In Fall 1971, I decided with my friend Liz, from the UK, that we should visit India. Neither of us had been before, so a trip was planned, going around the country anti-clockwise, thus starting in New Delhi and ending in Calcutta. All the way down one side, across the bottom and up the other, with a quick side-trip to Nepal at the end. It was all a wonderful revelation to us and we were in love with India immediately.
We ignored the then current political problems between India and Pakistan, as they had been rumbling for months and looked like they would just continue forever. We were not to be put off.
The trip ran like clockwork until the last few days. Our plan was to visit Calcutta last and then do a quick trip up to Nepal and return to Calcutta for a night and then back to London for Liz and NY for me.
We had arrived in Calcutta already feeling like old India hands and took the Indian Airlines bus to somewhere in the city. First problem: taxis on strike. A lot of Indian head bobbing. “No taxi, sahib.. Taxi wallah on strike. You taking rickshaw. Very safe, Sahib. Me fixing”. Our hotel was too far to walk, so the solution was the genuine rickshaw wallah, who literally ran, barefooted between the shafts, with you sitting up high on the back. They were all small, wiry guys, in ragged shirts and dhotis, the cotton wrap around that all the Indian wore then. As we each had a suitcase, even the toughest could not fit the two of us plus bags in to one rickshaw, so we each had a private transfer. The guys just shot off in opposite directions, yelling and grinning to each other and it looked like we would never be seen again.
We were. It was at a hotel selected at random from my trusty ‘Arther Frommer: India on 5 and 10 Dollars a Day’ – honest. And we had hit upon one of the most unique watering holes a traveler could ever have fantasies about. The Fairlawn Hotel, 13A Sudder St, Calcutta. I think it was the ‘A’ that intrigued me. Was there a 13B next door?
This grand building dated from 1783 and had been passed down the lines of British colonial Indians and was now run by Major Ted Smith, late Northamptonshire Fusiliers and his powerful wife, Violet. We had unwittingly discovered the Indian version of Fawlty Towers! They ran everything and were never out of sight, especially her. She had ‘Management’ written all over her and had a helmet of strongly enhanced dark hair, with enough hair spray to keep it in place for ever. We later fantasized about just how many cans of spray she went through in a week and if Calcutta is now found to have a mysteriously extra large hole in the ozone layer, we can point out just why. The staff also all seemed to have been there for ever, no one looked under 45 and I discovered that one mature looking ‘boy’ was still on approval.
You entered through heavy metal gates, with a guard of course, who had a large stick and there was a short sort of driveway, much festooned with lined up potted plants, many of which looked in extremis. The sorts of tall straggling plants, with three leaves hanging on grimly, that most people would have given up on, had found an abode here. Perhaps we had stumbled upon a Home for Aged Plants? (In Sri Lanka, years later, I came across a ‘Home for Aged Cattle’). It was also possible the plants may have been having severe reactions to paint, as you soon realized that anything in this building that was not going to be moved, was painted, mainly a rather bilious green. (Later I spotted a small man, paint can and brush in hand, squatting down touching up a couple of pots… I’m sure it was a full time job).
Mrs Smith was in place to welcome us and stood over the poor man who wrote our names into the huge ledger (straight out of Dickens) and we were informed of the RULES. These mainly concerned eating and drinking, as we were on full board (I doubt if there was any other option) and so we were instructed to listen for the gong which would summon us to a communal dining table. For breakfast we had a little leeway, but at night, it would be bashed at precisely 7pm and we had 10 minutes to show up, or we would be FINED! We were both so traumatized by this information that we dared not ask just what the fine would be? You had to love this place! Only Manuel was missing.
Downstairs was quite open plan, as Calcutta weather is always warm, so the reception desk was tucked away under a grand and very polished teak staircase, which many household names had padded up and down, with signed film star pictures, in black and white of course, on the walls to prove it. The jungle from outside was doing its best to creep in and I am sure there was a gardener whose sole job was to fight back the bougainvillea and ivy and other tropical plants that were invading, 24 hours a day. There was practically no more space on any walls for more photographs and prints. It was like being in the house of some batty aunt, who lived surrounded by memories and nothing could ever be thrown away.
There was a sort of open-ended lounge complete with very uncomfortable and old rattan chairs, all of which were held together by generations of the infamous green paint. I lived in slight terror that perhaps one would just collapse when I sat in it and the wrath of Mrs Smith would come down upon me, greatly. We needed to keep her on our good side, as you will find out later on.
For reading pleasure, The Fairlawn had huge bound copies of British second world wartime newspapers. The lower end of the market too, so not The Times, but the Daily Mirror, which provided hours of wonderful perusing.
The bedrooms were upstairs and of course were chintz on a severe overdose of drugs. We were in a sort of rose garden dream fantasy and it was spinning out of control. Now I knew what it was like to be a bug sitting in the middle of a heavily flowering rose bush, but the place smelled slightly of mothballs. The family photo theme continued in to the bedrooms and also period books mainly from the 1920-40’s were piled up. Liz discovered with great amusement that there was a textbook from Bedford High School for Girls, which she had attended and there were dates inside it from which she worked out the original owner, probably a Smith daughter, had been there a couple of years before her. Now that is REALLY making you feel at home.
We kept our ears open for THE GONG, in great trepidation in case we did not hear it. We DID. It was a mobile gong and bashed roundly by one of the staff, walking around, so all the residents shot down the stairs and I expected to have to show I had washed my hands. The maitre d’ wore the most imposing and very colorful turban we had ever seen, including a strongly starched quiff appearing from off-center, that made him look 7 feet tall. His rule in the dining room was clearly absolute and not only were the staff intimidated, so were the guests. He and all the waiters wore white gloves. Nobody said anything. It was rather like being in church, with food.
There were about a dozen of us around the table, some of whom were clearly permanent residents. I felt perhaps we had been brought in to the amuse them. The food was British boarding school at its almost worst and caused us great mirth as we felt we had been there and done that and now it was chasing us. We had some watery soup, provenance unknown, fried fish with soggy chips and cooked fruit, which had been so thoroughly overcooked it was a mush and served with the world’s weakest custard, which appeared to have been made with 50% water replacing half of the milk. Then the bizarrest thing happened. As a complete throwback to Victorian days, rather than being offered cheese, we were presented with a hot savory. Small triangles of toasted bread and cheese… a sort of Welsh rarebit to end with. There was a young Russian couple at the table who took one look and bolted.
One of the permanent residents was a little sparrow of a Brit lady. She was minute and never seen without an equally old and bedraggled dog under one arm. She appeared to live in a sort of shed at the end of the driveway (I am NOT making this up!) and only came out for meals. She had a tiny, high pitched, quavery and very posh voice and I tried to find out more. The one big statement was: “I came out to India in 1924 to marry. I had never left England before and I have never returned”. Clearly, she had been part of what was referred to back than as The Fishing Fleet. Young ladies, usually from middle and upper class families with too many daughters to feed. Don’t forget WW1 had shrunk the eligible male population considerably, so these girls, sometimes just in their teens, were packed off to India to pick up suitable husbands. 1924 would have fitted perfectly, as India was under the total military and civilian control of the British, thus there was an inexhaustible supply of suitable very single and sexually frustrated ‘chaps’ just waiting to get hitched. There is a great book actually called ‘The Fishing Fleet’ by Anne de Courcy, which is full of amazing stories as to just how well that system kept everyone happy. It is a fun read. Some of these ‘gals’ did not even wait until they reached India, which most of them knew virtually nothing about. The voyage was long and they moved in, at sea, on young men returning from ‘home leave’ and pounced on them. So much for chaste and retiring polite British young ladies.
As we had two nights in Calcutta, after doing the ritual city sightseeing, like the enormous Victorian iron railway station, where hundreds of thousands transited through every day, and which I could have hung around in for many days, we also walked across the magnificent Howrah Bridge, a total relic of Imperial power and might, complete with enormous steam locomotives raining soot down upon us. We rested our tired feet reading the newspapers of 1943, when we were both born and generally admired all the ‘stuff’ that was lying around. It was like living in a small family museum.
Mrs Smith was interrogated by Liz re the Bedford school books and I think we went up in her estimation. As we were now going to Kathmandu for three days and returning at the end of the week, she was positively beaming, ready to welcome us back.
Which she did. Though there was now a major problem. We were genuinely at war and arrived back in the early evening to find a blackout. If you think Calcutta is crowded and confusing enough by day, you should try getting around at night, in darkness, without any light. Happily the taxi drivers had ended their strike and somehow, we made it back to The Fairlawn and had to work out What To Do. As were both airline employees, we were traveling on space available, subject to load tickets. This is not a good idea in wartime and being very far from home too. We knew we had to get across the country to Bombay and decided that we would break all the rules and actually BUY tickets to get us that far. We were getting low on funds (this was way before credit cards) but desperate measures needed to be taken. Next day, Indian Airlines, the domestic carrier, was happy to sell us a ticket in two day’s time. Much head bobbing as ‘all flights are full due to war” so on a Saturday morning we had nicely hand written tickets for Monday morning, but of course we could go to the airport and go on standby (which was our usual m.o., so nothing new for us). Next morning we bade Mrs Smith a hopeful farewell and went to the airport.
Long story short, we were accepted for a flight and boarding passes in hand, which of course were all hand written, were sitting at the gate. No one had invented security yet. Seated there, we watched our elegant Indian Airlines Caravelle (my then favorite jet plane, made in France) come in and turn on the stand. We also observed many people running around with the aircraft as it turned, pointing at the nose. When it came in to view, we saw why. There was a large hole in the nose. This was not a good thing and I knew immediately this plane is not going anywhere; sometimes it is a good thing to have a foot in that business. Turns out that it was not a nasty Pakistani, but a large bird had collided with it just before landing. There are many vultures in India, freeloading on hot air coming up… they don’t even need to flap their wings much but just ride the hot air waves.
Fortunately, we fast remembered, we still had reservations on the flight next morning, so we rushed over to the Indian Airlines ticketing desk and reconfirmed our seats like crazy, promising come what may, we shall be here. And then we went back to Mrs Smith.
We were scraping the change out of the bottom of backpacks by then. She didn’t seem to find this a problem, so later we sat out in the dark and balmy night air and tried to make plans. Somehow a bottle of Scotch turned up (technically the hotel was dry) and she tucked in and so did we. The little old lady was seen tottering off to her shed and I tried to find out just what the story was, but Mrs Smith would not tell. Of course, I could have invented many scenarios on that theme and it was frustrating not to know just what had gone wrong.
Next morning, waving what we hoped to be a real final farewell to Mrs Smith and some of the staff too, we returned to the airport and checked in and were speedily on board a B737 and off we set for Bombay. What I noticed within minutes of taking off, was that we were not going west and climbing, as we would do on any flight. The aircraft appeared to be twisting around, flying anywhere but up, up and away and not gaining any altitude. I suddenly got the feeling that we were being chased by a Pakistani fighter and this was evasive action. It went on for about 20 mins and I had gotten to the state of “Shoot us down and get it over with…” And then we climbed as per normal. My old mate Captain Speaking came on and explained that we had had to keep low, as there was military activity above us. That was nice to know!
So we landed in Bombay and managed to get from the domestic terminal to the international one and what a sight met us. It was packed with foreigners and many Indians too, all refugees from several days of cancelled international flights. Practically all the major carriers that went through BOM had pulled out, so there were all these people with real tickets, worth thousands of dollars and then there was us, space available on Air India. By Indian aviation standards, the lowest of the low. It looked very grim.
I did manage to talk to a very sweet young lady from AI, who was so professional. She could have told me politely, of course, to get lost, but she did volunteer that they had planned one departure to London in the early evening and possibly another at midnight. That was as much as she knew, except to add that they were both very fully booked. We stood by for the first flight, as you must always try, but of course with no luck. We went back to sitting on hard seats and swatting mosquitoes. Many of the ‘real’ passengers managed either to find flights on other carriers or just gave up and went to hotels or home. We had virtually no money for that sort of luxury.
And then our luck changed. The midnight flight was planned to route from Bombay via Delhi and Moscow and Paris to London. It was just a B707, so not too many seats to play with. It did not look good, but the bulk of the passengers were joining in Delhi. The departure time came and went and finally they made an announcement that due to military activity in the Delhi area, it would not be stopping there and it would fly straight to Moscow, thus anyone who wants to go could be accommodated. Phew. In fact the aircraft was half empty and about 9 hours later, we landed in the bleak early morning snow of Moscow and the whole plane erupted with cheers. We were then entertained by the gloomy looking women who came on board to clean us up. The comparison between the exquisitely elegant Indian flight attendants in gorgeous saris and the heavy looking and drearily clad babushkas was so evident that we all started to laugh… sheer nervous tension and even the babushkas joined in, metal teeth and all. Onwards we went, to Paris and finally the 45 mins hop across the English Channel. There were only about 30 of us left by now.
But, again, I got that sensation that we are not going forwards but around in circles. The English coastline came in to view and then 15 mins later came back into view. What was up? What was up was fog in London. End result was that we were not returning to Paris, as by now, that was fogged in also, so we would land in Amsterdam. I think we may be in the GBofR’s for the longest nonstop flight from Paris to Amsterdam as we landed there approximately two and a half hours after we took off from Paris.
There the lovely, organized and friendly Dutch took over. I think they saw us as refugees from a war and were expecting casualties with bleeding wounds and suppurating bandages and instead we were all very healthy and happy. They marched us off as a group through the building, we did not touch immigration and were put on a bus and within 45 minutes of landing we were in a super clean, efficient Dutch airport hotel. Liz and I did wonder how some of the more local looking Indian passengers would cope, but we were so exhausted that our eyes were soon closed.
As I had a free Pan Am ticket from London to JFK, I wondered if I could just use it from AMS to JFK, so I called Pan Am and they said yes, so I bade Liz farewell. The Air India crew would be rested and they would continue later. I ran back to the airport and was soon airborne on a lovely empty PA B707. Our India saga was over.
As a footnote, I did manage to return to The Fairlawn Hotel many years later with my good mate Carolyn. We were going to Dhaka, but that is another story. The hotel was still there, in all its glory. It just had a lot more paint. And it is still in business in 2021, so Google it and hit the Expedia link and there is a mass of pictures, green paint and all.
timothyvalentinestravels 