Indian Tales 2


February 18 2006

"Indian Tales 2" has been created as the original 
Indian Tales has become very large and takes a considerable time to open especially for those with dial up connections. As has been my custom I have placed the most recent stories at the top of the pages.

The following are the stories on this  page

#Hill section of Assam Bengal Railway
#Tata in save wildlife pledge
#The Ink fades on a profession
##Bruce Almightea
#Farewell Rickshaw
#Dooars Party 1963
#Ramesh Jaitly visits Aberdeen
#Changing Times (Trade Route)
#An April Day
#Hooking a bird
#Panitola T.E.
#Shillong
#On the March
#Chris Duff from Snowy Canada
#Rob & Jill Andrew Return to India...

March 7 2008

Hill Section of the old Assam Bengal Railway

Revisiting the celebrated Hill Section of the old Assam Bengal Railway, 
one of the few remnants of the metre gauge railroad that once ran from 
Chittagong Port all the way to Tinsukia Jn. Planters working in Upper 
Assam, the Surma Valley and Cachar would have had the choice of 
using this route in journeys from Kolkata from circa 1902 till Independence
 and Partition: train from Sealdah to Goalundo Ghat, steamer down the 
Ganga (Padma) to Chandpur, then another train all the way north and 
east to Assam with a change at Laksam Jn.
 
This particular trip was undertaken during the monsoon of 2005, when 
the jungle cloaked Barail Hills are at their picturesque best (but also 
when the line is frequently closed by landslides).  The journey from 
Lumding Jn to Haflong was by passenger train (mostly on the roof!)
and the return in the caboose of a goods train. 

The editor thanks Bharat Vohra, Samit Roychoudhury and Mohan Bhuyan
for sharing their experience and taking the photos for us all to enjoy. 
Mohan points out that the photo of the the famous Doyang or Diyung Viaduct  
was taken by Alexandre Gillieron.

 

Across the river and into the Trees


And out again


the famous Doyang or Diyung Viaduct  


Bamboo Canopy


Barail Landscape


Boila Bridge


Delicate Tunnels


Burp


Diyung Viaduct from Circuit House


Doyang Viaduct


Jhum


Line through the Jungle


Pot of Gold


Rainbow Reflections


Rainbow Boxcar


View from Haflong Circuit house


 

January 19 2008
 An item from the Calcutta Telegraph of January 8 2008-- Our thanks to Ali Zaman

Tata in save-wildlife pledge

A STAFF REPORTER

Free rein

Guwahati, Jan. 7: Tata Tea has formed an eco-development committee in its estate adjoining Kaziranga National Park to convince the forest department of its commitment to protecting wild animals that stray into the plantation.

The forest department was planning to acquire a part of Hathikuli tea estate to save wildlife from entering a zone where they were thought to be exposed to killer pesticides and attacks by humans. The estate came under the scanner after a Royal Bengal tiger cub died there and another was found in a semi-conscious state.

Tata Tea’s general manager (production), S. Sikand, today urged workers of Hathikuli tea estate to help the Kaziranga management protect wildlife, especially those straying into the plantation. He made the appeal during an “awareness meeting” at the estate.

The divisional forest officer of Kaziranga, Bankim Sharma, attended the meeting.

Tata Tea agreed to give the forest department some space in the garden to set up a forest camp. Sikand said the company was aware of its responsibility towards Kaziranga and had decided to convert the entire plantation into an organic one by the end of next month.

“Even Letkujan tea estate will be transformed into an organic plantation,” the Tata executive added.

Sharma said it was a serious crime to kill a Royal Bengal tiger and that the law would take its own course in the cases registered against Hathikuli tea estate. “The persons found guilty of the crime (of poisoning the tiger cub) will be booked,” he added.

A plantation worker who lost cattle in a tiger attack is believed to have laced a half-eaten carcass with pesticides, leading to the cub’s death. A bottle containing pesticides was found at the site.

The divisional forest officer requested the Tata Tea management not to erect any barrier or fencing that might hamper the movements of animals along Rongagora division of Hathikuli tea estate.

The Rongagora division is part of a “critical wildlife area” between Kaziranga in the north and Karbi Anglong in the south. Kaziranga straddles two districts, Golaghat and Nagaon, and is 217km from Guwahati. Although its most famous resident is the one-horned rhino, it is home to several other endangered animal and avian species.

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We are indebted to Rex Naug for forwarding this article from the New York Times of December 26 2007


The Ink Fades on a Profession 
as India Modernizes


By ANAND GIRIDHARADAS
MUMBAI, India 

 
G. P. Sawant never charged the prostitutes for his letter-writing services.
Not long after the women would descend on this swarming, chaotic city, they would find him at his stall near the post office, this letter writer for the unlettered. They often came hungry, battered and lonely, needing someone to convert their spoken words into handwritten letters to mail back to their home villages.

The letters ferried false reassurances. The women claimed they had steady jobs as shopkeepers and Bollywood stagehands. Saying nothing of the brothels, beatings and rapes they endured, they enclosed money 
orders to remit rupees agonizingly acquired. Many called Mr. Sawant 'brother' and tied a string on his wrist each year in the Hindu tradition.

Sometimes, suspicious parents boarded a train to Mumbai and turned up at Mr. Sawant's stall, which a daughter had listed as her address. Mr. Sawant greeted them kindly but disclosed nothing about the woman's 
work or whereabouts.

Such is the letter writer's honor code: When you live by writing other people's letters, you die with their secrets.

But now the professional letter writer is confronting the fate of middlemen everywhere: to be cut out. In India, the world's fastest-growing market for cellphones, calling the village or sending a text message has all but supplanted the practice of dictating intimacies to someone else.

And so Mr. Sawant, 61, and by his own guess the author of more than 10,000 letters of others, was sitting idly at his stall on a recent Monday, having earned just 12 cents from an afternoon spent filling out forms, submitting money orders, wrapping parcels, the postal trivialities that have survived the evaporation of his letter-writing trade.

But this is not the familiar story of the artisan flattened by the new economy, because, it turns out, his family has gained more from that economy than it has lost.

Three of Mr. Sawant's four children are riding the Indian economic boom, including a daughter, Suchitra, who works at Infosys, the Indian technology giant.  In the very years that a telecommunications revolution was squashing her father?s business, it was plugging India into the global networks that would allow her industry to explode.  Suchitra now earns $9,000 a year, three times as much as her father did at his peak.

Globalization is said to create winners and losers. For the Sawants, it created both. And that duality reflects the furious pace at which entire professions are being invented and entire professions destroyed in the rush to modernize India.

There is, on one hand, a national quest under way to excise inefficiencies - to cut out middlemen.  As go the letter writers, so go bank tellers as India adopts A.T.M.'s, phone-booth operators as cellphones spread, and rural moneylenders as new Western-style supermarket chains start trading directly with farmers.

But for every occupation that vanishes, another is born. There are now mall attendants in a nation that until lately had no malls, McDonald's cashiers in a country where cows are sacred, and Porsche sales executives in a land where most people still walk. It used to be hard to obtain a computer or telephone line in India; the country now has more software engineers and call-center operators than just about anywhere else.

G. P. Sawant entered the letter-writing trade in 1982 when he won a government contract for a coveted stall inside the post office headquarters. Before long, he earned a reputation among illiterate migrants as a gifted writer of letters.

Many of the letters were instructions from urban breadwinners on how to spend the money they were remitting to the countryside. They included expressions of affection for family members for whom they 
toiled in Mumbai but whom they rarely saw. They warned relatives not to squander money. They asked about the health of the aged and the infirm.

There were some letters Mr. Sawant would not write. He refused, for example, to trade in romantic love. Love is fickle and dangerous, he said. Lovers lie; they cheat; they offer their love and rescind it. He refused to engage in chicanery on other people's behalf.

Though hardly a literary man, with schooling only up to the 10th grade, Mr. Sawant described himself as a fastidious editor. He chopped pitilessly from his customers' dictations, rendering long speeches into short, punchy, to-the-point missives. (His customers were illiterate, so it was not as if he was going to get caught.)

The early years were bliss. But, in 1995, the post office was declared a historical site and the entire letter-writing squad, including Mr. Sawant and four assistants, was relocated across the street to where they are now, at the base of a gnarled tree, under a tarpaulin mat that shields them from the ceaselessly defecating pigeons that flutter among the branches.

As Mr. Sawant remembers it, 1995 happened to be the year when everything began to change.  India was emerging at that time from a long spell of economic self-sufficiency and stagnation, in which one had to reserve long-distance telephone calls as if they were tables at a fancy restaurant, days in advance. With the land-line infrastructure so dreary, the mobile phone was greeted with special enthusiasm when it arrived in India in the 1990s. Cellphone companies, seeking to tap a vast market of 1.1 billion Indians, innovated to drop their prices to as low as 1 cent a minute. It did not take long for the personal letter to become obsolete.

Mr. Sawant mourns the demise of the letter culture. After dropping a letter in the box, he used to imagine its winding journey. Someone far away would open what he had written on someone else?s behalf; the reader would savor its kind words or its little secrets, then maybe file it away in a box, and perhaps revisit it weeks later in a burst of nostalgia.

But Mr. Sawant is not bitter. He said he was happy to stay behind if his country advanced. With mobiles, India wins, he said. For other people, it may be difficult. But I'm happy.  He is happy, of course, because his four children, all of whom he sent to private school using the proceeds from letter writing, have pulled the family into the upper middle class. His son works at a bank; one daughter works as a civil engineer in Denmark; another daughter is studying computers in college; and there is Suchitra, who is currently in New Jersey on assignment for Infosys.

Mr. Sawant's mention of New Jersey prompted a suggestion. A cameraman making a videotape for this article was about to return to New York, not far from where Suchitra is working. Did Mr. Sawant want to scribble a letter to his daughter for him to hand-deliver?

His answer was instantaneous.  'Why would I send her a letter' he asked, perplexed?  'I'll just call her on the phone.'

 

 

December 17 2007
|
These pictures are from an article titled Bruce Almightea and printed in the Scotsman on November 24th 2007

Click here to see the articles

 

 

January 25 2007

Farewell rickshaw

KOLKATA: Bengal lawmakers on Monday voted out and bade farewell to a friend of Kolkatans' through thick and thin — the hand-pulled rickshaw. The Calcutta Hackney-Carriage (Amendment) Bill, 2006, to phase out hand-pulled rickshaws sailed through the state Assembly easily, courtesy a boycott by Trinamul MLAs.

The bill, when enacted, will undo what Chinese traders did for Kolkata's transportation in the late 19th century by introducing this eco-friendly transport. That was years after Shimla boasted of it in 1888. Incidentally, the first hand-pulled rickshaws that plied on Kolkata's streets were freight carriers. Only later did they become the much-chastised man-carrying-man vehicles of today.

Though the government insists the bill will be signed into law immediately, it will have to seek legal advice on pending applications for licences which Calcutta High Court has ruled must be accepted. Monday's legislative action is the culmination of over 15 months of debate set off by an unprecedented chief ministerial press conference last year to announce that hand-pulled rickshaws would be off Kolkata streets. The bill amending the Calcutta Hackney Carriage Act, 1919 was introduced in the Assembly on July 20 this year and referred to a select committee.

While piloting the bill, CM Buddhadeb Bhattacharjee reiterated what he had said earlier. "We must agree on one point that in the 21st century it is not right for a human being to pull another human being. Wherever I go, be it
Delhi , Mumbai or abroad, people ask me how long Kolkata will have hand-pulled rickshaws? This is a shame for our city. We should have done this much earlier."

All that was needed to put an end to hand-pulled rickshaws, was to remove the words "and palanquins and to make certain provisions with regard to rickshaws" from the original act. The MLAs agreed to it.

The CM promised rehabilitation for rickshaw-pullers. "Rehabilitation will go along with removal. It isn't that we will remove the rickshaws and give the rehabilitation package later on," he said and claimed that rickshaw-pullers' unions had accepted the alternative vocations the government had proposed.

"I have talked with the Kolkata mayor about setting up cooperatives to run car parking lots. This way they will earn more than what they used to earn. The number of cars is going up and we need more parking lots. At least 2,000 people will be involved here," Bhattacharjee said.

For rehabilitation, the first task is to find out the exact number of hand-pulled rickshaw wallahs . The number of licensed hand-pulled rickshaws is 5,937. "We assume there are as many rickshaw-pullers as there are licensed rickshaws. We are also talking with NGOs about helping some of them set up small trading units. Those who cannot do anything will be given financial compensation," he said.

 

 

 

 

 

 




 

____________________________________-

July 18 2006
Dooars Party 1963
In the picture are 
Standing: Dudley Robert, Alan Gordon, Amrita Bogra, unknown, Martin Hall, Chris Doutre, 
Sitting Margie Robert, Jean  Gordon, Narendra Pal, 
Behind: Mike Dean and Nandan Kilpadi


Roger Pal writes: I am pleased to attach this  old photograph taken by Vinod Bogra Acting Manager at New Dooars T.E. Binnaguore Manager's Bungalow
Mr Alan Gordon was Superintendent. All were with Andrew Yule except Nandan Kilpadi who was from Gillanders. Through koi-hai I have been in touch with Martin Hall, Chris Doutre, and Mrs Roberts all old friends and I know they will enjoy the photograph
(
Roger is now based in Houston Texas as Executive VP of WSI Services-if anyone wishes to get in touch with Roger please contact the Editor)

July 17 2006
Ramesh Jaitly visits Aberdeen

From the "Aberdeen & District Independent" Aberdeen, Scotland Thursday September 3rd 1998

City's tea time

Ramesh flies in to join planters at their annual Aberdeen reunion

The granite city is famous for it's links with oil, fish and paper, but Aberdeen also has roots firmly embedded in another industry. Scots played a leading role in the opening up of the forests in Assam and planting and manufacturing of tea.

And there are still retired tea planters in Aberdeen - many of whom will be brought together to reminisce times past at a reunion dinner being held at the Amatola Hotel on September 11.

Ramesh Jaitly, a retired Indian tea Planter who joined the Badlipar Tea Company in the 50's has travelled all the way from his home country to meet old friends at the reunion. He says the tombstones of cemeteries in Assam are full of Scottish surnames.

"In the early days of tea planting the average expectation of life was said to be six months. If malaria did not take you, a tiger or snake would. Here they were, the Scots, thousands of miles away from home in totally alien surroundings, in complete charge of tea estates." said Mr. Jaitly.

He remembers many idiosyncrasies of the Scots planters, but one from Stonehaven, Henry Crabb, holds a very special place in his heart. "Crabbie, as he was popularly known, was not only a knowledgeable and competent planter, but extremely perceptive with an immense understanding of not only his management team but also tribal labour and their ways" explained Mr. Jaitly. He had a phenomenal capacity to remember the names of most of the two thousand plus workers on the two Tea Estates of which he was Superintendent. The workers also understood and respected him." he added. Mr. Jaitly says he remember meeting Crabb one afternoon at his bungalow office.

"His bearer had just brought in some tea, when a worker rushed in breathless and agitated: 'Come quickly Sahib, the Kamjari babu (field clerk) is going to hang himself'. I shot up from my chair expecting Crabb to do the same, 'Sit down and finish your tea,' he told me." Mr. Jaitly says he was confused by Crabb's action and thought what kind of man could he be to ignore this sort of emergency.

"Crabb calmy continued the discussion, finished his cup of tea, picked up his cane, and we walked to the hospital where the suicide was allegedly taking place," he said. The pair found the Kamjari Babu perched on a tree with a rope round his neck, and a crowd of 400 onlookers pleading with him not to hang himself.

"But Crabb appeared to be totally unmoved by the whole proceedings," said Mr. Jaitly. "He just stood there looking at the Babu, with an occasional glance at his own watch. After a few minutes he called out to the Babu 'Hurry up and finish what you are doing, I have to get back to my tea'. The crowd was aghast at these heartless words. The Babu, however, climbed down from his perch, came up to Crabb and shouted 'I WILL DIE' . And die he did, many years later, of cancer."

Mr. Jaitly explained: "Crabb later told me that if the Babu had wanted to commit suicide he would have done so even before the messenger had reached us, and if he hadn't by then, he wouldn't at all."

During his visit to Aberdeen Mr. Jaitly plans to visit the grave of Henry Crabb and drink a toast with old friends to memories of times past.

______________________________

July 7 2006

This item of considerable interest was sent in by Venk Shenoi and we thank him

Changing Times --Trade Route
 
for those who remember the Chinese invasion of 1962
which affected the planter communities in Assam and Doaars.
 
There was a round up of ethnic Chinese from the tea districts out
of sheer prejudice and ignorance of the Indian authorities.
(same as the Japanese community in California during WW2?)
 
These same people had previously escaped from civil strife in China
following the fall of Chiang Kai Shek and trekked into India through Tibet.
Many skilled fitters, carpenters and other trades found ready employment
in the tea estates. Many had also set up dry-cleaning outlets in Calcutta
competing with the likes of Band Box.
 
The tea estates lamented the loss of their skilled tradesmen. 
 
Venk
 
 
Historic India-China link opens

Nathu La has been closed since China and India went to war in 1962

 

 

China and India have opened a historic trade route that had been closed for nearly half a century.

The Himalayan pass of Nathu La, 4,000m (14,000 feet) above sea level, was once part of the ancient Silk Road.

The opening ceremony took place at the windswept border between India's Sikkim state and the Chinese region of Tibet.

Nathu La has been closed since China and India went to war in 1962

Nathu La has opened just a few days after the first train service was launched from eastern China to Tibet.

The pass wore a festive look with Chinese and Indian flags fluttering and military bands playing.

China's ambassador to India and local officials from Sikkim and Tibet attended the opening ceremony at the border post in driving rain and bitter cold.

But the BBC's Subir Bhaumik, who was at the opening, says despite the poor weather conditions there was no shortage of enthusiasm among the hundreds of Indian and Chinese traders who had gathered there.

Our lives are going to change once trade gets going
Sonar Bhutia
Sikkim trader

"We hope the reopening of the silk route will improve relations between the two countries," China's ambassador to India Sun Yuxi told the AFP news agency.

"Today the border is open for traders and we hope very soon it will be open for tourists. We are excited and feeling very good."

The BBC's South Asia correspondent, Navdip Dhariwal, says the reopening of the route signifies a huge leap forward in diplomacy and trade between both countries.

Local traders have welcomed the opening and say it will have a major impact on the regional economy.

"Our lives are going to change once trade gets going," a grocery supplier, Sonar Bhutia, is quoted as saying by the AFP news agency.

"We're hoping to profit by it."

But correspondents say the opening is more symbolic than substantive, with trade confined to some local goods.

India will import 15 items from China, including goat and sheep skins, yak tails and raw silk.

China, for its part, will import 29 items including tea, rice and spices.

"Trading will take place four days a week, Monday to Thursday," says Sikkim director of industries, Saman Prasad Subba.

Diplomatic triumph

Some analysts believe that trade through the land route could generate millions of dollars in trade eventually.

But at the moment most agree that there are more immediate political benefits rather than economic.

"This resumption of border trade is more significant for Indian diplomacy, not for trade," says Jayantanuja Bandopadhyay, professor of international relations in Calcutta's Jadavpur University.

 

Sikkim is a former Buddhist kingdom that merged with India in 1975, a move that was opposed by China which lay claim to the state.

"By allowing trade through Nathu La, China has accepted Sikkim as part of India that it refused to do earlier," Mr Bandopadhyay says.

The Nathu La pass was closed in 1962 after war broke out between China and India.

The famed Silk Road was an ancient trading route that once connected China with India, West Asia and Europe.

 

June 14 2006

Gowri Mohanakrishnan of Moraghat Tea Estate, Binnaguri West Bengal who writes regularly for the Camellia Magazine has kindly sent us an interesting 
  article and we thank her for taking the time and trouble to share her very well written stories with us -
Gowri has a fascinating website and I suggest a visit to it http://seventhchords.blogspot.com/

 

An April Day

The weather plays a very important part in our lives on a tea plantation. After a long, dry spell, and some weeks to go before the monsoon, we are waiting for rain. But it's a brilliant morning. The sunlight is blinding at even 8.00 a.m. and the heat and glare are harsh upon the malis who work on my lawn. The tea bushes shimmer in the heat haze outside.

I finish off with my instructions to the mali very quickly, and postpone my inspection of the vegetable garden to a later,and I hope cooler--hour. That is one area where we never see eye to eye, but today he and I have formed a brief alliance; our common enemy is the heat. I ask him why none of the malis has carried an umbrella to work. The pluckers out in the tea area do. He doesn't have a theory to offer. Time was when you couldn't part the tea garden worker from his umbrella. He wore it crooked into the back of his collar, rain or shine.

I escape into my cool room. The curtains are drawn, and there's soothing music playing. The rhythms sound like ice tinkling in a glass of something refreshing. My husband comes back for his lunch break, and tells me what a hot day it is. The heat has slowed the pluckers down. It's rain he wants, and quickly too. I leave him to his 'afternoon lie-back', that great tradition established by planters of old. At about three thirty or so, we come out to find everything changed.

The hills had disappeared in the morning's heat haze, but now I see a mass of black clouds in the direction where they lie. Overhead, there are clouds of different structures and shapes. It's as if an artist had gone on a binge in a grey period. Surely we're in for what is called 'hawa-pani' by the garden folk, literally, wind and water, a most inappropriately mild label for what is to follow! In some places, the clouds are already swirling, as if they're forming a whirlpool in the sky. That is something we only see in this season. And soon, the wind starts off. I say wind, but it is like a cyclone. The bungalow servants rush into the verandah, to clear away everything that is in there, from potted plants to chairs and cushions. We're all laughing, now that it's cool and beautiful. It isn't advisable to stand outside any longer. The trees are thrashing about wildly and at any time one may fall. Suddenly a loud crack of thunder is heard and our dog howls in fear. The lights go off at once. Somehow, the electricity just dies with the appearance of a storm.

Then we hear it, a rushing sound, as if something very huge is moving towards us. It's the rain, which we can see, like a moving wall of water, before it actually is with us. The verandah is open in three directions and now it seems to be pouring in from everywhere. Strong gusts of wind lift up and carry the water droplets. It's crashing down on the tin roof. We shout to make each other heard. Lightning rips the sky apart in blinding flashes and thunder applauds loudly, often after a stunned pause. I send up a prayer of thanks that there is no hail, only rain. When there's hail, it rips through the tea bush and seals the fate of a garden for the season.

Later in the evening, my husband tells me there's been an inch of rain. Is he happy, I ask, to which I get an inscrutable shrug. Planters are a superstitious lot. He doesn't want the weather gods to think he's complacent!

Gowri
***************************************************

April 2 2006

Alan Wood kindly sent in this fishing story which is DIFFERENT--thanks Alan

"Hooking a Bird"

Here is a true story of me catching a small Swift (bird) with a fishing lure.

On 29th March 2006, my brother, James and I, (on one boat) and Colin Lamare & Mark Lynrah( on another ) were rafting and fishing the Bhorelli River in Assam. We reached an area known as Upor Dikhorai at about 3.45 PM. A lot of Swifts were flying over the river catching small insects or whatever. I casted a Mepps 4 Spinner towards the middle of the river and almost immediately I saw a Swift plunging into the water close to where the spinner had dropped. I saw the bird disappear under the water. I told my brother and the boatmen about it. As I was reeling in and at about 25 to 30 feet the bird surfaced at the end of my line(spinner). At about 15 ft it disentangled or unhooked itself and fluttered to the bank. Kali and Suresh, the boatmen, retrieved the bird which was looking very wet and sorry for itself but did not appear to have been injured. After taking a few snaps, I put the bird on a branch by the banks. I can't think what made it go for the spinner. It could be that it mistook the spinner for an insect of some kind and it's wing or feather got entangled with the hook or line.

The two snaps were taken by my brother,James(Jimmy) .


*************************************

  April 2 2006

Panitola T.E. 1964
Cathie Campbell kindly passed on Mick Garnett's photograph with notes, thank you Mick and Cathie--an interesting piece of memorabilia

Mick writes:
Whilst clearing out a lot of rubbish I came across this photograph which you may wish to place on your website. It was the out-garden (Babus & Sirdars) at Panitola T.E. February 1964 which means I was 25 at the time. The two out -gardens involved were Depot Line and Majbari for which I was responsible --I think the Manager at the time was Peter Castle and the Superintendent was Stew Campbell

Just a little bit of trivia, I recall that "Majbari" was named after a Marjorie who was related to Guy (and Pam) Henson, he being the Manager of a nearby garden. Guy I think was the brother of Lesley Henson, a well known English actor
***********************************************************

 

March 24 2006

We are indebted to Alan Wood for sending us
the photographs and the story below written 
by Dr Imdad Hussain

Below are some old photographs from Shillong  from about 1900

 Ward's lake (sometime in  early 1900)    Photo courtesy:-  Dr Imdad Hussain.

  Biver's Chateau (was situated at the same site as the present Governor's House).Photo courtesy:- Pitts Rivers Museum.

Golf Club House.   Photo courtesy:-  Imdad Hussain

 

Shillong: No longer a chip off England

by  Imdad Hussain MA, PhD

When I first arrived there on my posting in Assam in 1942, I was enchanted, transported:” recalled Nari Rustomji of the ICS on his maiden visit to Shillong. Fresh from Cambridge, he found in Assam’s capital in the Khasi Hills much of the spiritual, intellectual and physical climate he had recently left behind in England. The beautiful houses and gardens, built on the pattern of country houses in England, the Club, once the sole preserve of Europeans, race meetings during the weekends and above all a well ordered civic administration remained etched in his memory. For some years after independence, this delightful little hill station was still a chip off England and many Europeans who had made it their home remained behind.

Shillong had come into existence in the mid 1860s. This was forty years after the earliest British settlement at Nongkhlaw in 1826, - “to eat the Europe air,” as David Scott, Assam’s first Commissioner put it. During those four decades, the monsoons drenched Cheerapunjee was the headquarters of the Khasi and Jaintia Hills district. In 1860, the deputy commissioner Major Edwin Rowlatt set his eyes on a “gentle undulating plateau” north of the Shillong range and its peak, and soon convinced the Government that the district headquarters should be shifted there. In 1861-62 two district areas were acquired: the plateau and the lower slopes of the Shillong range down to the Umshyrpi river called the Shillong lands. And the region around Yeodo or Iewduh, to give the weekly Khasi market places (Bara Bazar) its correct name, between that river and the Umkhrah. Work on the station roads, government buildings and water supply, all east of Iewduh, began in early 1864. A large tract was set aside for private houses, and was divided into lots ranging from five to eleven acres. The Shillong lands and an equally large area along the right bank of the Umshyrpi were taken over by the Military for their Cantonment. The acquisition of two districts areas with different names created some confusion: the Bengal Government called it Yeodo; the Postal Department of the Military, Shillong. On the representation of the Commissioner, Colonel Henry Hopkinson, Yeodo was dropped and on 28th June 1866, “Shillong” was adopted. “The new settlement extends throughout its entire length along the lower slopes of the Shillong range, and ‘Shillong’ is as appropriate a name to one part of the tract as another, and is already accepted,” Hopkinson told the Lieutenant Governor, “while it would be hardly possible to impose the  name ‘Yeodo’ upon the upper part of the tract.”

Shillong was a classic colonial town with its segregated communities. The subordinate or clerical staff of Government, mostly Bengalis, the traders and shop keepers were settled in Jail Road and Police Bazaar, and later in Laban. The Khasis led by the Sawians and Swers occupied Mawkhar. The area around the present Raj Bhavan (Governors House) was the exclusive preserve of the British and came to be known as the European quarters. Here on 1st September, 1865, the first fourteen building sites were auctioned – all brought by serving officers. Others, including a missionary, a tea planter and an English businessman, soon followed and within a few years, some fifty plots were sold. The Deputy Commissioner, Major Henry Bivar, was among the first to build a house, “Chateau Bivar”, as he called it, on the sprawling Lot no 2. The Commissioner too acquired a largish plot on which he got his executive engineer, Major Fitzwilliam Thomas Pollock, to excavate a lake. The Khasis called it ‘Nan Pollok’ (the lake of Pollok); to the Europeans it was Hopkinson’s Tank. By 1874, Shillong had sufficiently developed to become the headquarters of the Chief Commissioner of the newly created province of Assam. Bivar’s Chateau was bought for Rs 26,000 and converted into the Residency (Governor’s House). The European quarters became the hub of British activities. The Club was established in 1878. Hopkinson’s Tank was enlarged to become, first, Elliott’s Lake during 1883-84, and, a decade later, Ward’s Lake. Pollok’s Australian pines and eucalyptus and other trees flourished, and still adorn the Lake and Raj Bhavan. The Great Earthquake of 1897, which flattened Shillong, introduced a new architectural style – the Assam type, Entry of Indians and “any person not living in European style” into the European quarters was discouraged. When Rustomji or British officers before him wrote of a “prettier spot or one more trimly kept than Shillong,” he certainly did not have Mawkher or Laban in mind.

As the Capital of Assam, and briefly of Eastern Bengal and Assam (1905-1911), Shillong rapidly expanded. Bivar compensated himself by leasing for one and a half rupees a ridge to the south where he built another house, La Chumiere, after which it takes its name. The eastern section of the ridge was acquired by Hopkinson and named “Hopkinson’s Woods”: its familiar landmarks today are the Loreto Convent, the Archdiocese and the establishment of the Don Osco fathers. By the early twentieth century, Laitumkhrah was brought under municipal administration. A prime plot, “a hill covered with trees situated on the other side of Laitumkhrah road just opposite the Mission Compound” was taken over by Father Christopher Becker in 1914 for St Edmund’s School. In the last few decades, Shillong has inevitably undergone tremendous changes, but regrettably with a certain disregard of its heritage. The city today is no longer a “chip off old England,” but as it enters the first years of the new millennium, it is its heritage and civic administration, Shillong’s traditional pride, towards which its enlightened citizen should turn their attention.
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 We are indebted to Colin Meiklejohn who is the nephew of the late Dick Clifford for giving us this story written by an ancestor, please remember it is the 1870's and not the 1970's when reading--Thankyou Colin

February 18 2006

ON THE MARCH

REGIMENT ON THE MARCH IN INDIA

IN THE EARLY SEVENTIES

By

AMC

Higginbotham … Madras and Bangalore 1904

PREFACE AND NOTES

At the earnest solicitations of my friends, I venture to publish a few of my Indian experiences. I fear that for the general public they will but dull reading; but for my children, and for those still left who took part in “The March”, they cannot fail to renew pleasant memories of a happy time.

Nor is it solely for my family that I have pieced the “march” together; but as a sort of answer  (or reply) to a military friend who described “marching” in old times (about the year ’70) as a fearful experience full of inconveniences and dangers of all sorts; and compared a march most unfavourable with the movement of troops in the present day: when they are stuffed into railway carriages and hurried along, as if their lives depended on reaching their destination in double quick time!

I grant you in case of war or other necessity the “chemin de fer” is as great boon, but where time is no object, and where health of all concerned is taken into consideration, give me and old soldiers (in general), “The March”.

On the March by AMC, dated 1904 - Notes

This small booklet describing the trials and tribulations of an officer’s wife moving from one part of India to another, in the 1860’s or there-a-bouts, came into the possession of the author’s great grandson, in about 1983. His interest in matters of a genealogical nature meant that could not rest until further research had been completed into the full background of the booklet and it is only now, some ten years after he started his researches, that what has been learned over the intervening years can be put into print.

The difficulty now lies as to where to start. The author’s details are fully known in that she was born in 1830/31, and christened Annie Margaret Fitzsimons, and married on 13.2.1851, one Richard Cormick Clifford, an officer in the 50th Foot, who had transferred to the East India Company’s Punjab Army in 1849. She was married at the village of Oulart, just outside Wexford, just before her 20th birthday, and is recorded as being “of Glencullen”. She died in India at a place called Kodikanal, near Madras in 1904, the same year that this booklet, now reproduced, was printed in India, as per the frontispiece.


Officer of the Punjab Regiment 1850’s

Knowing now who the author was and whom she married we can proceed to give further information. Her marriage certificate shows that her husband Richard Cormick Clifford was of the 10th Regiment of Foot, in 1851. She finished up as the mother of no less than six sons. Her first born was to see the light of day at Oulart on the 29.11.1851, after her husband had returned to India for his next tour of duty. Her second son was born at Mullingar on 20.11.1858, after her husband’s next leave from India. Her third son was born at Devonport 23.8.1860 after her husband had returned to the UK, with his regiment, after duties in India. Her fourth son was born at Lucknow. 05.11.1862 and her fifth son was born in Darjeeling, 02.11.1867. Her last son was known to have been alive in New Zealand 1878, but his place of birth has not been traced. He is known to have been killed in the Boer War.

From the above dates and birthplaces it has been possible to follow Annie’s movements. Her stay in India must have been between 1860 and 1870, when her husband retired on half pay, and they went to New Zealand. Her husband is known to have died in Lower Hutt, outside Wellington in 1878. However Annie died at Kodikanal in 1904 so must have returned to India after her husband’s death, and where certainly two of her sons had found employment. For clarity sake her six sons are listed below:

1. William Henry Clifford. Born at Oulart in 1851, and died at George, Cape Province S.A. 1941

2. Reginald Claudius Francis. Was born in 1858. Officer in the NZ Shipping Company, died in Cheam Surrey.

3. Richard Thomas Albert. Born at Devonport in 1860, lived in Normandy married a French girl. He is known to have had a son called Richard.

4. Charles Claudius, b. Lucknow 1862, died unmarried in London, 1937.

5. George Staunton, b. Darjeeling 1867, married in Rangoon, 1898 d. 1946.His children presently live in Australia.

6. Edward Cormack, b. circa 1864, viv NZ 1878, He was killed in the Boer War.

FROM FEROZPORE TO NOWGONG, BUNDLEKUND

CHAPTER 1.

For the last three months we knew we were to march in the coming cold weather; vague and wild rumour was at work as to our destination; and the whole Regiment had an unsettled feel, at least that portion which mostly frequented our chota hazri (little breakfast). On this particular morning, as I sat in the verandah, after my drive, waiting for my husband’s return from parade, I too was busy conjecturing and wondering how we would manage to move, self and three children. – One of them a baby. My husband didn’t count, as he marched with his company and had his horse to carry him. For that matter I had my buggy, but that would not hold us all comfortably, in fact everything was looking very blue, when my husband and three or four of his familiars rode up to the verandah, looking very jubilant, all exclaiming in a breath, “Hurrah! The route has come! We march on the 1st of November for Saugur, and Nowgong, Central India”.

I may here remark (par parenthesis) that, as a rule, Her Majesty’s Officers love any change, even from comfort to the extreme reverse. Here was my poor husband, who had a world of trouble on his shoulders, - he had to dispose of our home, and its belongings, sell our horses and buggy, and buy some conveyance large enough for us, besides tents, etc, etc. even he was wild with delight!

Our doctor, who loved nothing better than wading up to his waist half the day in a jheel (swamp) after game, exclaimed: “Oh Mrs Clifford, only fancy two months shooting through the best part of India, you shall have your pot-au-feu well supplied, and you shall also have that black partridge feather trimming I heard you wish for”. “Well on these conditions, I will give you your tea”, I said. Whereupon our Khansamar, with his attendant sprite the Kitmutgar, appeared with the said tea, poached and buttered eggs and sundry other delicacies, of which chota hazri generally consists. It is a pleasant sociable meal, and is always done ample justice to by the warriors who have been at parade and barrack routine since 5 o’clock. We laughed and chatted till 8 when the sun, which even in October on the plains becomes too strong to be pleasant, drove us in, and the gentlemen off. I had never had such a nice house as the one we were about to leave in Ferozpore, and I looked sadly round my pretty shaded rooms, and dismally thought not of tomorrow but of the 1st of November. I was interrupted by my husband, who came to tell me to make a “list of property for sale”, as is the custom (and a very excellent one it is), in these parts.

Every article of furniture, stock, poultry, everything in fact that you wish to dispose of, is written down with the prices attached, and sent round the station; and ten to one before the week is out, you have sold all your belongings- (though I’ve known some queer things happen “about the bargains” bought from some lists. A confiding purchaser puts down his name opposite, say a chair, table, anything you will, in the full expectation that it is sound. When lo! On delivery of the article the deluded purchaser finds his table or chair standing on perhaps three legs, the fourth being carefully bandaged up by the cunning bearer who broke it long ago. Then follows a correspondence “Mr F. begs to return the table or chair to major L, who he feels sure, was not aware of its condition when he inserted it in his list, etc. etc. If  major L is wise he will pocket Mr F’s letter in silence, and throw the chair at the bearer’s head, and take it out of him in that way. It happened so in our case (that we had disposed of all our household goods), and by the dreaded 1st our pretty home was thoroughly dismantled, the proceeds in my pocket, “against the road” as we say in Ireland; and we in “light marching order”, possessors of a few chairs, a couple of camp tables and carpets, a small dinner service and kitchen utensils, etc. Our wardrobe was stowed away in sundry camel trunks, chests of drawers, and boxes, handy for camel transit. Then came the “big lists “Indents for carriage”, and then also began the grumbling from wives to husbands; the former wanting an extra bullock cart or camel for the conveyance of her poor reduced belongings the husband storming at the heap of rubbish the mem-sahib will take with her. I silenced my lord by showing, vide the indent that I asked for less carriage space than any of the ladies with the same number of bairns as myself. The carriage is expensive;-you pay 5 rupees per mensem for each camel or bullock gharry. The tents and boxes usually go on the camels, the kitchen utensils and a dozen or so of the women and children, the families of servants, travel in the gharries. With the best intentions to economise, your carriage amounts to as much as your house rent in the station. My husband got us a bullock carriage to travel in. The bullocks were a pair of beauties. Milk white, and they came from Neemuch, a place celebrated for “Bhillies”. The carriage was “a cut” between a little omnibus and a bathing machine, on two wheels. Everyone said it was just the thing and very cheap for two hundred rupees.

All our servants were paid up (no joke), where there were 13 or fourteen of these creatures expecting “tallup”, and otherwise made comfortable, with a suit of warm clothes for the march-everything was in readiness.

Everyone was jolly, it seemed, but me: I was truly sorry to leave our station, where we had made many kind friends. And now, began a round of farewell dinners and parties of all sorts, and at last many touching leave takings; and on the morning i.e. about 3 o’clock, of the 1st November, we started on our first march, the Ayah, self, and three children (one of them a baby) in the machine. The children were frightened, and so was I. We seemed to be in the ruck of the march, jolting along amongst camels, elephants, bullock carts, baggage wagons and doolies: confusion of all sorts-all in the dark. The coachman came from Neemuch with the bullocks, and spoke a different language to what ayah and I were accustomed to roar at the servants in. I don’t know, but he either did not, or would not pay the least bit of attention to our repeated cries of khabadar, aste jao (take care go quietly) – spelling not included.

Oh how glad I was when we at last pulled up at our camping ground, and I found myself in our tent. I saw to our amazement our breakfast laid out as neatly and temptingly as in cantonments, the servants in attendance, our baths ready, and everything “ship shape2 or rather “tent shape”. I had never marched before, and could not make out how it was all managed yet. We had a fine camp equipage, two Field Officers’ tents, a single pole Swiss Cottage tent, shoulderies or “tent d’Abris” the latter our bathroom, from which we soon emerged bathed and dressed for the day. I had given no order for breakfast, fancying that it would be impossible to get anything more substantial than tea and bread and butter. Fancy, then, my astonishment to find the usual half dozen nice little hot dishes, which “they say” you require to give you an appetite in India. Before breakfast was over a host of people dropped in to hear, and tell of their adventures of the morning. The most amusing happened to our Colonel’s wife. She was riding at the head of the Regiment with her husband, familiarly called “H.R.H”, (The initials of his name), when her fiery little Arab took fright at something on the road and started off across country at racing speed. It was very dark and poor Mrs H, half numbed with cold, was quite unable to stop her horse. In an instant most of the officers, who were mounted at the time, started in pursuit of the fugitive, when HRH shouted out “Damn you sirs; (he was fond of using strong language in his hot tempered moods), “fall back, don’t follow, “Gezar” you’ll drive him wild, leave him to me”. He cantered into the maidan (field), blew two or three loud notes on a dog call, and as if by magic, as Mrs H afterwards told me, “Gezar” stopped short, and quietly trotted back to the Regiment, in spite of HRH’s black looks, gave 3 hearty cheers for “Gezar” and his fair rider, who was none the worse for her scamper; nor was she aware she had lost any of her dress till the Drum Major, a most pompous individual appeared in front of the party, gravely saluted the Colonel. And presented to him Mrs H’s chignon, which had been carried away in her flight! There was a suppressed titter; no one could help be amused at the scene. Mrs H “shorn of half her bravery”, with her black hair, the Colonel looking like thunder, felt himself obliged to take the thing which he had to examine closely before he could make out what it was, from the stately Drum Major who handed it on the point of his sword. We were laughing at the picture, when the “chick,” at the tent door, was raised and Mrs H, the heroine of the morning, appeared. We were all taken aback. I fancy she saw our embarrassment for she said: “I know you were talking over my adventure, come now, confess, you gentlemen have had that laugh out, which nearly choked some of you this morning”. We made a clean breast of it, and none of us enjoyed the joke more than Mrs H, herself.

After ordering dinner, etc. I went out with my husband to see the camp. It was such a pretty sight: we were camped in a lovely green park, with magnificent topes and avenues of banyan and tamarind trees: the branches of the former bend down , take root and form arch after arch round the giant parent stem. The tamarind trees were full of fruit on which the natives were already making a raid. I suppose all of “Her Majesty’s camps are laid out alike, but to me it was all new; such regular streets, such even squares, would put many a more substantial town to shame. There was not a tent peg out of place; the tents snowy white, each line marked out by a bright red flag. The doctor and his hospital were placed a little apart from the rest of the camp, as well as a travelling bazaar, commissariat etc. We walked about sight seeing, and then visiting. There were eight of us ladies “following the drum”. Each of us were as fresh and merry as if we had not travelled our ten miles that morning.

CHAPTER 2.

We dined early to allow the baggage to leave for the next campground at about 5 o’clock pm. An hour before starting you see strings of camels, bullocks and elephants for the sick, slowly wending their way from the jungle and soon khalassies are hard at work striking their tents. The cook in his cart of kitchen things is sent on to be ready for breakfast next morning. The Quartermaster goes on to lay out the camp; the Surgeon –Major with his hospital: he and his wife and two children travel very comfortably in an open carriage. All the world “turns in” early, so as to be able to rise at “reveille, which is a really trying moment; no forty winks to be had after the inexorable “taps” go. If you don’t jump out of bed, after swallowing a cup of scalding tea (which our ayah presented to us) and start off into the carriage poste haste, you are liable to be smothered in the folds of your tent, which the khalassies have been striking ever since the bugle went.

We had been jogging along for about a week, and I was getting accustomed to the jolting of the machine and the bolting bullocks, when all my confidence in both was seriously damaged. We were nearing the Coffee Shop, a half-way halt. The blazing fire for the boiling cauldrons of tea and coffee frightened the bullocks which made a furious dash forward, and then down they went on their knees-the effect of “Gharrywan” pulling them up too violently. The result was that I, with my baby in my arms, was pitched to the roof of the machine, and cut my eye severely, baby escaped quite unhurt. We were soon got out of the carriage. The Assistant surgeon was disturbed from toasting his buns on the point of his sword at the coffee shop fire to dress my wounds, and I was comfortably ensconced near the blazing fire on a pile of cloaks and rugs, and soon “came to” by the aid of tea and buns. By the way this was the only time I saw swords actively engaged and really useful, when used as toasting-forks. Although I was greatly shaken, I remarked what a picturesque scene we formed. The Regiment over a thousand strong, with, I suppose, quite another thousand souls in the shape of impediment, had halted in a deep ravine; the road had been cut out of rock, which stood up straight on our right with many a cataract dashing down to the river Sutlej, which swept through the flat grassy lands on our left. Two roaring fires, one for the “upper ten” the other at a respectful distance for the soldiers, sent up their fitful light, glancing now on some bright bit of harness, sword or bayonet, or mayhap on a tin “pannikin” from which the men were taking their coffee, and again on jolly bronzed faces of our friends. The sun was thinking of adding “his” glories to the picture, and I was feeling very poetic indeed, and very comfortable when the bugle sounded and my romance vanished into thin air; but not the reality of the rest of the march. I stoutly refused to go into the bullock carriage again, and after a little consultation took possession of a dog cart belonging to my husband’s Sub, who drove the children into camp. I never went into that gharry again. Doctor H was so distressed about my black eye that he put a hospital dooly at our disposal, in which baby and I travelled very snugly for the next three weeks. We found it so trying to the two big boys, rousing them out of their sleep in their tents at three or four o’clock AM, that we put their beds into the bullock carriage and in it they slept close to our heads outside the kanaughts (wings of the tent) their chokra (boy) and the ayah slept under it (the carriage so they seldom awoke till they had reached the end of their morning’s march.


The Mace at the Delhi Durbar.  

On the 1st of December we reached Delhi. A couple of marches from that city we received invitations to two balls, one of the _______th to the Viceroy who was holding Durbar there. The other was from Sindia, in honour of the same personage. Sindia’s ball was to be on the 3rd of December, the other on the 2nd.



Maharaja of Scindia Delhi.



. They were sure to be brilliant affairs, and we ladies were proportionately anxious to go. But how was the difficulty of dress to be got over? We held a council of war on the subject. I was sure my husband would not hear of my box of finery, which was in the very depths of the bullock cart with the other baggage, “not wanted on the march”, being unpacked. Most of the other ladies were equally of opinion that their respective lords would put a “veto” against their black boxes being disturbed. We were in a great fix, when in the midst of our dilemma, Captain S, joined our council, and he volunteered to head a fatigue party, consisting of three or four able bodied ensigns to unpack and pack again our boxes. He actually did this for us. Alas! One poor lady found her “robe de bal” half eaten by white ants. My unfortunate black tulle was a heap of crumples, with trimmings deplorably squashed. However, the amiable Captain S, supplied the latter dilapidation with heaps of lovely pomegranate blossoms, than which nothing can look better on black; and a dhobi ironed out all the creases, so I was all right. Mrs W, to do honour to the occasion actually went to the torture of having her ears pierced, that she might wear an entire “parure” of Agra jewellery, which Captain W, had given her. They were really worth suffering a little for; the set consisted of necklets earrings and broach; medallion paintings on ivory of the different Rajahs and Begums of Delhi, set in beautiful filigree work and strung together by fine gold chains. They were very lovely, and very becoming to handsome Mrs W. We reached the Diwan-i-am where the ball was to be held about 9 o’clock on the eventful night, thus early, that we might see the entrance of the Viceroy. The drive to the Diwan-i-am was in itself a sight never to be forgotten. We passed through a torchlight procession amidst rows of kneeling elephants, dressed in their gorgeous trappings, and myriads of gaily-clad graceful natives; and,  at last, reached the great flight of steps which led up to the hall of Audience. They were handsomely carpeted and guarded on each side by native Infantry and Bengal Cavalry. This particular Regiment prides itself on its horses. - All Arabs of the purest blood; indeed they did look high bred, and so did their riders, grand fellows, principally sheiks, their own dress sets them off to perfection. – a yellow silk “courtee” or blouse, caught in at the waist by a splendid Cashmere cummerbund, scarlet trousers, great jack boots, scarlet and white turban, scimitar and pistols, etc. etc. The officer’s dress is also very handsome, and their helmet, with its steel spike, gives them a very warlike appearance. The English troops looked “small” beside all this oriental splendour. The guard of honour, supplied by H.M. the ____th, waited for His Excellency’s arrival. We reached the Esplanade, after climbing the interminable steps. What a sight as met our view! In the centre of the red sandstone Esplanade glittered a fountain, which sent up, ever and anon, coloured balls and showers of rose leaves; in the basin which received this ideal shower, blossomed water lilies and all sorts of aquacious plants and across the front of the reservoir (or basin) a gilded fairy like bridge was thrown, where the waters of the reservoir divided and dashed in a bright cataract down each side of the steps. Oh! I wish I could describe the bright scene.

We passed into the reception rooms and on to the Throne room, which was converted into a “salle de dance”, its marble floor was decidedly bad for dancing, but its covering of white silk made up in glassiness what it wanted in spring; and the splendid Band of the ______ regiment, made even the Begum of Bhopal look as if she could dance.

By and by, His Excellency’s arrival was announced by a royal salute and fireworks and deafening cheers, and by half a dozen bands striking up the National Anthem. He was accompanied by his brilliant Staff, and was introduced to everyone, then escorted to a raised dais at the top of the Throne room where he received the native magnates. Sindia, the most uncertain he was for reasons of State, particularly gracious to, descending to the foot of the dais to receive him. He, Sindia, is handsome, if you will, but too fat and lazy looking. His dress was wonderful, a courtee of rose satin, stiff with jewels, white silk cummerbund wrought with gold, white Cashmere turban, with an immense aigrette of diamonds and rubies; his scimitar, with its fish head, (the emblem of his house) had jewels everywhere. The other maharajas were all more or less striking. The little shrivelled old Begum of Bhopal was the Lionne of the sight. She is the only Begum who has ever (as yet) appeared in our everyday world; the high class women always remain within the purdah. She is very clever, and manages her estates herself. Lord M. not only descended to the foot of the dais to receive her, but placed her on his right hand. Her major –domo, Colonel T, was in attendance, standing behind her, but she did not seem to require his aid as interpreter. And now the dancing began, and it was fun to see the mute, astonishment of the natives at our nautch. During the evening I chanced to stand in a quadrille nearly opposite the Viceroy. After the dance was over, he sent an officer, whom I knew, to ask if I would allow him to look at a picture of O’Connell which I wore on my neck. I was surprised, and not a little frightened at the request, thinking I might be accused of exaggerated Fenianism, or some equally black crime, for wearing such a picture. However, I unfastened the locket and gave it to the gentleman. His Excellency, after examining it brought it back to me saying “It was a beautiful painting, and very faithful to the likeness of his old friend”. I ventured to say it was the memento I had of my relative.

“Relative,” he said. “May I ask were you an O’Connell? I told him who I was and felt very proud of the kind things he said of my uncle and aunt, whom he knew very well. I felt very much tempted in my gratitude to ask him to keep the miniature of the “Liberator” but somehow, I did not. I might as well have done so as have it stolen two years later by a European nurse. Oh dear how that little medallion was admired during that evening, after H.E. had noticed it. It would seem that Sindia’s aigrette paled in lustre beside my poor little ornament! Those who had seen it a hundred times without noticing were now loud in its praise as “a work of art, etc. etc.

CHAPTER 3

I will not tire my readers with further description of the ball, the gorgeous supper, etc. nor with Sindia’s ball the next night, which was a repetition of this one, only more fireworks, more canon and a nautch which I did not see. I preferred nautching for myself.

Some of our people went to see the Kootab, ten miles from Delhi, we did not go as we were “killing two birds with one stone” viz trying sundry carriages which were for sale, and in them seeing the sights round and about the city. Before night we had bought a comfortable landau with a capital pair of horses. We took on the coachman and grass-cuts we sold our bullocks and gharry, so hoped to do the rest of the march very “comme il faut”. We saw a good deal of the city of the great Moghul, which was built in the seventeenth century, by Emperor Shah Jehan. It is rather less than 6 miles in girth and is enclosed by a machiocolated wall, adorned with a number of gates, some of rare magnificence. We saw some beautiful public gardens and an excellent and interesting museum, “Delhi Institute”, in Chandy Choke. We also paid a daylight visit to the scene of our last night ball, when I saw that the waterfall on each side of the steps had been but a temporary arrangement, for “the bridge was still there, but the waters had gone. We had a grand view of the immense modern city, and the vast extent of the ruins which stretch round on every side. I saw several remarkable books, amongst them an illuminated copy of the Koran, said to be seven hundred years old. These treasures were carefully wrapped in many folds of silk, and securely kept in a large chest redolent of “attar”, and the almost oppressive fragrance of oil of sandalwood. I was particularly struck by the curious blue tiles which roof some old buildings; they look as bright and rich in colour as if just put up. The Jumna Musjid has the reputation of being the finest mosque in India. The camp was besieged all day by vendors of paintings on ivory, silk scarves, jewellery, etc, for which Delhi is famous.

We resumed our march before daybreak on the morning of the 4th, and I felt very grand in my new carriage! The next halt, worthy of notice, occurred at Secundra, where we saw Akbar’s mausoleum. Its historical interest, the size of the building, the magnificence of its architecture and beauty of the carvings, render it well worthy of a visit. The upper story is of white marble, and the remainder, as well as the wall which encloses the gardens and the building are red sandstone. There are many fine trees within the quadrangle, as well as tanks and fountains. Broad paved causeways lead to the mausoleum itself through the massive gates which occupy the centre of each of the four sides. In the vault, below the upper storey, is the plain unadorned tomb, containing the ashes of the mighty Akbar, and on the summit of the mausoleum, an elaborate monument in white marble, beautifully sculptured with Arabic characters, denotes the place beneath which “he” lies. This latter is enclosed by a marble screen of openwork carved in various beautiful designs and executed with marvellous skill. This stupendous mausoleum occupies about three hundred square yards, and its height is close on one hundred feet. Scores of parokits (palocorais torquatus) and turtle doves (turtue tisoria) have taken possession of the gardens, the plaintive notes of the latter literally filling the air during our visit. We got into Agra Saturday, and so we had two whole days to explore its wonders; what luck it was. The Regiment always halts on Sunday, usually a nice quiet day, but this Sabbath none but those unfortunates obliged to stay, remained in camp after divine service. My husband always did “Padre for the Catholics, and either the Colonel or Adjutant for the Church of England men; and a very imposing sight it was, the men drawn up in two lines, “uncovered” with the officer at the head of each line, reading prayers. I don’t know how it was that both parties managed to finish their “orisons” exactly at the same moment, so as to march off with the band, but they always did say Amen together. I had heard so much of the Taj Mahal, that I felt sure I should be disappointed, and like many an unbeliever, “who goes to scoff and stays to pray”, I went.It was built by Shah Jehan in memory of his wife Noor Jehan, “The light of the world,” in 1656. She was said to have been surpassingly lovely, and certainly her mausoleum is surprisingly lovely. It stands inside a quadrangle which measures one thousand and eighty six feet by a thousand, and is enclosed by red sandstone walls, with massive gateways of the same material. The grounds are ornamented with flowers and trees, as well as numerous fountains. An avenue of cypresses lead from the principal entrance to the large terrace, three hundred and thirteen feet square, on which rests the Taj. At the four corners are minarets, one hundred and fifty feet in height, and on each side of the great structure stand beautiful red sandstone mosques, which contrast admirably with the white marble Taj. The shape of the Taj is an irregular octagon; it is surmounted by a dome, supported by four smaller structures of the same kind and decorated with a number of diminutive minarets. The height of the building from the terrace to the gilt crescent at the summit of the dome is about 296 feet says the author of “From Calcutta to the Snowy Range” who adds that it occupies a square (with corners off) of 186 feet. The terrace, minarets and building itself are all of the purest white marble, which is perfectly dazzling in the sunlight. It is superbly inlaid with precious stones, disposed in beautiful designs, and abounds in the most exquisite sculptured work imaginable. A vault beneath contains the tomb of Shah Jehan and Noor Jehan, while the body of the building, enclosed in an octagon oval marble screen, are sarcophagi also of white marble, profusely inlaid with gems. Some doubt exists as to the name of the architect who conceived and executed this glorious work; but it is supposed to be the same illustrious Frenchman Austin Bordeaux, who constructed the Peacock Throne at Delhi, and who the natives call “The wonderful of the age”. It occupied seventeen years in building and cost as far as I can remember the sum our guide told us twenty million rupees; and cheap at the price I should say! I then thought of course- I was very young at the time – and still think, that the man or woman, who has not seen the Taj, has seen nothing! I did not agree with the Italian, who, having seen Naples was content to die. Oh no! I wanted to see if there was anything else worth looking at in Agra, so our party reluctantly turned our backs on the lovely incomparable Taj Mahal. Some of the Regiment went to see it by moonlight; they said it was even more lovely than in the day. One of them gave me the following description of what he saw: “As it grew dark we started from the camp, and by the time we reached the Taj, the moon in her first quarter, was of sufficient brightness to show us the noble outlines of the building, standing out dimly from under the blue sky beyond. Its very indistinctness added a mysterious beauty to the already fairy scene, and as we walked slowly along the solemn avenue of cypresses, which lead to the entrance of the majestic pile, and drank in the perfumed air, heavy with odours of Jessamine, orange and citron, it seemed as if, indeed, we had at last arrived at the realisation of some of the most gorgeous fancies which poets have from time immemorial associated with the orient land. Rich gushing perfume met us at every step.

Many a perfume breathed, From plants that woke while others sleep

From timid Jessamine buds, that keep Their perfume to themselves all day;

But when the sunlight dies away, Let the delicious secret out

To every breeze that roams about

The old bard of Agra “Mogul Khan” woke the famed echoes of the dome with his harp, which is of Irish pattern, and on which he plays admirably, possibly, because I had hoped for too much

After this we lit up the building and beheld it in another phase of its marvellous glory; while the old minstrel added music to complete the enchantment which seemed to reign around us. Finally, about half way down the avenue, we stopped to take another long lingering look at the exterior by the faint light of the moon and stars, and then said a sad farewell to the almost overwhelming beauty of the wondrous Taj”

We went to the fort which is conspicuous from the colour and height of its red sandstone embattled walls. Though in itself, very interesting form its antiquity and beauty, there are within it so many buildings having more attractions for the visitor that we followed in the steps of the usual sight seer, and went at once to the Emperor Palace and the Motee Musjid. The former is of exceeding beauty, is now fast going to decay; not so much from age as from the wanton destruction it has met at human hands. The traveller, as he passes along its chambers must feel great regret to see its walls so mutilated and despoiled of costly precious stones which, in its palmy days, made it one blaze of splendour! Nearly the whole structure is of white marble beautifully sculptured, and much of it executed in open screen work wrought in strikingly rich designs. Several pavilions hang over the river Jumna which flows past the walls beneath; and these carved white balustrades, when seen from the water below, are said to resemble the finest lacework. We next went to a chamber fit only for nereids to bathe in! Its walls are covered with small mirrors disposed in fanciful figures. In the midst of the bathroom stands (or rather I should say), did stand a marble basin so arranged that the water which supplied it passed in a sort of mimic cataract over the arrangement of blazing lamps! The walls are so illuminated and the general effect must have been beautiful. Only fancy what a time the great Moguls had of it, and now sad to see.

That city of delight

In fairly land, where streets and towers

Are made of gems and lights and flowers

All going to decay

From the Palace we went to the Dwan-i-aim or Judgement seat of Akbar, a large hall, chiefly remarkable for its great size. It is now used as an armoury, in which glittering bayonets and sabres are deposited amidst banners and flags, with a taste reflecting great credit on the arranger. We saw the throne of the great Emperor, and the gates of Somnauth taken by Lord Ellenborough in the Afghan campaign. They are large, curiously carved and made of sandal-wood. We saw the Motee Musjid (The Pearl Mosque). This graceful structure, which Mr Bayard Taylor declared to be “absolutely perfect” rests upon a massive red sandstone platform, and consists of a corridor, open on the sides next the entrance, divided into three parts by marble arches, and surmounted by as many domes. The mosque is of white marble, totally without ornament, yet so exquisitely proportioned, and so exceedingly beautiful, that it well merits the eulogium of travellers. It was erected by Shah Jehan in 1656.

CHAPTER 4

After this I shut my eyes and refused to look at any of the commonplace things that surrounded me. I was sated with loveliness and not sorry to resume our march on Tuesday morning. The roads up to this point were very good, and we spun along charmingly. The Colonel was kind enough to allow our soldier-servant to stay behind the Regiment to drive our carriage through the dark. Somehow, I had more confidence in him as “jehu” than I had in Mr “Jut Put”! At the coffee shop we generally picked up the regiment, when a soldier “fell in”, and as it was then about break of day, I was not afraid to be driven by the coachman. We usually got to camp long before the Regiment, and on arrival the quartermaster used to send us a steaming bowl of tea and bread and butter, which kept the children in good humour till breakfast. Our next important halt was on Christmas Day; the men had their usual Christmas dinner supplied by their Captain, and, altogether festivity was the order of the day-and-night

The wonderful stories we heard of gentlemen losing their way home, and getting inextricably entangled in the tent ropes, that they had to resign themselves to their fate, and finish the night amongst the pegs.

We dined at Major H’s, and I entertained a host of children at a 1 o’clock dinner. We got sundry Christmas boxes, the most precious, a model in soapstone of the Taj Mahal. We had up to this travelled over the best roads I ever saw; as smooth as a bowling green and as level. Now the rough work began. We were marching through Sindia’s territory, and were, I believe the first Regiment which had ever passed through unmolested. He had been so Bow towed at the Durbar by Her Majesty’s officers, that he was in good humour and offered no obstruction to the obtaining of supplies, carriage etc, etc. but alas! He could not make roads for us. And the Regiment was more than once plunged in a slough of despond. One morning, I particularly remember we came to the banks of the Chumble and after patiently waiting for our turn we were put on a raft and got across the river. The carriage and horses crossed higher up where it was shallow. But the great difficulty began at the other side where a precipitous bank of yellow clay made slippery as glass by the passing of men and cattle as they strove to gain the summit; it was almost perpendicular, and soon no horse could climb its slippery sides. Or coachman tried to make the horses rush up but they slipped back faster than they had gone up. Everyone was cross, and amongst the crossest was the Colonel and my husband. The former came to me and hoped as blandly as he could, under the exasperating circumstances, that I had got safely over the river, then aside to my husband “damn it Clifford, get that confounded carriage of yours out of the way”. There was, of course but one track which we filled. My poor husband was bewildered, the unfortunate carriage could not be moved out of the way, hemmed in by other vehicles and in front, an impassable hill. I suppose his Company saw his look of despair, for in an instant before the children or I could get down, they had taken out the horses and attached ropes to the vehicle and so pulled us up in royal style. How good those brave jolly men were on a pinch of this kind. They worked that morning like Trojans, and none, from the Colonel down to the drummer boy, once thought of going to the coffee shop, which was at the top of the hill, till every soul was safely landed on the Chumble heights. It was 12 o’clock before the last of the gharries etc were over, and then the men had half the march to camp before them, yet my husband said, not a grumble escaped the poor fellows: they trudged along, sustained by the prospect of their breakfast and dinner rolled into one, and perhaps an extra tot of rum. Another hard day I remember. We had just reached camp, one lovely morning, when the Adjutant rode up poste-haste to say that we had better not unpack, or even cook our breakfast as the colonel had ordered Richard to proceed as soon as the men had had their breakfast, on a forced march to clear the Antry Pass. It was supposed to be almost impassable, yet it was the only road open for the Regiment. Mrs H soon followed the Adjutant to ask us to breakfast with her and the Colonel, and so save the poor servants the trouble, for they had of course to trudge along as well as ourselves. Our horses got an extra feed, and by 11 o’clock AM, we were again on the road, my husband in command of, I don’t know how many tired men, and a party of sappers and miners to cut our way through the rocky ravines which the scout had told us, were almost insurmountable obstacles for foot passengers let alone cumbersome gharries, in which the married men’s families travelled. They are curious conveyances; a long cart (without springs) roofed and thatched with straw, with a door in the side and windows generally curtained. These vehicles hold perhaps a couple of women and a dozen or so children. They are drawn by a pair of bullocks. These were terrible things to get through the pass. For sometime we travelled through low swampy grass lands and at length reached the entrance to the pass, which consisted of a narrow stony defile; so narrow that the greatest care had to be taken so that no carriages were steered exactly in the centre of the track, for if a wheel once came in contact with the beetling rocks it was almost impossible to extricate it; as it was, one unlucky garry stuck. It could only be got out with the loss of its wheel. At the other side of this crabb place we found the Quartermaster and his family, with all the commissariat arrangements at a standstill. He could not get them up the steep hill which was in front. It really was a frightful looking place! Fancy a rough road cut straight out of the side of a rocky mountain, with flights of stone steps for carts and carriages of all sorts to get up, with here and there a terrace or plateau to rest on! This road was very narrow, and one side yawned a steep ravine with a roaring river below. No wonder my husband sounded “the halt” and let the men rest for an hour, having their dinners, in order to recruit their strength for the work that was before them. The natives are wretched creatures where anything like physical force is required of them, and were worse than useless for helping up the baggage; besides they had enough to do to look after their bullocks, elephants, camels etc, and so the poor soldiers had plenty on their hands. They had to pull, propel and use all their cunning to keep the garry which had gained a few yards of ascent from running backwards, or perhaps falling over the cliff; while the officers were here there and everywhere ordering shouting and occasionally using their whips or the flats of their swords on the lazy natives. As for the children and myself, we had a comfortable dinner with the quartermaster’s people, and quietly waited till the ascent was a little clear, when we all walked up the hill, the carriage getting on as it could. By this time I had learned to have limited confidence in the coachman who steered, and the grass cuts ran at each side of the horses’ heads as they scrambled up like cats. My husband got great kudos for the way he brought the baggage through; not an accident, except for the loss of one wheel. Those who were not too tired to take in anything “but grog” when they reached the summit had their reward in the glorious view of the sweeping plains at our feet, stretching away as far as the eye could reach; and best of all, a near view of our camping ground which we soon reached- a weary party thoroughly tired out. Here again the men had to put their shoulders to the wheel and help up the tents. It is marvellous how quickly it is accomplished and how soon the howling wilderness is changed into a bustling canvas town; everyone in his place, everyone at work, except the mem sahibs, who really have nothing to do but look on.

In time we reached Jhansi, where the Regiment was to divide. The Head quarters to branch off to Saugur and the left wing under my husband’s control to proceed to Nowgong. One of the officers of the Regiment had done marvels of bravery at Jhansi Fort during the Mutiny, so it was an object of great interest of ours and major C, fought his battles o’er again acting as cicerone to his brother officers.

A halt of two or three days- such a busy time for my husband, having his little band properly handed over to him. At last we started, me – only lady, my husband, his adjutant, two Subs, and a doctor. (The one who had promised and right royally kept his word to supply my pot au feu – not forgetting the feather trimming). Such Perigord pies as we used to rejoice in, game of all sorts became monotonous as toujour Perdis. At our table viz: hares, nilghai, blue rock pigeon, black partridges, quail, boar’s heads, venison, wild duck – all sorts of good things! My husband’s wing got on gallantly – a right merry little party. By this time we never thought of such luxury as a road, we went right across country. One morning Mr AB H, was riding beside my carriage, we were making the most of a good level, and he was cantering along when on a sudden, he all but disappeared into a well, which was partially covered with bushes. The horse’s hind legs went in. How he managed to get them up again was a marvel. Everyone who knows India will remember what nasty things these wells are; generally flush with the ground, with no protection to hinder the unwary from walking into them. They are awfully deep. I remember in Lucknow, there was one such in our compound into which the dhobi’s wife, who was in the act of fighting with her “caro sposo” accidentally, fell. Fortunately she went in feet foremost, and arrived at the bottom, standing and unhurt. I believe the husband had some intentions of leaving her there, until my husband attracted by the row and splash, went out and made the irate dhobi get into a basket and had him hurried down to rescue his Ophelia. It was droll to see the dripping pair ascend, clasping each other in the frail car! It proved a nuisance to the Bhisti (water carrier), however, for we could not relish the water from that well for a long time, and he had to go a distance for it.

On the twelfth day we halted in a lovely part of the country, in a tope of magnificent trees. Our doctor went out to shoot, intending to have a fine haunch of venison for the twelfth day dinner. I was to dine at mess on that day occasion. Being the only lady in camp they would not let me dine alone, as they made it a point that the Commanding Officer (my husband) should dine at Mess in honour of the day. So the doctor went out to shoot, but instead of a black buck, he wounded a gentle Hindu and came home followed by irate natives carrying the girl with them, all vowing vengeance against the Doctor Sahib. He examined the wound, which was a mere trifle, and pacified the clamorous crowd with a few rupees. The poor doctor, who was the most humane man, was greatly put out on account of the mischance, and because there was a rumour amongst the servants that we had not seen the last of the girl’s family, that they would return and worry in hopes of extracting more rupees. However festivities of the evening were not interrupted and the dinner was excellent, without haunch and pasty and long after I had retired I could hear their merry songs. Our tent was close to that of the Mess, and by and by the doctor’s spirits returned to judge by the zest with which he proclaimed in the words of Dibdin.

“This day a stag must die”.

Ah dear, I have echoes of those, and a thousand other merry, happy days before me, as I write in dreary days too bright to last – days when my husband was the life and darling of his Regiment, and when as the old Irish saying is “we lived every day of our lives”.

But I must not grumble although the climate is enough to put a damper on the brightest spirits. Our march was nearly over; we had but one exceedingly bad river to cross, and hie for Nowgong, Bundlekund, Central India. It was a bad ford full of stones and holes. Baby and I were put into a Dooley placed on the bearer’ heads, so stemmed the torrent safely. My biggest boy insisted on mounting on a soldier’s back to cross. Judge of my horror to see both the man and the boy disappear under water, my boy clinging to him like grim death. They were up, however, in a minute or two neither of them worse for their ducking. It was terrible work to get the married Hackeries as they were called, over the ford. Bullocks beat mules by chalks in obstinacy, and as a rule, go to the left where their drivers mean to lead them to the right. Imagine then, what a task it was to keep them clear of holes and boulders; the hackeries were such top heavy things that they were liable to upset and if they went on their side that had the door, the occupants were in danger of being smothered before they could be got out. So the men waded up to their waists to keep them straight.

At our halt at Doolia, two marches from Nowgong, the Rajah came in great state to salaam and invited the detachment to a wild boar hunt, and a very exciting affair it was. The Rajah sent me the head; he further sent his Band (a ragamuffin lot) to play us out of his territory. The day after the Band of the 77th played us into Nowgong, and my first march was at an end.

I was very sorry, and felt all the cares of civilized life began to thicken around me. The march was like a long sea voyage, when you have few cares beyond hoping for fair weather. Now we had to look for a house, furniture etc. My Nowgong experiences I will reserve for a future occasion; in concluding this, I pray my readers (if any), to excuse the thousand and one faults they will find in my poor attempt to describe incidents of the march, but hope that I have made it evident that the march is a much more pleasant mode of travelling through India than the railway.

THE END

 


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IJanuary 4 2006

Chris Duff, from snowy Canada.

 am beholden to Larry Brown for pointing me in the direction of your site, and to you for inviting me to use this forum to help me in my researches of the Hallifax family.

 
It was only recently that I became aware that my step-father, Richard Hilliard Hallifax, was descended from a tea planter.  In the short time I've been using the Internet to find out more, I've learned that the Hallifax family came originally from Tiverton, Devon.  The first account I have of my step-father's grandfather Benjamin Wilson Hallifax is his marriage in 1860 to Mary Anne Cox (1837- ? ) in West Bengal.  The 1881 U.K. Census shows Mary Anne was born in Tiverton, but I think she may have been born in India.  They had eight sons and a daughter, all born in Darjeeling:
 
ohn Robert we know not of.
Charles Joseph returned to India, joined the ICS in Punjab and worked is way up to Financial Commissioner.  Died 1946 in Surrey, England
Arthur George returned to India, joined the ICS in Bengal and became a District Majistrate.  Married Eleanor Lewis Jenkins.  Died 1920, somewhere.
Frederick we know not of.
Henry Francis returned to India, joined the ICS in Central Provinces.  Became Judge of the Chief Court.  Lt. in Gurkha Rifles 1915-17.  Chief Court, Central Provinces 1920.  Married Grace Doyle 1893.  Died in Sussex 1934.
Edwin Richard joined the Foreign Service in Hong Kong 1897.  Had illustrious career, becoming Secretary of Chinese Affairs.  Married Eveline Wilson 1906.  Died in England 1950.
Herbert Witten returned to India, mining manganese in Central Provinces 1901-03.  Executive Engineer, Kanahan Div., Kamptee.  Lt. Royal Engineers WW1. Died 1942, somewhere.
 
The above obviously is a shortened version of what is known of some of the children of Benjamin Wilson Hallifax.  Benjamin married in 1860, so he would have gone out to India earlier and obtained employment.  Larry Brown thinks there is an Assam connection.
 
I would be really pleased if some of you amateur historians out there could fill in some of the gaps, particularly relating to the family's tea-planting whereabouts and any background information regarding Benjamin Wilson Hallifax and his wife Mary Anne Cox.  Also, any information on the sons who returned to India and the daughter who stayed.
 
I trust it's not too late to wish you all a Happy New Year!
 
Regards
Chris Duff, from snowy Canada.

 

Below is a thumbnail sketch of Rob Andrew who kindly shared his reminiscences with us of his recent trip to India and Nepal--Thank you Rob

 

Rob Andrew joined Tea in August 1954 aged 19 as an Assistant Manager
on Satali TE Worked in Dooars and Terai and got his first billet as Manager of Satali in 1961 to 1966. Spent some time in Doom Dooma then returned to Teraiin 1967 then to H.O Calcutta in 1969 Retired in late '70 to UK Joined IBM Jan '71, transferred to Lexmark 1991 and finally retired after five years as a consultant in Sept 1999. Moved from Norfolk to Cheshire in 1987.

 March 11 2005

 RETURN TO  INDIA &   NEPAL  NOVEMBER 2004

Rob (Bob) & Jill Andrew

We had threatened to go back many times during our trips
to Singapore & Perth (our eldest son worked in   Singapore
for five years, and my brother-in-law and family have lived    in 
WA for many years). Rev John Webster a good friend,
whom many planters will remember, ( Chaplain and farm
manager at Dr Graham’s Homes in Kalimpong and Scots
Minister for the Dooars) had kept in touch with us over the
years raising thousands for the Homes by running some 60
marathons and he suggested we may like to join one of his
groups he takes to India every year. 
We met up at Heathrow on 9th Nov 2004. There were nineteen
of us in the group, ages ranging from 30+ to 80+. The outward  
flight on BA was uneventful and we arrived at the new Kolkata 
International  Airport  (great improvement on the old Dum Dum!)
early on the 10th. The Lytton Hotel was unrecognisable - smart marble
fronted entrance to reception desk, fully computerised,
super rooms. It must have been completely rebuilt. Nice
dining room, excellent food, bar etc. The only thing I
remembered was the grottiness of   Sudder Street  which is
exactly the same! 

We did a tour of Kolkata (can’t get used to this name so
will refer to it as Calcutta  !) The first big difference is the increased population and traffic, the yellow/black Ambassador cabs are 
now joined by all yellow ones which are from out of town. Also 
many other makes of cars including Mercs and BMW’s ! The pavements 
are covered with “tirpals” to house small stalls selling an assortment 
of food and fruit.  We drove down Chowringhee, where a flyover is being 
built, past the new Metro entrances,(you can get out to Tolly on it!), 
across the Maidan which looks smaller with structures along the edge. Victoria Memorial & St Pauls remain the same of course. Past Govt  
House and up Netaji Subhas Road past McLeod House/  Davenports 
(where I worked when I returned from Tirrihannah T E to the H/O in 69/70) the GPO,   Writers  Building still the same after all these years. All very busy. The Scots Kirk (that was) barely recognisable in the congestion. The   Newmarket  is unchanged, busy and chaotic as ever. One of the “tokri wallahs” (now elderly like me) said he recognised me after almost 34 years !  As I am still fluent in Hindustani it was interesting to chat with him which caused a bit of amusement as tourists don’t normally “bollo the baat”.

The second day we travelled by a/c coach to a Bengali village, the home of Monomoy Banerjee, the ex headmaster of Dr G’s Homes. Most interesting, and not normally visited by tourists.  
We had a picnic supplied by Joanne & Eddie Augustine, the couple who run the Kalimpong Homes Birkmyre Hostel (for Homes boys aged 16+), in   Cal
 
 
. 12th Nov.The early morning
flight to  Kathmandu reminded me of the many trips out to Jamair
at this ungodly hour past the hundreds of sleeping “admies” ! 
Kathmandu , Nirvana Hotel in Thamel is really superb and an oasis in the middle of the city. Lovely rooms with balcony overlooking the neatly kept garden. Again the food was excellent.  Kathmandu is a fascinating place, provided you know that you have a super hotel to return to. We did  Durbar Square  and the Palace, also passed a new building recently wrecked by Maoists. Sadly the shopkeepers are all suffering from the lack of tourists as a result of recent troubles and since we were there the situation has worsened.  The Nepalis are such a cheerful race and so welcoming I hope the situation soon improves.
 
13th Nov. Several of us did the one hour  Everest flight on a Yeti Airlines small plane – absolutely breathtaking. Very clear morning. We flew along the  Himalaya and then back the same way so that everyone had a good view of the mountains. One of the highlights of the trip.
 
 14th Nov. The party split, with one lot flying to Lakla to do the trek to Namchi Bazaar and our group travelled by minibus up to Bhandipur Mountain Resort. Sadly at this juncture I collapsed (a reaction to the Chloroquin anti-malaria drug as it turned out !) and had to be brought back rather rapidly down the circuitous mountain road in a minibus accompanied by Jill and a local doctor, to be checked out and subsequently installed in hospital for tests etc.! Jill tells me (as I was non compos mentis) the journey was quite eventful with the driver picking up a few of his pals en route, and then passing back small black plastic bags to these unfortunates who were all travel sick ! 
Anyway, to cut a long story short the CWEC Clinic Travel Medical Centre & Hospital in K’mandu where I underwent all the necessary tests (EEG,ECG, Cat scan) were superb and I was treated like royalty (possibly the wrong analogy to use in Nepal!). Fell madly in love with the nurses and have subsequently emailed them and the Doctors concerned to thank them for the very thorough treatment I received. (Everyone has an email address even the small “dookans”and most people carry mobile phones now ! 

This slight hiccough meant that Jill and I missed the two day safari visit to Chitwan Game Sanctuary, but this in no way spoilt the rest of the holiday - apart from a few anxious moments for Jill – and as I was put on a drug which meant “meta pani” for the rest of the trip !  
19th Nov. We flew to the Eastern border (Bhadrapur) and after a lengthy delay with military check points on bothsides we eventually arrived in
Siliguri. I had planned to takeour small party to Tirrihannah TE (my last billet) but sadly as we were so late I had to contact the Manager Mr Oberoiand give our apologies!  We travelled along the  Teesta   Valley  to Kalimpong in the dark and arrived at the Himalyan Hotel by early evening.
 Tim Macdonald (grandson of David  Macdonald whose family home this was in the early 1900’s) met us.
What a beautiful hotel - exactly as I’d remembered it during my visits to K’pong 35 years before. We spent three nights there. It was delightful; we would definitely like to go back there one day.  Next morning when we drew the curtains Kanchenjunga the 3rd highest mountain in the world, was
a sight to enjoy.Needless to say the food and service was again absolutely superb.

20th Nov. We drove up to Dr Graham’s Homes and I was aware of how Kalimpong had changed – very congested traffic, lots of new buildings. The Homes are situated above Kalimpong which (for those who don’t know it, was a hill station in the days of the raj, some two hours plus by road from Darjeeling. It was the centre of  India ’s wool trade with   Tibet  before the Chinese take-over. In the 1950’s mule trains would wend their way down from the Tibetan plateau. I can well remember the tall traders in their colourful national dress wearing large hats and fancy boots and usually carrying wads of rupees. On one occasion I recall a trader buying a handful of very expensive watches to take back to  Tibet  .)

 Dr John Anderson Graham of Kalimpong originally started a school, a home for orphaned Anglo-Indian children in 1900.  It is quite unlike any other school. Beautifully situated above The town,  spread over some 500 acres  with the school as its hub, the Homes has various departments – a workshop, farm, clothing, bakery, central kitchen, hospital, looking after the needs of some 1400 students in all including day pupils.

Richard Monteiro the Headmaster, and his wife Sharon gave us a conducted tour of this very special boarding school with Its seven cottages for girls and nine for boys. Each cottage houses 45-50 students looked after by house parents. The pupils are encouraged to take part in all cottage chores.

We met many of the children (Tibetan, Bhutanese, Nepali, Bengali Sikkimese,  and Anglo Indian) all in smart uniform, very well behaved smiling and polite. We attended assembly where John Webster addressed the school and distributed prizes. We were presented with “khada” scarves at every opportunity on our tour. The situation is ideal, with large playing areas, swimming pool etc.  The school offers an excellent education with a varied curriculum, and six second languages Hindi, Bengali, Nepali, Tibetan, Dzongkha and Khasi.

 We learnt that it costs only about £650 per pupil per year, totalling over £800,000 and the majority of this is raised by  voluntary donation and fund raising (25%) by the UK Committee. We met many of the school staff and farm workers. It was a wonderful experience and many of our group who don’t already do so have been moved to give financial help to this worthy cause or by sponsoring  a child. 

21st Nov. We drove up to Doelo Hill above the school to take In the view of  Kanchenjunga and the surrounding hills. Then back to the school for lunch with Richard & Sharon.

  22nd Nov. On our way back to Siliguri we attended a concert at The Gandhi Ashram school run by Father Ed McGuire an Irish/Canadian, where children from poor families are taught among other things to play musical instruments, mainly the violin. The recital they gave was a most moving and memorable experience. We then wound our way back down the lovely Teesta Valley (with the groups of monkeys by the roadside) to New Jalpaiguri Station (formerly Siliguri), again all very different, to catch the overnight train to Calcutta.

The “paan, biri, cigarette” vendors on the platforms have been replaced by magazine and food stalls offering all sorts of goodies for the traveller. Sealdah Station was, as I remember it, VERY busy as was the   Howrah  Bridge  en route to the Lytton.  23rd Nov. We went on a river cruise on the
Ganges/Hoogley past the “burning ghats” and the derelict palatial houses that once housed the “jute wallahs” mostly from  Dundee
if I remember correctly ?! This was an excellent day out and very seldom included in a normal tourist itinerary. Again a very tasty picnic was supplied on board by Joanne and Eddie. After a final dinner at the Lytton we departed next morning For the airport and home. Without doubt a very memorable trip and all thanks to Rev John Webster.

Rob Andrew  March 2005

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