Saturday, April 03, 2010
THROWN OUT OF THE CLUB
KOLKTA: MARCH 23
Rajen Bali and I are invited to dinner at Kolkata's Tollygunge Country Club. Rajen believes that the dress code is casual. I don't do casual. I have scruff or smart. Smart is bespoke trousers tailored in dark blue cotton at an attic sweat shop in Cochin's Jew Town. My navy shirt is hand-woven cotton (support the artisan) from the Rajastahn State Kadi Emporium in Jaisalmer. Add polished black brogues and a touch of hair gel and I look the works. Our host's wife and teen daughter are equally smart. So is Rajen. Only our host is scruff in a curly-collared short-sleeve sports shirt with a logo and boat shoes. So who gets us banned from the club restaurant and bars? Me. My shirt is Indian. It doesn't have a collar. Collars are obligatory. We eat in a no-doors shed with the mosquitoes.
DRINKING WITH COLONEL
KOLKATA: MARCH 21
We visit a bar that has been in the same family for four generations. The bar is a large, low-ceilinged rectangular room with some fifty marble-top tables and upright chairs. It is a utilitarian room. No decoration. The entrance off a side street is unobtrusive, no name on the door. Look for it and you wouldn't find it. The owner wishes it to remain so. Publicity is anathema. Bring out a camera and you'd be ejected. The clientele range from judges to market traders, pensioners to youthful whippersnappers. They have in common a comfortable thirst and a liking for calm conversation. Drunks and loud-mouths are banned. Only beer is served, cold beer by the bottle paid for in advance. Snack salesman circle the tables - delicious fish fingers – and the A/C works.
We visit a bar that has been in the same family for four generations. The bar is a large, low-ceilinged rectangular room with some fifty marble-top tables and upright chairs. It is a utilitarian room. No decoration. The entrance off a side street is unobtrusive, no name on the door. Look for it and you wouldn't find it. The owner wishes it to remain so. Publicity is anathema. Bring out a camera and you'd be ejected. The clientele range from judges to market traders, pensioners to youthful whippersnappers. They have in common a comfortable thirst and a liking for calm conversation. Drunks and loud-mouths are banned. Only beer is served, cold beer by the bottle paid for in advance. Snack salesman circle the tables - delicious fish fingers – and the A/C works.
READY TO PARTY
KOLKATA: MARCH 21
Two Old Blimps are ready to party. Down the stairs we hobble and out onto the sidewalk. Rajen Bali swings both arms forward in time with his first few steps, swing and clap, swing and clap. It is a gesture common to school games masters and army instructors. “Come on chaps, let's go.”
I am the only chap and I'm ready - though not speedy.
Neither is Rajen Bali. An ankle smashed by three trucks slows me down. A freak wave did for the Colonel's knee.
We don't give a damn.
We make a great pair.
Two Old Blimps are ready to party. Down the stairs we hobble and out onto the sidewalk. Rajen Bali swings both arms forward in time with his first few steps, swing and clap, swing and clap. It is a gesture common to school games masters and army instructors. “Come on chaps, let's go.”
I am the only chap and I'm ready - though not speedy.
Neither is Rajen Bali. An ankle smashed by three trucks slows me down. A freak wave did for the Colonel's knee.
We don't give a damn.
We make a great pair.
A MAN FOR ALL SEASONS
KOLKATA: MARCH 21
The Balis are a Hindu warrior Clan from the North West Frontier region of what is now Pakistan. Partition exiled them to India. Rajen was raised in Lucknow and served in the Army through much of the border States and with the United Nations in the Congo. On retirement, he moved to Kolkata primarily because he was unknown and wished to begin a new life. In doing so, he deliberately abandoned both his possessions and the privileges of rank – a clean sweep. Natives of Kolkata are restricted by habit. Rajen is an explorer. I benefit from his exploration.
The Balis are a Hindu warrior Clan from the North West Frontier region of what is now Pakistan. Partition exiled them to India. Rajen was raised in Lucknow and served in the Army through much of the border States and with the United Nations in the Congo. On retirement, he moved to Kolkata primarily because he was unknown and wished to begin a new life. In doing so, he deliberately abandoned both his possessions and the privileges of rank – a clean sweep. Natives of Kolkata are restricted by habit. Rajen is an explorer. I benefit from his exploration.
Friday, April 02, 2010
STAYING WITH THE COLONEL
KOLKATA: MARCH 20
Rajen Bali is married. His wife is away in Delhi visiting their only son. I am to occupy their spare room for the remains of my stay in Kolkata. How do we pass our time? Talk endlessly of the past and of places visited and, disapprovingly, of the state of the world. Where has honour gone?
Elderly gentlemen, we quickly establish habits. Writing first, then breakfast, followed by more writing for which cold beer is the reward. Then lunch. But what a lunch...
Rajen Bali is married. His wife is away in Delhi visiting their only son. I am to occupy their spare room for the remains of my stay in Kolkata. How do we pass our time? Talk endlessly of the past and of places visited and, disapprovingly, of the state of the world. Where has honour gone?
Elderly gentlemen, we quickly establish habits. Writing first, then breakfast, followed by more writing for which cold beer is the reward. Then lunch. But what a lunch...
MEETING THE COLONEL
KOLKATA: MARCH 19
Rajen Bali is introduced to me by Modhurima Sinha of the Taj. We sit together in the lobby of the Taj Bengal. Rajen Bali is the shorter by three inches and the younger by four years. He boasts a hawk's nose. Mine is snubbed. We are both overweight and bearded and we both served in the army, I as a lowly lieutenant, Rajen as a Lieutenant-Colonel. Rajen has put his retirement to good use both as a successful painter and one of India's foremost travel writers and writers on food. Modhurima Sinha probably sees us as grumpy old men and made for each other. So it proves...
Rajen Bali is introduced to me by Modhurima Sinha of the Taj. We sit together in the lobby of the Taj Bengal. Rajen Bali is the shorter by three inches and the younger by four years. He boasts a hawk's nose. Mine is snubbed. We are both overweight and bearded and we both served in the army, I as a lowly lieutenant, Rajen as a Lieutenant-Colonel. Rajen has put his retirement to good use both as a successful painter and one of India's foremost travel writers and writers on food. Modhurima Sinha probably sees us as grumpy old men and made for each other. So it proves...
LAW IS NEGOTIABLE
KOLKATA: MARCH 18
An immensely rich Kolkata businessman tells me of reneging on the purchase of a London Hotel. His London lawyer, a man with Indian antecedents, warned him of disadvantages in doing business in England. Miss-declare trading figures for United Kingdom Value Added Tax and you pay a fine. Do so a second time and you go to jail. India is different. Law is negotiable.
An immensely rich Kolkata businessman tells me of reneging on the purchase of a London Hotel. His London lawyer, a man with Indian antecedents, warned him of disadvantages in doing business in England. Miss-declare trading figures for United Kingdom Value Added Tax and you pay a fine. Do so a second time and you go to jail. India is different. Law is negotiable.
TORTOISE PROGRESS
KOLKATA: MARCH 18
A guest swims lengths of the pool as I breakfast at a window table at the Taj Bengal. I must face the laptop keyboard. The latest BA High Life piece needs final editing. The Guardian requires 600 words. I am late with 1500 words for MCN and this Blog is way behind. I occupy the same window table for a lunch-time meeting with the hotel's Director of PR, Mrs Modhurima Sinha. Six tourists lounge on sunbeds the far side of the pool. I head for my room. Dinner is Room Service Biriani and 30 minutes of IPL cricket live on TV. I call Bernadette at midnight and collapse into bed.
Have I finished? Of course not.
Why do I write so slowly?
A guest swims lengths of the pool as I breakfast at a window table at the Taj Bengal. I must face the laptop keyboard. The latest BA High Life piece needs final editing. The Guardian requires 600 words. I am late with 1500 words for MCN and this Blog is way behind. I occupy the same window table for a lunch-time meeting with the hotel's Director of PR, Mrs Modhurima Sinha. Six tourists lounge on sunbeds the far side of the pool. I head for my room. Dinner is Room Service Biriani and 30 minutes of IPL cricket live on TV. I call Bernadette at midnight and collapse into bed.
Have I finished? Of course not.
Why do I write so slowly?
Thursday, April 01, 2010
A LADY WITH VERY SPECIAL TASTES
KOLKATA: MARCH 17
I sit on a sofa in an outer office on the top floor of a commercial building in central Kolkata.
The invitation was for 7 pm to 7:30. It is now 8:30. I have read the Times of India, The Telegraph and The Statesman. Sensible would have been to leave an hour ago. On the other hand the woman I expected to meet is my only contact here in Kolkata. I am told that she is rich, that she is interesting, that she does interesting things with her money. I am a writer. Interesting people are the grist for my writer's mill. The lady arrives at 8:45. She is short, plump, middle-aged and has steel chains woven into her hair. The chains reach midway down her thighs. Her desk is piled with pink purses encased in glass-bead spaniels. The curved doggy tail is the handle. Wow!
I sit on a sofa in an outer office on the top floor of a commercial building in central Kolkata.
The invitation was for 7 pm to 7:30. It is now 8:30. I have read the Times of India, The Telegraph and The Statesman. Sensible would have been to leave an hour ago. On the other hand the woman I expected to meet is my only contact here in Kolkata. I am told that she is rich, that she is interesting, that she does interesting things with her money. I am a writer. Interesting people are the grist for my writer's mill. The lady arrives at 8:45. She is short, plump, middle-aged and has steel chains woven into her hair. The chains reach midway down her thighs. Her desk is piled with pink purses encased in glass-bead spaniels. The curved doggy tail is the handle. Wow!
A SOAK FOR THE SOAK
KOLKATA: MARCH 17
How ever great the number of rooms, the best hotels make each guest feel unique and treasured. Is it years of training or brilliant selection of staff? Probably an amalgam of both.
Taj staff are brilliant.
First goal? Soak in a hot bath...And soak and soak. Then sprawl on a perfect mattress and check my address book. Then connect the laptop to the WiFi for mail.
Is Bernadette OK?
Has my suicidal Last Born survived a further week of snow boarding?
What news of my other children and my grandchildren?
What work am I late delivering?
And what funds remain in the bank? This last is always a major anxiety on a long journey.
How ever great the number of rooms, the best hotels make each guest feel unique and treasured. Is it years of training or brilliant selection of staff? Probably an amalgam of both.
Taj staff are brilliant.
First goal? Soak in a hot bath...And soak and soak. Then sprawl on a perfect mattress and check my address book. Then connect the laptop to the WiFi for mail.
Is Bernadette OK?
Has my suicidal Last Born survived a further week of snow boarding?
What news of my other children and my grandchildren?
What work am I late delivering?
And what funds remain in the bank? This last is always a major anxiety on a long journey.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
TAJ WELCOME FOR AN ANCIENT SCRUFF
KOLKATA: MARCH 17
Six guards protect the gates into the Taj hotel, Kolkata. No entry for an Old Blimp on a Honda 125. Bikes are for servants. I park with the social pariahs and walk. Security at the lobby entrance is airport style. Place keys, small change, mobile phones etc. in a wicker tray for Xray scan. Pass through the detector gates. My braces/suspenders set off the alarm. Take them off and I have to hold up my pants. Hardly a glorious entrance to five star luxury...
I giggle. So do the security guards.
A suave gentleman in a frock coat betrays neither surprise nor dismay at spotting an aged tramp on wealth-hallowed ground. “Mister Gandolfi?”
“Yes,” say I. Are they expecting another ancient scruff??
Six guards protect the gates into the Taj hotel, Kolkata. No entry for an Old Blimp on a Honda 125. Bikes are for servants. I park with the social pariahs and walk. Security at the lobby entrance is airport style. Place keys, small change, mobile phones etc. in a wicker tray for Xray scan. Pass through the detector gates. My braces/suspenders set off the alarm. Take them off and I have to hold up my pants. Hardly a glorious entrance to five star luxury...
I giggle. So do the security guards.
A suave gentleman in a frock coat betrays neither surprise nor dismay at spotting an aged tramp on wealth-hallowed ground. “Mister Gandolfi?”
“Yes,” say I. Are they expecting another ancient scruff??
SECURITY BLANKET
KOLKATA: MARCH 17
Pointless to ask direction to a one star hotel unless you are close. Not so with the Taj Bengal (not so with any Taj hotel). I stay at the Taj for two reasons. Firstly, the Taj group invite me. Secondly, the Taj in Bombay was my security blanket forty years ago. Entering the great dining room overlooking the sea was an instant antidote to depression or fatigue. I took personally the storming of the Taj by terrorists. They attacked treasured memories. Fear them and they are victorious. This ride is both my response and my inadequate memorial to the killed and to a dear and respected friend, sadly departed, Darab Tata.
Pointless to ask direction to a one star hotel unless you are close. Not so with the Taj Bengal (not so with any Taj hotel). I stay at the Taj for two reasons. Firstly, the Taj group invite me. Secondly, the Taj in Bombay was my security blanket forty years ago. Entering the great dining room overlooking the sea was an instant antidote to depression or fatigue. I took personally the storming of the Taj by terrorists. They attacked treasured memories. Fear them and they are victorious. This ride is both my response and my inadequate memorial to the killed and to a dear and respected friend, sadly departed, Darab Tata.
Monday, March 29, 2010
PUNCTURED PRIDE FOR A DOUBTING THOMAS
KOLKATA: MARCH 17
I suffer from the sin of pride. Not always, but on occasion. You know? Hey, I'm nearly eighty and look at me, Brrrm Brrrm on a cafe racer round India. Wow! Some guy. Fearless...
Kneeling on the gas station forecourt is an act of humility.
The pump attendants and a few drivers and bike riders watch as I waggle the eight inch nail out of the tire. The tire is unpunctured. Not so my pride...
Such is the punishment for my momentary lack of faith.
Remember, Old Man, Honda 125s never never never break down.
I suffer from the sin of pride. Not always, but on occasion. You know? Hey, I'm nearly eighty and look at me, Brrrm Brrrm on a cafe racer round India. Wow! Some guy. Fearless...
Kneeling on the gas station forecourt is an act of humility.
The pump attendants and a few drivers and bike riders watch as I waggle the eight inch nail out of the tire. The tire is unpunctured. Not so my pride...
Such is the punishment for my momentary lack of faith.
Remember, Old Man, Honda 125s never never never break down.
HELL AND DAMNATION
KOLKATA: MARCH 17
Tacka tacka tacka fires the machine gun as I creep into a gas station. Hell and Damnation...
I come to a halt and rev the engine. No machine gun, so the engine is OK. It must be the gear box. I dismount and heave the bike onto its stand. I look at the gear box. My knowledge of gear boxes could be written on the point of a very very thin needle and looking doesn't help. I touch the gear box tentatively with a finger tip. Touching tells me nothing. I look at the two gas pump attendants. Surely one of them can wave a wand?
The smaller of the two grins and points at my rear wheel. An eight inch nail sticks out of the tread. I put the bike into gear. The rear wheel spins. The nail strikes the rear mudguard: tacka tacka tacka...
Tacka tacka tacka fires the machine gun as I creep into a gas station. Hell and Damnation...
I come to a halt and rev the engine. No machine gun, so the engine is OK. It must be the gear box. I dismount and heave the bike onto its stand. I look at the gear box. My knowledge of gear boxes could be written on the point of a very very thin needle and looking doesn't help. I touch the gear box tentatively with a finger tip. Touching tells me nothing. I look at the two gas pump attendants. Surely one of them can wave a wand?
The smaller of the two grins and points at my rear wheel. An eight inch nail sticks out of the tread. I put the bike into gear. The rear wheel spins. The nail strikes the rear mudguard: tacka tacka tacka...
TACKA TACKA TACKA
KOLKATA: MARCH 17
A rattle of heavy machine gun fire erupts directly under my butt.
HELP!
I slow and the rate of fire slows.
I speed up, the rate of fire increases.
I pull in to the curb and the firing stops.
I am riding a Honda 125.
Honda 125s never break down.
This article of faith supported me on my exploration of the Americas - sixty-six thousand kilometers.
It has supported me on this journey through India - eleven thousand kilometers.
Fear hits.
Real fear.
Or belly emptying anxiety (which is fear, surely?).
A rattle of heavy machine gun fire erupts directly under my butt.
HELP!
I slow and the rate of fire slows.
I speed up, the rate of fire increases.
I pull in to the curb and the firing stops.
I am riding a Honda 125.
Honda 125s never break down.
This article of faith supported me on my exploration of the Americas - sixty-six thousand kilometers.
It has supported me on this journey through India - eleven thousand kilometers.
Fear hits.
Real fear.
Or belly emptying anxiety (which is fear, surely?).
UNDER MACHINE GUN FIRE
KOLKATA: MARCH 17
I complained once to a dive companion that he didn't understand how frightened I am when a dive becomes difficult, or even threatens to begin to become difficult. I'm a coward, I insisted.
He argued that I merely had an unusually strong survival drive.
He was wrong.
I am a coward, particularly if threatened with an emotional confrontation.
Or when an unsilenced machine gun fires a burst directly under my butt: Tacka tacka tacka.
HELP!
I complained once to a dive companion that he didn't understand how frightened I am when a dive becomes difficult, or even threatens to begin to become difficult. I'm a coward, I insisted.
He argued that I merely had an unusually strong survival drive.
He was wrong.
I am a coward, particularly if threatened with an emotional confrontation.
Or when an unsilenced machine gun fires a burst directly under my butt: Tacka tacka tacka.
HELP!
ENRAGED DRIVERS
Chandipur to Kolkata on the map looks an easy ride. Difficulties arise on entering any big city. Sign posts either abandon you midway through the suburbs or, worse, point in a direction which doesn't correspond with the six exits from an intersection.
OK, so it's a left- but which left? The first? Or the second?
Hesitate a millisecond and three hundred enraged drivers hit their klaxons.
OK, so it's a left- but which left? The first? Or the second?
Hesitate a millisecond and three hundred enraged drivers hit their klaxons.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
TOO MANY BREAKFASTS
Mrs S M Crawford, Hampshire, England
I am criticised often for being too political in my writing and having an anti American agenda. These critics mean the USA rather than America in general. Now I have a new critic, the husband of Mrs S M Crawford of Hampshire, England. Mrs. S M Crawford has posted on Amazon the following criticism of Old Man On A Bike.
I bought this for my husband at his request. He was fired with enthusiasm from an article he read in The Telegraph. He is totally disappointed in this book and literally had to struggle through it. He sums it up as a description of breakfast in many places. It is therefore not recommended.
So for those readers who don't care for breakfast, be warned...
I am criticised often for being too political in my writing and having an anti American agenda. These critics mean the USA rather than America in general. Now I have a new critic, the husband of Mrs S M Crawford of Hampshire, England. Mrs. S M Crawford has posted on Amazon the following criticism of Old Man On A Bike.
I bought this for my husband at his request. He was fired with enthusiasm from an article he read in The Telegraph. He is totally disappointed in this book and literally had to struggle through it. He sums it up as a description of breakfast in many places. It is therefore not recommended.
So for those readers who don't care for breakfast, be warned...
GREAT CRAB AND A FIVE K TIDE
CHANDIPUR: MARCH 16
The ride north was tough, not simply the distance and the traffic, but the heat. Perhaps I aimed for too long a daily distance. Or age is overtaking my ambitions. What ever, I remain tired despite the day's break at Puri. Puri to Kolkata is a further 500 Ks. I break the distance midway with a night at a small fishing village, Chandipur. A clean a/c room with a reasonable mattress is 650 Rupees at the Hotel Shubhan. I planned a swim before dinner. The tide is out. Out at Chandipur is 5 Ks! I return to the hotel, apply a coating of Deet, sit out on the terrace and enjoy the evening breeze. Deet is miraculous. In four months of travel I've been bitten at most half a dozen times. I should write. I prefer meditating on the fresh crab the hotel manager has promised for dinner. Chandipur is famous for crab – and , of course, that five kilometer tide. The power cuts when I am on the stairs to the restaurant. No problem. Obligatory evening wear for India includes a Leatherman flashlight.
The ride north was tough, not simply the distance and the traffic, but the heat. Perhaps I aimed for too long a daily distance. Or age is overtaking my ambitions. What ever, I remain tired despite the day's break at Puri. Puri to Kolkata is a further 500 Ks. I break the distance midway with a night at a small fishing village, Chandipur. A clean a/c room with a reasonable mattress is 650 Rupees at the Hotel Shubhan. I planned a swim before dinner. The tide is out. Out at Chandipur is 5 Ks! I return to the hotel, apply a coating of Deet, sit out on the terrace and enjoy the evening breeze. Deet is miraculous. In four months of travel I've been bitten at most half a dozen times. I should write. I prefer meditating on the fresh crab the hotel manager has promised for dinner. Chandipur is famous for crab – and , of course, that five kilometer tide. The power cuts when I am on the stairs to the restaurant. No problem. Obligatory evening wear for India includes a Leatherman flashlight.
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