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It was early summer. Following the “banjhi” period the garden was in full flush. From the manager down to the plucker, everybody was desperately trying to cope with the heavy crop. Golaghat, although a quality belt, is a rain-shadow area with scanty rainfall and hence low yield. The crop was particularly bad the previous year. But this year was different. Perhaps someone had deftly manoeuvred a rain stone and there were heavy showers at night and bright sunshine during the day which made the leaves grow with avengeance, making it almost impossible for anyone to maintain the strict seven-day plucking round.
He hated to be away from work at such a time. Notwithstanding the fact that he owned the garden, he did not like to leave things entirely to others. After all, it was his Midas touch that had turned the garden into a mine of green gold. But today he had a compulsion. There was an unavoidable family wedding in Guwahati. He furtively glanced at his watch and hurriedly stashed away the papers on the table and pulled out his plastered leg. He had broken a shin-bone a week ago — result of an accidental fall from the stairs, and he was to be in plaster for four weeks. With the help of a single crutch he limped up to the car porch and called out for his driver Bikram. Bikram was standing nearby and was in tears. His little daughter had shown symptoms of what the garden doctor feared was typhoid.
Good Lord! Guwahati was a long bumpy drive on rough metalled road and it was already dusk. Besides, the sky was overcast with rumbles of distant thunder. His hesitation was only evanescent. He asked Bikram to take his daughter to a specialist in Golaghat and managed to climb into the driver’s seat of his Land Rover. He then asked his driver to put his plastered foot on the accelerator and before anyone realised what was happening, he started the engine and sped away towards Guwahati.
As he crossed the boundary of his garden, it started raining. At first there were big drops pattering against the windshield and on the hard top of the Land Rover and then there was gusty wind and then it turned into a heavy storm. He had to slow down because of poor visibility. He was completely soaked by the rainwater entering through the window.
As he was passing by the hillocks near Numaligarh, he suddenly remembered the story of the great German composer Ludwig van Beethoven trying to conduct a storm from a hilltop and he burst into uncontrollable laughter.
Shyamraipore, Sarat Goswami’s garden, which was about 23 km away from Golaghat, was comparatively a small property, but an object of envy of even the large agency house gardens in the area.
Bob Bidwell, manager of one of the neighbouring gardens, Dolaguri, was his close friend. Both would often go out together on their little adventures and each got to know the other quite intimately through the endless conversations that they had during their various expeditions.
But Goswami hated to blow his own trumpet. Neither did he like others doing so. That was where he had a difference with his friend. Bidwell would often, perhaps innocently, claim certain feats which he had not really achieved. But Goswami even resented being introduced himself as the second son of the great renaissance man of Assamese language and literature Pandit Hemchandra Goswami. He did not like to revel in his father’s glory.
Shillong Club those days was the hub of the European gentlemen and ladies living in Assam, including the tea planters many of whom would go over to Shillong to spend weekends in the Club. Bob Bidwell took his friend Sarat Goswami to the Shillong Club one weekend and introduced him to some of his friends.
The bar and the hall were full of people drinking, smoking and talking to one another in not too low a voice. Bidwell, after some time, moved to a table next to theirs where some of his compatriots, including two pretty ladies, were engaged in a lively conversation relating to flying aircraft. One of the ladies, who was introduced to Goswami earlier as Ruth Davenport, reminded Goswami of the Dumb Wife of Chipside, albeit after recovery of her voice!
Goswami suddenly turned stiff. He could hear Bidwell talking about his experience in flying his own aircraft, a Tiger Moth, although he knew for sure that Bidwell never owned an aircraft nor was he a flier. He held his patience for a while and then he got up and went over to where Bidwell was sitting. “Bob, I think that’s enough. You better stop bragging about your flying skills. I know for sure that you don’t fly any aircraft”.
Saying this, Goswami returned to his table and resumed his seat. Bidwell flew into a rage and started shouting at Goswami, “Well, Sarat, how do you know that I have never flown an aircraft? What the hell do you think you know about flying? Don’t you dare utter a word about flying till you have even touched a private aircraft.”
“It is true that I don’t know much about flying,” said Goswami, “but soon I shall show you my skill in flying.”
Soon after returning from Shillong, Goswami went to Guwahati where the legendary R.G. Baruah had started the Assam Flying Club and expressed his desire to join the Club. But Sarat Goswami was over 60 and hence he was refused membership of the Club. He, however, did not give up. He was determined to show Bidwell and his compatriots what he was capable of.
One day, he heard from a planter coming from the Dooars that there was a small plane for sale in one of the Dooars gardens. Goswami set out for the Dooars the very next day and went straight to that garden. He found that it was an L5 Sentinel which the owner wanted to sell since he was going “home” after retirement. It had been lying in the hanger unused for quite sometime. Goswami examined it and bought it outright for Rs 40,000. But the aircraft was in no condition to fly. So he arranged for spare parts from Calcutta, got it repaired and finally obtained the certificate of air-worthiness. He then appointed a pilot and got it flown down from the Dooars.
After returning to Shyamraipore, he constructed a runway in front of his bungalow and also built a hanger. He took regular flying lessons from the pilot assiduously. His reflexes were good and soon he became an expert pilot. He would often fly solo over Kaziranga and go to Guwahati over weekends to watch matinee shows and return to the garden the same day.
Finally, “D-Day” arrived. Goswami arranged a luncheon in his bungalow one Sunday and invited a large number of planters, including his friend Bidwell. He did not forget to invite those planters of that area who happened to be in the Shillong Club on the day he had a tiff with Bidwell. After lunch was over, Goswami asked his people to clear the runway, took the aircraft out of the hanger, and in full view of his guests, taxied the L5 Sentinel on the runway, opened the throttle and flew up, up and away!
After Bidwell left Dolaguri, Goswami became friendly with his successor — let us call him Choudhury. Once he proposed to Choudhury that they go on a trip around India by road. He had great confidence both in his car and his driver Bikram, who was a teetotaller. The Choudhurys agreed and they had a wonderful trip visiting all the important places of India.
Finally, they came to Agra where they visited the Taj Mahal and stayed there for a while. During their stay in Agra, Goswami asked Bikram several times to go and see the Taj Mahal. But Bikram kept on deferring it. Then finally, just the day before they were to leave Agra, Goswami asked him once again to go and visit the Taj Mahal. Bikram lost patience and said somewhat saucily, “What’s so great about that building? Our Shyamraipore factory is much bigger than this Taj Mahal!”
Sarat Goswami’s life itself was a manifestation of intrepidity. He was endowed with a spirit of adventure and he loved to live an unpropitious life. He remained an adventurer even in his death. He died in Africa during a safari.
This piece is dedicated to the memory of Anita Dey, a regular reader of this column