We left Guwahati behind on a crisp morning, the city slowly dissolving into quiet countryside and open skies. My father took the wheel while I sat beside him, navigating turns and soaking in the shifting landscape—one I had seen many times before, but never quite like this. The countryside unfolded in textured layers: lush fields stitched with rice and vegetables, little roadside stalls selling an assortment of snacks, and tall, slender betelnut trees rising like sentinels along the horizon. Somewhere beyond Tezpur, we turned off the highway and slipped onto a narrow track that wound its way into the Durrung Tea Estate. We were greeted with rows upon rows of tea bushes stretching in every direction, undulating across the landscape in perfectly curved lines, as if the earth itself had been combed smooth.
It felt almost cinematic—this quiet entrance into a world I had long imagined. I spent my childhood in Assam, and yet it was always in the thick of the city, far removed from the slow life in the hills and plantations beyond. For years, the idea of staying in a tea estate had lived in a corner of my mind: not as a tourist, but as someone immersed in its rhythms, waking to the scent of damp earth and fresh leaves, walking among the bushes as the mist lifted off the ground. And now, here we were—my parents, sister, and I—pulling into the heart of the 150-year-old Durrung Tea Estate, the gravel path leading us towards The Postcard Hotel’s newest outpost, a retreat that seemed less like a hotel and more like a whispered secret kept by the land.
Spread across 1,400 acres of working tea plantation, The Postcard in the Durrung Tea Estate is breathtaking. It offers just 12 rooms: 10 freestanding Luxury Chalets nestled among the tea gardens, and two rooms—one suite and one deluxe room—within the lovingly restored Planter’s Bungalow, which also houses the reception, a handsome old-world bar, a library with curated reads, and an elegant dining space that opens into the kitchen garden.
Our chalets, crafted entirely in warm, honey-toned wood, stood like a quiet retreat among the tea bushes—elevated on stilts and framed by foliage and filtered light. Floor to ceiling windows on three sides blurred the boundaries between inside and out. Through them, the landscape unfolded in every direction—rows of tea bushes, soft mist, and the gentle shift of light through tall trees.
Inside, the design was elegant in its restraint: high A-framed, white-painted ceilings with exposed rafters, clean-lined furniture in dark timber, and thoughtful accents—woven cane chairs, an artisanal throw in silk-cotton, a striped rug underfoot. A private wooden deck opened out onto the sea of green, where we would sit each morning, cradling cups of tea as the world stirred gently awake.
And then there was the bathroom—a sanctuary in itself. A freestanding bathtub sat beside a large window that looked directly into the plantation, inviting you to soak amid birdsong and filtered sun. Brass fittings gleamed softly against stone and wood, while a marble-topped vanity and curated bath amenities completed the mood. It wasn’t just comfort—it was quiet luxury, composed entirely in shades of green, gold, and hush.
Meals were an equally soulful celebration. One afternoon, we sat down to a traditional Assamese thali—simple, soulful, and deeply satisfying. There was khar, earthy and mellow; a soft, mustard-kissed aloo pitika; sesame chicken with a hint of smokiness; tempered dal, rice, sautéed vegetables, and the inevitable slice of kaji nemu (Assam lemon). Nothing was overdone, and everything tasted like the warm nostalgia of home-cooked meals in these parts.
The menu pays homage to Assam’s diverse culinary heritage, with dishes inspired by the food traditions of the Ahom and Singpho tribes. Local ingredients—wild herbs, bamboo shoots, fermented mustard—are handled with subtlety, weaving stories of land and lineage into every plate. Alongside tribal recipes, the kitchen also draws from a broader South Asian and European palette, offering flavours that go beyond clichés. One evening, we tried the tangy, comforting fish tenga and a beautifully aromatic bamboo shoot curry. Another time, we ended a leisurely lunch with soft, delicate pitha served warm. Every meal here felt like a cultural immersion on a plate—intimate, grounded, and deeply rooted in place.
One afternoon, post one such hearty lunch, we set off on a Plantation Trail with Kaushik Choudhury, the in-house tea expert whose connection to these gardens runs deep. The Durrung Tea Estate, he told us, dates back to the British era, part of a colonial tea-growing belt that once shaped both the economy and the topography of Assam. Today, it continues to produce some of the region’s finest teas, but with a renewed focus on quality over volume, heritage over haste.
Choudhury, a quiet presence with encyclopaedic knowledge, led us through orderly rows of Camellia sinensis, pointing out the prized two leaves and a bud. He explained the subtle differences between the first and second flush, the impact of terroir on flavour, and the delicate dance between rainfall, soil, and sunlight that makes Assam teas so distinctive. The walk then led us to the estate’s processing unit, where the freshly plucked leaves undergo their transformation—withered, rolled, oxidised and sorted. Machines hummed softly in the background as Kaushik described the craft behind every step.
Then came the tasting. We gathered in the drawing room of the Planter’s Bungalow—its wooden floors polished to a gleam, shelves lined with books and curios, and wide windows framing the fading light outside. Choudhury laid out three premium varieties: a delicate green Sencha, a handrolled black with body and depth, and a honeyed, almost floral Oolong.
But it wasn’t a quick sip-and-savour exercise. We were encouraged to slow down and treat tea as one would wine. He showed us how to observe the brew’s colour and clarity, to inhale deeply and identify notes of grass, earth, fruit, or spice. We learnt how steeping temperature alters aroma, how brew time teases out bitterness or balance. Each tea offered something different—Sencha with its crisp, almost grassy bite; the Hand Rolled strong and malty with a lingering warmth; and the Oolong, silky and nuanced, with a sweetness that bloomed only after the third sip. It was a quiet revelation, this lesson in tea. A ritual, almost, and one that invited us to taste not just the flavour, but the place.
The next day, we drove to Sengeli Mari Gaon, a village about 45 minutes from the estate. Here, among bamboo groves and thatched homes, women worked at handlooms, creating magic in Muga, Eri, and cotton. The click-clack of wooden shuttles echoed through courtyards as the weavers looked up to greet us with warm eyes and measured smiles. Their craft was extraordinary, but so too was their quiet grace. We browsed through a collective’s modest display—saris, scarves, gamusas—each piece rich in detail, soft to the touch, and alive with the spirit of the hands that made it.
Later, we visited a few neighbouring villages, each distinct in its architecture and agricultural practice. Stilted houses shaded by jackfruit trees, elevated granaries, kitchen gardens sprouting chillies and gourds, rice drying in the sun—all spoke of lives lived in harmony with their environment. In one such home, we were invited in for tea, sitting on low benches as our hosts—now also homestay owners—shared stories of how their villages were slowly opening up to travellers, on their own terms. This wasn’t a commercial craft village polished for visitors—it was real, lived-in, and all the more moving because of it. We returned with more than just textiles and stories—we carried with us a sense of connection to a slower, richer rhythm of life.
On our final day, we ventured to Nameri National Park—one of Assam’s quieter wilderness escapes. With nearly 300 species of birds, including the elusive white-winged wood duck, and riverbanks lined with sal trees, it offered a gentle communion with nature. We drove by the Jia Bhoroli river in silence, watching kingfishers dart across the water and monkeys leap through the canopy. The forest didn’t reveal all its secrets, but it offered its stillness—a kind of knowing calm that stayed with us long after.
For me, The Postcard in the Durrung Tea Estate was more than a retreat—it was the realisation of a long-imagined scene, stitched together from childhood glimpses of Assam’s countryside. The Postcard Durrung doesn’t just host you—it immerses you. It doesn’t distract with extravagance; instead, it sharpens your senses to the land, the food, the people, and the stories whispered by the breeze that rustles through the tea bushes. If you’ve ever longed for a pause, a deep breath, or simply a cup of tea that tastes like memory, this is where you’ll find it.
The Durrung Tea Estate is located near Tezpur in Assam.
By Air: The nearest airport is Donyi Polo Airport in Itanagar (approx. 2.5 hours by road). Alternatively, fly into Lokpriya Gopinath Bordoloi International Airport in Guwahati (approx. 4 hours by road).
By Road: From Guwahati, it's a scenic 216 km drive via NH27 and NH15, passing through lush countryside and small towns.
