The assistant manager’s bungalow at the Margolly coffee plantation in Coorg in the early ’90s was an interior decorator’s delight. Although the regal British era structure had lost some of its original sheen and the shining Sheffield cutlery, crockery and linen that formed part of the resident ‘gora sab-memsab’s’ home furnishings, yet it had retained the old English charm of a dream bungalow with its large, cool, well-ventilated, well-lit bedrooms, sizeable bathrooms and bay-windows overlooking lush gardens and orchards to boot. The place was adequately furnished and the new resident could move in with the bare minimum of wherewithal. Our son, who had joined Coorg Coffee then, was house-proud and kept the place immaculately tidy.
On my first visit to him during the summer vacation, I met the good old Shiv Amma, his housekeeper, who couldn’t stop gushing over her generous new Sikh manager and seemed even more pleased to have me visit him. Although I knew just a smattering of Tamil, and she knew no other language, we managed to communicate through gestures and an admixture of what sounded more like Double Dutch. She would appear every morning, genie-like, in a spotless clean sari and headdress, carrying a bag of fresh groceries for the day and diligently set about her work. From the several broken interactions we had, I gathered that she lived on the estate itself and was proudly informed that her son was pursuing a PhD programme in agriculture.
One evening, when she was asked to stay back as my son had an official engagement, she dropped a bombshell. Sitting by my side, she suddenly asked in right earnest, ‘Amma, manager la father illay?’
‘Good Lord, no! Whatever makes you ask that?’ I asked bemused. Gesticulating calmly, she said: ‘No bindi, no mangalsutra and no manager’s father himself!’
My focus during that one month’s stay was to train Shiv Amma to cook simple North Indian victuals without the perennial mustard tadka. The courtyard of the assistant manager’s office, which was an extension of the bungalow itself, abutted the kitchen. So, whatever transpired between Shiv Amma and me would waft into the office, unless we kept our volumes in check. I remember receiving a polite telephonic reprimand from my son whenever the vocal cords lost control. Despite trying valiantly to strike a balance between a treble at the university and a bass at home, exasperation over my linguistic limitations here would often tend to let the vapours escape. On this particular occasion, I needed a spoon during a cooking demonstration. So, I said, ‘Shiv Amma, chamach,’ thinking it was a common enough word.
She looked around vaguely and picked up everything but what I needed till I huffed across to the shelf impatiently, picked up a spoon and thrust it under her nose, hollering ‘chamach’.
Instantly galvanised now, she animatedly blurted out, ‘Voh! Amma! Spoon eh!’ leaving me flummoxed.
source: http://www.tribuneindia.com / The Tribune / Home> Musings / by Mina Surjit Singh / August 26th, 2021
