Stepping beyond Indian soil: rewind to 1970 "Yeh patloon Englishtani ... Phir bhi dil hai Hindustan" ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- These trousers are English ... But even so, my heart is Indian.
By Brenda Rodrigues brendarodr...@gmail.com Bandra, Mumbai. I first saw England in the far distance, from the top of a hill in the village of Dongri, located in a suburb of Greater Bombay. At least, that was what we youngsters were told by an older cousin who had taken us for a ramble. I was just about eight years old, and we children believed him implicitly. Even as the others turned and continued their walk, I stayed back, staring with awe into the distance, just wondering and wondering. Later, as a young schoolgirl, I would read repeated forecasts in the newspapers predicting that I would travel the world. Living in a family that struggled to make ends meet, we could not afford to think of a simple holiday, leave alone a journey abroad -- that was definitely in the realm of the Impossible. It was only after I started working that I went on short excursions to neighbouring Pune and Matheran, and made one trip to Bangalore in 1968. For some strange reason though, one of my school friends, Mida, was quite convinced that I would indeed travel to many parts of the world, and she kept telling me so. Maybe my subconscious mind registered that implanted thought, accepted it unquestioningly, translated it into belief... and eventually I 'created' a reality which manifested itself in my later years. Never had I consciously dared to imagine that I would one day traverse not only the length and breadth of our own country but also journey to exotic lands overseas. 'The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.' For me, it all began with a single thought. It was just after my birthday in June 1970, that I suddenly got it into my head that I would like to go to England. Considering how rooted I had been in Bombay, it was a most audacious thought. Though I had been working for six years, I had not saved much, and I recall that my bank account held just a little more than I would need. In those days, the return fare to England on Air India cost me the princely sum of Rs.5,756. (I still have the receipt.) Of course, with two elder sisters, Lily and Mabel, living in England, I did not bother to think beyond the cost of my airfare. We took off from Bombay on 2 October 1970. It was my first ever flight. I can still vividly recall that long torturous route -- Bombay to Delhi to Cairo to Frankfurt and finally London. Interestingly, my travelling companion in Economy class was none other than the legendary actor, Raj Kapoor, who was going to London to collect the prints of his film 'Mera Naam Joker' (Joker Is My Name). We got to chatting and he was most impressed by the fact that I could solve crossword puzzles, which I had carried with me to pass time. He attempted one clue but soon gave up. Instead, he spent the best part of the journey checking out how much whisky he could hold until he reached London. At some time during the night, he gave up this pursuit and generously handed over to me half a bottle of Scotch, though I told him I did not want it. Much later, one of the cabin attendants came to me and said that Raj had enquired if he could have it back for a session with the crew. As we were getting ready to touch down at Cairo, I experienced an agonizing pain in my ears. Nobody had warned me about this side effect of air travel and it was a relief when the pain subsided after we landed. At the airport, several of us disembarked to use the washroom, and once again, nobody had also warned me about the dangers of going to an airport toilet alone, late at night. Of course, they were deserted but I did not think anything of going in by myself. When I came out, there was a local guy (possibly an airport menial) pretending to wash his hands at a basin. What the heck was a man doing in a ladies' toilet?! He had an odd gleam in his eye and a leery smile on his face, neither of which was reassuring. Alarm bells began clanging in my head. I almost froze. I still believe it must have been my guardian angel who grabbed my hand and made me run out without a backward glance. Thereafter I was more careful. Arriving in Frankfurt, Germany, we learnt that there was a red alert ('highjack' was just entering the lexicon of air travel) at the airport, and no passengers were allowed to alight. Instead, a uniformed official came on board, gave us a disarming smile and wished us a polite ‘Good morning’. The next instant, his smile evaporated; his eyes narrowed and his voice had a steely edge as he ordered: 'Your passports, please.' A chill ran through me and I immediately thought of all those books I had read on the Third Reich. The moment passed and I settled back to reflect on the journey thus far. On the last leg of the flight, Raj, as down to earth as ever, had gone around asking who was not availing of their liquor quota (read: Scotch). I do not think he found too many, but at Heathrow he was waiting anxiously for a tall, lanky Sikh gentleman who was returning to London with his young bride from India. He was a long time getting out and Raj breathed a sigh of relief when he finally did, and handed over the precious liquid. My sister, Mabel, and her family were at the airport to meet me. I introduced them to Raj Kapoor who invited us to visit him at Twickenham Studios. We never did get round to going there, but I phoned Raj once and chatted with him and he renewed his invitation to visit the Studios. I had promised to keep in touch when back in India, but did not. I was saddened to hear of his death in June 1988. I still have the card (found by chance in 2008) on which he wrote out 'Tel: 892-1621' for me under his name. At journey's end, I was extremely tired and just needed to sleep, so I dozed off on the drive to West Croydon in Surrey. Even so, we had barely stowed my luggage at Mabel's before we all trooped out on a shopping expedition. London in October was already cold -- for me. I still remember on that very first day I bought a lovely red quilted dressing gown for 17 shillings from a shop called Lyons at the Whitgift Centre. Believe me, though I used that dressing gown for over 35 years, it still was in good condition. Because of sentimental reasons, I found it hard to part with, but eventually I did pass it on to my granddaughter in New York -- and it fit her perfectly though she was just 10 years old! After she outgrew it, she returned it to me and it is now back in my possession, just a little the worse for wear -- which is not at all bad for 40 years of use. In those days things were made to last! It is strange how the first sights and smells of a new land remain imprinted in one’s mind and senses forever. Even today, certain things instantly recall my first trip to England, like the smell of hairspray (which was widely used at the time), some of the popular songs like 'No Milk Today', 'Yesterday', and others, which were played regularly on the radio station, flavoured 'crisps' which were quite a novelty for me, to name a few. (Soon enough I learned I had to say 'crisps', not 'wafers', which were used in ice cream, nor even 'chips', which were fried potatoes.) After relaxing at home for several days doing nothing except listening to the radio and watching TV (during the day my sister and her husband were at work and my niece was at school) I started to make enquiries about getting a job so that I could earn some cash for shopping before returning to India. I hoped I could also make up the money I had used for my trip. Although I was not familiar with places and bus routes, I discovered it was quite simple to find one's way around London on one's own, and it was practically impossible to get lost on the streets, unless one were very stupid. There were signs at every corner. So I walked about, explored the neighbourhood, found the Labour Office where I got a card permitting me to work, went to several employment bureaus and registered myself. I cannot remember exactly where I worked for the first time, but there were a series of 'Temp' jobs, some for a week, others for two days, some longer.... I collected my pay cheque from the agency each week and it felt good to be earning something, however little. During lunch hour, I would dash off to the shopping malls, pick up a sandwich and crisps, which I would eat quickly, and spend the rest of the time checking out bargains at all the stores. For the occasional hot meal, I would go to the café at British Home Stores and, to save money, I often stuck to a diet of baked beans and chips, the cheapest available 'hot' meal. Sometimes I would treat myself to a pork pie or Shepherd's Bush (simply mashed potatoes and mince). How I did not bloat to double my size with that kind of diet is still a wonder, but I credited that to the accelerated metabolism of youth. How quickly I learnt the ropes. I discovered that many stores put out tempting deals on a Thursday (when most customers were near broke) but would pull them off the shelves on a Friday, which was payday. Accordingly, I saved my money and scheduled my buying for Thursdays. That is how, with a really tight budget, I did some marvellous shopping. On this my first time in England, the sum-total of my 'travel' was a few trips to London city and a one-day excursion to Brighton. Hence, this account is not so much about places visited as about my personal experiences during the six months I spent there. After the thrill of truly being in England wore off, I began to feel very homesick and kept thinking of going home. What held me back was my determination to make up the money I had spent on my fare and have something to show for it on my return. Still I could not shake off the homesick feeling. One day, while walking through the Croydon Shopping Centre, I chanced upon someone from India whom I vaguely remembered as George. Seeing a fellow countryman, I was so happy that I wanted to hug him, but of course, I didn't. However, he was politely distant, and that was the only meeting with him. Then I saw another girl I knew from Bandra; I thought she would be as happy to meet up as I was, but to my surprise, she pretended she did not know me all that well. Why, I pondered, did some Indians develop ethnic amnesia at the sight of another Indian abroad? Is it any wonder then, that I was thrilled when our friend from Bombay, Cosmas Rosario, landed up in London on assignment from Lintas? We met as often as our work allowed and it was thanks to him that I saw the Oxford Zoo and Madame Tussaud's. I really enjoyed the visit to the Zoo where, for the first time in my life I saw a gorilla. I was awed by his size – he was so huge that his cage seemed to have been built around him! I felt sorry that he was confined in such a small enclosure, but that may have been a temporary arrangement. As the antics of monkeys always fascinate me, I spent a lot of time watching a particularly naughty (and intelligent) chimpanzee. He would clap his hands and get onlookers outside his cage to also clap in sync with him. Then he would nonchalantly stoop down for a long drink -- and before one realized what was happening, he would spray everyone around with a stream of water from his mouth. Oxford Zoo was truly amazing -- the snake section housed very many different species worth observing, but even an entire day was not enough to make a full round of the zoo. Had I gone to Madame Tussaud's on my own, I would have baulked at the high entrance fee but as I had not really spent money on any outings so far, and with Cosmas already paying for his ticket, I too laid my cash on the counter. I am glad I did. Madame Tussaud's was absolutely fascinating. As I admired each stunning lifelike likeness I could not help recalling the tale of Michelangelo striking his marble creation of David with a hammer and commanding the statue, 'Speak!' (Thirty-four years later, I discovered that the price of an entry ticket to Madame Tussaud's had taken a quantum leap.) Two things made an indelible impression on me in England. One was the vast network of trains, all run with clockwork precision. My first sight at Victoria Terminus, of those huge boards announcing Arrivals and Departures astounded me. To a newcomer they seemed complicated and intimidating, but they eliminated the need to ask anyone for information. Moreover, once on the train, there were announcements at every station telling you where you were and when and where to change trains for a particular destination. What made an even 'deeper' impression on me was the London Underground. At times one had to take two or three escalators almost into the bowels of the earth, in order to get to the Tube train I could not believe how deep underground some stations were located -- three or even five storeys below road level. No wonder they proved such secure shelters during the War. My first experience of an English winter (without central heating) was just awful. Every night as I shivered in bed, I would vow that the following morning I would finalize plans to go home, but when morning came, I invariably told myself I would wait another day. Then in December that year, my sister delivered her second daughter, Sharon, at home and I felt quite useless not being able to help much around the house since I had never done housework at home. (As the youngest in a family of seven girls, I became expert in dodging household chores.) On Christmas Eve, I was looking out of the silent window of my room and thinking of all the fun and excitement back home, when suddenly, for the first time in my life, I saw snow begin to fall. Yes, it was a White Christmas and everything looked beautiful. I went to morning mass that Christmas day. Back home in Bandra, a new dress was a must, but here it made no difference because no matter what you wore, it was covered under a long coat. And, in the strange mixed-up mood I was in, to prove the point, I wore an old short green dress with a long white slip showing at least six inches below it. The streets were deserted and there was not even a dead cat in sight. I talked to myself and kicked snow as I walked to and from Church. When I got home and took off my coat, everyone screamed and I could not understand why. Well, with all the static, my dress and my slip had ridden up and had bunched up around my waist! In Bombay, Christmas evening meant dressing up for a dance, usually at the Bandra Gym, but here, for want of anything better to do, I ended up accompanying Tony D'Souza, who wanted to visit his 'girlfriend' who worked as a nurse and could not wangle a Christmas 'off'. Tony was a friend of Mabel's family, and like me, a godparent to Mabel's second daughter, Sharon. What Tony had not told me was that his friend was working in a mental asylum! Well, watching some of the inmates proved a diversion, but it was also a bit scary, especially because one of them kept following us around and insisted on patting my head at every opportunity. After walking through several corridors and making many enquiries, we finally found the room of Tony's friend. We knocked and entered to find Mary in front of the TV in a darkened room -- all 'wrapped up' in another guy. That was one present Santa could not have brought Tony! So leaving them to it we returned home with thoughts as unsettling as the heavy snowstorm through which we were driving. Much could be written about the interesting experiences and incidents in the offices where I worked, but I will mention just a few. When I first started working in England, I confess I had a bit of an inferiority complex, not because of the colour difference but because I thought the locals just had to be smarter. Most often, I was the only Indian among all those whites so I kept to myself and did not mix much, in stark contrast to my livewire presence wherever I had worked in Bombay. During my six months’ stay in Britain, there was a postal strike, which lasted quite a while; one of the fallouts of the strike was a shortage of jobs. My forte, secretarial work, was difficult to find. The only jobs going were for 'audio-typists', and I had no idea how to operate a Dictaphone. Revealing this fact cost me several job opportunities. Finally I decided on a daring gamble and said 'Yes' when asked at the agency if I could do audio typing. When I went to work -- it was in a law firm -- I innocently told them that I did not know how to operate that particular make of machine. I asked for instructions and from then on it was easy. In fact, as I secured temp jobs in different offices, which had Dictaphones of different makes, I soon graduated from novice to expert. Wherever I worked, I kept pretty much to myself concentrating on my typing rather than on the constant chatter of the others in the pool. One day, when I was working at an Insurance company, the girls were noisily consulting each other about the spelling of a word and I was not sure I was hearing right. One of them finally looked up the dictionary and said aloud, 'Here it is, w-a-r-n, warn.' Another time they were foxed about a particularly difficult word, and this time, all the girls in the pool replayed the Dictaphone tape several times, but they could not figure out where to look for the word in the dictionary -- under 'C' or under 'K'. Seeing their distress, I finally piped up and said, 'The word you are looking for is a liqueur and is spelt C-o-i-n-t-r-e-a-u'. They looked shocked that I had spoken and perhaps even more because I knew the word -- and the spelling proved to be correct. Then one of them said, 'How did you know? Do you drink?' My response was brief: 'You don't have to drink to know how to spell!' That was the day I shed my complexes once for all. In fact, it was a reverse culture shock for me to find out that many of the office girls could not spell simple four-letter words -- and I do not mean the wrong kind! A further boost came when I overheard a few girls discussing my output. My typing speed was around 150 words per minute and I spent no time in the inane office chitchat which is why, as it transpired, I was turning out ten times more than they were. I guess this did not escape the attention of the bosses who offered me a permanent job with the firm, but I declined. My last job before I left England was with a company called Beckman Riic, dealing in surgical instruments. I was assigned to work for a pleasant Scotsman named Tony Lodge. When he dictated letters to me, he would spell out every word that contained more than four letters. At first, I thought he was being condescending because I was an Indian and because he presumed I might not know English well enough. Then I realized he was trying to be genuinely helpful, so one day I asked, 'Do you need to spell out all these words?' He stopped and said, 'You mean you know how to spell them?' My response, 'Am I not supposed to know how to spell if I am a secretary?' seemed to stupefy him. What he said after a pause stupefied me instead. Mr. Lodge explained that if he did not spell out the words for the other girls, they would just walk out of the job and he and the other executives would be left high and dry. Hence, all the girls were pampered and treated with velvet gloves -- a far cry from the situation back home! Apparently, not many would complete their schooling or qualify themselves for the job before they started working as secretaries. I told Mr. Lodge to just dictate and if I had a problem, I would interrupt him. He could not get over this, especially as one day when he was dictating a letter addressed to a man with a long complicated Polish surname, he started to spell it out for me and I completed it before he could finish. This was too much for him and he wanted to know how I did that. I told him it was simple -- one, I went by the pronunciation, and two, I just happened to be good at spelling! Now even more than before, Mr. Lodge and the other executives would keep trying to convince me to stay on and accept a permanent job with the firm. They offered to take care of everything, from work permit, to even getting my fiancé residency in England -- not to forget my pet Dachshund, Kruger, who was pining for me back in Bombay! (I still have the letter from the Employment Agency giving me a reference and adding that if ever I returned to England they would get me employment immediately.) This is what I told Mr. Lodge: 'I appreciate your offer and I have enjoyed working with you, but it has taken a visit to your country to learn to appreciate my own. I'm going home.' Even this response did not stop him from repeating his offer to me daily. -- Brenda Rodrigues of Bandra, Mumbai, is the author of *My Journey Through Wonderlands*. It is available via mail order from Brenda Rodrigues <brendarodr...@gmail.com>, or Joe Rodrigues <jbrodrig...@gmail.com>.