In tea estates the factory is usually the focal point of interest, producing flavoursome teas that set benchmarks of quality, thus establishing its reputation among consumers. In the 1950s Uncle Ernest ably presided over a tea factory near Munnar with the unflattering designation of ‘Tea-Maker’—thanks to an unimaginative Scottish personnel manager.
Uncle’s life centred round the factory and during our school vacations we children never failed to take in afresh its intriguing sights, sounds and smells. The gyrating rollers, vibrating sifters, chattering pulverisers and droning dryers fascinated us no end—as did the cowled workers grinning amiably from behind a mask of fine tea dust. Sometimes Uncle would fling open the fiery mouth of a dryer—to reveal the blazing inferno inside, greedily incinerating huge eucalyptus logs. “Surely, hell can’t be hotter than this!” I used to tell myself, shrinking back in horror.
Equally interesting was the staccato tat-tat-tat produced by the box-maker as he manually assembled tea chests, mechanically hammering nails into slender panels with unerring accuracy. He never ever missed a nail or struck his thumb—such was his concentration.
A stickler for cleanliness and hygiene, Uncle always reminded the barefooted workers not to step into the huge mounds of processed tea as was their wont. Imagine his consternation, therefore, when he once found two workers shovelling tea while standing knee deep in it wearing slippers encrusted with mud. Uncle blew his top, his voice booming several decibels above the din of the machinery.
Like the jargon of the professional British tea-tasters and blenders who visited the factory on and off, the names of the grades stencilled on the tea chests mystified us— BOP, BOPF, OP etc. While Uncle and his assistants bandied these about casually, we boys, not to be outdone, cooked up our own zany interpretations—“Break open, please”, “Break open, please, fast” ...
Invariably, the strong fragrance of freshly-fired tea rubbed off on Uncle’s clothes and lingered pleasantly around him. In fact, it distinctly preceded him when he headed home, alerting us (his mischief-prone nephews) and Mathai (his man Friday) of his imminent arrival.
Once, sniffing Uncle’s arrival, I hastily abandoned a diabolic plan to slip a fistful of salt into the water filter to spite the arrogant Mathai! Looking back, those educative visits to the factory, coupled with the pleasures of living in a tea estate, paved the way for me and my brothers to take up a full-time career in the tea industry years later.