From My Notebooks In 1976: Into India

[My arrival in India could not have been more fortunate. I had an introduction. Three years earlier an Indian friend living in London had invited me to stay with his uncle, Colonel Murari, retired, whose home was in the outskirts of Madras. I had anticipated that disembarkation from the Chidambaram would be an endlessly frustrating affair, so I was happy to find it was only ordinarily time-consuming, and I was able to get to the Colonel’s house at a reasonable time. Not only that, but my friend also happened to be there for a short visit.

There were three central figures in the household – the Colonel, his middle-aged housekeeper, Gaja, and an elderly man, Rajaram, who was the resident guru.

Rajaram in the colonel’s courtyard

It surprises me now that I wrote almost nothing in my notebook about this period in the colonel’s home, although it is described in detail in Jupiter’s Travels, and I can still recall it vividly. I remember how peaceful it was, how perfectly I seem to have acclimated myself to the heat. Rajaram had a daughter who was preparing her wedding and, as was traditional, a vast number of relatives were expected to attend. Rajaram was in high good humour.]

Rajaram – “there are 4000 people – each is getting a tamarind leaf with one grain of rice.”

Rajaram’s daughter and friend discussing the wedding

[Later he examined me closely with his large, luminous eyes.]

Told me I learned to fly and that once I threw stones at a cat – or hit some animal when I was eight or ten – and got hit by some relation.

Rajaram instructing the colonel

[There was a Lucas office in Madras and I connected with them.

Just as I was getting ready to move on, they received a telegram for me from Peter Harland at the Sunday Times. The news was shocking. My stepfather had suddenly died. Even though I had been determined that my journey would be a single, complete and unbroken journey around the world, I would have to break it to be with my mother.

The newspaper generously offered to pay for the flights. I left my bike with the Lucas people, and they took me to the airport.]

Flight from Madras to Bombay – up into monsoon cloud. Plane rocking all over, with Indian music tinkling and the Calcutta tea merchant sitting next to me shooting his cuffs.

London beginning of July. Off plane at London airport. Met by Peter. Very kind. Amazingly familiar. Almost impossible to relate anything new. So, for a message to carry conviction there must be [illegible] at both ends.

We go to pub. The Blue Lion. Drink a bitter, then up to the office after much hesitation about the effect of appearing there like that. Left film for developing – 3 rolls. Projector missing. Driving license I found immediately in parcel. Pretty bad first impression. Lunch. Greek. Retsina. The little place down the road.

Harry [Harold Evans, the Editor] received me and gave me two minutes of enthusiastic time, before being distracted. I had to gulp my bitter lemon to get out in time. Said I’d met Denis Hamilton in Cairo and remarked on my holiday plan for Harry – perhaps that was a bit gauche since I can’t remember how I put it. H seemed to have almost disappeared – shriveled I put it afterwards, naively. But he had read the bludger piece [This was a column I had sent from Australia.] I saw his memo describing it as “refreshing” – and there was a row after it had been cut.

Knightly came through and asked where I’d want to live. “Not Australia,” he said. “I didn’t think it was.” And off he went. Encounters are a bit fragmentary. Only Don Berry [a big shot at the paper] gave me a really warm smile and shook my hand, though I couldn’t remember his name at the time. PH gave me £20, which he said would be on exes, and drove me to Liverpool Street Station.

The train broke down just before Wickford, and we all stood on the platform. A Welsh woman with a man complained steadily about being stuck after their long journey from Wales – all of five hours, I believe, and I enjoyed my secret scorn.

Tried to phone from Wickford station but no reply. Then called taxi, which was unnecessary. Emotional home coming. Mother very happy to see me. Hanne there too, and Marta. [My aunts from Germany] Nell was there too. They said my mother had been crying a lot, and she also admitted it. I had not honestly been able to feel Bill’s death as a personal tragedy – my memories of him were not intimate enough, and I thought of him more as a craftsman and a ‘character.’ My emotional ties were with my mother and so I resolved to remain cheerful until the funeral was over.

TEN WEEKS LATER

15th September. London to Madras

[On the last leg, from Bombay to Madras I sat next to an Indian lecturer in Chemical Engineering, returning home from Frankfurt.]

He boiled all water in Germany before drinking it, because water is all polluted. “Don’t bother in Madras. We don’t have the same problem here. All our river water is pure.”

See snake farm by side of his institute – up to 5pm.

In Bombay he had met a friend at the airport who he said was “a great industrialist” in Madras. He rose from a cycle shop to manufacture scientific instruments. His daughter graduated and is running a new branch in Bombay. My friend persuaded him to offer me a lift to Kilpauk and we drove in my friend’s car, first to the latter’s home, where I was left to heat up outside the house for a while, then taken to Murari’s house. The “great industrialist” was not easy to talk to. I tackled him about quality control which I thought would be a great problem, but he brushed it aside. It was simply a matter of deciding whether you wanted to maintain quality or not. Those who didn’t went out of business – but meanwhile made things more difficult for the others.

Murari and Gaja seemed pleased to see me. My telegram from Bombay arrived the following morning. The place seemed different. The boy [my friend] had gone. The regime is more spartan. Obviously things are more special when “Nippi” is home. But Rajaram was his own sweet self.

September 16th

Trouble with Jet lag and climate. Slept very late. To Lucas in afternoon by auto rickshaw. The bike was beautifully cleaned and polished, but chain rusted solid in places. They put the battery back clumsily, with negative earth. Also, they seem to have lost the ignition key, and I rode off with a provisional connection on the leads.

17th

Time is better, but discomfort continues. Back to Lucas. They found the key. Meanwhile I found the spare. Only thing missing among my things was swimming trunks.

Telephone was cut off and Kutti [the housekeeper] has big scene with telephone people, rescuing torn up evidence from wastepaper basket.

I had bought a chicken in the morning – a bad move. When it appeared next morning it was all neck, head and bones. I asked innocently where the rest was but [she said] it was all in this tiny pot. Rajaram showed great restraint by eating with us at all and Murari felt very guilty.

[Those first days I felt completely out of sync – not just physically but morally and socially. Before leaving I had been perfectly adjusted, but now I was uncomfortable, led by my western appetites into making clumsy mistakes. I longed to get back to the easy rhythm I’d known.]