India, 1967 conclusion and a "Post Script"

1967 - and here is the last post of nine posts (starting September 2nd): another memorable event was a cocktail party and supper held on our last evening in Bombay at the home of our host and hostess in Malabar Hill.

(For those of you who haven’t read the previous posts, our host was the former Mayor of Bombay, and had adopted us after we’d arrived in Bombay on the train with only the clothes on our back.)

At the “cocktail” party (where no alcohol was served) other than the delicious exotic juices, a first for us was Rose Petal Water. Dinner was a tasty tandoori and specialty curry dishes. “Now you know a little bit about the ‘other India’”, said our host. “Yes”, I replied, “we’re much obliged and thankful for your generosity and hospitality. Good-bye, and may you live long and in good health.” “It was our pleasure to have the opportunity to give you both the experience.”

Next morning, his chauffer Sharma took us to the airport for our flight back home. All things, pleasant or unpleasant, come to an end. “The only permanence is impermance.”

Postscript: In my boyhood during WWII, I’d seen the bombs drop and experienced real hunger and privation. After going through all that, I thought nothing would ever move and shock me again. That is, until twenty-two years later, when we experienced India.

For those of you who haven’t yet been to India, it would be some experience to witness the “raw and real” of that paradoxical and enigmatic continent. Not always recommended, though, for the faint-hearted. Of course these posts speak about our experiences forty-one years ago. Since 1967, I’ve been back a few times, under different circumstances. No matter how you experience India, it will leave you with lasting impressions.

In our case, after witnessing the roller-coaster before we reached Bombay (see previous posts), we were offered a ride in the golden coach, and hopped on. And now, we have a choice: when the Golden Coach stops again, offering us a ride, we can either accept it, or say, “Thank you, we’ve done that already.”

"Bollywood", an inside view, 1967

1967. A few days after the wedding reception, courtesy of our host, we visited “Bollywood”, the unique world of Indian film.

Anyone who’s been to India cannot miss those huge, colourful billboards with movie stars depicted very large. A movie made in India is not just any movie. It’s a never-ending Epic with extraordinary choreography, singing, drama, all the emotions - - -joy, anger, jealousy, hatred, laughter.

Except kissing and other intimacies. But you observe in these movies sensual gestures, elegance, discipline, coquetry, incredible set designs, plus the ancient classical finger, hand and head movements. Only India has a patent on this art form.

We spent the whole day on a “set”, including a visit to the make-up department: masters in the art of cosmetica, wigs, the works. Two ordinary-looking cast members walked in, then later walked out looking like goddesses.

Then we toured the costume area, and dressing rooms. Non-stop activity, like being in a ‘human beehive’. And the clothes, what a variety of fabrics, plus endless rows of costume racks. The prop department was another wonder. There was also a horse stable, plus three elephants on this particular set.

Next, we sat-in on the “rushes” (screening of the day’s takes), in particular a dramatic episode between two families. Then a two-hour rehearsal for an elaborate dance number, beginning with 3 dancers and ending up with 300! They rehearsed and rehearsed, it seemed to go on forever. Then there is the music and singing, which is always a big feature of any Bollywood movie.

Everything about Bollywood is gigantic (not only the billboards!): the orchestras, cameras, lights and stage sets with recreations of entire villages. Although many Indian movies film on location, featuring agricultural and rural regions, villages and Nature parks.

By the end of day, you’d have to be a Zombie not to fall under the spell of this magical “Bollywood World”. Anyone who’s never seen an Indian move ought to; it’s something you’ll never forget.

Two days later, we had another invitation, to meet the leading movie star at his home, up in the hills of Bombay. There, the air is much more pleasant, and the view spectacular.

Many cast members were there, plus friends and neighbours. The movie star had three Dobermans, and a security system (and this was back in 1967, when security was not a big problem.) A swimming pool of course. Each room in the villa had a fan which in itself was a work of art. He was relaxed although he smoked a lot, as did most of the others. Housekeepers, butler, all the staff wore white gloves.

Another memorable moment of our stay (and there were many), was a private “cocktail” party and dinner at the home of our host (for those of you who haven’t read the previous posts about India, he was the ex-Mayor of Bombay, and had ‘adopted’ us). He also lived up in the hills; the garden was full of bamboo furniture, painted white. “Cocktails” turned out to be passion fruit,mango, papaya, orange juice and last but not least, Rose Petal water. It was an excellent dinner, caringly prepared and beautifully presented.

The days flew by and throughout it all we were in a state of awe, like being in a dream.

Arrival at the wedding reception, Bombay Cricket Club

Bombay 'upper crust', 1967: we reached the Bombay Cricket Club without further incident. Our host’s wife was already there.

1,200 guests were invited to the wedding reception. The groom’s father had hired and flown in from New York a nine-piece jazz band. There were also Bengal dancers, and classical Indian tabla and sitar players.

Never before had we seen such glitter, such elegance, such vanity and such pride.

It was a fashion parade. Beautiful women in saris, many woven with real gold and silver threads and bedecked in precious and semi-precious jewels. A cat-burglar would have had a field day. Some wore Western clothing, Parisian ‘dernier cri’ fashions. Most of the men, as well, but more Italian-style, while some wore Nehru-style jackets.

There was a stage set up for the entertainers. The bride, (our host’s niece), was dressed Western-style as well, so too the groom. He looked just like his uncle-in-law, top hat and all.

The new vogue in those days was, “Our wedding, our reception, our party, our celebration is bigger and better than anyone else’s”. It may have been mostly a Western-style reception, but other than beer, there was no hard liquor or wine.

Food galore, delicious traditional Indian cuisine, but also Hot Dogs and Hamburgers! The celebrations on that beautiful day went on from Noon until evening.

A different India from our experience in Bihar. As different as Moon to Sun. Signing off for now, Henri

En route to the Wedding Reception (Bombay continued)

The second visit to the tailor proved the skill and craftsmanship this gentleman still possessed. Only a few alterations were needed and they’d be done the next day. Trousers fitted perfectly, so did the Raw Silk jacket. Now, 41 years later, I still wear it.

So by the next day all three pieces were ready. I told the tailor that he was a genius and should do more of his line of work. “No, not a genius, just very good tailor”, and with that we parted. Back at the Taj I put on my newly acquired attire. With my star-ruby ring, I looked like a Maharaja.

Meanwhile the wedding reception was coming up soon (hence all the tailor-visits and shopping). 

This time our host came along in the limousine, my partner and I in the back, while our host sat in the front, next to Sharma the driver. He looked debonair in his swallow-tail black jacket, vest, stripped trousers, ascot, patent-leather shoes, and top hat. He also carried an ebony walking stick with a silver handle. He was pleased with our appearance , different from when we met, at the art exhibition.

India in 1967 was not what it’s become today. Beggars were everywhere. On the streets you witnessed every stage of life from birth to death, and all the illnesses in between. Amongst them, amputees missing an arm or leg (sometimes both), or with a smashed-in face. A regular “picture horror show”. It’s hard to believe at first but some are deliberately maimed as children by their parents, to ensure a livelihood (as beggars).

At one point the limousine had to stop to allow a few ‘holy cows’ pass. They took their time! A beggar approached the limousine and stuck out his’ stump’ arm. I rolled open the window to give him a few rupees. Suddenly, whack! The cane of our host landed on my wrist, sending the rupees flying. “Please close the window, quickly. Do not ever give them baksheesh. We’d never get out of here, there will be dozens around in no time!” I was in shock. He’d seen the proceedings in the rear-view mirror and reacted accordingly. A lesson, well learned.

"The Other Side of India", Opulence in Bombay

1967: Two housekeeping staff knocked at the door of our “surprise” suite in the Taj Mahal Hotel. We learned they were to take our measurements. A female for my partner, male for me. Meanwhile, room service pampered us with delights of Indian cuisine, 5-star style.

We asked ourselves, “What’s going on”? Then a basket of fruit arrived with a card informing us that everything would be taken care of, all our meals and the suite. A few hours earlier, we’d arrived by train not knowing where we’d spend the night, looking like a pair of “vagabonds”. Next thing we’re rested, refreshed, bathed and, it appeared, about to get a new wardrobe. However, I did not shave my long beard! Ah, The Taj Mahal Hotel, what a view! We thought we’d landed in Paradise.

Our suite faced the harbour and famous Gate of India, the granite arch 26 metres high.

The next morning the ex-Mayor’s chauffeur, “Sharma”, took us on a tour where we visited the extraordinary “Towers of Silence” and other landmarks. After a few hours, heat and humidity brought us back sooner than planned.

The phone buzzed. “Could Madame be ready the next day, for some shopping with Mrs? Yes, oh good, then we’ll pick her up at 10 am”. There was another call for me. “We have an appointment for you with a tailor, you’ll be fetched at 10 am.”

Next morning the limousine stopped some distance from the Taj, in front of an old building in a ‘down and out’ neighbourhood. “Here is the tailor, sir, I’ll wait for you”, said Sharma.

A dark and smelly stone stairwell took me up to the second floor. A faded magazine clipping was pinned to the door, showing an English officer decked out in a fancy uniform with red tunic. Must be the tailor, I thought. Knocking, the door opened and a short, elderly man exclaimed, “Yes, yes, come in, come in, I’ve waited for you. I am tailor, very good. Make all uniforms, suits for British officers, long long ago”.

 

Then he took out a binder, blew away the dust, and proudly showed many uniforms he’d created in the far past. “We make for you a Raw Silk jacket, and two pairs of white trousers, best material, no problem.” He measured me ‘by eye’, walking around, taking notes, then said to come back in the morning for a fitting. So that was that.

When I got back to the Taj, a card sat on the table, decal-edge, gold embossing. “You and Madame are invited to the wedding reception of our niece. It takes place at the Bombay Cricket Club, etc.” Meanwhile my partner returned with more clothes and presents from her shopping trip with our host’s wife. The phone rang. “Did we receive the invitation? Did you get to the tailor ok? Sharma will take you back tomorrow for the fitting. Are you enjoying Bombay?” I responded immediately, “Oh yes, very much!” But little did we know what lay awaiting.

Opulence of India (arrival in Bombay)

This ‘going back in time’ could fill a book of life’s adventures. A blog isn’t a book, but since our experiences in Bombay were the complete opposite of Bihar (like the other side of a coin), I felt like sharing this. That’s why there are now several posts on our visit to India. Travelling anywhere by train can be memorable, especially lengthy trips. When we reached Bombay (now Mumbai), we had no idea where to stay. All I had in way of plans was to experience the “Towers of Silence”. This is the site of the Parsi (Zoroastrian) funerals, where the dead are exposed to vultures, providing the individual’s final act of charity. All we had were the clothes on our back. We both wore sandals and I had a long beard of three months. We looked, to say the least, “dusty”, but welcomed the chance to stretch our legs.I noticed a sign “Art exhibition, upstairs, first floor”. That got my attention. Upon entering the gallery, we immediately felt out of place. It was an elegant ‘vernissage’, or opening reception. 

Ladies in saris, or dressed in latest Parisian fashions. Men in Nehru jackets or well-tailored suits with shirt and tie. And shoes, shining like mirrors.
It was like “Look what the cat brought in.” I focused on the paintings, which were mostly tropical still-life’s of flowers, and made some “comments”. A smartly-dressed gentleman came over and in Oxford English said, “Welcome. Who are you? Where do you come from? I overheard your commentary on the show to your lady. May I ask, are you an artist?” I replied, “Thank you, sir, we’re from Canada. Actually my partner is from the USA. We just got off the train from Calcutta, via Bihar, where we spent a week with Oxfam. And yes, you could say I know a little bit about Art.” His eyebrows went up dramatically. “Good Lord, my friend, did you say Bihar? I myself have never been there” but he didn’t react to my being an artist. “Bihar, my friend, that is some experience you must have gone through; and what are your impressions of India?”
Says I, “Well, yes, we had great adventures, a real eye-opener, but that all belongs to our nomadic nature.”

“Where are you staying? Did you reserve a room somewhere?” I replied, “No, sir, this is our first time in Bombay.” “But Bombay is a huge city, and the lady surely must be tired and would like to rest?” He said he would like to be our Host and that he would like to show us the other side of India. Then he introduced himself and it turned out he was no-less than the ex-mayor of this great city! And all because of a curiosity to look at an art show, 20 minutes after arriving in Bombay. He gave us his card and gave some instructions to his chauffeur to take us to a hotel. The car was a black Mercedes limousine. We got into the car, and began our first real “sightseeing” of Bombay. The “hotel” was none other than the iconic Taj Mahal Hotel. So we two vagabond-looking people arrived, with no luggage, at the posh five-star hotel.

When we approached the Front Desk, a man came up to us. “Ah, you must be the people we are expecting”. Meanwhile the crowd in the lobby stared, curious about these new arrivals. We had entered their ‘Sanctum Sanctorum’ and looked like we belonged in the ‘down and out’ quarters of the city. Although, I was wearing my star-ruby ring I’d acquired in Ceylon (now Sri Lanka), much earlier in our adventure.

And thus began the chapter of “the other side” of India looked like. But that’s for the next post.

India, Home of the Maharaja

1967 - it was unusually quiet as we passed through the village. We found the Maharaja's palace.It wasn't tall, but set in vast grounds. Surrounded by high walls, you could just see the terracotta roof. The entrance was an enormous, closed wooden door, fortified with brass bolts. We heard peacocks nearby. No bell, clapper or cord to pull. I knocked 3 times. No sign of life.

Then I spotted a small opening at street level. Pushing with my foot, it moved (like a cat door). I crawled through on hands and knees. My partner was not amused, she wasn’t keen on entering in such a lowly fashion! However I got in and this prompted her to follow. We were in a long courtyard with a veranda, set with two bamboo “Peacock throne” chairs.

The place was deserted, but a table with fresh bouquet of exotic flowers indicated there must have been people around.“Hallo? Anybody there? Anybody home?”, I asked. “Hope we’re not intruding or trespassing” (which of course we were.) No reply. I was curious, where were the elephants? We entered a formal garden.

Some peacocks sat on the wall, while others strutted. A few peahens sat in the shade of an ancient Banyen tree. There were flowers and blossoms everywhere. The fragrance was almost overpowering. Fountains, one with a statue of Ganesh, the Elephant God. Another, Shiva Lingam. It was like a dream, and hard to believe we were actually standing in the garden of a Maharaja. 

Beside the Banyen tree was a small temple with shrine. Suddenly we noticed a Sadhu. He had a long beard, was covered in grey ash, and was completely naked. He stood on one leg, perfectly still, holding a Trident. If it wasn’t for his deep, lively brown eyes, he could have been a statue. Trying not to disturb his peaceful state, we walked quietly in the other direction. Imagine the scene: two Westerners appear from nowhere (my partner was a tall blond Scandinavian). He noticed us of course, but took it all in without the slightest distraction, as if we didn’t exist. (We learned later he was the Maharaja’s holy man, or guru.)

There may have been elephants, but we didn’t go further into the premises. The only sign of life was the Sadhu, plus of course the abundance of plants, Banyen tree, and the peacocks. Not even a cat or dog. We went back through the ‘cat door’on our hands and knees.

Luckily our taxi driver was still there.Returning to the train station, I asked him “Is that usual, for there to be no one at the palace? And what about the ‘cat door’?” Nodding his head in that unique Indian manner, he replied, “Maybe you were being quietly observed. And the low door means visitors must enter in humility, and bow down before going into the Maharaja’s domain. As for the elephants, they’re there all right, at least half a dozen.”

Back at the station, we were amazed to discover we had only been gone for three hours. It seemed like a lifetime, or that we’d entered another world, which in fact we did. Six hours later we boarded the train, onward to Bombay. To be continued. Til next time, Henri