A STORM IN A TEA CUP

The year was 2000. I  recall  the day  Director, Central Bureau of Investigation or DCBI walked into my office in  Salt Lake, Calcutta. Like  most police chiefs, he was quirky. He always wore a cap woven out of bamboo , a fad picked up  from his early days when Mizoram was still a part of Assam. It was shaped  like  Sherlock Holmes's.

" Sir, Vivek would like to offer a  cup of tea if it is okay with you," the accompanying Joint Director asked him politely.

The DCBI  turned right to look at him  with an air of indifference, imperiousness and uninterestedness. He fanged a mock smile and replied, " Thank you, Dr. Biswas, but you see, I'm very fussy when it comes to tea."

"When I was Director General of Police,  Sikkim someone  presented me with tea from Temi Tea Garden of Sikkim. Its taste has completely spoilt me. I can't take tea from here and there," he proceeded to add, probably  as an explanation for this refusal. I felt there was no reason to do so  except  to show off.

" 'Here and there', my foot!" I said to myself. 

One may be a DCBI but this does not entitle him  to be so arrogant.  If access to supply of tea from a solitary tea garden could   make him  snobbish, then I, till the other day Superintendent of Police of Darjeeling  with its 86 gardens which produced  the champagne of teas,  could  very justifiably be insufferably  sniffy - and  also extremely miffed at this slight.

" Even I am fussy, " I announced  aloud, without batting an eyelid, and thus crossed the Rubicon in the Battle of Teas to await  the Empire strike back.

There was a pin drop silence. The Joint Director put a hand to his left ear, feigning he had not heard me. The Deputy Inspector General of Police looked like a terror stricken kitten, and turned towards  the DCBI with a "Sir, I am not responsible for this young officer's impudence" look. The Chief, momentarily  stunned, craned his neck towards me, his eyes seeming  to race down his nasal  ridge to deliver  a punch , and just when it appeared that he was going to blow his top,  he sank back to his original posture.

"Okay, let us have  tea, Vivek", he said and smiled.

The air  had become lighter. The DCBI drank two  cups  of the finest autumn flush  from Ging Tea Estate, graciously conceded that he could not compete with the tea sensibilities of a Darjeeling man, thanked me , handsomely tipped my canteen boy and went away. The terror stricken DIG was relieved that his job was still intact. Phew!!

But if you think that I was born with a teaspoon, you are mistaken. I had been a late starter in the world
of tea.  For some strange reason, my father did not allow me and my two younger brothers to  have the potion  when we were small. I do not know whether  it was due to a belief that tea makes the complexion darker. If it was so, then he had failed because what he and his wife could not give us genetically, abstinence from tea  also yielded no better result.  I remember that  when I entered Class Xth,  my parents saw the  futility of this prohibition  and   allowed me to drink  tea- the same year they also presented  me a wrist watch, Favre Leuba. 

My father drank a brand called Lopchu which was retailed by a  tea garden in Darjeeling bearing that name. He was very particular  how it was brewed. It had a typical burnt taste and I developed a liking for it. Later on,  I went to Patna and Delhi  for further studies, and drank lots of tea in ribbed glasses, but rarely the Darjeeling  variety.  

My link with Darjeeling tea was re- established when I joined service in West Bengal. Bengalis drank a lot of Darjeeling tea, they also knew how to brew it.  But my love story with tea really started when I was posted to Darjeeling in 1998 and went on to occupy  Campbell's Cottage. It was  named after a Superintendent of the Darjeeling sanitarium  who is credited to have introduced tea plantation in Darjeeling by growing tea around his residence-  from Chinese tea seeds smuggled  in 1841 from Kumaon region.

I do not know the reason  but garden fresh tea tastes better when brewed in the water of Darjeeling hills. The taste  as well as  the aroma which swirls up are absolutely captivating.Sipping tea in the lawns of our house on a crisp, sunny morning,  overlooking an  unsheathed Kanchenjunga was   an orgasmic delight.  One evening, when we were about to open the bottle, a batch mate who was visiting and was fond of spirits,  asked whether we could wait and have a cup of tea instead to start with. I was stunned. In the circle of my friends those days, if someone offered , or  even asked for, a cup tea after sun down , it would have been kufr. But now, the prospect of drinking  Darjeeling tea,  in the drawing room of Campbell Cottage, next to a roaring fireplace,  had made it  kosher!

One balmy afternoon, I was at the house of Arun Singh, General Manager of the famous Castleton Tea Garden in Kurseong. Sitting  out in his verandah and guzzling beer, we discussed the marketing prospects  for Darjeeling tea. I now forget the names of the persons who were present, but one of then was a marketing man who had earlier been a tea taster.

"How is the market for Darjeeling tea in India?" I asked.

" Not very big. Indians usually drink  CTC tea. Except the  Bengalis and a few people here and there, not many prefer Darjeeling tea," he rued. I sighed and topped his mug in sympathy.

" You know, the bad luck is that the two most affluent communities  in India don't drink Darjeeling tea?" he continued. 

" Who?" I asked, put down my glass, and lit a Gold Flake  to inhale some smoke and gyaan.

" Arrey, the Gujjus and the Punjs, yaar."

" Why, what tea  do the Gujjus drink?"

"Oh, they drink  the worst and lowest priced  tea. These loaded, Daandiya playing Gujjus have  Cachar tea," his tone hinted  a sense of betrayal.

" Cachar tea? Why, that is shameful.I have never heard anything good about Cachar. I don't even like the name Cachar," I joined in to make this betrayal appear disgustful also.

 "And the Punjs?  These Chabras and Chabrias ? Why, what do they drink?" I asked with a curiosity that could have put the friskiest of the cats to shame.

"Oye, we tea tasters   joke about the Punjs and  say that if  the buffalo could give brown milk, these buggers  wouldn't  have had tea either ',  " he guffawed,  took a huge swig of beer, put down his mug to reveal a white, frothy smile on his moustache - and made no attempt to wipe it with his sleeve.