From My Notebooks In 1977: Calcutta and Konarak

Once in Calcutta I made my way to the Salvation Army Hostel, known as the Sally-Ann, by recommendation, where I made friends with Jacqueline LePrince from Paris and Eric Hansen, from San Francisco who had been helping at Mother Theresa’s home.

[Eric wanted to take spices home, so we went to a spice firm and said we were thinking of importing spices. We were given several large bags as samples and were shamefully pleased with ourselves.]

Spices from: K.C. Dutta (Spice) PVT Ltd, 255 M.D. Road, 2nd floor, Calcutta 700. 070

Prices: Haldi. (Tumeric) 9rps/kilo: Dhania (Coriander) 11.5 rps/kilo:

Jeera (Cumin seed) 29.25 rps/kilo

Slight fever back again. Compared it to having two images out of focus, as in bad colour printing – “out of register” – sense of there being two simultaneous existences which have shaken loose. The body turns, but the soul lags behind. The whole idea of soul leaving the body at death might come from that. See page 31 [Staying with Adrienne] Go on from this to other forms of detachment.

Tagore writes about the spiritual tradition of Ancient India, the pursuit of purity. Leading to the discovery of the one-in-all, and the release from self. He speaks of India as though she were uniformly devoted to this search. Observation, alas, contradicts this idea, at least today. It may be the best place to go and lose ourselves, but the majority here are clinging as tenaciously as any to what little they have, and to their traditional forms. The easy fatalism of a once luxuriantly forested and underpopulated land has led to the present predicament . . . . .blah, blah.

Pithora PWD April 6th

Calcutta was hot, sticky, and I never really got used to it. The explosion in my belly from the lunch before Ranchi is followed by an even more unpleasant immovability. (I over-reacted with the Lomotil. Should have left the beautiful machine alone). So I did very little in Calcutta except let Jacqueline LePrince trail me about – she made several remarks about my docility. There was the futile excursion to Tagore’s house, and Bel [??????] Moth where all we achieved were some chores at the tailor and the railway station.

There was the enormous steak at The Other Room, too big by far for my poor stomach.

The [Military] Tattoo. The ridiculous queues and the even more ridiculous battle for survival once inside – while dogs jumped through fiery hoops, and while motorcyclists dared death. Also two days at Lucas and an oddly equivocal Raj Pande [Boss previously met in Assam.] (who could I suppose be having trouble at home).

Mother Theresa’s Home for the Destitute and Dying makes you wonder why you didn’t start one up yourself – until you think about the beginnings of it. Now it’s rather better ordered and more pleasant than the average railway platform. Tube and plastic beds, raised on the left, floor level on the right, very close together, much smaller than I pictured it.

Rick Eager, who lost himself to two Nepalis, and whom I lent 250 rupees. His involvements with Calcutta police, which I heard about from Eric Hansen in Puri, so many passports stolen, so much dysentery.

And the Sally-Ann “big nurse”, married to a Misi tribesman, with daughter, who has a poor opinion of world travellers, and wishes she could get back to working with real children.

The silly proprietress of the two-star Fairlawn Hotel, and the incredible scene over the soda water. [I was disappointed because there were no bubbles. I pointed this out. She threw a fit.]

“Nobody has ever complained about the water before. And you’re not even staying with us. There has never been any sickness from water. We get it from the Saturday Club.” (The clincher).

She managed to go on for quite a while but said no more. Oh yes, “My husband was a regimental …something or other.” So obviously the soda water has got to be OK. I could go upstairs and complain to him she said, heatedly, but her staff politely deflected me.

Next day the bar was closed “for a dry day.”

Was glad to get out of Calcutta, without having really experienced it, neither its enormousness, nor its detail.

Howra Bridge is rather awful. On the way out I ran dry and later broke the chain (on the connecting link). Too much heat. Stopped from 12 to 3, and met a somewhat reasonable “science graduate” at a Sikh shop. Had my tea bought for me by a truckie. Almost went straight to Sambalpur, wavered right up to the Xroads, then went to Puri meaning to go to Konarak. Glad now I didn’t. Slept most of the time (between trying to dislodge my bowels) and fought occasionally with the sea. Had Phil from Milwaukee in my room, a very boring teenager who liked taking things. Jack the Dane turned up same night. Curious blend of softness and violence – still in the pupal stage of conversion. Tends to treat people as mindless – aftermath of self-realisation?

Funny episode in the tali restaurant “I don’t approve of Fanta and Coca-cola drinking,” when I couldn’t eat the lunch he had offered me.

The beach at Puri – before the cyclone

To Konarak on Monday. Bought brass.

[I bought two brass balances: up to 500gms + weights, 65 rps and 250gms + weights, 40 rps. Don’t ask me why; I still don’t know.]

The original Jaganath – at Konarak

Short but worthwhile visit to Sun Temple. Eric in the IB. Then all night ride to Pithora.

Left Konarak for Delhi with 24,400 miles. [Reading on the clock since Los Angeles.]

More thoughts about the book. “You’re a real man,” would lead to personal doubts about sex and gender. Must be careful not to make gratuitous confessions. Thoughts about how an environment – say a TV studio – conditions behaviour. A saint could handle it – I guess that’s a reason for practicing austerities in the forest. Coming to India is a contemporary equivalent for Westerners, though the austerities are thrust upon is.

Have had the horrors about this cross-country ride. The journey to Puri made me realise that it was already much hotter in central India than I’d thought possible at the beginning of April. Air is superheated. Faster I ride the hotter I get. Like air from a blast furnace. The rear sprocket is a toothless mess, and have forebodings about the bike. Tyres are getting close to bald, specially front tyre. Often my mind conjours up clairvoyant’s prediction and I use them to crystalise my anxieties. Forget who put it into my mind to travel at night, but now it seems the only way. Thus breaking a rule for the journey. My sensitivity to the bike is extreme. And I imagine variations in sound and feel. A tinny quality to the engine sound, Hollow rattling in the transmission. And an alarming wobble at slow speeds as steering head deteriorates.

What is there to occupy the mind at night – for the mind craves occupation. Inevitable thoughts about the future, and much struggle against expectations. But generally I’m keeping my mind on the job. No serious lapses of concentration. Bar one, when I was too intent on reading a milestone to notice the big rocks laid out on the road. Hit one and am lucky, though wheel rim is bent somewhat. A million diversions on the highway – for culvert construction – driving off into sandy hollows.

On second night, after Pithora, stop in Raipur and drink lassie with two student eye-doctors who insist on paying. Raipur has an impressive look about it. A little further on is Bilai – biggest steel works in Asia, spread out below me from viaduct. Occasional hellish glow as slag is tipped.

A new cinema hall stands brightly in the middle of nowhere. – all the promise of the old Odeons in the Thirties. A while later, stop to rest by roadside. See one rear box hanging crazily by one rubber mounting. The patent lock had sheared off. More trouble in store. Don’t have the wit to remove the broken part which later shakes off. Much trouble with lorries on the narrow sections, particularly with lights. However, making faster progress than expected. Over 500 kms each night brings me to Jabalpur on Wednesday evening (after a day stop at Seoni in PWD [Public Works Department bungalow] where I argue about 8 rupee bill and pay four after ostentatiously “closing the book”.

Also, the Care official there, who says, “We are helping the Govt of Maharashtra to set up a nutrition programme.” He is a good advertisement for nutrition; sleekly obese.

“You are from?”

“Do you mean today, or originally?”

“No, no,” he says, irritably. “You are from?”

How could this mean anything but “Your native place?”