In 1939, the year the Windamere Hotel opened, the American Charles Henry Baker Jr. offered the perfect recipe for pink gin in his indispensable The Gentleman’s Companion:
Take a thin, stemmed cocktail glass. Shake in 4 or 5 dashes of Angostura, tip the glass like the tower of Pisa and twirl it between thumb and fingers. Whatever Angostura sticks to the glass through capillary attraction is precisely the right amount, although a lot of old India hands whose stomachs are lax find that a lot more Angostura than that is in order to stimulate appetite. Gently pour off the extra bitters that do not cling. Fill glass with gin. That’s all. Superfluous bitters go back in the bottle, on the floor, or out the port hole or window—depending upon who, where and what we are.12
On a cold autumn evening, the quiet, somewhat aloof Lepcha barman at the Windamere prepared it a touch differently. First he chilled the glass by wildly swirling a couple of ice cubes around a wide champagne glass like high-speed roulette balls. After flinging these into the sink, he shook in three or four drops of Angostura, then twirled a new pair of ice cubes around the glass for a few moments before pouring the gin over the top. He set the drink down, silently and without ceremony, on the Chinese-red bar counter.
The color of a pink gin is less Hello Kitty pink than “the orangey-pink of the inside of a conch shell,” as Ian Fleming described it in the final 007 novel.13 From Fleming’s pen—and dangling from Bond’s fingers—the drink exudes sexiness and daring.
Not so from Graham Greene. A number of Greene’s forlorn and doomed characters, stranded in dingy, half-forgotten, and always-neglected British colonial outposts, go “through the doomed motions of mixing another gin and bitters.”14 Scobie, in The Heart of the Matter, “grinned miserably at his glass, twisting it round and round to let the angostura cling along the curve.”15 He and his wife drink them out of boredom and despair: “Life always repeated the same pattern; there was always, sooner or later, bad news that had to be broken, comforting lies to be uttered, pink gins to be consumed to keep misery away.”16
In British-ruled Malaya the drink was called gin pahit (“bitter gin” in Malay), a favorite tipple in the Far Eastern tales of W. Somerset Maugham, Britain’s other great observer of far-flung colonial fatigue. As the narrator remarks about an Irishman in the story “P. & O.,” “He had lived too long in the East to drink anything else.”17
The same could have been said for many of the men standing at the bar of the Planters’ Club. This is perhaps a more fitting coda for colonial-era tea planters on isolated Darjeeling estates than afternoon teas and warm scones with clotted cream.
CHAPTER 12
Planters and Pluckers
Tea is one of the most labor-intensive of all crops to cultivate, and Darjeeling’s pioneering planters had to settle vast numbers of laborers to work on their isolated estates. They quickly became sprawling, self-contained communities housing thousands of people. They still are. The average garden has just 224 hectares (553 acres) of tea with production of around 100,000 kilograms (220,000 pounds). It is surprising how many people the limited amount of tea must support. Workers number in the hundreds, but many times more live on the estate. Marybong has a dozen small villages scattered across its 395 hectares (976 acres) that are home to about 6,000 people. Just 741 of them work on the estate. About half are schoolkids. Some of the others might work off-garden jobs, from laborers in nearby villages to serving in the mili-tary, but most are supported by the family member who has a position on the garden. Ging has just 692 laborers and 67 staff but supports 7,000 people in two dozen small villages. Ambootia has eleven villages housing 4,500 people. Tukvar supports more than 5,000 people with just 636 of those permanent workers on the estate. Namring is even larger—450 out of its 1,068 total hectares under tea, with 1,398 permanent workers, and yet it’s home to 10,000 people. Considering its fame, Makaibari, covering 573 hectares (1,415 acres) with 250 hectares (617 acres) of tea and about 1,500 people living on the estate and some 650 employees, is relatively modest.
Tea garden land is not owned by the estates but rented on a freehold lease from the government of West Bengal for renewable thirty- to ninety-nine-year periods. A lease can be transferred or sold, but a new owner inherits the workers living on the garden and must employ them. The clear and rigid hierarchy has the planter at the top. “It was a system created by Britishers,” Dhancholia said. Medieval and serflike, it remains firmly in place.
Darjeeling’s early tea planters, wrote E. C. Dozey in A Concise History of the Darjeeling District Since 1835, “will be remembered among those who led the forlorn hope, who planted the banners of civilisation and industry on these mountains; and in sowing the seeds of the tea plant have laid the foundations of India’s increased prosperity.”1
Published in 1922, that is perhaps rather generous in spirit. A lively and opinionated contemporary Darjeeling historian offers a different appraisal of the same men:
In the early days, only those Englishmen who failed to make it as soldiers, sailors, clerks, and by default, with nothing else to lose and nowhere else to go, took up life as a “tea planter.” They knew nothing whatsoever about tea and it is doubtful if they had even set eyes on a tea bush. Scoundrels, rascals, and scallywags enlisted to become lord and master of a little fiefdom called a tea garden in the exotic misty hills of Darjeeling.2
Such a scathing assessment was echoed by Major (retired) Sandeep Mukherjee, the secretary and principal adviser for the Darjeeling Tea Association. “They were the riffraff, the criminals; the persons [the British] thought would pollute the society were sent here,” he said on a cool spring morning at the association’s office beside the Planters’ Club. Tall and upright, with a strong jaw and neatly parted hair, he still holds the military bearing of his days as an aide-de-camp to the Chief of Army Staff in Kashmir. “Nobody at home, they became somebody here,” he said at his large desk, turning over a cigarette packet. He wore three rings on his right hand, including, on his pinkie, a luminous pearl from South India as big as a marble. “Nobodies who had nothing to lose.” Driven, at times brutal, and continually busy, they began from scratch, planting the steep, heavily forested hillsides cut by ravines. But, he acknowledged, “It would have been impossible to create this industry without such personalities, and that idea of superiority.”
Undeniably the planters were a mixed bunch. Many came from the working or middle classes—shopkeepers, chemists, retired army officers, sailors. A handful of minor gentry also headed to India’s tea gardens from Britain to make something of themselves. Or, at least not disgrace the family back home. The protagonist in Rudyard Kipling’s story “Yoked with an Unbeliever” who is “sent out to ‘tea’” is typical of this kind:
What “tea” meant he had not the vaguest idea, but fancied that he would have to ride on a prancing horse over hills covered with tea-vines, and draw a sumptuous salary for doing so; and he was very grateful to his uncle for getting him the berth. He was really going to reform all his slack, shiftless ways, save a large proportion of his magnificent salary yearly, and, in a very short time, return to marry Agnes Laiter. Phil Garron had been lying loose on his friends’ hands for three years, and, as he had nothing to do, he naturally fell in love. He was very nice; but he was not strong in his views and opinions and principles, and though he never came to actual grief, his friends were thankful when he said good-bye, and went out to this mysterious “tea” business near Darjiling. They said, “God bless you, dear boy! Let us never see your face again,”—or at least that was what Phil was given to understand.3