Glimpses of India

Part 1 — A Baker from Goa (by Lucio Rodrigues)

The writer fondly remembers his childhood in Goa, a former Portuguese colony, where the old-time Portuguese influence still survives. The most enduring memory is of the traditional baker, called the pader. Though the Portuguese have long gone, their famous loaves of bread have not, and the bakers are still very much a part of Goan life. The author says those eaters of loaves may have vanished, but the makers are still there — the furnaces still bake bread and the sound of the baker’s bamboo announces the morning.

The baker was a friend, companion and guide of the village. He came twice a day — once in the morning when selling his loaves and again in the evening on his return from his rounds. His arrival was the signal for children to rush out. They did not care for the plain loaf-bread but loved the bol-bread (bread-bangles). The baker would greet the lady of the house and place his basket on the bamboo. Bread was an essential part of Goan life: marriages were incomplete without the sweet bol, the lady of the house prepared sandwiches for her daughter’s engagement, and cakes and bolinhas were a must for Christmas and other festivals.

The baker, called pader, wore a peculiar dress known as the kabai — a single-piece long frock reaching down to the knees. In the author’s childhood the bakers wore a shirt and trousers shorter than full-length and longer than half-pants. The author remembers that even a baker’s monthly accounts were kept by marking lines on a wall with a pencil! Baking was a profitable profession; the baker and his family never starved. Their plump physique was an open testimony — a baker with a jackfruit-like belly was a sign of prosperity. Thus the chapter preserves a sweet, nostalgic picture of a fading but cherished Goan tradition.

Part 2 — Coorg (by Lokesh Abrol)

Coorg, also called Kodagu, is the smallest district of Karnataka. It lies midway between Mysore and the coastal town of Mangalore. The writer calls it a piece of heaven that must have drifted from the kingdom of God. It is a land of rolling hills, evergreen rainforests, and vast expanses of coffee plantations and spices. The fragrance of coffee drifts through the air, and the season to visit is from September to March, when the weather is perfect.

The people of Coorg are independent and brave. There is a popular belief that the Kodavus descended from Greeks or Arabs. According to one story, a part of Alexander’s army moved south along the coast and settled there when their return became impractical; these people married amongst the locals and their culture is reflected in their marriage and religious rites, which are quite different from the Hindu mainstream. Another theory traces them to the Arabs, supported by the long, black coat called the kuppia worn by the Kodavus, which resembles the kuffia worn by Arabs and Kurds.

The Kodavus are the only people in India permitted to carry firearms without a licence. They are famous for their hospitality, and they love to recount tales of valour. The Coorg Regiment is one of the most decorated in the Indian Army, and the first Chief of the Indian Army, General Cariappa, was a Coorgi. Even today, many men serve in the armed forces. The river Kaveri obtains its water from these hills and forests; the river is home to the famous Mahseer fish. Kingfishers dive over the river, elephants enjoy being scrubbed in the waters, and squirrels and langurs drop partially eaten fruit. The thrill of adventure — river rafting, canoeing, rock climbing and trekking — awaits visitors. From the heights of Brahmagiri hills one gets a panoramic view of the entire misty landscape, and a walk across a rope bridge leads to the Nisargadhama island. Nearby is the largest Tibetan settlement, where Buddhist monks live in the golden-roofed Bylakuppe monastery.

Part 3 — Tea from Assam (by Arup Kumar Datta)

The third part is written like a story. Two friends, Rajvir and Pranjol, are travelling by train to Pranjol’s home in Assam during the summer vacation. Pranjol’s father is the manager of a tea garden in Upper Assam, and Pranjol himself had been born and brought up on a plantation. As the train rushes past, Rajvir is excited to see the endless sea of tea bushes stretching to the horizon, dotted with tall shade-trees and tea-pluckers carrying baskets on their backs.

While Pranjol reads a detective book, Rajvir — a city boy from Delhi — gazes out and shares fascinating legends about tea. According to a Chinese legend, the Chinese emperor always boiled water before drinking it. One day a few leaves of a twig burning under the pot fell into the water, giving it a delicious flavour; they say these were tea leaves. An Indian legend speaks of the Buddhist ascetic Bodhidharma, who cut off his eyelids to stop himself falling asleep during meditation; ten tea plants grew from the fallen eyelids, and chewing their leaves drove away sleep. Rajvir also informs Pranjol that tea was first drunk in China as far back as 2700 B.C.; in fact, words like ‘tea’, ‘chai’ and ‘chini’ are from Chinese. Tea came to Europe only in the sixteenth century and was first drunk more as a medicine than as a beverage.

The boys reach Mariani junction and are driven to Dhekiabari Tea Estate. On the way they pass the tea bushes, and Rajvir notices the workers plucking the newly sprouted leaves. He surprises Pranjol’s father with his knowledge, telling him that this is the second-flush or sprouting period, lasting from May to July, which yields the best tea. Pranjol’s father is impressed, and Rajvir admits he has been reading as much as he can about Assam since he knew he was going there. The piece beautifully blends information about Assam — the world’s largest tea-growing region — with the warmth of friendship and a boy’s curiosity.