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SHILLONG September 1st – 8th
Using a motorist’s road map to follow a flight path may sound bizarre but it can be particularly useful in finding bearings on take off and landing. As our Indian Airlines 737 approached Gauhati, through the narrow Siliguri corridor which just connects the seven north-eastern states to the main part of India, it was quite easy to see the road bridge carrying National Highway 31 over the seemingly mile-wide Bramaputra, a brown snake sliding across the monsoon-fed watery landscape. I leaned forward to take a photo when the cabin steward moved across. “No photographs, please!” We had noticed the signs at Delhi airport forbidding photography but had imagined that this only applied to the airport buildings. I did not consider that either of us looked like Pakistani spies attempting to film any military installations that might be below us on the plains of Assam. Nevertheless, it was a reminder of the political sensitivities existing in this part of the country and I demurred, obediently putting the camera away.
From the road map, I was able to calculate that, as we proceeded on our west-east axis with the Bramaputra to the north of the plane, we would be banking quite soon to swing south on the descent towards the airport. Having announced this with some confidence to Pat, the plane moved in entirely the opposite direction and, if anything, gained height as it began to circle the road bridge. “I can’t believe that Gauhati airport is so busy that we have been put in a Heathrow-type stack”, I observed. “So much for your sense of direction” came the reply but as the bridge remained firmly in view, I concluded that we were indeed being held prior to landing permission being granted. After a couple of complete circuits and with thoughts of engine or undercarriage problems beginning to creep into my mind, the expected descent began and we glided down to a perfectly normal landing at 11.20. It was some two days later that we read in the local newspaper of the phone call received at the Calcutta Indian Airlines office claiming that a bomb had been placed on the Calcutta-Gauhati flight that had landed twenty minutes before our time of arrival. We had been held in the skies while police completed their search of the plane – nothing was found.
Before Independence in 1947, this part of India comprised three large states – Assam, West Bengal (with a largely Hindu population) and East Bengal (largely Muslim). It was the latter which Mountbatten and his advisers designated East Pakistan. As with many decisions made in the headlong rush to quit India, the British did not stop to consider that the jute mills and port facilities of Calcutta were now being separated by not just a state line but by a national boundary from the jute-producing areas in the east where there were no mills or ports. This was only the beginning of the de-stabilization that continues to dog the Northeast of India. It always was a sensitive area because of its borders with China, Bhutan and Burma (now Myanmar) but now this new country was added. Twenty-five troubled years later came eventual independence from Pakistan, and Bangladesh was born. Because of the mass exodus during the brutal struggle against the Pakistan army and because of post-independence conditions, many of the neighbouring Indian states were inundated with Bangladeshi refugees for whom there was no room, no jobs and no housing. Calcutta took the brunt of this migration but as Assam itself became fragmented, many of the seven newly formed states found themselves torn by communal strife. The heritage of the last three decades of the twentieth century is that, of the seven states, four – Arrunchal Pradesh, Mizoram, Manipur and Nagaland – are still Restricted Areas and permits are required for travel within their borders. All of the states have groups demanding more or total independence from India and the profusion of “Liberating Fronts” is reminiscent of the satirical nonsense in Monty Python’s Life of Brian. Here, for the People’s Front of Judea/ Judean National Front etc., read the United Liberation Front of Assam, the Assam Liberation Army, the Bodo Liberation Tiger Force . . . Many of these groups remain violently active, blowing up trains and railway stations and indulging in other early twenty first century terrorist activities.
But we did not know of the latest bomb threat as we walked into the intense heat of the new arrival terminal at Gauhati Airport, a very plain, functional building crowded with incoming passengers and the usual hordes of airport staff who milled around, more often than not getting in the way, as we sought our cases. This time, unlike Delhi, we were allowed to pick our bags from the carousel itself. Immediately aware of heavily armed police, we watched as some flower-garlanded VIPs were ushered very smartly out to waiting cars, vehicles we were to see later on our journey to Shillong. Trinity reps in the crowd of arrival-spotters traditionally hold up one of the brightly coloured syllabuses to direct the gaze of the approaching examiner, although on this occasion Jean Street had little difficulty in identifying us since we were the only Caucasian couple on the flight. Standing orders insist that the rep is always contacted a few days before arrival and when I had phoned Jean from Delhi, the precise received English and friendly open and informal greeting I had received plus the “Englishness” of the name, had led me to believe that my first rep was indeed English. As we approached, her dress, too, belonged more to the Home Counties than to the state of Megalaya. Jean had been born in Calcutta to an Indian mother. Later on the tour we were to encounter the extraordinary Englishness of the Anglo-Indian and their ability, perhaps desire, to talk frankly about India and its people. There was an implicit feeling that they, too, looked with some amazement at the Indian way of life and, as such, shared our feelings. She greeted us very warmly and her driver took charge of the luggage directing us to Jean’s car. For this first of our many excursions by road we were indeed spoiled because the vehicle, a Maruti Esteem, was air-conditioned. One of the biggest contrasts between this present visit to the jewel in Queen Victoria’s crown and my earlier trip in 1983 could be seen on the roads. In the eighties, it seemed that the only cars to be observed, private or commercial, were the three different sizes of the home-built Pal. Now, the saloon car traffic was dominated by Japanese firms – Mazda, Suzuki and Toyota – with the 1950s Morris Oxford – the Ambassador – being favoured for taxi use.
We moved slowly from the airport environs onto the type of roads we were to encounter throughout our trip with their varying degrees of motoring lunacy. Carts, dogs, children, goats and cows, the latter driven in herds or wandering nomadically, added to the total confusion that is an Indian thoroughfare. Auto-rickshaws slipped into any available space making progress slow and tortuous. Gauhati had little to recommend it except, perhaps, the views of the Bramaputra and the sight of the old ferry boats which used to ply the river before the road bridge was built in the centre of the city. “A wretched place” agreed Jean “and Trinity thought they were going to put you in this mosquito-ridden dump overnight – I soon put a stop to that!” For this we were grateful as we viewed the mountains of rubbish along the sides of the roads and the seeming lack of any ordered building. At one point, as we sat held up in the traffic, we were overtaken by a Hindu funeral “cortege” consisting of four men carrying, at head height, a canvas stretcher bearing a flower-strewn corpse. Members of the family trotted before and after the body and, being used to the reverence of a western funeral, we were struck by the informality of the occasion and by the apparent indignity of a head-lolling body being paraded, ignored by passers-by, through noisy, crowded streets. Before we had time to think about the scene, we were forced to one side by a posse of flag-bearing police trucks trying to make room for the progress of some white Ambassadors bearing, we imagined, the VIPs from the airport. The police vehicles were ruthless in their approach and the result was gridlock for many minutes. When the cars had passed, we made even slower progress until we came to a river bridge where the traffic was limited to one-way only because, we discovered as we inched our way past, a metre-square hole had appeared in the floor of the bridge. A lone policeman was standing by the gap, no doubt in some way to warn approaching traffic but succeeding in providing just one more obstacle to manoeuvre.
The journey to Shillong was a four-hour marathon. We did not stop, it not being deemed by Jean to be either safe or desirable – “What would we stop for? There are no toilets and nowhere fit to take food” – and so we lurched over the potholed roads with Jean inexhaustibly supplying conversation for Pat who sat with her in the back. Subjects ranged from the musical life of Shillong, her desire to see a concert hall built to encourage western music, the place of Trinity in these developments, how she was desperately hoping that a new generation of teachers could be encouraged via Trinity’s diploma exams, to her own early life and training and her later family tragedies. For my part, I clung to my seat in the front, grimacing as the next corner approached with our vehicle invariably in mid-overtaking position. Shillong is some 1500 metres above sea level so the road was basically one long trek up through the South Bramaputra Hills into the Khasi Hills and on to the Shillong Plateau. As we progressed through Barni Hat, Umling and Nongpoh, the countryside became green and lush and we soon realised why the area around Shillong was known as the Scotland of the East. Pine trees beside wide lakes caused our only one short break (for photographs) after which the Nepalese driver decided that it was getting cool so the air-conditioning was switched off. With windows now open and the temperature still very uncomfortable for us, we had the added delight of taking in the fumes belching from the over-laden lorries and buses that were labouring up the now spectacular, wooded route. The choice was between remaining in the poisonous wake of these vehicles or swinging past inevitably on a blind corner, the road being, of necessity because of the gradient, extremely tortuous.
Although the journey was often beautiful and never without interest, we were not sorry to see the outskirts of Shillong appearing and we drove through the gateway of the large, modern Polo Towers hotel at about four in the afternoon. The reception area was dominated by large display cabinets containing polo sticks and balls and the sporting connotation was continued in the photographs and prints on the walls: we later discovered that both Shillong’s polo ground and golf course were close at hand. We were greeted by two pretty receptionists in attractive saris and taken to see the rooms so that we could choose where we would be staying for the next week. Since the hotel was practically empty, the choice was large and we settled for what was known as a suite at the rear of the building i.e. a large room with a wooden screen between the bedroom end and the dining table with another corner designated as a lounge by virtue of the settee and armchairs. But, since we did not know how much time Pat would have to spend in the room during my working days, the important factor was that there should be something to look at from the window. The ground behind the hotel rose quite steeply and we found ourselves looking into the back yards of several quite spacious, by Indian standards, single-storey houses. Over the next few days Pat was to spend some of her time sitting by the large window, reading and generally watching the world go by. She discovered that one of the homes belonged to the local milkman and could watch him emptying the milk from large, shiny multi-gallon containers into smaller flagons before marching off with two of these suspended on a pole across his shoulders. The women washed saris and trousers while men walked back and forth between a nearby stream and the houses with buckets of water suspended on yokes. She was to admire the two dogs belonging to the commune – one black and tan cross and a lovely roan cocker spaniel. To the left, there was a constant flow of people moving up and down a side road dodging the traffic while carrying cooking oil cans on yokes or heavy sacks on their backs; a bus, belching out huge quantities of fumes, looked as though it was floating up the hill on a cushion of thick black wool.
To the right could be seen a pathway running diagonally up the side of the hill, a path we later discovered was Jail Lane, leading to Police Bazaar. Dogs were barking constantly and, with the ever-present blaring of horns and revving of engines from traffic moving up and down the road to the left of the building, it was obvious we were not going to be in for a quiet time. Freshening up was not too easy as there was no hot water in the shower and, par for the course in the less well-endowed hotels, there was no plug in the wash-hand basin. The concept of filling a bowl with water and washing in it is foreign to many Indians, especially Hindus, since washing can only be really cleansing if the water is running – which is why we were soon to get used to the fact that wherever there was running water, a tap or stream or river, there would be people washing themselves or their children or their animals or their clothes.
Having refreshed ourselves as best we could, we ventured down the rather dark staircase to find the coffee shop (The Nineteenth Hole) for a snack – very polite English toast and tea – before finding Jail Lane and climbing up what in Yorkshire we would have called a ginnel as it was really only a path between the houses. Unfortunately, the route was used as a cut-through for scooters and motor bikes which careered up and down at frightening speed while all in their way responded to the blaring horns by idly moving to one side. We were stared at quite openly by somewhat sullen faces although one or two children smiled at the unaccustomed sight of white people. Armed police were in evidence, sometimes in pairs on foot, sometimes, as when we reached the top of the lane, in jeeps by the half-dozen. We agreed that it would not be sensible for Pat to go out alone (a decision endorsed by Jean the next day). Many of the open-fronted shops had raw meat (mostly pork, the local favourite), hanging in fly-ridden rows, others sold groceries, toys, foot-ware and vegetables. Bearing in mind my stiff back, which had developed in Delhi, we looked for a chemist and when we saw the sign announcing “Piles, Pustules and Stools Examined” we decided that we might be approaching a medical establishment. The owner had little English but holding my back plus adding an accompanying grimace saw him reach up to a shelf and hand me a tube of Volini. The cost was about 40p and that evening it brought instant relief to the pain – Shillong’s miracle cure! This gave us so much faith in the man and his business that we almost felt disappointed that we had no piles or pustules to be examined.
Dinner that evening was a strange affair. With seemingly no other guests, we were waited on by the full complement of uniformed waiters plus a maitre d’ wearing a western suit. The procedure for taking the order was laborious in the extreme – maitre d’ wrote on his pad, passed this on to No. 2 who wrote everything down again before disappearing into the kitchen while No. 3 entered the order onto the till. The food was excellent – korma, dal, paneer and parathas – and we ate under the inquisitive eyes of all four waiters, one or other of whom would re-fill our glasses from the bottle of mineral water, whisk away the plates as soon as cutlery was put down and generally fuss as efficiently as their catering school had taught them to do.
That night, I was woken in the early hours, by a dog barking. It was soon joined, as if in answer, by another. Then another joined in and for a while I was serenaded by this three-part counterpoint. Soon other voices were added to this canine fugue and the performance continued until it was obvious that I was listening to a doggy-dawn-chorus. I presumed this would happen every night and wondered how I would be at the examining table after a week of such dog-wailing. I went solo to breakfast and since it took twenty-five minutes to produce some cereal and toast I decided that thereafter my days would have to begin with room service. At 8.30, we were picked up by Jean’s driver and taken off through the town, teeming by now with rush-hour traffic, to my first day’s work. The roads were narrow, jammed with every possible form of motorised and hand-pulled traffic and the plethora of sleeping policemen made the journey slightly uncomfortable although we were basically very relieved by the speed restriction brought by the humps in the road. We moved away from the crowded part of town and were soon passing Ward’s Lake (named after a nineteenth century Chief Commissioner, Sir William Ward), Victorian bungalows and stands of pine trees. Our destination was Pinemount School, 100 years old, built by Scottish tea planters for their own children and the children of wealthier Indian families who had erstwhile been returned to England or sent to Calcutta respectively for their education. The single storeys, black-beamed walls and tin roofs naturally gave the establishment a very colonial look, an ethos enhanced by the neatly tended gardens full of dahlias, marigolds and sunflowers. We were met by the head, Mrs. Amy Smith, and the music teacher, Georgine, both of whom were to prove most attentive throughout the day. Pat was shown into a large room with tables and chairs – a reception room for guests – and this was at her disposal for reading or writing letters. Mrs. Smith was only too pleased to tell her about the school’s one hundred boarders and one thousand day pupils, and spoke enthusiastically about the forthcoming centenary celebrations.
Meanwhile, I began work with some well-prepared piano candidates, all smartly dressed in blue school uniform with red piping and buttons. Most of the candidates were taking the lower grade exams and, because of their sound preparation, I was, to my delight, able to keep to the timetable and all was finished by 4 o’clock. Pat had joined me for tea and biscuits mid-morning and we both enjoyed a very complete lunch of dhal, rice, curried vegetables, aloo, cottage cheese and chick peas served by a silent white-uniformed man-servant in a private room behind the examining studio. Colonial Englishness returned with a mid-afternoon tea of cucumber sandwiches and chocolate cakes. The hospitality and supply of food was to become a pattern throughout the tour and I resolved on this first day that I would have to be very careful to establish a pattern of nibbling only so as not to upset either my stomach or our hosts sensibilities vis-a-vis their overseas guests. Whether to Christian, as here, Hindu, Moslem or Sikh, we were to learn that, in India, “a guest is a god”.
It was a different driver who took us back to the hotel – Jean has three – and this gentleman turned out to be Nepalese. Tibetans, Chinese, Bangladeshi or Nepalese, all outsiders are treated with some suspicion by the local tribes, a legacy of the murder and mayhem of the last quarter of a century. But the Nepalese are regarded highly by those in a position to employ servants and drivers because of their absolute reliability and trustworthiness. So much of Indian life in the north-east has outside influences that we were not surprised to learn from Manod, the hotel assistant manager, that the Polo Towers, built some ten years ago, was owned by a Marwari businessman. The Marwaris originate from Rajasthan and are to be found in every walk of Indian commercial life including areas as diverse as the meat industry and the huge Tata corporation which we were to discover has fingers in many business pies from cars and trucks to the tea industry. Pat had written a few letters during the day and asked if she could leave them at reception to be posted. Manod was pleased to deal with this but we were surprised, having paid for the stamps and noted them being carefully affixed, that the letters, instead of being put with the hotel mail, were given to a porter who marched off down the road. We watched in some disbelief as he dropped the post in what seemed like a rusty roadside container – the mail box. This was the beginning of a plethora of frustrations that dogged our next four months – it was no surprise to discover that these letters, including a very detailed description of our days in Delhi bound for our daughter in London, never arrived.
For the remainder of my working days in Shillong I examined at Jean Street’s school, St. John’s, a very different experience from the quiet spaces of Pinemount. The school, both academically and commercially, was fully under Jean’s control although her husband Robert was involved in the financial aspects. The buildings were more recent than Pinemount and a good deal of development was on-going. Pat had been invited on the first day of my work there and we were both taken on a tour of the premises starting in the school hall where I noticed a rather untidy-looking and battered grand piano. Fearing the worst, I was relieved to discover that the exam room was on the first floor. The classrooms we passed were small, the staff almost exclusively female (mostly wearing saris) and the pupils in quiet concentration despite what for us seemed like over-crowded conditions. All of the twenty or so candidates for the day (predominantly girls) had been assembled in a classroom that was to serve as a waiting room and so I was able to greet them all. This practice is quite common on Asian and Far Eastern exam trips – it is useful for the children to see “what the examiner is like” and helpful for them to get used to his or her voice. Before I began work, we were taken down to Jean’s quarters along some rather narrow and ill-lit corridors and across one particularly awkward junction near a descending flight of stairs. Jean warned me volubly each time I approached this corner over the next few days and I could not help thinking that a light fitted at this point might save her voice as well as some potential broken heads.
Pat was given the use of a small bedroom in which she could relax, write letters or read. She was aware of a couple of dogs wandering around the campus – part of the school society, apparently – and, from time to time throughout the day, she was served tea poured from a silver tea pot into delicate white china cups. She was not, however, able to escape from the noise of building work and unfortunately, neither was I. The exam room windows were wide open – it was comfortably warm – and below was a site being cleared for construction by a small army of labourers carrying baskets of soil on their heads to waiting lorries which, when full, would move off with an inevitable roar. Other workers called frequently and noisily to each other as they carried pallets of bricks on their backs, the weight being taken by broad bands stretching across their foreheads. This was a method of carrying heavy loads which we were to witness again and again in the North-East. All of this activity, combined with the sound of the car, taxi, lorry and auto-rickshaw horns on the nearby thoroughfare, made concentration difficult. Particularly annoying were the horns of the Tata Sumos (jeep-type but not four-wheel drive) that were fitted with a distinctive major-chord fanfare in which the owners were, obviously, extremely proud as they were played more or less continuously whenever the vehicle was on the open road.
None of this pandemonium was the slightest bother to my candidates. They each entered with great reverence wearing blue blazers (with yellow piping to pockets and collar) and grey skirts or trousers – they could have been attending any private school in England even down to the fact that the boys, in common with their cousins in the UK, all had short trousers about four inches too long. Each of them slowly and solemnly removed their blazers (it was far too hot to wear such a coat) and draped them most carefully over a nearby chair before beginning their exam. The coats could easily have been left in the classroom but I can only imagine they had been instructed to wear them so as to measure up to the formality of the occasion and to match the visiting examiner – I, after all, was wearing a suit and tie. Most of the candidates were taking piano exams but there were some guitarists and also, interestingly, a couple of adult male singers who (joy of joys, it being so rare anywhere in the world) could actually successfully complete the sight-singing test. These candidates had been entered by the choirmaster from one of the local Christian churches and their interpretations of English traditional/folk songs such as The Turtle Dove were idiosyncratic to say the least. But they had been properly prepared and were delightfully unassuming.
The piano was a good workaday Yamaha that Jean had imported through Furtados, a Bombay company that is the leading supplier of Western instruments throughout India. It was, in Indian terms, very expensive (about £3000) but, after completing all the necessary customs and import forms (itself a major operation) and taking delivery of the piano, Jean was appalled to be approached by officials of the Meghalaya state government demanding a local tax of several thousands of rupees, being its own “import duty”. This she had to pay (or risk losing the piano) although she doubts very much whether the state received any of this money. During our stay in India, we were told of many such incidents of local corruption the vast majority of which, like this one, go unreported for fear of reprisals.
The subject of corruption raised itself on the Friday evening of our first week in Shillong at the home of a retired civil servant and former Area Commissioner. The invitation came through my work that, although concentrated on grade examinations, also involved Diploma exams with adult performers. One afternoon, a beautiful young Eurasian woman came into the exam room to sit for her Associate examination in piano. I presumed she must be one of Jean’s “hopefuls” on whom she was relying to keep Western music alive in Shillong, a subject she had raised with us on our car journey from Gauhati. Minette Duncan’s programme included some very lively, well articulated and stylish Haydn as well as some dramatic and, in turn, thoughtful Britten. As an alternative to scale-playing, this exam gives students the chance to play a technical study – why anyone should want to play Chopin’s difficult C sharp minor Etude when scales are the basis of technique escapes me. This was the only part of the exam which was weak and, if Minette’s success was part of Jean Street’s long term strategy, I was delighted to add up the marks and discover that she had passed. The following day, with the exam safely completed, we had an invitation from Minette to her father’s house for an evening meal. We were picked up from the hotel by Minette’s husband, Harku aka Richard, a chemistry lecturer at Shillong University and (as I was to discover later) a keen amateur musician. Our hosts had a bungalow out past the Golf Club on a hillside overlooking the city. Arthur Sawian, a small, handsome man with neat moustache and twinkling eyes, along with his wife, greeted us warmly and welcomed us to their extremely smart home (“Buena Vista”) which would not have been out of place in any middle-class British suburb. Spying the luxurious carpet, we removed our shoes at the door. This seemed rather to horrify our hosts – it is difficult to know the correct etiquette as this act would have certainly been expected in a Hindu household. Stopping to consider such matters of religion (this was very much a Christian house) was something we got used to as our tour progressed. However, on this occasion, I felt that our act was considered well meant. We were introduced to the other guests. Christine Iralu, a fellow piano teacher and friend of Minette’s, was accompanied by her husband and two children and the party was completed by David and Amelia Manners. David had been on the Indian Ambassadorial staff in various parts of the world including the Czech Republic and Brussels. While attached to the Indian Embassy in London, he had lived in West Norwood and Dulwich. Since Pat and I began our married life in Upper Norwood and my first teaching appointment was in Dulwich, conversation immediately bowled along. My only other experience of Indian embassy staff had been when in Pune, on my first trip to India in 1983, I met the former Indian Ambassador to Moscow. Not surprisingly, although a different generation, David knew this gentleman and proceeded to tell us stories he had heard about his colleague and his dealings with, among others, Joseph Stalin.
These anecdotes were interrupted by the arrival of the Speaker of the Meghalaya Legislative Assembly (parliament) who called in to meet us. It must be some measure of the rarity of foreign visitors to Shillong that he should make a point of meeting an examiner of western music. Nonetheless, we felt honoured and were able to chat about the forthcoming General Election which, they all assured us, the BJP’s Mr Vajpayee would win (which he did). It was after his departure (but in no way connected with the departed politician) that the subject of corruption – commercial as well as political – came into the conversation. We discovered that most contracts for, say, a building project would have sums built in to the estimate to allow for the fact that bribes would have to be paid to the right officials in government for the contract to be awarded in the first place. The contractor would have to allow for the fact that his supplier would charge him for a “supplement” sure in the knowledge that, if x tonnes of material was ordered, x minus y would be delivered. The supplier would allow for the fact that his employees would be filching away some of the materials to sell on the black market and on it goes. Everyone knew the game – everyone played the game or was excluded next time round. It was at this point that I quoted Karl Marx – “All power corrupts: absolute power corrupts absolutely”.
“I think you will find that it was Sophocles who first put that idea forward” said Arthur.
“Nonsense” from David Manners “it was Lord Acton!”
With me insisting that it was the German, Arthur offering to find a reference book to support the Greek, David insisted that the nineteenth century Englishman was responsible. [“Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are almost always bad men.” Historical Essays and Studies Lord Acton 1834-1902 – honours to David I discovered when I got home.]
Both Pat and I were drinking Director’s whisky. This was unusual for Pat as she does not partake of a great deal of alcohol, least of all Scotch. Having had the first of several “enteric upsets” the previous day, I had suggested that a good clean spirit would help settle her stomach. And so it proved as we both helped ourselves to a splendid buffet prepared by Minette and Christine. The curries were light and there was plenty of the paneer (cottage cheese) which we were to enjoy a great deal throughout our tour. Conversation was made a little difficult at times as either the children (Minette’s daughter Lashynna or Christine’s Kelasino) or Harku played on an old Rachal grand piano in an adjoining room. These pianos were made in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century in Germany specifically for “British India”. The factory was totally obliterated in World War 2 and any “spares” have therefore to be found by cannabalizing or adaptation. Either way, the result is that the sound is enormously strident. Harku self-accompanying his rendition of “Every Valley” demonstrated this admirably – his very pleasant light voice deserved a more refined sound as accompaniment. In response to my enquiry, Harku told me that his main work is “research into the theoretical aspect of DNA” which, because of my totally non-scientific knowledge, was as far as that conversation went. Fortunately, he was very keen to pick my brains about the Associate Diploma in Musicianship that he and Minette intend to take at some point. On home territory, I was able to debate the issues thoroughly – he had composed quite a lot of pieces most of which, he said, he could not play. I thought for a moment that I was going to be called upon to sit at the Rachal and read through his opus but he settled for the promise of articles, tapes and references via the internet concerning one of the set composers, Eric Satie, about whom they knew nothing other than the Trois Gymnopedies.
The only time the eating, drinking, playing and conversing stopped was when, in answer to the question “What are you doing with yourselves tomorrow, Saturday?” I answered gaily, “We’ve arranged to go to Cherrapunji”. The silence could not have been more deafening if I had said Indian cricketers were inept at their job. Arthur looked at David who looked at Harku and the women exchanged glances. “Who are you going with?” asked Arthur. “One of the hotel staff in a taxi the hotel is arranging”, I ventured. More awkward glances. “Well, I think it would be best if one of us came with you” was the reply. It was a little unnecessary to ask why they were concerned. We knew enough of the history of the place to know that there had been unrest in the area for many years – my colleague examining in Shillong the previous year had experienced an 8pm curfew. But it was only later in the tour, when I read Alexander Frater’s wonderful pilgrimage Chasing the Monsoon in which Cherrapunji was his ultimate and very difficult goal, that I fully realised their concern. Cherrapunji, the wettest place on earth – forty feet of rain per year – is close to the border with Bangladesh and for many years, particularly in the 1980s, this area was a Restricted Zone with Indian soldiers or local militia often shooting first and asking questions later when discovering potential illegal immigrants. The circumstances had encouraged various criminal activities not least of which was “simple” robbery. The situation is certainly not a serious as that now but, to Shillong people who had been made aware of such occurrences, a day trip to Cherapunji for a European couple seemed to bode ill. However, Arthur said “Leave it to me – I’ll see what can be done”. David was generally scathing about the security at night even in Shillong and was surprised that Harku said that he would not be worried driving back alone after returning us to the Polo Towers. As for Cherrapunji, “It’s so backward there” he exclaimed. “There isn’t even a toilet. For two pins I’d bloody well build one myself!” (This was about the only expletive we heard from an Indian throughout the whole tour.)
The question of whether we should or should not risk Cherrapunji and the ensuing debate in no way spoiled what was a thoroughly delightful and entertaining evening spent in the most congenial company. David and Amelia had left first (security worries?) and Arthur had excused himself for a moment. Before we left and amid the farewells and genuine hopes to meet again, Arthur took me to one side and explained that he had rung Meghalayas’s Home Minister who, in turn, had rung the Chief of Police who had rung Arthur back. He then gave me a telephone number and said that, before we left the next morning, I should phone this number and give the registration mark of the vehicle in which we were travelling so that police could watch out for it on the journey. He also said that the Home Minister had made arrangements for us to visit the Circuit House at Cherrapunji so that we could “freshen up” before we made the return trip. In view of what David had said about the toilet facilities, this was welcome news.
When we reached the hotel at about 10.45pm, the large iron security gates were across the entrance to the hotel and the armed guards ensured we were bona fide guests before we were allowed in. We asked each other the same question “Should we go?” but both knew the answer.
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The previous day I had made arrangements for a simple “picnic lunch” of cheese sandwiches and fruit to be provided and also engaged one of the receptionists to accompany us on the trip. Soon after breakfast, I popped down to reception to check on these arrangements and to settle a fee for our guide’s services. She said that this would be Rp500. Her English was excellent and buying her services as guide for £7.50 seemed reasonable – I had also thought Pat might feel more comfortable with another woman in the car. By 10am, the appointed time, there was no sign of the girl or the picnic box. There seemed to be some problem getting answer to my queries but eventually Manod appeared and told us that the girl, who seemed quite fit thirty minutes earlier, was “sick” and could not go. Thinking of the reaction of the party the previous evening, I said “But does the driver have good English?” “No, no English, sir.” Feeling slightly panicky, I explained that I was “not happy” with this arrangement – this mildness of expression was not, I realised more as we progressed through the tour, always the best approach when faced with similar frustrations. For now, however, the message seemed to get through because Manod, having disappeared into the back office, re-appeared with a broad smile on his face saying “The Manager says I am to go with you to Cherrapunji”. I wondered if the girl had fallen foul of the Manager by offering to be our guide (and fixing a price) without reference to him.
It was slightly after our scheduled departure time, therefore, that we climbed into the back seats of a small Maruti people-carrier with our driver, Ali, and Manod sitting beside him about to enjoy an unexpected day off. Twenty-one years old, Manod told us that his home was in the foothills of the Himalayas, far away in Uttar Pradesh, and that he had studied Hotel Administration in his native town of Dehra Dun. His English was good although, as we were to discover later, he was not able to explain some of the finer points of Meghalayan life. For the moment, we moved steadily through the traffic in a misty rain that was at least dampening the dust from the roads. It could do little, though, about the exhaust fumes, and the sight of the huge fly-covered pork joints hanging in the open shop fronts swathed at times in these noxious gases made us doubly confident in our vegetarianism. Jean Street had remarked that it was a pity we did not eat meat as pork was the favourite dish of the Khasis (the largest of the local tribes) and that we would be missing some wonderful recipes. We passed the enormous dhobi washing area either side of a river where half an acre of sheets and clothes were laid out waiting to be dried once the sun reappeared. Nearby, and as if to reinforce the pork connection, we were confronted by the sight of a large sow, trussed in a net, being stuffed, squealing and honking, into the boot of a taxi.
The road out past the military cantonment and an Indian Air Force establishment had a very good surface and Ali swept along at an alarming pace considering the likelihood of flocks of goats or herds of cattle which could, and did, appear round any of the blind corners. Before long, however, he had to adjust to pitted surfaces, and his respect for his employer’s vehicle (especially as the Assistant Manager was sitting alongside) tempered his talent for Grand Prix driving. Leaving Shillong behind, paddy fields became a feature of the landscape together with fields of wooden frames on which were growing a favourite local vegetable called squash – a type of marrow. The influence of European settlers was everywhere in terms of the number of Christian churches we passed in the often shabby and ramshackle villages. Occasionally, the little houses were painted white with mauve woodwork but mostly the living accommodation had the Heath Robinson air of poverty we were to encounter throughout the tour. The sleeping policemen installed through the villages were a boon as the yet slower pace enabled us to glimpse inside some of the dwellings and try out our one Khasi word of greeting – “Kublei! This inevitably brought a smiling response from adults and children especially those in the schoolyard at Mylliem. By now the weather was improving and the proximity of rivers and small waterfalls (and there were many) meant that, each way we looked, we observed washing being done with nearby rocks serving as drying areas. The ground everywhere looked very wet and marshy and we were not surprised to learn that, because of the waterlogged ground, the Khasis could not burn their dead. The alternative – preserving the corpses using a locally made orange honey – was less expected!
Soon after Mylliem, we left NH40, which continued on as the main route to Sylhet in Bangladesh, and headed up along twisty roads through steep, wooded gorges with distant views of the Jantia Hills over to our left. At one point, we stopped at a Viewing Point established by the Indian Tourist Board. A dhaba (roadside cafe) had been built here – a group of six or eight tribesmen were sitting in a row alongside the road sharing a hookah and they stared at us blankly as I took their photo (first checking with Manod that I would not be upsetting them). While Ali patronised the dabah, Pat, Manod and I clambered down some neat, tidy steps to a point where it was possible to look into a deep gorge with fast-flowing river. Because of the height, low clouds scudded across from time to time and the view would disappear only to be re-instated as the sun broke through and a gentle wind brushed the clouds to one side. Occasionally, when the gorge below filled with clouds which reached almost up to our feet, we were reminded of the cloudscapes which can be seen outside a plane’s windows – the feeling of flying was eerie.
We resumed the journey and as we reached the top of our climb, the landscape became more rocky and open – less hospitable, dotted with small scrubby bushes and trees. We passed signs of quarrying and mining and it was in this respect that Manod’s relative command of English became apparent as he struggled to explain something of the history of the area. We stopped to watch a group of three of four men breaking up large slabs of stone into small splinters that were then heaped into kilns above an open furnace. I tried to find out if this was a smelting process. Was this the coal-bearing sandstone I had read about in my guide book? Was iron still being smelted albeit as a scaled-down industry which had once been so important in the area? Manod consulted Ali – in Khasi, as the latter had no English at all – but no clear explanation was forthcoming so we continued across the bare, windswept plateau until, rounding a sharp corner, we could see, 1300 metres above sea level, Cherrapunji, the wettest place on earth. Ironically, the midday sun was now shining brightly, there were few clouds to speak of and we drifted down towards the town in perfect conditions – Manod said that he had never witnessed such good weather in Cherrapunji.
To our dismay and his discomfort, Manod had been sick along the way – he assured us that he was, by now, feeling fine so our suggestion that he find somewhere in the town to buy some medicine was politely declined. I think we both felt sorry for him in a parental way – he had been so embarrassed and we had made light of the incident but we were hoping he felt well enough to continue. Truth to tell, the part of the town we saw was not exactly overfull with likely chemist shops. The streets, not always properly surfaced, were incredibly narrow and we almost felt as though we were intruding as the van squeezed its way past the inevitable pigs, goats, dogs and children on its way to the Hari Khrishna school, a large prominent building on the outskirts. Built in 1931 and opened, we noticed, by Pandhit Nehru, the school, Manod told us, “taught weaving and English”. Not imagining that the curriculum would be quite that limited, we were disappointed to discover that, since the library and the temple were both closed and we were dissuaded from taking photographs within the precincts, our knowledge of the institution was going to remain limited.
Our second stop was more rewarding. The superb Noh-Kalika Falls were a few kilometres outside the town and we decided that this was a spot where we needed to linger, a sight of such splendour that, as we were to do many times over the next few months, we said “We may never come here again, so let’s not hurry”. It seemed a convenient time to eat our Polo Towers packed lunch so, as we munched our sandwiches, we gazed in some awe at the water as it tumbled off the plateau many hundreds of feet into the gorge below. At the height of the monsoon (July in this area) the one principal fall is joined by many others that now were merely supporting actors in this aquatic drama. We looked south, following the water as it drained into the plains below – the views into Bangladesh were staggering. The countryside looked almost entirely under water with just small pockets of land appearing like islands in a bay. The inhabitants of this flooded landscape would by now be waiting for the waters to recede before returning for another season of planting and harvesting rice and grain in the most fertile of soils.
The Indian Tourist Board had built railings and steps on the promontory that served as a viewing point and, again, there was a dhaba nearby selling, we noticed, “tourist” fare of sweets, crisps and soft drinks. As we watched a little boy in very ragged clothes feed a mother hen and her chick with corn and took in the number of cats and dogs hanging around looking for crumbs, we were joined by a van-load of Indian tourists. One man, dressed in all-white kurta and pajamas, spoke very good English and he told us that the party was on its way to Shillong as part of a “round North-West India tour.” We could not help wondering what the result would be if, security issues being resolved, tourism took off in a big way here. There was certainly plenty to see but where would the money come from for investment in hotels and the necessary infrastructure? We almost hoped that things would stay as they were – the idea of a large car and coach park at this spot alongside a “Noh-Kalika Falls Holiday Inn” seemed horrendous. For us, the concrete steps and the slightly dilapidated railings preventing us from plunging into the gorge below were sufficient tourist provision.
It was not easy to drag ourselves away from this exotic spot but Manod was anxious for us to see all of the places of interest we had on our list (compiled the previous evening by David and Amelia Manners). We were also aware that we felt the need to be back in Shillong before dark, so we moved on to the nearby Krem Mawmluh cave. Some of the limestone caves in this part are so long and deep that they have not been fully explored. This one is reckoned to be 4.5km long so presumably (but not necessarily, tourism being what it is) this had been properly surveyed. Meghalaya Tourism run coach trips out here from Shillong so there was quite a spacious parking area surrounded by drinks and sweet stalls. Manod found someone from whom he could hire a torch and we walked up through a thickly forested area, watching butterflies with the wingspan of sparrows and being serenaded by a chorus of insect noises and birdcalls. The entrance to the cave was quite narrow and about twelve feet high, rough underfoot and un-inviting in the extreme. I think Manod was a little disappointed that we did not grasp the torch and clamber along the tunnel for a quarter of a mile or so. It would have been ungracious (and difficult) to explain that we have limestone caves in the Peak District very close to where we live in England not to mention memories of childhood visits to Wookey Hole and Cheddar Gorge in our native West Country. On returning to the van, we discovered that Ali had bought us some cartons of fruit juice that he handed to us, beaming with pleasure.
Whilst the drink was welcome – we were rationing our bottles of mineral water – it reminded us that this might be an appropriate moment to find the Circuit House for our “comfort stop”. Neither Manod nor Ali had heard of the place, but, after several enquiries we found ourselves approaching an isolated set of buildings on a slight ridge with the waters of Bangladesh forming a backdrop. The main construction was a long, shabby, tin-roofed bungalow flying the Indian flag and guarded by police. These Circuit Houses date from the days of the Raj and were built for local Area Commissioners and Magistrates who, unable to make the return journey to their station, needed somewhere to sleep. We pulled up in front of a verandah and the only person to approach us as we alighted was a small, scruffily dressed gent with a mouthful of what at first I thought were bleeding teeth but which I later realised was merely the juice from betel leaves to which it would seem he was addicted. I asked Manod to explain that we were expected and that the arrangement had been made through the Home Minister. Considering that Manod, from Uttar Pradesh, had only been in Meghalaya for a year or so, he seemed to have a natural command of Khasi and he quickly reported that the man knew nothing of our visit – the police, meanwhile, merely watched and listened. Being so close to what were now becoming very necessary facilities, I asked (via Manod) if we could at least use a toilet. After further deliberation, this request was granted and we were shown to some rooms along the right-hand end of the verandah. Inside a quite spacious but dark room were twin beds, an old pre-war wardrobe, a table, two armchairs, and there was a large fireplace – it would be very cold here in winter. It reminded me very much of the sets for the 1980s television production of Paul Scott’s Jewel in the Crown. We were relieved to find that, in the corner, there was a curtained door with the sign TOILET displayed over. It was, glory be, of the Western sit-upon variety, complete with toilet paper and there was soap in the small hand-basin, towels, plus hot water, all befitting any visiting sahib with his memsahib. While Pat availed herself in the back room, I could not resist taking some photos of the accommodation and wondering what stories could be told by ghosts of visiting dignitaries, military and civil as they discussed the day’s work, sitting on the verandah while the wallah slowly pulled on the ropes of the punkah. My reverie was interrupted by the re-appearance of the betel-chewer, now in a very agitated state, accompanied by Manod who explained that the man was full of apologies as he had been given the wrong message. It seemed he was expecting the Home Minister himself, “not his friends,” and that he had indeed made ready the VIP rooms and would we please follow him. It took some time to explain that the facilities in the present room were adequate and for Manod to assure him that we were satisfied and that we would not be “reporting him” for his mistake.
Outside, despite the police presence and probably because of the perceived insult, no objection was raised when I took more photographs – when would I ever get to see a North-East Indian Circuit House again.
The journey back to Shillong was delightful. The weather remained sunny and bright and the only upset was when Manod again had to leap out of the van to be sick. He assured us that it was not travel sickness although, with Ali’s Silverstone techniques returning, anyone with a sensitive or upset stomach could well have reacted unfavourably. Soon after this unscheduled stop, we came to a bridge across which were straddled seven scooters, side by side, ridden by youngsters in leather jackets, jeans and Doc Martens (or equivalent). Their pillion passengers were standing one foot on each of two scooters in the manner of a motorcycle display team while one of their number was taking a photograph. The bridge was completely blocked and I expected Ali to drive on blasting his horn to clear the way. Instead, he pulled quietly into the side of the road, switching off the engine. Nothing was said as we watched the various unsuccessful attempts at this act of bravado. “Where are these lads from, Manod?” I asked.
“From Shillong”
“Could we not drive past?”
“No – very naughty boys.”
We sat quietly wondering what exactly the somewhat prosaic “naughty” meant in this context – certainly something with which neither Ali nor Manod wanted to engage. For a final time, I reflected on the comments from the previous evening and wondered whether, if we were spied, these young tearaways might cause us problems. But, before too long, they split up and, with pillion passengers now seated, they roared away in the direction of Cherrapunji. Manod offered nothing else by way of explanation and we did not bother him with queries. I think we all silently agreed that mixing it with Shillong’s Hell’s Angels would not have been sensible.
The approaches to Shillong, obscured in misty rain during the early part of the day, were now clear and bright and the outskirts seemed every bit as busy as when we left. Back at the hotel I rang, Arthur Sawain to let him know we were safely returned and he was delighted that all had gone so well. The management had by now become accustomed to our bathing pattern and had anticipated our wishes by turning on the “boiler”. So it was after refreshing showers that we tucked in to some delicious curries in the restaurant. Later, before we settled down to watch the BBC World News and while we were still recovering from the sights and sounds of the day, Jean rang to discuss the arrangements for the morrow – our trip around the environs of Shillong itself.
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The guide (plus car and driver) for our Sunday outing had been supplied through the kindness of Jean Street. Mercy was a member of the staff at St. John’s, describing herself as a “warden”. Her home is Imphal, the capital of Manipur, one of the four Indian states that border Myanmar (Burma) and which, along with several other areas, claims to have invented polo. Her English was flawless and conversation was easy as she instructed the driver to make first of all for the Pinewood Hotel. This Raj period establishment had been opened in 1905 by a Swiss couple called Perouse. The intention was to provide holiday accommodation for the tea planters of Assam. They would no doubt have enjoyed sitting on the deep verandahs sipping beer and exchanging thoughts on the season’s crop while their wives swopped plantation news. During the troubles of the 1980s, the hotel’s standards seriously declined – Alexander Frater found the cavernous rooms dank and dirty at a time when there were no reliable water or power supplies. Today, the hotel, run by the Meghalaya Tourist Board, looks pleasant enough with several more recent cabins in the well-maintained gardens having extended its capacity. Previous examining colleagues have used the Pinewood but it is a little isolated and, on balance, we agreed that we were glad to have been sent to the more modern facilities at Polo Towers.
Leaving Pinewood, we passed the former Governor’s Residence, another rather grand nineteenth century building in spacious gardens, and made for the campus of Sacred Heart Theological College. I was immediately taken by the striking architecture at the front of what was obviously a very new building and, stopping the car, stepped out to take a picture. The tiled archway leading to a beautifully carved wooden door looked like the prow-end of a boat. No doubt any American or Japanese tourists would have taken their snap and leaped back onto their coach but this Englishman, somewhat deferentially, asked of a passing priest permission to take a photograph. “Better ask inside” the priest suggested. In the reception area, a large desk was manned by a rather sullen gent, who spoke no English. Seeing the camera and presumably getting the drift of my request, he picked up a phone and began explaining (presumably in Khasi) the problem with which he was confronted. By now, I wished that I, too, had just gone ahead and taken the photo – we were on our way to Shillong Peak and the bright weather looked as though it might be changeable. Within a few moments, a very tall, distinguished priest appeared, his full head of white hair matching his habit. Having first greeted Mercy who he knew from his visits to St. John’s, he introduced himself as Father Sebastian. We walked back outside and he explained that the doorway I was admiring was in the shape of a Nagaland village hut and that the building itself was the new Christian Theological and Anthropological Research Centre, which would be completed and opened in 2001. He spoke so enthusiastically and was himself so friendly and personable, that we soon found ourselves, Mercy included, on a guided tour of the building. We walked around the side of the building, past the Library (“10,000 books in there”) and admired the magnificent tiled features – mask-like designs – on the outside walls. Fr. Sebastian then took us inside where workmen, notwithstanding this was the Sabbath, were erecting cabinets and tiling walls. We picked our way through the men and their materials to a central point from where, looking up, we could see that all eight floors had three levels leading from the lift areas. We admired the splendid marble floors, the teak display cabinets, the accommodation for visiting research scholars and the canteen facilities. When I asked who was funding such an exciting and imaginative project, Fr. Sebastian said “Oh, when we have visitors, we usually ask them for $500!” In fact, the Indian Government was co-operating with UNESCO for the major funding although a good deal had been collected from around the world through the work of the Don Bosco Foundation – Don Bosco was an Italian priest who spent most of his working life in India developing schools and colleges: some of his time was spent in Shillong, hence the sighting of this project at the Sacred Heart campus. The main focus of the centre will be to chart and research the many tribes of North-East India, their customs, music (a whole gallery was dedicated to instruments), agriculture, crafts and culture).
As Fr. Sebastian waved us off and as we picked up the strains of hymn-singing from the open air service being held in the gardens, I could not help thinking that this remarkable building would surely be a feather in Shillong’s cap as the world’s leading institution for North-East Indian studies. Before going to the Peak, we called in at Elephant Falls, a favoured spot for the locals to gather with their children at the weekend. The waterfall itself was not spectacular at this time of year but was in an undeniably attractive location approached down some steep and rather slippery steps. There were the inevitable fruit and drinks stalls with many vendors of corn-on-the-cob, roasted over open braziers. Judging by the brisk business, this, too, was a local favourite.
Both here and at Shillong Peak, we were very aware of a very full (armed) police presence. The steep approach had been along a well-maintained road with several checkpoints along the way – it seemed that we drove through an Indian Army base. At the summit – 1960 metres – there were again crowds of well-dressed families on a Sunday outing, taking group photos, enjoying more corn. It has been estimated that, from this vantage point, it is possible to see some 30,000 square miles from the Gangetic plain to the southwest, across the Assam plains to the Himalayas in the north. For us the view was disappointingly limited. There were fluffy, albeit rolling, clouds in the valley below so we only saw occasional glimpses of Shillong itself. Once or twice, it seemed that the clouds were clearing but almost before we could voice those hopes, other balls of cotton wool floated across to obscure what would obviously have been a spectacular view.
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After two days of sightseeing, I had to settle down on the Monday for my final full day of work. The procession of very pretty girls and a few handsome boys continued with their various guitar and piano exams. Pat and I formulated a theory during the tour, that, although the Indian population is made up of many diverse races and tribes (particularly here in the North-East), the reason we found the people so fascinating is that even “plain”, not-obviously-beautiful women/men have a high degree of attractiveness in their smile and in their carriage. Pat, who came with me to St. John’s on this final day, was, for example, captivated by some of the candidates to whom she chatted while waiting for Christine and Minette (who were to take her out for the day). Santa Mary, a boarder who said that she missed her family a great deal but enjoyed her school life, had classic North-East features – was the family originally from Myanmar, Nepal, Tibet? – with the most engaging smile and delightful openness. She wanted to know about our “kids” as she put it, asked Pat about Boyzone and Robin Williams, what did she think of Celine Dion. And as the students trooped into me throughout the day, it was not at all difficult to keep up the examiner’s essential welcoming smile when the response was so charming. (Sad to report, Santa Mary failed her Grade 5 piano exam – let’s hope she could take comfort in some Robin Williams tapes.)
Whilst I was engaged on scales and arpeggios, pieces etc., Pat was whisked off by her new friends, firstly to Christine’s house. Whispering Pines was a large single-storey building surrounded by a large area of woodland and flowering shrubs, orchids, dahlias and hibiscus. The house was delightfully cool with rattan furniture on the polished wood floor. Pat was introduced to Christine’s husband, Niketur and to her step-father-in-law Rashid Ali, a lookalike Arthur Negus. Mr. Ali proved very knowledgeable and, over coffee and biscuits, talked to Pat about how Shillong, from 1874 until 1905, had been the capital of Assam and that, earlier still, Cherrapunji, the first hill station built by the British, had been the capital. The British, he said, soon discovered that it was too wet, oppressive and isolated. The record rainfall in “Cherra” was in 1876 – 75 feet! Strangely, he reported, Shillong, only 56km away, receives a mere 5 feet per year. He also mentioned that, technically, “the wettest place on earth”, in Guinness Book of Records terms, is now Mawsynram, about the same distance from Shillong as Cherra but in a slightly different direction. Pat was in her element at Christine’s as she was able to fuss over the black and tan dog, Inky, as well as the cat, Pushkin and her ginger kitten Rusty, the latter spending most of the time on Pat’s lap.
With Minette driving, the girls, plus Rashid Ali, soon set off for town. Dropping Rashid off to do his own shopping, they went to an area Pat had not seen before called Laitumkrah (which, they said, means “ridge above stream”) – many of the shops were up-market with glass fronts and glass counters inside. In one of these, she bought some highly patterned china mugs, which we needed for tea-making in our room, plus some teabags. We had tried to buy the latter ourselves the previous week but were only offered enormous quantities of real tea – it was, of course, in bags. Pat noticed how imperious Minette seemed in her dealings with the sales assistants. The middle-class Indian does not often find the need to smile and thank them for their help and has no compunction in saying very firmly “No, that is not what I want!” Crossing the streets was handled with similar disdain for the traffic. Christine and Minette merely walked out in front holding up a hand and traffic stopped. This makes absolute sense, of course, because the only rule of the road seems to be that the person or object in front has the right of way. Once across, clambering up the two-foot high kerbstones was more of a problem for Pat! The streets were full of young women in bright, beautifully coloured garments of silk and satin, many in designs typical of this part of the country. Many were going to, or coming from, Teachers’ Thanksgiving ceremonies – a half-day is traditionally set aside for pupils to arrange a programme or service to mark their appreciation of what their teachers do for them. This surely speaks volumes about the attitude to education here and in Britain.
Rashid had been shopping for eggs and he re-joined them carrying these between two somewhat smelly cardboard trays tied around with string. They then all proceeded to “PB” as Police Bazaar is known locally – a very narrow, cramped, and crowded shopping area where even Minette and Christine commented on the heavy police presence. The most important purchase of the day was for an item we knew would be essential either for fair weather or foul – an umbrella. Pat paid the princely sum of Rp100 (about £1.50) for a neat, collapsible brolly and then climbed some perilously high steps to a stationer’s shop the size of a telephone kiosk. Not only was the shop crammed with stock (including the sought-for air-mail pad) but also with three assistants. Negotiating the sale was therefore carried out from a potentially ankle-breaking pose at the top of the narrow steps. Street music was provided by a flute/whistle seller who carried his wares over his shoulder in a bundle resembling the bristles of a chimney sweep’s brush. We had noticed a blind man playing a similar flute on Jail Lane with a small boy sitting with him to collect the money – apart from this busker, there was a noticeable absence of beggars even in this busy district of Shillong .
On the way to Minette’s home, they passed the dhobi washing area where Pat casually mentioned that, before we leave, she must take a picture of this typical Indian scene. At this, Minette stopped the car, more or less in the middle of the carriageway adding further to the usual mayhem, so that Pat could get out and take her pictures. Road rage has not found its way to India. In four months we saw no more than one or two signs of any driver becoming impatient or agitated and this incident would hardly have been noticed by the lorry, bus and taxi drivers who were backed up waiting for the European lady to take her photos. This must be the one and only positive point about driving on the spectacularly dangerous and seemingly rule-less Indian highways. Minette lived in the nearby village of Nongseh and, as they drove past the manned gates to the property, Pat noticed quite a few children and adults around, these apparently belonging to the school that had been set up in some out-buildings which the Duncans were leasing out. The house itself, 80 years old and surrounded by a large garden, was Harku’s family home and Pat was introduced to Harku’s mother, a very handsome woman with excellent English. The local custom would be for Minette to live with her husband in her own family home because the Khasi system is matrilineal (the line of descent moving though the eldest daughter not son) but this present arrangement seemed to work well. Harku’s mother took Pat on a guided tour of the many photographs around the house but, with the onset of a very heavy shower, she was denied the garden and the view over Shillong and (on a clear day) the Himalayas beyond.
Back in town, lunch was taken at a Chinese restaurant with the unlikely name of Abba. It was close to the Pinki hair salon (was the other branch called Perki?). Christine then left to pick up her daughter, Kelasino, from school and Minette, doing a five-point turn in the narrow road, made for Pinemount to collect Lashynna. The heavy rain ensured total chaos at the school entrance with cars parked in every direction, inching forward and back to find the drenched charges as groups of two or three girls trying to share one brolly sought out their parents. After tea of buttered buns and fig jam back at Minette’s house, it was time for her to take Pat back to meet me at St. John’s. A feature of my work as an examiner on an overseas tour is the Teachers’ Meeting to which teachers whose pupils have been involved in the examinations are invited. These meetings take several forms, sometimes a demonstration by the examiner, perhaps a workshop or a two-way dialogue is set up so that the teachers can clarify points about the exams and/or the examiner can explain new proposals or demonstrate new pieces in a changing syllabus. On this occasion, the only teachers present were Christine, Minette and Georgine from Pinemount and the meeting was therefore very informal. I was able to answer a few queries and settle some misunderstandings that had arisen concerning the wording in the syllabus. Since this meeting took place in the school hall, I was playing on the battered grand I had been fearful of on my first day – not really ideal.
That evening, we were invited to dinner by the headmistress of a local school that had entered candidates this session for the first time, and from whom Jean Street was hoping for further support. In a sense, therefore, Pat and I were on a public relations exercise but the warmth of our welcome and the hospitality from Mr. and Mrs. Warji put any thoughts of “duty” from our minds. We were picked up from the hotel by one of their sons, Elnathan, who drove us into town and to the Seven Set School. The Warjis live on the school premises – it had been established by a group, or “set”, of seven people, hence its unusual name. We met Mrs. Warji’s brother, Lambrok Nongbri, who described himself as a civil servant, and her mother, Quillsibon Nongbri, a wonderful old lady in her eighties who kept up with all of the conversation and was particularly interested in our own children. The dinner was excellent – there were several dishes we had not eaten before including some very tasty “sweets”. We found it interesting that the family members were devout Catholics – presumably earlier generations had been converted by Scottish (?) missionaries – and yet they still used the Khasi names of their forefathers and, in Hindu fashion, neither Mrs. Warji or her sister Manjri Jyrwa, who was helping with the meal, sat down to eat with us. Manjri was a teacher at Pinemount school and her son, Osmand, was interested in our trip, especially the forthcoming Nepalese leg. He had not visited Kathmandu but was most insistent that we sat on the left side of the plane so that we could see the Himalayas as we approached the Nepalese capital. When they discovered that we would be going to Calcutta, Mr. Warji immediately picked up the phone and rang their daughter Gaydellia who was at University there. They very much hoped we could meet up with her. She had taken Trinity piano exams up to Grade 6 and had done some piano teaching (!) before going up to University where she was studying English. I spoke to Gaydellia briefly and we arranged that we would contact her once we had settled in “Cal”. Whilst the men were quite anxious to talk about political matters and, inevitably, as on Friday evening, the General Election, the womenfolk wanted to deal with more domestic matters. Attitudes are, of course, changing in many areas of Indian life but it seems that, in general, women and politics do not mix – unless, of course, you happen to be in the Nehru/Gandhi dynasty. We again counted ourselves privileged to be able to take part in a family meal such as this. There were no pretensions – the Warjis were seemingly delighted to have us in their home, as we were to be there, and we found the warmth and friendship touching.
Our “division of labour pact” meant that, during my last morning of examining at St. John’s, Pat was busy packing. She was serenaded for some time by the sound of a voice she had heard many times during the week – a man singing/chanting an oft-repeated mantra. She could not see from where it came and we can only presume that one of the houses on the side of the hill outside our window had a shrine inside (not unusual) and that Hindu or Buddhist prayers were sung at different times of the day. By the time I returned for lunch at The Nineteenth Hole, the work was more or less done so the hypnotic effect of the mantra had obviously helped Pat in her labours.
My final professional task in Shillong was to attend the post-exam tea party which Jean organizes each year for the candidates (110 of them this year) and their teachers, parents, and school staff. Pat (who was individually acknowledged and applauded) and I were seated in large armchairs on a small stage whilst Jean, in stentorian tones, read out my CV. This was as embarrassing for me as it was a puzzle to most of the youngsters – the details of my academic qualifications and professional activities could not have meant a great deal to them. However, it was a well-staged way for Jean to introduce me so that I could address the assembled company. This gave me a chance to thank Jean, the teachers and their candidates for their work. I tried to make the point that, were it not for them, my wife and I would not have been able to travel to India so we had a lot to thank them for, but, judging from the serious faces, I am not sure the message was received. Reluctantly because of the awful piano (but apparently with some pleasure), I played a short piece to them (C.P.E. Bach’s Solfeggietto – at breakneck speed to hide the dreadful tone of the instrument) and then one of the pupils, Delphine Kharmylliem, played a piece by Max Reger from her Grade 8 set. Jean then called on Minette to play one of her Diploma pieces but she sensibly declined – the piano was not fit for any sort of quality performance. Nothing daunted, Jean dropped on one of the gentleman singers, Syrpia Dkhar, who had taken Grade 2. His accompanist was not present so I returned to the monster machine and he sang, in a very appealing manner, The Turtle Dove.
The tea then proceeded. As they sat in their rows in the hall, everyone was handed out a plate of savoury and sweet selections. I was introduced to various members of staff of St. John’s (and other schools) and, casually juggling my own plate and cup of tea, I chatted to, for example, the English teacher at the school who was anxious to get Trinity Spoken English exams started; to various Sisters from another Shillong school who had been entering pupils for some years; to parents who, unsuccessfully, tried to engage me in conversation about their children’s exam performances. Meanwhile, the cameras were out and Pat was besieged for snaps with this group and that, children and parents; she quickly diverted attention from herself and drew me into the juvenile paparazzi. Harku, who had joined the meeting, and Minette invited us back to Shillong for a holiday at any time; I promised Harku I would send material to help him with his AMus exam – the farewells took some time.
The later “wind-down” was most pleasant. We sat in Jean’s study with glasses of Director’s whisky in our hands chatting to Jean and her husband Robert. Before we had dinner, Robert excused himself for a phone call and we never saw him again. Jean told us over dinner of her disappointment that her son, who she hoped would go into the family business and help run the school, was now settled in London with a French wife; her daughter was likewise settled in the UK – the strong sterling pound and the annual hiking of air prices made it almost impossible for her to get to London; her other son had tragically committed suicide some years before. We suddenly saw her as a rather lonely figure who obviously had good reason to throw herself ebulliently and enthusiastically into her life’s work but, as she rather sadly commented, “What for?” On reflection, it was the Jean of our initial meeting at Gauhati both we, and, I’m sure, she would prefer to remember. We will remain very grateful to her for that first week’s work of the tour. As I had mentioned to the students and their teachers, if someone like Jean had not been prepared to organize these exams, Pat and I would not have had the privilege of meeting so many fine people in a part of the world neither of us knew before but which will take a long time, if it does at all, to fade from our memories.
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