We all want different things from this trip. My 14-year-old, Zara, henceforth referred to as Child 1, wants to be compensated monetarily for being taken away from her hectic social life in Mumbai and subjected to things like mountains, valleys and other apparently hideous forms of nature. Child 2, Rania, at nine years of age is still innocent to the seductions of the material world and simply wishes to accompany her mother somewhere. As for me, having spent some time in the tea gardens of Darjeeling as a child, I am keen my daughters experience a different kind of a holiday, one that does not include Swiss ski resorts, London high streets or Orlando theme parks, where we have flocked year after year like devout pilgrims. I decide that we will spend a week in West Bengal’s tea estates, just us girls, and we—they, especially—will love it.
It is a languorous drive to Darjeeling on an unusually narrow road, through spotless mountain villages, anked by gardens of tea. I expound to my children upon the inglorious ways of the British Empire. Child 1 isn’t impressed. “Ya, ya, it’s all green and stuff, but why are you so excited about it?” she asks. Her eyes light up briefly when the driver offers us cakes and sandwiches, but soon she lapses into her previous unmoved state. When I request the driver to take us to the hotel via Darjeeling’s iconic Raj-era Glenary’s Bakery & Café, near the Mall, the girls squeal with delight. “There’s a mall here?” Child 2 asks gleefully. I consider banging my head on the dashboard and then tell them, equally gleefully, that it is the name of a road.
From Darjeeling, it’s a short, smooth drive to Ging Tea House (doubles from Rs15,000) in Lebong Valley, where we are given a warm welcome by Sumedha, the director of the tea estate. Built in 1864, the bungalow is delightfully old-fashioned. From the dark teak flooring to the antique furniture, marble replace, the piano in a corner, vintage etchings on the wall and chintzy furnishings, every element makes me feel like I’m on the set of a BBC period production.
We’re served homegrown organic tea and cookies and then shown to the Blue Lady Suite, the same colour Child 1 turns when she is given the crushing news that the wi-fi at the property isn’t working and 3G reception is poor, too. Her facial expression morphs into a scowl, one that stays for the majority of the holiday. Child 2 then comes in, shrieking. She has seen a moth in the bathroom and needs me to vanquish it. I hold her hand and we inspect the bathroom. She breathes a sigh of relief when she realises she’d imagined it and that our suite is undefiled by the presence of arthropods.
Ging has six beautiful suites. Apart from us, there are five other families, all of whom seem to have established an easy intimacy among themselves. Each morning, guests are served tea in bed, in exquisite porcelain dressed up in cosies, and later, served breakfast in the viewing decks on the lawns. A Raj-era routine is observed to perfection over the multicourse meals we are served at fixed times by the smiling ‘beras’ (bearers). Sumedha introduces us to different flushes of tea. We learn that every season produces a different tasting tea from the same bush, and that the difference between green, white and black tea depends not only on the flush, but also on the process of production. The organic tea from Ging is sold mainly to traders in Germany and Japan, who then package it under different labels and send it across the world.
Early mornings are the most beautiful part of the day, when the gentle rays of the sun caress the mountains. The lawns overlook the stunning Kanchenjunga. With much struggle, I have risen at the crack of dawn in the hope of seeing the famous peak, but it is currently hidden behind the curtain of clouds, just like Mount Fuji was when I went to Japan. I always seem to be travelling great distances only to look at clouds. That said, the clouds in these parts are no ordinary clouds. They are vagrant and restless one minute, static the next, sometimes above you, sometimes below.
On our second day, a tea garden tour awaits. The children accompany a group of tea pluckers in colourful shirts with saris worn like skirts. Child 2 enthusiastically learns to pluck the new buds correctly, keeping the first two leaves around them, while Child 1 manages the impossible task of plucking tea while staring at her phone in the hope of 3G signal. I am impressed with her determination. On another occasion, we walk through the clouds, down the terraces to a factory where Child 2 and I learn how green leaves are turned into packaged tea. Child 1, however, chooses to stay in the factory’s tasting room to read The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, Aged 13 .
“When are we going to the Himalayas?” she asks me. I tell her that we are already in the Himalayas—and that her ignorance is soul destroying.
Later, back at Ging, I find Child 1 sitting by the beautiful bay window, sobbing bitterly. “Who died?” I ask. “There is no wi-fi and 3G barely works. You tricked me and brought me to a village. My friends are all meeting up in Bombay and here I am, stuck with you! I want to change my tickets right now,” she cries. “So you want to travel back all by yourself?” “I do. Rather that than this,” she declares, as the tears continue to pour. “But we’re all bonding,” I offer. “We bond enough in Bombay—we don’t need to come to a forest to bond,” she says bitterly. I muster up some pathos and tell her in tragic tones that I had hoped this brief vacation would be about the three of us creating memories that would last forever. I continue: “One day, when you will both be leading your own lives and I will be too old to get out of my home, you will be sorry you ruined this vacation for us all. This time is precious,” I conclude with a dramatic flourish. Child 1 suddenly appears distressed at my outburst, and at the prospect of me perhaps keeling over one day. Her eyes brim with tears of contrition as she remorsefully says, “Don’t say these things. I promise I’ll try to have a good time.”
And so it is that harmony is restored temporarily among the little women in the Blue Lady Suite. As we dig into our candlelit dinner of Burmese khow suey with wide smiles, I am almost aching with happiness and congratulating myself on my timely reference to the transience of my youth. But when I ask the girls to accompany me to Darjeeling, even Child 2 cannot be persuaded. “It is too old, that place. It felt like we were in 1917 when I was up there,” she says. “The Tibetan monastery might be interesting,” I reply. “Er, monks are not our idea of interesting, Mamma, you go,” she chirps.
I leave the girls behind and take off. The view as we drive up the mountains is compelling and I am awestruck by the splendour of the Himalayas. We stop at a monastery where a DSLR-toting Tibetan monk in robes and fancy sneakers poses happily for my Instagram. At the Chowrasta market square, tourists mill about near food stalls selling corn and momos; pahadi men solicit pony rides. Nearby, there is a cluster of shops selling khukhris, Tibetan artefacts, woollens in pop colours. At the iconic Oxford Book & Stationery Co (0354 2254 325), prominently displayed on the top rack of the Children’s section are the following coffee-table books: Hitler; Guns; Firearms – An Illustrated History; Knives, Swords, Spears & Daggers. Suddenly I’m glad my children have decided to stay back at Ging to enjoy samosas and cake with tea.
When I return to Ging, guests are sitting around chatting against the backdrop of the imposing mountains embellished with the firefly-like specks of village lights. When the strains of a melodious voice reach us, we spring from our beds and sprint to the patio, where Amrit Gurung, the 17-year-old boy who has grown up at the estate, is strumming the guitar and singing to a transfixed audience. “Not bad,” says Child 1 with a shrug of her delicate shoulders, even as she struggles to underplay her approval. I smile. Mother-1. Daughter-0.
The next day, we arrive at Darjeeling station and wait for its famous “Toy Train”. The atmosphere is romantic. A cool, crisp wind blows in our faces, drawing with it clouds that envelop us in their mist. The very mention of the train and Mere Sapno Ki Rani from Aradhana starts to play in my mind. Once again, I assure the girls that this is going to be an unforgettable experience for all of us. The narrow-gauge train comes chugging into the station, puffing and bellowing steam, in the manner of the Hogwarts Express. Despite being built in 1881, it is in surprisingly good condition. We settle into our seats, but when the train finally begins to move, it wheezes clouds of black smoke, rendering us breathless. “Wow, this is fun,” Child 1 smirks. Our co-passengers don’t seem too concerned and look at us with wonder when we escape at the next stop, barely 15 minutes into our journey. “This was truly memorable,” says Child 2. “By the time the ride is over they will all have lung cancer!”
On the morning of our departure from Ging, I ask Child 1, with unflagging optimism, to mention the one good thing she will remember from our stay here. I suspect she will confess it was the singer; instead pat comes the reply: “I got 3G near the study table in our room.” #facepalm
It is a rocky drive downhill to Glenburn Tea Estate (doubles from Rs25,500), close to the border with Sikkim, and our car bumps and jangles all the way. On top of a hillock sits the incredibly beautiful bungalow that is to be our home for the next three days. Built in the early 1900s, this was the tea planter’s house until 2002, when Husna-Tara Prakash lovingly restored the Burra Bungalow and converted it into a boutique hotel while retaining its colonial elements.
“What? You brought me back to the same hotel again after this terrible drive!” exclaims Child 1, who was perhaps expecting a Ritz-Carlton.
Glenburn has eight suites and is surrounded on all sides by a garden lush with nasturtium, pansies, petunias and geraniums. It also has a staggeringly expansive view of the mountains. Parveez Hussain, the tea estate’s manager, tells us that on a clear day one can see the snow-capped Kanchenjunga dominate the scenery in such an overpowering way that everything else around it becomes invisible. (I am prepared for nothing but clouds.)
Inside, it is the Raj all over again: Burma teak interiors, antique furniture and carpets, 9ft-high windows and Victorian paintings on the walls. Natural light fills up all the rooms so generously that the whole place exudes freshness and a feeling of lived-in luxury.
As we settle into our beautiful Rose Suite, overlooking a rose garden, I notice that the opinionated, nature-hating teenager and her nature-loving but insect-phobic younger sister are suddenly in a celebratory mood, and not only because of good 3G network. “I love this pink room,” gushes Child 1. “Kendal Jenner has one too, because pink curbs your appetite. Can we paint our dining room pink?” she asks. “Can you stop talking about the Kardashians all the time, please?” the nine-year-old pleads.
Life at Glenburn is a time traveller’s dream. Breakfast takes place under the pomelo tree overlooking the valley, lunch on the checkered marble verandah of the Water Lily Bungalow and drinks at the Burra Bungalow. At all times, you are made to feel like a memsahib from 200 years ago, who takes afternoon tea with freshly baked scones and enjoys cocktails with house guests by the fire in the drawing room. There are place cards on the dining table every night, wine and conversation flow as each course (Mughlai, Burmese and tea-themed, among others) is served by the beras.
Tea is to Darjeeling what wine is to Bordeaux and over dinner, 26-year-old Sidhant, a fourth-generation member of the Prakash family, educates us about the different flushes: he calls for fresh brews after dinner each night. I realise I will never be able to drink milky tea from Assam again. And tea bags will seem like blasphemy. My favourites by the end of the trip are the Autumn Oolong and First Flush.
Child 1 and Child 2 are on their best behaviour at the dinner table, but during the day, they can be heard shrieking and running away from beetles and butterflies, or seen stuffing their faces with pastries. But the highlight of our visit is a trek to a campsite by the Rungeet River for a barbecue picnic. We apply sunblock generously. “You must spray it all over your hands, Mamma, they’re the most important. They age the fastest,” advises the 14-year-old beauty expert, now hyper-aware of her mother’s imminent old age.
A few minutes into our trek and she’s already begging to return to the hotel. “Why can’t I take the jeep down instead?” she asks. “Because this is part of my character-building programme for you,” I say. “My character is fine. I am happy with it. It needs no building, thank you very much,” she replies.
Meanwhile, Child 2 has invited a village dog to accompany us and christened him Chestnut. It is a warm day, and so concerned is she about the canine’s well-being that we are made to halt every few minutes to watch her cool him off— with mineral water, no less. “What if he bites us and we all die of rabies?” mutters Child 1, whose complaints have become a steady hum that I am determined to ignore. “This life isn’t cut out for me, I don’t think I can do this, call for the hotel car, please,” she begs. “I have a stitch in my stomach. What kind of a mother lets her child be in pain?” she continues.
We are walking on a rocky but even track downhill and I suggest she stop to catch her breath.“Can we not call an Uber? Is there an Uber here? There should be, Uber is everywhere.” I am at a loss for words.
Fortunately, Sidhant is passing by in his 4×4, the only vehicle that can navigate this terrain. Child 1 finds herself a ride downhill and the rest of us are put out of our misery.
When, after 6km, we arrive at the log cabin by the bubbling river, Chestnut runs off into the woods. The staff serves lemonade and lays out a lavish picnic lunch, following which we jump into the cool waters of the gushing Rungeet, and the girls are taught to fish. Child 2 has been unusually quiet and when I make inquiries, she bursts into tears. “He came all the way and didn’t even stay for the barbecue. He must be so hungry.” “Who?” I ask. “Chestnut!” she wails. “Can’t you find a human friend instead?” Child 1 suggests, cracking up, before asking Child 2 if her hair is frizzing up.
The rest of our time passes by very quickly at Glenburn, and before we know it, we are driving past the Teesta on our way to Bagdogra airport. At the risk of feeling disappointed, I ask Child 1 once again what she liked best about her stay. “Oh well, I had proper network at Glenburn. The three of us really did bond. I got to hold a rabbit. And I dislike Child 2 a little less now.” “And nature, I’m sure you’re feeling good that you came and spent time in nature,” I suggest. “Please let me control my own feelings, you controlled the entire trip,” comes the reply.
I’m just grateful that she bothered to respond between her furious Instagram scrolling.