Arriving at Victoria Station by the ubiquitous Ambassador taxi, we were immediately surrounded by porters in blue and red uniforms with large brass badges with a number punched on them that looked like Rowntree Coco tin lids but were, in fact, their official porter badges to distinguish them from touts acting as unofficial porters.

I chose one and showed him our ticket. He then hoisted and balanced a heavy suitcase on his head and, with two other holdalls, one in each hand, shouted the platform number and was off at a trot through the dense crowds. Struggling to keep up through the throng of people, I saw my suitcase bobbing above the heads of the crowds of passengers. It was getting further and further away. Arriving at the platform, we found a new-looking electric engine and a long train of carriages. The porter was sitting on the suitcase waiting for us. He showed us on board, stowed the luggage, took his payment – including a tip – and was off at a trot to find more work. 

The four-berth air-conditioned sleeper compartment was nice and cool after the heat outside. There was already a young man sitting in the compartment. He was reading a book. I said hello, and he nodded and thereafter spoke little for the whole journey, although when he did, his English was perfect. About ten minutes later, an elderly lady joined us. There were still 40 minutes before our departure time. A steward arrived and asked if we would like tea. A short while later, individual trays with delicious tea were served in teapots, accompanied by strainers, additional hot water, milk and lemon. Offering to pay, the steward said that the bill would be presented at the end of our journey.

After lots of whistling, shouting and slamming of doors, we eventually pulled out of the station at 16.00

After the trays had been cleared, the elderly lady asked if we would mind turning in; because she had had a long day and was tired. The three of us agreed. The young man and I pulled down the overhead beds we would use and folded down the seats, which converted to beds that the ladies would use. When everything was ready, the young man and I went to stand in the corridor whilst the ladies undressed, then we returned, undressed and got up to the overhead beds whilst the ladies faced the walls. Each bed had a reading light, but within half an hour, we were all in the dark and fast asleep, although I occasionally awoke when the train stopped at brilliantly lit stations throughout the night. 

At 06.30 the steward woke us all and said breakfast would be served at 07.30 from a menu we had ordered from the previous evening. We rose and dressed in the reverse order of the night before and then queued for the toilet facilities – the toilets being the only less than salubrious part of the journey.

The steward collected our blankets and pillows, then served breakfast – curry and hot tea. I had been a little concerned about having curry for breakfast, but it was very mild, with a yoghurt-like consistency, and accompanied with chapattis, a hard-boiled egg and fresh fruit – very nice.

Excellent scenery passed by our carriage window. Forests, plains, farmlands and occasional hamlets. I got chatting to the elderly lady, and she said that she had been visiting her daughters in Bombay. Following on from their university education, they had both left the family farm, a one-hour train stop before New Delhi, to take up employment in Bombay. One daughter was married; and had a daughter. The other daughter was still single. She was very proud of her daughter’s success.

She had inherited a small farm from her parents, and after marrying, they had managed to save and buy additional land. Her husband took advantage of government subsidies to promote agricultural reform and planted fast-growing trees for timber and other commercial crops. They grew all their own fruit and vegetables, selling the residue to the local market, and had their own chickens, goats, pigs and a milking cow. Recently, they had electricity installed, before which lighting was from oil lamps and candles, although rarely used as they always rose with the sun and turned in shortly after dark. It sounded like an idyllic life, but I’m sure it was not. Farming is a hard life, even with modern equipment.

Suddenly, as the flames in the upper bodies gained momentum, they set off fuses that ignited rockets and fireworks, which flew out of the bodies spectacularly. Within minutes all three were providing a huge firework display. As the fireworks slowly died down and the flames from the bases rose, other fuses ignited, setting off loud-bang fireworks culminating in ear-splitting explosions, causing the collapse of the effigies into burning heaps of firewood that left my ears ringing for hours afterwards.

A cocktail bar waiter at the New Imperial Hotel, New Delhi. 1982

India and especially New Delhi has some of the finest hotels in the world and whilst opulent and modern inside, lack the architectural elegance and history of older establishments. Of the older hotels my favourite is the Imperial Hotel.

In one of the Imperials elegant bars, I learned from the bartender that Indians were forbidden from sitting at or ordering from the bar in many of the best hotels. They could sit at tables and order drinks from waiters but only foreigners could sit at the bar and order directly. “Why is that I asked?” he shrugged, “it’s the rules.” (This was in the early 80’s and I hope the ‘rules’ have been changed).

The head barman was about 30 years of age, somewhat surly, and very proper. His assistant barman was a different kettle of fish. I guess he would have been in his 60’s,  a chatty type, and was obviously not a favourite of the head barman.

“What’s the matter with him?” I asked after he had quietly berated the older barman over something and nothing. “He’s the new breed of nationalist, thinks India is the top of the world and too young to know the mess the country is in. He doesn’t like the British over much, nor anyone like me who wish the British were still here.”

“Do you like cricket?” he then asked. “Not really.” I replied.

“You’re not a true Englishman if you don’t like cricket.”

“It’s not that I don’t like it, I’m just not keen enough to follow it.”

“I like to talk to Englishmen, and Australians, about cricket. I started listening to them when I was a child working at the Janpath Hotel next door.”

He then went on to tell me he started work at the New Imperial when he was about 8 years old as an overnight guest shoe polisher. The room staff would bring the shoes and boots that had been left out for cleaning and he and an older man would clean and polish them ready for the guests the next morning. He had worked his way up over the years to be a room boy, then a waiter, then an assistant barman and finally Head Barman. He worked until he had enough years to get a pension later in life. Then he left and went to the Janpath Hotel about 200 metres away and got a job working in the bar again, eventually becoming Head Barman. Now with a second pension he was back at the New Imperial. So he now had two pensions and a paying job. He said retirement was not for him he needed to keep busy. He was a superb mixer of cocktails, I had had two beers when he convinced me to try his cocktails. Over the next couple of hours I had about six different ones that he made for me - each one delicious. The secret of good cocktails he said is that they must have just the right amount of alcohol, not too much which is a common mistake, but enough to enjoy without being overwhelmed. I enjoyed the cocktails, went to bed relaxed, and awoke the following morning without any trace of a hangover.

Conned in the street.

It was early evening and I was walking around Connaught Circus and had just escaped from a tout trying to sell me a kilo of hashish for $3 when struggling through a crowd a young man grabbed my arm and pointed at my shoe. I looked down and it was covered in white goo. I have a cloth he said and steered me next to a shop wall. He got out a large cloth, spread it on the floor and said in good English “please to remove your shoe and stand on cloth to protect your sock.”

What to do? Well I thought he will probably want a few rupees for helping me, so I removed my shoe and stood on the cloth that he had provided. He started to clean my shoe with another cloth and was doing a good job. “Let me have your other shoe and I will buff them both up good and clean.”

I am now standing in my socks on the cloth when suddenly I am surrounded by young men offering me everything from cheap hashish, trinkets, fake watches etc., and cannot move. Hot and flustered, fending off these touts, I suddenly noticed that my shoe cleaner had gone. “Where are my shoes?” I demanded. One of the touts said “You wait, he come back in little time.”

He did come back with one shoe sparklingly clean but with the insole which had been pulled out in his other hand, saying that the insole was no good but he could get a new one fitted in 2 minutes “With real leather.” I contemplated either walking to my hotel in my socks or to a shop to buy a cheap pair of shoes. “Only 2 minutes.” he said again. I agreed and off he went whilst I was still marooned on my small cloth and being pestered to buy everything imaginable – very cheap!

The shoe cleaning youth returned and showed me my shoe with the new insole then got down and slipped it on my foot. “Also put new insole in other shoe, so both same like new, only 30 rupees for all.”

He was holding my remaining shoe just out of my reach – so no choice – I handed over the money and he squatted down and slipped my shoe on to my foot and picked up the cloth. At last I could get away from the pestering touts. I skipped along and in to a café where the touts who were following me with their now very, very, very cheap rubbish had to stop outside the door.

The café owner was smiling at me as I wiped my sweating face and ordered a cool drink. You’re the third one so far this evening he said, they do it every night when it is difficult to see because of the poor street light in that spot. Whilst your attention is taken by the crowds he smears a big lump of white shoe polish on your shoe – that’s all it is cream shoe polish. It is a con they do every night to foreigners!

Street corner entertainers and charlatans

I used to enjoy watching charlatans on the street corners. They would offer me free entertainment whilst conning locals and occasionally tourists. They would always put on an entertaining show to gather a crowd before going in to their sales pitch for everything from their cure all snake oils to elixirs of youth.

Outside the Asoka hotel an old man sits in front of a large basket with his snake charmers flute, playing eerie tunes whilst a gigantic King Cobra sits up out of the basket and sways to the movement of the flute.

On a street corner a magician does conjuring tricks – he was very good – his hand definitely being quicker than my eye. After his 15 min performance he passes a hat and the local crowd fill it with spare coins.

On another street I came across a man selling a cure-all for external aches and pains. He was holding aloft a medicine bottle of some fluid and giving his spiel. Of course I could not understand what he was saying but his actions made up for that. You can rub it on for tummy ache, arthritis, sprains and everything imaginable. He had a young assistant with him who acted the part of an old man pretending to have difficulty walking. Then with just 5 days of rubbing with the cure all (he held up 5 fingers) guess what – totally cured! The assistant then performed unbelievable physical contortions to the amusement of the crowd. But this nice act, whilst drawing a large enough crowd, was not going to make anyone part with cash. “You don’t believe it?” the man appeared to say, “well watch this” he went on. Taking a splash of the liquid in to his hand from the bottle, he then rubbed it in to the heel of his assistant. Then taking a newspaper from someone in the crowd tore a strip of paper and rubbed it against the assistants treated heel. The paper and the assistants heel burst in to flame (the sort of flame that fire eaters use) to the gasps of the crowd, who then surged forward to buy bottles. Within no time at all he had sold about 20 bottles!

Would I get away with this today?

After visiting India Gate I was strolling through the extensive parklands and watching youngsters playing cricket, they take it seriously, even having 10 year olds as very serious umpires, these games are played to win not for fun. There were perhaps a dozen games being played by children of various ages in different parts of the park. After watching for a while I started perusing the gardens and flowers. Whilst wondering around I came upon large wrought iron park gates. As the gates were ajar I went through and found lovely formal gardens inside and some water features.

I had been strolling around these gardens, my mind absorbed by the lovely flowers, for perhaps 15 minutes, when I heard footsteps crunching on the gravel behind me. Looking round I found a soldier in uniform with a rifle slung over his shoulder. In perfect English he asked me what I was doing? I explained that I was enjoying the beautiful park and gardens. Then I realised that it was very quiet, no one else about.

It turned out that I should not have gone through the gates as I was now in the Mughal Gardens, which are the gardens of the Rashtrapati Bhavan or the Presidents Palace. The soldier was very polite and said that as the gardens were only open to the public on organised tours in February during the Udyanotsav Garden Festival and as the President was currently in residence I must leave. He then walked with me to a side gate which he unlocked that let me out on to a quiet lane.

Of course this was at a time before terrorism had taken the hold on the world that it now has. I often wonder what would happen in the same situation today?