A newly minted ‘Executive’

Once again turning the clock all the back to 1977, that being the second of my two year stint on Panniar Estate in the High Ranges.

It was another one of those very wet, windy and extremely cold days which in the High Ranges being about par for the course, one simply took in ones stride. Having completed the perfunctory bit of paperwork one was required to take care of every morning, I was just stepping out of the muster shed when the tapal man from Abid’s office came down to tell me that the Periya Dorrai wanted to see me in his office and that could I go across to meet him as soon as possible. Kick-starting my trusty bike, within the short distance from the muster shed to the main office by the time I stepped into the bosses office I was already a sodden mess wet all the way down to my underclothes, a condition planters simply accepted as being a way of life – another par for the course.

Back in the day we planters were an easily satisfied bunch of folk, by and large comfortable with the pittance we received as a salary on the back of which, with the company making sure that we at least had the required two pennies to rub together, we just about managed to keep body and soul intact. Being rather constricted by the ‘generous’ pay-check, bulk of which in any case ended up in the coffers of the High Range Club and the fact that in those days choices in terms of clothing and footwear were severely limited, on the estate our standard attire was frugal at best. My regular ‘uniform’ used to be a very well worn shirt, almost always one with a frayed collar, and a pair of exhausted looking shorts which any self-respecting beggar would have turned his nose up to. More often than not the shirt and shorts were hidden away from view with a knee length khaki canvas raincoat which, on the rare occasion when it was not in use, would be draped across the petrol tank of the bike ready at hand to be donned at short notice. This particular vesture could easily have passed off as an artists canvas, covered as it was with a plethora of some rather interesting blotches, streaks and stains of grease / petrol / muck and what not liberally splattered all over. At the time of this particular tale, two years of usage with this raincoat having been my constant companion through thick and thin, had elevated this ‘artists canvas’ to the level of an intriguing art masterpiece which even the New York gallery of Modern Art would have paid handsomely to get its grubby hands on, a la Picasso!

Completing my daily workplace uniform, on my head there was always a ‘used to be khaki’ flop hat exhibiting the same level of ‘couldn’t care less’ attitude as the other clothes which had all seen better days, while at the other end was footwear which a scarecrow would have been ashamed to be seen in. During the ‘70s and ‘80s the only half decent footwear we could lay our hands on, equal to the rough usage of trudging through leach infested fields, used to be a pair of Bata Hunter boots. Passably basic shoes which, whenever a new pair was bought and through the first half of their somewhat limited life span of a couple of months, looked fairly decent with the canvas uppers of a bright olive green which in short time would fade away to a dirty muddy hue. By which time with the frayed rubber toe cap starting to show signs of age and beginning to peel off along the edges, the Bata Hunters would give the appearance of some flotsam which had been washed up on some godforsaken beach from some old ship wreck.

This tangential meander lays the foundation for what followed on that day.

In response to my ‘Good morning Sir’, Abid advised me that the new Assistant who had been expected on Panniar had arrived on the estate by cab on the previous evening and that could I go across to his bungalow to pick him up and bring him to the office. To me that was most welcome news since I had been eagerly looking forward to the fellows arrival. Anticipation which simply translated into me finally having someone junior to me on the estate, a greenhorn whom I could impress with the little I had learnt about tea in my two years.

Riding into the gentleman’s bungalow porch dripping wet, I kept my bike idling, waiting for junior to make his appearance. Which he did a couple of minutes later leaving me so totally gobsmacked that I almost lost my balance and all but toppled off my bike!

The youngster who now stood before me with a quizzical look on his face was dressed in a well ironed grey suit ending in a pair of smart polished black shoes and who, in his hand, was carrying a briefcase! All that was missing for this ‘estate misfit’ to fill in a slot in a bank in the city of London was a bowler hat and a neatly rolled brolly. Could anyone blame me for my taking an immediate disliking of the poor sod.
“Yes?!”
“The boss has asked me to pick you up and drop you off to his office”
”Its raining”
“Yes, it is”
“But I’m an executive”
“And what the bloody hell do you think I am? Now please just get on to the bike”

The totally befuddled hapless soul having got on to the pillion, with my nastiness coming to the fore, I literally took off from the porch and enroute to the main office made it a point to drive through every puddle and every pile of slush on the road, which there was always plenty of. Ten minutes later I delivered the by now totally dishevelled, mud splattered, wet as a hen and badly shaken up “executive” to Abid’s office, curtly pointed him in the direction of the door and rode off.

It was around noon that I saw Abid riding up to where I was pottering around in one of the fields. Pushing my way through the bushes I came down to the road to meet the boss.
“What did you say to that new guy?”
“Nothing in particular, Sir. I just picked him up and dropped him off to your office”
“I don’t understand it, he just walked into my office looking very unhappy and after wishing me, his next sentence was that he wanted to resign and that could I get him a cab to take him back to Cochin – very strange”

Ever tried to fit a square peg in a round hole??