They lived like kings. Their charming corrugated tin-roof bungalows were the castles, from which they ruled over the vast estates that surrounded them. Their subjects were thousands of workers and their families who derived livelihoods from the tea gardens.

Tea planters, literally, lived like the Lord of Tartary. Dozens waited on them, serving their every need, as they went about their jobs in the remote regions of Assam, North Bengal, and the Nilgiris. They bowed only before their superiors in the pecking order and to the boxwallahs who sat in Kolkata and London.

''Gardens were like small jagirs,'' recalls Pavan Kaul, the current burra sahib of Bogapani Tea Estate in Assam's Tinsukia district. ''Till the seventies, the garden manager was God. He was often called upon to attend to problems in the estate, settle domestic and private disputes involving his workers, judge a flower show and meet his European buyers, all in the course of a single day. And it was par for the course for him to then drive 70-80 km to the local planters' club for an evening of drinking and merriment.''

The burra sahib, as the garden manager is called, still does a lot of this, but the general consensus is that the quality of his life isn't the same any more. ''That lifestyle is no longer in tune with the times,'' says Rajeev Takru, Senior Vice President, Eveready Industries. In the old days, there would be a servant just to help the manager get into and out of his shoes!!! ''You can't lead a life like that in today's day and age. It had to change. And once the older generation of planters retire, this lifestyle will pass into history,'' he adds.

There are several reasons for this. ''Today's young planter considers this to be just another job, like any other. For us, it was a lifestyle,'' says Kaul. The prolonged slump in the tea industry hasn't helped. The loss of the protected Russian market, the rise in production costs and competition from Sri Lankan, Kenyan, and Chinese teas in the world market have all contributed to the downturn. The inevitable reaction to this has been cost cutting.

''Indian owners, who took over the gardens when the British left, were always uncomfortable with the lifestyles of their garden managers,'' says B.P. Tantia, managing director of Jamirah Tea Co Ltd. ''They now began to withdraw several facilities and perquisites that these managers enjoyed.'' This meant a reduction in the number of personal servants from 15-20 per manager to a more egalitarian six to eight. Other perquisites like clubs and housing were also pruned.

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A PLANTER Pavan Kaul's routine is typical of most planters. Here's a brief snapshot of what he does with his time.

6.00 AM: Pavan Kaul reaches field office. Checks out the programme for the day, goes through the day's work chart and details the work that he wants done. This takes meticulous planning, as Bogapani covers an area of about 1,100 hectares, has some 7.2 million bushes and employs around 2,700 workers. 7.00 AM: He goes to the main office for routine administrative chores 7.30 AM: Visits the factory just behind his office to check on the produce of the previous night and to taste the teas that have been manufactured. 8.00 AM: Goes into the garden in his open Gypsy to supervise the plucking and spraying operations. Driving slowly, sometimes communicating with his field office on a walkie talkie, it takes him about an hour to complete a round of the estate. 9.00 AM: Returns home for chhota hazri breakfast in the jali ghar (a broad balcony enclosed by a mosquito net) at the burra bungalow with his wife. 9.30 AM: Back in the field, driving around the garden in his Gypsy. 12.00 NOON: Returns to main office to check the registers, sign routine orders and correspondence. 1.00 PM: Back home for lunch with his wife and short siesta. 2.30 PM: Rounds of the field, office, and factory. 5.00 PM: Main office. Reviews the day's performance and plans ahead. 7.00 PM: Returns home. Teas are best manufactured in a cool climate. So the manufacturing process starts at midnight. The burra sahib remains on call through the night and sometimes even pays surprise visits to check that everything is ship shape and in order.

As a result, the awe a burra bungalow inspired was considerably diffused. And this, in turn, diminished the aura and authority of the planter, explains Kaul. ''The planter was the big guy around. The glamourous life, the servants, the burra bungalow and the rituals associated with hunting-fishing-club life gave him a larger-than-life image among the workers. And this allowed him to command their undivided loyalty." Left unspoken is the fact that the burra sahib's standard of living has fallen, without any commensurate compensatory factor to balance it. Kaul, however, is quick to add that a few former agency houses still look after their managers well.

Given the decline in standards, it isn't surprising that the industry no longer attracts the best talent. ''The comparative pay is no longer attractive,'' says A. Monem, Senior Vice President, Eveready Industries. ''And given the consumer boom and rising aspiration levels, a young manager would prefer cash to a grand company bungalow with 15 servants.''

Typically, planters were alumnus of public schools, fond of outdoor life and came from ''good backgrounds''. This last was a euphemism for a royal lineage or a planter family. ''Labour looked up to them and they fitted in very easily to life on the estates,'' says Kaul. "A planter was basically a gentleman farmer. And you don't have to be an Einstein to manage a farm,'' adds Takru. This set was also comfortable working with the Scotsmen who, till then, made up the bulk of the planters. They picked up the habits and rituals of their expat bosses and continue to take pride in them. This is what gives the tea industry its unique Raj era flavour.

But the social profile of young planters is now changing. The emergence of other well-paying sectors, the diminishing glamour of a planter's job and insurgency-related security problems have combined to take away some of the sheen of garden life.

According to sources, there is also political pressure to recruit locals as garden managers. This has resulted, in some cases, in a fall in the quality of recruits. And the poor quality of new recruits leads to a further fall in standards that, in turn, scares away other recruits.

Technology and the march of the cable-satellite TV revolution has also played a part in the overall decline of garden life. The club, which was the hub of social life in the gardens, is fighting a losing battle with television. ''Young assistant managers sometimes skip club days in order to catch their favourite movie or serial on TV," says Ranvijay Singh, the burra sahib of Behora Tea Estate in Assam's Golaghat district, and a scion of the royal family of Jodhpur. ''This would have been unthinkable when we started out.''

TEEING OFF: Kaul (centre) with friends at Margherita Club's nine-hole golf course

CHEERS!: Margherita Tea Estate's Anand Wats (right) at the club's bar

GENTEEL LIFE: The burra sahibs and their families at a dinner hosted by Kaul

Security fears have put paid to nightlong drinking binges and 200 km drives to attend parties. Club days are held mid-week. At the Margherita Club, which serves about eight to nine gardens in an eponymous town in the north-eastern tip of India, a member usually hosts high tea on Wednesdays for all the burra sahibs of the member gardens, their assistants, and their families.

''This is something we try not to miss," says Anand Wats, manager of the Margherita Tea Estate, and a regular behind the bar.

"Sports is very important for a planter," says Takru, "and several managers entered the profession on the strength of their prowess in tennis, squash, polo, golf, and shikar." Polo and shikar, of course, are now history but the other games are still quite popular. "On Sundays, the two most populated areas of the Margherita Club are the nine-hole golf course and the bar," says Wats.

Amidst all this talk of lifestyles and burra sahibs and their elaborate chhota hazris, it is often forgotten that a planter's life is quite hard. (See A Day In The Life Of A Planter). He works an average of 12-13 hours on a regular day and remains on call 24 hours a day.

"If a labourer's wife develops labour pain at midnight, it's my responsibility to ensure that she gets proper medical care," says Kaul. Bogapani, like many large estates, has a well-equipped hospital with two doctors in attendance but "we sometimes have to refer cases to the main hospital", which is some distance away, he adds.

"And don't forget that summer temperatures in Assam and parts of the Dooars can touch 40-42 degrees Celsius... and you can get up to 12 inches of rain in an hour," says Tantia. "...and a planter spends most of his day out in the open." Then again, there's little social life on non-club days and very little for wives to do. "I read about five books a week, tend to my garden and do most of things that planter's wives usually do," says Vidya Kaul, burra memsa'ab of Bogapani, and a member of the royal clan of Travancore. "But not every young girl who marries a planter likes it here. There's nothing much here for an ambitious, qualified young woman."

"Enter wife, exit planter. End of Act I, Scene I," says Takru with a touch of Shakespearean drama. "Seriously speaking, many planters prefer to take up city jobs because of family commitments. The absence of job opportunities for wives is an important determinant of choice." Equally important is schooling. "There aren't very many good schools here, at least none where your child can be a day scholar," says Vidya Kaul, whose two daughters studied at Mayo College, Ajmer. "So a planter, perforce, has to send his children away to boarding schools. Many young parents aren't willing to do that nowadays."

But despite the drawbacks, garden life, in many ways, remains the last bastion of gentility in this country. Vidya Kaul is aware that her lifestyle is standing at the cusp of history. Another few years and it will be gone for good. But she's not mourning. "It's inevitable given the pace of life in general," she says without a trace of emotion. "It's happening all over the world. So why should it be different in India? You can't really turn the clock back, can you?"

It's true. You can't. But as times pass... and times change... it is perhaps time to pause and ponder over the passing of an era-of overwhelming hospitality, of genteel graciousness, and of a breed of men and women who worked hard, partied harder and lived their lives to the fullest.