Articles published in May, 2025
From Patna I’m on my way to the religious heart of India but suffer a most felicitous interruption – dancing girls included.
Sunday 20th February
After a haircut (very short) and breakfast with Jha I leave for Bodhgaya anxious to settle down to my piece [I was planning an article on the election for the Sunday Times] and unsure whether this will be the place, though Carol recommended it so highly. It’s a long ride – the short cut I had hoped to find eludes me – and very little English is spoken here. I’m reluctant to stop and ask because of the great crowds that will gather. This is something of a dilemma. People will help, I’m sure of that, but there is no measured response – this one gets in colder climates – and the surfeit cannot be managed. I don’t want to be riding today. It’s too hot. I’ve got too much stuff, and the road is squalid and uncomfortable. I can detach myself from this discomfort and be content – but sweating in a crowd would push me either to anger or to a self-mocking surrender. I should have enough petrol for 100 miles. Gaya is 72 miles, but 15 miles before getting there the main tank runs dry and 5 miles later, the reserve also. I can’t understand why the reserve is so unreliable. Does it splash over? Anyway, there I am.
The passing scene as I sat beneath a tree and waited for help to appear.
A couple of villagers come to talk – a Brahmin who looks sly but a bit bright, tells me how poor he is. The other fellow has just come from the village on his bicycle. The Brahmin interrogates him and then sends him back to the village. [To get petrol for me.] The other fellow accepts his instructions willingly. I would give him money, and struggle to empty the oil from my jerry can, but the Brahmin says No, pay later. I sit under a tree and read. Heller. [I was reading ‘Catch 22’]
Nothing happens. Eventually I try to flag down a car. The driver waves me away impatiently. A truck coming the other way pushes him off the road, gives me a thumbs up sign. The camaraderie of the road. Then two chaps on a Bullet stop. The pillion rider wants to help, but they haven’t enough petrol. So we stop a car. And they pump petrol from it to give me a litre. He is the vice-Chancellor, retired, of Madagh University and asks me to drop in at Gaya. The Bullet rider says I must appear at the wedding he’s going to. I can’t refuse, though it means I won’t see Bodhgaya before dark.
He’s a small, solemn, bearded fellow – a Rajput (i.e. Kshatrya). Wedding is off the road, by a village. The groom’s party is under a big tent with multi-coloured ceiling, cushions and floor-coverings and a throne for the groom who is covered with head gear. The father and grandfather, and the pandit wear brilliant yellow turbans. There are weapons also on show, traditional for the warrior cast.
Two dancing girls take turns with a group on tabla, sarod (with bow) and harmonium. She moves languidly from foot to foot (ankle bells) and then shuffles out about six steps in a very stylised way that’s supposed to be very erotic. The facial expressions are most interesting to me – a sort of smugness, indifference of a deliberately false kind (almost contempt).
Sometimes she picks out someone who might pay her money, and squats in front of him, singing some verses at him directly, and accepting a variety of humiliations and jests until he pays up (10 rupees seems usual).
Meanwhile, over at the bride’s house, a similar ceremony is going on. The house is drenched in coloured lights. Next morning groom and bride together endure a series of symbolic acts – he is covered with things dangling from a paper hat, with spangles and mirrors sprouting from it, in heavy clothes, almost invisible, and has to spoon milk with a leaf from one pot into another one and then on to some smouldering cow dung, sometimes with a silk sheet held across his face, while the Pandit jabbers away harshly from some tattered papers, losing his place, coughing, stopping for consultations. Then, in the middle of it, the group and the dancing girls crowd in, and she sings over the top of it all, while the observers chat. And I imagine being the groom and I think I would go quite crazy.
Later before leaving the father reads my hand, as promised. He holds it in a handshake, then pushes back my thumb. “Acha,” he says. “You have a very determined soul. This is reflected also in your mind, etc.” What he tells me is the flattering side of my personality, and true enough. I’m quite impressed. My planet is Jupiter. For seven years under bad influence of Mars, which will continue for two years. After that Success!!! I have a weak hold on the affections of women, and owe everything to my mother. There will be two accidents, not major but not minor either, in these two years. (I wonder if I’ve already had one of them).
Overnight the son and I slept side by side under the tent. People were very concerned about the security of my things. Already two bags and four pairs of shoes have been stolen.
This has been an eventful week. A French journalist, Patrice Roux, brought me to a small town near Paris to meet Anne-France Dautheville who is known, in France, as the first woman to ride a bike across the world. We had never met. What made it most interesting to me was that she travelled at the same time I did. We had a very lively conversation, helped by the fact that she is a lot younger than I am, and her English is better than my French. It was recorded by Patrice who had a film crew with him. He says he was very pleased, and I enjoyed it so much that I typically forgot to take any pictures myself. Take it from me, she’s an attractive, strong-minded woman who has fought and won many battles in life.
I hope that the video gets out, because the other happy thing that happened was a delivery of books, and I finally have copies to sell of Jupiter’s Travels in French. Not only that, but my Italian publishers tell me they are reprinting. So, it’s been a good week for Jupiter.
See you next week.
Just a reminder of the route
Still Saturday 19th, February
[Following an afternoon spent gliding above Patna among birds of prey, I’m invited by my pilot, Jha Prakash, to join a different class of predator.]
In the evening, Jha absorbs me into a party at his brother-in-law’s room at the DAK bungalow. A mild US couple also arrived previous night, and they too have been invited. I assume that virtually anything foreign, that isn’t positively disgusting, confers prestige on a social gathering.
[In the course of the evening I gradually became aware that I was in the presence of the most powerful politicians in the state of Bihar which, at the time, had a population of 100 million or more. Indira Ghandi’s Congress party was in power but was expected to lose in the upcoming election.]
The room is as shabby as usual – flaking pale blue plaster, il-assorted and ill-upholstered settee and armchairs. Ordinary beds. Here are first the MP for Bihar, then the Chairman of the Bihar Congress Party and member of the State Legislature whom I’ll call (X); then a man who has just been made Chairman of the Bihar Homeopathic Board (C); two police chiefs, the “SP” of Patna, and one with an equal but mysterious rank from Delhi. The host is leader of the Bihar Section of Congress Youth (Y) a self-made man credited by Jha with giving away most of what he earned as a contractor. Then there was an ASP, a PR man for Congress, and a newspaper management executive. The politicians were in ethnic dress (C and Y in dhoti).
C and the MP arrived by car in reverse order of importance, each one being greeted effusively and acclaimed as “our great leader.” The policemen simply materialised and then faded away in the same manner.
X was the dominant presence. A crafty grin played on his wide mouth. His eyes glittered shrewdly through slits beneath a broad overhanging brow. He exuded confidence and control even when drunk, sent his power vibrations out in a steady field to every corner of the room. Y’s approach was more mercurial and intense. Between duties as host he would spring suddenly into the foreground of the party, perching with great agility on the end of the bed in lotus position, and deliver a fierce oration as though addressing not a handful of people but a crowd of lakhs [Lakh = 100,000]. His sunken eyes blazed in these short bursts of fervour.
The MP likewise conformed perfectly to his role. He was a bit above it all, the raw politics, the grass roots. He was the Delhi statesman, able to view events with the detachment proper to a cultivated man. He essayed a short speech, in English, pretending to be an army general making a public announcement several weeks following the defeat of Mrs Ghandi at the polls. “ . . . . and so, in view of the chaos and dissension which have swept the country, since abandoning the orderly progress maintained under Mrs Ghandi’s government, we have no alternative but to suspend the constitution and declare martial law . . . .”
The assembled party burst into cries of “Never. It will never happen here. Mrs Ghandi will win, hands down, sweep the country, etc.” The general embarrassment was obvious. It was not a very witty speech and failed as satire. At this point there were several whispered conversations between police and politicians, and the party moved from politics to music. It seems the police were afraid the two US hitchhikers might be from the CIA (an idea which, to me, seemed laughable).
C, who was the object of the party, had been sitting alone in an armchair, taking no part and looking like a bundle of clothes waiting for the laundry. Now he was urged to sing. I was told he was a poet. A beatific expression flooded his features, and he came to life. To my surprise he sang beautifully and the words, though I couldn’t understand them, were offered with clarity, emphasis and meaning. I was convinced they were of real quality. It was impressive that this collection of political animals could respond so sincerely to his songs.
Later, X became completely maudlin. He grabbed me and pressed invitations on me to visit his residence, and the PRO and ASP literally dragged him away from me. Before the party ended I talked briefly to the Superintendent of Police, and gave my view that in comparison with the true dictatorships of Latin America, India was the freest of countries, and that I was pleased to be able to say so. I expected him to be pleased to hear this. Instead, he said, very seriously, “That is the trouble. There is too much freedom. We must have more control. We can achieve nothing like this.”
Perhaps his appearance, which reminded me of a Brazilian apparatchik, made his opinion seem more sinister. And I began to speculate on the existence of a stratum of opinion in the Indian bureaucracy which would like to see “a firm hand” on the people.
[If only I could have had my iPhone: there would have been some wonderful pictures – or on the other hand I might have landed in jail.]
Next week: Onward and inward.
The ubiquitous holy cows of India didn’t look too happy with their diet of street food.
I took Carol to the Bangladeshi border as we’d agreed and returned to Gauhati thinking I would need to renew my permit before leaving Assam. I called on Dr. Das, the academic, who invited me to dinner.
Tuesday, February 15th
Dinner with Das. Wife rather self-conscious about food and I’m sure she’s made it blander than usual. But it’s nice and we have a pleasant time. All the same I feel that we never really get to the point. It’s all rather trivial. Comparisons of customs. He attacks reservation of jobs for scheduled castes.
Dr Das mentions village at the foot of forested slope. The villagers grew sugar cane and made their own molasses. The forest was government property, and a logging franchise was sold. The villagers could no longer get firewood (the trees were clear cut) and they were able no longer to make sugar. Also, he said, their supply of fish was cut off from the other side of the hill. (Why?)
[He talks about the lackadaisical behaviour of students, and quotes one of them.]
“I may start a law practice and fight for clients. Of course I can cheat them. In India lawyers do this.” Young law student in Gauhati: who failed to appear at appointment.
Dr Das invited 1000 families to his mother’s funeral.
Wednesday 16th
My frustration at discovering that today is a Govt. religious holiday comes to the boil. My permit has now expired and I can’t get another till tomorrow. I decide to get out of Assam. Pack and leave early. Get to Barpeta Road at 10am and have short but warm meeting with Debroy. He seems really pleased. Takes Abbey’s book. [I had a copy of Edward Abbey’s ‘Desert Solitaire’]
Shows me his account of shooting man-eating tiger. I ask him to send a copy to France. He agrees. Maybe it will make a good article. Good for him to get some currency.
Just a little trouble later at border because of stupid policeman getting date wrong. Siliguri awaits me and stuff is as I left it, but I seem to have lost my draft of Kolhapur episode. Saddens me. Also there’s an enormous amount of stuff to carry and it takes a while to work out a system. I figure to go straight to Calcutta, see Carol again and offload some gear.
Thursday 17th
Set off at great rate. Road is good. Then after 150 miles make the crucial error and, still on Highway 31, go almost to Patna before discovering my mistake.
[Leaving Assam I crossed the Ganges, but in a maze of tributaries and bridges without signage I followed the river upstream towards Patna instead of downstream to Calcutta.]
On the way, nearly hit a small boy who ran right across my front wheel. Fearfully close, in spite of my being very watchful. Reminder of mortality. How those few inches affected my life.
Now at Barauni junction I’m quite depressed. No Carol. No Calcutta. Raj Pande [The Lucas agent] etc. Only “dirty” Patna awaits me. I struggle through thickening crowds of people on road, who seem to have been gathering by the riverside. The sun was really blinding now, and I was afraid to hit someone. Got to Patna just at sunset, but it proved remarkably easy. The first time I stopped I was directed to DAK bungalow. Two fellows on scooter escorted me there. A chemical engineer received me and eventually found me a room at the Indrasan. Patna is neither huge nor dirty – I’m at a loss to understand where these reputations are formed. Perhaps arriving by train gives a different impression. But then what about London?
Friday 18th
Send telegram to PH (perhaps too frivolous.) Film and letter to Carol in Calcutta. Have good food at Amber restaurant, Fraser Road. Hang out with engineer, and brothers at hotel. Have beer with Prakash, the pilot brother, who takes me upstairs for dinner. No call from PH.
Saturday 19th
This morning got the bank draft at last and sent it to Nasir. [Nasir was the film distributor who helped me in Bombay. I must have owed him money.]
Still nothing from PH. It puzzles me that not even the least courtesy is paid to my message.
Second day in Patna. I would have left but for the promise of a seat in a glider. Prakash was eager to talk to me when he’d seen the bike. He was able to appreciate a measure of what it represented in terms of effort and determination, and also has a high opinion of his own superiority, which allowed him to believe that he measured up to me, status wise. I put it that way because he’s quite boastful of his own exploits and accomplishments. He has been a qualified commercial pilot for a long time. Recently took up gliding. In Montreal he was working as a pilot and took a flyer on a snack bar concession at the world fair. He says he was making $800 a week profit [$4000 today.] He used it all to travel (The gamble included flying two cooks from Delhi to Canada.) On his journey through USA, Far East and Europe he lived in Hiltons, spared no luxury, had girlfriends, and took many photographs. Most of the pictures in his album seem to be pictures of himself taken by friends. In these pics he looks like a boorish, vicious playboy. The vitality and mischievousness which make him attractive are absent. In Europe he was joined by his wife. There are pictures of her looking dumpy and miserable. She seems to have done a lot of shopping. They have one or two children (he never mentions them). She watches indulgently as I look at pictures of his girlfriends and he talks about them in front of her. Although he is likeable, I know I couldn’t enjoy his company for long, but I am excited by the prospect of gliding again. (When I ask him what it costs to have shoes polished, he makes a point of telling me that he always polishes his own). He says he started the family sweet shop and has had an instinctive flair for business since his youth.
Prakash takes me gliding in afternoon. What a rush of excitement. For a bit I felt quite scared but really loved it. He takes me to the airstrip at 2pm – and we go up in a two seat Indian glider (Rohini). It’s very dramatic – much more so than the helicopter – and I try to conceal a surprising nervousness – but it’s very exciting, as we twist in a mild thermal alongside the big kites racing past us [Kite = bird of prey, up to two feet long]. The wind is a tremendous presence. And to watch the big kites swooping around is quite fabulous. One came very close and I got a quite different feeling about it – very powerful and businesslike. The wind which is supporting us also seems to be grasping at the glider from all directions trying to upset it. I’m not sure I’d want to do much more of it, since it feels so unsafe, but I grab these opportunities eagerly for the new perspective they might offer.
It’s interesting that certain risk-taking activities are socially acceptable for mind expansion (i.e. climbing, parachuting, etc) whereas motorcycling is not. Yet all arguments apply to both.
More about the rest of this extraordinary day next week.
