Donkey!

A long time ago, in another land, another place I grew up. My childhood was rich with pets, animals, rescued goats and God knows what else.


I lived in Calcutta, huge, densely populated and very, very poor. And, I was very, very privileged. I lived in an aid conditioned house with bearers cooks, sweepers and an ayah - and two drivers: one for my mother and one for my father.


We had two dogs, Winnie and Aizu. Winnie was beautifully bred Peke whose grandmother had won Crufts. My mother carried in her handbag on the plane from England to India. Aizu was a gift to my sister from her then boyfriend. She was a little Tibetan Spaniel and very naughty when young. Aizu was also carried in a bag on an aeroplane, from Kathmandhu.


They were the official pets. I'm not going to bore you with the life history of my menagerie but suffice to say at one time there were two budgies, a Guinea Pig called Jessamine, a white rabbit and a parrot. A lot.


Then there were the rescues, goats being herded across the Maidan hit with bamboo sticks. Oh, the insufferable insolence of youth and privilege. I would leap from the car, demand to but the goat and carry it home only to not know what to do with it. Not once but several times. Abdul tailor who came twice a week to make our clothes always took the goats to his home at Howrah. I fervently believed that they lived a happy, pastoral life away from the city. I suspect however that they made superb birianis at the end of Ramadan.


And the cats - oh God the cats.  The Swimming Club was overrun with feral cats and so decided to shoot them all. But no, little St Francis leapt into action and got two to take home - one vanished quickly but the other Makalu stayed, and had children, and they had children. Eighty four was the last count. The Maharani of Cooch Behar, who lived next door, kindly took over their care when we moved.


And finally, the horses. More my mother's thing. She couldn't ride, was afraid to go too close but loved racing and could not abide cruelty. She rescued a few horses, her first great love Fairy Gannet and her last  Taras Bulba. She taught herself to train and became the first woman since the WW2 to hold a licence in India. The man she bought Taras Bulba from, Pratap Singh, would not sell until he was sure the horse could make him no more money. He agreed to a lease, if, he could continue to ride the horse. she agreed. His last ride he made the mistake of using his whip heavily as he passed the post. As he weighed in my mother was outside the weighing room, a whip in her hand. she must have chased him half a mile at least. It's one of my most enduring memories, this elegant woman, in high heels and a raw silk dress running across the fairways of the golf course waving the whip with Pratap Singh finding a turn of speed that could have made him an Olympian.


The point is coming now - ish- . Eventually Mum got a friend of mine to ride for her. Darius. He was and probably still is a superb horseman. But he had a bad habit of calling me a 'donkey' when he thought I was being stupid. Hmmph! But that's for another day.


One day at the races some friends arrived, very upset because they had seen a donkey knocked over on the Red Road, some distance from Tollygunge where we were. I, of course went to my mother and for once she said very firmly, "No." I was upset, the donkey needed rescuing and then Belinda Wright, daughter of the renowned Bob Wright, and renowned wild life photographer herself said, "Let's go."


We took her father's jeep, two straw bales and Pyari (80 if a day), her father's syce. She drove like a lunatic and we made a very short journey out of what should have taken at least half an hour. When we got there the donkey was lying by the side of the road, its sides heaving  with every breath. Somehow we got it into the back of the jeep where it lay with its head on my lap and Pyari holding its legs - just in case.


Well dear reader - after all the disastrous rescues you would expect this not to have a happy ending. You would be so wrong. The donkey was adopted by an English family, the Rendalls and lived in the stables at Ballygunge until they left India. They took it with them and it lived another twenty years in the green fields of Sussex.


Donkeys are sweet and they endure - so Darius, it was a compliment after all.