A reason why the Manmalai Club was different from the
other planters’ clubs in the High Ranges of the Southwest corner of India was
Daniel. When the Club opened in 1921he was asked to serve drinks. The man
continued doing that for a little over five decades. He was lean and of medium
height. His left shoulder was, at least when I started going to the Club,
noticeably lower than the right. He attributed that abnormality to years of
pouring drinks from bottles into peg measures.
Daniel had many stories to tell, but
never on a Saturday. That was the day on which the planters, from top brass
to ‘creepers’ (trainees) gathered at the Club to relax. The rubber estates at
lower altitudes and tea plantations in the higher areas were extensive. The
nearest neighbour with whom one could have a drink stayed probably five miles
away. The evenings were long and lonely especially for the bachelors. They
looked forward to the Club Nights on Saturdays.
To reach the Club one turned off the main
road through Murugan Gate, drove up the steep road, took a U-turn named
Dexter’s Folly and climbed further. Behind the tile-roofed club house was a
sparkling stream with an eight feet waterfall. But no one seemed to even notice
it.
Once I remarked casually to Daniel, “The
Club should have been facing the brook.”
After some hesitation he responded,
“Pearson sahib himself drew the plan. Spent nights.”
“I wasn’t blaming him.”
“I know, sir. Sahib was going home on
four-month furlough. Wanted building completed before he came back. He gave
instructions to the contractor and also offered a fifty rupee bonus.”
“I suppose it wasn’t ready on time.”
Daniel smiled and said, “On return, sahib
went straight to the site. The building was finished. He asked the contractor
to collect the balance due plus the bonus, and added, ‘Get the hell out of
here. I don’t want to see your face again.’ ”
“But why?”
“In sahib’s own words, ‘Dumb idiot, you
got it back to front.’ ”
I laughed and asked, “Wasn’t he
blacklisted?” If that were done, no estate would give the man any work.
“Sahib considered that,” Daniel answered.
“But he told us later that perhaps he hadn’t explained clearly enough to the
contractor and made sure that the man had understood.”
Looking back I can see that the Daniel
yarns offered a kind of orientation course. They gave the newcomers, mostly
British, an insight into the history, ethos and élan of the planning community.
On Sundays too Daniel was busy till about
3 O’clock in the afternoon. That was the day Mark Hearth, an owner-planter
(most were company employees), had lunch at the Club. Earlier, when his wife
was alive, they used to have the meal together there. Even after the lady died
he continued the practice.
The ritual started precisely at 11
O’clock when Daniel served the first gin and tonic after Hearth settled down on
his favourite chair in the front hall. No one else used that piece of furniture
while he was in the Club. The old man would leaf through copies of Illustrated
London News, Punch and the Illustrated Weekly of India. He did not mind company
till he moved to the dining room. There he would sit alone at the same table on
the same chair that he had used for thirty-five years and more. He would top
off the lunch with a large crème de
menthe and walk steadily to his Bentley.
Once, as Hearth was leaving, the
international chief of Indo-South Asia Petroleum Company and wife dropped in.
They were on a private visit en route to
the Periyar Game Sanctuary. Hearth instructed Daniel to attend to them, and
before boarding the car said, “Your tankers don’t come on time.”
Two Sundays later, the Managing Director
of the petroleum company’s Indian subsidiary and a colleague were at the Club
to meet Hearth.
“Sir”, the visiting MD opened the
conversation, “about your complaint to our world chief. We have checked our
tanker movements here for one year. Last month supply was delayed twice, but
that was due to landslips along the road.”
“I beg your pardon. What are you talking
about?”
“When our Chairman came here two weeks
back you mentioned to him that our tankers don’t come on time.”
“I don’t remember meeting your Chairman
or making any complaint to him.”
Daniel cleared his throat.
“Yes Daniel,” Hearth asked. “What is it?”
“Sahib, it happened.”
Hearth thought for a moment. “I’m sorry
gentlemen,” he apologised. “Must have been absolutely drunk.”
For the first time after his wife died,
Hearth had guests for lunch at the Club. According to Daniel, the planter and
the oil company chaps got on famously. After that, Hearth started attending
Saturday Club Nights again.
A popular Daniel story was about a
Swedish lady.
“This memsahib was wearing white dress.
Very beautiful.”
Pause.
“She was the guest of a sahib from Madras. He was very angry
later. And the other memsahibs wouldn’t talk to her.”
“Why? What happened?”
“She climbed on the bar counter and moved
from one end to the other and back. All the sahibs jammed into the bar.”
“What did she do?” I asked. “Sing or tap
dance or what?”
“No sir, nothing of the sort. She
actually walked on her hands.”
One visualised the scene and laughed. But
not Daniel. He was the type who would watch your face anxiously as you took the
first sip of the drink he had served and wait for your nod. Once that came, he
would break into a grin.
An academic type of creeper from U.K. who had
befriended me from the first time we met, asked Daniel while we were having
beer, “Isn’t Murugan a Hindu god?”
“Yes, sahib.”
“Then why is our gate named after him?”
“The locals,” Daniel replied, “gave that
name because of Amelia memsahib.”
“Why? Did she become a Hindu?”
“No sahib, this Murugan was driver.
Memsahib was very upset after that. Then
Pritchard sahib got a job in Assam
and took her away.”
There was a pause before the rest of the
story unveiled. Pritchard had bought a dual control car to teach his wife
driving. One day they were going up the steep incline by the gate on the main
road. Murugan who was coming down with his lorry lost control at the sight of
two people driving the same car. His vehicle crashed into the granite wall of
the gate. He was badly injured and died later in the hospital. The owner of an
arrack shop a mile up said afterwards that Murugan had drank heavily.
One tale led to another. “What about
Dexter’s Folly?” my friend asked.
Daniel laughed, covering his mouth with
his right hand and narrated the story. After a stag party on a misty night, Tom
Dexter, General Manager of Manmalai Plantations started back for his bungalow.
His deputy, Harry Barton was right behind. In the poor visibility, Dexter
steered his Vauxhall just a little before reaching the hairpin bend. The car
went into the six feet deep cutting. Following his tail lights, Barton landed
his Morris on top of his GM’s car. Because of the retaining walls of the road,
the vehicles were hemmed in. Daniel told us that later the DGM narrated what
happened immediately after the accident.
Dexter shouted out, “Is that you, Harry?”
“Yes, Tom.”
“Don’t have to knock that hard. You’re
always welcome.”
The coolies rushing for muster early next
morning found their big sahibs sound asleep in their respective cars.
The story didn’t end there. Though
personal hosting of Club Nights was uncommon, the next one was on Dexter. When
the party was in full swing he addressed the crowd, “Ladies and gentlemen, I
would like you to listen to a limerick I wrote.” There were groans all around,
but Dexter went ahead anyway.
At that point Daniel said “Excuse me”,
went inside and returned with a framed paper. It had been hanging in the bar
but I hadn’t bothered to read. Now I did, aloud:
‘Driving down from club
Loaded, on wintry night
Dexter took the turn
Ahead of the curve.’
“After the applause died down,” Daniel
went on, “Dexter sahib said that he would like to have the U-turn named
Dexter’s Folly”.
“I suppose,” my companion said, “the
proposal was carried unanimously.”
“No sahib,” Daniel answered. “Barton
sahib protested saying ‘Tom that’s not fair. I was there as well’. Dexter sahib
answered, ‘Harry, DGMs do all the hard work. GMs take the credit.’ ”
Many yarns went around about a character
named Croft but Daniel avoided them. There were two versions on how that man
got the nickname ‘Cross’. One said it was because he always carried a crossword
puzzle and pencil. The other view was that he was real cross for the others to
bear. He had, according to rumour, the dubious distinction of being the only white
man blacklisted by Paru and Devu, two beautiful sisters who were available to
interested sahibs.
A pencil sketch of Daniel adorns the bar
along with various trophies. It was done by a Richmond
who was the South India manager of Imperial
Fertilizer Company. He was a well-liked man who made a business trip to the
area once a year.
Daniel was very proud of the picture. He
would say, “Sahib wanted me to stand with my hands on the bar counter. But I said,
‘Sahib, then it won’t be me.’ He scratched his head for a moment and said, ‘Oh,
yes, the trademark – your shoulders.’ “ After a pause Daniel would add, “Fine
gentleman. Once somebody asked him why his fertilizer prices were higher than
that of the competition. Richmond
sahib tapped his chest and answered, ‘my salary’. But almost all planters
bought from him.”
By the early 1950s the Communist-led
labour unions were becoming increasingly militant. Some of the British started
selling their estates. A chap who bought one of them found the going tough. On
his request the leading Indian planting family in the district sent him a
protection group of four men. They were from Palai, an area in the foothills
were youngsters grew up with six-inch knives tucked in at the waist and the
belief that if the weapon were drawn in a fight, the enemy should fall dead
from the blade.
They became the targets of the workers.
Some trade union activists managed to kill one of them. The body was hung
upside down from a large jungle-jack tree. The workers and their families sat
around it in groups, lighting bonfires by nightfall. The dead man’s colleagues
had vanished.
It was a matter of honour for the family
which sent the watchmen and the planters in general to recover the body. Most
of them gathered at the club. The District Magistrate and the Superintendent of
Police joined in the front hall where drinks and snacks were kept on a table in
a corner for self service. The officials explained that recovering the body was
not a problem but intelligence reports indicated that the union was planning a
confrontation forcing the police to open fire. What the Communists wanted were
martyrs.
As the discussions dragged on I moved to
the bar where Daniel was alone. After a while Manichan, an owner planter, came
and stood near me. “It’s a waste of time,” he said. “They’ll keep on talking
through the night.”
He asked Daniel fro a glass of water.
That was surprising because he could polish off a bottle of Scotch on a long
evening. He finished drinking, placed the glass on the counter and turned to
go.
“Manichan sir,” Daniel who had been
watching him keenly said in a tone of concern, “I hope you are not going there
alone.”
“I am.”
Watching him go, Daniel tried to remove
the empty glass from the bar counter. It rolled down and broke. That was an
unusual slip for him and he apologised. I wondered whether it was a bad omen.
But Manichan returned about two hours
later. His clothes were slightly stained. He told me, “Boy, go tell them to
discuss about the funeral.”
I looked at him questioningly.
“The body is at the back of my Jeep. The
arms have to be broken to fit it in a box. Rigor mortis.”
By then Daniel had placed a large whiskey
before Manichan.
“But how did you manage?” I asked, rather
stunned.
“Rather simple. Drove to the spot,
climbed on the bonnet and cut the rope.”
“Didn’t they try to stop you?”
He shook his head and answered, “Taken by
surprise. And they know me. May be they guessed that the police wouldn’t
interfere immediately, and wanted to end the stand off somehow. What does it
matter?”
Later that night Daniel told me that it
would not be the end. True enough, the two murderers of the guard were found
dead within a week. Everybody knew who did it but officially the police could
not find any proof. The three missing watchmen returned and the area remained
quiet for a long while.
After that incident some planters had taken to
carrying firearms. One evening two Asst. Managers were practicing billiards for
the Inter-Club Meet at Cochin
the next week. Suddenly there was a gunshot just outside.
They rushed to the front hall. A young
man was standing at the entrance with a pistol. A carcass lay in a pool of
blood at the other end.
“You killed Charlie,” the older among the
two said in shock.
“That one?” the young man asked. “My book
says when a jackal rushes at you shoot him. There may be a pack following.”
The animal had adopted the club a year
earlier. He found a niche for himself in a hole on the side of the building.
Soon he became a pet of some of the younger members who named him Charlie and
fed him whenever they went to the club. The others did not mind because the
jackal never bothered them.
“Charlie was,” the other billiards player
who had a squeaky voice said, “part of the club. Who the hell are you anyway?”
“I’m
a member. Jacob Philipose. Hill View Estate. Was away in England for a few years completing
my studies. I didn’t know that in the meantime we started admitting jackals.”
“That’s bloody well adding insult to
injury.” Words flew and finally it was decided to have a fistfight to settle
the score.
“Daniel,” the senior Asst. Manager
ordered, “arrange the furniture on dance night mode.” That meant that everything
should be pushed to the sides leaving the wood-floored hall open.
“Yes, sir,” Daniel responded promptly and
went inside.
Minutes later he returned with an
unopened bottle of Dimple Scotch and the usual accompaniments. “While I
rearrange the furniture,” he said, “the gentlemen may like to drink. Pearson
sahib has entrusted me with some bottles to be served on the house at special
occasions.”
“Good,” Philipose said. “I’m thirsty.” He
sat down.
Daniel poured three large drinks. The
Indian took a glass, said “Cheers” and had a sip. The others joined after some
hesitation. A club boy came and screened off Charlie’s body.
Daniel disappeared again. It was quite
some time before he came back with cocktail sausages and bully beef tossed with
onions and spices according to the Club’s special recipe. He poured the second
drink for the three members and started rearranging the furniture. The pace was
slow.
He was called again. Then, after pouring
the third round of drinks he said, “With your permission, may I suggest that I
remove Charlie and have the place cleaned up?”
“Yes, go ahead,” the senior Asst. Manager
said. “He must be given a decent burial.”
“He was dear to us,” the other one added.
“I’ll also help,” Philipose said. “I
recall some of the Syriac liturgy.” To demonstrate his knowledge he started
reciting the original Aramaic version of the Lord’s Prayer, “Abun da bashmaya…”
“Who wants Syriac,” the elder planter
said. “It shall be Anglican service.”
At this point Daniel intervened saying,
“Charlie was not a Christian. To the respected members he was a pet. To me he
was a friend and companion. I have no family. I looked after him from the day
he came to the club. Please allow me to bury him.”
The senior Asst. Manager said, “Right
Daniel, we leave him to you.”
“Thank you sahibs.”
“Sorry, Daniel,” Philipose said. “I
didn’t know he was your friend.” After a pause he added, “Anyway, get us some
more whiskey.”
The second bottle was only half full.
When it was nearly finished, Daniel told the members, “The chambers are ready.”
Finally the men moved to the bedrooms arms on each others shoulders and
singing, “Show me the way to go home.” Early morning Daniel woke up the Asst.
Managers so that they could reach back in time for muster.
The send off party for Walter-Smith, a
highly respected planter, was a memorable event. He gave a speech in his
soft-spoken manner mainly about the forty years he had spent in the High Ranges.
Before concluding he mentioned, “Some of you may know that during the War, I
was Honorary Livestock Protection Officer for this division. Quite a few of the
cows were dying. The blood sample of each dead animal had to be tested for
anthrax and certified by the government veterinary doctor. Every report stated
that there were no traces of any disease. I became suspicious. But one
certificate was different. I would like to present it to the club.”
There was polite applause.
Walter-Smith continued, “I’ll read it
out. Quote. This blood sample appears to be that of a senile old baboon of a
species, which hither to was believed to be extinct. Unquote. I have added a
signed Post Script that the blood sample was mine. I wanted to check the vet.”
He raised his voice to be heard over the laughter and added, “The moral of the
story is that there are no secrets in estate bungalows.”
Only once did Daniel get into trouble.
During the Second World War the club
bought a Murphy radio that operated on car battery and installed it in the bar.
Even on weekdays members went over to listen to BBC, and sometimes, Lili
Marlene. One day during a break in the news, while ‘Cross’ Croft sat at a table
with his crossword and others were discussing the War, someone asked, “Daniel,
who do you think will win?”
The reply was prompt. “The King Emperor.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because Indian soldiers are fighting for
His Majesty.”
Everybody laughed.
Croft walked over to the bar counter and
asked Daniel, “What did you say?”
“Sahib, I said,” Daniel replied with some
apprehension, “that King Emperor will win the war because Indian soldiers are
fighting for him.”
Croft nodded and went back.
Next Saturday the members had a meeting
at the club at 5 p.m. in response to an urgent notice from the Hon. Secretary.
Pearson, the man who built the club, started the proceedings with the
statement, “I wasn’t given a chance to see action in the First World War. But
now I’m about to be involved with Second.”
There was suppressed laughter. Most of
the members had heard about his attempt to enlist in 1914. The recruiting
officer at Madras
politely pointed out that the upper age limit for joining the army was forty
years. Pearson who was forty-one then stared angrily at the man, said, “Don’t
blame me if you lose the bloody War”, and walked out.
“Obviously,” Pearson went on, “some of
you have heard the story. “Let me delve on it briefly because it is relevant in
the present context. I felt miserable about the rejection. Then I realized that
they also serve who stay back and keep the supplies flowing. Rubber, tea,
whatever.”
The members cheered.
“Now,” Pearson continued, “let’s come to
the matter on hand. We have received a written complaint from Mr. Croft against
Daniel.”
There were surprised looks and murmurs
among the members.
“There is,” Pearson went on, “a
procedural problem however. Daniel is the son of my former butler. I gave him
the job here. His address in the club records is still ‘c/o R.J. Pearson’.
Therefore it may not be proper for me to chair this meeting.”
A senior member stood up and said, “You
are the President of the club for life. There is no impropriety. Let’s get on
with it.”
The crowd clapped in approval.
“Mr. Croft,” Pearson asked, “is that
agreeable to you?”
The complainant replied with a slight
hesitation, “I’m not objecting.”
After the petition was read out, Pearson
said, “Let’s take the last of the accusations first. Mr. Croft, why do you say
that Daniel’s loyalty is with Gandhi and company?”
“Because he always wears a Gandhi cap.”
“If that’s an offence, the blame is with
the club management for permitting it. But when I placed him in the bar he
donned the same type of attire that is wearing today. Mr. Gandhi has nothing to
do with it. Shall we drop it?”
The complainant nodded in the
affirmative.
“The next point is that Daniel is
unpatriotic. Why do you say that?”
“Most Indians are.”
“That,” Pearson responded, “is a
generalization. The word patriotism has several meanings. Loyalty, devotion,
nationalism and so on. Talking about the Indians, many believe that we won the
First World Was because of them. It was not all quiet for them on the Western
Front. An estimate is that 65,000 sepoys
died there.”
Many of the members gasped.
“I’m not,” Croft said, “belittling
whatever contribution the natives made. But they can’t insult the white
soldiers.”
“But why do you say white soldiers? There
are coloured men from many parts of the Empire fighting for us. Even our
Americans allies have Negro soldiers.”
The witnesses, altogether five, were
called. All of them testified that they had felt no offence at what Daniel had
said. Then it was the turn of the accused. His statement was brief: “I meant no
disrespect to soldiers of any country. May be I should have said, ‘Because my
son is fighting under Montgomery sahib in Africa.’ “
The members were taken aback. Most of
them did not know about it.
“4th Indian Division,” Pearson
explained.
After a short discussion with the Hon.
Secretary he announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, here’s the verdict. Daniel shall
open the bar at 6 O’clock as usual.” He looked at his pocket watch and added,
“That’s precisely ten minutes from now.”
The members stood up and clapped as
Daniel walked towards the bar with tears running down his cheeks.
His son died on February 17, 1944 in Italy during
the bitter fighting for control of the Benedictine monastery near Monte
Cassino. Nobody in the Club except Pearson knew about it. I heard it years
later when he told my father over drinks at our bungalow.
Next morning I was the first one at the
club. After Daniel finished pouring the beer I asked, “Your son was a hero. Why
did you keep it a secret?”
He gave me a surprised look and answered,
“Why make my patrons also sad with my personal tragedy?” He turned to the rack
behind him, ostensibly to arrange the bottles and added with a slight quiver in
his voice, “He was just twenty-two.”
I quietly got up with my beer mug and
moved out to the front hall. I was twenty-two then.
These days I hardly go to the club. An
era has ended and it is no longer the place it used to be. But every December 6th,
the few of us old-timers still remaining gather there and go to the All Saints
Church cemetery a mile away to spend some time where Daniel rests in peace.
■
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