their Britishness if you tried.
At the turn of the twentieth century and into the 1920s there was a shortage of women in this macho world of the tea planters. So the Fishing Fleet arrived. It became notorious in fact – for hopeful, unmarried, young women were shipped out to India in batches, none of them realising what could possibly be in store for them, desperate to find husbands and a new life for themselves. Most of them were doomed to disappointment. The Fishing Fleet disembarked at Colombo and those who failed to find husbands made the ignominious, long journey home as “Returned Empties.”
It surprises me that more people in the tea community weren’t alcoholic, nymphomaniac or both. Some, of course, were. Those who found the physical isolation less burdensome than the emotional kind, often left their husbands to return home to civilisation, where intellectual and emotional food could be relished, savoured and discussed at length with like–minded companions. They were “failures”, “misfits” ... “She drinks, you know, on her own.” Reasons were rarely sought for this deviant behaviour and the ones who left woeful abandoned husbands were considered no better than they should be. “Well, she comes from Glasgow, couldn’t get used to the silence, the jungle, the rain, the leeches, the isolation.” The man, after all, has his job, she doesn’t even have the housework, cooking, sewing – servants do all that. Emptiness must have become routine.
I often questioned my mother about her days. How did she fill them? I tried to picture her doing elegant things or ordinary things – especially ordinary things. I never saw her cook or iron a shirt, or clean the bath, or sweep the floor, because someone else did those things – servants.
There was no labour-saving help for the servants. The sweeper brushed and swept the carpets, then took them outside to beat them – there was no vacuum cleaner. There was no dishwasher either; Matey washed the dishes without washing up liquid and there was no washing machine so the dhobi washed the bed clothes and the table linen, sometimes boiling them in a huge pot, then they’d be starched and bleached out on the lawn. They’d sometimes be put through the wooden mangle, but usually they just got dry enough on the washing line at the back of the bungalow for the dhobi to iron. There was no freezer, so the Boy had to shop in the bazaar every day. There was no tin-foil or cling-film, so food was covered in the larder with a cloth or a large net mat with little shells or stones dangling from it. Did we have a fridge? I don’t remember one. Bath water was heated with wood by the goosle man, knives were cleaned by Matey with sand and cork and sharpened on a slate. The servants lived in houses behind my parents’ white pillared bungalow and they loved my mother and father fiercely, loyally and with complete devotion. My parents in turn respected, felt affection for and cared for them. Of course, it was a form of feudalism, but they were not serfs, but free men and women who chose to stay with my parents out of affection, respect and tradition.
In 1960 when my p
arents finally left India for good, their young chokra, Michael, asked for a lift down to Cochin with them; he said he was going to a wedding. When he turned up at the airport with a suitcase tied up with string, asking to come to England with them, to look after them, my parents’ resolve to keep their upper lips stiff all but vanished and it was with tear-blurred eyes that they saw his small figure still waving at the plane as it soared higher and disappeared into the clouds.
I was nonplussed by the fact that someone (the same Michael aged fourteen who was the cook’s eleventh child, who had taught himself to read and write) should run my bath and clean it when I had finished; that the bathroom sweeper was not allowed into the kitchen and had his meals apart from the other servants. I was appalled. Why did my parents allow this?
My father tried to explain: it was the caste system. There was no sneering that the British knew better, no “hurrah for the Raj,” but it was a different era and Imperialism ran deep. He was not ashamed of the British in India, as we were later expected to be, and he respected Indian culture and customs, so he tried, with what knowledge he had as a foreigner, to explain India’s Hinduism and the Hindu’s Indianism. I still remember some of what he said.
“We are guests here, Isla. We came as conquerors and we did much harm, but also some good to India. But this is their country, not ours – and while we are here, we will respect and hold dear what they respect and hold dear, even if sometimes we don’t understand it. The servants need to know their place because their caste dictates it and they expect me, us, to be their friends without ever stepping over the never discussed border of friendship. I respect and trust them. I hope they respect and trust me. But I sit at the table and they serve me. There is no shame or humiliation, nothing demeaning to them in their service, there is pride. They are proud people. Do not have the ignorance and pomposity to be ashamed for them.”
