Of Colonial Bungalows and Piano Lessons: An Indian Woman's Memoirs 9780367134624, 9780429026614

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Title Page
Copyright Page
Table of Contents
EDITOR’S NOTE
A DAY IN NOAKHALI
A MINOR DISASTER AND A MAJOR STORM
RUNGPORE
TOURING WITH FATHER
LIFE AT HOME
SHILLONG DAYS
EXCITEMENT AT SCHOOL
ON TO DACCA
ENTERTAINMENT AT HOME AND ON THE RIVER
CHINSURAH
MOTHER GERMAINE – AND GIPPY
FAMILY TIES
DADA’S MARRIAGE
PIANO LESSONS AGAIN
THE RIVER ONCE MORE
DAYS WITH DINKO
CALCUTTA YEARS
AN UP–COUNTRY HOLIDAY
A BEAUTIFUL VALLEY AND A PALACE
REFLECTIONS ON A BUREAUCRAT’S LIFE
OUR EUROPEAN SOJOURN
LONDON AND BEYOND
ENDNOTES
FAMILY TREE OF JNANENDRA NATH AND SARALA
APPENDICES
GLOSSARY
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
IMAGE CREDITS

Citation preview

OF COLONIAL BUNGALOWS AND PIANO LESSONS

OF COLONIAL BUNGALOWS AND PIANO LESSONS An Indian Woman’s Memoirs \ MONICA CHANDA

Edited by Malavika Karlekar

First published 2019 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2019 selection and editorial matter, Malavika Karlekar; individual chapters, the contributors; and Social Science Press The right of Malavika Karlekar to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. Print edition not for sale in South Asia (India, Sri Lanka, Nepal, Bangladesh, Pakistan or Bhutan) British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN: 978-0-367-13462-4 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-429-02661-4 (ebk) Typeset in Goudy Oldstyle Std 10.5/15.2 by Manmohan Kumar, Delhi 110035

CONTENTS

\ EDITOR ’ S NOTE .............................................................................. 1

a day in noakhali .................................................................. 14 a minor disaster and a major storm ................................ 22 rungpore .................................................................................. 30 touring with father ............................................................ 36 life at home ............................................................................ 43 shillong days .......................................................................... 47 excitement at school ........................................................... 53 on to dacca ............................................................................. 57 entertainment at home and on the river ...................... 64 chinsurah ................................................................................ 71 mother germaine – and gippy ............................................. 77 family ties ............................................................................... 84 dada’s marriage...................................................................... 92 piano lessons again .............................................................. 96 the river once more .............................................................. 99

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days with dinko .................................................................... 106 calcutta years ..................................................................... 112 an up–country holiday ...................................................... 118 a beautiful valley and a palace ..................................... 125 reflections on a bureaucrat’s life ................................. 134 our european sojourn ........................................................ 139 london and beyond ............................................................. 150 ENDNOTES

................................................................................. 156

FAMILY TREE OF JNANENDRA NATH AND SARALA ........................ 166 APPENDICES

............................................................................... 168

GLOSSARY ................................................................................... 170 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ................................................................ 173 IMAGE CREDITS .......................................................................... 175

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y mother, Monica, was about the age that I am today when she was persuaded to write about her childhood and teens. Expectedly, she demurred a bit with the usual woman’s refrain ‘there was nothing exceptional about my life ...’ Sustained pressure from her devoted son–in–law, Hiranmay and me has yielded over 150 printed pages packed with memories of a childhood and adolescence in British India. I was amazed at her memory and eye for detail relating to events of more than half a century ago: for a 70–plus woman, she had a pretty amazing sense of recall. In her neat, rather unusual handwriting, she filled several exercise books, the kind used then in school by my children. I have only her final drafts, and I cannot remember whether she had written earlier versions too. My mother died in January 1995 and, for some inexplicable reason, her writings remained as she had left them for another twenty years. This, in spite of the fact that I have been working with women’s personal narratives since the early 1980s. It was only a couple of years ago that I managed to get the exercise books transcribed and, in 2016, began to work seriously on my mother’s reminiscences. 1

I cannot remember my mother telling me much of her life when I was growing up: the catalysts were my nephews and my children. Their badgering tapped the unending depths of a grandmother’s love and patience – and helped her trawl through an impressive memory bank. There is a Kiplingesque touch, an understated piquancy in her narration of life in the districts, of riverine journeys, of days under canvas, her much–loved pet deer and dogs, the domestic staff she became close to and the joy of ‘house full’ when cousins came visiting during holidays. She was perhaps an introverted child with an active imagination, one who enjoyed the solitude of watching the river flow or the lizards in the compound. What hurt her most was parental indifference to her education and her accomplishments as a young pianist. The only daughter of Jnanendra Nath (J.N.) Gupta (pronounced as Ganendra), a member of the elite Indian Civil Service (ICS) in British India, and Sarala, Monica’s childhood was a mixture of privilege and neglect of a girl’s formal schooling: By the time she was ready to go to school, young Bengali girls from similar professional backgrounds were being educated in a growing number of institutions. While missionary and convent schools were preferred by the more westernized, families with nationalist predilections were committed to supporting indigenous institutions. It is interesting therefore that despite their wide learning and commitment to education as an ideal, neither Monica’s maternal grandfather, R.C. Dutt, an eminent member of the ICS, nor his son–in–law, Jnanendra Nath, laid much store by girls’ education: while Monica’s mother Sarala had early lessons in a boarding school run by a Miss Pigot in Calcutta, in 1885 this was replaced by home tuition in sewing, painting and the piano by a missionary teacher from the same school. R.C. Dutt supervised his daughters’ education and Bengali tuition was assigned to an uncle.1 The familial attitude to girls’ and women’s education is clear from a letter written by Sarala in 1903 to her eldest niece, Sushama 2

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Monica Chanda, New Delhi, c. 1970s

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who had been unwell. Echoing the commonly held belief that the pressures of education could lead to ill health, Sarala asked her to give up studying as “you must remember that health comes before everything else. If your parents have no objection, I should certainly give up school altogether if I were you, because you have got quite enough talents and you could take up other accomplishments which would keep you engaged, and which are not so fatiguing (quoted on p. 623 of Sen, 1971). Sarala added more strongly that in Sushama’s “present state of health” it was “absolute madness” to continue studying. And in any case, if she had been a boy, an attitude of “do or die’’ would have compelled her “to go up for examinations, but as God has willed it otherwise, you take life easy” (ibid). Interestingly, Sushama took scant note of her aunt’s advice and went on to finish school from the best–known convent school, Loreto House2 and, interestingly, was coached in French and in English by Sarala’s husband, Jnanendra Nath. A few years later, when their daughter Monica was to go to school, neither Jnanendra Nath nor Sarala was particularly supportive. Monica commented with a certain degree of regret — if not resentment — about her erratic schooling that began when her father was posted in Rungpore; she was about eight years old. It was then that Monica was introduced to the piano when she was sent to the civil surgeon’s wife, an Englishwoman, for classes; she told me years later “it was from these first lessons that my love for the instrument grew”. Even though he was quite clear that she was not to sit for the school–leaving examination, Monica, the only daughter among five children, was clearly her father’s favourite. Her love for the piano, equestrian skills and competence at tennis were actively encouraged by him; for Jnanendra Nath, it was appropriate that Monica should develop the accoutrements of a British girl of similar social status. However, he was not a consummate Anglophile 4

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and was careful to keep up his Bengali in which he wrote a couple of novels. His home was open to all his relatives and friends, some clearly less privileged and with very different lifestyles from that of an ICS officer. Monica’s life can be read as a metaphor, an icon of the encounter between cultures, where a father reared in the indigenous tradition and then acculturated into the ICS ethos with its strict sexual division of labour, was avowedly against formal schooling for girls — but encouraged his daughter to undertake long and at times hazardous journeys to perfect her skills as a pianist. Neither honed in one culture nor fully at home in those practices superimposed by her father’s professional life, Monica’s dilemma comes through — albeit fleetingly — in her memoirs. For in keeping with the tradition of diary–writing as practiced by many upper–middle–class British women, her writings are an accurate chronological recording of events and happenings. Yet, through those rich descriptions, Monica’s subconscious anxieties and tensions surface unexpectedly; they are manifested in the pain felt at a mother’s lack of interest in her piano–playing, bewilderment at not being fluent in one’s own mother tongue but rather in that of the ruling class and an impotent rage at being discriminated against in school. 1. Monica’s oldest female cousin, Sushama describes at some length the rather negative attitude to girls’ education in her family. See Sushama Sen (1971) Memoirs of an Octogenarian, Calcutta: Elm Press. Sushama was the daughter of Kamala and P. N. Bose, Monica’s mother’s eldest sister and husband. 2. Sushama wrote that she “was ambitious and longed to join the Presidency College” (Sen:90). However her father was against the idea, and got support from his sister–in–law Sarala. Instead, in order to overcome her despondency, Sushama was sent on a tour of North India with another uncle and aunt. She was able to fulfill some of her ambition by becoming active in the incipient Indian’s women’s movement and a prominent member of the All India Women’s Conference. After India became independent in 1947, she became a Congress Member of Parliament. Sushama was clearly the most successful in public life of all R.C.Dutt’s grandchildren. EDITOR’S NOTE

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There is more than a whiff of a Victorian upbringing in these pages. Memories of childhood for Monica and her generation as well as for many of those who followed were often a bitter–sweet mixture of adjustment and negotiation between widely differing traditions. Often, identities were not clear cut, and growing up meant working out the ambiguities and confusions of having to take from more than one parent stock. Language — or its loss — played an important part in identity formation, the pidgin version of Hindi and other vernaculars and sometimes even pidgin English, being often the only workable option for young children. In time, as adults, they often made choices that in many ways became symbolic of the culture they chose — or were persuaded to choose. A reading of their reminiscences brings alive the very stuff of colonialism and its ambiguities as viewed by those affected, whether they be the white rulers or Indians employed to rule in the name of Empire. Such readings punctuate — if not fracture — the monolithic discourse of colonialism by providing insights into how the influences of institutions and structures were played out in individual lives. Monica’s writings provide several instances of how choices were made; she knew that as the daughter of an ICS officer, she had to abide by a certain code — yet there was an occasional longing for a freer life, like that lived by her much–loved cousin, Buri. And undoubtedly she also enjoyed the privileges of exclusive launch trips down the Ganga, parties at Government House and even Buckingham Palace, and a holiday in Europe. Monica describes the quotidian and the exceptional with the same degree of measured restraint — though there are a few times when emotions of love, fear and excitement ripple through the pages. Fairly early in life, Monica became aware of the injustice of colonialism. She writes of discrimination in the convent school in Shillong where preference was given not only to the English girls but also to the Eurasians. Monica was not even ten years old then. 6

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Jnanendra Nath with Monica, Sarala and Willie, on the veranda of their home in Bogra, now in Bangladesh, possibly in 1910. A liveried khitmatgar is in attendance

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Though her mother did complain, there was not much change in attitude; Monica’s cynical reaction to the overall indifference of the authorities brought home the latent anxiety and sense of psychological dislocation, of hybridity. A few years later, in 1919, when her father became District Magistrate and Collector in Dacca, he refused to join the district club as an honorary member: out of deference to his position — there were no other senior Indians in the district — the all–British club made him the offer. Jnanendra Nath insisted he would accept only full membership — or not join. The white man’s bastion was not prepared to change its membership rules, nor was the District Magistrate inclined to accept what he deemed to be an unacceptable concession. Monica’s most serious and frightening encounter with racialism was to occur in the early 1920s, when she and her oldest brother, Sudhindra Nath, were threatened by an Eurasian sergeant while on a walk in Calcutta. She describes the incident in short, crisp sentences that convey the tension of the moment; she does the same when describing the stealthy progress of what was likely to have been a man–eating tiger in the heavy mangrove vegetation along the banks of a creek in the Sunderbans. Her father and she were in a jolly boat, parallel to the jungle, clearly taking a risk that could have been avoided. Whilst the animal was not visible, the crackle of twigs was enough for the crew to beg Jnanendra Nath to turn back. The inlet had narrowed dangerously when her father finally gave the order to return. Though there is a tautness palpable in her narration of the encounter with the sergeant and near–encounter with the tiger, Monica’s style avoids hyperbole and dramatic sequences. She presents facts and situations as she saw them. Monica’s memoir ends with her excitement at seeing the man she was to marry waiting for her at Howrah station. The Guptas were returning from a European holiday. Asok Kumar Chanda was a young civil servant to whom she had been introduced by her 8

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father at a tennis party in their Calcutta home; the young people were allowed to meet a few times before Monica made up her mind. Soon enough, she adapted easily to her roles of dutiful mother and wife, playing tennis with her husband and touring extensively with him. Interestingly, though her husband came from a family much more firmly rooted in Bengali culture, it was not until she was past fifty that Monica tried to restore the balance in her life by teaching herself Bengali; she gained sufficient proficiency to translate R.C. Dutt’s novel on the life of Shivaji Maharasthra Jiban Prabhat into English. An edited version was published as a supplementary reader for middle school children3 around the time that she was writing her memoirs. By then she had given up playing the piano; though she had played tennis till when she was in her late thirties, the joys of riding belonged to a carefree childhood in the districts of undivided Bengal. In her middle age and later, the Nehruvian idealism of a proudly independent nation occupied the minds of many like Monica: colonialism, the partition of the sub–continent as well as the persistence of what was known as the Raj mentality was viewed with increasing ambivalence if not a certain self–conscious unease by middle–class Indians concerned with building a secular democracy. I have tried to limit my editing to a minimum — and in fact, my husband Hiranmay and my friend and colleague, Leela Kasturi who also looked through the manuscript with their perceptive editors’ eagle–eyes, suggested very few changes. Like me, they found my mother’s writings an easy read in simple prose. Monica meticulously unfolded her life like an origami bird, following, a distinct pattern, a strict chronology. In the text, it was only in punctuation that we had to intervene the most — my mother had a particular fondness for the comma rather than the full stop! In place of chapters with numbers I’ve introduced headings as I felt that these provide a better flavour. Except one chapter that is a combination of bits from various others, all others are intact and by and large in the order EDITOR’S NOTE

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that they appear in the exercise books. Inevitably, the academic got the better of me and though I tried to keep them to a minimum, I had to seek refuge in endnotes. In any event, these are essential for most readers as Monica’s world and times were so very different from anything we know. We have left intact some colloquialisms, occasional grammatical slippages, place names as spelt by her, and what today would be deemed political incorrectness and linguistic gender–blindness: the memoir was written in the early 1970s when we were unaware of the many dimensions of patriarchal language. A few indigenous terms that Monica explained are within round brackets as provided by her and I have given the rest in square brackets. They are in italics throughout the text, and not only when they first appear as is usual practice. There is also a glossary and while some might find parenthetical textual explanations a bit tedious, I’ve used this method keeping in mind that today my extended family spreads across generations and continents. My assumption is that younger readers, or those to whom parts of the book are read, are likely to be happier having words explained in the text rather than needing to bother with a glossary. Those reading to younger children (some chapters are eminently readable to those above the ages of five years and more) will no doubt be happier with not having to flip pages back and forth. The major intervention of course was the introduction of visuals; my work with visual material since 2000 has convinced me of the value of these not merely as embellishments and explanations but also as tellers of stories themselves. Here, however, the role of the image is mainly to provide a context to Monica’s narrative. I have included a handful of family photographs (alas, far too few) as well as some relevant ones from other sources such as websites and old books, postcards and the odd lithograph. These have been included 3. Monica Chanda (1976) Storm over Raigadh. New Delhi: Orient Longman.

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to give a feel of the times as well as remind us of how historic buildings and places looked, unspoilt by the clutter of rampant urbanization. Keeping in mind that copyright of visual material is now quite a major issue, some images of places are from the 19th century — in other words, well beyond the purview of any kind of surveillance! After all, while the ambience might have become less idyllic, most monuments remain timeless. A couple of photographs date from the 1940s. Of particular interest are the postcards from Monica’s mother Sarala’s collection; she was an inveterate collector of this form of ephemera and picked up many on their European tour of 1927. Many years later, I inherited these, carefully preserved in an ornate tin box. It is gratifying to have at last found some use for them — and it was indeed exciting to find an image to match a place or incident described by Monica. I felt particularly committed to publishing my mother’s writings after a nephew said that he knew so little about his father’s family. He asked for a family tree — and that seemed the perfect moment to start working seriously on the memoir. Clearly, her extended family distributed in different parts of the world need to know more not only about their ancestry and their legacy, but also of the country of which they are a part. I hope that the family tree and this note will help them and other readers to better situate Monica in a world that has long past away. Malavika Karlekar Ramgarh, Kumaon February–March 2017

[

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Monica with Malavika (Bika) who holds her much–loved cocker spaniel pup, Badshah. He joined the Gupta and, later, Chanda family tradition started with Bacchi and Brownie, of keeping cockers. 1954

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Monica, when she was probably about four years old. It is an outdoor setting, so a photographer must have come to the District Magistrate’s home in Bogra to take it. She is suitably dressed for the occasion

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A D AY I N N O AKH AL I

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he earliest memories1 that I have of my childhood are of Noakhali2, hazy and indistinct, because I could not have been more than five or six years old. Some incidents have remained imprinted on my mind, as they made a break in the daily routine of life that we youngsters led. I vaguely remember Noakhali as a land of violent storms and wide, turbulent rivers, with the sea close by, tall casuarina [Casuarina equisetifolia] trees, the sad sighing and moaning sound the wind made as it blew through them, lulled one to sleep at night. Noakhali was a small district, perhaps there were no more than half a dozen officers, so I do not remember my parents leading a very social life, nor do I recollect my elder brothers3. My youngest brother, Willie and I were too small for them to take much notice of us. They attended the local zila [district] school and played games in the evenings in the school grounds. My father, a member of the Indian Civil Service (ICS)4, was the District Magistrate and Collector of Noakhali. We lived in a large two–storied house with lofty rooms and wide verandas. The drawing, dining, Father’s office and dressing rooms were downstairs. 14

Monica’s three older brothers — from left to right — Dhiren, Sudhi, Nidhi Taken in a Calcutta studio around 1912–13

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Monica and Willie, around 1912–13 This studio photograph was possibly taken on a visit to Calcutta at the same time as the image of the three brothers

The bedrooms were upstairs with a deep veranda running the whole length of the house in front of them. It had a railing of white stone with pillars which formed arches, and a red cement floor. On the left of the veranda, stone steps led to the ground floor. This upstairs veranda was the play house of Willie, my younger brother and constant companion, and me; we spent the best part of the day here. I remember it as being delightfully cool and breezy. The house was surrounded on all sides by green fields. As it had no boundary walls, cattle, goats and sheep were allowed to graze with young boys as herdsmen, to see that the animals did not stray 16

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too close to the house. At the front of the house, Father, a keen gardener, had a portion fenced in to make a flower garden, where he grew roses and a variety of winter annuals. In the cold winter months, it was one of my greatest delights to accompany Father round the garden as he carefully inspected the beds followed by the malis [gardeners]. The dew glistened on the grass and there were drops on the flowers, the air pure and so fresh and filled with the song of birds. The whole garden was ablaze with blooms of vivid colours and a sweet scent pervaded the atmosphere. Usually Willie trailed after me on his fat little legs. Our guardian was an aged ayah [nanny], who, when Mother was not around, paid no attention to what we did, so long as we did not run truant and wet or dirtied our clothes, or broke something for which she would be held responsible. Our day started early because Father was an early riser. Mother liked to sleep late and neither Willie nor I dared make any noise, lest we disturb her sleep. Breakfast over, which included an egg, toasts and jam and a large cup of milk that Willie and I equally disliked, we wandered out into the compound usually followed by the ayah or a chaprasi [office peon] whom we infinitely preferred. The chaprasi never failed to answer our innumerable questions, and entertained us with tales of the life he and his family led in their village. He described to us his wife and children, but spoke mostly about his sons. The difficulties and hardships of having to feed an ever–growing family on the small government wage that he drew, and the meagre proceeds his wife made by selling the produce grown on the small patch of land they owned in his village... Mother brought us up very strictly, only on our birthdays and strangely enough, on X’mas day, were we given presents. We lived very close to nature, most of our time in the garden or fields we spent chasing butterflies, dragon flies, or hunting for brightly coloured insects. When tired, Willie and I and the peon would sit under the A D AY I N N O A K H A L I

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J.N. Gupta on horseback

shade of a large leafy tree listening to the song of the birds, the pure sweet whistle of the bulbul, the koel’s song rising higher and higher in pitch, to be repeated over and over again, and the brain fever bird’s call5 as summer approached. We were never bored or demanding, we possessed practically no toys, a rubber ball or marbles perhaps; but the morning passed quickly, there was so much to explore in 18

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the fields, an ant’s nest, or a rabbit’s burrow. Our peon friend helped us find these, the varied coloured birds, some who sang so sweetly, but were almost drab to look at. The chaprasi told us that the birds with the beautiful coloured plumage were the male birds — and even at that early age, I found this difficult to assimilate. In front of Father’s office downstairs, there was always a chaprasi sitting on a stool. It was his business to usher in the visitors who came to call on Father. Some came just to pay their respects to the Collector Sahib. The visiting hours started from about 9.30 in the morning, after Father had returned from his morning ride, changed and breakfasted. Willie and I always watched from a distance, the visitors come and go. Some drove up in carriages, others came on cycles, and some even came walking. One by one they were taken in to the office. The time for mulakati [visiting hours] depended on the number of visitors Father had each morning, but generally he would emerge from his office after a couple of hours. During the summer months we were taken into the house to escape the heat before the sun rose too high. We played around in the veranda, until bath time; when bathed and changed, we were ready for our mid–day meal by 12 p.m. Being young, our food was simple but ample. For lunch, we always had rice, dal [lentil], a vegetable dish, a meat curry or a fish preparation generally cooked in the Bengali style (jhol). Dinner, supposedly an English meal, was indifferently cooked by the local baburchi (cook) — soup, followed by the main dish of mutton, chicken or fish with plenty of green vegetables and a pudding, which was either boiled or baked custard for us. Sometimes at night we were given puris or luchis6 as the Bengalis call them, with fried brinjals [aubergines] and vegetarian dishes which we loved. Our food was a queer mixture of the East and West, a compromise between the two. When our parents entertained the food was more elaborate, but we took no part of it. Mother did not believe in spoiling her A D AY I N N O A K H A L I

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children from a young age. It has to be remembered that in 1912 or thereabouts, all our food was cooked in ghee [clarified butter] or mustard oil and therefore was inclined to be heavy. Perhaps that may have been the reason why Indians who came into contact with Europeans adopted the custom of having an English meal at night because their dishes were so much lighter and easier to digest. Lunch over, we were allowed an hour’s play and then the ayah would tell us to rest and go to sleep in our respective beds. The ayah’s duties over for the morning, she would depart for her mid–day meal and siesta. Willie soon fell asleep, I would lie awake waiting for Mother to come in for her afternoon rest and sleep. This she did after my parents finished lunch and Father had left for office. I would lie awake with my eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, whilst Mother lay down, and soon fell asleep. This was the most exciting time of the day for me. I would noiselessly creep out of bed and tip toe to the side veranda adjoining our bedroom, overlooking the field bordered by the jungle. Cattle and goats would be grazing and so were giant lizards or iguanas7, who lived in the jungle along with the jackals. The lizards fascinated me; I have a very clear picture of them in my mind. They were four to five feet in length, chrome coloured with a self–coloured chequered skin, squat body, tapering round heads, tongues constantly flicking in and out, beady black eyes, a thick and powerful tail and crocodile–like feet. I often wondered what they fed on in the fields, perhaps insects, rodents and the thick green grass as well, which was plentiful. The chaprasi told me that they never molested man, in fact tried to avoid all contact with humans, but if by accident a man went too close to the reptile, he would lash out with his powerful tail which was very unpleasant and might cause a deep wound. The cattle did not mind them, each kept their distance from the other, there were no human beings around to disturb them in the afternoons. I would stand fascinated, just watching them feeding as they moved slowly ahead. 20

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I knew that I was perfectly safe on the upper veranda; what it was that attracted me so much to the reptiles, I cannot say excepting that they belonged to the jungle8. I returned to bed after I had my fill of gazing at the giant lizards and almost immediately fell asleep. The ayah returned to her duties at about five in the evening, and unless we were already awake, she would rouse us. Our faces and hands washed, our clothes changed, we were ready for tea, buttered toast, biscuits and again the half cup of milk. Our favourite biscuit was shortbread, which came in long, round tins, simply delicious to eat, but that was a treat because even in those days, shortbread was expensive. Tea over, we wandered out to the garden. Very often, my parents would go for a drive in their trap9, Father driving, Mother sitting next to him. Willie and I were taken with them. I would be seated on a cushion on the floor between them. Willie had to share the small seat at the back with the syce [groom]. We would go for long drives often on a kutcha road [dirt track] leading out of Noakhali town to the countryside. The well–groomed black tail of the pony attracted me as he would constantly swish it from side to side to drive off the flies which bothered him. We returned home late in the evening, the sun was low on the horizon, the fresh air had made us sleepy and we were ready for an early dinner and bed. We fell asleep listening to the howling of the jackals, the weird hukka hua, hua hua of the grown beasts, followed by the pups in their high–pitched voices imitating their parents. It was frightening at first, but we soon grew used to them. A lantern was kept burning in our room which cast weird shadows on the wall with its flickering wick flame. Our ayah would be sitting by our bedsides until we fell asleep.

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A M I N O R D I S AS TE R AND A M A J O R S TORM

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other was a beautiful woman, tall and graceful, fair complexioned with lustrous black hair, which fell to well below her knees when loose, her features regular and refined with large dreamy eyes. She was the fourth daughter of Romesh Chunder Dutt, ICS10. Mother always dressed simply, rarely did she wear a silk saree. She possessed so few. But she looked charming in whatever she wore, because of her natural charm and dignity. I was my mother’s fifth child, born in 1906, a baby boy having died of diphtheria between my eldest and second brothers, then another boy, followed by me. After me came Willie, who was and always remained Mother’s favourite. I being the only girl was spoilt by my father and brothers. Mother was a strict disciplinarian, there was never any question of arguing or disobeying her wishes. She was a good horsewoman, riding side saddle and she also played tennis [wearing a sari]. I believe Mother used to go out for long cross–country rides with Father and his friends for miles, and kept up well with the men. However, I do not remember her riding, 22

Romesh Chunder Dutt

and she must have given it up after the first two or three babies were born. Tennis she played regularly, this I recall quite clearly. My father was an extremely simple man, his habitual dress was a pair of baggy khaki shorts and a white twill shirt. He did not come from the same social background as Mother did, his father being a district judge. From an early age he was brought up by his jethamoshai, his father’s elder brother, who was in the provincial service of Bengal. He went to school with his cousins, and later to the Metropolitan College in Calcutta. Father was an outstanding student and after his A MINOR DISASTER AND A MAJOR STORM

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B.A. examination he was awarded a state scholarship. He was very keen to go to England and compete for the ICS. The scholarship would have considerably helped towards paying partly for his passage and living expenses in England, but his grandmother would not allow him to go abroad11. Father continued at college and he passed his M.A. with honours in three subjects. Now he was determined to proceed to England and sit for the ICS entrance examination, but where were the necessary funds to come from? As his father had no money to give him, his jethamoshai very generously paid for his passage, and all his friends got together and arranged for sufficient money for his stay in England. This debt to his friends he gradually repaid after he returned to India and had joined the service. My parents had a registered marriage at Burdwan where my grandfather was then the Commissioner, to be followed by a wedding according to Brahmo rites at No. 97 Park St., Calcutta12. One morning in Noakhali, we were told by Mother that for the next few days we were not to make any noise whilst at play, as a very sick person was being brought to our house to recoup from illness and rest, as his own house, a one–storied building, was damp and he had no one responsible to look after him. I recall the spare bed in the room upstairs being made up with fresh linen and a mosquito net. I was not aware when the patient arrived, and was carried upstairs. The next morning, on questioning the servants, Willie and I were told that the patient was a young English policeman who was dangerously ill. Father was constantly going into his room to attend on him; he nursed the unfortunate young man with the help of our servants. The civil surgeon, an Englishman, came in twice if not thrice daily to examine his patient, but in spite of all the care and attention the doctor and Father gave him, the boy died. There were no miracle life–saving drugs in the early parts of the century. At that young age, death had no meaning or sense of loss to me, especially as it was someone who was a complete stranger. I 24

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remember the chaprasis and servants saying how sad it was that it was the fate of the youth to die so far removed from his homeland and loved ones — but that was his kismet [fate] and the will of Allah. The boy was fortunate that the Sahib had nursed him, like one of his own, and not left him to die unattended in his own house. This incident left a pall of gloom on our household for a couple of days after which the daily set routine of life was resumed. Willie’s and my life revolved round our parents, the aged ayah and the equally aged table servant and Father’s bearer. There were the cook, masalchi [cook’s assistant], water carrier, syces and malis — but we had very little contact with them. My mother was house proud, she took great pains over arranging the vases with freshly cut flowers which the mali brought in every morning from the garden in a basket.The drawing room was tastefully done up, with soft–coloured drapes, a sofa and some extra chairs. Maidenhair ferns kept in large brass pots stood on wooden stands both in the drawing and dining rooms, and a few teapoys [small tables] with flower vases, photographs and ashtrays were placed between the chairs. Leopard skins and a large tiger skin were spread on the floor of both the rooms. The glass objects and the few silver or E.P.N.S. [electroplated nickel silver] pieces my parents possessed were always kept clean and shining. Mother had a weakness for fine glassware and china. The dining room had an alcove in which was placed a glass cabinet where she kept all her delicate pieces including an exquisite set of green Venetian liquer glasses, two vases and a decanter, standing on a tray of equal beauty, made of translucent emerald green glass worked over with gold leaf. One morning, Mother standing by, was having the glass cabinet cleaned. The table boy was asked to empty it out by placing all the contents on the dining table. I was a silent spectator, standing far removed in a corner of the dining room. The servant was old and I could see his hands shake, as he slowly and cautiously removed A MINOR DISASTER AND A MAJOR STORM

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each piece on to a tray first and then transferred them to the table. Just as the old man had taken out the Venetian set and was midway between the cabinet and the dining table, Father, whose dressing room led off from the dining room, the door of which was open with a curtain drawn across, dashed out of his room in a hurry and collided with the unfortunate servant. It must be said to the credit of the old man that he retained his hold on the tray, but three of the eighteen glasses and one vase were knocked off. There was the splintering noise of fine glass breaking, and the pieces of the beautiful set lay scattered on the red cement floor, gleaming like little jewels. There was a shocked silence for a few moments. Father was speechless with rage, then calling the servant a bloody fool, he walked out of the house Mother was terribly upset and on the verge of tears. I was dumb– founded and afraid of the chastisement that would be meted out to the servant. Thankfully, I cannot remember much being said to him, after all it was a pure accident. I have the remains of the set13 with me still and when I look at them, I marvel at the delicate workmanship of the Venetians on glass. Noakhali was a land of heavy rain and violent storms, always threatened by the sea, and monstrous tidal waves, which made the lives of villagers living on the coastal belt a misery, especially during the monsoon. It was one of the prime duties of the Magistrate to look after these unfortunate people. If the weather turned sultry and the breeze stopped blowing, the peons would tell us that a storm was brewing. I was very often taken out by my father in his trap, when he went for an inspection in the mornings to a site close by. One such day I went with him to a place where the wide turbulent river was threatening to swallow large chunks of land on both sides of its banks, it was not far from the confluence of the river with the 26

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Sarala Dutt A studio portrait, taken perhaps at Bourne & Shepherd in the early 1890s, shortly before her marriage. It is reproduced here as it appeared in the family album, encased within a bevelled cut–out, edged with gold and decorated with a chromolitho print of sprays of violets. EDITOR’S NOTE

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sea. The scene was wild and terrifying — dark, threatening clouds overhead with streaks of forked lightning and the rumbling of loud thunder. The wind was howling and shrieking through the trees like a maniac. The dark, muddy waters of the river were swirling and rushing past at great speed and dashing against the banks with terrible force and there was the noise and splash of the water which rose high as mud fell into it. A number of men were assembled, waiting for Father’s arrival; he soon joined them. I was left with the pony, trap and syce at a safe distance near a bungalow. I felt horribly frightened and lonely and wished I had never come. Father returned after a long time, he was grave and preoccupied. The rain had come down in sheets, the hood of the trap was raised and water proof sheeting closed the front but even so we got drenched on the drive home. The poor syce behind had no protection and as the horse was nervous and disliked the rain, he trotted fast for home and the shelter of his stable. I remember Mother being annoyed with Father for having taken me out on such a wild day to a dangerous spot. Today I hear that the best part of Noakhali town where we lived, including the lovely old house which was our home, lies under the sea.

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Studio photograph of the Guptas, shortly after their wedding in 1893

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n 1914, Father was transferred to Rungpore, another district in present–day Bangladesh, as District Magistrate and Collector. Some of the happiest memories of my childhood are of the years spent in Rungpore. I was older and much more appreciative of all the good things life had to offer to a child whose parents were well placed in life. The Collector’s old–fashioned bungalow was built on cement arches which formed the foundation. The construction was mainly of wood. Wooden stairs led up to the veranda from the long, red gravelled driveway, lined by tall trees. The wooden veranda ran on three sides of the house. Mother had a portion of the veranda adjoining the master bedroom partitioned for her own special uses. The house was not large, it had only four rooms and in front were the drawing and dining rooms, behind, two bedrooms and two bathrooms. There was an open space between the two bedrooms also built of wood, as a back veranda, which really served no purpose. The house had a red tiled roof which made it look rather attractive. Father’s office and dressing room was a modern structure attached

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Postcard to Monica from her eldest brother, Sudhi, 1914

to the main house by a small cement bridge and built in the same manner on cement arches. In the main bedroom Mother, Willie and I slept on a large wooden double bed, Father on a spring cot next to us. The bedroom adjoining

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was occupied by my two brothers Nidhi and Dhiren. Dada [eldest brother Sudhi] was at Baliol College, Oxford at that time. Before dawn broke I would creep out of bed and slip into Father’s cot. He did not mind and I would fall asleep with his arms around me. When morning broke, I would make Father tell me a shikar [hunt] story, which he did with great gusto, much to the annoyance of my mother whose sleep was disturbed. The house was surrounded on three sides by green lawns and on the left, was a heart–shaped flower garden, where Father grew lovely roses and winter annuals. The lawn in front of the house was regularly watered and always green. It was mowed, weeded, with a few flower beds on the sides. On the right hand of the house were the servants’ quarters, kitchen and stables in front of which was the kitchen garden, hedged in. In winter all our vegetables came from the garden — luscious, sweet fat peas, little round red radishes, lettuce, carrots, cabbages and cauliflowers. Willie and I, almost every morning, wandered into the garden, plucked and ate the peas raw as well as radishes and carrots. The malis tried to stop us saying the Sahib would be annoyed with them, but we, of course, never listened. In Rungpore we came much closer to our personal staff; Abdul was our favourite, he was the head table boy, a devout Muslim, with a flowing beard and perfect manners, always kind and gentle to us. He kept his women folk in strict parda [behind the veil] and had enclosed the veranda in front of his quarters with chiks [bamboo blinds] on all sides. I very often spoke to his daughters through the chiks. Shama, the cook, was excellent with Indian dishes, he was quick and could be relied upon to produce a good meal if suddenly a couple of guests arrived and stayed on for lunch or dinner. The second boy and masalchi, I felt sorry for, it was their duty to bring the dishes from the kitchen, winter, summer or rain and place them in a hot case with shelves which had an iron stove below with burning charcoal. The servants’ quarters and kitchen were a fair distance from the house. 32

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Pankhas to cool a large room in a colonial home

We had large zinc tubs in all the bathrooms, and the paniwalla [water carrier] had to bring the water up from a well with a bucket with rope attached and pour the water into two empty kerosene tins strung at each end of a pole. This he carried slung across his shoulders and thus filled up the bath tubs. The sweeper’s was the most unenviable task of all. It was his job to carry the pots containing night soil [an euphemism for human faeces] in baskets to a latrine far removed from the house, and having emptied and cleaned them, return them to the commodes. The bedrooms had large floppy pankhas [fans] hung from the roof with strong ropes attached at both ends to a wooden rod from which hung white cotton cloth in frills. A long string was attached to the wooden rod at the centre and the pankha puller sat in the veranda and pulled the pankha to and fro during siesta time. This gave a slight breeze during summer months. Very often I found RUNGPORE

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the pankha puller stretched out on his back with the rope twisted round his big toe; the motion of pulling was automatic. Father had a trap and two ponies and he never missed his morning rides. Two syces were required to look after the horses. Later, Father bought for Mother a lovely phaeton and a huge English cart horse, which required a coachman as well. I loved this cart horse, he had a white star on his forehead and his ankles were white He was a good–looking and stately creature, but unfortunately for me, the love was not reciprocated as once when I went too close to his stall to feed him carrots, he nearly bit me hard with his large, yellow teeth. The syce sitting close by drove him back and I hastily withdrew from the stables. We had arrived in Rungpore during the winter months, the weather was glorious, cold and crisp during the nights and early mornings, the days pleasantly warm and sunny. Willie and I rose early, changed, breakfasted and were out in the garden with our hoops which had been given to us by Mother. We rolled our hoops, striking them all the time with a little mallet, faster and faster I ran, my pigtails flying, Willie usually followed on his short fat legs. It was a great game with us. In Rungpore, I came much closer to both my older brothers. They attended the local zila school and now I was old enough for them to take notice of me. After school hours, they returned home for tea and generally went back to play games, mainly football and hockey, with the boys. Very often I heard Father reprimanding them for indifferent results in their monthly examinations, but I do not think they made much effort to improve in their work. When Hastings House was started in Calcutta as a public school with Mr. Papworth as the Principal, both my brothers, Nidhi and Dhiren, were sent there. Unlike Noakhali, in Rungpore we had plenty of friends, there were Mr. & Mrs. S.K. Malik whom we called Kaka [father’s younger brother] and Kakima [father’s younger brother’s wife] and their four 34

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sons, Sisirda14, Niharda, Khachuda and Asok. Much later in life, Kakima had a daughter whom we all called Khuku. Kaka, also a member of the ICS, was the District and Sessions Judge at Rungpore. Our parents became life–long friends and so did we children. Along with my brothers Niharda and Khachuda were sent to Hastings House. All the boys had a healthy respect for their principal who wielded the cane effectively when necessary. Poor Dhirenda, the youngest of my three older brothers, was the greatest sufferer. Mr. & Mrs. S.K. Dutt were also posted at Rungpore. He was the civil engineer. Mashima [Mrs. Dutt]15 was the daughter of the well–known nationalist leader, Ananda Mohan Bose. Our parents were fast friends, and so were we with their daughter Bulu (Meera). Mashima would make the most delicious sweets at home and it was always a treat for Willie and me whenever we went over to play with Bulu to be given her home–made sweets. Willie, Bulu and I had other friends as well, Barbara, Francis and Ivan Cornish, the children of the Superintendant of Police. We all had tuttoos [indigenous ponies] and with grooming and good food, the ponies looked quite smart. My unfortunate pony was blind of one eye, so he was called Kana (the blind one) and because the syce made fun of him, he was specially dear to me. Every evening after tea we met at our house, and went out for long rides, always with a couple of syces in tow. All of us looked forward to our evening rides. We went across fields or on kutcha roads, most of the times our ponies trotted, rarely galloping as the syces would restrain us, as it meant their running alongside the pony. Willie and Ivan, the two youngest, were often left behind and we had to halt our ponies, until they caught up with us. The syces had strict orders to bring us home before sunset.

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T O U R I N G W I T H FATH E R

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hilst in Rungpore, I first came to know my cousins, aunts and uncles both from my father’s and mother’s families. The most frequent visitor was Bhulada, my Sejomashi’s [mother’s third sister Amala] eldest son, who came every winter to spend his X’mas vacation with us. He was a great favourite of my parents and of all of us; full of fun and laughter, he lived a carefree existence without a thought for the future. When Bhulada came, a tent was pitched close to the house and all the boys lived there. Winter was the season for Father’s tours and we all accompanied him. He visited remote villages far and near and very rarely went to sub–divisional headquarters. Tents were pitched on the banks of a river or an open space surrounded by fields of mustard, vegetables and paddy; there were a few large trees to give shade to the tents. The camp consisted generally of two large double flap tents in which we lived, an open shamiana [marquee] where we had our meals and Father saw all his visitors and villagers, who came to meet him, perhaps from miles away, during the morning after breakfast, 36

Tents at a camp site

until lunch. There were several single flap tents for the servants, chowkidars [watchmen] and one for the cook house. We could see the villages at a far distance, huts clustered together, surrounded by fruit trees mainly banana, mangos and jackfruit that grew to an enormous size. On some days, Father would be away for the whole day, settling disputes, generally about land or irrigation water between villages. He rode out on a cycle followed by the local officers and returned to camp in the late afternoon or evening. The villagers appeared to be satisfied with Father’s dispensation. The dak [post] from headquarters always followed Father wherever he was, and after lunch he would have a short nap, and then sit down at his camp desk with the camp clerk next to him, steadily going through the files, sometimes till late evening. These would be dispatched back to Rungpore, and the next lot would arrive after a few days. T O U R I N G W I T H F AT H E R

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During the morning, Willie and I roamed the countryside with one of our servants or a chowkidar, gathering wild flowers or fruit which had fallen off trees. Lunch over, Willie and I had to rest, those were Mother’s orders. The boys went out shooting taking the local shikari [hunter] with them, looking for game birds. Often late in the evenings, they brought back green pigeons or teals and ducks shot at a nearby jheel [small water body]. The nights were cold, and more often than not, after sunset, a huge bonfire would be lighted, which was glorious. We all sat around, Father sipping his chhota peg [small peg of whisky], the shikari regaling us with his tales of shikar. Sometimes, Father had visitors; the local zamindar [landowner] would come to call bringing the usual dalis [baskets], filled with fruits, nuts and sweet–meats. Father would pick a few items from each basket and return the rest, much to Willie’s and my disappointment. The cold, fresh air and the exercise we had during the day would soon make Willie and me feel sleepy and ready for bed. We were given early dinner and Shama the cook always produced appetizing meals. We all looked forward to the game birds that the boys had shot and which Shama roasted with plenty of gravy, potato chips and an abundance of green vegetables. The two of us would then be sent to bed. At first, for the first few nights, I would feel nervous sleeping under canvas, but I soon got used to it. Willie, poor boy, was never happy and he would pull his camp cot as close to mine as possible and hold my hand for comfort and security. At least once a week, a large basket of vegetables would arrive from our garden in Rungpore and the peas, lettuce and radishes were soon demolished as these we could not get in camp. There was no shortage of the local murgi [chicken] which the villagers would sell us, as well as eggs, milk and the local vegetables they grew. Ready money was always welcome and it saved them the long trudge to market to sell their produce. 38

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We stayed for about a week at one camp site, then the tents would be dismantled, our luggage packed and piled on bullock carts. Shama and some of the servants and chowkidars would start off early, whilst we had breakfast: sometimes we carried our lunch with us, generally cold meat and salad. If we were passing through the local zamindar’s territory, he would invite us to lunch with him. The ladies did not appear — as they observed strict parda — so after lunch Mother took me and Willie with her and went to visit them in their part of the house. I remember well on one occasion, the zamindar’s wife wanted to give me a gift of a small golden brooch and Mother gently but firmly refused the present, saying as a civil servant’s wife, government did not permit her to accept any such gift. Our journey would be resumed in the late afternoons, Father would ride his pony, or if it was possible, he would be driving his trap with Mother, Willie and me with him. The boys would be on local ponies; sometimes if there were no roads, we went on elephant back or even in bullock carts. Frequently en route to our next camp site, we had to stop; large groups of men would be waiting patiently by the wayside to present a petition and talk to Father. It has to be remembered that in the early years of the twentieth century, the District Magistrate and Collector was solely responsible for the administration of his district. The Commissioner of the division came on tour about once in two years to the headquarters of the district, but there was very little interference. We would arrive late in the evening at our next camping ground. The tents would be pitched, hot water for a bath ready and a satisfying meal prepared by Shama, be it lunch or dinner. There would usually be the Sub–inspector of Police and other local officials to welcome Father, and if the hour be too late, they would just greet him, and ask for a time when they could meet him the next morning. Early the next morning Willie and I would be out once more exploring T O U R I N G W I T H F AT H E R

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the countryside followed by a chowkidar; it all seemed so beautiful to me. The lush green of the paddy fields, rows and rows of cabbage and cauliflower fields, the gold of the mustard, large trees with glowing red flowers of the semul and the dhak, the neem, giant peepul and banyan trees16, little red berries of which would be strewn on the ground below it. The chowkidar would point out a patch of jungle in the distance and tell us that a panther had his lair in there and that he was causing untold hardship to the people of the villages around by taking a heavy toll of their goats and sheep and as he was a big male, he did not hesitate to attack even cattle which often strayed into the jungle during the day when they were let loose to graze in the fields. The unfortunate villagers were helpless against this menace. In the distance we could see the hamlets, each group of huts surrounded by clumps of bamboo, mango and jackfruit trees, pumpkin creepers growing on the roofs of the huts, children playing in the common open space, the women busy with their daily chores. The cries of infants would reach us. In the evening a large deputation of villagers would arrive and as they had heard that Father was a keen shikari, they spoke to him about the losses almost each family had incurred by way of goats, sheep and cattle. They would request him to rid them of this menace before he completely depleted their stock. A shoot had to be organised with the help of the local shikari. Requests were sent to the local zamindars who owned elephants to send them to help beat the jungle and for an experienced one if available, for Father to ride on. The jungle was a compact area, usually the shikari knew where the panther had his lair during the day. The beaters were placed by him, some had muzzle–loading guns, others carried spears or empty kerosene tins and, if a couple of elephants could be spared, they were placed in between the beaters. The guns were placed at the opposite sections of the jungle. The shikari gave the signal for 40

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the beat to start, with wild cries and the din created by the beating of the empty tins. The leopard would sometimes not break cover till the very last, when it would spring forward with a loud roar; but his hunting days were over and there was little chance for him to escape the guns waiting for him and he would be shot by one of the boys or Father. That night there would be great jubilation in all the surrounding villages, there would be feasting and dancing, the toddy flowed freely and the drums beat till late at night. Willie and I also slept peacefully in our tent, knowing that the spotted devil was no more. X’mas eve was a great occasion for Willie and me, and we went to bed full of excitement knowing that at midnight, X’mas budha [old man, a term for Father Christmas] would bring us a present each and place it under our beds. Next morning, long before our usual time for rising, we would be out of bed and there under our beds, wonder of wonders, would be a parcel for each of us, all wrapped up in lovely crinkly red crepe paper, our stockings, hung up the night before, half full with barley sugar and toffee. I often wondered how X’mas budha knew and gave me exactly the toy I had been longing for. I would run to my parents to show them my present, full of joy, and my father would laugh, hug me and give me a kiss, whilst Mother just smiled. On one such winter tour, Sejomashi, Buri, Shanti [her daughters] and Bhulada were with us. X’mas was approaching, when Shanti told me that X’mas budha was a myth, and it was our parents who gave us the presents, and if I did not believe her, I had only to try and keep awake till midnight and I would soon know who was the donor of the presents. Buri, Shanti and I shared a tent. We went to bed as usual on X’mas eve, and I was trying my best not to fall asleep and kept on dozing fitfully, when I sensed a movement at the head of my bed. I cautiously half–opened my eyes, only to see Bhulada bend low and push a parcel under my bed; he then left the T O U R I N G W I T H F AT H E R

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tent noiselessly followed by Nidhida. I felt sad and cheated at this disclosure as I had firmly believed in Father X’mas! Unfortunately as we grew older this charming custom died out automatically. The time for Father to return to headquarters was approaching, and we were all reluctant to leave the countryside, but one morning, our suitcases were locked, the bedrolls tied, my parents bid good bye to all the officials from near and far who had come to see the Collector off, and we drove to the nearest railhead with our personal servants to return to Rungpore by train. The trap and ponies returned by a circuitous route in easy stages, so as not to tire the ponies.

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L I F E AT H O ME

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other was happy to be back home as she did not enjoy good health, being a patient of malaria. At least once a month during the hot and rainy seasons, she would suffer from an attack, fever followed by headaches and nausea that would leave her quite exhausted. Quinine was the only drug for malaria, and this she could not tolerate and it was not till years later, when Paludrine was discovered did she get any real relief from the disease. Back home we fell into our old routine. Besides, we returned to our beloved dogs, Bacchi and Brownie, both male spaniels. Brownie was far the handsomer of the two with a lovely coat of long, chocolate–coloured silky fur, white paws and a white star on his forehead. But he was naughty, running away from the house for a couple of days at a time chasing some lady love and when he returned home, he would usually be given a hiding, but it never made any difference to him. Bacchi was far more affectionate and obedient though not nearly as good–looking as Brownie and both Willie and I doted on our dogs as they were our special pets. My parents had never spoken to us about religion or given us a religious upbringing. If we misbehaved, we were corrected and told 43

never to repeat the same mistake. We were told never to lie, or to do anything that we knew to be wrong or we would not like others to do to us. I was told that I was old enough now to judge between right or wrong, and I cannot remember ever being reprimanded by my father after he had once corrected me. Poor little Willie, he was not so fortunate and often fell from grace. In Rungpore, Father rode every morning and regularly played tennis in the evening at the officers’ club. Mother very often joined him at tennis as she was a keen player herself. Sometimes Father would go to another club for tennis which was run by the non–officials. Once a week, after Father had bathed and changed following his game of tennis, they would walk across to the club in the late evenings, with a chaprasi leading, holding a kerosene lantern to light the way. They would play Bridge or read the English magazines and meet and gossip with the other officers and their wives. During our stay at Rungpore, my Sejomesho, Mr. K.B. Dutt, who had a flourishing practice as a barrister in Patna came twice or thrice to the district on cases. I always eagerly looked forward to his visits not only as Sejomashi never failed to send a present for Willie and myself, but because I genuinely loved him. He was such a loving and charming personality, always full of fun and good humour and so patient with us children. My father and he were the greatest of friends. Mesho had to sleep in and share Father’s dressing room as there was no spare bedroom. Another frequent visitor to Rungpore was Mr. Hornell who was the Director of Public Instruction of Bengal and though he could not live with us for lack of a bedroom, he stayed at the Circuit House17 and had his meals with us. We had improvised a badminton court on our front lawn and Mr. Hornell very often joined us at our games. A very distinguished visitor who came to Rungpore once was Sir Asutosh Mukherjee18. Father had a men’s garden party for him. I was playing by myself, the guests were moving about all over 44

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the lawn, when I heard a man’s deep voice, address me in Bengali “little girl, will you take me to your mother ?” I looked up to see a gigantic man standing next to me, dressed in a long black coat buttoned at the neck and wearing a white dhuti [man’s unstitched lower garment]. I was shy as a child, but I did as the gentleman asked me to, and led him to the house and asked him to be seated in the drawing room, whilst I went to call my mother. When the party was over I asked my father who the giant was. I was told he was Sir Asutosh Mukherjee, one of the greatest sons of Bengal at the time. Amongst the numerous friends my parents had in Rungpore, one was Sarat Chandra Chatterjee, the Government pleader [lawyer]. He was the elder brother of Sir Atul Chatterjee, ICS, who was one of the first among the few Indians to become a member of the Viceroy’s Council19, Saratjethamoshai, as we called him, was a frequent visitor to our home. My parents were very attached to him and Father gave him the respect due to an elder brother.

Interior of a district officer’s bungalow. The Guptas’ drawing room perhaps looked somewhat like this L I F E AT H O M E

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Jethamoshai sometimes invited us to a meal at his house. I always looked forward to going to his home, it was informal and one did not have to be on one’s best behaviour. We sat on the floor on asanas [small cloth mats] and our food was served on thalas [large steel or silver plates]. In most non–westernised middle–class families, eating seated on the floor was usual. The floor was spotlessly clean and the food delicious, cooked and served by Jethima [eldest uncle’s wife] and her daughters. It was a great treat for us. Father was on the friendliest terms with all his sub–divisional officers and they were always welcome at the house. My formal education so far was thoroughly neglected. I was sent to the Bengali Girls’ School for a short period, but Mother withdrew me saying I was being spoilt by the teachers, who were partial towards me and never corrected my faults, so my schooling came to a stop. From an early age I read English with my father, he was fond of poetry and I remember reading Longfellow and Tennyson with him. The civil surgeon’s wife, an Englishwoman, was a pianist. Mother decided that if the lady was willing to give me lessons, I should be tutored by her thrice a week. I went to her home for my lessons. Whether my teacher was good or indifferent, I was in no position to judge, but it was from these first lessons that my love for the instrument grew. Later in life, under the guidance of and tuition by an inspired, talented and beautiful nun, to be a good pianist became a passion with me.

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S H I L L O N G D AYS

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uring his tenure in Rungpore, Father had a most beautiful property in Shillong [in Assam]. The house was called Uplands and the grounds covered almost a whole hill–top. Shillong was prone to frequent earthquakes and so the majority of houses had walls of ekhra, a species of bamboo which grew in the Assam hills, plastered over with mud and lime and white washed. The roofs were of corrugated iron painted red. Our house had a front room with tinted glass panes of different hues in the windows and the room looked so attractive when the sun shone through these. This was our play and work room. The drawing and dining rooms led off from the bedrooms. The drawing room had a large bay window with bead curtains — beads large and small in assorted colours strung close together, hanging from the top of the windows down to the wooden seats built around the bay window. We loved our home, and though there was a permanent mali cum chowkidar to look after the property, as he did very little by way of gardening, there were no formal flower beds, just a few in front of the house which had seasonal annuals. Actually, the grounds were too large for one man to manage. There was a red gravelled tennis 47

J.N. Gupta with brother–in–law, Ajoy Dutt and wife, Bina Taken on site at Uplands by a professional photographer who must have supervised the stylised pose

court, apple and pear trees as well as naspati [local pear] and plum. I remember a couple of strawberry beds also. The whole compound was full of large pine trees. After school hours, Willie and I spent a great deal of our time gathering pine cones which lay scattered on the ground, to burn in the fireplace after sunset. The flames of the fire had a blue tinge and the pine cones, as they crackled and burned, gave out a pleasant resinous smell. Our ayah in Shillong was a Khasi [a dominant tribe of the region] woman, always cheerful and smiling. We spent many a wonderful holiday in Shillong, and later, during schooldays20, it was almost a punishment for me to be kept indoors instead of being out in the sunshine under blue skies, wandering amongst the wild roses and ferns that grew in abundance in our compound. It was in Shillong that both Willie and I were admitted to the convent. The first couple of years we lived in our beautiful home Uplands and attended school. Mother was with us. For the winter holidays, we would go down to Rungpore. When Father took his annual leave and the boys’ school closed for the summer vacations, they would join us in Shillong and on occasion, some of our cousins joined us as well. We would be a large and merry party. There are delightful spots in Shillong for picnics. Elephant Falls in upper Shillong was my favourite. Then there are the Spread Eagle Falls around which lilies of the valley and maidenhair ferns grew in profusion and the Bishop and Cotton Falls which one had to view across a chasm21. Sundays and Thursdays used to be holidays for Willie and me. We would go for picnics carrying lunch with us and always plenty of fruit and drinking water and spend the whole day out at one of these beauty spots. I never tired of sitting still and gazing at the cascading waters as they fell over the rocks. Except for the roar of the falls and the song of wild birds, there was complete silence in the jungle. Elephant Falls in upper Shillong was particularly lovely as it had two drops, and large tree ferns grew on S H I L L O N G D AY S

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Ward Lake in the 1940s with the curved wooden bridge

its banks trailing their feathery leaves in the water. We would return home in the late evenings, tired and happy after the day’s outing and eat an enormous tea, after which it was usually bed for Willie and me. Shillong was one of the prettiest hill stations of India, unspoilt because it was not on a rail head and did not attract too many visitors. The local inhabitants, the Khasis, were charming people, happy and always smiling The hillsides were covered with tall pine trees, ferns of all varieties including the delicate maidenhair and silver ferns that grew in profusion, especially near water; wild roses and dog roses grew on bushes, lilies of the valley and other types of lilies grew wild. Their sweet scent pervaded the whole atmosphere. The town itself with its red gravelled roads and hedges of May flower or hydrangeas, both blue and pink, and commodious and comfortable bungalows, each with its own garden generally hidden 50

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from the road by long drives, was most attractive. The Ward Lake at Shillong was a great attraction. Weeping willows grew close to the water, their branches bending low and trailing in the water. There was — and still is — a white wooden curved bridge spanning the two sides of the lake. It was our great joy to stand at the centre of the bridge and look down at the deep waters below, watching the fat fish swimming around and being fed by visitors. Exotic trees were planted on the hillsides specially the magnolia which had white moon–like flowers with thick petals and a heady smell — even the dark green leaves had a velvety shine on them. Gardenias grew to an enormous size and in those days malis were plentiful and they saw to it that no visitors disobeyed orders and desecrated the lawns and flowers. The Khasi women, though large numbers were converts to Christianity, always wore their traditional dress22. Their homes were neat and clean and generally had curtains and a few flowerpots on the window sills. The Khasis believed in snake worship — the Nag Raj Puja — but they never spoke about it as the rituals required the blood of a human being drawn from under the nails of the fingers and toes of the victim. All this information I got from my ayah, after a great deal of persuasion and pleading. I believe only a certain sect of the people carried out this secret worship. On certain days of the year, your Khasi servants, unless they were living in quarters in your compound, would give you notice that on that day, they would be leaving for their homes long before sunset. It was a very genuine belief and fear amongst the Khasis that the Nag Raj had to be appeased with milk and human blood. Today perhaps the Nag Raj worship has died down like so many other rites and customs, and is a thing of the past. One night in Shillong, during the second year of the First World War, we heard a whirring noise of a machine, high above us in the sky. We rushed out of doors and saw far above a dark object with two twinkling red lights. It was the first aeroplane that I had seen. S H I L L O N G D AY S

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One day Father told us that it had become impossible for him to maintain two establishments with Dada at Oxford and that he was being forced to sell Uplands. It made me terribly unhappy to know that we were going to lose our beautiful home, but there was no alternative. The next year I was sent up again to Shillong to continue my studies in charge of my governess Miss Riddles, an Irish girl, to whom I grew very attached. She paid great attention to my mode of speech and table manners. We lived in a boarding house. I was very unhappy at school, there was a great deal of difference made between the Indian and Anglo–Indian girls23. The climax was reached when all the Indian girls were put into one class. On morning, a visitor came to the school and she was brought into our classroom and was told by the accompanying nun that this was their Indian class. Young as I was, I felt the indignity of our position. I came from a home where no difference was made between Indian and European visitors. When my mother came up during the summer months to stay with us, mentioning the above incident, I told her that I was unhappy at school. Lila, the daughter of K.C. De, a senior member of the ICS, was a great friend and schoolmate of mine. Mrs. De and Mother went to see Mother Superior and they objected strongly to the distinction made between the Anglo–Indian and Indian students. It also so happened that we were all non–Christians. The British Raj was too firmly entrenched in India at that period for much notice to have been taken of Mother’s and Jhunuma’s [Mrs De’s] protest; however there was a slight improvement in the behaviour of the nuns and teachers towards us. Miss Riddles left me at the end of the year. She was homesick and wanted to return to Ireland. We both felt the parting a great deal.

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EX C I T E M E N T AT S CH OOL

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hen Hastings House in Calcutta was closed down, both Nidhida and Dhirenda were admitted to St. Edmund’s College24, in Shillong. No discrimination was made there between the Indian and non– Indian students and both my brothers were very happy at school. They participated in all the school sports. Nidhida was a good hockey player and was always chosen to be in the team when a match was being played against another school. One morning at school whilst we were at class, we were told that one of the [Irish Christian] Brothers at St. Edmund’s had shot a tiger. There was great excitement, the school was closed so that the students could go across to St. Edmund’s to have a look at the dead animal. Apparently, two young boys were playing in the junior games’ ground, when they saw a tiger bounding along, leisurely making his way towards a pine forest behind the college [school] buildings; one of the youngsters fainted, the other child, terrified, ran into a building, calling out ‘tiger, tiger’. One of the Brothers who had a gun, without asking the child for further explanation, quickly loaded his weapon and rushed outside. True enough, there was the 53

tiger loping along in broad day light, close to the pine forest by then. The Brother, with great coolness of mind, ran a little ahead, steadied himself, and then shot the animal dead. I, along with some of my friends, went across to St. Edmund’s to have a look at the animal. He did not seem very large to me and must have been a cub three–quarters grown. How a tiger had arrived in the midst of Shillong town in broad daylight, without anyone noticing him, was a mystery no one could solve. After this incident, wild rumours floated around the town, that his mate had been seen, and was heard moaning at night for her lost companion as she roamed round the less congested areas of Shillong town. People were chary of moving out of their houses after dark. Shops closed early, servants left for their homes well before sunset. We were particularly careful about our two dogs, Brownie and Bachhi, and kept them chained indoors before dusk, and did not release them until the sun was well up the next morning. We were living at this time in a rented house with a Mrs. Gordon, whom we all detested; she was in charge of the housekeeping and of us. The dislike was mutual — except for Willie, for whom Mrs. Gordon had a soft corner. Fortunately for us, this state of affairs did not last long, for Mother who was keeping indifferent health came up to Shillong. Father thought that a long spell of rest in the hills would do her good. My poor parents — what a lot of money they spent on our education and got so little in return. In 1918, during the First World War, Father had to go to England with Lord Sinha25 — who was then a member of the War Cabinet — as his Secretary. We were up in Shillong and so was Mother. The German submarines were very active in the Mediterranean Sea. Young as I was, I realised the risk of the voyage, though as he would be travelling with a member of the War Cabinet, from Port Said onwards, their ship would have the protection of two accompanying destroyers. Father had come up to Shillong to stay with us for a 54

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few days before leaving for England. The time for his departure was drawing close, my eyes were seldom dry, though I tried my best to suppress my tears before my parents. The day dawned on which Father would be leaving early in the morning. We all accompanied him to the motor stand, a car had been reserved to take him to Pandua [the railhead]. I was standing by his side, trying hard to prevent my tears from spilling over. An English Colonel with his wife and young daughter came up to Father and asked if he would allow him to occupy the front seat of his car as he could find no other conveyance. The officer had been suddenly recalled from his leave and had no time to make seat reservations. Father replied that he would be very happy to have him travel with him. There was no question of payment as Father had already paid for the reservation of the whole car. The officer was returning to the front. As the time came to leave, after saying good bye to all of us and kissing me, Father stepped into the car. The Colonel also took leave of his family, he embraced his wife and daughter; how bitterly the child wept, she clung to her father with her arms round his neck, kissing him over and over again. The father had to forcibly remove his child and hand her over to her mother. Sad as I was, the child’s distress affected me even more deeply. She knew her father was returning to the front, to face the enemy’s guns and bombs. The senseless brutality of war was brought home to me very forcefully, witnessing that young child’s grief. I often wondered if she ever saw her Daddy again. Father remained in Rungpore for about four years. The majority of the people in the district were Muslims, but right through those years I do not remember a single incident of communal disturbance except one. The festival of Saraswati Puja was approaching, the boys from the zila school came to collect a donation from Father as usual for the celebration of the Puja which they did with great zest and enthusiasm. In the evening, some of the boys came to the E X C I T E M E N T AT S C H O O L

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house to inform Father that the Goddess had been lifted from her pedestal by some Muslim students and carried to one of the latrines and dumped down there. Father accompanied by the boys went across to the school immediately; he returned late at night. What punishment was meted out to the miscreants, I do not know, but Father remained preoccupied and depressed for several days after this incident. My parents had both Muslim and Hindu friends and they were all equally welcome to the house. What Father considered as his greatest achievement in Rungpore was the creation and building of the Rungpore College26. The College building was certainly artistic and well constructed, standing in spacious grounds and had a well–ventilated and comfortable hostel as well for the boys. The Muslim community specially were unanimous in their gratitude to Father for having constructed and started a college which would give their boys an opportunity for higher studies. This was way back in 1917–18.

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ON TO DACCA

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ather was transferred from Rungpore to Dacca in the beginning of the year 1919 as District Magistrate and Collector, but after a few months as Collector, he was made Commissioner of the Dacca division 27. Ramna was the official part of the city where all the officers had their residences. The University of Dacca was also in Ramna, as well as the officers’ club. It was a beautiful part of Dacca, like a garden town, with wide roads lined by majestic trees, well–built houses with large compounds, lovely gardens, and long driveways leading up to the homes. Rungpore was typical of a district headquarters but Ramna, with old Dacca, was a city. In Dacca a crisis arose because the club did not admit Indians as full members. Father refused to join except as a full member. In spite of all the persuasions of the officers to join as an honorary member, he remained adamant and never joined the club. I cannot recall any other Indian holding a senior position in Dacca. It was very much a preserve for the English officers. Dada had returned from Oxford after having taken an honours degree from Baliol and joined the Bengal Nagpur Railways. He took his first leave after a year and came to Dacca to spend it with 57

The Guptas’ home in Dacca

us. This was the first time in my young life that I really came to know my eldest brother. I must have been fourteen or fifteen years old then. The Magistrate’s house in Dacca was solidly constructed. A two–storied building with large rooms and deep verandas, the house was partly furnished. Mother’s bedroom upstairs had a bay window which overlooked the front garden and tennis court. There was a huge peepul tree in the driveway close to the house, under which there were two graves, obviously of some pirs [Muslim holy men]. Every evening, an old greybeard came and lighted two small lamps on each grave and recited a prayer. No one disturbed him or went near when he was at his devotions, and he in turn was always very respectful towards Father. We did not change our house when Father became Commissioner. Mother said we were very comfortable where we were and it was quite unnecessary to shift to the Commissioner’s residence. Abdul, our faithful servant from Rungpore, never came with us to Dacca 58

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but Hamid did and so did father’s Oriya bearers who remained in service with us for several years. Mother engaged a most excellent cook, I think he was a Dacca Christian; puddings and sweets were his speciality. My parents were asked out at least once a week to dinner or lunches and so to return the hospitality they received, there used to be a dinner party at home at least once a fortnight for ten or twelve people. The table would be beautifully laid with Mother’s silver and glassware, a round bowl as a centre piece artistically arranged with flowers, sweet dishes filled with delicious sweets and fudge the cook had prepared. I would always sneak down the back stairs just before the guests arrived and pinch a few of the sweets from the table. We had a tennis court in our garden. Father was a keen tennis player and as he had not joined the club, tennis was played three or four times a week on our court. There were invariably enough players to form a four, especially when my brothers and cousins were at Dacca. Mother would come down and watch the game. There were cane chairs a little removed from the court for the non–players and eats were laid out on a table with a servant in attendance. I was just a beginner at tennis and had to be content with a few knocks at the ball with one of my brothers or Father before all the players assembled. I loved watching the others play and sometimes the sets were hotly contested. In Ramna, my piano lessons were continued and the wife of a principal of one of the colleges was my tutor. She was an Englishwoman, charming and good–looking. I cannot remember taking my lessons with her very seriously, as to her the piano was an instrument on which pretty little pieces could be played, but that was not enough for me. However, my lessons continued until we left Dacca. In those far off days, one of the main duties of a District Magistrate was flood control and to try and stop the spreading of epidemics of cholera and small–pox. When an epidemic broke ON TO DACCA

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J.N.Gupta in his middle years

out in any part of the district, Father would at once leave for the affected area. For the prevention of small–pox spreading, there was the anti–small–pox vaccine but segregation was necessary, and it was a difficult task to make the villagers realize this. They did not like to report a case of small–pox or cholera in their families to the local doctor as they knew that the patient would be removed at once to the nearest hospital, to the segregation ward. So the 60

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disease spread until harsh measures had to be enforced, all the bedding and clothes of the invalid burnt, the patient removed by force if necessary to an isolation ward, and the villagers not affected, vaccinated. Sometimes temporary open sheds with thatched roofs were put up to house the sick. Cholera was even more difficult to prevent from spreading, as there was no anti–cholera vaccine then, and no known cure for the disease. Patients had to be segregated as quickly as possible even though it was always a difficult problem to get relatives to agree to allow their loved ones to be removed. There were never sufficient doctors and certainly no nurses, so the local officers and doctors guided by the District Magistrate rendered as much help as possible until the peak of the epidemic was over. Floods were an annual feature in Dacca but they never assumed the same magnitude that they do today; the Meghna and the Padma, among the widest rivers in the sub–continent, flowed through the Dacca division, apart from numerous smaller rivers that flowed placidly during the summer months but became swollen torrents during the monsoons. During floods villages were inundated, paddy fields and jute plantations went under water. Food and shelter had to be provided to the villages, marooned villagers were rescued by country boats and brought to safety zones. The local officials, with the help of the police and local volunteers, handled the situation. On one occasion, I accompanied my father as he went on inspection to visit a flood affected area. We drove a part of the way in our trap, and then walked a fair distance on a bund [raised embankment] and vast sheets of water lay on both sides of it. On either side we could see inundated villages. The water had entered the huts and risen half way up the trunks of the large trees, and stacked hay on bamboo pole lofts, were in danger of being swept away. It was a most distressing sight with bodies of cattle and goats floating in the water. ON TO DACCA

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We walked for a mile or so and at last came to a small camp of choldaris [single flap tents] pitched on the bund as well as shelters built of palm fronds and cut bamboos. Goverment officers and local Congress volunteers were housed in the choldaris and the evacuated villagers in the temporary shelters. Quantities of grain lay in one of the tents and food was being cooked in large cauldrons on open fires. Father spoke to both the officers and volunteers and asked them to work jointly so as to give the maximum aid to the villagers. There were complaints that some of the villagers would not leave their homesteads, even though their huts were in imminent danger of collapsing due to flood water having entered their homes.

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Kamala, Monica’s Boromashi

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EN T E RTA I N M E N T AT H OME AND O N T H E R I VE R

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ne year the floods had been particularly bad and food, clothing and shelters were urgently needed for the flood victims. Mother decided to stage a play in order to raise money. My cousin Umadi28, (my eldest aunt, Kamala, Mrs. P.N. Bose’s29 youngest daughter), Sejomashi’s (Mrs. K.B. Dutt) daughters, Indudi, Hashidi, Buri and Shanti all came to Dacca, to take part in the play. It was a wonderful family gathering and we had a riotous time. Umadi decided to stage Dhruva30 and she was well suited to be the director and master of ceremonies. She herself had a most beautiful, pure and flute–like voice and as she, her elder sisters and brothers — one of them being Modhu Bose31 — were always staging plays, generally Tagore’s dance dramas, during family weddings or Durga Puja festivities, it was not difficult for her to coach us. Rehearsals were held every evening at our house for about two months and later at the Town Hall where the play was to be staged. A young boy called Sushil Dey took the part of Dhruva. He had the faultless, 64

P.N. Bose, Monica’s Boromesho

pure, sweet voice that only a young boy has, and his singing was greatly appreciated. Later on in life, if I remember correctly, he became a member of the ICS. I was given the part of the second queen and Hashidi was the premier queen. I cannot recall what parts my other cousins and brothers played, but we were all in the show. About a fortnight before the play was due to be staged, Modhuda arrived in Dacca to help Umadi and generally supervise and correct any faults and give overall direction. The rehearsals took three to four hours every evening and I remember feeling quite exhausted by dinner time. At last the great day arrived. We were all excited and I was terribly nervous, terrified of forgetting the lines of the part I had to play. All the seats had been sold out: it was a large hall. From the time the curtain went up, thanks to the strenuous coaching of both Modhuda and Umadi, none of us faltered on the stage. All was well and we were told the play had been a great success. More important than anything else, Mother had collected a large sum of money for the benefit of the flood–stricken people. My cousins stayed on in Dacca with us for a couple of weeks after the staging of Dhruva. We were so many girls and boys in the house that we did not have to look for entertainment outside. We played tennis in the evenings and badminton on the broad front veranda after lunch. A young English civilian just out from England was staying with us. My parents paid no special attention to him, he was treated as one of us. In the afternoons when we played badminton, he would want to and sometimes did join us. We warned him that one day Father would notice his absence at court, and so he did, in the midst of an exciting game, we heard Father’s grim voice from behind saying “why are you not at work ?” We girls all fled, leaving the unfortunate youth to answer Father’s question as best he could. In the evening he accused us of deserting him. We reminded him of our warning. However this incident put a stop to our afternoon 66

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badminton and we were told very firmly to remain in our rooms after lunch till tea time. Shortly afterwards, my cousins left for their own homes and the house seemed strangely quiet after so much past excitement; one missed the sound of voices, laughter and gaiety, but we soon fell back into the routine of our daily life. Winter in Dacca was approaching, the most glorious part of the year, the season for touring. Dacca being a land of rivers, Father did most of his tours by launch. We travelled in comfort as the launch had a side boat attached. We always took with us our cook and a table servant, non–perishable food stuff to last the whole trip and a certain amount of green vegetables, bread, butter and eggs. We arrived at the landing ghat [raised river embankment] where the launch was waiting, and after we and our servants, luggage etc. had got on board, the serang [head of the crew] would come to Father and ask his permission to leave. The engine had already been started and we could hear the noise of the chugging machine as we slowly steamed out into the middle of the river. The launch had a small upper deck with a canvas top and rope railings, cane chairs to sit on, and the steering wheel had two brass instruments on each side of the wheel through which the serang gave instructions to the engine room below. No sooner were we on board, Willie and I would fly up the wooden steps leading to the upper desk to watch the serang manoeuvre the launch competently to midstream, avoiding the dozens of fishing boats and larger vessels carrying goods or passengers. When all was clear and we were in midstream, he [the serang] would signal to the engine room below, “full steam ahead”. Cruising down the wide rivers, both the Padma and the Meghna, so placid and calm during the winter months, so terrifying during the stormy seasons, the khalasis [sailors] told me that the velocity of the wind would be so strong and the waves so high, that no steamer or launch would venture out. When the serang felt a storm was brewing, not to be caught unawares, the crew would always E N T E RTA I N M E N T AT H O M E A N D O N T H E R I V E R

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Country boats on the Padma, late 19th century

seek shelter and remain anchored at some landing stage until the storm blew over. The country boats sought safety in small rivers or creeks leading off from the main river. Even during the winter months both the Padma and the Meghna at some points were so wide that if the launch was cruising along close to one bank, the opposite bank would be visible as a mere line of green trees. The launch and side boat were extremely comfortable; the side boat had two cabins with berths and a bathroom; they both had windows, the front room could be used as a sitting area as it had comfortable chairs and folding berths. The launch had one large room which was used as a dining room and Father’s study; it also had an attached bathroom. Though the scene never changed, I never tired of gazing at the placid waters of the river and its traffic, small fishing boats with gaily–coloured sails, larger flat–bottomed boats carrying goods rowed by about four to six oars. If the breeze was strong, a couple of sails would be hoisted one on top of the 68

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Ajoy, Monica’s Mama

other on the mast, and the boats would be sailing at full speed. Occasionally we saw even larger boats with a high prow and high sterns and a thatched cabin as living quarters with several people on board; obviously these were meant for deeper waters, and were going on to the Sunderbans. We passed steamers with large side boats which resembled godowns [storage areas] attached on either side. I was told they were carrying raw jute to the Calcutta Port, for the jute mills situated on the banks of the Hooghly. Sometimes our launch would steam close to one of the banks and I could see villages near the riverside, some further away, a cluster E N T E RTA I N M E N T AT H O M E A N D O N T H E R I V E R

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of huts surrounded by large fruit trees and their adjoining fields of mustard, paddy and green vegetables stretching as far as the eyes could see. Occasional villages had ghats leading down to the river, and often I saw comely maidens and young girls coming down the steps for a bath and for carrying water back in large brass vessels. Some were already in the river, bathing along with children, splashing water on each other and thoroughly enjoying themselves; except for the very young, they could all swim. All eyes turned towards the launch as we passed by, curiosity and wonder in large black eyes, damp black hair glistering in the sunlight, and wet clothes clinging to the shapely bodies of the young women, who would instinctively pull their saris over their heads hiding half of their faces as they noticed the khalasis on board looking at them. Our launch and side boat were painted white with a yellow funnel and looked elegant and smart. My mother loved these trips, it was so restful and beautiful and we were full of good food and quiet content. There was generally a strong breeze blowing which made it all the more pleasant. At night we would anchor near a ghat. Next morning there would be the local officers and non–official people to meet Father. He would go ashore in the jolly boat32 on inspection and not return till late afternoon, when we would anchor and steam ahead for his next destination. One of the delights of river travel was the hilsa fish we bought from the fishing boats. I have never tasted such delicious fish as the freshly caught hilsa from the Padma33. Ajoy Dutt, my mother’s only brother, would come down from Calcutta specially to join us on these winter tours of Father’s by launch. Mama [mother’s brother] was a most delightful person, intelligent, full of fun and laughter, a ready wit and an interesting companion. Unfortunately he never made use of his heritage and gifts that nature had bestowed on him34. It was a sad day for us when Father’s inspections were over and the launch turned homewards.

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CHINSURAH

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n about 1921, Father was transferred from Dacca as Commissioner of Burdwan division. The headquarters of the Commissioner was in Chinsurah, Hooghly district. Part of the journey from Dacca we did by river. Our two dogs Brownie and Bacchi were with us. Bacchi had not been well for some days and on the launch he grew steadily worse; he was old and had become very feeble. I was sitting by his side and so was Willie, slowly stroking his dying body to let him feel that we were next to him. I noticed his breathing was laborious and growing steadily worse. There was no help to be got mid–river. Faithful to the last, when I called him by his name, he tried to respond by a feeble wag of his tail, but the effort was too great, his stout heart was failing and he died soon after. I was deeply upset, Willie wept unrestrainedly. I moved away dragging Willie by the hand. The launch was halted and our faithful friend’s body was lowered into the river. It took us several days to get over our tragic loss. Brownie, though he could not speak, mourned his lost comrade by becoming listless and refusing food. He died one morning in Chinsurah, quietly without suffering. 71

Sarala and Jnanendra Nath in the garden of their Chinsurah residence

In Chinsurah the Commissioner’s residence was the old Dutch Governor’s house, built on extensive grounds at a bend of the river Ganges35. The green lawns led right down to the river side. There was a ghat whose steps led you down to the ever–flowing river. I can picture the house so clearly in my mind, dignified and solid, standing removed from all other buildings, as if brooding over its lost glory. The front entrance door was massive and led to a hall the floor of which was white marble, with twin marble stairs on either side leading to the floor above. The ceiling was high. I dare say in the Dutch Governors’ days, a chandelier hung from the ceiling with hundreds of lighted candles, casting its light on the whole hall. Two liveried sentries must have stood at the front door and the house must have been bristling with servants in their colourful liveries. Today [by which Monica meant in her childhood] it was only the 72

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Buri (Sudha Dutt), Monica’s favourite cousin

Commissioner’s residence with an old chaprasi sitting as usual on his stool at the front door. The house was constructed in such a manner that most of the rooms, specially those on the upper floor, had a delightful river breeze blowing through them night and day; the drawing room had three small balconies looking on to the river, apart from a side veranda which also faced the river. During April, May and part of June, the breeze used to be so strong that often the doors leading to the balconies remained closed, otherwise, with its force, smaller objects standing on the teapoys could be knocked off the tables. It was difficult for Mother with her limited means to furnish CHINSURAH

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such a huge house as well as the annexe attached to the main building, built by the British. Even then, it was very tastefully though simply done up. Two twin side lamps lighted up both the stairways. Two large tiger skins adorned each wall, their massive mounted heads resting on flat wooden headrests. All the rooms downstairs had white marble floors and those upstairs were of red cement. The dining room, Father’s office, the boys’ room and the personal assistants’ rooms were downstairs; the drawing room and our bedrooms upstairs. Father had his dressing room in the annexe. It was at Chinsurah that I came to know my uncles, aunts and cousins well, both from my paternal and maternal branches of the family. During the weekends, the house was always full, friends and relatives would come visiting us. Chinsurah was so close to Calcutta, yet so delightfully restful and peaceful once you got there. Dear faithful Abdul rejoined us at Chinsurah as the cook. His beard was no longer black but had streaks of grey. Hamid was the table boy and Father had his old Oriya bearer and I an ayah, the usual masalchi, gardeners and a sowar [groom] for Father’s riding pony completed our personal servants. Later when Father bought a car — a second–hand Austin — we had a driver called Jatinbabu36. The servants’ quarters and the kitchen were well–built, large rooms, well–ventilated with a wide veranda running the whole length of the quarters. Buri, my cousin, spent long holidays with us at Chinsurah. She and I became very close and our affection and friendship for each other has lasted to this day37. I had a country pony and Buri rode the cycle well. Every morning we went out for long rides, I on my tuttoo and Buri on her cycle. One morning, we had ridden out rather far; it was a hot day so we decided to dismount and rest a while under the shade of a tree before turning homewards. We had let the pony graze on the green grass; soon, the time came for us to return home, but it was in vain! The pony would not allow us to catch him, no sooner 74

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did we come close and try to get a hold on the reins, off he would run. This went on for about an hour, we were growing desperate and also very tired. It was getting late and we knew we would be in serious trouble once we reached home. By this time we were close to the Grand Trunk Road, when help came to us from an unexpected quarter. There were three young men drinking tea at a tea stall and seeing the predicament we were in, one of them got up and came to our rescue. He caught the tuttoo without much difficulty and helped me to mount him. We thanked him profusely; he looked at me and asked “are you not the Commissioner’s daughter?” I nodded my head in assent; he then asked if my father knew we rode so far away from home. He advised us to return without delay as this area was lonely and not safe for young girls to be in, and very kindly led my tuttoo by the reins until we were on the right road homewards38. We found Father waiting for us at the gate which led to the driveway, he had some policemen standing by his side. We were severely reprimanded and thus ended our morning excursions. The tennis courts of the officers’ club were next door to our house. Buri and I were taken there by Father at about 3.30 in the afternoons to practice tennis and be instructed by the marker. Buri was always far better at the game than I was; on the days that we were particularly bad and could barely hit a ball, Father, in disgust, would ask us to come off the court and return home. Father, always a great tennis enthusiast, discovered the Banerjee brothers. They were clerks in the Commissioner’s office and reputed to be good players. They were invited to come and give an exhibition match at the club; who their opponents were I cannot remember. The boys came wearing shirts and dhutis, they played bare foot and gave an excellent account of themselves. The District Magistrate and Collector, an Englishman well–known for his anti–Indian feelings, could not have liked to see two Bengali clerks being invited by the Commissioner to come and play tennis at the officers’ club. CHINSURAH

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Tournaments were arranged and it was at Chinsurah that I saw Shimidzu and Okomato39, the top Japanese players. No Indians could compete with them in those years. Miss Okomato took part in the tournaments played at the South Club in Calcutta. I watched Indira, the beautiful Maharani of Cooch Behar, play barefoot in a sari at the club40. Leela Dayal was India’s number one lady player for a good few years. Then came Jenny Sanderson, a young girl with two plaits, who so gracefully and easily started to win the ladies’ singles title yearly until she retired to get married. Amongst the men, the player I admired most was Ghaus Mohammad Khan for his easy style and splendid fighting spirit. He was India’s number one ranked player for several years and became the first Indian to make it to Wimbledon. Krishna Prasad, a beautiful base line player,41 always took part in the tournaments. He was a member of the ICS. Dilip Bose, also became India’s number one and played in the Davis Cup as well42. I speak of tennis as it was fifty or forty five years ago, when it was played as a sport and had not become commercialized.

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y formal education as usual was completely neglected. I was sent to the convent in Chandernagore [possibly St Joseph’s Convent], but what I studied there was negligible. I read English with my father in the evenings which meant a lot to me and I had a tutor for Bengali. Father had bought for me a Rachals upright piano, an instrument with a deep mellow tone and it became very precious to me. I was being given piano lessons at the Chandernagore convent. Father had taken six months’ leave and my parents went abroad for a holiday. It was decided that I should be sent to the Darjeeling convent [possibly Loreto Convent] as a boarder, and though the nuns and girls of my age group were very kind to me, I could not adjust myself to a boarder’s life. I was unhappy and homesick. My father came up to Darjeeling to bid me goodbye before leaving for Europe; seeing me unsettled and unhappy he was distressed. Col. N.P. Sinha43 with his younger daughter, Mrs. Amar Sen and her two sons were living in a rented house in Darjeeling. Father knew him well and asked if he would have me stay with them for six months. He readily agreed, so I became another member of his family and 77

attended the convent as a day scholar. It was at the convent that I first met Mother Germaine, and though a brilliant pianist and teacher, she was mistress of schools, and taught the piano to only a few selected pupils. I was appearing for the Junior Grade of the Trinity College of Music. Father had hired a piano for me to practise on at home before leaving for Europe. A month before the due date for the examination, all pupils appearing for examinations had to play before Mother Germaine the music required for their respective grades. The students appearing for the Junior Grade were lined up outside the music room where Mother Germaine was seated. One by one the pupils were called in. When my turn came, I walked in slowly, feeling exceedingly nervous. Mother smiled at me, I had come to know her well during the two months I had been a boarder. I had great regard and affection for her, but still I knew she would judge me on pure merit. Mother sat upright in her chair on the right hand side of the piano and asked me to commence playing. I started diffidently with my scales, after which I looked round at Mother, she signalled to me to proceed with my studies and piece, her beautiful face displayed no emotions whilst I played. I sat still after I had gone through my whole repertoire. Mother then very gently told me that it was no use my appearing for the examination, that I had been incorrectly taught and would fail the exam. I was terribly upset for by this time I had developed a love for the piano. The same evening after school hours, Mother sent for me and told me that she had decided that I would become one of her pupils; she must have sensed my unhappiness and bitter disappointment after she had told me in the morning that I was unfit to appear for the Junior Grade. I was overjoyed: being young, the hope and delight I felt at being chosen as one of her pupils must have shown clearly on my face. 78

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A view of Darjeeling town with Kanchenjunga in the background, c. 1940s

Mother Germaine was an exacting teacher and a strict disciplinarian. I had to commence from the very beginning — the technique of holding my hands correctly on the key board, the unending scales I had to practice, when a new study or a piece had to be learnt. I was told to practice each hand separately until my teacher was satisfied, only then was I allowed to play the study or piece as it should be played, both the bass and treble together. The loud pedal I was seldom allowed to press, unless specially marked on the music. The notes must not be blurred; each note should be heard separately and distinctly, I was told. In other words, Mother demanded perfection which was not easy to obtain. After each lesson she would tell me, “you must be both finger and note perfect, so that at the examination even though nervous, you should not falter”. The year after I had become Mother Germaine’s pupil, she made me skip the Junior Grade and appear for the Intermediate. I passed with honours; the following year I appeared for the Senior MOTHER GERMAINE – AND GIPPY

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Grade in which I got 92 per cent. The remarks of my examiner on my mark sheet were flattering. I was thrilled. Next followed the Higher Local, a stiff examination, in which I did equally well. The indifference with which my family took my achievements hurt me, except perhaps Father who was always happy and appreciated my mark cards when I showed them to him, specially the remarks of the examiner. I would have liked to have the piano placed in my bedroom, where I could practice undisturbed, but Mother thought the piano should be placed in the drawing room, which gave me, no privacy and a certain amount of distraction whilst practising. Fortunately for me, Mother Germaine had become head of the department of Music at Loreto House, Calcutta. Father was re–posted to Chinsurah as Commissioner of Burdwan division. In order to continue with my music lessons with Mother, I first had to cross the Ganges in a small country boat which used to be brought to our own ghat; the river was almost two miles wide at the bend in front of the Commissioner’s house. In calm weather I used to enjoy the crossing of the river, sitting on a stool and gazing and listening to the lapping of the water as our little boat glided forward. The sky was a deep blue and the early morning sun felt pleasantly warm and soothing as it fell over my body. Towards the end of May and beginning of June, before the convent closed for the summer holidays, the weather changed; on some days, even in the mornings there was a strong breeze, dark heavy clouds covered the sky, the river was choppy, the water grey and brooding. Both my parents would be standing by the ghat as I stepped on to the boat with some hesitation followed by a chaprasi. Father would repeatedly ask the boatmen if they thought the crossing would be safe. They invariably replied that if they did not think so, they would never venture out. Once across the river I walked through the bazaar to the Naihati railway station and caught a local train to Sealdah, the chaprasi accompanying me in a third–class 80

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compartment. From Sealdah I would take a thicca gharry [horse carriage] and drive to my Dada Sudhi’s house — he was posted in Calcutta at that time and had a flat at Lower Rawdon Street — rest for a while and have an early lunch and then drive to Loreto House in a gharry for my lesson. I felt tired in the steamy heat and wondered if it was worth while continuing with the piano. I was very apprehensive of the progress I was making with just one lesson a week. I felt I would never pass the examination, but my faith and love for my teacher was such that I felt I had to persevere to the best of my ability just for the trust she had in me. I was sixteen and a few months old when I sat for the Licentiate examination of Trinity College. I did not cover myself with glory, but just managed to pass. I was thankful even for that. In spite of my poor marks, the examiner told my teacher that I should never give up the piano and should proceed abroad for further tuition on the instrument. The very next year father was transferred to Calcutta as Commissioner of Presidency division. What a pity, I thought, this transfer had not come a year earlier; I felt sure I would have given a better account of myself at the final examination if I could have had the usual three lessons a week from my teacher. The respect and love I felt for Mother Germaine has not diminished with the years, she played a very important part in the moulding of my character. Though we were so close to each other, never once did she speak to me about Christianity, she respected my religion as much as I did hers. On one of my parents’ visits abroad, my mother brought for her a beautiful ivory–coloured crucifix from Italy — though not made of ivory, it was very lovely — and Mother was very touched with the gift. Mother Germaine was beautiful both in spirit and in looks: tall, statuesque of figure with a face like a Greek goddess. My father had taught me to respect all religions, he did not think it was necessary to go to a temple to worship God. The daily life MOTHER GERMAINE – AND GIPPY

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I led should be my religion. One could worship God anywhere, in your own home, or sitting on the banks of a river, in forests or just under a blue sky, he told me. I remember when very dispirited whilst working for the Licentiate, I would go and stand on one of the balconies at Chinsurah, just looking at the grand, wide river, which flowed so close by our house; the eternally moving waters of the Ganges, the boats with their varied coloured sails, sailing past, the cool river breeze on my face, certainly helped a great deal in steadying my nerves and restoring confidence in myself. In Chinsurah, we had no dogs after Brownie died. A little white puppy was given to me by a friend of my parents. He had soft, long white hair, and after he had been given a bath, he looked like a ball of snow. I named him Gippy. Gippy was of unknown parentage but that made no difference to me, he became my shadow and constant companion, he was brave and had a stout heart. Father would have a daily bath in the Ganges whilst at Chinsurah. The sowar would stand by with a heavy bamboo pole, in case any help was needed, specially during high tide when the river was running fast. Gippy and I would be sitting side by side on the top step of the ghat watching Father as he bathed. During the monsoons, Father had been warned several times by the local inhabitants that the river was unsafe to bathe in, specially during high tide. The flow of the current was so strong that it very often brought in crocodiles, with which the Sunderbans abounded. Father would not listen, a bath in the Ganges was almost a ritual with him. He maintained that it was good for his body and mind. One day as usual, Gippy and I were sitting on the ghat step watching Father have his dip. It was during the rainy season, it was high tide, the river was unusually high and the current strong and swift. Suddenly, out of the water rose a round black object close to where Father was standing. For a few seconds, I seemed to have been turned to stone. Gippy, without a moment’s hesitation, 82

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jumped straight into the river and on to the round object in the water, which immediately submerged. By this time, the sowar was galvanised into action and hastily pulled Father out of the river. Then he started beating the water with his pole, shouting ‘crocodile, crocodile’. Gippy swam back to me, the servants and the chaprasis had by this time rushed up. Father himself was badly shaken, for he had had a very narrow escape. I was completely unnerved and could hardly speak. Gippy was the hero. I hugged and kissed him, the servants made a great fuss over him and there were no further rude remarks about his parentage. They even found a garland made of marigolds and hung it round his neck. Poor Gippy had to be put to sleep after a few years; like Brownie, he used to stray and he developed mange, there was no cure for this skin disease in those days. He suffered terribly from a perpetual itch and became very run down physically, so the kindest thing was to end his suffering and put him to sleep. I lost a faithful companion and friend.

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idima (Mrs. R.C. Dutt) came and stayed with us twice at Chinsurah. It always needed a great deal of persuasion to make her leave Calcutta where she lived with her son, my Mama and his large family. Father was insistent, saying a change and the cool river breeze would do her good. Didima was orthodox and whenever she came for a visit to us, a special Brahmin cook used to be employed to prepare her meals and serve them upstairs, in her own room. New cooking utensils would be bought, one of the numerous unused servants’ quarters be white washed, cleaned and turned into a kitchen for the Brahmin cook. Father supervised all her needs personally, he would not trust even Mother to do so. Didima lived in the two guest rooms of the annexe upstairs, and either Father or Mother would always be present at her meal times. I remember her as a small and dainty person, wheat–complexioned with regular features. During the winter months, she dressed in pure black silk saris and in the summer months in white borderless cotton ones. I knew her only as a widow as my grandfather had died in 1909. In the evenings Didima, my parents, Willie and I would go for long drives in the Austin, generally along the Grand Trunk 84

Road. My own feelings towards Didima were mixed. I loved her, but was extremely cautious about my speech and behaviour when in her presence, and she was not demonstrative. Didima gave the impression that no matter where she was, either with us or with her son, her home, she lived a completely detached life of her own, away from the rest of the family. Didima was very gentle. She never spoke harshly either to children or adults, and by her behaviour commanded the respect of all. The apple of her eye was her son. The person whose visits I really looked forward to was my Mejopishi. I really loved and enjoyed every minute of her stay with us, she was my father’s second older sister. A widow ever since I knew her, she observed all the strict rules of a Hindu widow. Her hair, a mass of tight gray curls, was cut short. Fair complexioned and short of stature, her features were pleasing. She resembled my father a great deal. Pishi’s needs were so few, winter or summer her dress was the same — a single garment, a thick, white borderless sari. When really cold she would throw a light moonga [a silk produced in Assam] shawl round her shoulders. I think her love for my father was more than for her own children and Father looked after all her needs. Separate from the main house but connected by a covered veranda were two rooms facing the Ganges, with a small cemented courtyard of its own. The rooms were large and airy and it was here that Pishi lived when staying with us. All she required was a cot, sheets and a blanket. Pishi ate but once a day, her mid–day meal which she prepared herself, otherwise it was fruits and milk. She always cooked one or two vegetarian dishes for Father for his lunch of which I would take a generous helping. From the day Pishi arrived for her stay with us, I would be sitting on a modha (a wicker work stool) in her courtyard, watching all her movements and carrying on an animated conversation with her in Bengali. She corrected my grammatical mistakes and the conversation was usually one–sided. F A M I LY T I E S

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It was only during her long hours of devotion to her prayers and other rituals did I leave her to herself. Mother often came and sat on a chair in the shade of a tree and spent some time talking to Pishi. Pishi made the most delicious achars [pickles] — the one I loved best was made of potatoes, fresh cauliflowers and raw peas. The potatoes and cauliflowers would be cut into small pieces and put out on a tray to dry in the sun for several days. Then she would shell the peas and along with the other vegetables, put them in a stone jar filled with mustard oil, adding salt and green chillies. The jar would be put out in the sun in the morning and allowed to stand the whole day. This continued for some weeks until Pishi thought the achar was ready for consumption; she also made achar out of ber (wild plums) and jaggery which was most appetising. I have always regretted not having learnt to cook from Pishi — my father told me several times to do so; unfortunately, I did not pay much attention to his advice. It was a sad day for me when Pishi left because I loved her dearly. She ended her last days in a small, two–roomed cottage in Puri on the beach which I think Father helped her to build, attended by her devoted daughter Khatudi, also a widow. Sailoda, Pishi’s eldest son, was a great favourite of all of us, and Father had fixed him up in a small job in the government. Whenever he got a few days’ leave, he would come to Chinsurah to spend it with us. Sailoda was very friendly with my brothers and he was devoted to my parents. Nidhida, after his return from England, joined the Indian Iron and Steel Co. He was posted to Kulti, a clean and pretty little township next to the ironworks. After a few years there, he found Sailoda a good job with the firm. Though not an officer, Sailoda was given a pleasant bungalow to live in. By this time he had a large family. My parents and I often went to spend a few days with Nidhida. Sailoda would be a constant visitor to the house, and invariably invite us over for a meal. Helped by her daughters, Bowdi 86

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Amala, Monica’s Sejomashi

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[sister–in–law, older brother’s wife] would prepare the most delicious dishes for us. Father, Mother and I would sit down to eat on asanas spread on the floor that had been washed spotlessly clean; the food would be served to us on thalas and in batis [bowls] by Bowdi and her daughters. We all did ample justice to Bowdi’s cooking, but at the same time I had an uneasy feeling as I was sure that Sailoda could ill afford the money he spent on so resplendent a meal. However, if Father refused his invitation, I knew that Sailoda would be deeply hurt. I often wondered if the children would be given a share of the dishes prepared for us. My Chunikaka, Father’s younger step–brother, worked for the Corporation of Calcutta. He lived in Barrackpore in a large two–storied house on the banks of the Ganges, outside the cantonment area. The garden was full of fruit trees, mangos, jackfruit and tall coconut palms, their slender trunks always swaying with the river breeze. Father was looked upon as the head of a large united family by his step–brothers and they all came to him for advice and help, which was freely given to the best of his ability. We went to visit Chunikaka and his family sometimes and often spent the night there. A great fuss was made over Mother and I was spoilt by Kaka and Kakima. We had the most appetising Bengali dishes prepared by Kakima and the girls. I felt quite ashamed that I could not help Kakima with the cooking as I was never sure whether I would be welcome in the kitchen; also, I was a novice at cooking. It is curious but during our childhood we brothers and sisters would always speak to each other in the pidgin Hindi spoken by many servants in Bengal; the only excuse for this that I can think of is that most of our servants were Muslims either from Bihar or Bengal. My cousins, Sejomashi’s children, spoke the same Hindi amongst themselves. I was fortunate; I had become fluent in English from an early age thanks to my charming Irish governess Miss Riddles. Father always spoke to me either in Bengali or English, 88

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Mother sometimes in Hindi or Bengali. My cousins on my paternal side spoke no Hindi at all and it is thanks to them that I learnt how to converse in Bengali. My Boromashi’s (Mrs. P.N. Bose, mother’s oldest sister) children spoke no Hindi but always conversed in Bengali. Her daughters Sejdi [later Lady Protima Mitter] and Umadi (Mrs J. De) had most beautiful voices, they specialised in Rabindra Sangeet, Tagore’s songs. Her son, Modhuda and his lovely wife Sadhona44 became well–known artistes on the Bengali stage. Sejomashi (Mrs K.B. Dutt) invited me and Dhirenda to her home in Patna to spend a month or so during the winter months and we went at least twice. I was deeply attached to Mesho and Mashi, and Buri and I were the greatest of friends. It used to be a delightful holiday. Mesho, an independent–minded, respected and flourishing barrister lived in a rented house with a large compound. A small two–roomed cottage stood at one end of the grounds which Mesho used as his office and dressing room. He met all his clients there. On practically all evenings Buri, Shanti and I would stroll across to his office and find him relaxing after court, stretched out comfortably in an armchair smoking his hubble–bubble. He would ask us how we had spent the day; after a few minutes of conversation we would depart. Patna during the winter months was glorious — clear blue skies, cold during the night, early morning and evenings, the day sunny and bright. Buri had her share of housekeeping to do, so in the morning she was kept busy, the afternoons we chatted and gossiped. There was a tennis court in the compound, and by late afternoons, Indudi who was a good player would start a game of singles with one of the boys. Dhirenda who came with me to Patna would usually be her opponent. Burada, Mashi’s youngest son played well also. Amongst the girls undoubtedly Indudi and Buri were the superior players, Hashidi, Shanti and I trailed behind. In the evenings Hashidi would play on the piano some popular old English numbers F A M I LY T I E S

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and we would all sing in a chorus, or if Mashi asked, we would sing a few Bengali songs, generally by Tagore, with Hashidi at the small organ. Hashidi had a sweet melodious voice. Mashi’s household was run on simple lines, it was homely, comfortable with no pretensions. I have very happy memories of my holidays at her home. Mesho was a professional man, his private life was his own to be lived as he chose. Father was a senior officer in the government. A certain standard of living had to be observed, though my parents did the minimum of formal entertaining, but there were the usual visits of English and Indian officers to the house in the mornings or evenings or sometimes meetings would continue till lunch time which made life a little formal and restricted movements. The days passed only too quickly at Patna and after a glorious holiday, Dhirenda and I would return home to Chinsurah. Dada, who was posted at Kharagpur, on one of his visits to Chinsurah brought with him a young man whom he introduced as Santosh Bose. Dada told Father that the young man was an orphan and had only passed his matriculation examination, and as he had not been able to find him employment at Kharagpur, he hoped Father would be able to find him a job as a clerk in his office. Dada strongly recommended Santosh as being a good and trustworthy boy. Father, slightly taken aback, said he would see what he could do, in the meanwhile Santosh could stay in the house; and so Santosh Bose became an inmate of the Gupta household. We called him Santoshbabu, he sat at table with us for his meals, and slept in the boys’ room. Gradually he started helping Mother with the housekeeping and keeping accounts and we all grew very fond of him. The months and year rolled by, Santoshbabu was still with us, almost a member of the family. Mother bought him his clothes, and also if I remember correctly, gave him pocket money of Rs. 50/– a month. Santosh was devoted to my parents — once my father fell seriously ill, he was suffering from insomnia and neurasthenia, a 90

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most trying and depressing disease. Night and day Santosh did most of the nursing helped by Bowdi45 and myself. Father was transferred to Calcutta as Commissioner of Presidency division in 1923–24 and later became a member of the Board of Revenue. It was during this period that Father found Santosh a suitable job at the Corporation of Calcutta, and it was only then that Santoshbabu found lodgings for himself and moved out of our house. Mother helped to furnish his rooms, giving him some of her own furniture. Santosh got married, but he never brought his wife to see us46. Later he had a son; by that time Father had retired and moved to his own home, 5 Riverside in Barrackpore, a gracious old house on the banks of the Ganges with a deep front veranda, spacious grounds and a tennis court. Santosh brought his son once to my brother Nidhi’s house in Calcutta, whilst I was there. That was the last I saw of Santosh, he died soon after.

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n 1922, Dada married Shobha, the lovely daughter of S.C. Mitter, a judge of the Small Causes Court47 and granddaughter of Col. N.P. Sinha. Bowdi soon endeared herself to the whole family; she looked upon me as a younger sister and we became close friends. Dada’s marriage was celebrated on a grand scale; he was Father’s first born. A garden house was rented on the outskirts of Calcutta, with a large compound, full of fruit trees and a water tank. On one side of the gate a stand was erected for the shehnai48 players. They would start playing their plaintive but curiously soothing music by early evening and continue till late at night. Our whole family moved into the garden house. Sejomashi with her daughters came from Patna. Modhuda and Umadi represented Boromashi’s family, Sailoda and Chunikaka were also there. Brahmin cooks were engaged. I think that everyday, food for at least fifty people was prepared, as all the helpers had to be fed. We ate in batches off plantain [banana] leaves sitting on the floor49. The marriage was held in the bride’s house as is our custom and was according to Brahmo rites, followed by dinner. Mother had collected some lovely saris for Bowdi and had brought a gorgeous 92

blue–grey velvet cloak lined with satin from Paris for her. Her gold brocade shoes, bag and silk stockings also came from Paris. My parents gave her a diamond necklace. Buri, Shanti and I looked with fascination at all these gorgeous presents, we had never seen anything like them before. All the future bride’s presents, along with silk sarees for her mother and two saris for her sisters50, a large fish, sweets of different varieties, were ceremonially sent to the bride’s house a couple of days before the marriage. I, along with Buri and Shanti, were relegated to the background. No one took any notice of us. All attention was focussed on the bride and bridegroom to be. I cried on the evening of the marriage as I did not wish to wear the sari the bride’s parents had sent for me as a present. My mother insisted on my wearing it in spite of my tears. Sejomashi consoled me saying it was only the one evening that I would have to wear it, and I need not do so again if I did not wish to; she admitted frankly that she thought the sari drab and unattractive. The boubhat51 was celebrated on a lavish scale. The whole house and garden were illuminated, Buri, Shanti and I were asked to stand at the gate handing each lady, as she descended from her car, a garland of bel52 or jasmine flowers and the boys led the guests into the house. The stream of cars seemed to be unending, the women dressed in beautiful Benarasi saris, bedecked with sparkling jewels and the men mostly in dhuti and panjabi53. The feasting went on till late at night. The day after the boubhat, Dada and Bowdi left for their honeymoon. A few days had to be spent in clearing up accounts, then our party broke up, our relatives returning to their respective homes and we to ours in Chinsurah — and I was certainly happy to get back to the peace and quiet of our home. An Indian wedding in by–gone days, celebrated in keeping with one’s position in society, could be a most exhausting affair both physically and ruinous financially54. The days passed uneventfully. I missed Buri who had returned to Patna. With no more exams to be faced, I DADA’S MARRIAGE

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A postcard of Theatre Road, possibly in the 1920s, by Francis Clinger Scallan55

continued playing the piano in a relaxed frame of mind, or I stood on one of the balconies facing the Ganges, watching the eternally flowing water of the great river and boats going by with their bright coloured sails. It was a good life, quiet and peaceful. In 1923, Father was transferred to Calcutta, as Commissioner of Presidency division. The official residence of the Commissioner was 4, Theatre Road, a large two–storeyed house with marble floors. The rooms were airy and spacious, the drawing room had a fireplace which we never used, and it was the first house that I lived in that had modern sanitation in the bathrooms. Lovely old trees grew in the compound and there was a tennis court which Father maintained. I had few friends in Calcutta excepting my brothers Dhiren and Willie and their friends. Nidhida was in England studying at the University of Manchester. Unfortunately for me, my parents had very strict views on how much liberty to allow a young girl. I was not allowed to go out to young people’s parties, 94

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moonlight picnics, or dances. Every weekend, we had tennis parties in the house with my brothers and their friends, and Father would invite his friends also. I was usually the only woman player. There was a plentiful tea laid on, and Mother would come down later to watch the game and pour out tea for the guests. Father would be asked out to play tennis at his friend’s houses and I along with him. Mother would come as an onlooker. I enjoyed these outings; it was a break in the even tenor of my life and generally meant meeting new faces.

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resumed my piano lessons with Mother Germaine; it was a pleasure that I looked forward to, just to be with her. Monsieur Sandré who founded the Calcutta School of Music was a violinist and under his tutelage, I tried to learn to play the instrument, but was a complete failure at it, in spite of all the patient guidance. Mother Germaine was very anxious that I should proceed to England and try to join the Royal Academy of Music for further tuition in playing the piano. She invited Monsieur Sandré to come and hear me play one morning, which he did. After my recital he told me that he was of the same opinion as Mother Germaine, and that if I was really serious about my music, it was no good my wasting my time in Calcutta but should try to go abroad. Unfortunately I had no such confidence in myself — however much I loved the instrument, I knew I lacked the physical stamina and strength for the long hours of practice required to be judged fit to join the Academy and be selected to appear for the L.R.A.M. [Licentiate of the Royal Academy of Music, a professional diploma]. Also, I had very little knowledge of the theory of music. I broached

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Great Eastern Hotel in the c. 1930s

the subject to my father; he was lukewarm on the subject and said he would consider the matter. Radio had just come to Calcutta and the officer concerned with arranging programmes wrote to Loreto House asking for a pianist to give a recital in the evening on a certain date. Mother Germaine selected me; in vain I begged of her to choose someone else, who would be able to give a better performance than myself. I was petrified at the thought of having to play at a strange place. I had played at school concerts before, but never at a public function. Mother was equally determined that I should represent the convent. On the evening of the concert, Sisirda, Kaka’s [Justice S.K. Mallik, a close family friend] eldest son came with me to Great Eastern Hotel. We were met at the entrance and taken up to a room where a large number of people were gathered. They all smiled and greeted me. A Steinway Grand stood open in the centre of the room. I heard the door close behind me. I stood for a few moments with icy cold fingers, then slowly moved towards the piano and sat

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on the stool. I commenced playing, and gradually my confidence returned. I went through my repertoire, then sat still to collect my wits, thankful that the ordeal was over. As I entered the next room, I was congratulated on my performance and was told that I had played beautifully. I came to know Dickie Vandyke whilst we were both preparing for the L.T.C.L [Licentiate Trinity College London]. She was an European Jewess and a brilliant pianist, far superior to me. We became good friends. She told me she was going abroad after the exam. We lost touch with each other once she left Calcutta. I have wondered often what Dickie made of her life – had she continued with the piano, I feel certain she would have reached world concert standards. It was admitted by the Europeans in Calcutta that the standard of music in Loreto House was very high.

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ne of the chief attractions during Father’s tenure as Commissioner of Presidency division was his winter tours to the Sunderbans. As in Dacca, at Calcutta also, the Commissioner had for his use a launch with side boat attached. The date fixed, we would set out with cook, bearer and provisions for ten days to a fortnight’s tour, depending on how much inspection Father had on his schedule. Dada, a keen shikari, often took leave and came with us. The launch would be waiting at Prinsep Ghat, we would embark, and, after the serang took the Commissioner’s permission, the launch would slowly start steaming out to midstream. Once past the crowded traffic on the Hooghly, the serang would signal to the engine room below, “Full Steam Ahead”. The river gradually widened, jute mills stood on either bank belching out smoke from the chimneys of their factories, the breeze freshened, and I would sit on the upper deck behind the serang fascinated, watching the ever–changing scenery. Our first halt was usually Diamond Harbour, where Father alone would go ashore for a couple of hours’ inspection. Willie and I sometimes followed him. Mother very rarely left the sitting room 99

in the side boat. Whilst Father went off on work followed by other officers, Willie and I wandered around followed by villagers and their children. They all told me the river was unsafe for bathing because of crocodiles and sharks. Soon a large crowd gathered to view the launch, a novelty to them. Willie and I would go back to the launch to wait for Father’s return. There was nothing much to see at Diamond Harbour except an old structure, probably a watch tower or light house from the East India Company days, which today perhaps does not exist, as it was in a dilapidated condition then. I climbed stone steps that led up to the top, to get to a small square room, from where a wonderful view of a long stretch of the river was visible. Father would return after his inspection, and the launch would start moving, the river widening the further we went; if we were in midstream, both the banks were visible as just green lines. The next stop was at Kakdwip, where the settlement officers had a camp. It was a lonely spot surrounded by scrub jungle. If Dada was with us, I would go ashore with him. The first thing that struck me was the absence of all noise, not even human voices as there were no villages nearby. Dada would be looking for jungli murgis [wild fowl]. I was nervous and stayed very close to him. We would enter the scrub jungle and go a fair distance, and sometimes he was lucky and shot a couple of birds; more often, after a long search we returned to the launch empty–handed. Father appeared to have a fair amount of work, he would be away for the whole morning, returning about lunch time. His dress never changed when out on tours: a baggy pair of khaki shorts, white twill shirt open at the neck and a sola topee [pith hat] on his head. Father’s return to the launch was the signal for the serang to proceed on our way, a strong breeze would be blowing and one could almost feel the pull of the strong current towards the sea. At ebb tide, we would soon leave the main river, which went straight ahead and emptied its waters into the Bay of Bengal. We were 100

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heading for one of the many tributaries that go to make the delta of the Ganges. All the rivers had names. I remember just a few such as Bhairab, Rupsha, Pasur, Shibsa and Bhadra. The land between the rivers was covered with dense jungles, mangroves, cane brakes, and the sundari56 and various types of trees and creepers. Here lived the tigers, generally maintained to be all man–eaters and dreaded by local fisher folk, the lovely and dainty cheetal [spotted or Axis deer], monkeys, pythons, wild pigs, and various types of birds. The rivers were infested with monster crocodiles, equally partial to human flesh. Our destination was Khulna, headquarters of Khulna district. The launch would be anchored in midstream, opposite the District Magistrate and Collector’s house, which stood on the banks of the [Bhairab] river. On the opposite bank was the heavy jungle of the Sunderbans. The top of the jolly boat was covered and used by Father or anyone else wanting to visit Khulna. On one occasion, I was with Mother when she went to call on the Collector’s wife, an Englishwoman. On seeing Mother she almost wept and complained bitterly of how unhappy and lonely she was at Khulna, especially when her husband had to go out on tour. There was practically no company, her children were in school in England, she spent only the winter in Khulna with her husband and returned every summer to England to be with her children. She was longing for her husband to be transferred to a more civilized station. Frankly, my sympathies were all with her. The halt at Khulna was generally for a couple of days. The Collector usually had a dinner party for my parents and in return my Father asked the couple over for drinks or lunch at the launch. Leaving Khulna we would enter the uninhabited areas and jungles of the Sunderbans. It was so beautiful especially in the early mornings and evenings, the jungle green, where grew the lovely sundari trees and creepers covered with blossoms of various THE RIVER ONCE MORE

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Prinsep Ghat in the late 19th century. Photograph by Francis Frith

colours. We saw large crocodiles on the banks basking in the sun. On sighting them, the launch would be slowed down, Dada with a few khalasis in the jolly boat, would move closer to the reptiles. With the heavy rifle, he was fortunate on two occasions and he shot two monsters. After making sure the reptiles were dead they were towed with strong ropes and lashed on to the side of the launch. The skinning would have to wait for Father’s next halt. In the midst of the jungle, at a given spot, the forest officers with his men would be waiting to take the Commissioner to survey land that had been selected for reclamation. I noticed the officer’s men always carried guns. Father would return after a couple of hours and we moved on to the next meeting place. In some patches of the jungle only the shady sundari trees grew with luscious green grass 102

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below; this was the favourite grazing ground of the cheetal. I have seen from the deck a handsome cheetal stag standing on its hind legs, its magnificent antlers low down on his shoulders, ripping the fresh new sundari leaves. Dada shot a buck; but I moved away when the shot was taken. The cheetal was far too beautiful and innocent an animal to be shot for his antlers, skin and flesh. I would never eat the venison. In the evening on some days, Father would have the launch halted where there was open space with the jungle in the background, get into the jolly boat with his gun and have himself rowed to the bank and get off, just to stretch his legs as he said. I generally accompanied him, the khalasis, except one man would get off with us. On one occasion, the khalasis got very excited and pointed out fresh pug marks of several tigers, and to quote them, “as if cattle had been grazing all over the ground”. The sun was low on the horizon, the jungle dark and ominous behind us, I could not help casting terrified glances behind me and was only too thankful that Father listened to the khalasis’ advice and returned to the boat and then our temporary home, the launch. We often passed large barges, mostly loaded with wood, all anchored next to each other, for there is safety in numbers both from man–eating tigers and dacoits. They would be anchored ten or twelve feet away from the bank. Father would have the launch slow down and glide closer to the boats and ask the boatman if they all had valid passes for the felling of trees. Immediately one of them would dive into the small shelter in the middle of the boat, and producing a piece of paper, hold it up for Father to see. They probably mistook him for a forest officer. The boatmen often complained of tigers on the shore roaring and remonstrating, generally close to their boats and giving them sleepless nights. There was very little one could do to help them. The men in the boats had no firearms to protect themselves. THE RIVER ONCE MORE

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The dangerous and difficult life these people led in order to earn their meagre livelihood made one feel very sorry for them; they had to go deep into the jungle without the protection of a shikari, without firearms, to fell the trees from the block allotted to contractors who earned fat profits from them. Their only security was in numbers, they worked in batches and were daily wage earners. The life led by an individual fisherman and his sons or close relatives was even more dangerous and hazardous: they had to spend twelve hours or even more depending on their catch in the depths of the jungle. Their usual method of fishing was to go out usually in a dinghy, a small slender boat, with their nets, dry food and drinking water. In this they would go out to the mouth of one of the creeks that meandered into the jungle from one of the main rivers, and wait for ebb tide to be low; then they would leave the comparative safety of their boat, descend into the water and wade across to one bank at the mouth of the creek, tie the net securely to one tree stump or root, then stretch it across to the opposite bank and peg the net down securely. The men would return to their boat and having eaten a small meal, generally fall asleep. The high tide would come in, gushing water into the creek along with the fish. After six hours, the tide water would flow out, leaving the fish entangled in the nets. The fishermen would untie their nets, hauling in their catch, and leave for home. Honey was another source of income to be collected from the jungles. The unfortunate men who fell victims to the man–eaters were generally the honey collectors or lone fishermen. One morning I was standing on the upper deck, idly watching the jungle as the launch glided by, when I noticed a bamboo pole stuck deep in the mud at the mouth of one such creek. It had a white cloth tied round its top. I asked the serang the significance of the pole and the white cloth. At first he was reluctant to tell me, but, on my insistence, he said it was a warning to the fisher folk, that a man had been taken by a tiger from that spot recently. 104

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On one winter tour to the Sunderbans, I was alone with my parents, we were anchored in mid–stream of a fairly wide river. Father was waiting for the forest officer to arrive in his launch, to take him on an inspection tour. The officer was late for his appointment, breakfast was over and Father, growing restless, decided on going up one of the larger creeks that took off from the river. The jolly boat was lowered. Father got in with his gun to give the khalasis a feeling of security, and I as usual, followed him and seated myself at the rear of the boat. It was a glorious day, cold, crisp and sunny. After we had proceeded some way, the creek was growing narrower, the trees overhanging the water. We were all relaxed and enjoying the outing when from the left bank came the sound of a twig crack; the sound was ominous. The khalasis stopped rowing, looking to the left with frightened glances. Fear gripped me. I had heard enough about the tigers of the Sunderbans to know what the noise meant — some animal was following us and that animal could only be a man–eater; the look of fear and dread on the khalasis faces confirmed my suspicion. I looked at Father, he sat unperturbed, gripping his gun a little harder. He signaled to the khalasis to proceed, which they did half– heartedly. A few minutes later we heard the noise of dry leaves being trod on. My face was riveted to the left bank, cold shivers running up and down my spine. The creek was growing steadily narrower. Father beckoned to me to move up and sit by his side and my slight movement brought the sound of a heavy body brushing against bushes. By this time the creek was dangerously narrow. At last one of the khalasis broke the silence, saying if we proceeded further, it would be difficult to turn the boat. Father reluctantly agreed. The boat was turned, heading for the river. The khalasis rowed vigorously. I ceased to tremble and heaved a sigh of relief as all noise on the left bank ceased. Never was I so happy to get back to the safety of the launch!

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y eldest brother was posted at Nainpore, a small railway district in the Central Provinces57. I went to spend a holiday during the summer months with Dada and Bowdi; Kido, my niece, was a toddler. Nainpore town I found was surrounded by heavy jungle. The social life of the officers centered round the club where they played tennis, Bridge and held occasional dances. The subordinates58 had their own railway institutes. Dada loved the life as he was a keen shikari and was quite at home in the jungles. My poor sister–in–law, born and bred in Calcutta, had never lived in a station like Nainpore before, and she disliked the life she was forced to live. She thought Nainpore was a deadly hole. There were no shops, no other amusements for the residents. Bowdi missed the cinema, New Market and other shops, and amenities which were a part of city life. She was an enthusiastic football fan and, when in Calcutta, never missed an opportunity of watching any important match — Mohan Bagan vs. Mohammedan Sporting or Mohan Bagan vs. East Bengal. All railway bungalows were well–built and comfortable to live in. Dada had a very attractive bungalow with a large garden – but it 106

Monica and Dinko Painted photograph by A. Dhar, Chinsurah

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was at one end of the town. The jungles were close by. In the heat, it was much pleasanter to sleep in the garden than indoors. Dada and I slept on two camp cots but as she was much too nervous to do so, Bowdi slept indoors. One night I was awakened by grunts and heard some animals rushing through the garden. I sat up in bed, frightened; Dada too had awakened, he turned towards me and said, “it is only wild pigs, nothing to be afraid of. Go to sleep”, which I did after a while. One day a shikari brought to Dada for sale a cheetal fawn barely a few days old. The man must have shot his mother. Dada asked me if I would like to have him. I was delighted, as I had fallen in love with him at first sight, his spotted coat was like silk, his beautiful large, almond–shaped eyes were petrified with fear, his nostrils quivering because of the alien smell of humans... His tiny little body was shivering with fright and he was evidently very hungry. He was too young to suck milk from a baby’s bottle. Bowdi solved the problem, she suggested I should dilute cow’s milk in a saucer, roll a piece of cloth, dip it in the milk, open Dinko’s mouth — for that is what I named him — and let him suck it. Once he had got the taste of milk, he started sucking the rag enthusiastically, then the next step was feeding him with a dropper, which was comparatively easy, and once he took to a baby’s bottle, the problem was solved. Young as he was he grew very attached to me, slept in my bed in the beginning, and then in a small basket placed on a chair next to the bed. My whole life revolved round Dinko. A month went by and it was time for me to return to Calcutta. Bowdi, Kido and of course Dinko were also coming down to Calcutta. Nainpore was on the metre gauge [or narrower railway] line, and Dada came with us up to the main junction where we had to catch the Bombay Mail [on the broad gauge]. The train came in puffing and hooting, and we, including Dinko, all got into a ladies’ first class compartment. There was another European lady in the 108

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compartment. We waved Dada goodbye as the train left, and then started to make ourselves comfortable. Bowdi and I were amazed to find the lady shedding copious tears, we looked at each other and thought it best to leave her alone. I had been given a large box of chocolates by a friend before leaving Nainpore. I opened the box and after Bowdi and Kido had helped themselves, rather hesitatingly offered the chocolates to the lady. She took one somewhat nervously and after some time she thawed and told us she was an Australian on her way to Calcutta to join as a nurse in one of the big hospitals. In Australia she had been told to be very careful of Indians as most of them were savages, and so when she saw us entering the compartment, she was not sure what to expect. Through fright she had burst into tears.

Postcard of the Bombay–Poona Mail, c. 1920s D AY S W I T H D I N K O

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Dinko’s behaviour during the long train journey was exemplary. Most of the time he was on my lap, sleeping and drinking his milk. I had taken old newspapers on board with which I gathered up his excrement and threw it out of the window as the train slowed, before stopping at important stations. Once in Calcutta, he soon became the darling of the household at 4, Theatre Road. He was, as a baby, never tied, he had the free use of the house and garden, and when he chose to come upstairs, the noise his hooves made on the wooden stairs was similar to a lady coming up with high–heeled shoes. We had to be careful not to leave clothes lying about, especially ties and socks. He often came into my room with the end of a tie or a sock half chewed hanging out of his mouth, which I promptly pulled out, to stop him from getting indigestion. Dinko was my constant companion, he followed me from room to room. In the garden I often sat with a book reading under the shade of a tree, while Dinko would wander freely, grazing, and the malis were there to see that he did no damage to the flower beds. He grew fast, his antlers were also growing; soon, during the day he had to be tethered to a stout peg in the garden. I was afraid of his walking out of the gates which he did twice. On one occasion Nadir Shah, the silk merchant, saw him walking along Theatre Road. Shah came into our house, put down his bundle of precious silks, returned to Dinko, picked him up, laid him across the back of his shoulder, holding on to both his fore and hind legs and brought him home. Only a man of Nadir Shah’s physique could have performed such a feat! The months went by; Dinko by now had grown into a beautiful stag with magnificent antlers, his sleeping quarters were in the stables next to Father’s horse that were cleaned daily and laid with fresh straw. Mornings and evenings he still roamed about freely in the house. One evening, a chaprasi came panting to my room, saying Father wanted me immediately in his office. I rushed downstairs to see Father chucking files at Dinko as the deer with his antlers lowered 110

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chased the Commissioner’s personal assistant round and round the office table. I quickly caught him by his collar, and led him away to his stall; he came quietly once he felt my hand on his neck. I scolded him, he looked at me with his beautiful eyes and licked my face, as if to say he was sorry — but the gentleman’s posterior was so very inviting . . . Dinko was a fully–grown stag by now and I knew the day was fast approaching when we would have to part. Father would be retiring in a couple of years’ time and be moving into humble quarters. Father had also told me that Dinko needed a mate; he was also growing to be aggressive towards strangers, though he was never let loose, and spent practically the whole day in the garden tied to a peg with a long rope attached to his collar. If visitors made the foolish mistake of trying to pet him, he would immediately lower his antlers. Father decided that Alipore Zoo would be the best home for him. The zoo in 1925 was very well maintained and had a large enclosure fenced in for deer, but still I would be parted from Dinko, and I was inconsolable in my grief. I sat for long hours with him in his stall or in the garden, he would immediately lie down and lay his head on my lap, lick my face and hands, nuzzling his nose against my body and fall fast asleep. The first few days after Dinko left were difficult ones for me — I dreamt of him at night and thought of him by day; the thought that Dinko must feel that I had abandoned him was what hurt me the most, yet such is human nature, that I gradually grew accustomed to his absence but I could never forget him. I only hope Dinko did not suffer as much as I did at the parting.

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or me, a return to Calcutta after a trip to the Sunderbans was always an anticlimax. In the Twenties it was, however, a beautiful city with the huge Maidan59 called the lungs of the city. Nearby were smaller squares with a tank in the centre, a red gravelled pathway all round it, beds of flowers at the sides and sometimes a greenhouse with maidenhair and other exotic ferns. And the lovely flowering trees that lined the streets, particularly the gulmohur60. It was a city with a soul and possessed a definite personality of its own. A city that any country could be proud of. Dada was posted to Calcutta and he and his family were staying with us. Kido, my little niece, was about three years old and Laddie, her brother, was a baby of four months. She was very attached to me and spent the best part of the day in my room, chattering away all the time or sitting on the floor playing with her toys. The national movement was in full swing, and though Father was a government servant, the names of Mahatma Gandhi, Jawaharlal Nehru, C.R.Das and Subhas Bose were on everyone’s lips. Conditions in the country were discussed freely by friends who dropped in, in the

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A late 19th–century photograph of the Maidan

evenings61. I would listen avidly to their conversations. Some felt very strongly on the subject and made no secret of their feelings; others were milder in their comments and said that we were not yet ready for complete independence. There were no government [civil] servants present, but mainly barristers, solicitors, doctors. Apart from the unrest, and speeches made by national leaders, which were reported in the papers, I was ignorant of the political situation actually prevailing in our country then to have any definite views. My life had been too sheltered — had I been allowed to attend college, I might have been more alive to the situation. In the evenings after Dada returned from office, the two of us would go for a walk, we drove in his car either to the Maidan or to Red Road [bordering the Maidan], parked the car at a suitable place and started our evening walks. Rarely did Bowdi join us. Once, during the rainy season, it had poured heavily the whole day; there was a break in the evening, the sky cleared, so we decided

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to go for our walk to Red Road, thinking it would be less wet than the Maidan. But even here pools of water lay on the side of the road, and in patches, the road itself was submerged. A large statue of George V riding a stallion stood on the grass on one side of the road. The statue was placed on an oblong–shaped slab of marble with steps leading up to it. The whole structure being very heavy, the ground had sunk all round it. Water had collected in the hollow round the statue, spilling across the road. Dada suggested we mount the first step of the monument and walk along it to avoid getting our feet wet to some extent, which we did. Soon an Anglo– Indian62 sergeant mounted on his horse rode up, threatening us with his baton and ordered us in no uncertain language to get off the steps. Dada whispered to me in Bengali to take no notice but to walk straight on, which I did. The sergeant, furious that his orders had not been obeyed by two Indians, adopted a threatening attitude. Seated on his prancing steed, wielding his baton over our heads, he hurled abuses at us. Dada faced him unafraid, but I was nervous. Help came to us from unexpected quarters: the practice grounds of the Mohan Bagan and Mohammedan Sporting football teams lay a little ahead from where we were standing. Some of the players were on the ground, and seeing what was happening, they ran up and stood in front of us, isolating the sergeant. The situation was tense. We had committed no crime, so he could not possibly arrest us. Seeing the band of muscular men in front of him, the sergeant’s courage failed. He wheeled his horse sharply, dug his spurs in and left the scene in haste. We thanked the players profusely for their timely intervention, finished our walk and returned home. I frankly admit to being badly shaken. During one winter season, my parents were invited to a ball and supper at Government House, and there was a separate invitation card for me. This would be the first occasion that I would be going to an official function at night with my parents. I was mildly excited, but what was I to wear? I possessed no evening saris. Father 114

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A postcard of the throne room in Calcutta’s Government House, 1915

bought me a deep rose Benarasi sari with gold motifs on the body of the sari, a wide gold border with a lovely palloo [end piece of the sari]. I was thrilled with the gift. The great evening arrived, Mother dressed in a white silk Benarasi saree with a deep gold border and palloo, a string of pearls round her lovely neck, looked very beautiful. We arrived on time at Government House, a line of cars ahead and behind us. The car halted, we mounted the steps of white marble and I found myself in a large hall. My parents had been to the Governor’s house several times before. Lord Ronaldshay was then the Governor of Bengal. The hall was ablaze with lighted chandeliers, flowers in tall cut–glass vases stood on small teapoys and palms and ferns in brass containers were placed in the corners of the vast room. The guests were all assembled in the hall, waiting for the Governor and his lady to join the function. The European women were beautifully dressed in long evening gowns, the Indian women in gorgeous Benarasi saris, wearing elaborate jewellery. The C A L C U T TA Y E A R S

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men were all in evening dress — tails,63 if I remember correctly. Innumerable servants in spotless white, red and gold liveries moved amongst the guests carrying drinks on large silver salvers. The Governor and his wife arrived and one by one the guests filed past them being introduced by an ADC. We passed on into an equally large room. The band began to play, and couples went on to the dance floor. My parents did not dance and I stood by them, along with other onlookers, watching the dancing; there were very few young people, I noticed. The band played the waltzes Blue Danube, Merry Widow, and Gold and Silver and, of course, fox trots. I enjoyed the music and watching the couples dance the graceful old waltz. My parents had plenty of acquaintances and I was introduced to most of them. Supper was laid on a large table covered with a white damask cloth, silver and cut–glass glittered and flowers artistically arranged in silver bowls were placed right across the table. A large assortment of eats was spread out for the guests. A variety of cold meats, salads, puddings both hot and cold, fat juicy asparagus which I guzzled, chocolates, nougats, crystallized fruits — were laid on the tables. I did not drink but the table servants flitted around with ice–cold champagne and wine on silver trays. Father, I could see, was thoroughly enjoying himself. We waited for Lord and Lady Ronaldshay to leave the party before we ourselves could depart. Father said that it had been a very enjoyable evening and he felt relaxed and happy. Mother’s only comment was “no wonder, with all that wine and champagne inside you!” Not being used to late nights I was tired and sleepy, and glad to get home. I do not remember the ball having made any impression on me. I must have been most unlike girls of my age. Jonabali tailor was a most important personage in our lives. He was the tailor for the whole of R.C. Dutt’s vast family. A Muslim, he wore the traditional costume of a checked cotton lungi [sarong], a long, white embroidered kurta, and a black cap embroidered 116

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with gold on his head. Always courteous, gentle of speech, he endeared himself to all of us. The day on which he arrived at our house was a red letter day for us. Mother had given him material for a couple of frocks64 for me, blouses for herself, and shirts for the boys and Father. Jonabali’s promise that he would return after a fortnight with the garments ready, usually stretched out to a couple of months. If I objected to the pattern of one of my frocks, he invariably replied, “but Missibaba [young lady], you do not know, this is the fashion today”. I believe on the occasion of one of my older cousin’s marriage taking place in my grandfather’s house, there was general confusion and the bride reduced to tears, because the time fixed for the marriage was fast approaching and Jonabali had not appeared with the blouse and petticoat she was to wear for the ceremony! However Jonabali just made it, and saved an awkward situation. In spite of his chronic unpunctuality, he remained the tailor to the whole family until his death. He was greatly missed by all of us. No other tailor could fill the vacuum left by Jonabali. Nadir Shah was a silk merchant, a Kashmiri, an outstandingly handsome man, powerfully built with a henna–dyed beard, he wore a long coat, baggy pyjamas and a turban on his head. Every winter he would leave his beautiful Kashmir and descend to the plains with his merchandise, a regular visitor to our home in Calcutta during the winter season. I would always be by Mother’s side when Nadir Shah undid his bundle of rare silks and exquisite Kashmiri shawls. Mother’s means were limited and I remember her buying just a couple of saris from him. He certainly did very little business at our house and I feel he just came to visit us, each time he came to Calcutta. When I got engaged in 1927, some of my trousseau saris were bought from Nadir Shah, as well as a Kashmiri shawl for my husband to be. Dignified with an old worldly charm, Nadir Shah disappeared from our lives when Father retired and we left Calcutta. C A L C U T TA Y E A R S

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ather, after a few years as Commissioner of the Presidency division, became Member, Board of Revenue. In 1925, before relinquishing charge as Commissioner he took six months’ leave. My parents decided they would spend the major part of their holiday in Kashmir, visiting Delhi, Agra and Lahore en route. I was delighted to get away from Calcutta and painful memories65. Our first stop was Delhi, where we stayed for about four or five days at Maiden’s Hotel in old Delhi. The hotel was most comfortable, the bedrooms were large and airy, the food good and the service prompt. Birukaka, my father’s youngest step–brother, was a homeopathic doctor practicing in old Delhi. He became our constant companion and guide during our stay in the city. Kaka’s home was a flat in Chandni Chowk, and we went there for lunch and had a delicious meal. I, for the first time, met my cousins Shiltu and Phultusi, who was a very pretty girl, and my Kakima; the younger children I cannot recall. Kaka gave me a box of Yardleys’ lavender soap and a large bottle of lavender toilet water. I was thrilled — never had I been given such lavish presents before and I profusely

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The Maiden’s Hotel, Delhi, 1905

thanked Kaka for the gifts. Father was annoyed, saying Biru had needlessly spent a great deal of money. We went sightseeing by tonga [horse cart]. I was highly impressed with the Red Fort, never had I seen anything so massive, grand and striking as the ramparts of the Fort, the delicate workmanship of the Diwan–i–Aam and Diwan–i–Khas, or the beautiful white marble Moti Masjid, so pure and chaste in the outlines of its structure, standing aloof at one corner within the ramparts. My knowledge of Indian history was negligible, but I knew that it was Shah Jahan, the Moghul Emperor, the great builder who had, during his reign, constructed these wonderful buildings. It was an Englishman, Lord Curzon, Viceroy of India, to whom India owes a debt for the preservation of old monuments and antiquities all over India66. Mother was delicate in health, years of suffering from malaria after living in the malaria–infested districts of Bengal had weakened her constitution. She would tire easily, so we could not

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do as much sight–seeing as I would have liked to. My parents had visited Delhi before, but for me it was a new world. We went to Kutub [Qutb] Minar, the drive by tonga once we left Safdarjung’s tomb was enjoyable. The road ran straight through scrub jungle and boulder–strewn fields, without any human habitation, till we reached the gates of Kutub Minar. In the fresh morning air, the drive was enjoyable. We dismounted from the tonga and walked to the minaret through the gardens surrounding it. For a long time I stood gazing upwards at it, so spectacular in its construction, tapering to a great height. Kaka and I climbed the stairs to the very top; towards the end of the climb, the passage is so narrow that it is difficult for two people to pass each other on the narrow, steep stairs unless one stands sideways and makes room for the other67. The view from the top was breath–taking. It was just mile upon mile of wasteland dotted with stunted trees, large boulders and the remnants of old ruins. The Jamuna was visible at a distance like a silver stream. It made one quite dizzy to look downwards from

The Qutb Minar, c. 1920s 120

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A view of the Taj Mahal from across the Jamuna, c. 1920s

that great height and Kaka would not allow me to go too close to the railings. After our descent, we were quite exhausted — but following a rest, we walked around the ruins that lay scattered and saw the iron pillar that had stood for centuries and still retained its gloss and sheen. We returned to the Kutub rest house where my parents were waiting for us, resting at ease on two cane chairs. Father had already ordered lunch, we were very hungry and enjoyed the inevitable chicken curry and rice. We returned to our hotel by tea– time — it had been an exhilarating day. My mind was so full with the greatness of the past and its magnificent buildings that I hardly noticed Lutyens’ New Delhi. Next day we visited Humayun’s Tomb and the Jumma [Jama] Masjid, both very striking and built on a lavish scale. Lord Curzon had visited Malda, a small district in Bengal, where my father was posted as Magistrate and Collector to see for himself the ruins of Gour and Pandua to decide what steps should be taken to prevent the structures from further disintegration. During the inspection, the Viceroy, followed by his entourage, remarked on A N U P - C O U N T R Y H O L I D AY

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A mid–19th century steel engraving of Itmad–ud–daula

the beautiful workmanship of the Barduari and Adina palaces68 and exclaimed, “What is the secret art of building that the ancients possessed that their structures withstood so many centuries of rain and storms, without developing major cracks? And our modern buildings show cracks within four or five years and require constant repairs!” The unfortunate chief engineer of the P.W.D. [Public Works Department] who was in the Viceroy’s party replied, “Sir, it is the earthquakes.” The Viceroy retorted sharply, “were there no earthquakes in the past?” This thoughtless remark of the engineer dampened the spirits of the rest of the officers for quite a while. Our visit to Delhi came to an end. We left by train for Agra, Kaka came to see us off at the station. We were all emotionally moved when it came to saying goodbye. I never saw Birukaka again, he died a few years later at a comparatively young age. At Agra we stayed at Laurie’s Hotel which had an old world charm 122

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of its own. Standing in spacious grounds, the building was cool and the rooms comfortable. Living in hotels was a novelty for me and I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. Our first visit was to Taj Mahal. We travelled by tonga, and alighting at the gateway, I gazed at the famous mausoleum of Mumtaz Mahal through it. It seemed ethereal and to belong to another world; it was only when you walked along the pathway by which ran water in paved channels, letting the beauty sink into you, that you realized what a solid and massive structure it really was. We took off our shoes and mounted the marble steps and walked into the inner chamber. I was struck by the beauty and fantastic workmanship of the marble filigree screen that surrounded the resting place of Shah Jahan and his beloved Mumtaz Mahal. The room had beautiful designs of flowers, foliage and exotic birds on the walls inlaid with jade, lapis lazuli, mother of pearl and other semi–precious stones. I wondered what human mind could have conceived of such beauty. We visited the Taj in the early morning,

Postcard of Jehangir’s tomb, Lahore, 1925 A N U P - C O U N T R Y H O L I D AY

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by sunset and by moonlight — but never tired of looking at its serene beauty. After the Red Fort at Delhi, the fort that we also saw, seemed unimpressive to me. Itmad–ud–daula, which is the resting place of Noor Jahan’s father, was small in size compared to the other massive buildings, but well–proportioned and built in white marble, the walls encrusted with borders of semi–precious stones as in the Taj. It was a delicate and lovely building. Our visit to Agra was short–lived and we left by train for Lahore, where we stayed with Samarda and his sweet and lovely wife, Kutudi. Samar Gupta was Principal of the College of Arts in Lahore and son of a cousin of my father’s, Nagendra Gupta, well known in Bengali literary circles. Kutudi was also a niece of Father’s, her father Shyamjethamoshai was in the provincial service in Bengal. We did not see much of Lahore except Jehangir’s tomb which was very unimpressive after the Moghul structures I had seen at Delhi and Agra.

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rom Lahore we went on to Rawalpindi, travelling from there by car, a taxi, to Srinagar, passing on our way through the very picturesque hill station of Murree. The journey took two days and en route we stopped at a dak69 bungalow for the night, where the khansama (cook) gave us an excellent dinner. We left after an early breakfast, taking a packed lunch with us, and the next evening, we arrived at Srinagar. Father, through a travel agency, had booked a houseboat moored on the Jhelum; the boat was comfortable and well furnished with two bedrooms, bathroom, drawing and dining room and a sun deck on top with cane chairs. The kitchen, in a separate boat along with the servants’ quarters, was tied to our boat. Charges for accommodation and food were inclusive and meals were well prepared and appetizing. I went to sleep early after dinner, awakening the next morning refreshed. Looking out of the window, I gazed at the beauty of the vale of Kashmir, the likes of which I had not seen before. A ring 125

A postcard (used) of a shikara, c. 1920s

of mountains capped with the eternal snows rose high and seemed to merge with the blue sky. Graceful poplars lined the opposite bank of the Jhelum with that queen of all trees, the chinar [Platanus occidentalis] which always seemed to grow in groups of three. The weather after the sultry heat of the plains was glorious. It was the month of August. Living in a houseboat which I had never done before was a new experience and had a charm of its own. The river flowed broad and smooth with shikaras [light wooden boats] plying the whole morning; they visited each houseboat tied along the bank in turn. Some carried fruit, golden and red apples, luscious plums, greengages, peaches and juicy pears, all heaped in separate mounds. Mother bought fruit daily and we had one shikara man who visited our houseboat every morning. Some shikaras carried the famed embroidery of Kashmir — shawls, tea cloths, bedcovers, napkins, tray cloths etc. with designs of flowers, birds and chinar leaves, 126

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others had carved woodwork, silverware and papier–mache objects. Mother bought a very pretty pashmina shawl for herself with an exquisite embroidered border. K.E. Cavendish, an Englishman, had an exhibition of his paintings in a houseboat. Father and I went to see his works, and bought two of his water colours in pastel shades that were very typical of Kashmir. Lovely silverware was displayed in shops and we were taken to one such shop beyond the third bridge by a friend. All the pieces we saw were beautifully carved but well beyond my parents’ range except for one or two small pieces that my mother bought. The smell from the river here was nauseating and I saw endless rows of open latrines by its bank. We visited the famous baghs [gardens] by tonga, the Shalimar, Nishat and Naseem, all very stylized and beautiful, the cascading water dropping from one level to another and flowing along paved channels. Flower beds along the sides had outsized phlox, lupins and begonias, and I saw peonies and iris for the first time. In 1925,

Water colour by K. E. Cavendish A B E AU T I F U L VA L L E Y A N D A PA L A C E

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A late 19th century photograph of the waterways at Shalimar Bagh gardens

visitors were few and one could absorb the exotic beauty of the gardens in peace. One morning, early after breakfast, carrying sandwiches and a thermos of tea, Father and I set out to climb the Takht–i–Suleiman70. It was a long and arduous climb, we reached the top tired. After wandering around, we sat at the foot of the Takht, sipped our tea, ate our sandwiches and gazed at the beauty of the city spread out below. After a month’s stay at Srinagar, we moved up to Gulmarg where we stayed at Nedous Hotel. Father had booked one of the cottages which gave us complete privacy. Except for morning and evening tea, that was sent over to the cottage, we had to go to the dining hall in the main hotel for our meals. The food was excellent and appetizing and I looked forward eagerly to each meal. After lunch I often took a rug and a book and lay under the pine and 128

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rhododendrons in the compound. I seldom read but instead looked upwards at the blue sky through the shimmering leaves of the trees and wondered at the beauty of nature. Gulmarg was so beautiful. A pony had been engaged for me at monthly rates, I rode every morning unaccompanied. I usually chose the outer road which girdles half of Gulmarg. It passed through a forest of deodar [Himalayan cedar or Cedrus deodora], pine, rhododendrons and other conifers, the snowy peaks to my right. It was cold, the sun glorious, the air crisp and invigorating. One morning, I saw a beautiful monal pheasant. I halted my pony to watch the bird with its brilliant plumage, but he soon realized that he was being watched and disappeared into the undergrowth. On another morning, carrying once again sandwiches and hot tea in a flask, Father and I set out on two ponies for Khilanmarg, about two or three hundred feet above Gulmarg. We arrived at the meadow riding through the forest. Khilanmarg must be very beautiful in April and May, with all the wild flowers blooming but now it was only grass and small boulders. We looked down on Gulmarg, nestling as it seemed in a hollow, beyond which rose the high mountains and snowy peaks. The syces urged us to ride a little higher up where they assured us was a frozen lake. Soon the going got tough and we dismounted. Leaving the ponies in charge of one syce, Father and I climbed on, slipping and jumping over large stones of various shapes, while the other syce led the way, stepping over them like a mountain goat. Alas, when we got to the lake, it was not frozen at all, but just water surrounded by huge boulders, which I dare say, in the colder months might turn into a frozen lake. We came down to Khilanmarg, sat under a tree, drank our tea and ate our sandwiches whilst admiring the beauteous surroundings around us. After a couple of months, our stay at Gulmarg came to an end; reluctantly I returned to Srinagar. This time we lived in a houseboat moored on the Dal Lake. It was picturesque, the lake was A B E AU T I F U L VA L L E Y A N D A PA L A C E

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full of water lilies and long green weeds, but the water was stagnant and inclined to be smelly. Father planned our next trip, to Zoji La pass71. A flat sum of money was paid to an agency that made all the arrangements — the booking of rooms in the dak bungalows en route, food, two riding ponies for Father and me, a dandy72 for Mother and pack ponies for the baggage. We had an excellent guide, a Kashmiri Muslim, who was overall in charge. We travelled in a small houseboat up to Ganderbal and there we left the boat and journeyed overland. Mother rode in her dandy but Father and I walked a good bit of the way, mounting our ponies only when tired. We usually broke journey at midday and rested, as always under a grove of trees. To our right, a mountain stream gurgled and rushed past, dashing over huge boulders on its way downhill. The guide would tell us when we had to resume our journey in order to reach our next staging bungalow well before sunset, tired but happy. We rarely passed any other tourists, the few we did were Europeans. Kashmir was unspoilt, pure in its virginal beauty. Father and I, after a rest and an ample tea would wander down to the green pasture next to the rushing stream, the guide with us. I would stand, fascinated by the water as it dashed against the rocks, myriads of spray rising high in the air. The guide did not allow us to loiter for long, saying this was the time when the bears came down from the hills to the riverside to quench their thirst. The sun would be low on the horizon and the hills casting dark shadows when we turned towards the bungalow. An early dinner and then to bed, I would fall asleep listening to the song of the river. In one such staging bungalow, there was an English colonel on a fishing holiday. He had had a lucky day and caught several trout that evening. Father and he got talking and the gentleman very kindly sent across some fish for our dinner. That was the first time that I tasted trout; though I enjoyed the fish, I thought it was much 130

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Postcard of the Moti Bagh palace, Patiala, c. 1920s

overrated. I remember the Zoji La as being bitterly cold and desolate. The bungalow was uncomfortable with a broken window pane in the bathroom through which the wind blew icy cold. There was an ice bridge below through which the stream flowed. The water looked green with chunks of ice floating in it. I was glad to leave the next morning for our return journey to Srinagar. Our holiday in Kashmir had come to an end. It was one of the most enjoyable holidays I have ever had and though I had no friends except my parents for company, I was never bored. From Kashmir, we left for Patiala. When he had gone to London in 1921 with Lord Sinha, Father had met the Maharaja of Patiala and become friendly with him. The Maharaja was also a member of the War Cabinet and they had all travelled together in the same ship. He had very kindly extended an invitation to Father to visit Patiala whenever convenient. So we arrived at Patiala for the Dussehra festivities. Father was treated as an honoured guest; a lovely A B E AU T I F U L VA L L E Y A N D A PA L A C E

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bungalow was placed at his disposal. One of the Maharaja’s personal ADCs was asked to look after our comforts and show us round the town. I remember well two incidents: we were taken to watch a polo match. By the time we arrived, a large number of cars were parked near the polo ground and two large shamianas had been erected by its side. The ADC was leading us to one of the shamianas, when the Maharaja emerged from the other and beckoned to Father calling out, “Gupta, come this way”, and he led us to the other shamiana in which he had been sitting and seated us in the front row. I looked around and saw that apart from a few Indians who were probably the ministers, all the others were Europeans. They were in the Maharaja’s service, apart from a few, who, like ourselves, were his guests. The other shamiana was obviously meant for Indians in the state’s service. During Dussehra, a durbar73 was held. We were invited to it and seated very close to the dais where the Maharaja sat on his throne. He was dressed in a gorgeous brocade achkan [knee–length buttoned–up coat] and had strings of huge pearls hung round his neck. His turban was bedecked with precious stones, with a dazzling emerald as the centre–piece from which hung a peerless pear– shaped pearl. The address of welcome was read by a well–known Englishman who held an important position in the Maharaja’s cabinet. I remember the first line of the address because it sounded so false to me — it started as “You, our Lord and Master ...” I was shocked. After the speech, the Maharaja received nazar [ceremonial gifts] from all those present. Father, out of courtesy and as was the custom, presented the Maharaja with a gold sovereign and in return received a valuable piece of kinkhab [brocade]. On our return to the guest house, I asked Father why the Englishman had opened his speech with ‘You, our Lord and Master’ and was such servility necessary? Father had no answer to give me. The next morning we were taken by car to see the black bucks; the ADC was driving. We drove about ten miles out of Patiala town 132

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and there they were. The area was strewn with boulders and stunted babul [Vachellia nilotica, prickly acacia] trees. The ADC drove as fast as the ground would permit but the deer were fleeter, racing alongside the car and leaping high in the air. They were beautiful and so graceful, the jet black stags with their long spiralling horns were particularly handsome. This was the Maharaja’s shooting preserve. He shot from a speeding car, the ADC told us. Before leaving Patiala, we visited the Maharaja’s kennels. He was partial to cocker spaniels and he certainly had a collection of super dogs: black, golden, white and liver–coloured and the blue roan, all perfect specimens. They were housed in a separate large wire– meshed enclosure with fans and pucca [brick and mortar] rooms for protection against the rains and winter. Besides, each dog had his or her own sleeping cot. They were regularly exercised and well fed and all seemed content and happy. A winner of several international championships was pointed out to us. There she sat, aloof and superior, very conscious of the blue blood that ran in her veins. Soon, our entire holiday was over, and I, at least, who had never travelled so extensively, had seen a good part of our beautiful country.

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n January 1903, Lord Curzon held the Delhi Durbar74 to commemorate the accession of Edward the VII as King Emperor of the British Empire. The Viceroy remembered Father from his visit to Malda and sent for him to come to Delhi and placed him in charge of the Indian Press Camp. A tented township stretching over six to eight miles had been set up to house the Indian princes and their families, officers and their families, subordinates and servants, all of whom had been called to Delhi to attend the Durbar. New roads were constructed and small gardens with green lawns separated the colonies of tents. Lord Curzon believed in pomp and show. Money was of no consequence and it was lavishly spent – such was the Delhi Durbar. The Indian Press Camp was placed in a central place and Father was given full liberty to ask for anything he required to make his guests comfortable. A pucca hall was erected in the middle of the Press Camp with a huge fireplace, and a large table was placed in the 134

centre on which rested all the Indian and English newspapers. All the tents had boarded floors, a coal stove burning night and day and thatch on top of the tent roofs to try and make the living quarters as comfortable as possible. The Durbar Hall had been built on a large, round stadium. A throne had been constructed, an imitation of the Moghul Peacock Throne on which the seated Viceroy accepted nazar from all the Indian princes as they filed past him, barring the Nizam of Hyderabad who never attended the Durbar.The Viceroy came to visit the Press Camp with the Foreign Secretary. The rush was tremendous, all the journalists were pushing forward in order to be presented to the Viceroy. There were some amongst them who had previously said they were not interested in meeting Lord Curzon, but they were now in the front line including some editors from Bengal, getting themselves introduced to the Viceroy.

Lord and Lady Curzon arriving on elephant back for the 1903 Delhi Durbar

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Many years later, in 1921, Sir Atul Chatterjee, who was then the Secretary for Industries in the Government of India, and Father went to Geneva as government delegates to the League of Nations75, Labour Branch. They had with them their secretaries, medical advisers and other officers to help them in their work. Mr. R. Saklatwala, who was later knighted and became Chairman of Tata Steel Works, represented and was the spokesman for Indian labour. Unfortunately Sir Atul fell ill and could not be present at the opening session of the League. In his absence, Father had to take on the responsibility of being the leader of the delegation. All the representatives of the various countries present were extremely polite and courteous. The Chairman of the League was a well– known political figure, a Frenchman called Monsieur Toma. Soon after, Sir Atul recovered and joined the delegation at Geneva. The chief item on the agenda for which the Indian delegation was present concerned the export of wool to the European markets. Sir Atul asked Father to present India’s case before the League. The League laid down if wool from India was to be exported to Europe it had to be disinfected against anthrax and its allied diseases. If India were to accept all the conditions laid down by the League, she would have to close down large factories at Bombay, Karachi and other parts from where wool was being exported, and it would mean the stoppage of export of wool from India for a considerable length of time. India asked for two to four years’ time before the League imposed these conditions on her. The debate continued for two to three days, and in the end India won her case. Perhaps it was at Sir Atul’s instance that the Government of India wrote a letter of thanks to Father. The Royal Commission on the Public Services of India 1914 and the Royal Agricultural Commission, of which Lord Linlithgow was Chairman, came to India. For both these commissions, Father was asked to give evidence. In the Public Services Commission, Father 136

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spoke at length, fearlessly pointing out the privileges that English civilians enjoyed that were denied to Indians. After he gave his evidence, there was a great deal of agitation in the Indian Press. G. K. Gokhale,76 who was a member of the commission, saw Father on the evening previous to the day on which he was to give evidence and coached him on several topics. For the Royal Agricultural Commission, my father was selected from Bengal to be a member. The commission did commendable work and gave valuable advice in urging improvement in India’s agricultural conditions, livestock and trade with other countries. In his career as a serving officer Father was more concerned and interested about the welfare of the people, than in the daily routine of official work. During his tenure as Commissioner of Burdwan division, there was a Santhal77 uprising in the sub division of Jhargram which lay in the district of Midnapore and was a part of Burdwan division. Eric Coates was the SDO (Sub–divisional Officer) in charge of Jhargram when the revolt took place. The District Magistrate and Collector of Midnapore was an Englishman. Father could not agree with the steps taken by the SDO, and the District Magistrate in suppressing the unrest amongst the tribals. He thought they were unduly harsh and unnecessary, and he expressed his dissatisfaction in writing. The case was sent to the Home Member in Writers’ Buildings. The Commissioner was sent for by the Home Member who tried to explain to Father that if his findings were accepted by the Bengal government, it would be a reflection on the SDO and lower his prestige in the sub–division. Father refused to change his views saying he could never accept an action taken as right, when he knew it was totally unjustified, but if the Home Member wished he could overrule the Commissioner’s report. The Home Member took no action and the matter was ultimately hushed up. Father retired in 1928 and after retirement he turned to politics. He stood as an independent candidate, for the Bengal Assembly R E F L E C T I O N S O N A B U R E AU C R AT ’ S L I F E

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from the district of Bankura, but he lost the seat to the Congress candidate. Mr. Chatterjee, the elected candidate could not carry on for long, as he was forced to retire due to ill health. Father was nominated to his seat and he was in the Council for three years. During his three years as a member of the Bengal Council, Father spoke very strongly during each budget session on the injustice of the revenue of Bengal being distributed to other provinces by the Government of India. Bengal yearly lost about Rupees two crores78. The other subject which agitated Father a great deal was the question of the communal award — separate electorates for different castes and religions — that the British Government had decided on. He felt this would be a disaster for India and plant a poisonous seed in the country’s politics. Lord Zetland, when he became Secretary of State for India, tried to rectify some of the mistakes in the Bill by bringing in an Amendment, but it was not accepted by the British Government.

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n 1927, six months before Father retired, he decided to go abroad for four months. Dada, Bowdi and Kido would be with us. We travelled in great luxury by the S.S. Cracovia,79 a liner of the Messageries Maritimes. As Father was making use of the last benefit he incurred from the Law Commission80, our passages were paid for by Government. Mother and I had a deluxe cabin with an attached bathroom with windows instead of port holes. Dada, of course, had to pay for his family’s passages. A month before leaving Calcutta I had met the man I was to marry. He proposed to me before I left, but I was unsure of myself and could not make up my mind. On reaching the ship, I found flowers and a letter in our cabin from Asok. I went to my father in my dilemma. He told me that he thought Asok Kumar Chanda a very intelligent young man and that he came from one of the well–known families of Assam. I was in no great hurry to get married and leave the shelter of my parents’ home though I knew they would like to see me settled in life before Father retired. I accepted his proposal by writing to Asok from Port Said.

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Postcard of S.S. Cracovia

The food on the ship was excellent, specially the puddings and ice creams which were their specialty. We played all the usual games — quoits, skittles etc. and sat out on the deck on deck chairs and read or dozed in the sunshine; after tea Dada and I would take walks round the deck until we felt we had enough exercise. There was an excellent band on board that played both morning and evening. Dances were held occasionally and though I did not dance, I enjoyed listening to the music, watching the dancers and gazing at the star–spangled sky. The voyage in itself was like a delightful holiday. We disembarked at Naples and the same day travelled by train to Venice, and stayed at a fairly comfortable hotel. All our reservations on the Continent [Europe] were made by [Thomas] Cook’s travel agency. Venice as everyone knows is a city of water ways, the main street in the town being the Grand Canal with gondolas plying the whole day with visitors. We went for a ride in one and it was enjoyable. We passed under the marble Rialto Bridge and marble 140

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Postcard of Venice

palaces standing on both sides of the canal, but if you enter the alleys, the smaller canals, these are smelly and dirty. We saw empty tins of jam, butter, coffee etc. floating on the water. The Piazzo San Marco was lined on three sides by shops mainly meant for tourists. Bowdi and I entered a few out of curiosity; there were beautiful silver filigree jewellery, bangles, rings and belts, attractive leather bags etched with gold, and the famed Venetian glass all priced high for tourists, well beyond our means. We were at a disadvantage as no one in our party spoke Italian. St. Mark’s Church, imposing to look at, stood on the fourth side of the piazza. We were very eager to enter the church but were not allowed to do so as one member of our party was not wearing a long–sleeved blouse — though as heads had to be covered, we could have done that with our sari palloos. Venice is a beautiful city and an aura of romance hangs over it as it is unique. I remember the thousands of pigeons on the piazza and the curiosity of the Italian women at our saris. They very often came up to test the texture of the silk with their OUR EUROPEAN SOJOURN

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hands — and nodded approvingly to themselves. They admired Bowdi’s lustrous black eyes and long black hair. Our stay at Venice was short and after a couple of days we moved on to Stressa, a lovely town on Lake Maggiore. The hotel was right by the lakeside, green clad hills rising behind us covered mostly with ferns and conifers of various shades and types. We took long walks, both morning and evening, enjoying the golden sunshine as it poured over us, admiring the picturesque square, beauty of the lake and its surroundings and breathing in the invigorating air. I also enjoyed the Italian food. From Italy, we moved on to Switzerland where we stayed at a small resort on the outskirts of Montreaux on Lake Geneva. We stayed in a small but comfortable hotel and found the Swiss to be extremely polite and courteous. The countryside was beautiful and it reminded me of Kashmir, though on a smaller scale. I admired specially the Swiss chalets tucked away in the niches of the mountains, they looked so picturesesque. One day we went by the mountain railway almost to the summit of Rochers de Naye, a winter sports’ resort. The mountainside was covered with snow. It was very cold, especially as we were not suitably clad nor wearing fur–lined shoes. Little Kido turned almost blue and we hastily returned to the wooden cabin which was comparatively warm with a roaring log fire in the fireplace. We also had hot coffee, rolls and cheese and came down to Montreaux as soon as we could. Father and I would take the train to Montreux town and after wandering around the shops alongside the lake, we would stop at a café for tea and a pastry. A string band played old romantic tunes while the customers relaxed and sipped their tea. There was one particular jeweller’s shop which displayed in its show–window a necklace of five graduated strings of pearls, small but with a lovely sheen, held at both ends at the back by two tiny diamond clasps. Both Father and I were greatly taken by this piece of jewellery, but we thought it would be frightfully expensive and something that 142

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I never hoped to possess. Father told me that if the pearls did not cost more than his monthly salary, he would give it to me as his gift for my wedding. After gazing at the pearls for a couple of days we plucked up courage and entered the shop. The shopkeeper was very polite and told us that the pearls were oriental [Basra] pearls of very good quality. As their price came to exactly my father’s month’s salary, the coveted pearls became mine. The jeweller had not exaggerated when he told us the pearls were of good quality, for every time the pearls have been restrung, our Indian jewellers have remarked on their quality. Today they belong to my younger daughter to whom I gave them as a wedding gift. Jolly boats could be hired by the hour at Montreux and we went out in these twice or thrice. Father and Dada were the oarsmen. Bowdi and I would be at the tiller and Mother and Kido seated. These were delightful outings; the lake deep blue and placid, the wind fresh and the sunshine warm on our bodies. One evening, whilst we were walking alongside the lake, we saw an elderly gentleman feeding the gulls; he seemed anxious to talk to Father and after mutual greetings he told us he was an Afghani nobleman, a minister in the king’s cabinet, but had been forced to leave his country and take up residence in Switzerland. He seemed lonely and very anxious to learn about the happenings in our part of the world. We met him several times, but he never revealed to us where he lived; he was a pathetic figure. One morning we went and saw the Chateau or Castle of Chillon, which was near our hotel. It stood on Lake Geneva. The rooms upstairs were grandiosely furnished with heavy drapes and large glass windows that gave a wonderful view of the lake. Downstairs was the huge kitchen blackened with centuries of soot and monstrous cauldrons that must have required at least four men to lift. Below the water level were the dungeons, where no fresh air seemed to penetrate. They had iron rings on the walls where OUR EUROPEAN SOJOURN

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human beings were shackled and tortured. The agonized screams of the unfortunate prisoners must surely have reached those living upstairs. We did not linger long at the castle but came out into the sunshine. By then, we had been in Switzerland for over a fortnight, and I had enjoyed every day of our stay. Our hotel was quiet and restful without many visitors but our holiday at Montreaux had come to an end and we moved on to our next halt on the Continent which was Paris. We stayed at Hotel Royale, comfortable and central, which served delicious salads and bowls of fresh fruit after both lunch and dinner. For breakfast I ate only croissants, butter and honey of which I could never have enough. Father had a passion for visiting picture galleries, I was his sole companion — Dada and Bowdi, after one or two visits, said they had enough of viewing paintings. We would set out after breakfast, carrying a packet of sandwiches. Our first visit was to the Louvre — and we went back twice or thrice. A flight of marble steps led to the floor above, half way up, the steps divided; on the landing in the centre stood the Hellenistic sculpture, Winged Victory of Samothrace that I can never forget. The rooms upstairs were full of Old Masters; in one of the central smaller rooms hung the Mona Lisa/La Giocanda by Leonardo da Vinci and on one side of her was St. George killing the dragon. I would sit and gaze at her face whilst Father moved on, it was her enigmatic smile that held me. All the rooms had benches for visitors. For lunch, we would descend to the gardens, find a coffee stall, eat our sandwiches with a hot cup of coffee. After sitting in the sun and enjoying the surroundings and fresh air, Father and I would return to the galleries. By this time, my enthusiasm for wandering around with my father would have diminished, and after viewing a couple of rooms, I would sit on a bench waiting for him, so we could return to the hotel for tea. There were guards or guardians of the pictures in almost each room, and when they saw Father, a dark foreigner, 144

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Postcard of the grand dining room at the Castle of Chillon

an Indian, so genuinely interested in the pictures, they would go out of their way to point out the pictures of real interest. I do not remember the other galleries we visited but they were quite a few. In the hotel where we were staying, we saw placards up that said that Jan Kubelick81 was playing at the Paris Opera. Father, knowing my love for Western music, bought a couple of tickets in the stalls. I could hardly wait for the evening to arrive; we went by taxi to the Opera and as I saw the beautifully dressed and chic Parisiennes, I became very conscious of our own simple clothes, but Father was not a bit disturbed. We were shown to our seats which were good. I looked around at the great hall, the huge chandelier hanging from the ceiling, the boxes round us with red plush seats rising tier by tier, half way up to the domed ceiling; it was very impressive — the Paris Opera House — where, for centuries past, the greatest of artistes in all fields had performed. The curtain went up, Kubelick came on the stage and bowed, he was of medium stature. A great ovation welcomed him. When he started to play, there was pin– OUR EUROPEAN SOJOURN

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Photograph of Eiffel Tower, c. 1930s

drop silence in the hall. I cannot remember what the compositions were, but it was heavenly music. I was enthralled by the volume and sweet tones that flowed from his violin. I sat motionless right through his performance, conscious only of Kubelick and the music he produced. It was an unforgettable evening for me. One day, we went to Versailles, and, along with other visitors, were shown round the palace and its gilded and painted rooms by a guide. The luxurious furniture with its exquisite upholstery, paintings on the walls and ceilings, delicate objets d’art, gorgeous carpets on the floor and marble statues in every corner. . . I wondered 146

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how people could have lived in rooms like those — it would be like living in a museum. The gardens were delightful and we saw the fountains playing. We stayed till quite late and gradually dusk set in. When the lights came on, the whole scene changed and it was like fairyland. We returned to the hotel, unable to absorb so much that was beautiful in one day. Josephine Baker82 was the rage of Paris. Dada, Bowdi and I went one evening to the Folies Bergere where she was appearing. We had bought cheap tickets, high up in the galleries. Binoculars could be rented for a nominal price. We rented one — but needless to say, neither Bowdi nor I got a look in as the glasses remained glued to Dada’s eyes! When Josephine appeared on the stage, the audience went wild with enthusiasm. Again and again they encored her, but she gave only one. We came home late at night. Neither Bowdi nor I was over excited with the Folies Bergere — one can be sated with the display of so many nude figures, but the setting of the scenes

Postcard of Louis XIV’s bed chamber, Versailles OUR EUROPEAN SOJOURN

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Josephine Baker doing the banana dance

were very artistically done. Bowdi and I along with Kido spent some mornings window gazing. Mother bought a couple of saris for my trousseau, one was of exquisite deep red lace with a gold–spangled design on the body. I had it for years, the gold never tarnished. The shop assistant had told me to keep it folded within black tissue 148

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paper. Of all the saris Mother gave me for my wedding, that was my favourite. We had been in Paris for almost a fortnight, visited all the places that visitors usually do including Napoleon’s tomb viewed from a balcony above that encircled his tomb below. Flags of all his victories were displayed. Dada, Bowdi, Kido and I went to the Eiffel Tower and took the lift up; it was crowded with visitors to the top and the lift seemed to vibrate and shake horribly on its upward journey. The Kutub Minar had impressed me much more than did the Eiffel Tower.

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ur holiday on the Continent was over and we left for London. The channel crossing was unpleasant, the sea was rough, the water looked grey and uninviting. Poor Mother and Bowdi were very seasick. In London we stayed at a hotel in South Kensington, it was run by a Bengali called Mazumdar who had an English wife. We were comfortable and well looked after, but the food after French cooking was staid and unappetizing. Kensington Gardens were close by, and that used to be Bowdi, Kido’s and my regular haunt — peaceful and quiet, with lovely trees, green lawns and flower beds along the walks. It was usually full of children, nursemaids with their young charges in perambulators, old people sitting on benches under trees, dozing or reading the newspapers. What a pleasant way to spend leisure time in their old age! We would invariably walk up to the Round Pond, to see little boys sailing their boats and the ducks floating or swimming in the water. Sometimes we walked alongside the Serpentine, watched rowers in their punts and admired the statue of Peter Pan with his flute. Time passed quickly in such delightful surroundings and after a couple of hours’ outing, we would return

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Postcard of the Peter Pan statue at the Kensington Gardens, London, c. 1920s

to the hotel, relaxed and hungry. We visited the Tower of London and were shown the room where the beautiful but unfortunate Anne Boleyn spent her last days before her execution. We also toured Westminster Abbey where all the British kings and queens are crowned and also lie buried. Kew Gardens by launch was next and as we had carried a packed lunch, we spent the whole day out. The hot houses with their exotic ferns, plants and flowers, from all over the Southern Hemisphere were very interesting. While it is impossible to cover the whole of the Kew Gardens in a day, we were satisfied with what we had seen, specially the pale yellow, pink and white wax–like rhododendrons in bloom on bushes. It was all so quiet and peaceful. Mother did a fair amount of shopping for me in the large departmental store of Barkers83 — a pretty old rose–coloured eiderdown, bed sheets, etc. My gold shoes I bought from Rauls in Shaftesbury Avenue; a lovely rose enamel and silver gilt dressing LONDON AND BEYOND

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Ellen Terry as Portia in The Merchant of Venice

table set for me, and for Asok, a dressing case with silver–backed brushes, etc. came from Mappin and Webb. Father and I started visiting the art galleries. I remember only one painting that hung in the Royal Academy of Arts of the three daughters of Mr. & Mrs. Nirmal Sen, the son of Keshub Chunder Sen84. The painting was done by one of the best–known artists of the day and he called it “The Three Graces”. The second object which held my attention was the head of a young Bengali boy, with curly hair, sculpted by Epstein85. He was Lieutenant Indra Lal Roy, a pilot in the RAF shot down by the Germans during the First World War86. We went round the various rooms, but after the art galleries we had visited in 152

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Paris, the Royal Academy did not have much to offer to the visitor. Also, perhaps by this time I had had my fill of viewing paintings. My parents and I were invited to a garden party at Buckingham Palace. I wore my one and only Benares silk saree and my one piece of jewellery, a small string of uneven pearls with a star–shaped pendant studded with half pearls. We arrived by taxi amidst all the other adjacent luxurious cars. There was very little formality; we were taken to the lawn at the back of the Palace which looked like green velvet. There were flower beds all along the boundary walls. Tea and eatables were laid on tables both sides of the lawn, a small marquee was pitched in the centre for the royal couple and a few privileged invitees. The guests stood on both sides admiring the flowers and chatting with friends while waiting for King George and Queen Mary to arrive. The King and Queen arrived unannounced and started to walk across the lawn towards the pavilion. When they were half way there, the Prince of Wales, later to be Edward the VIII, ran out of the palace, he was late. I still recollect a vivid image of him running — with one hand he held on to his top hat and with the other, his tails to stop them from flapping as he rushed forward to be with his parents. The guests then turned towards the tea tables, moved about, met friends, chatted and spent an enjoyable evening. We left after the King and Queen had departed. There was no formality, no protocol. My parents and I went one evening to see Ellen Terry87 play the part of Portia in The Merchant of Venice. That was the first time I saw one of Shakespeare’s plays on the stage. I enjoyed the vaudeville shows at the Alhambra Theatre to which Dada, Bowdi and I went. We could not go out together in the evenings because of Kido, so one afternoon we all went to see the famous Bertram Mills circus. The animals were in superb condition, specially the horses and tigers. The matched pairs of white horses were a treat to see and so were the skills of the acrobats. LONDON AND BEYOND

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Postcard of the beach at Bexhill–on–Sea, c. 1920s

Father decided to go to Torquay in Devonshire for a change from London. We stayed at one of the various boarding houses in the town. I cannot say that Torquay appealed to me much. It was far too crowded and very noisy with holiday makers. Bexhill–on–Sea which we visited later was a smaller resort, but so much pleasanter. It was far less crowded than Torquay and had a wide, gently sloping beach. The sea was cold. Holding Kido by the hand, I only paddled as I am no swimmer but Father and Dada thoroughly enjoyed their sea baths, both swimming fairly far out. We were staying at a comfortable hotel so it was a very pleasant holiday. We also went to Wales, but I am afraid apart from remembering it as very beautiful countryside, I have no recollections of where we stayed and the towns we visited. It was bleak and cold most of the time. I think we were in Wales for not more than a week after which we returned to London. Our holiday was drawing to a close, 154

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Father would have to rejoin duty within a month. I was anxious to get back home to be with Asok and come to know him better. We returned to London and after about ten days’ stay there, sailed from the Tilbury docks by a P & O ship. The voyage back was uneventful, except for the Bay of Biscay where we encountered heavy seas. Mother, Bowdi and even little Kido were horribly seasick. We stopped at Bombay for a couple of days where my parents had friends. I was terribly nervous and at the same time thrilled at the thought of meeting Asok again. The train steamed into Howrah station and there he was, meticulously dressed as he was right through his life, waiting for the train to come in. We looked at each other and I did not think I had made a mistake in accepting his proposal.

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ENDNOTES

\ 1. Monica was born in 1906, so her ‘earliest memories’ perhaps relate to 1912 or 1913. 2. Noakhali was a district in the south–east of undivided Bengal. It is now in Bangladesh, bordered by Comilla district to the north, the Meghna estuary and the Bay of Bengal to the south. It is remembered today for the extreme violence of November 1946: following untold communal brutality resulting in many deaths, rapes and forced conversions, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi undertook a tour of the district that took seven weeks of walking barefoot through 47 villages. He spoke of peace and amity between communities. 3. Monica was the only daughter of Jnanendra Nath and Sarala Gupta. She had three older brothers, Sudhindra Nath (Sudhi, b.1897), Samindra Nath (Nidhi b.1901) Dhirendra Nath (Dhiren, b. 1902). Willie (Jitendra Nath) was born in 1910. 4. Monica’s writings provide significant insights into the life and times of an Indian member of the Indian Civil Service or ICS. An ICS officer had to perform a range of administrative and judicial duties, spending large parts of his career on tour in the districts. Each of the three Presidencies (Bengal, Bombay and Madras) and later provinces of British India were divided into several districts headed by the District Magistrate or Collector as he was called in some areas. (It was only after Independence in 1947 that women were permitted to sit for the competitive examination for admission to the Indian Administrative Service that had replaced the ICS). Other officers in the district were the District Superintendent of Police, the Sub–divisional Officer — often an ICS officer’s first posting — the Sub–divisional Magistrate and a number of revenue–collecting officials. In unusual times, the young civilian might be called upon to be policeman, postmaster, surveyor, customs officer, lottery superintendent and even banker. In addition, he had to be a competent horseman and amenable to spending many months under canvas in a range of climatic conditions. Training included adaptability to an outdoor life as well as skill at decoding the many messages and unspoken meanings of the people to be administered. At the same time, district life could be lonely and notions of conjugality and parenting evolved to adjust to the public persona of the district officer where the family functioned much like a team and the officer’s wife had an important role to play. In 1871, three young men, all of them Bengalis, joined the service. They were Romesh Chunder Dutt who was to later become the maternal grandfather of

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Monica, and Bihari Lal Gupta, a cousin of her father Jnanendra Nath Gupta. The third, Surendranath Banerjea who was dismissed from the ICS in 1873 for a trivial error of incorrectly entering the name of an accused in a list of absconders, went on to join municipal politics as well as teach in a couple of Calcutta colleges. He was well known for his oratory and his lectures held his students spellbound. From the 1880s onwards, he became an important figure in nationalist politics and the Indian National Congress (founded in 1885). 5. The bulbul (Pyncnonotus barbatus), koel (Eudynamys scolopaceus) and brain fever bird (Hierococcyx varius) are common Indian garden birds. 6.

Small rounds of unleavened wheat flour that are deep–fried.

7.

These are likely to have been Bengal monitor lizards.

8. Monica’s fascination and love for the jungle never ever left her, and, later in life, her most valued possessions were books by Jim Corbett and other shikaris (hunters). Though a great animal lover, she belonged to the generation that had not yet fully eschewed hunting or moved over to vegetarianism through choice. 9.

A horse or pony trap was a light two–or four–wheeled carriage.

10. Romesh Chunder Dutt was the first Indian ICS officer to become Divisional Commissioner. He retired from the service in 1897 and became President of the Indian National Congress in 1899. Apart from being an exceptional civil servant, Dutt wrote several books in Bengali and English in a range of genres – serious commentaries on the negative impact of British rule on the Indian economy, novels and travelogues. 11. It is likely that she did not allow it because of the belief that Hindus would lose their caste status if they travelled abroad and mixed with foreigners. 12. The marriage must have been in accordance with The Special Marriage Act 1872. It is not clear why this was followed by a Brahmo ceremony as neither family belonged to the Brahmo Samaj, a monotheistic reformist and renaissance movement that eschewed idol worship and the excessive ritualism of orthodox Hinduism. However, R.C.Dutt had many Brahmo friends and his eldest daughter, Kamala, was married to P.N.Bose, a convert to the Brahmo Samaj. At a Brahmo wedding, there is a sermon delivered by the acharya or respected member of the congregation followed by Brahmo Sangeet, songs composed by Rabindranath Tagore and others. There is an exchange of marriage vows, garlands and rings. 13.

Three of the wine glasses and the round tray survive to this day.

14.

Da is the abbreviation of Dada, denoting older brother.

15. Mashi is the Bengali kinship term for mother’s sister. When used for women who are in fact not thus related to the person using the term, it denotes a mother’s friend who, in some cases, is as close as a maternal aunt.

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16. The semul (silk cotton, Bombax ceiba) and the dhak (flame of the forest, Butea frondosais) have large, striking blooms that appear just before the onset of the long, hot summers of the Indo–Gangetic plains. The neem (Azadirachta indica), peepul (Ficus religiosa) and banyan (Ficus benghalensis) trees provide shade in the villages, small towns and roadsides and it is not unusual to find a little shrine under a peepul and a sitting area under a neem tree. 17. Government rest houses originally for members of the Board of Revenue when they were on ‘circuit tours’. Later, these became available to other senior government officers and their guests. 18. Educator and the second Indian Vice–Chancellor of the University of Calcutta. 19. The Viceroy’s Executive Council was the cabinet of the government of British India headed by the Viceroy of India. 20. It would appear that Monica studied in Loreto Convent, Shillong for a short while, and as it was not unusual for young boys to study in the girls’ school until a certain age, Willie was admitted as well. 21. These Falls are still popular though the Bishop and Cotton Falls is now known as the Bishop Falls. 22. The dhara, a full–length shift–like gown is the traditional dress for Khasi women. 23. Those whom Monica referred to as Anglo–Indians were of mixed race ancestry, and Eurasians was the correct term for them. Historically, people of British ancestry born or living in the Indian subcontinent, were known as Anglo–Indians; today, those of mixed ancestry prefer to be known as Anglo– Indians as well. 24.

Called St Edmund’s College, the school was established in 1916.

25. Satyendra Prasanno Sinha became the first Indian and person of colour to be elevated to a hereditary peerage and to sit in the House of Lords. 26. This was Carmichael College, established in 1916. The Rangpur Government College was set up in the 1960s. 27. A division typically consisted of 3–5 districts, each headed by a District Magistrate. 28.

Di is an abbreviation of Didi or older sister.

29. Kamala was married to Pramatha Nath Bose, the first Indian officer of the Geological Survey of India. He was a well–known geologist and palaentologist whose most outstanding achievement was the discovery of iron ore deposits in Mayurbhanj in present–day Odisha. In 1904, he wrote to Jamshedji Tata of

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his discovery, leading to the establishment of Tata Iron and Steel Company at Sakchi that became Jamshedpur in 1919. In Romance of Tata Steel R M Lala writes, capturing the mood of the times: “A thin line of travelers moves its way through the jungles. In front, on the horseback, was a sharp– featured bearded young man [P.N.Bose], behind him on another horse sat a remarkably beautiful woman in a sari [Kamala], riding side–saddle. Another pony followed with two babies on it in the charge of a competent care taker. Following at a respectable distance behind was a camel loaded with tents and chattels. Atop the camel were perched the servants of the party. Every ten or fifteen miles the travelers would stop for the man at the head to spend four or five days on a field survey, searching for iron ore, mica, coal and other minerals.” 30.

It was written by playwright and actor Girish Chandra Ghosh.

31. Later, Modhu Bose bacame a very well–known Bengali film director and actor, known for his direction of Michael Madhusudhan (1950), Alibaba (1937) and Meenakshi (1942). 32. A small boat used for errands and to ferry people to and fro from the launch to land. It was usually attached to a larger vessel. In this case, the jolly boat was detached from the launch for small distance journeys, chores and shikar. 33. The hilsa (ilish in Bengali) from the Padma river remains a delicacy, a favourite of Bengali fish–eating aficionados. 34. Perhaps Monica meant that though a well–trained barrister and the son of an outstanding professional, Ajoy Dutt remained a lawyer with a limited practice. 35. The original 18th century mansion was apparently dismantled by the British and the present structure put up in the 19th century. 36.

Used as a suffix to a man’s name, babu denotes respect.

37.

Buri died in 1981.

38. It is interesting that the usually chaperoned girls were riding without a syce in attendance. Monica makes no mention of the absence either. Also one may wonder why her father had not sent out a small search party. 39. Zenzo Shimizu, also spelt Zenzo Shimidzu, was ranked no. 4 in the world and reached the semi–finals at Wimbledon in 1921. 40.

She was the mother of Maharani Gayatri Devi of Jaipur.

41. Ghaus Mohammed Khan reached the quarter finals at Wimbledon in 1939, and Prasad was a member of the Indian Davis Cup Team between 1921 and 1929.

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159

42. Though she does not mention it here, Bose was the son of Monica’s maternal cousin Chinima. He was Asian Champion at the 1949–50 Asian International Championship held in Calcutta and in the summer of 1950, became the first Asian to be seeded at Wimbledon, at number 15. 43. Col. Sinha was the older brother of Lord S.P. Sinha, the only Indian hereditary peer. 44. Sadhona Bose was a well–known film and theatre personality who died in 1973, impoverished and alone. In 1937, she played Marjina in Alibaba, directed by her husband, Modhu Bose. The film was a runaway success. 45. Here Monica is referring to her Dada, Sudhi’s wife, Shobha. She later became a significant person in the author’s life. 46. Monica does not dwell on why Santosh’s wife was not brought to meet the Guptas; it could be because she was from a different social background and would have felt awkward. It is equally interesting that Jnanen and Sarala did not insist on meeting her. 47.

A Small Causes Court deals with civil cases.

48. The shehnai is a wooden musical instrument similar to the oboe, common in India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh. Its music is usually played – either live or recorded – at weddings in many parts of these countries. 49. During ritual occasions, family reunions and so on, it was (and is still not uncommon) for Indian families to sit in rows on freshly–washed floors and be served food that is eaten off such leaves. 50. One sister was Renuka (Tinkey), who later became Monica’s older daughter Anjali’s (Anju) mother–in–law. 51. Literally translated to mean rice for the bride, this lavish meal hosted by the bridegroom’s parents or family, is celebrated a couple of days after the wedding. It is the equivalent of contemporary wedding receptions. 52. This charming custom, a form of welcome to an auspicious occasion, continues to this day with variations; some parts of India have rose water (attar) sprinkled on the guests, in others, a vermilion/sandalwood paste/turmeric dot is applied to the forehead. 53.

Bengali for dhoti and kurta.

54. Monica who died in 1995, would surely have been horrified by the ostentatious display at Indian weddings today. 55. Frank Clinger Scallan was born in Calcutta in 1869 or 1870 and worked for the Survey of India for 40 years. This postcard is one of a set of six discovered (and now owned) by researcher Sujaan Mukherjee.

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56. Sundari trees are mangroves — shrubs and trees that grow along shores, rivers, and estuaries in the tropics and subtropics — and are abundant in the Sundarbans. It is possible that the area got its name from the tree. 57. A large administrative area that covered parts of present–day Madhya Pradesh, Chhattisgarh and Maharashtra states. 58. A term that Monica uses more than once, it is descriptive and not a pejorative that refers to non–covenanted officers, clerical staff and so on. 59. Maidan means an open field. In the heart of the city of Calcutta, where the word is used as a place name, it stretches from the Hooghly river in the west to Chowringhee and Park Street in the east. 60. Perhaps Monica was also thinking of the gulmohur (Delonix regia) lining Theatre Road – as depicted in Scallan’s postcard on page 86. 61. These were very eventful years. In December 1920, the Indian National Congress adopted the Non–cooperation resolution leading to resistance to British rule by non– violent means. It was initiated by Gandhiji following the massacre in 1919 of unarmed people in Amritsar’s Jallianwala Bagh. The movement mobilised students, young people and professionals and advocated the use of the charkha or indigenous spinning wheel. The stress was on the boycott – and burning – of foreign items such as cloth. At this time, Subhas Chandra Bose was emerging as a significant and outspoken Congressman. On February 12, 1922, Mahatma Gandhi suspended the movement following violent incidents at Chauri Chaura in the Gorakhpur district (United Provinces) where a large group of protesters turned violent, leading to police firing. In retaliation, the police station was set on fire leading to the death of over twenty policemen and three civilians. In 1923, top Lawyers like C.R. Das and Motilal Nehru gave up their legal practice and formed the Swaraj Party. 62. Monica referred to the sergeant as Anglo–Indian when he was in all probability an Eurasian — of mixed Indian and British origin. 63. A black tailcoat with a white shirt, waistcoat and white bow tie indicated full evening dress for men, mandatory for a dinner at the Governor’s residence. 64. Though she was by then almost twenty, Monica apparently still wore frocks (dresses), unlike Bengali girls from more traditional homes, who would be in saris. Her cousin, Buri, wore a sari at this age. 65.

Clearly, Monica still missed Dinko greatly.

66. The Ancient Monuments Preservation Act, 1904 was passed on 18, March 1904 by the Viceroy, Lord Curzon. Earlier, he had revived the post of Director General of the Archaeological Survey of India, stipulating that the person should

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not only be knowledgeable in the principles of archaeology, but also have the instinct of an explorer with engineering skills. John Marshall was appointed as the new Director General and his ideas on archaeological conservation hold good today and are adhered to by modern conservation experts. Monica had a good opinion of Curzon and felt that he was a ‘knowledgeable and brilliant man’. 67. In December 1981, a stampede on the narrow staircase resulted in 45 deaths after which climbing up has been banned. 68.

These medieval structures are in ruins today.

69. Dak bungalows are travellers bungalows, built originally on postal routes for officers and others to halt for the night during their long road journeys. 70.

Known also as Shankaracharya Hill.

71.

This is a high mountain pass between Srinagar and Leh (Ladakh).

72. A dandy or dandi is a hammock slung on two bamboo poles and carried by two or more men. 73. A durbar was a public audience held by a native prince — maharaja — or the British viceroy or governor. 74. As the Delhi Durbar was held three years before she was born, Monica’s recounting of it is obviously based on what she was told by her father. 75. The League of Nations, an intergovernmental organisation with 58 members, was founded on 10 January 1920 following the Paris Peace Conference that ended the First World War. While its principal mission was to maintain world peace, other issues that it dealt with were settling international disputes through negotiation and arbitration. It also dealt with various treaties on ‘labour conditions, just treatment of native inhabitants, human and drug trafficking, arms trade, global health, prisoners of war, and protection of minorities in Europe’. 76. Gopal Krishna Gokhale was an important social reformer and Congress leader. 77. Santhals are a large tribe inhabiting parts of the terai (the area below the foothills) in Nepal and what was then the Central Provinces, parts of which are today’s Jharkhand. 78.

In the 1930s, this would amount to well over a million pounds sterling.

79. It was a ship of the Llyod Triestino line and not of the Messageries Maritimes, built in 1920, and in 1934 renamed Gerusalemme; in 1943, it was seized by Britain and used as a hospital ship, and in 1946, the ship was returned to Italy where, in 1952, it was finally scrapped. 80.

162

I was not able to find any reference to the Law Commission.

ENDNOTES

81.

Jan Kubelick was a noted Czech violinist and composer.

82. Josephine Baker was a world–famous American–born French dancer, jazz and pop music singer, and actress, renowned for her banana dance. 83. Barkers was a big departmental store in Kensington. It closed down in 2006. 84.

A leader of the reformist Brahmo Samaj.

85.

Sir Jacob Epstein was a leading British sculptor of that time.

86. Indra Lal (Laddie) Roy DFC was the sole Indian flying ace of the First World War. While serving in the Royal Flying Corps and its successor, the Royal Air Force, he claimed ten aerial victories in thirteen days over German aircraft. He was shot down over France in 1918; he was barely twenty at the time. 87. Ellen Terry was a leading Shakesperean actor and known for her role of Portia.

[

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A studio photograph taken shortly after Monica and Asok’s wedding, January 1928

Registrar’s certificate of Monica and Asok’s marriage The witnesses were Monica’s Sejomesho, K.B. Dutt, her Mama, Ajoy Dutt and Asok’s oldest brother, Apurva Chanda

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APPENDICES

\ From The Statesman, Calcutta

168

Arati or Kido was Sudhi and Shobha’s daughter and the Guptas’ eldest grandchild. Though Kido refers to Dinko as a doe, he was in fact a well–antlered stag.

APPENDICES

169

G L O S S A RY

\ achar

pickle

achkan

a close–fitting, high–necked coat, slightly flared below the waist, reaching almost to the knee

amin

a junior official dealing with the measuring of land

asana

small cloth mat

ayah

nanny

baburchi

cook

babu

a term of respect, used as a suffix to a man’s name

bagh

garden

bati

bowl

Bowdi

sister–in–law, in this case older brother’s wife

budha

old man

bund

raised embankment

chaprasi

office peon

cheetal

spotted or Axis deer

chhota peg

small peg of whisky

chik

bamboo blind

choldari

single flap tent

chowkidar

watchman

dak

post

dal

lentil

dali

baskets

dandy or dandi

a hammock slung on two bamboo poles carried by two or more men

dhuti

man’s unstitched lower garment

Didima (Dida)

maternal grandmother

170

durbar gharry ghat ghee godown Jethamoshai Jethima jheel jhol jungli moorgi Kaka Kakima khalasi khansama khitmatgar kinkhab kismet kutcha road lungi maidan mali Mama masalchi Mashima Mejopishi Mesho ‘missibaba’ moonga modha mulakati

A public audience held by a native prince, governor, viceroy carriage raised river embankment clarified butter enclosed storage area father’s older brother father’s older brother’s wife small water body a simple curry wild fowl father’s younger brother father’s younger brother’s wife sailor cook table servant brocade fate dirt track sarong open green field gardener mother’s brother cook’s assistant mother’s sister father’s second sister mother’s sister’s husband young lady a silk produced in Assam a wicker work stool visiting hours G L O S S A RY

171

murgi

chicken

naspati

local pear

nazar

ceremonial gifts

palloo

end piece of the sari

parda

veiling, being in seclusion

paniwalla

water carrier

pir

Muslim holy man

Pishi

father’s sister

pucca

made of brick and mortar

punkhas

fans

puri or luchi

round piece of bread made of unleavened wheat flour

Sejomashi

mother’s third sister

Sejomesho

mother’s third sister’s husband

serang

head of a boat or ship’s crew

shamiana

marquee

shikar

hunt

shikaras

light wooden boats

shikari

hunter

sola topee

pith hat

sowar

groom

syce

groom

thalas

large steel or silver plates

thicca gharry

horse carriage

tonga

horse cart

tuttoo

indigenous pony

zamindar

landowner

zila

district

[ 172

G L O S S A RY

A C K N O W L E D G E ME N TS

M

\

y greatest debt is to my mother, Monica, for agreeing to write about her early life. The exercise books in which she wrote her memories are now treasured family possessions. Sundaresh and Neeru Mehta spent many hours in the summer of 2016 digitalizing Monica’s handwritten text – and at times it was quite a difficult task. Though my mother’s writing is quite clear, occasionally a bit of guesswork was involved. My profound thanks to them for not giving up and facilitating the publication of Days with Dinko and Other Memories. Soon after the release of the book, my good friend and publisher, Esha Béteille, felt that a private edition with a limited circulation did not do justice to my mother’s quite unique memoir. I am grateful to Social Science Press for bringing out Of Colonial Bungalows and Piano Lessons: An Indian Woman’s Memoirs. Sourcing the images was reasonably easy as I had a small selection of family photographs and the cornucopia of my grandmother, Sarala’s postcards bought on the European trip described by Monica. As for others of places and a couple of personalities, I relied on free websites, some institutions and books and the kindness of Omar 173

Khan who had, for many years, an amazing website, Images of Asia. Omar unfailingly sent me scans of postcards of some of the places on the subcontinent that Monica visited. My cousin, Reena Das, shared an image of her mother Buri while a new acquaintance via Facebook, Sujaan Mukherjee sent me the scan of a rare postcard from his personal collection. Dr Kevin Greenbank of the Centre of South Asian Studies, University of Cambridge gave me permission for images from the Maxwell Collection and Dave Walker, Local Studies Librarian, Kensington Central Library allowed me to use the photograph of the Gardens in the 1920s. I am grateful to them and to Srinivas Rao Adige for sending the announcements in The Statesman regarding J.N. Gupta to his friend, my cousin, Sunil Gupta. This was way back in 1989–90. Serendipitously, these surfaced among my papers just in time to be included here. I also thank Sunil for sending me our cousin Arati’s article that appeared in The Statesman, perhaps in the 1970s. Apart from the at times laborious task of working on my mother’s writings, Sundaresh has designed the book, meticulously following the style of my niece, Brinda Datta’s elegantly designed Memories of Belonging (Niyogi Books, 2015). Taking time off from Biblio, Brinda tweaked Sundaresh’s version. I am very grateful to both of them. I am grateful to Hiranmay and to Monica’s grandchildren – Ranjan, Adit, Indraneel and Kamini – for encouraging me to memorialise their Dida and her writings for the family and others interested in the reminiscences of a child of the Raj.

[

174

A C K N OW L E D G E M E N T S

I M A G E C R E DITS

\ Individuals Malavika Karlekar: page nos. 3, 7,12,13,15,16,18, 23, 27, 29, 31, 48, 58, 60, 72, 79, 107, 122, 127, 164 Omar Khan: page nos. 109, 115, 119, 123, 126, 131 Reena Das: page no.73 Late Sarala Gupta: page nos. 140, 141, 145, 146, 147, 154 Sujaan Mukherjee: page no. 94 Books The Wonder that was India: page nos. 120, 121 J.N. Gupta, Life and Work of RomeshChunderDutt: page nos. 63, 65, 69, 87 Institutions Centre for South Asian Studies, University of Cambridge: page nos. 37, 45 Photo Division, Government of India: page no. 50 Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea: page no. 151 Websites http://pazhayathu.blogspot.in/2013/09/tourist–and–other–bungalows– photos– of.html: page no. 33 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Padma_River: page no. 68 https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Great_Eastern_Hotel,_ Calcutta_in_ the_1930s.jpg: page no. 97 https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Prinsep%27s_Ghat,_ Calcutta_by_ Francis_Frith.jpg: page no. 102 https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Calcutta, view across the Maidan, c.1875. jpg: page no. 113 https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Shalimar Gardens, Kashmir. jpg: page no. 128

175

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:DelhiDurbarLordCurzon. jpg page no. 135 https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Josephine Baker#/media/ File:Baker_ Banana.jpg: page no. 148 https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Ellen Terry as Portia.jpg – page no. 152

176

IMAGE CREDITS