The Orange Valley
Nina Varghese
28 November 2007, 02:31The cold was getting to his bones. The thin woolens he wore were totally inadequate against the intense cold wave which swept through the mountains, destroying the tea bushes with frost. Prashant turned up his coat collar and walked faster. His hands were getting cold, so he thrust them into his jeans pocket and kept walking. He walked up the Cochin House slope and the lights of the Club were visible through the hedge. At last, he thought with relief, and jogged the rest of the way, till he reached the side entrance which lead straight into the bar.
He opened the door and let himself in. It was warm and cozy inside and the smell from the wood fire burning in the fire place was very pleasant. The card tables were all busy and the usual crowd was at the bar. He slid on a bar stool and asked the bar man for a drink. Then, as he sipped his rum he felt the warmth come back and the feelings return to his almost frozen fingers.
Just like the first time. Things don’t change all that much in these little hill towns, he thought. He remembered the first time he had ccme to the club.
Nobody had paid much attention to him. So he had picked up his drink and edged closer to the group gathered at one end. Most of the men at the bar were planters and the talk was all about the tea crop and whether there would be frost the next day. He wondered whether the frost would affect his newly planted orange saplings. But he was a little nervous of asking these planter types, they would laugh at him. After a while, they wandered off to play billiards or cards and he found himself alone at the bar.
Well, not quite alone. At the far end there was an older gentleman wearing an olive green beret and green sweater nursing his drink. Prashant picked up his courage and his drink, walked up to him and said `` Mind if I join you, sir’’
``Sure’’, said the man and turned and looked at the younger man. Prashant was aware of a pair of sharp brown eyes assessing him while he took in the pleasantly handsome face and the air of strength that the man exuded.
``These plantation boys, they can talk of nothing but tea. The rest of the world be damned. Incidentally my name is ———’’ before he could finish, he was interrupted by an old Parsi gentleman who called out ``Good evening, PC’’, and walked past.
As they were chatting, Prashant found that the new friend was an old resident of this hill town and a retired tea planter himself. He wondered if he could broach the subject that had been dearest to his heart, for some time. Prashant decided to give it a shot.
``Uncle, I am planning to grow oranges at Pookal Valley, he said. PC (Prashant decided to call him that) looked at him for a long while and then shook his head slightly. ``Maybe you should give it some more thinking. Pookal is not suited for oranges’’ he said.
``But, uncle, I had the soil tested and the chaps at the Agricultural University in Coimbatore told me that this place is best suited for oranges. In fact, they told me that this is where the Brits first planted oranges. Even before Nagpur or Coorg,’’ Prashanth said in a rush.
The older man took a sip and then turned to Prashant, ``What the University chaps said was right. There were oranges in Pookal at one time. Lovely oranges, the best, which were sent to grace the Viceroy’s table. But all that has changed’’. PC got up and stretched and then downed his drink. He patted Prashant on his back and walked out of bar in a long, loping stride.
That was a year ago. Now he wondered whether he would see that man again.
He had a few things to clear up, loose ends, so to speak. The gang at the bar was particularly raucous this time. So he gave them a wide berth. He ordered his drink and looked around when he noticed the same old Parsi gentleman in the alcove, near the bar, reading a magazine. So he picked up his drink and walked into the alcove and asked `` Mind, if I join you, sir’’
``Not at all, not at all,’’ the old gentleman said.
``Sir, my name is Prashant and I would like to meet, er……P.C’’
`` Which one of those rogues, do you want to meet? There are four of them,’’ the old man replied.
``Oh’’, said Prashant, ``I met him the last time I was here. He is tallish, well built with brown eyes.’’
The old Parsi snorted, ``you have just described all the four brothers.’’
``Well, let me see,’’ said Prashant. ``This guy wore a green beret and was kind of friendly.’’
``Ha, that is more like it. The friendly one is PCK. Ask the club office for his telephone number they will give it to you.’’
``Oh! thank you, sir,’’ said Prashant
The next day, Prashant was on his way to meet PCK having duly collected his address and fixing a time to see him. PC was waiting on the lawn and led him into the old colonial bungalow. He was offered a cup of tea which he gladly accepted.
``So what can I do for you’’ asked PC. Prashant decided to go straight to the point. He explained how he had met him a year ago.
`Sir, …. Uncle, the last time we met you said that oranges will not grow in Pookal. Could you tell me why’’.
``Why what happened,’’ PC asked
``My entire crop failed. It just rotted away. Despite the care that I took,’’ Prashant said.
``I am sorry. Maybe I should not have said anything at all,’’ PC remarked.
Prashant make a depreciating movement with hand. `` Please, Uncle tell me’’ he said
``Well, there is an old story about Pookal, said PC. The valley which was once so fertile and prosperous is said to be cursed. It happened some time back, after the end of the War- the Second World War. A private aircraft, a Dakota, took off from Bangalore bound for Coimbatore and was lost over the Western Ghats. Remember, this was before Indian Airlines was incorporated and there were many private airlines flying feeder routes using World War II aircraft. There was very poor visibility over the mountains and the plane crashed somewhere in the dense forests. There were a number of important people on the flight so the rescue teams searched for days and weeks before they found the wreckage.
The wreckage was found in the forests near the Pookal valley almost two weeks after the crash. The reason for the delay in locating the wreckage was because the rescue teams were searching on the Western slopes. It is only later, that they crossed the plateau and searched in the forests on the Eastern slopes. Finally, it was the tribals who lead the rescue teams near the Pookal valley. They found the wreckage alright. They also found some horrible things had happened to passengers.
The pilot had tried to bank and caught his wing on the mountain peak. Strangely enough the plane did not blow up, maybe they were low on fuel and he crashed into the thick shola forest. Not all the passengers were dead when the plane, finally, came to rest on some boulders. Decay had set in and the animals had a go at the bodies. But what was left was terrible enough. The police found the decaying bodies stark naked with their throats cut.
That meant that they had not died in the crash and somebody had robbed them of everything, even their clothes. The passengers’ empty suitcases were all strewn around. There was nothing there. Everything was gone, papers, passports, watches, ear rings, nose studs, bangles, even gold filling in the teeth.
All these items would surface later in equally terrifying circumstances.
Today, you may not be very horrified at what had happened. Your generation has seen a lot of cruelty and mayhem but in those days it filled us all with sadness that such a thing should happen in our district. ’’
The inspector in charge was an English man, one Thomas White, we used to call him `Lily’ White. He had planned to stay on in India after Independence. But he was outraged. He put in his papers and decided to go back to England. Before he left, he worked hard to find the perpetuators. But to no avail. The village closed itself against the world and hid the criminals from justice. The police men who accompanied `Lily’ White, later said that White Dorai wept when he saw the poor bodies lying all twisted and exposed to the elements. They said he cursed the valley and its people ``It will all wither away’’, he had said.
`` It is an old story. I don’t even know if it is true. But I hear that nothing ever grows in Pookal even today.’’
Nina: I knew you would write about Pookal Valley!
— Gopi Warrier · Nov 29, 08:43 · #
very nice mother…the chronicles of PC have begun…
— Sandeep · Nov 29, 09:28 · #