A Heritage Lost

CHAPTER 1 - THE FORBIDDEN FRUIT

The pleasures of the Garden of Eden… yet with no heavenly restrictions! But how hazardous for this young man were these earthly temptations so awesomely displayed at every turn?

The veteran tea-planter was contemplating – and not for the first time – on the unbridled passion of the young Scotsman; the laird now, of the tea gardens covering the green-valleys at his feet and as it seemed, even of the mist engulfed distant blue mountains. Intoxicated as the young man was by this untamed beauty all around him, he was soon caught confessing that the splendour he now surveyed, far surpassed his wildest youthful dreams.

And Andrew Berkeley was left pondering...

…pondering if it was the absolute certainty and the unpretentious reality of it all that Chasley Rannoch prized in this earthly paradise, his present abode, or if it was the ‘forbidden fruit’.

The original Garden Paradise had its many hidden perils, mused Andrew; still, in spite of these veiled hazards, the ‘forbidden fruit’ in the heavenly garden had seemed like an earthly-delight for Adam and Eve. And – as it appeared to the seasoned tea-planter, it was pretty likely to be so besides, for this young man from the Scottish glens seeking his ‘heaven on earth’ on this exotic Isle!

~

Andrew wondered for the umpteenth time if there could be anything ‘local’ about their Club House. Was there in the interior décor of its sumptuous chambers, something that reflected the culture of the Island’s indigenous people?

Even the meals served daily in its wood-panelled dining room seemed a mishmash reproducing the cuisine of his own Motherland.

Only those who served at the tables, as Andrew acknowledged, had a semblance of what he could call ‘native’. These attendants were locally hired waiters, always smartly clad – in pristine white – in what was claimed to be their national garb. Andrew was certainly curious as to how much these poker-faced-servers heard and saw of what was said and done within this ‘hallowed’ dining-chamber! He even marvelled at the way they remained politely silent, staring incomprehensibly at the wall-mounted hunting-trophies, as the gentlemen in their waist-coated-suits sat at the tables and emptied the contents of fine-cut-crystal-decanters while consuming the unappetising food to which they were accustomed.

As it seemed to Andrew, their Club House had become – through the years – their indispensable little hideout when it came to ‘tasting the tipple’ and indeed, the place for easy communion with fellow planters. The building that housed this ‘haven’ for the planters was built in the rustically-elegant mock-Tudor style they were familiar with; the characteristically interlocking black-beams on the white-façade, unmistakably recreating the charm of rural England.

How quintessentially British, considered Andrew, and yet how splendidly the building blended into its backdrop of the distant nine-peaked-ridge that was framing it so artistically and rather mystically – the captivating range of mountains much further to the East, that the locals had aptly named Namunukula.

All this, surely, was Great Britannia superimposed on a ‘Little England’ of their own making!

~

Pipe smoke had its characteristic charm and was an integral part of the Club House atmosphere. Pipes were filled incessantly and puffed indulgently. Andrew accepted that smoke-pollution was the price they all paid for the privilege of dangling from their lips this very sophisticated accessory-to-conversation; but he could only just tolerate the tedious and obsessive exercise his colonial compatriots were so thoroughly addicted to! Escape from it all was therefore what he mostly did; taking refuge if not in the encircling veranda, then on the broad terrace caressed by the balmy hill-breeze.

And yet, all this tranquillity was denied to the wives left to brood at home. This exclusion, it seemed, was purely for the sanity of their self-indulgent husbands. As one could expect, there wasn’t a wife around who had clearly not felt neglected knowing they were barred from the Club-House comforts. Little wonder then… that these ostracized wives left at home to their own devices had, at some stage of their boredom, conjured up something to distract themselves.

The distraction that Andrew was referring to was afternoon-tea with scones and strawberry laced with clotted cream – indulgent fare these wives were familiar with back home…

Well, not every planting-circle wife came from a strawberry-and-clotted-cream-afternoon-tea pedigree, Andrew corrected himself. But some wives did; as, for instance, his Arabella. Bella had been born into a family of moneyed landowning gentlemen-farmers in affluent rural-middle-England. The upper-middle-class here had swiftly adopted the habit of ‘sipping’ afternoon-tea, and that, ever since the tradition had started… with acres of tea plantations spreading fast and furious over colonial-owned mountain-slopes.

Even though he, himself, came from a family of prolific tea drinkers, when it came to the ‘ritual’ afternoon-tea-drinking, his own mother – being the hard-working teacher at their local Church School, and the busy housewife that she truly was – had no time for sitting with friends in her back-garden, drinking tea while tucking into strawberries-scones-and-clotted-cream. His country-physician-father, nevertheless, had often found solace in a cup of tea! He would never forego the opportunity to sit down for an ‘afternoon cuppa’ of the finest ‘Ceylon golden-tips’, but of course, he did so in the privacy of his own dining room, reminisced Andrew.

Although once totally dedicated to his scholarly profession in the ‘City of Dreaming Spires’ yet, for Andrew, the distraction to end his impressive Oxbridge career had come – and come very strongly too – on hearing of the good life in the East with its tea gardens, aromatic spices and all that art and architecture yet unexplored by the West. Indeed, Bella, had chosen him for her husband while he was seriously contemplating giving up his prestigious academic world to buy and manage a tea plantation abroad.

Even though he was moving from the ‘sublime’ to the ‘ridiculous’, it surely was no surprise for him that Bella, with agribusiness clearly in her blood, should choose to share this exotic life with him. But as he knew even then, agribusiness was certainly not in his blood! However, he had vowed to Bella that he would not swap his chosen hill-country-haven for anything else… and this, every time he surveyed the awesome splendour of the highland valley he had chosen for their home.

~

Bella loved the afternoon tea-garden-idylls. As Andrew happened to observe, these back-garden-tea-parties arranged by the planting-circle-wives had slightly more savoury options than what Bella, perhaps, was normally used to. Sardine and cucumber sandwiches were on the menu, in addition to the more traditional fare. Strawberries, although indispensable for these occasions, were a rarity during the ‘off season’, considering they were shipped to the Island from Britain only in the summer months. The local variety, it seemed, did not really match the flavour of the stuff grown in England’s market gardens. Of course, there was the local golden-tip-brew that was not easily matched for its delicious and delicate flavour, anywhere else in the world! But then, these tea planters’ wives would select nothing but the best for their afternoon idylls. All this appetising fare made their daily exercise an enjoyable and a more sophisticated means of spending afternoons than if they were doing these rituals in their homeland-back-gardens; for there was also the additional comfort of servants at their beck and call...

These sitting-out-in-the-garden and enjoying the wafting-rose-scents-occasions were almost always accompanied by the other luxury of uninterrupted tittle-tattle. Their tittle-tattle, as Bella was quick to point out, was mostly good natured; and in this, Andrew believed his wife. She had thoroughly convinced him of the innocent nature of their pastime: nothing more sinister than an interesting way of eliminating boredom. And so – he had solemnly pledged he would not begrudge these ‘plantation-widows’ such a small pleasure... as he, obviously, was not the victim of their loose-tongues!

Surely, these wives were entitled to their ‘innocent’ tea-garden-pleasures and to even indulge in their ‘other’ more secretive and exciting passions? As Andrew knew only too well, these ‘other-not-too-innocent-pursuits’ were simply temporary pleasures. Desires, in fact, celebrated by some of these women who although married, rarely remained so... to fully enjoy the marital bliss they had so hastily embraced. Some couples, as he thought, were lucky if they even survived their first visit back-home to Motherland.

Pondering further on the minor deceptions of these plantation wives and on the more disturbing lecherous activities of their menfolk, Andrew saw how suspicious these wives were of their husbands’ pleasure-pastimes. He certainly did not need his Bella to tell him that! The wives, of course, had been groomed to accept – with a certain finesse – the self-gratification of their men. They simply looked the other way when they could bear it no longer...

No wonder, then, that these same wives found the means to spite grievously the incorrigible brood of ‘male chauvinists’ they were so tenuously attached to. Some neglected wives found paramours to give them short-term solace. It had amazed Andrew, though, that his young friend was happy to ease these frustrated wives’ temporary boredom, giving them ‘the attention’ they craved. An occasional, discreet bit of mischief that perhaps kept everyone happy, shrugged Andrew, even while accepting that under saner circumstance he would think of this somewhat ‘immoral behaviour’ of young Chasley Rannoch – the new incumbent of 'St Clair Nil-diya Estate' – as naïve, and nothing other than ‘playing with fire’.

~

The building perched precariously on a steep-sided plateau, and the front lawn ended in what seemed a minor cliff. Andrew saw Chasley – even like himself – taking temporary refuge from the ‘in-house-pollution’. He too was enjoying the crisp-clean-mountain-air while ‘feasting’ his eyes on the charming view of the valley, stretching far-out below the plateau.

Nestling in the valley was the picturesque little town, once a barely known village.

Andrew heard Chasley say across the patio, ‘Do you even wonder why this town was nicknamed 'Little England' by some compatriot of ours wallowing in nostalgia? He certainly must have been homesick at the time... eh, Andrew?’

Creating nostalgia – or not – this little town carved as it were ‘out of nowhere’ in the previous century had certainly made the growing bunch of British tea planters now basking in its familiar ‘eternal-spring-time’, very cosy and nearer home than they really were. Besides, reasoned Andrew, this was sure evidence that Great Britannia was not only ‘Ruling the Waves’ but ruling the hills as well!

Andrew had to admit that among the ingredients here able to concoct a strong ‘nostalgic brew’ for him, were the mountains. The mist covered peaks and the gushing torrents that carved their way through the lush green landscape were a constant reminder to him of Snowdonia in his native Wales. The similarity, as he thought, was quite remarkable… but only if one were to concentrate on the pine-clad-fresh-green-look that seemed rather deceptively the same as on the Snowdonia Range – while, of course, excepting the bowl-shaped-mountainside-hollows known as ‘corries’. Referred to as ‘cwms’ by the Welsh, Andrew knew these ‘corries’ to be features of glacial-erosion that were certainly not a part of the tropical-island-mountain-scenery now spread-out before him.

Is it a small wonder, contemplated Andrew, that the whirlpools, rapids and waterfalls in the mountain streams flowing through the terrain of these two enchanted places were simply continuing the work initially begun by the hand of some extraordinary creator? A master designer, possibly, of ‘alien’ origin and of vastly superior intelligence and power – who as perhaps the ‘faithful’ believed, was the Great Maker Himself!

~

Andrew reflected on Chasley’s seeming indifference for the rampant national-mindedness in the exclusive community to which he now belonged. Had he not heard Chasley admit – sometimes apologetically – that his Scottish heritage was strong enough to survive in his heart, without needing reminders through evenings spent in Highland-dancing... and that he could not, in all sincerity, approve of his compatriots’ dire need to stand out from the rest?

Whilst being conscious of this blasé attitude of his young friend, Andrew was nonetheless aware that this kind of unpatriotic ideology did not make the Scotsman turn his back entirely on the trappings of his culture. On many a social occasion Chasley would display his native kilt with pride while putting to good use his magnificent baritone voice... to croon perennial aires of his Scottish compatriot guests’ choice. Chasley was even happy to oblige when demanded encores! Then there were those other requests from his fellow British countrymen, that he would deliver with equal fervour. Chasley’s moving rendition of The Ash Grove – the Welsh favourite he often sang at his guests’ request – when intoned with his own customary passion, had always brought Bella near to tears. And what's more, Andrew remembered the very first time Chasley sang to his guests. On this occasion, it was the much loved ‘song-without-frontiers’ Oh, Danny Boy, that stole the show. Chasley was at his best, serenading Bella! This charming display – endearing enough as it was to the onlooker – had just the right kind of poignancy to capture Bella’s imagination and so to reserve in her heart, as Andrew certainly knew, a motherly-soft-corner for this charismatic young man fresh from the Scottish vales.

~

Andrew could almost hear the resonant thunder of the stallion-hooves, as the sleepy town of Nuwara Eliya ‘woke up’ to its let’s-put-our-hair-down gala spectacle of the Racing Season. This fashionable ‘season’ was never missed by the elite ‘guests’ from Colombo who, as Andrew admitted, were an interesting hotchpotch of white colonial gentlemen and ‘brown Englishmen’; and of course, their elegant women! As he had witnessed through the years, it was in the balmy month of April that the racing fans moved in droves to this highland venue, so-far-unparalleled in the country.

‘The Season’ was a bonus for many. Indeed, much looked forward to by the migrant workers who knew they could earn the generous tip or two even if their temporary wages were not much to gloat over. For Andrew, the bonus was the undeniable thrill of seeing his backed-horse run. For that reason, he pandered unwaveringly to his quite modest racing-madness, indulging in the occasional flutter. In fact, eager not to be classed as an incorrigible gambler, he only parted with just a few rupees on a couple of randomly selected horses, hoping at least one in his selection would win outright. However, he was quick to assure himself and others that it did not bother him even if his ‘backed’ horses failed to reach the finishing-line! Andrew, nevertheless, had been elated by the unusual luck he had the previous year. As he remembered, that ‘piece of luck’ was due to some incredibly good tips given to him. The benevolent tipster who had surprised him with his betting-insight was the seemingly modest Mr Karthelis Appuhamy, a local major-domo-cum-valet of some kind, indispensable to Chasley Rannoch in the day-to-day running of his estate bungalow.

~

Andrew could not but be intrigued by some sociological aspects of the Island’s native population as, for instance, their diverse cultural mores, their inherent mannerisms and their prejudices! He, therefore, had acquainted himself with the native folklore that incorporated all these quaint beliefs and the related superstitious practices. Whilst his studies were generally analytical, even critical, he vowed he had no intention of being derisive of the sacred traditions these proud people had struggled to uphold for centuries.

In his own intellectual way, Andrew was genuinely excited by this little nation’s ancient civilisation and its written tradition which he knew could boast of pre-dating most well-known civilisations of the West. Impressed though he was by the Island’s long-drawn-out history with its various ‘colourful’ theories running alongside, he was cautiously sceptical of the more recent concepts forwarded by historians… there was this rather intriguing notion that the 'Sinhala Aryans' were a Mediterranean sect that fled Troy after the Trojan-war, thereafter making a slow-trek across the desert-lands to the fertile Indus Valley. A well-known local scholar had, in fact, hypothesised this succinctly. Since the part ‘Sinha,’ in the name ‘Sinhala’ that these settlers adopted really meant ‘Lion’ – they, then coming from the Mediterranean Helles, were the ‘Lion People from the Helles’! What Andrew found truly incredible though, was the better-known and more abiding claim that these gentle people were descendants of an incestuous relationship between siblings who were sired by a ‘lion’ in love with a rather unruly yet beautiful princess.

In the more lucid claim that this little Island was abundantly blessed by the gods – Andrew, however, could find nothing dubious. Favoured for some reason by the benevolent deities, this land was El Dorado itself for globe-trotting seafaring captains of the calibre of Lourenço de Almeida and Robert Knox, and for the scribbling-while-travelling Marco Polos and the Ibn Battutas of the Middle Ages. And – of course, there were also the genuine and the not so genuine treasure-hunters. Even though he, himself, and even young Chasley would not have disputed that view, Andrew had sworn – hand on heart – that ‘treasure-seeking’ was certainly neither Chasley’s nor his own ‘hidden’ agenda for making this Island, their ‘home’.

The Ancients had, indeed, thought of this beautiful piece of land with its truly Arcadian surroundings, as being ‘just outside’ The Garden of Eden! Bearing in mind the numerous claims – in particular, the one that the Heavenly Father created this place for his ‘fallen children’ – was it a sin, argued Andrew, that Chasley, like himself, fell in love with this enchanting place that was the God-given substitute for the original 'Garden'?