Growing up in Munnar in the ’50s, we loved nothing more than a visit to the nearby tea factory. For us kids, it was like going to a particularly fragrant theme park. Our Uncle Ernest benignly presided over the factory with the unflattering designation of “Tea Maker” — today’s equivalent of “Factory Officer”.

The steady drone of factory noise could be heard from afar. As one approached the stately, three-storeyed structure standing out impressively amidst the surrounding greenery, one invariably scented the aroma of freshly fired tea or the raw tang of just-plucked tea leaves. Inside, one was greeted by the deafening cacophony of machinery — rotating rollers, sizzling dryers, pounding pulverisers, vibrating sifters and more. Adding to the din were the box-makers vigorously and unerringly hammering nails into tea chests with a mechanical rapidity that left us wonder- struck. They could not afford to miss — it meant a fractured thumb.

Showing us around once, Uncle Ernest flung open the iron door of the blazing furnace. We recoiled from the searing heat. Could hell be worse than this, I wondered fearfully, recalling Sister Seraphine’s dire warnings during catechism classes? I guilelessly vowed then and there with the naiveté of a child never to sin again.

A stickler for hygiene, Uncle Ernest once berated a worker for standing barefoot in a mound of tea that was being sifted. Half an hour later, he found the worker still ankle-deep in the tea — except this time he was wearing chappals.

... contd.