Danny Pariat

We are indebted to Danny Pariat for these stories from Danny's memory box.--
Thank you Danny

In order to read one of these stories please click on the heading 

Hippies at Itakhooli

Life in these Tea Estates

WW II Jeeps

Anecdotes after reading Road of Bones by Fergal Keane 

Meghalaya


Folk Tales of the Khasis

Peter Brown's memories

Bara Saabs by Danny Pariat

Cha Garam

Koomsong T E (parts 1 & 2)

Correspondence with Bill Christie

The New Assistant

North Bank and Boroi district

Tales of Behora T E

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November 19 2011

Danny has kindly decided to put together a collection of memories/anecdotes from his years in Tea-below is the first on----thank you Danny

December 21 2011

 A story told to Danny Pariat by the late Peter Swer.

Hippies at Itakhooli

Peter Swer  was a very fine gentleman with many a story to tell and this is one of his many stories told to me when he was manager Itakhooli in the Tingri district.

One hot summer day Peter was surprised by a foreign hippie couple when they landed up at Itakhooli with no prior notice - apparently they had met one of Peter's friends in Delhi and when he heard that they were going to Assam to have a look at the tea gardens he had advised them that they should visit his good friend Peter at Itakhooli. Peter being Peter welcomed them and told them to make themselves at home( Peter's family was away and he was alone). The next morning,after breakfast, Peter went off on his kamjari after telling the hippie couple to feel free to use the swimming pool. After his rounds of the garden Peter made his way to the office for some paper work and as he settled in his seat he got a bit worried when he looked out of the window and saw his head bearer running helter skelter towards the manager's office. Peter got up and met the highly ruffled bearer at the verandah to find out what the kerfuffle was about. The bearer, out of breath, was urgently urging his bara saab to quickly make his way to the bungalow though he would not say what the bother was all about and highly puzzled, Peter thought he had better go and have a 'dekho'. As he approached the bungalow his anxiety increased when he saw that the plucking had stopped and that most of the pluckers were milling around one side of the bungalow and were desperately trying to have a peek through the hedge - as he got closer the mystery was resolved.What had happened was that,being a hot day,the hippie couple,seeing the beautiful sparkling water in the swimming pool, had decided to swim in the nude and from time to time came out of the pool to lie by it's side not knowing that they were causing chaos with the plucking challans plucking just around the bungalow. Peter,with his diplomatic tact, managed to get the couple inside and was very relieved when they departed the next day.



Life in these Tea Estates

Bishnauth District : -

Dec 7 2011
Another incident at the Bishnauth club happened many years ago during a fancy dress evening at the club.Two young assistants had dressed up as ladies and,as the evening wore on, were very insistant that,true to the spirit,they should use the 'ladies' when they needed to go through - this created a ruckus and they were roundly ticked off by a senior superintendent posted at Mijikajan( I gather the same one involved in the music system affair). Feeling really miffed the two assistants tried to enjoy the evening by getting on to the dance floor where they saw the Superintendent's  wife also dancing and were especially taken up by the way she was covered in air filled balloons - seeing the balloons they,mischievously tried to get their own back by bursting a balloon with a cigarette butt every time they got near the lady - this again created a real 'huu haa'(tea lingo) but despite several stern warnings from the superintendent,the two young men continued to burst the balloons.This was too much for the senior man and being possessed of a fiery temperament,he rushed off to Mijikajan and was soon back with a shotgun shouting loudly that he would sort out the two trouble makers by putting some buckshot in them - afraid that the threat would be carried out and seeing the gunman rushing at them the two lads in fancy dresses had no choice but to try and run out of the building but,the dresses being tight right down to their shoes,they had no choice but to bend down,lift their dresses and then ran around the club building with the 'mad' superintendent after them - luckily no one got hurt and the situation was soon brought under control but one can't help chuckling as one imagines the raging superintendent chasing two men,who, with arms akimbo and their fancy dresses around their waists,were running for their lives.

Some years ago an aged tree which must have been in existence for quite a number of years on the edge of the football field at Bishnauth Gymkhana Club collapsed in one of those fierce Assam storms, a pity really as this particular tree had a rather mischievous story behind it. One lazy summer afternoon while a group of planters were relaxing on the club verandah which overlooked the field and probably sipping their pink gins, they saw a local man slowly cycling across the football field and,with one accord, promptly decided to play a trick on him. The whole group moved out, accosted the cyclist and,in loud and threatening voices,  accused him of trespassing on private property for which he is to be punished - a rope was quickly fetched and slung over a branch of the above tree and the man was told that he was to be hanged. Panic stricken,the man was led to the rope and, lo and behold,before anyone knew what was happening, the poor fellow,  scared out of his mind,  promptly had a heart attack and died there and then - there was a big furore over the affair and even in those far off days it was with great difficulty that the planters were able  to convince the powers that be that it was all a joke that had tragically gone wrong. Just as well perhaps,that the tree is no more.

This one was told to me by the late Peter Swer. Peter,as a young assistant, had been appointed as Music member of Bishnauth club and one club evening,taking his post of music member seriously,was busy in the small music room.Peter had decided that for that evening the music would be mostly Scottish and for quite sometime Scottish music continued to be played till a senior superintendent, Irish at that and peeved that the Irish were not given any representation, objected and insisted that some Irish music be played.Peter promptly oblighed him with music from Ireland only for another Scottish superintendent to object and saying that they should continue with the music from Scotland - Peter again promptly turned to the music from the highlands to which the Irishman raised objections again. This resulted in a fierce quarrel between the two superintendents ending in the music system being thrown on the floor and used as a football by them - the system,of course,was a complete wreck and the club evening was ruined. I remember Peter telling me that next morning a package arrived at his bungalow from the person who had started the quarrel at the club - inside was a music system in very good condition,a replacement for the one which had been used as a football.

Mangaldai District.

No1. A bit of gallows humour here -  The Paneery airfield at WM's Paneery estate was considered to be the most practical airfield in the whole of Assam and the reason why? well it has the hospital on one side and  a cemetery on the other !

                      This was the same field on which the superintendent of the group,resident at Paneery, used to 'drive', yes, drive his small airplane, probably a tiger moth, up and down the airfield a few times a week before locking it up in the hanger and the reason? well he could not allow another manager in the district who owned a similar aircraft to upstage  him so he also had to have an airplane and acquired one but not being able to fly the machine as he was not a pilot was contented with driving it up and down the airfield every now and then.

                     
                       The old manager's bungalow at Paneery was on the edge of the airfield and the story goes that,years ago the pilot of the company aircraft, who was at dagger's drawn with the manager of the estate and who(the pilot),in any case, had decided to resign, one day had to land at Paneery round about breakfast time.He did land and knowing that the manager and his wife were having breakfast at that time on the verandah,ran his aircraft straight for the couple and got closer and closer to the bunglow - the couple,watching with increasing fear at this machine with all the noise and the dust behind it, finally jumped out of their chairs as the aircraft almost went through the low bungalow hedge and stopped. The pilot,they say, as calm as ever, gave the couple a nice and proper salaam and then turned his aircraft away.

                        At one end of the Paneery  airfield there are a few grave yards of people of the district who had passed away many years ago and are buried there.One belonged  to a gentleman who had been superintendent of the Attareekhat Tea Company and had died while in his office chair in 1967. This gentleman,who was very fond of beer, must have had a premonition of his early death as,sometime before he passed away, he had requested one of his assistants that in case he(the superintendent) died and is buried at Paneery cemetery,the assistant, should he ever visit the grave,must pour a bottle of beer over it on every visit - something which the assistant ( now a retired senior planter) does till now whenever he visits the grave.

                         It was also said that the manager of Corramore, an estate which was up in the hills and close to Bhutan and was very difficult to get to with terrible roads,had his own small aircraft and would fly to the Paneery club on club nights as the club was on the edge of the airfield.On going back,sometimes late at night,he would buzz the worker's colony near the airfield and,lo and behold,out would come the workers and,holding lit torches( made of bamboo and hessian) in their hands would line up on either side of the field forming beacon lights so that their bara sahaab could land - he must have been a very popular man with his workers.

2/The Mangaldai club being situated on one side of the Paneery airfield one had to drive past the the Paneery manager's office to get to and from the club and sometimes mischievous assistants, leaving the club late at night for home, would make it a point to spend a penny in the rain gauge in the manager's office compound.In the cold weather, when everything was dry and with no rain for weeks,many a time the office chowkidar would hurry to the manager in his morning office and would triumphantly show him the full rain gauge while also proudly announcing that there had been good rain during the night !!! the rain water though did have a rather  familiar smell and the manager soon caught on as to what was happening and took measures to prevent the rain gauge from being misused !  
Mangaldai Club,like most tea clubs in their hey days,was a fun club. A cousin of mine who was posted at Paneery and due to leave for Shillong on his annual leave, decided to attend a club evening before leaving early next morning( and so wanted an early night) - his plans to leave early were torpedoed as,the other bachelors,learning of his plans,decided to play a trick on him - while he was away from the bar a group of young men went out to his car and literally carried it( a standard herald,so not too difficult) sideways through the main club door and placed it in the middle of the dance floor.Imagine my cousin's shock on returning to see his car where it was -  his plans to leave early had to be abandoned and he had no choice but to join in the merriment which carried on till 'murgi dak'.

Another club incident involved a supertindent and his wife - the man, who was a senior planter, usually did not mix much with the younger crowd and stuck to one corner of the bar downing prodigious amounts of beer.His wife,on the other hand,was a friendly lady who,on most club nights, liked to chat and joke with the younger men and bachelors giving them all sorts of advice. So,his beer drinking and her friendly chatting was a regular affair at the club but her chatting did not go down well with her husband and one day things came to a head - standing close to him she was advising a new assistant on the virtues of parting his hair in a different manner and took a while in giving her advice while her hubby's irritation grew.As she finally said ''you should part it this way'' he could take it no more  and picking up an empty beer bottle,aimed it at the assistant's head and growled ''I'll part his hair''.

3/Years ago,over a drink, John Oliver (late) who was then our Senior Visiting Agent ,told me of an incident involving his first manager at Attareekhat. It was a holiday and the bara sahaab was relaxing on his verandah in one of those 'lie back' chairs when he spotted a tiger at the bungalow gate - the tiger furtively made it's way into the compound and seeing it getting closer the manager softly called out to his bearer, ''Bearer,bundook le ke ao''- the bearer,also seeing the tiger, quietly handed the gun over to his sahaab who calmly took aim and brought the tiger down with a single shot after which ,without losing his cool and without getting up from his chair,told his bearer, '' Bearer, bagh le ke ao ''.

To get to Attareekhat one had to cross a couple of rivers which though raging torrents in the mosoons, were bone dry in the cold weather. Once, in mid winter, the superintendent,after a heavy night at the club, was being driven back  by his driver when suddenly he told his driver to stop on the bank of the first river,chiding the driver at his carelessness in trying to drive the car into a river full of water( there were no bridges) - the driver tried to explain that there was no water at all and that the river was dry as there had been no rain for weeks.The saab,though,still full of whisky,insisted that the water was up - actually the river sand was full of bits of mica and these,shining in the moon light,gave the impression that the river had water - he told the driver to pull over to the side of the road and both spent a very uncomfortable night in the car,unable to get a good sleep as half the time they were  fighting hungry and irritating mosquitoes. Next morning,the sahaab woke up,his face swollen with mosquito bites and saw,much to his embarassment, that the driver was right and the river was bone dry.


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july 30 2011

  WW II Jeeps


This story was written by Janet Pariat daughter of Danny Pariat
Thank you Janet

 [Why Edmundian-Alumni] Why Shillong luv's em....WWII Jeeps

She's sixty-nine years old, and recently covered 329 km from Shillong
in Meghalaya to Dimapur in Nagaland without a hitch. In fact, she was
even part of the rally's winning team. Meet Ashok Lyngdoh's pristine
1942-model Willys jeep, which he lovingly refers to as part of the
family. "Even her siren works," he tells me, joyfully cranking it up.
His enthusiasm for World War II antiques spills over into other
things. His house is a veritable museum. On the table lies an American
Army plate and meat skewer, on my lap is the helmet of an unknown
British soldier, in the porch is parked a 1941-model BSA motorbike in
mid-restoration. These items were scattered in and around Shillong
during its `war years'.

After the spring of 1942, when Japan attacked Burma and ousted the
British, this sleepy little town was transformed into a bustling
convalescence base for Allied soldiers on the Burma front. The then
capital of Assam (which included Meghalaya, Mizoram and Nagaland),
Shillong was chosen for its mild weather, general prettiness and its
relative accessibility from Guwahati. It was also not without any
military standing, being the headquarters of some Gurkha units as well as the Assam Regiment (famous for stalling the Japanese army at Kharasom and Jessami in March 1944). Soldiers headed there for
much-needed rest and relaxation, to recover from months at the front
or bouts of malaria and black water fever. The British set up
makeshift camps near Nongrim Hills, while Americans (far  better paid
than their allies) hired bungalows all over town. There was plenty to
keep them busy-dances at Shillong Club, Kelsalls, and Pine Wood,
movies at Kelvin and Garrison cinema halls, swimming at Crinoline
Falls, among other things. Singer Dame Vera Lynn, fondly known as the "Forces' Sweetheart' visited in 1944, while English football and
cricketing legend Dennis Compton played with the troops at Polo
Ground. Also special was the interaction between the troops and the
locals. Bah Harvey Diengdoh, an 88-year-old writer and musician,
speaks to me of his elder brother, Osborne, a member of the Royal Army Medical Corp. "He had two Scottish soldier friends. They'd all get merry in the evening and sing Bonny Banks of Loch Lomond."

Despite this taking place over 60 years ago, the legacy of the war
lingers on in Shillong in the most unusual ways. In the nar aeroplane
(metal used to create landing strips in the Northeast jungles) that
lines the footpaths of houses, the helmets used as flower pots, the
ghost stories that haunt the corridors of Loreto Convent and St
Edmund's (schools used as military hospitals), the children who carry
traces of `foreign' genes in their blue eyes and freckled faces, in
faded photographs that hang above fireplaces, and stories that people cradle and pass on. The war years still resound in Shillong. And none louder than in the drone of a Willys engine.

In 1942, after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbour and America's
subsequent entry into the War, the US Army's Quarter Master Corp
sanctioned the order for a `field' car, a light, 4-wheel-drive,
multi-purpose, all-terrain vehicle that could traverse rough, unpaved
territory. Combining elements of various pre-war prototypes, a
standard vehicle was designed by Willys Overland, which only Ford was capable of manufacturing in the thousands. General Purpose Willys (GPWs) vehicles were shipped across the world to all arenas of war-Africa, Europe, the Pacific and Burma. My quest to understand the appeal of these jeeps first takes me to Kolkata, fitting perhaps as
this was the place from where they were sent to the Northeast. Uday
Bhan Singh is co-founder of Jeep Thrills, a group that brings together
jeep-lovers from across the country and world. He lives in a rambling
old place in Howrah, which has half a jeep lodged in the first floor
wall of his house. It hangs over his porch like a surreal yet proud
trophy. He has designed his life, he tells me, around doing what he
loves-restoring World War II jeeps.

"I was brought up amid cars. We had a bus transport company. My father and uncle owned 1945-model GPWs. But of all the cars we
had-Rolls-Royce, Cadillac, Chevrolet, Chrysler-I always fancied the
jeeps. Of course," he adds with a smile, "there was a ban on the
others. We weren't allowed to touch them, but jeeps were rough, tough.
You could jump and play in them." He uses the word "freedom" and I
think we may have uncovered the core of why these vehicles are loved.

If Singh's house is surrounded by `a graveyard of rusted automobiles'
(to quote Arlo Guthrie), then Shillong is an actual burial ground.
After the War ended in 1945, jeeps, along with other military
equipment (often even livestock), were buried in various places in the
outskirts of town. The DC gave permission for locals to `cannibalise'
this buried treasure and reuse the metal; yet whole vehicles survived,
some given away by the troops as gratuity or payment for debts owed.
Although there are plenty of post-War and Mahindra jeeps in Shillong,
some four restored GPWs originals survive in town today. Yes, this
love of jeeps is about "freedom", says Ashok, but not only in the easy
rider, open road kind of way. It wasn't even, as I'd believed, so much
about masculinity. "What the horse was to the Wild West, the jeep was to the Northeast," he says. "If you look at connectivity throughout
this region up to the War and early 50s, you had no roads. You had one road from Shillong to Guwahati, one up to Mawphlang, and it was jeeps that paved new dirt tracks that eventually became roads." Apart from providing geographical links, the jeep also served to bring people together in other ways. "It was used as a bus, an ambulance, a taxi. It was used to carry plane sheets, farm produce and livestock,"
explains Ashok. "It's ironic how an instrument of war actually became
an instrument of peace. It became something that brought about the
development of this entire area. And this is perhaps the reason why
people here have this strong emotional attachment to the jeep."
There's a lady, he continues, who, a few days after she was born, was taken in a jeep from Shillong to Nongkrem (where there were no roads). In honour of the vehicle, she was named Jeepsy.

Bah Wendell Passah, who Ashok calls his mentor, elaborates, "The jeeps would travel to and from various marketplaces in the Khasi and Jaintia Hills. Bazaars were held every week. Shillong was the centre from where these vehicles would go to Jowai, Dowki, Umroi, Laitlyngkot, Thadlaskein." It was also fortunate, he says, that there was a dedicated group of civilians who'd trained as mechanics during the war years-"The people of the hills were quick to learn and good with their hands. They later turned drivers and also tended to the jeeps. We have workshops in Shillong with families of mechanics for two-three generations. Not only were jeeps used by our grandparents to travel, they provided us with a livelihood; naturally we feel strongly about them." And this fondness still runs in their veins, no matter how far away they are from home. Sujan Deb, for example, who lives and works in Aberdeen, Scotland, shops for vehicle parts from junkyards in Shrewsbury, Shropshire and Derbyshire and mails them to Shillong, so he can restore the jeep he owns when he makes his annual two-week visit home. He has a long way to go, considering it has taken Ashok, Wendell and others almost a decade to restore their GPWs.

It's easy to see why it would take that long and require this kind of
dedication. GPWs are beautiful, intricate machines that infuse the
term `multi-purpose' with new meaning-the tyre rims are specially
built to be towed on railway tracks; a shovel and axe fit neatly
beside the driver's seat; the headlights can be inverted to illuminate
the engine; in case of a flat, the tyre tubes could be stuffed with
skum (straw) and run for another 48 km; the dashboard lights are
carefully diffused so snipers wouldn't spot them; the brake wires are
carefully enclosed to save them from wear and tear; the Jerrycans can carry not just petrol but soup and stew; the tyres could be lifted and hooked to a rubber belt that would help saw wood or churn laundry. "More than all that," says Ashok, "they became extensions of the soldiers who slept, shaved, drank, ate and died in these vehicles. My jeep is a memorial to all of them."

As a special treat, I'm taken on a jeep ride to Jowai, a town two
hours away from Shillong. As we hit a traffic-free road winding down
the hillside, warm winter sunshine on my back, I realise that
sometimes there's nothing like the wind in your face to lift the
weight of history.
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 August 15 2010
Danny sent  a few anecdotes for the Koihai -
these I remembered after reading Fergal Keane's 'Road of Bones'.
Thanks Danny

I have just read one of the best accounts of the Battle of Kohima the
 ' Road of Bones ' written by Fergal Keane.I especially liked the book as it gives the picture as viewed from the Japanese side also.While reading the book I  recollected some of the stories which I had heard over the years about incidents  connected to people who had been there.
       The first time I met a person who had actually fought at Kohima was when  I had just joined Tea at Koomsong tes estate in the Doom Dooma area way back in 1972,We had a truck driver named Hiteswar Saikia who was ex Assam  Regiment and had been in the thick of the fighting at Kohima in 1944 - one thing that I clearly remembered him telling me was that when wave after wave of  fanatical Japanese soldiers had flung themselves at them and after firing almost  non stop,the barrels of the guns had become redhot and the only way to cool the  barrels was for the men to 'pee' on them as water,which was desperately short, could not be spared.Truly,it was men like (late) Saikia who had kept the Japs at  bay at Sangshak and Jessami and thus delayed the Japs for a few crucial days -
in those few days they gave Kohima the chance to build up it's defences.
                   Fergal Keane in the book mentions about sepoy Wellington Massar, the hero of the billiard table who was shot and fell off the table but got back on to  give his comrades covering fire - he refused to be taken away for treatment and  later died of his wounds.I mention this because I know the Massar family well and  sometime ago I was at his family home here in Shillong and noticed a very fine picture of Wellington hanging  proudly in the sitting room.He won an award but  sadly,it was posthumously.
                         Slim was the commender of the 14th Army responsible for kicking the Japs out of Burma and one day,talking to an old grand uncle of mine I was  quite shocked to hear from him that he had been Slim's family driver during the war here in Shillong - he mostly drove Mrs Slim and the children around.Slim  must have been fond of him as,years later when Slim had become the Governor  General of Australia, he was still dropping a line to his old driver.
                Years ago another story was told to me at the Tezpur Station Club by  another veteran soldier who was also ex Assam Regiment and had fought in the  Kohima area.Many years after the war,1992 in fact,my soldier friend by the name of Hazarika was making a trip to the U.K. and on landing,probably at Heathrow was denied entry as his visa was not in order - firmly but quietly he told the girl at  the counter that he was rather puzzled as years ago,during the war,he was found  fit enough to fight for the King and Empire but how come now he was not not  allowed to enter the country of the king that he had fought for - the girl was taken
aback and quickly called the person in charge who was made aware of the problem.
This  other person then consulted his higher ups and came back with a smile on his face.He said something like' welcome to the UK Mr. Hazarika,we are very sorry  for the trouble caused to you' and to show how sorry they were the man gave the  old soldier free bus/rail passes for the two months that he was going to be there. Hazarika,incidentally,was visiting to meet old Assam Regiment veterans and also decided to go and meet his old commanding officer's wife (wife of Col.Bruno Brown,
who was killed while the Japs were being driven out of Kohima). Mrs.Brown had  directed him to get off at a certain station where a car would meet him - I remember him telling me that he was really shocked when this car rolled into the station with  Mrs.Brown at the wheel as she was then  92 years of age !!!
              Very few of the old soldiers are still around but they never forget their  regimental motto' Tagra Roho'( Stand Firm).
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February 15, 2010
This is a great read prepared by Derek Perry especially for the Reunion of the St Edmunds School in Shillong last week.  Derek has kindly agreed for us to show it on http://www.koi-hai.com/ and we thank him

Meghalaya

There are two place names that have much in common. I am told that Meghalaya for the Khasi people means, "Home of the Clouds." When the Polynesian Maori sailed their canoes west from Hawaii across the Pacific about Seven hundred years ago, they made landfall. Before them was this long land mass with a stretch of cloud shrouding the upper reaches. The Maori settled there comfortably and named their new abode, "Te Ao Arora" the land of the long white cloud. Later the white man came and called it, New Zealand. Two indigenous people for whose culture and history, the cloud formations of their respective land, represent important significance. I have been privileged to live many years under the clouds and rainfall of both countries. But this is a brief account of my early life living in what is now called Meghalaya.

I came into the world 75 years ago at the little town of Tura in the Garo hills. I am told that Tura, at that time, did not offer much in the way of maternity care. In my case I arrived through entry by caesarean section, an operation for which the local Medical Officer was a little short on experience. Apparently, the usual agonising waiting before the scalpel incision was put to my poor mother was prolonged because the good Hindu M.O. with astrological fervour insisted the astral position of the stars had not reached their auspicious position in the night sky. So on that propitious note, out I popped.

Seventy five years not out is not a bad innings. I hope to collect a few more years with a few judicious push strokes with the odd tickle around the wicket before ‘Father Time' rattles the timber behind me. Another ten would be nice, fifteen a lot better.

I have no recollection of my infant years at Tura. I had a devoted Garo ayah whose name was Shoray, that is all I know. Also, I am told I developed a kleptomaniac tendency for purloining the rusks off the other few American missionary infants when all the babies came with their respective ayahs for the evening social gathering.

My first images are that of the small town of Jowai located some forty miles away from Shillong. Now I had a new ayah and that became her name, "new ayah." New ayah was of the Panaar people of the Jaintia hills. She spoke no English but was fluent in her native Panaar. At that age I spoke little of my mother tongue, English, and no Panaar. However, over time new ayah spoke more English, and I developed more English and more Panaar. One could say that by the tender age of three or four I was bilingual.

Jowai was a little town with no real public buildings of note. There was the Kutcherre, the Jail, a Dak bungalow and a noisy, once a week under cover bazaar precinct. There was a civic lake more the size of a pond and by it a small playground for gatherings. But of Churches it boasted many impressive edifices of different Christian denominations. On Sundays, many church bells rang with great persistence, beckoning the faithful from all directions. The area was subtropical and wild, game abounded in all forms and sizes. My father was called out by villagers to dispose of about a dozen rogue elephants and on one occasion a marauding leopard. I was made to sit on the leopard carcass, to be photographed with feelings of great trepidation. Why me I thought, I didn't shoot the damn thing?

Those formative years were bliss, I knew nothing else. My parents loved me and I was spoilt rotten, I felt secure. Of course I was naughty. New ayah would frighten the living daylights out of me, by threatening my little wee life to the machinations of the dreaded ‘Shongnoh.' The ‘Shongnohs' were a cult who were the masters of an offshoot of the mighty ‘thlen.' The ‘thlen' in ancient Khasi times was a dragon like creature that craved human flesh and blood. This mythical gentleman lived in a cave near Cherrapunjee, he was only appeased by human sacrifice. One day a brave Khasi warrior confronted and killed the beast with a sharp sword and sliced it into little bits. Not a happy, if gory end. The bits reconstituted themselves into little ‘thlens' and the ‘Shongnohs' became their keepers. On moonlight nights the ‘Shongnohs' go out in search of human victims, draw their blood into silver vessels to satiate the mini ‘thlens', appetite for blood. For many years I would search the shadows at night and run like hell to get home safely. A very Dracula like story, I am surprised that Hollywood or Bollywood have not latched on to create a horror scary film from a script out of this material.

Night time in Jowai could be a little hair rising. There are not many little boys growing up in the safe haven of a large home but surrounded by forest and jungle with mystifying nocturnal sounds and very often the characteristic ‘sawing' and grunting from a prowling leopard or panther. We owned a pony named George who helped carry father about on his long tours visiting villages in his district. George was ‘safely' stabled in a closed shed some distance behind the bungalow, or so we thought! One night we were awoken to an awful kafuffle coming from George's shed. Next morning we found a disembowelled George victim of a determined leopard not a pretty sight for a young lad. Poor old George.

Often on my evening or early mornings walks with ‘new ayah' we would pass a small village and the inhabitants would warn us that a ‘bhag' had been heard or seen in close proximity. ‘New ayah' would hurl me onto her back to race home at great speed to the safety of the bungalow. All this and the threat of the horror of the ‘thlen' used to really put the wind up me. But not sure whether it had the effect of changing my naughty habits into angelic ones?

Sometime, back then, my early consciousness became aware of the presence of Shillong. I had found Shillong and Shillong had found me. Shillong was the place of fulfilled and exciting dreams. It was the Shangri La for a small boy. I discovered doting grandparents who lived in a large family home with many uncles and aunts and cousins spread around the town also living in large homes. There were motorcars and electricity, smart shops and lovely tea shops with mouth watering confectioneries, better still a movie theatre. Shillong was everything that Jowai was not. Shillong was Paradise. The Fir trees that covered the surrounding hills were taller. The green needles of the branches sang and whispered with the wind to give of their distinctive pine aroma. And so began my love affair with Shillong.

Back before WW11 and during its early days, we frequently made visits to Shillong. I was told that when I grew up to be a big boy I would go to school at St Edmunds. A relative was then a senior boarder at St Edmunds, he visited us during the Puja holidays. He wore long flannel trousers a tie and a smart blazer. I couldn't wait to grow up to become a big boy and wear long trousers. I was informed also that my father was one of the first day pupils when the school opened back in 1916. Here was a tradition to live up to.

However, we were moved from Jowai to Haflong in the North Cachar hills. Here I began my early school education at the convent of St Agnes at Haflong. And that is the subject of another story.

We returned to Shillong after the war and India's rightful achievement of Independence. There had been many changes. My grandparents had passed on, the family home sold. Some aunts, uncles and cousins had left and gone ‘home.' Only two elderly great uncles and aunts remained. I was a little bemused, at the concept of referring to far away England as ‘home'? Having now lived in a few countries and in many homes, I am of the opinion that home can be a transient spiritual feeling of where one feels most at peace.

The Irish Christian brothers at St Edmunds gave me a fine education, they set me up to face the world and I am indebted to them for that. Three teachers were outstanding. There was Bob Trevor, a lay teacher who was soft spoken. He had a habit of giving one a withering glance when trying to squirm out of trouble, as much as to say, "look I don't suffer fools gladly, so just cut out the bullshit." Bob's teaching approach was certainly effective as far as I was concerned. We respected Bob and we responded to his teaching. In 2002 I made a surprise contact with Bob Trevor. Here is an interesting extract from his letter.

"I found my way into various teaching assignments in the County of Surrey commencing in 1952. Surrey County Council seconded me to a year's course in mathematics at Homerton College, Cambridge in 1958. Across the road from the College was Edmund Rice House. This obviously rang some bells, as back in Shillong our annual calendar observed a holiday in honour of the founder of the Christian brothers. Out of curiosity, I decided to call and who should answer the door but none other than Brother O'Leary who was our College principal in Shillong. He had been appointed as Brother Superior at Edmund Rice House in Cambridge. His brief was to oversee the needs of the Christian Brothers studying in Cambridge. He invited me to tea where we reminisced about old times."

Bro. Morrissey had a passion for classical English, the literature, the poets and the written word. He helped me to appreciate the language with its deeply rich structure for description by recommending an array of splendid authors. I shall always remember Morrissey dissolving into gales of mirth when reading Kipling's masterpiece, Kim. Although he must have read it a dozen times, this particular extract seemed to tickle his sense of humour. It is about the character of Hurree Chander Mukherjee, the lovely rotund Bengalee intelligence agent who was checking for Russian spies in the snowy wilderness of the North West Frontier with Afghanistan. (So what is new?) Hurree is plodding along taking his time and is admonished by his British Superior. Indignantly, Hurree ripostes, "But there is no hurry for Hurree."

Bro. Max Cooney made a significant contribution to my final year at St Edmunds. He was a bear of a man; with a slight hunch back, he strode the school corridors belching noxious tobacco smoke from his pipe. An eccentric fellow, he would quite often abandon the class room in high dudgeon for two or three days because preparation work was not up to standard. In his absence, of course the class would play up. We played cricket with rulers for batting and ping pong balls for bowling. Eventually Cooney would return to resume normal relations without a word being mentioned. Cooney for all his faults was a master at teaching mathematics. He made it simple and for the first time I began to enjoy the subject and the challenge of solving problems.

As day boys we felt sorry for the boarders, nine months of incarceration seemed unfair. Yet they thrived and there was always good humour. But there was no comparing our freedom after school. We would roam the hills in gangs as cowboys imitating our heroes of the cinema, John Wayne Errol Flynn, Gary Cooper, Randolph Scott, Joel Macrae, Tyrone Power, Roy Rogers, Hopalong Cassidy and many more. Our Mecca for fostering the imagination was at The Kelvin and Garrison Cinemas. The open air life around Shillong was quite unique, swimming by the ‘Spread Eagle' falls, hiking down to ‘Bara Pani', picnics at the Peak. It was a wonderful way to spend ones innocent youth. But gradually the gang numbers reduced as they also left for ‘home.'

By 1952 it was my turn to be booked for ‘home' via Calcutta, over the Ganges across the Deccan plain to Bombay then across the seas to drizzly old ‘blighty.' Since then I have visited Shillong only briefly and not for nearly forty years. The hill districts of my youth have now been absorbed into the separate State of Meghalaya. There have been, I have been informed, unrecognisable changes to the town. Many iconic buildings have disappeared, mainly reduced through the ravages of instant combustion due to electrical faults. The style for the rebuilding of St Edmunds is questionable. From recent photographs, gone is the grand sweep of its original timber façade, the front entrance porch above which the school library was housed. All of that has been replaced by an undistinguished concrete block.

I have very recently returned home to Queensland after a visit to one of my other transient homes near Stratford on Avon. I was visiting in the act of reacquainting myself with the fast growing grand children. Almost every day I walked the medieval streets of Stratford with old oak timbered Tudor buildings on either side. Along the main street is the King Edward VI Grammar School still preserved as it was originally built by Royal Charter in 1553. William Shakespeare was the school's most famous pupil.

Change is inevitable for progress to be effective and it is not my brief to yearn longingly or have regrets for the past. I am reminded of the words whispered by King Arthur as he lay mortally wounded by the lake, to his faithful grief stricken Knight, the Bold, Sir Bevedere. This is by way of remembering Tennyson's Mort d'Arthur, a real gem that has stuck in my mind these many years, thanks to the wonderful Irish Christian Brother education at St Edmunds.

"The old order changeth yielding place to the new. And God fulfils himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world."

************************

February 5 2010
We thank Danny Pariat for forwarding some memories for us to enjoy

 From The Folk Tales of the Khasis - 
Hunting The Stag Lapalang. 
Author: Mrs. Rafy

HUNTING THE STAG LAPALANG

Once upon a time there lived with its dam on the plains of Sylhet a young deer whose fame has come down through the ages in Khasi folk-lore. The story of the Stag Lapalang, as he was called, continue to fascinate generation after generation of Khasi youth, and the merry cowboys, as they sit in groups on the wild hill-sides watching their flocks, love to relate the oft-told tale and to describe what they consider the most famous hunt in history.

     The Stag Lapalang was the noblest young animal of his race that had ever been seen in the forest and was the pride of his mother's heart. She watched over him with a love not surpassed by the love of a human mother, keeping him jealously at her side, guarding him from all harm.

     As he grew older the young stag, conscious of his own matchless grace and splendid strength, began to feel dissatisfied with the narrow confines and limited scope of the forest where they lived and to weary of his mother's warnings and counsels. He longed to explore the world and tpo put his mettle to the test.

     His mother had been very indulgent to him all his life and had allowed him to have much of his own way so there was no restraining him when he expressed his determination to go up to the Khasi Hills to seek begonia leaves to eat. His mother entreated and warned him, but all in vain. He insisted on going and she watched him sorrowfully as with stately strides and lifted head he went away from his forest home.
     Matters went well with the Stag Lapalang at first, he found on the hill plenty of begonia leaves and delicious grass to eat, and he revelled in the freedom of the cool heights. But one day he was seen by some village boys who immediately gave the alarm, and men soon hurried to the chase: the hunting-cry rang from village to village and echoed from crag to crag. The hunting instincts of the Khasis were roused and men poured forth from every village and hamlet. Oxen were forgotten at the plough; loads were thrown down and scattered  ; nothing mattered for the moment but the wild exciting chase over hill and valley. Louder sounded the hunting cry , farther it echoed from crag to crag, still wilder grew the chase. From hill to hill and from glen to glen came the hunters, with arrows and spears and staves and swords, hot in pursuit of the Stag Lapalang. He was swift, he was young, he was strong -for days he eluded his pursuers and kept them at bay ; but he was only on unarmed creature against a thousand armed men. His fall was inevitable, and one day on the slopes of the Shillong mountain he was surrounded, and after a brave struggle, the noble young animal died with a thousand arrows quivering in his body.

     The lonely mother on the Plains of Sylhet became uneasy at the delay of the return of Stag Lapalang, and when she heard the echoes of the hunting-cry from the hills her anxiety became more than she could endure. Full of dread and misgivings, she set out in quest of her wanderer, but when she reached the Khasi Hills, she was told that he had been hunted to death on the slopes of Shillong, and the news broke her heart.

     Staggering under the weight of her sorrow, she traversed the rugged paths through the wildwoods seeking her dead offspring, and as she went her loud  heartrending cries were heard throughout the country, arresting every ear. Women sitting on their hearths, heard it and swooned from the pain of it, and the children hid their faces in dismay; men at work in the fields heard it and bowed their heads and writhed with the anguish of it.  Not a shout was raised for the signal of that stricken mother, not a hand was lifted to molest her, and when the huntsmen on the slopes of Shillong heard that bitter cry their shouts of triumph froze upon their lips, and they broke their arrows in shivers.

     Never before was heard a lamentation so mournful, so plaintive, so full of sorrow and anguish and misery,. As the lament of the mother of the Stag Lapalang as she sought him in death on the slopes of Shillong. The Ancient Khasis were so impressed by this demonstration of deep love and devotion that they felt that their own manner of mourning for their dead to be very inferior and orderless, and without any meaning. Henceforth they resolved that they also would mourn their departed ones in this devotional way , and many of the formulas used in Khasi lamentations in the present day are those attributed to the mother of the Stag Lapalang when she found him hunted to death on the slopes of Shillong hundreds of years ago.

**********************************************************************************************

BELOW  Danny Pariat has forwarded some memories and  photographs from
Peter Brown  who says:

The photos bring back vivid memories of my school days at St. Edmunds from
1951-1958.  And of my visit back there in 2002 as a guest of my dear friend and
course mate,  Air Marshall Satish G Inamdar, C-in-C Eastern Air Command IAF.


A Photo of the Golf Link area


     Shillong Racecourse 1935--a photo of the area in front of the turf club--the river in front is the Umkhrah river,you can see some railings for the horse race and the hill behind is where the turf club is.The races were abandoned long ago, done to death by the betting on the arrow shooting.


Shillong from the Shillong peak


Air Marshall Satish Inamdar, Peter Brown, Air Commodore Hoti Aluwallia


  Peter Brown, AM Satish Inamdar



Tony Richmond,  George Richmond,  Peter Brown


Photo taken at Bellevue Hotel Guwahati in February 2002--a motley crew of Edmundians from the class of 1956 thru 1964

Standing L 2 R :  Ku Ku Lias, Lt Col A. Banerjee , Opu Chowdury, Dipu Chowdury,  Errol Vauquelin,  Rajib Borkotoki
Sitting L 2 R: Waheed Zaman, Peter Brown, D.J.Sarma

*******************************************************************************************

May 4 2009 Danny once again allows us to share in his memories in Tea
Thanks Danny



Bara Saabs. After I had been at Koomsong for a few years my first Bara Saab moved to Bordubi and an English gentleman, Ian Ross took over as the new manager. Ian, was, like my first manager, a very fine person -- a very good and very hard worker and a gentleman to the core. On many occasions, when, during the season, the factory had been running almost non stop for days ,Ian would land up at the factory and would tell me to disappear-- " I don't want to see you for the next 24 hours'' he would say and, during that time looked after the factory himself. Ian was especially good at tackling the workers and, many a times when a group of  aggressive workers would come to him for a ' bichar ' they would get a very nice polite  lecture especially if it involved house building or water supply -- Ian would go into a detailed and prolonged description of the
many technical complications involved in constructing a house or digging a tube well so that some of the workers would start drifting away and towards the end of his lecture, only a handful of workers were left and these would hurriedly agree that it would be a good idea to come again another day with their complaints !!!! These old bara saabs taught you not only the tricks of the trade but also how to stand up to some of the difficulties that you sometimes face -- a very big salaam to them.

Part II. When I was a young assistant in Koomsong in the mid '70's the Manager of Phillobari was Alan Leonard -- a 'fun' person who loved music and, most of all, loved to sing and play his favourite tea chest' double bass ' with great skill. Alan had an ambassador car and would carry his musical ' instrument ' wherever he went-- many a sessions we did have after tennis at the small Bordubi club -- me on the guitar and Alan strumming away at the chord, the vigour of his strumming was, of course, directly proportional to the number of gins he had downed!! Alan was very fond of gin and lime and the story goes that when he was at Pertabghur in the North Bank he would be most irritated on club nights because the club ( Bishnauth Club ) never kept lime at the bar and he could not enjoy his favourite drink -- fed up with the ' no lime at the bar ' situation he, one day, came to the club with a few men armed with 'siprangs' and started to dig a number of pits next to the club building much to the surprise of the people present there. What was he up to they wondered? He had, in fact, planted some lime trees in the pits he had dug and lo and behold, in due course of time his lime problem was solved as the lime trees produced an abundant amount of fruit -- when I moved to the Bishnauth area in 1976 some of the lime trees were still there !!                          Alan left tea in 1975 and his farewell at the Bordubi Club was one of the wildest farewell parties that I had ever attended -- it ended in the wee hours of the morning and Alan duly presented his beloved double bass to me and I, in turn, carried it around for many years.  Danny

 

I
April 27 2009
We have to thank Danny for his digging of old material which we can enjoy


                       From the book Cha Garam 
                          by Arup Kumar Dutta 
                                         
This is a poem,
                                     an ode to the Planter-- 
A Place In Heaven      

                  
A tea man stood at the Pearly Gates                        
His face was worn and old.                        
He meekly asked the man of fate                        
Admission to the fold.                       
What have you done,St.Peter asked,                       
To seek admission here?                       
I ran a tea concern on earth                       
For many and many a year.                       
The gate swung open sharply                       
 As Peter touched the bell.                       
Come in, he said, and take a harp,
                      
You have had enough of hell.
************************************************************

and the second story is from
Free Lance,Tea & other Topics, Assam Review,March 1928.
                                        SHOCK THERAPY -- 
" Very many years ago,I knew a planter in Assam who kept a coffin in his bungalow,his reason being as he stated," Yoy never know when one will be needed." It was an outsized one so even a heavyweight could be accommodated if necessary.So as to be able to put it to some temporary use, he had shelves fitted in it and stood it in his dining room and kept his whisky and other necessaries of life in it. One evening a representative of a tailoring firm in Calcutta rode up and asked whether he could be accomodated for the night.The planter said " Certainly,with pleasure".That night the tailor contracted a go of malarial fever and kept his bed for the next two days.The planter began to think he was becoming a fixture and giving into himself unnecessarily, so he had the coffin placed alongside the traveller when he was asleep. When the latter awoke he rubbed his eyes to be sure he was not dreaming: yes, to be sure it was a coffin!  With a yell he hopped out of bed and dressed and was beating it on his pony at a pace he never travelled before. Henry Davidson( who was the planter) said he had never seen fever cured so quickly before." 

 

February 15, 2010
This is a great read prepared by Derek Perry especially for the Reunion of the St Edmunds School in Shillong last week.  Derek has kindly agreed for us to show it on http://www.koi-hai.com/ and we thank him

Meghalaya

There are two place names that have much in common. I am told that Meghalaya for the Khasi people means, "Home of the Clouds." When the Polynesian Maori sailed their canoes west from Hawaii across the Pacific about Seven hundred years ago, they made landfall. Before them was this long land mass with a stretch of cloud shrouding the upper reaches. The Maori settled there comfortably and named their new abode, "Te Ao Arora" the land of the long white cloud. Later the white man came and called it, New Zealand. Two indigenous people for whose culture and history, the cloud formations of their respective land, represent important significance. I have been privileged to live many years under the clouds and rainfall of both countries. But this is a brief account of my early life living in what is now called Meghalaya.

I came into the world 75 years ago at the little town of Tura in the Garo hills. I am told that Tura, at that time, did not offer much in the way of maternity care. In my case I arrived through entry by caesarean section, an operation for which the local Medical Officer was a little short on experience. Apparently, the usual agonising waiting before the scalpel incision was put to my poor mother was prolonged because the good Hindu M.O. with astrological fervour insisted the astral position of the stars had not reached their auspicious position in the night sky. So on that propitious note, out I popped.

Seventy five years not out is not a bad innings. I hope to collect a few more years with a few judicious push strokes with the odd tickle around the wicket before ‘Father Time' rattles the timber behind me. Another ten would be nice, fifteen a lot better.

I have no recollection of my infant years at Tura. I had a devoted Garo ayah whose name was Shoray, that is all I know. Also, I am told I developed a kleptomaniac tendency for purloining the rusks off the other few American missionary infants when all the babies came with their respective ayahs for the evening social gathering.

My first images are that of the small town of Jowai located some forty miles away from Shillong. Now I had a new ayah and that became her name, "new ayah." New ayah was of the Panaar people of the Jaintia hills. She spoke no English but was fluent in her native Panaar. At that age I spoke little of my mother tongue, English, and no Panaar. However, over time new ayah spoke more English, and I developed more English and more Panaar. One could say that by the tender age of three or four I was bilingual.

Jowai was a little town with no real public buildings of note. There was the Kutcherre, the Jail, a Dak bungalow and a noisy, once a week under cover bazaar precinct. There was a civic lake more the size of a pond and by it a small playground for gatherings. But of Churches it boasted many impressive edifices of different Christian denominations. On Sundays, many church bells rang with great persistence, beckoning the faithful from all directions. The area was subtropical and wild, game abounded in all forms and sizes. My father was called out by villagers to dispose of about a dozen rogue elephants and on one occasion a marauding leopard. I was made to sit on the leopard carcass, to be photographed with feelings of great trepidation. Why me I thought, I didn't shoot the damn thing?

Those formative years were bliss, I knew nothing else. My parents loved me and I was spoilt rotten, I felt secure. Of course I was naughty. New ayah would frighten the living daylights out of me, by threatening my little wee life to the machinations of the dreaded ‘Shongnoh.' The ‘Shongnohs' were a cult who were the masters of an offshoot of the mighty ‘thlen.' The ‘thlen' in ancient Khasi times was a dragon like creature that craved human flesh and blood. This mythical gentleman lived in a cave near Cherrapunjee, he was only appeased by human sacrifice. One day a brave Khasi warrior confronted and killed the beast with a sharp sword and sliced it into little bits. Not a happy, if gory end. The bits reconstituted themselves into little ‘thlens' and the ‘Shongnohs' became their keepers. On moonlight nights the ‘Shongnohs' go out in search of human victims, draw their blood into silver vessels to satiate the mini ‘thlens', appetite for blood. For many years I would search the shadows at night and run like hell to get home safely. A very Dracula like story, I am surprised that Hollywood or Bollywood have not latched on to create a horror scary film from a script out of this material.

Night time in Jowai could be a little hair rising. There are not many little boys growing up in the safe haven of a large home but surrounded by forest and jungle with mystifying nocturnal sounds and very often the characteristic ‘sawing' and grunting from a prowling leopard or panther. We owned a pony named George who helped carry father about on his long tours visiting villages in his district. George was ‘safely' stabled in a closed shed some distance behind the bungalow, or so we thought! One night we were awoken to an awful kafuffle coming from George's shed. Next morning we found a disembowelled George victim of a determined leopard not a pretty sight for a young lad. Poor old George.

Often on my evening or early mornings walks with ‘new ayah' we would pass a small village and the inhabitants would warn us that a ‘bhag' had been heard or seen in close proximity. ‘New ayah' would hurl me onto her back to race home at great speed to the safety of the bungalow. All this and the threat of the horror of the ‘thlen' used to really put the wind up me. But not sure whether it had the effect of changing my naughty habits into angelic ones?

Sometime, back then, my early consciousness became aware of the presence of Shillong. I had found Shillong and Shillong had found me. Shillong was the place of fulfilled and exciting dreams. It was the Shangri La for a small boy. I discovered doting grandparents who lived in a large family home with many uncles and aunts and cousins spread around the town also living in large homes. There were motorcars and electricity, smart shops and lovely tea shops with mouth watering confectioneries, better still a movie theatre. Shillong was everything that Jowai was not. Shillong was Paradise. The Fir trees that covered the surrounding hills were taller. The green needles of the branches sang and whispered with the wind to give of their distinctive pine aroma. And so began my love affair with Shillong.

Back before WW11 and during its early days, we frequently made visits to Shillong. I was told that when I grew up to be a big boy I would go to school at St Edmunds. A relative was then a senior boarder at St Edmunds, he visited us during the Puja holidays. He wore long flannel trousers a tie and a smart blazer. I couldn't wait to grow up to become a big boy and wear long trousers. I was informed also that my father was one of the first day pupils when the school opened back in 1916. Here was a tradition to live up to.

However, we were moved from Jowai to Haflong in the North Cachar hills. Here I began my early school education at the convent of St Agnes at Haflong. And that is the subject of another story.

We returned to Shillong after the war and India's rightful achievement of Independence. There had been many changes. My grandparents had passed on, the family home sold. Some aunts, uncles and cousins had left and gone ‘home.' Only two elderly great uncles and aunts remained. I was a little bemused, at the concept of referring to far away England as ‘home'? Having now lived in a few countries and in many homes, I am of the opinion that home can be a transient spiritual feeling of where one feels most at peace.

The Irish Christian brothers at St Edmunds gave me a fine education, they set me up to face the world and I am indebted to them for that. Three teachers were outstanding. There was Bob Trevor, a lay teacher who was soft spoken. He had a habit of giving one a withering glance when trying to squirm out of trouble, as much as to say, "look I don't suffer fools gladly, so just cut out the bullshit." Bob's teaching approach was certainly effective as far as I was concerned. We respected Bob and we responded to his teaching. In 2002 I made a surprise contact with Bob Trevor. Here is an interesting extract from his letter.

"I found my way into various teaching assignments in the County of Surrey commencing in 1952. Surrey County Council seconded me to a year's course in mathematics at Homerton College, Cambridge in 1958. Across the road from the College was Edmund Rice House. This obviously rang some bells, as back in Shillong our annual calendar observed a holiday in honour of the founder of the Christian brothers. Out of curiosity, I decided to call and who should answer the door but none other than Brother O'Leary who was our College principal in Shillong. He had been appointed as Brother Superior at Edmund Rice House in Cambridge. His brief was to oversee the needs of the Christian Brothers studying in Cambridge. He invited me to tea where we reminisced about old times."

Bro. Morrissey had a passion for classical English, the literature, the poets and the written word. He helped me to appreciate the language with its deeply rich structure for description by recommending an array of splendid authors. I shall always remember Morrissey dissolving into gales of mirth when reading Kipling's masterpiece, Kim. Although he must have read it a dozen times, this particular extract seemed to tickle his sense of humour. It is about the character of Hurree Chander Mukherjee, the lovely rotund Bengalee intelligence agent who was checking for Russian spies in the snowy wilderness of the North West Frontier with Afghanistan. (So what is new?) Hurree is plodding along taking his time and is admonished by his British Superior. Indignantly, Hurree ripostes, "But there is no hurry for Hurree."

Bro. Max Cooney made a significant contribution to my final year at St Edmunds. He was a bear of a man; with a slight hunch back, he strode the school corridors belching noxious tobacco smoke from his pipe. An eccentric fellow, he would quite often abandon the class room in high dudgeon for two or three days because preparation work was not up to standard. In his absence, of course the class would play up. We played cricket with rulers for batting and ping pong balls for bowling. Eventually Cooney would return to resume normal relations without a word being mentioned. Cooney for all his faults was a master at teaching mathematics. He made it simple and for the first time I began to enjoy the subject and the challenge of solving problems.

As day boys we felt sorry for the boarders, nine months of incarceration seemed unfair. Yet they thrived and there was always good humour. But there was no comparing our freedom after school. We would roam the hills in gangs as cowboys imitating our heroes of the cinema, John Wayne Errol Flynn, Gary Cooper, Randolph Scott, Joel Macrae, Tyrone Power, Roy Rogers, Hopalong Cassidy and many more. Our Mecca for fostering the imagination was at The Kelvin and Garrison Cinemas. The open air life around Shillong was quite unique, swimming by the ‘Spread Eagle' falls, hiking down to ‘Bara Pani', picnics at the Peak. It was a wonderful way to spend ones innocent youth. But gradually the gang numbers reduced as they also left for ‘home.'

By 1952 it was my turn to be booked for ‘home' via Calcutta, over the Ganges across the Deccan plain to Bombay then across the seas to drizzly old ‘blighty.' Since then I have visited Shillong only briefly and not for nearly forty years. The hill districts of my youth have now been absorbed into the separate State of Meghalaya. There have been, I have been informed, unrecognisable changes to the town. Many iconic buildings have disappeared, mainly reduced through the ravages of instant combustion due to electrical faults. The style for the rebuilding of St Edmunds is questionable. From recent photographs, gone is the grand sweep of its original timber façade, the front entrance porch above which the school library was housed. All of that has been replaced by an undistinguished concrete block.

I have very recently returned home to Queensland after a visit to one of my other transient homes near Stratford on Avon. I was visiting in the act of reacquainting myself with the fast growing grand children. Almost every day I walked the medieval streets of Stratford with old oak timbered Tudor buildings on either side. Along the main street is the King Edward VI Grammar School still preserved as it was originally built by Royal Charter in 1553. William Shakespeare was the school's most famous pupil.

Change is inevitable for progress to be effective and it is not my brief to yearn longingly or have regrets for the past. I am reminded of the words whispered by King Arthur as he lay mortally wounded by the lake, to his faithful grief stricken Knight, the Bold, Sir Bevedere. This is by way of remembering Tennyson's Mort d'Arthur, a real gem that has stuck in my mind these many years, thanks to the wonderful Irish Christian Brother education at St Edmunds.

"The old order changeth yielding place to the new. And God fulfils himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world."

************************

February 5 2010
We thank Danny Pariat for forwarding some memories for us to enjoy

 From The Folk Tales of the Khasis - 
Hunting The Stag Lapalang. 
Author: Mrs. Rafy

HUNTING THE STAG LAPALANG

Once upon a time there lived with its dam on the plains of Sylhet a young deer whose fame has come down through the ages in Khasi folk-lore. The story of the Stag Lapalang, as he was called, continue to fascinate generation after generation of Khasi youth, and the merry cowboys, as they sit in groups on the wild hill-sides watching their flocks, love to relate the oft-told tale and to describe what they consider the most famous hunt in history.

     The Stag Lapalang was the noblest young animal of his race that had ever been seen in the forest and was the pride of his mother's heart. She watched over him with a love not surpassed by the love of a human mother, keeping him jealously at her side, guarding him from all harm.

     As he grew older the young stag, conscious of his own matchless grace and splendid strength, began to feel dissatisfied with the narrow confines and limited scope of the forest where they lived and to weary of his mother's warnings and counsels. He longed to explore the world and tpo put his mettle to the test.

     His mother had been very indulgent to him all his life and had allowed him to have much of his own way so there was no restraining him when he expressed his determination to go up to the Khasi Hills to seek begonia leaves to eat. His mother entreated and warned him, but all in vain. He insisted on going and she watched him sorrowfully as with stately strides and lifted head he went away from his forest home.
     Matters went well with the Stag Lapalang at first, he found on the hill plenty of begonia leaves and delicious grass to eat, and he revelled in the freedom of the cool heights. But one day he was seen by some village boys who immediately gave the alarm, and men soon hurried to the chase: the hunting-cry rang from village to village and echoed from crag to crag. The hunting instincts of the Khasis were roused and men poured forth from every village and hamlet. Oxen were forgotten at the plough; loads were thrown down and scattered  ; nothing mattered for the moment but the wild exciting chase over hill and valley. Louder sounded the hunting cry , farther it echoed from crag to crag, still wilder grew the chase. From hill to hill and from glen to glen came the hunters, with arrows and spears and staves and swords, hot in pursuit of the Stag Lapalang. He was swift, he was young, he was strong -for days he eluded his pursuers and kept them at bay ; but he was only on unarmed creature against a thousand armed men. His fall was inevitable, and one day on the slopes of the Shillong mountain he was surrounded, and after a brave struggle, the noble young animal died with a thousand arrows quivering in his body.

     The lonely mother on the Plains of Sylhet became uneasy at the delay of the return of Stag Lapalang, and when she heard the echoes of the hunting-cry from the hills her anxiety became more than she could endure. Full of dread and misgivings, she set out in quest of her wanderer, but when she reached the Khasi Hills, she was told that he had been hunted to death on the slopes of Shillong, and the news broke her heart.

     Staggering under the weight of her sorrow, she traversed the rugged paths through the wildwoods seeking her dead offspring, and as she went her loud  heartrending cries were heard throughout the country, arresting every ear. Women sitting on their hearths, heard it and swooned from the pain of it, and the children hid their faces in dismay; men at work in the fields heard it and bowed their heads and writhed with the anguish of it.  Not a shout was raised for the signal of that stricken mother, not a hand was lifted to molest her, and when the huntsmen on the slopes of Shillong heard that bitter cry their shouts of triumph froze upon their lips, and they broke their arrows in shivers.

     Never before was heard a lamentation so mournful, so plaintive, so full of sorrow and anguish and misery,. As the lament of the mother of the Stag Lapalang as she sought him in death on the slopes of Shillong. The Ancient Khasis were so impressed by this demonstration of deep love and devotion that they felt that their own manner of mourning for their dead to be very inferior and orderless, and without any meaning. Henceforth they resolved that they also would mourn their departed ones in this devotional way , and many of the formulas used in Khasi lamentations in the present day are those attributed to the mother of the Stag Lapalang when she found him hunted to death on the slopes of Shillong hundreds of years ago.

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The First Story
by Danny Pariat

I remember the first story that my manager had told me soon after I had joined. This was regarding a planter at Bargang whose wife was expecting and,  being close to delivery, was being transported to Tezpur by car -- alas, while crossing the Bhorelli river by ferry ( no bridges then and the crossing takes quite a while) the Mrs. could not wait anymore and, with the help of the medical staff in attendance, delivered a healthy baby boy --- as he was born 'on' the river the boy's middle name was given as Bhorelli -- Peter Bhorelli McQueen.

 Coming back to my manager, his wife, who was expecting, was heading off to Calcutta for the delivery -- she was going by plane and her husband warned her that no matter what happened she was not to deliver on the aircraft -- she should hold on till they got to Calcutta.

Puzzled, she asked him why --- remember the McQueens of Bargang, he said, we don't want our child named after the plane you are flying in.

Name of the aircraft?? any guesses??  The Fokker Friendship !!!!

This story was confirmed by (L) Peter Swer who was also on the ferry.

                   Hamish  Pirie, my first manager, was from Aberdeen, Scotland -- a very fine person who worked you hard but was always fair. He lived up to the Scottish reputation of having a fiery temper and many a times our head clerk was the butt of his anger (deservedly so, of course) --

The head clerk was always cool and calm in the face of blatant mistakes and one day, unable to take it anymore, Hamish. said, ''Head Clerk, this office should be burnt''.
''Good idea Sir'' replied the Hd Clerk.
Hamish then continued ''and preferably with you in the middle of it'' !!

Aah, very very good idea Sir. nonchalantly replied the tried and tested Head clerk.

                 Hamish Pirie. was very fond of golf but was never a great golfer as such. Once, during a Doom Dooma club meet we were all at the bar telling stories and then singing away till, before we knew it, dawn was breaking and the sun was coming through. Hamish was playing golf and the tee off was very early, in fact he went straight from the bar to the tee -- we were feeling sorry for him knowing that his golf would be terrible but lo and behold, he played his best golf and won the tournament !!!! Hamish thought he had found the secret to his success in golf and from that day on, made sure he always had a very late night before a golf match !!!  

               Hamish Pirie passed away many years ago and I write this as my way of saying Salaam to him -- he was a good human being and I learnt a lot from him. His wife lives in Aberdeen with her daughter  ( oh, yes her mum waited till they got to Calcutta).

 
 January 28 2009  Koomsong
by Danny Pariat

   Koomsong Two Many years ago a young man, not yet twenty, reported for work as an assistant manager at Koomsong tea estate -- nothing odd about that but what was odd was the fact that this young man was confirmed in six months without having done a single day's work either in the field or factory and that too with a grizzled and tough old koi-hai as a manager.   Strange it may seem but here is what happened.                             

My cousin Jimmy had joined Koomsong in the summer of 1960 under a tough old hand Harry Andrews( inventor of the Andrews tea breaker I am told ) -- now Harry was a senior member of the Doom Dooma club committee and as it so happened, the new club was then being built( at the present site) and he wanted someone to keep an eye on the work. So young Jimmy was told that for the next few months his job was to supervise the work at the new club daily -- so, everyday Jimmy would take his packed lunch and head for the club in a battered old lorry to oversee the construction. This carried on for quite sometime and soon it was six months and time for Jimmy's confirmation. Not having done a day's work on the estate Jimmy was rather worried but he need not have done so -- the manager reported to the company that the new man was doing a great job in both field and factory and will someday make a good planter !!!! So,Jimmy was confirmed and was,probably the only guy in tea who got his confirmation this way.!!                         

Srini the accountant.   At Koomsong we also had the group accountant residing with us in the early 70's.His name was Srini,a very amiable and helpful person.Now,every now and then Srini had to accompany our VA,Bob Stammers on his visits to one of the estates in the south bank.Bob loved a fast car and would always arrive at an estate he was visiting well ahead of time,whizzing past bullock carts,cows,goats, cyclists with gay abandon -- this,of course did not do Srini's nerves any good and by the time they got to a garden Srini was a nervous wreck. He would insist that Bob drop him off at the manager's bungalow, would sit down, then firmly request for two large gins, take his time in downing the two shots and only then would he set off to the office for work. One would have thought his troubles were over but, of course there was the nightmarish drive back !! If there were a number of visits within a short span of time Srini was known to have downed copious quantities of gin !!!                  

Still on Srini, one day he came to see me at the factory and requested me for a hammer. A rather odd request I thought and I asked him what he wanted it for.'' I want to hammer that bridge '' he told me (he meant the rickety old bridge over the Bordubi river linking Koomsong and Bordubi before the present RCC bridge was built).'' Hammer the bridge? what for?'' I asked. Apparently what was happening was that every time Srini drove over the bridge( his office was in Bordubi with the VA) he would always have a puncture as the bridge was in a terrible state and had nails sticking out all over. So, after that, Srini would approach the bridge, stop his car, get off and, hammer in hand would walk across the bridge hammering every nail back into place and with a satisfied grin on his face, would get back into his car and confidently drive across -- he never ever had a puncture on that bridge again !!!!  

Koomsong One 

In my last article I had written about my first Bara Sahab at Koomsong and now would just like to mention about another two who had an association with the estate. One was my cousin,Jimmy who had joined Koomsong in 1960 at the time when the new Doom dooma club was being built.His manager,a senior member of the club committee,had promised to provide an assistant daily for about six months to supervise the work at the new site( the planters had to shift to a new club as the old one was being swamped with buildings as the town grew -- it would now be bang in the middle of Doom Dooma).

So everyday,Jimmy duly carried his packed lunch and left for the club work site in a lorry -- this carried on for six months and the work was progressing well.Six months being up it was time for Jimmy's confirmation -- he was getting worried as he had not done a single day's kamjari on the estate !!!!  he need not have worried as the manager gave a glowing report-- the new chap had settled in well, had picked up a lot on field work and handled the workers very well !!!!! Jimmy heaved a sigh of relief -- he now felt that it was about time that he learnt something about tea -- after all he had been there for six  long months !!!!.            

Another person at Koomsong was our accountant,a person from South India,-- a wonderful guy, friendly and helpful.He used to accompany our VA, Bob Stammers, then posted at Bordubi.on his visits to the various estates. Now,Bob loved a fast car and would always make it to an estate in record time, whizzing past bullock carts, cyclists, cows and goats with gay abandon -- this, of course, left our accountant with shattered nerves and unable to work. On many occasions, having arrived at an estate he would head straight for the manager's bunglow, sit down and then ask for two large gins -- these were quickly polished off and only then would he set off for work at the office

 

February 27 2009

 

The First Story
by Danny Pariat

I remember the first story that my manager had told me soon after I had joined. This was regarding a planter at Bargang whose wife was expecting and,  being close to delivery, was being transported to Tezpur by car -- alas, while crossing the Bhorelli river by ferry ( no bridges then and the crossing takes quite a while) the Mrs. could not wait anymore and, with the help of the medical staff in attendance, delivered a healthy baby boy --- as he was born 'on' the river the boy's middle name was given as Bhorelli -- Peter Bhorelli McQueen.

 Coming back to my manager, his wife, who was expecting, was heading off to Calcutta for the delivery -- she was going by plane and her husband warned her that no matter what happened she was not to deliver on the aircraft -- she should hold on till they got to Calcutta.

Puzzled, she asked him why --- remember the McQueens of Bargang, he said, we don't want our child named after the plane you are flying in.

Name of the aircraft?? any guesses??  The Fokker Friendship !!!!

This story was confirmed by (L) Peter Swer who was also on the ferry.

                   Hamish  Pirie, my first manager, was from Aberdeen, Scotland -- a very fine person who worked you hard but was always fair. He lived up to the Scottish reputation of having a fiery temper and many a times our head clerk was the butt of his anger (deservedly so, of course) --

The head clerk was always cool and calm in the face of blatant mistakes and one day, unable to take it anymore, Hamish. said, ''Head Clerk, this office should be burnt''.
''Good idea Sir'' replied the Hd Clerk.
Hamish then continued ''and preferably with you in the middle of it'' !!

Aah, very very good idea Sir. nonchalantly replied the tried and tested Head clerk.

                 Hamish Pirie. was very fond of golf but was never a great golfer as such. Once, during a Doom Dooma club meet we were all at the bar telling stories and then singing away till, before we knew it, dawn was breaking and the sun was coming through. Hamish was playing golf and the tee off was very early, in fact he went straight from the bar to the tee -- we were feeling sorry for him knowing that his golf would be terrible but lo and behold, he played his best golf and won the tournament !!!! Hamish thought he had found the secret to his success in golf and from that day on, made sure he always had a very late night before a golf match !!!  

               Hamish Pirie passed away many years ago and I write this as my way of saying Salaam to him -- he was a good human being and I learnt a lot from him. His wife lives in Aberdeen with her daughter  ( oh, yes her mum waited till they got to Calcutta).

 

September 14 2008
Danny had lots of contact with the late Bill Christie of WM's who was at Seajuli at the time of the 1950 earthquake--Danny here shares some of the interesting correspondence he had from Bill who joined Tea in 1929.





 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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July 16 2008

The New Assistant

There was an assistant who was sent up to Mijicajan ,  John Hingston the Manager wired Calcutta and asked what he was being sent when he heard by wire ' New Assistant arriving Kolapani next flight ' !! 

When not found at work one day Hingston called into his bungalow and found the new Assistant in the bungalow. Hingston, the Manager,  asked the Assistant why he hadn't turned up for work.

His answer was that he only had Lederhosen ( German leather trousers) and had been advised in Calcutta to send his settling in allowance to his family, and his trousers were too hot ! He was told to arrive at the office in more suitable wear next morning. Hingston was rather surprised to see the Assistant arrive at the office the next morning with the rain pouring down and he, the Assistant, dressed  in a swimming costume !!

He was duly returned to Calcutta on the next Kolapani Skyplayers flight with a chit to the Agents from John Hingston, the Manager, saying  ' This one is sacked - not my fault this time  !!

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March 15 2008

Below are some notes from Danny which should be of interest to others who served on the North Bank and Boroi districts

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August 20 2007

  Danny who is currently holidaying in North Wales has taken the time and trouble to dig into his memories and has given us an amusing story of  life in Assam and we are hopeful for more stories
Tales of Behora T E 

 

       In the 1950's Bob Stammers' father was managing Behora TE  on the South bank of Assam. A new assistant from the UK had just joined Behora and as luck would have it his arrival coincided with the appearance of the first Indian whisky at the club bar .
       The new assistant soon developed the habit of dropping in at the club once in a while on his bicycle for a prelunch shot but had been warned by his manager to stay away from the Indian whisky. This whisky said the manager was nothing but poison and would finish your stomach.
       The assistant followed his manager's advice for sometime but the Indian whisky being very much cheaper was a big temptation and one day after having been advised by the expert behind the bar i.e.the bearer, he decided to switch over to the Indian stuff -- it was not bad at all and liking it he had more than his normal quota before he got on his bike and headed back to the estate.

       On the way he had a need to spend a penny, he dutifully wheeled the bike off the road and got off to relieve himself. As luck would have it, he relieved himself right on top of a mimosa plant ( usually known as "touch me not" as on contact the leaves shrivel up)--- he stared at the shrivelling leaves and was thoroughly alarmed --the words of warning from his manager that the Indian whisky would poison his insides rang in his ears and he panicked --' My God,he thought, if that Indian whisky can shrivel up a plant imagine what it would do to my insides!!!!' -- he scrambled on to his bike and peddled madly, heading straight for the Doctor Babu at the hospital crying '' help,help - I've been poisoned '' -- I gather it took the Doctor hours to convince the new assistant that a plant that shrivels up on contact with anything did exist in Assam and that it was not the Indian whisky.