Time to wear Purple: Martha jis and Mountain Men

That is a deliberate misspelling in the title. Started by Desmond - who else. My mother had a hankering for the occult and inexplicable that allowed many visits to fortune tellers and holy places. She would slowly take it all in and then with a slight wrinkle of her nose pronounce the fraud. I suspect, had she ever really found someone delving deep into Joe's 'massmarojum' she would have run a mile.

Nevertheless, as evidenced by Auntie Annie's ghost experience, the occult and the spirit world were constant topics to be examined again and again. One friend of Desmond's absolutely terrified her. He had been a Gurkha officer with Desla and lived in a charming little cottage in Kalimpong. He had tutored the King of Bhutan and one of Calcutta's richest tea barons. He was ascetic and, I believe, had spent some time on the ghats in Varanasi and Calcutta as a practising sadhu. Called Uncle Joe (the extended family thing again) my most vivid memory of him was a single, curling, uncut little fingernail that twirled and curled away from his hand like a yellow shard of sugar cane. He did not like children, a rarity in my small baba world, and so we rarely came into contact. He also did not like women either sexually or for their companionship. He particularly did not like my mother and his cold weather visits were always fraught with icy angers and secret meetings at Flurys for Desla and Mum to catch up without him knowing.

He would however accept and eat the ubiquitous Flurys chocolates - they were called Mont Blanc and were delicious - that served as a one size fits all diplomatic offering when going to the hills. His dinner parties were notoriously nasty and in a small hill town where few spoke really ill of their neighbours he was both feared and disliked. The rumour was that he had enchanted the old lady to whom the cottage belonged and moved in there with only his sadhu's loincloth. He stayed becoming better dressed and better fed and she, pachara, drowned in a tiny puddle in her driveway. It was said that he had been seen pushing something down in a saucer of water at the time. Needless to say she had left the cottage and all its contents to him.

Much of this is bazaar talk, gossip completely unsubstantiated by anyone but, as a child, it provided an agreeable frisson to be aware that we knew this man of evil repute. He was called back to Bhutan to tutor the young prince, the present king's father alongside a charming, extraordinarily good looking young Oxford graduate Michael Aris. He was loved in Bhutan but then as my mother said there was a great deal of Tantric Buddhism there and he probably felt more at home. Being a bitch was not confined solely to Uncle Joe.

I think to set herself up in competition Mum decided to explore the world of the holy women of the mountains. We duly set off each morning to meet a mataji, a holy mother, and to explore her beliefs and ... very much along the lines of, "My dear, what are you doing here?"

After a number of interviews two were selected for their holiness and general 'witchiness' and Desmond was invited to join us in paying a visit for some spiritual guidance. And of course be impressed by my mothers' ability to spot the 'real thing'.
The first one was found by climbing up the hillside thought the rhododendrons to a small clearing where an elderly, rather plump, saffron clad Nepali lady waited to receive her followers. Alarm bells should have rung when the sotto voce comment was heard, "Obviously hasn't withdrawn from eating yet", but we sat at her feet regardless and listened to the translation of her words of wisdom. Deeply moved my mother the acolyte led us all down the mountain for a curry lunch, bloody marys and a lengthly discussion of the merits of her new found guru.

Desla listened in rapt attention as she held forth, pausing only now and then to check a point or to ask a salient question. By the time we all went for the obligatory nap she was walking on air, convinced that she had been able to show the mountain man something new and exciting.

It was decided that as the day had been so successful we would repeat it the next morning with Mum's other candidate. They went to dinner with Uncle Joe that evening and of course told him about the day. He said very little only raising a somewhat quizzical eyebrow over Desmond's apparent enthusiasm. He was concerned however when she told him about the mataji they were to visit next. This was a very different woman, young, very pretty and with strong links to Shiva. He warned my mother that this was no party game but she blithely ignored him; she was, after all, an expert now.

The next day came and with it news that Desmond was needed back in Calcutta and so the second visit was made just by my mother, my sister and me. The girl, for she was very young, looked afraid and there was, even to me, a real atmosphere of discomfort and fear. My sister has been hoping to have her palm read but we soon realised that we were not really welcome, and as we left we could see fresh blood around the trident that stood outside her house. All in all it seemed a good idea to give up mataji hunting for a while and spend some time at the gompa turning the prayer wheels followed by visit for tea with Rani Chuni at Bhutan House.

The following Sunday, back in Calcutta, the Statesman was published and Desmond, as always had written his column for the back page. He had, as promised, written about my mother's extraordinary find of a holy woman in the mountains. It was wicked, unkind and so funny that even now, not having read it for decades, I chuckle. The tale of the devout memsahib with her supplicant children kneeling at the feet of a somewhat bemused Nepali housewife called Martha was Desmond at his best, and worst. The anger went from icy to volcanic and for some reason Uncle Joe was blamed for the whole debacle. Mum went back to finding antiques, training her horses and plotting her revenge.

The following winter the hill people started to arrive for their Calcutta holidays and as usual Mum had everyone to dinner. The talk turned to how the British and American young were appearing in their droves following the path of the Beatles and their time in Rishikesh with the Maharishi. Desla slyly suggested that Mum could set up as an agent and help them find their gurus. She withered him with the look of a gorgon and my sister, sensing danger, asked the aunties if the other mataji was still there. Uncle Joe shook his head. "No," he said, " she had a lover and her husband found them and killed them both."