Invitably, the Raj threw up a crop of brown sahibs in Munnar. The BS, or desi version of the British tea planter, epitomised all that was British — and enjoyed doing so. Starting out as an assistant to a Brit, he was, after a gruelling initiation, given independent charge of a tea estate — his fiefdom, over which he lorded it much like his British counterpart. Enamoured of the Brit’s lifestyle, many a BS sought to keep up with him. Some developed a fondness for Scotch. Bingeing with a Brit, one inebriated BS literally lisped for his fifth peg, only to pass out before it reached him!

Another BS turned up at the club formally attired but with his tie knotted atrociously. His British boss, a stickler for dress codes, drew him aside and rasped, “Dammit! Who taught you this hangman’s knot?” He then set the offending knot straight.

Taking a cue from the Brits, a few BSs chose to put on airs. Some smoked a pipe, mumbling instructions unintelligibly to their subordinates. One BS flaunted a British accent. Once, feigning ignorance of Tamil, he pompously asked a local, “Where does this road lead?” “To London!” came the reply. The BS seldom lost a chance to get even with such cheeky subordinates.

When a BS’s Jersey cow damaged a tea nursery, his British boss was furious. “Get rid of that damned cow!” he thundered. “I can’t!” the BS retorted without truckling, “It’s of your breed!” The Brit almost went red in the face!

... contd.