People who grow up in cities can hardly imagine some of the wonderfully quirky things that become part of everyday life in a tea garden. Having lived my life between two worlds—a city dweller and a tea garden wanderer—I collected memories that once felt strange, yet have become some of the most treasured moments of my childhood.
The very first thing that fascinated me was a reptile much larger than an ordinary house lizard. As evening settled over the tea gardens, the silence would suddenly be broken by its loud call—“Gecko! Gecko!” The sound echoed through the still air, making the entire garden feel mysterious.
Later, I learned that it was the tokay gecko, locally known as the keko. Despite its unusual appearance, it is generally harmless. It often rested quietly on wooden fences, old trees, or nearby bushes, almost disappearing into its surroundings. Looking back, I realise that its nightly calls were not disturbing at all—they were simply another note in the peaceful orchestra of the tea garden.
As a child, discovering the keko made me feel like a little explorer. Every evening held the promise of finding something new.
Another childhood wonder came in the form of frogs. Until then, frogs existed only in the colourful pages of my science books. But in Sreemangal, they suddenly became real.
On quiet afternoons, I would sit on our veranda and watch small clay-coloured frogs hopping gently across the veranda and sometimes in the garden. Their earthy colours blended so perfectly with the wet soil and fallen leaves that they almost disappeared from sight. With tiny, careful jumps, they would hide behind flower pots, quietly going about their own little lives without bothering anyone.
Then came the monsoon.
As the nearby lowlands filled with rainwater, the evenings transformed into a natural concert. Hundreds of frogs seemed to sing together in perfect rhythm. Their chorus floated through the cool, damp air, mixing with the earthy scent of rain-soaked soil and fresh tea leaves. To me, those sounds became the true music of the monsoon.
Growing up, I often heard people say that where there are many frogs, snakes are never far away. Yet during my many visits and occasional years in Sreemangal, I hardly ever saw one. I suppose I was fortunate.
Only once do I remember a frightening moment. One rainy afternoon, while visiting through the tea garden with my cousins, we almost stepped on a slender yellow snake at the doorstep of the shower area. It lied down on the wet staircase outside,at first glance, it looked almost like a large earthworm. Thankfully, our chaukidar managed to deal with it, leaving behind nothing more than a racing heartbeat and a story we would remember for years.
Today, when I look back on these memories, I feel nothing but gratitude.
The geckos, the frogs, and even that fleeting encounter with the snake never harmed me. They were living their own lives, sharing the same beautiful landscape that shaped so much of my childhood.
Perhaps that is one of the greatest lessons the tea gardens quietly taught me. We were never alone there. We were simply one small part of a much larger world, where every living creature—no matter how small, unusual, or misunderstood—had its own place and its own gentle way of announcing its presence.
Gentle reminder: Sometimes the places that seem the quietest are the ones that teach us the most about wonder, coexistence, and the quiet beauty of sharing the world with every living creature.
