DESMOND DOIG

I heard this story from both sides: Desla's and my mother's. Her version was that she was visiting a friend at the Harrington Nursing Home, in Calcutta. She was coming down the stairs and saw this man talking to Joyce the matron. She knew who he was - had read all his articles, had just finished the book he had written with Ed Hillary, 'High in the Thin Cold Air'. Desmond was in fact visiting a friend Bhanu Bannerjee who had lost some toes in the expedition to frost bite. She told that she knew she had to meet this man, and she flew down the stairs and acting somewhat like a Take That fan, grasped his hand and told him how much she liked his work and admired him. She said he looked a little disconcerted but said, "You must come and have coffee sometime." He then made his farewells and left. The next morning she arrived at his flat, very early, for coffee. He had been asleep, naked, and came to the door clasping the fur of blue bare to cover his modesty.  From that moment on they were soulmates.

Desla told me the same story from his perspective. He said he had never seen anybody more alive in the moment than my mother that day at the Harrington. He was wary of memsahibs and so was polite but thought she would count having met him as enough. Memsahibs did not turn up for coffee at 9.30 and not blink an eye at a naked befurred mountaineer. She, however, did. He said that Joy was her name and the way she lived. Pure Joy.

For many, many years Calcutta thought they were lovers. I know I fought some strong battles with arrogant little expat schoolboys who thought to make fun of it. I certainly hit one. They were, of course, not. Desmond was not really a ladies man. Much to my mother's disappointment. She tried. Many times. As they grew older however she was happy to simply have his love. He said to me that if he had ever wanted a woman it would have been her.

Such a love story. So I grew up with a second father. A man of wit and intelligence, great charm, great talent. He was an artist, a journalist, a mountaineer and, when I did a google search last night, the term that kept coming up was 'renaissance man'. Perhaps one of the last.

Please understand that my father, although a little confused, was a good friend of Desmond's and there was never really any jealousy. The only time he put his foot down was with the release of 'Sergeant Pepper'. Desla had a party, a hippy party where we all dressed in bright florals and danced madly to 'Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds'. One of my father's pals was there, a very proper man Pierson Surita, and we pretended to take LSD by popping prettily decorated aspirin in our  mouths. Pierson went straight to my father the next day and there was a fuss. But it was so funny - I remember the two of doubled over with laughter - thrilled at their own wickedness. At that time my mother didn't drink and I don't think I ever remember Desla having a drink. They were, as they said, "high on life".

There is too much to say in a blog: days on the river when the West Bengal government gave him a boat to go up river and sketch the old houses of the Raj, days in Kalimpong where a picnic would become an adventure, stories would be told. In Bhutan telling me about the Dzong in Pairo, climbing up to Taksung and finding an old lama who had sat for most of his life gazing at the perfect view for meditation. Parties, dancing - my mother and he doing the 'Calcutta Grind' at the Grand Hotel. As I am writing this my eyes are filled with tears: it was a golden time.

I could go on and on - the Statesman, the sketches,, 'An Artist's Impression, the founding of the Junior Statesman - India's first youth magazine. He was a remarkable, special and deeply loved man. When he died it was announced on the Free Tibet radio station. He was a mountain man and one of those golden people who are only given to us for a short time.

I had a dream about two years after the death of my mother where she came to me and told how happy she was, she and Desmond. But they rather thought they might return to us in a few years, there was more living to be done. I'm waiting.