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Postprandial PegBy Jeff Tikari A story based on the life of tea planters in the verdant sub-Himalayan region of West Bengal (India) circa 1960. Ajit and Pratap were young Assistant Managers working on adjacent tea plantations. Both were bachelors, which left them with not much to do at the close of day. Their options for the evening were limited: they could drive to the nearest suburban town and watch an outdated Indian movie (and consequently get bitten raw by bugs – not an appealing prospect), or visit other bachelors and down some pegs of their favourite libation. Their cherished scenario was to be invited to drinks and dinner by a young married couple. With a lady around, all were at their charming best and the evenings were pleasant and cheerful. However, those invitations were sadly like the proverbial blue moon. Weekends were fine, for one usually took part in sports at the Planters Club, got slurring drunk at the bar, danced like wolves, and flirted outrageously. Ajit and Pratap did their normal share of merry-making on weekends - the evenings after work on weekdays were like being marooned on a lonely island. Of the options available to bachelors, Ajit and Pratap chose to add company to the 'lonely island' by visiting each other every second day. The evenings were now pleasurable. Ajit had a radiogram: a sleek highly polished wooden cabinet with shelves on the left for long playing records and a Philips record player on the right – it made a compelling reason to meet at his bungalow. Pratap drove across in the Company jeep in the greying evening light with his bottle of Red Knight Indian whisky; they would drink and argue until dinnertime. Dinner was unerringly western fare: steaming soup followed by a meat roast, butter mashed potatoes, and thick brown sauce. The meal ended usually with a not too firm caramel custard desert. A bottle of sherry would then be fished out of the glass fronted cabinet to end the evening with their usual postprandial peg and cigars from South India. Saturdays were movie nights at the Planter’s Club where one saw an outdated English film (black & white usually) and afterwards gathered at the bar to discuss and argue on any subject at hand. When married planters left with their memsahibs, conversation turned more colourful: talents of bachelor friends and their prowesses with the opposite sex were loudly debated, derided or ridiculed; swear words became more the norm than the exception. Later, much later, in the wee hours, when only a drunken person could understand the drooling slur of another drunk, they left; staggering to their jeeps or Ambassador cars and slumped into the driver’s seat – few had personal chauffeurs. Sundays were recuperating and nursing-hangover mornings. Aspirins, paracetamols and eggnog concoctions were swallowed down to salve a throbbing head. By lunchtime, there was a gathering at the club to down that hair-of-the-dog peg, usually pink gins or beer. The vigorous types sweated it out on the tennis court or the golf course and 'beered' afterwards. But soon one felt the weekend slip away and it was back home to face the grind at the crack of dawn the next morning. This pleasant way of enjoying long (otherwise lonely) evenings became a routine treasured by both friends; if one postponed these evening get-togethers, the other would banteringly ask whether the errant partner was finding the present company boring or had found solace in the arms of one of the local bazaar women: big bosomed, with garlic breath, mustard oil on the skin, and strong aromatic oil on the head. The planting community looks forward to the onset of 'cold weather'; the climate is pleasant, work's at a minimum, and club activities at their peak. All picking of tea leaves is over and the factories are dismantled for the yearly overhaul. This is the festive season: a season of parties, fetes and club sport championships (tennis, golf and some indoor games). It is a season when planters travel far and wide to other districts to join in the revelries offered. A club-hosted dinner is part of the function. Each club also has its yearly do then replete with a live string band from Shillong to enliven the occasion. Ajit and Pratap awaited this season of festivities like parched amphibians to the onset of the monsoons. Teenage daughters of planters: fresh faced, fun loving, and accompanied with their proud parents’ would be back on cold-weather vacations vitalizing club evenings. The mood change in the friends was discernable too: their banter was easier, lighter, and drinking heavier. Their prized bottle of sherry, at home, too appeared to take on a joviality of its own, for it emptied its self faster and quicker. This concerned the two friends for the sherry was imported and considerably more expensive than the local whisky. They questioned the night watchman as to how the level of their favourite tipple was dwindling so alarmingly? He scratched his head then his crotch and straight-facedly claimed to be a teetotaller. The house bearer too looked shiftily around him, but claimed ignorance though admitting that when he did have an occasional drink, it was always haria / lau pani – the local plantation brewed hooch. The two young executives were not happy with the excuses they were being offered and so, over the following weeks, hatched a plan to expose the culprit. They conspired to almost finish the sherry that night and fill it up to the half way mark with their own urine. They rubbed their hands in glee in anticipation, for this would surely expose the secret toper. When next they met they eagerly checked the adulterated bottle of sherry: the level had gone down by a good peg and a half. The friends were stunned. Let’s not say anything yet, they decided; let us see what happens tomorrow. The following night the bottle was a further large peg down. “Impossible!” said Ajit. “Do you mean some idiot can’t tell the difference between Old Sack sherry and our piss?” This called for a thorough investigation. The servants were summoned to the sitting room. They stood in a scraggly line, apprehensive and fidgeting. This was a serious matter – to be summoned together like this augured a grave situation. They looked at each other…there was some talk of the sahibs’ whisky missing. They glanced surreptitiously at the house bearer – he was known to drink every day after work. Ajit questioned them repeatedly as to how his cherished sherry was dwindling, but received no answers or admissions. “Come on,” bellowed Ajit. “Own up or the lot of you will be sacked from bungalow work and relegated to field work.” The servants were shaken and nonplussed; they shifted uncomfortably and looked at each other accusingly. The kitchen help quaveringly piped up in a small voice, “Sahib, I… I have seen the cook opening the drink cabinet. Perhaps he should be questioned.” The cook waddled in; fat greasy with the Hindu holy mark smeared on his forehead. But like the others, he claimed he did not drink. “I’m a holy man, Sir, it is forbidden to me.” “Who then has been drinking our sherry?” Ajit flashed the bottle for all to see, “we haven’t had a drink from this bottle in the last two nights and yet it is short by two or three large pegs?” He glared at them fiercely to hide a chuckle that was rising in his throat; for who ever admitted to this dastardly felony would soon be throwing up on the lawn outside when he learned he had been drinking his and Pratap’s urine. The gathered employees looked goggle-eyed at the offending bottle. “But, Sir,” stammered the cook looking, bewildered. “I… I mean that is the sherry drink, Sir, a peg of which I put in your honors’ soup every night.” Jeff Tikari M –12/24, DLF City –2, Gurgaon 122002, India E-mail: jtikari@vsnl.com Web : www.visavina.com - A synoptical list of stories can be viewed here. About the Author: About the Author: Jeff Tikari hails from Bihar in India and has worked on tea plantations in northern India for twenty years and on coffee and tea plantations in Papua New Guinea for fifteen years. He now lives on the outskirts of Delhi where he runs a Homeopathic clinic and from where he does all his writing. His first book on spiritualism and philosophy: ‘The Future Intelligence’ was published in the year 2000. He has also had short articles & stories published in magazines around India, the USA, Canada, and in the UK. He has self published a book, ‘Masala Tales & Random Thoughts’. Jeff is presently writing an autobiography and another novel. Jeff Tikari, M-12/24, DLF City -2, Gurgaon 122002, India. E-mail: jtikari@vsnl.com

Postprandial PegBy Jeff Tikari

A story based on the life of tea planters in the verdant sub-Himalayan region of West Bengal (India) circa 1960.

Ajit and Pratap were young Assistant Managers working on adjacent tea plantations. Both were bachelors, which left them with not much to do at the close of day. Their options for the evening were limited: they could drive to the nearest suburban town and watch an outdated Indian movie (and consequently get bitten raw by bugs – not an appealing prospect), or visit other bachelors and down some pegs of their favourite libation. Their cherished scenario was to be invited to drinks and dinner by a young married couple. With a lady around, all were at their charming best and the evenings were pleasant and cheerful.

However, those invitations were sadly like the proverbial blue moon. Weekends were fine, for one usually took part in sports at the Planters Club, got slurring drunk at the bar, danced like wolves, and flirted outrageously.

Ajit and Pratap did their normal share of merry-making on weekends - the evenings after work on weekdays were like being marooned on a lonely island. Of the options available to bachelors, Ajit and Pratap chose to add company to the 'lonely island' by visiting each other every second day. The evenings were now pleasurable. Ajit had a radiogram: a sleek highly polished wooden cabinet with shelves on the left for long playing records and a Philips record player on the right – it made a compelling reason to meet at his bungalow. Pratap drove across in the Company jeep in the greying evening light with his bottle of Red Knight Indian whisky; they would drink and argue until dinnertime. Dinner was unerringly western fare: steaming soup followed by a meat roast, butter mashed potatoes, and thick brown sauce. The meal ended usually with a not too firm caramel custard desert. A bottle of sherry would then be fished out of the glass fronted cabinet to end the evening with their usual postprandial peg and cigars from South India.

Saturdays were movie nights at the Planter’s Club where one saw an outdated English film (black & white usually) and afterwards gathered at the bar to discuss and argue on any subject at hand.

When married planters left with their memsahibs, conversation turned more colourful: talents of bachelor friends and their prowesses with the opposite sex were loudly debated, derided or ridiculed; swear words became more the norm than the exception.

Later, much later, in the wee hours, when only a drunken person could understand the drooling slur of another drunk, they left; staggering to their jeeps or Ambassador cars and slumped into the driver’s seat – few had personal chauffeurs.

Sundays were recuperating and nursing-hangover mornings. Aspirins, paracetamols and eggnog concoctions were swallowed down to salve a throbbing head. By lunchtime, there was a gathering at the club to down that hair-of-the-dog peg, usually pink gins or beer. The vigorous types sweated it out on the tennis court or the golf course and 'beered' afterwards. But soon one felt the weekend slip away and it was back home to face the grind at the crack of dawn the next morning.

This pleasant way of enjoying long (otherwise lonely) evenings became a routine treasured by both friends; if one postponed these evening get-togethers, the other would banteringly ask whether the errant partner was finding the present company boring or had found solace in the arms of one of the local bazaar women: big bosomed, with garlic breath, mustard oil on the skin, and strong aromatic oil on the head.

The planting community looks forward to the onset of 'cold weather'; the climate is pleasant, work's at a minimum, and club activities at their peak. All picking of tea leaves is over and the factories are dismantled for the yearly overhaul. This is the festive season: a season of parties, fetes and club sport championships (tennis, golf and some indoor games). It is a season when planters travel far and wide to other districts to join in the revelries offered. A club-hosted dinner is part of the function. Each club also has its yearly do then replete with a live string band from Shillong to enliven the occasion.

Ajit and Pratap awaited this season of festivities like parched amphibians to the onset of the monsoons. Teenage daughters of planters: fresh faced, fun loving, and accompanied with their proud parents’ would be back on cold-weather vacations vitalizing club evenings. The mood change in the friends was discernable too: their banter was easier, lighter, and drinking heavier. Their prized bottle of sherry, at home, too appeared to take on a joviality of its own, for it emptied its self faster and quicker. This concerned the two friends for the sherry was imported and considerably more expensive than the local whisky.

They questioned the night watchman as to how the level of their favourite tipple was dwindling so alarmingly? He scratched his head then his crotch and straight-facedly claimed to be a teetotaller. The house bearer too looked shiftily around him, but claimed ignorance though admitting that when he did have an occasional drink, it was always haria / lau pani – the local plantation brewed hooch.

The two young executives were not happy with the excuses they were being offered and so, over the following weeks, hatched a plan to expose the culprit. They conspired to almost finish the sherry that night and fill it up to the half way mark with their own urine. They rubbed their hands in glee in anticipation, for this would surely expose the secret toper.

When next they met they eagerly checked the adulterated bottle of sherry: the level had gone down by a good peg and a half.

The friends were stunned. Let’s not say anything yet, they decided; let us see what happens tomorrow.

The following night the bottle was a further large peg down.

“Impossible!” said Ajit. “Do you mean some idiot can’t tell the difference between Old Sack sherry and our piss?”

This called for a thorough investigation.

The servants were summoned to the sitting room. They stood in a scraggly line, apprehensive and fidgeting. This was a serious matter – to be summoned together like this augured a grave situation. They looked at each other…there was some talk of the sahibs’ whisky missing. They glanced surreptitiously at the house bearer – he was known to drink every day after work.

Ajit questioned them repeatedly as to how his cherished sherry was dwindling, but received no answers or admissions.

“Come on,” bellowed Ajit. “Own up or the lot of you will be sacked from bungalow work and relegated to field work.”

The servants were shaken and nonplussed; they shifted

uncomfortably and looked at each other accusingly. The kitchen help quaveringly piped up in a small voice, “Sahib, I… I have seen the cook opening the drink cabinet. Perhaps he should be questioned.”

The cook waddled in; fat greasy with the Hindu holy mark smeared on his forehead. But like the others, he claimed he did not drink. “I’m a holy man, Sir, it is forbidden to me.”

“Who then has been drinking our sherry?” Ajit flashed

the bottle for all to see, “we haven’t had a drink from this bottle in the last two nights and yet it is short by two or three large pegs?”

He glared at them fiercely to hide a chuckle that was rising in his throat; for who ever admitted to this dastardly felony would soon be throwing up on the lawn outside when he learned he had been drinking his and Pratap’s urine.

The gathered employees looked goggle-eyed at the offending bottle.

“But, Sir,” stammered the cook looking, bewildered. “I… I mean that is the sherry drink, Sir, a peg of which I put in your honors’ soup every night.”

Jeff Tikari

M –12/24, DLF City –2,

Gurgaon 122002, India

E-mail: jtikari@vsnl.com

Web : www.visavina.com - A synoptical list of stories can be viewed here.

About the Author:

About the Author: Jeff Tikari hails from Bihar in India and has worked on tea plantations in northern India for twenty years and on coffee and tea plantations in Papua New Guinea for fifteen years. He now lives on the outskirts of Delhi where he runs a Homeopathic clinic and from where he does all his writing.

His first book on spiritualism and philosophy: ‘The Future Intelligence’ was published in the year 2000. He has also had short articles & stories published in magazines around India, the USA, Canada, and in the UK. He has self published a book, ‘Masala Tales & Random Thoughts’. Jeff is presently writing an autobiography and another novel.

Jeff Tikari, M-12/24, DLF City -2, Gurgaon 122002, India.

E-mail: jtikari@vsnl.com