The Glad Game

You may have noticed the odd reference to early mornings - I say odd because the early morning and I are not the best of friends. This makes our rare encounters a special and agreeably new experience.

i had to get up early this morning for my weekly trip to the doctor - being slightly loopy/suicidal means you check in once a month to get more pills and generally catch up. I don't mind this appointment: I have a lovely doctor, agreeably vague and given to chatting about books and travelling. This week I minded it even less, as it has also been my check up with the psychiatrist which was rather gruelling, and seeing lovely Dr Knight meant I had made it through.

All of this was running through my mind as I sat at the bus stop this morning and then I looked up - there was an amazing blue sky, birds wheeling and flocking in the air and all was punctuated by the red and gold of the flirting leaves as they whirled in the wind.  And I had a moment, for the first time in several years I was strangely glad to be alive.

It made me remember other mornings when I had felt like the only person alive in the world, where rare beauty was unveiled because traffic and harsh sunlight had not yet refocused the vista into its daily ugliness. Horses galloping through the mist, the first signs of the sunrise on the way home from a night of dancing, the pale fingers of dawn as another Rock Challenge was over.

I have to ask myself why it is that I don't like the early morning since it apparently holds a key to some pretty wonderful memories. Then I got back home and was knackered - dived back into bed and slept for  four hours. When I awoke my moment of madness was cured - I don't like early mornings because they are too dammed early and, lovely as nature is, I love my bed.

So I think we can safely say that Pollyanna seems to be making a bit of a comeback - something to be glad about I think?

ODE TO THE WEST WIND by: Percy Bysshe Shelly (1792-1822) I.    WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,   Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed   The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow   Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odors plain and hill:   Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear!   II.   Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,   Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head   Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height, The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge   Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might   Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: oh hear!   III.   Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,   Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day,   All overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers   Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know   Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: oh, hear!   IV.   If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share   The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O uncontrollable! if even I were as in my boyhood, and could be   The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven   As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!   A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.   V.   Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is; What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies   Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!   Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse,   Scatter, as from an extinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unwakened earth   The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? 'Ode to the West Wind' is reprinted from English Poems. Ed. Edward Chauncey Baldwin. New York: American Book Company, 1908.

Like I said - glad to be alive.

George and Dorothy.

Calcutta has always bred eccentrics and characters - going back in history to the earliest British arrivals, it was far more a city of individuals than of Empire builders. The Empire builders came, looked and moved the capital to Delhi. Calcutta settled down into her old idiosyncratic ways.

Between the wars was the belle epoque of Calcutta - she provided a melting pot for people from all over the world to settle, make money and enjoy life. There was horse racing, motor racing, gambling, some of the best brothels in the East and some outstanding hotels and restaurants. Calcutta was the place where the quote that the  "Colonel's lady and Rosie O'Grady/ were sisters under the skin", proved yet again  that Kipling knew his British India.

As I grew up all this was taken as normal - it is only now that I realise the rich tapestry that I was allowed to glimpse through the eyes of two friends of my mothers - George Landau and Dorothy Surita. Between them these two were witness to the glory days and would, with very little prompting, recall magical times of vulgar riches, beautiful people and a life lived fast and dangerously for the sheer delight it gave.

They were only brought together once - they took one look at each other and retreated into the sullen silence of offended children. Whether they recognised aspects in each other that they would prefer not to acknowledge or, simply they wanted to be the only centre of attention, the meeting did not go well and my mother kept them separate from each other from then on.

Dorothy had been a milliner in one of the big shops on Chowringhee. She never mentioned her father but her mother had come out from England, also a milliner, to make hats for the ladies of the city to wear to the races and for special occasions. Whilst still young and very innocent Dorothy met and fell in love with a lawyer, Jerry Surita. They were together from then on - firstly as lover and mistress and finally, husband and wife. Jerry already had wife and this was a time where divorce socially unacceptable.

Jerry was very much the man about town and there was no shame in their relationship - Dorothy went where he did, to the races, to Firpos, to dances at the Saturday Club. She used to make it sound so glamorous but it must have been so hard. Even with Jerry taking her everywhere, there would still have been closed doors, the member's enclosure at the RCTC, membership of the Saturday Club and she also had to contend with his two sons, Ivan and Pearson who never fully accepted her and ensured that for years she was kept at arms length.

We first met Dorothy when Desmond, always avid for stories of old Calcutta, arranged to go and interview Jerry about the reopening of the Globe Theatre - in its day one the best music halls and theatres in the Far East: now reopening as a cinema with Burton and Taylor's Cleopatra. We arrived and were met by the prettiest little woman in a delicate sundress with a large picture hat and the sweetest smile: Dorothy. She had just come in from shopping and begging our forgiveness took off her high heeled sandals and led us up the stairs to their flat. My mother nudged me and pointed with her eyes at Dorothy's feet - they were on tiptoe, she had worn the highest of high heels for so long that she could no longer place her feet flat to the ground. I think we both fell a little in love with her at that moment.

Not long after this Jerry died and Dorothy suddenly aged. She became part of the family, coming once a week for lunch - always on a Thursday, coming to races with us on a Saturday and spending all the family holiday times with like Christmas and Easter. She was always willing to sit and tell stories of her and Jerry's youth and when the fashion for vintage clothes came about, raided her wardrobe and found me lovely pieces that belong to the 1920s and 30s. I remember vividly a black velvet and white ermine collared evening coat that became my signature garment one winter - wearing it seemed to make me more glamorous, more a part of the past.

George Landau was that strange anachronism of the Far East, a Shanghai Jew. His father had been jeweller to the rajahs and maharajahs, travelling back and forth across India with priceless gems to sell or buy. George would tell tales of hard up rajahs sending for his father and asking him to find buyers for fabulous gemstones - only six months later to demand he find them and buy them back. It was George who told the story of the princely emeralds of one of the local maharajahs being reset as costume jewellery, taken to Paris, sold to Cartier and being shown to a daughter of the house, now married to one of the mosr famous of India's princely families, who instantly recognised her family's jewels and demanded they be returned forthwith. They weren't and have now vanished from sight.

When his father died George was left a sizable fortune that allowed him to indulge in his two passions, gambling and horse racing. Remarkably quickly he was broke and started to train for a living. Sadly, he couldn't stop the gambling and was caught fixing races and warned off. Not just Calcutta but pretty much every track in India. He made ends meet by selling tips, he could read a handicap better than anyone and would lurk, up at the Maidan side of the 1800 metre start with binoculars, his ever present cigar, a stop watch and a list of numbers and names that would be crossed off  or starred depending on how the horse had done.

We came to know him when he applied for, and was given a training licence for the Tolly Gymkhana races. As these were supposed to be strictly amateur the stewards obviously had a naive hope that George would not be able to get up to his old tricks. In fact, Tolly races were for some years some of the most overtly crooked race meetings in the history of the sport. So much so that one friend, riding simply for the pleasure of it raised the question to my mother, "Is that Sir Robert Fuckers going to pull his horse again?" It was was a mark of quality of the heir to oldest baronetcy in England, Sir Robert ffolkes, that this question only raised shrieks of laughter and the plaintive question , "Oh dear, Joy is my riding really that bad?"

George was not as keen as Dorothy to live on his memories. He always looked forward to the next day and the promise that held. Mum adored him and soaked up his vast knowledge of training and horses. He became a daily visitor, coming back with her from the morning's gallops, sitting drinking his tea while she changed and then, seated in prime position in the front of her little red car accompanying her to  her morning shopping. He had always been a ladies man and, I think that for him, she was his last love.

They were a remarkable pair: two stories from a city made up of stories - two genuine eccentrics.

I'm back!

Sorry  that I've had a longish break - had nothing of interest to say and really didn't want to write another oh woe is me piece. Having said that I'm not sure if I have anything more exciting to add. Well maybe...

My friend Gail, who you will recall was found joyously after forty years has suggested that I go to Canada for a reunion - that's newsworthy. It is now a question of sorting passport and brain into gear and then, hopefully, a gloriously happy moment to store in my memory box.

Thinking about the memory box I had a bit of a rifle through - the trouble is that so many of the memories are like brief snapshots - a moment in time caught slightly out of focus, but I was cheered when as I cast my back I remembered such happy times in the last years in Calcutta.

I had made my break for freedom from school and was rather aimlessly wafting around, ( not unlike now, come to think of it) the Americans had all left, the Great Bear had grown up and moved on and, whilst life was sweet, it was hardly challenging. But then a new group of friends - people I had known all my life but were slow in reaching the fun stage of growing up- began to appear. Annabel, Harish, his sisters Shashi and Pomi, Darius and Kamlajit - all brought together by racing or golf and we became a gang.

Those last two years are a golden time - parties, night clubs and racing - what more could anyone want? It was time of dancing, of lovely clothes and pretty people. Of laughter, Harish has a razor wit that punctured any pretensions shared in more gentle form by Shashi, while Darius allowed none of us to linger in any moments of folly - "Don't be a donkey George," was the carchphrase that alerted us to  our silliness and allowed us to laugh at our mistakes.

We would spend hours sitting on Harish's bed discussing gossip, of which there was plenty, and racing  which  provided the backbone and structure of our lives. Darius rode for  Mum, finally giving her the  the person she wanted on board Taras Bulba, and Harish moved seamlessly  from punting to serious horse ownership.

The weeks were played out to the rhythm of the race meetings - weekday mornings for watching the horses work and checking their handicaps - weekends for the actual races and then the celebrations  or despair that followed success or failure. I won the the jackpot - 4,700 rupees, which was a fortune, by insisting on having Gaby as my banker in last race -  the only person to share this conviction was Gaby herself  - she also won the jackpot that day. Mum became champion trainer and danced with Goeorge Landau in Trincas while the band played "My Beautiful Sunday" until they both collapsed onto the drummer' kit in exhaustion.

George Landau dying and Abdul, who had always reviled the poor old man, weeping inconsolably. Mum - not knowing what ot do with his ashes, carrying them, in the front of the car where he so often sat, for months before finally scattering them one early morning at the 1800 metre start at the RCTC. George deserves and will get a blog to himself for his was remarkable story  even in a city filled with such stories.

And then, I left. Some foolish notion of drama school while they remained, fixed in my mind's eye as golden and young forever. As the plane rose into the grey sky that day I looked down at the vivid green of the paddy fields I knew I was saying goodbye to my one true and enduring  love, my city of joy.

Times Was

Sorry about this folks but I have hit a block - cannot think how to get Jenny out of the cellar or quite which direction the story will take. Be patient, I will come back to it.

So for today some old poetry written in 1976 just after leaving home - it has been called adequate, adolescent and derivative but I am still proud of it and would like to share. Bouquets not brickbats please...

Time was
I would write poetry
In tea shops by lakes
And high in the mountains.

Great thoughts would come      
Uncalled for,
A sense of beauty emerging
In every line I wrote
And now,
Now,
I sit in Wimpys
In little towns
In mediocrity
And write of despair.
Dead, dull despair.
No great emotion here
Just an ache for things
Long gone.

Time was........

BHARAT
I have no tears for you
Half forgotten country
Of mine.
I cried them all last year
For you
Mother India

I have no water left

To mourn our parting    
I used it all last year
When our roads
Divided

But... I moan
Mother India
Inside I ache and groan
Inside my heart yearns
For you.

Yet... I have
No tears left
Mother India
I cried them all
Last year.




Insomnia Blues

Alone at night
in bed
without a cigarette

No sounds in this
quiet country place

No body warmth
to turn to
for comfort
to help ease the pain            
of loneliness
at night.

Not even a quiet drag
of a fag,
or a face to kiss
goodnight.


A Prayer

Home again,
Dear Lord if I could only be
Home again.
To see those immense blue skies
again
hear the fever bird's lunatic cry
again.
And to see the people,
dear Lord, the people
white clothed, darkhued,
hustling, shouting, exciting
people.
And the earth
baked like clay
and grass, green-brown burnt      
in May.
And cows and goats
and kites in the sky
the immense blue sky ...
Home again.



To  quote a certain WB Yeats "Tread softly becuase you tread on my dreams"
xxx

Brief Break

The story will be continued tomorrow I promise but I felt the need for more immediate contact with you - silly I know but I was missing the one sided conversation.

Calcutta was and is a very small community - little goes on that is not public knowledge within a few hours. An example of this is when a friend of mine became pregnant - I went with her to a clinic off Elliot Rd. and waited in the waiting room while she saw the doctor then took her home.

I walked in to the sitting room at home to find my parents, white faced, clutching large whiskeys begging me to tell them the truth. The nurse at the clinic had worked for Dad once and phoned him as soon as she saw me. It took several hours to convince them it wasn't me having a baby but my friend. I never really stood a chance of being really bad - there were too may eyes watching - if they didn't have links to Mum or Dad they would almost certainly have links to Desla  or Dubs,

Despite this, or maybe because of  it I always felt entirely safe - the only bad experience I ever really had was one to be savoured for its tattered glamour.  I spotted a rather attractive young man in Trincas one night and was told that he was the young cousin the Tripura family. I wangled an introduction and was asked out to dinner.

You must understand  that we were in our own way very innocent. Jaideep, having just  returned from being educated in England was used to young women who has embraced the sexual revolution ans took their places as equals/ I still expected a car door to be held open for me.

After dinner he invited me back to the Tripura Palace in Ballygunge and showed me around an echoing ghost of a house with huge marble halls and neo classical nymphs draped coyly on plinths in alcoves. Unsurprisingly the tour ended in his rooms and the usual rough and tumble ensued. As it was getting close to midnight I asked  if he could arrange for a car to take me home.

The atmosphere changed - there were no cars - I hadn't slept with him yet - who did I think I was? We were locked in for the night. I took matters into my own hands hands ran out to the main hall and shouted for the Durwan to  go and find a taxi. The resultant noise woke the Maharani's bearer and he sat me down, made me tea and organised the taxi in what seemed like seconds. Jaideep was banished back to his room.

The old bearer saw me home and apologised for the shame of his mistress's nephew.

The postscript came when Jaideep turned up the next night and tried to bully his way past Abdul and the two dogs. Winnie, I am glad to say bit him!. I fell to Abdul to have the last word." Ek dum budmash baba!"

Dark Days

Jenny pressed her face against the rough bark of the tree and tried to stifle the choking sobs that were determined to force their way out. Suddenly her mother's screams stopped and all she could hear was the crackle of the flames and the men shouting and swearing as they systematically destroyed the farm buildings and slaughtered the animals. It seemed that she crouched there for an eternity waiting for them to tire of their destruction and leave but as night drew near she heard them mount up their horses and then the welcome sound of the horses moving away.

For the first time in hours she relaxed and finally let the tears come only to feel a heavy hand on her shoulder. "I told you there was a girl," a voice said and Jenny was roughly hauled to her feet. He dragged her out in to the ruined farmyard. "Look," he said, " A young 'un. She'll fetch a good price at market for a bonus".

Before she could say or do anything a filthy rag was used across her mouth as a gag and her hands and feet were tied roughly together. She was slung in the back of an evil smelling cart and they set off at pace.

Jenny wriggled and turned but the bonds had been tied too tightly and eventually she gave up and tried to look around to see where they were going. They were already beyond the forest in countryside that the little girl had never seen or imagined - green fields and rivers with pretty villages all raced past as the horses maintained their steady gallop. Even as the night drew in they did not stop and soon, fight as she might, Jenny's eyes closed and she fell into a fitful dream laden sleep.

When she woke all was still and the new day had already begun. For a moment she forgot where she was and what had happened but her first attempt to move cruelly reminded her. The man who had found her yesterday now reached into the cart and dragged her to the ground. She was in a market square in a grey town, surrounded by strangers all looking her up and down.

"Don't waste my time," the man said, "She's young, and strong and she'll fetch at least a gold dollar if we take her to the city."

"Take her then mate", called a wag from the crowd.

"She's slowing us down and we are bound to be in the city by tonight - Lord Exbo commands us." Half a dollar and she is yours - who'll take her?"

There was silence and then an old man, bent double and walking very slowly, went over to Jenny. He took off the gag and before she could thank him, forced her mouth open and peered inside. "She's got good teeth, I give you Sampson," he said. " But half is too much - she is only a child and will need breaking. I'll give you thirty silver pieces."

Sampson looked angry but one of his companions laughed and said, "Done Master Fennyman, may you have much joy of your bargain." He rode over to the old man, took the money and counted in and then handed him a long rope. When Master Fennyman began to walk away Jenny jerked after him and she realised that she was attached to the rope like a puppy or a pet. He did not turn to see if she followed him, just carried on slowly and inexorably with the poor child falling and hobbling behind him.

After a walk that seemed to Jenny to last for hours but in reality only took a few minutes they stopped outside a tall, narrow, crooked house. The old man banged on the door with his stick. "Bella, Bella - I have a new toy for you."

The door opened a crack and the ugliest woman Jenny had ever seen stood in the doorway. She had hair the colour of mud, her skin was sallow and scarred, she had only one tooth that Jenny could see and that was blacked and crooked, and she was fat. Rolls and folds of fat fell over the top of her dress and forced the gathering of her sleeve to strain itself to breaking point.

"For me? Oh, Master Fennyman you shouldn't have," she said as she grabbed the rope from the old man's hand. " What can I give you in return?"

"Nothing Bella child. Let me come and talk with this one when she's house broken. I have a feeling about her - nothing bad but she is special."

Bella laughed, a surprisingly pretty sound, "You know you are always welcome here sir. Thank you again for the gift." With that she gave the rope a sharp jerk and Jenny was dragged inside and the door closed behind her all in one swift movement.

She didn't speak as she half led half dragged Jenny through the dark hallway to a green door. She opened it and gave Jenny a push through. Jenny felt herself falling and then, mercifully, nothing. In the space of twenty four hours she had gone from a carefree child of the woods to a prisoner in a stranger's basement.

To be continued....

Not an Allegory - Just a Real Made Up Story

Once in a faraway land there lived a little girl. She lived deep in the forest with her father, Thomas the Woodcutter, and her mother, Polly the beauttiful. Unitl the little girl was at least eleven she didn't know that the world had any people in it besides her and her parents.

It was a wonderful place to be young. The forest stretched for mile around with beckoning paths that led to new adventures every day. Thomas would not hunt the wild animals so they gathered around the little cottage and bears and  badgers and roe deer were the little girl's playmates. She could speak animal almost as well as she could speak human but her parents were never comfortable with her grunting conversations and tried to make her speak 'properly.

One bight autumn morning they heard the sound of horses and men's voices. Polly sent Jenny, for that was her name. running into the forest to find Thomas and turned to greet the strangers as they appeared along the forest path.

Jenny ran fast and didn't stop to talk to father bear or even uncle badger. She didn't stop until she reached the clearing where Thomas was working. It was too quiet wheh she got there - no sound of the saw or the hatchett and the trees were empty of their singing chorus of birds. It felt all wrong to Jenny and she turned to run back home when she heard a groan from the other side of the woodpile.

Feeling quite scared she moved slowly toward the sound and there on the ground was Thomas, his green jerkin covered in blood and a knife sticking out of the side of his body. He reached up for Jenny and then fell back with a terrible cry and she could see the light had gone from him and he was no longer a man of the earth..

She didn't cry, just turned and ran swiftly back to her mother but before too long she could smell smoke, acrid and sharp and as she turned the corner to her clearing she saw their cottage burning fiercely. And, she could hear Polly screamiong inside as the flame grew hotter. Jenny hid behind a tree weeping silently and longing to be able to do something.


This has been a little experiment - dleiberately left like this for you to tell me if you would like more.

Unexpected

Life in Calcutta was rarely boring, largely because we were all far more spontaneous then. Days could seemed filled with little more than routine when a casual word or meeting would see routine thrown to the winds and adventures begin.

Desmond was given a boat to sail up and down the river to sketch some of the beautiful houses that still stood there, These were stolen days - a phone call in the morning, a rush to Flurys and Skyroom for cakes and chicken patties and a charge to the river where we would embark on the boat like a motley United Nations of Tibetans, Nepalis, Americans and any other hangers on that were around that day. Bringing up the rear would be Mum and Desmond being rowed across to the lauch by one of the terrifying country boats that are the staple of Hooghly traffic.

Mum was terrified of water so the day would always start with shrieks as Desla rocked from side to side  brringing the muddy water ever closer. Eventually she won the battle by turning up one day with bright red, children's water wings firmly fixed to her arms - she wore them for the rest of the day and, ever generous in defeat the water torment stopped.

I wish I could say we saw amamzing houses as we lazily motored up and down river but in reality it is all blur of green trees, gardens running down to the water's edge. We stopped at the French town of Chandenagore to find very little French atmoshphere saving the plethora of cafes that sat empty wating for long vanished boulevardiers to returne. Further up river was Bandel  with its  huge cathedral built in relief by the Portuguese after rescue from a shipwreck.  As we came back we would stop at Dakiniswar and admire the new buildings.

Desmond seemingly had little in his sketch book but for the rest of us it would have been a golden day where we had watched the life of the river pass us by, watched the great orb of the sun dip slowly away into the water and been removed from all reality for a brief and magical moment.

The Hooghly is the artery of Calcutta, commercially and spiritually - to spend time upon it in a boat is to know its beauty and its charm and appreciate it fully.

Dubby

I suppose I have put off writing about Dubs because he means so much to me and if he thought the blog was rubbish I didn't want to make him part of it. But O frabjous day, calloo callay - he likes it. Most of it. He's not keen on the new trend of commentary and I think he may have put his finger on the spot - I tell tales and write poetry - there are enough people out there who comment for a living.

So, Dubby. It all began with the JS. Desmond had the idea of bringing out a magazine for young people - the first of its kind in India and still regarded as a landmark publication. He found the best young writers, photographers and artists to fill its pages and among them was Dubby. He wrote the cool stuff about music and the 'scene' in Calcutta. His friend, and mine, Jug Suraiya wrote the more serious pieces.

As alwasy I tagged along beside my mother to the Statesman offices to meet them, eleven years older than me and kind, in a not really sure how to treat this precosious child, way. At some stage another of my mother's outrageous friends was putting on a play at the Hindi High School and we went along to one of the rehearsals. Dubby and I ended up sitting in the stalls waiting for the post production autopsy to finish and he steered the very static conversation on to books.

I think I shattered his illsuions of childhood by saying that I had just finished 'Angelique and the King'. These were a series of books by Sergeanna Golon about the betwitching emerald eyed, blonde haired Angelique and her life in and around the court of Louis XIV. They were certainly not for children. Dubby was open mouthed, " Does Joy know you read that?" Of course she did - she gave it to me when the plaintive refrain, I've nothing to read became too much. From that moment on we were friends - not an older man and young girl but two equals who could talk about anything under the sun, and did.

Not long after that Dubby married Chinki - very much against his parents' wishes and Mum acted as the witness at the wedding. Chinki's brother Nondon was the Great Bear drummer and so the whole household became covered in a romantic glamour.

Dubby and Chinki would have me over for supper and invite John Brinnand - I would sit tongue tied until he left and then make them pick over every look and gesture for some sign of hope. They never faltered or told me to forget about it.

I remember Dubby being thrilled at finding a new song that he said was the quintesssentially perfect pop song - Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep. We had to listen to it again and again and even now if I hear it I am back in their flat listening to Dubs explain why it was so perfect for the hundredth time.

If Annabel developed my rational powers Dubby and Chinki developed my taste and style, taught me how argue, discuss and think outside the norm. Then came a hammer blow - an uncle of Dubby's was offering him a yea rin London and they were off.

Dubby made friends with what seemed like every record company in London. He wrote articles on Suzi Quatro and Hot Chocolate for the JS and seemed to have a magical entree into the world of the A&R men in all the big companies. I went to stay with them in Richmond and came away with armfuls of albums - among them Ziggy Stardust. It seemed to me that it was unlikely they would return but Dubby was already homesick and had no intention of stayng beyond the year. "I'd rather be a big fish in a little pond," he said when I asked why.

At the end of their year I came back to England once more and was summoned to South Wales. Dubby had found a band -Touch led by Steve Beck, who has already had quite enought written about him. The band's roadie was Phil - who became more than a friend fairly quickly.

Dubs had set them up with a publishing deal that should have led to a full recording contract. He'd paid for their demo tape by selling all the freebie albums he had been given in his role as JS music reporter. The one thing he wouldn't do was stay and see it through. Calcutta was calling him home and home he went.

Chinki stayed in London doing a degree and Dubs moved in with his mother in law. These were the years when I would see him every day - he was enjoying (and I use that word advisedly) ill health at the time  and we roamed Calcutta looking for homeopaths and cures, stopping off occasioanally for chicken and sweet corn soup to keep us going. We would sit in parks and talk, and talk and talk forever. Dubby always had the gift (like Desmond) of making you feel cleverer and brighter than you actually were.

We travelled up to his sister's wedding in Jammu, details in a previous blog, not realising how it would look - a married man and his younger, unmarried friend. We survived that. As we survived many things that are not for these pages. Dubby had a great deal of love to give but wasn't always appropriate in his choice of loved one.

Inevitably Chinki wanted a divorce and Dubs moved in with Desmond and found his place in life. They weren't lovers but loving friends and Dubby felt about Desla as I did about Mum. For both of us these two people were the centre of our universe.

There followed the fillum years - Dev Anand asked them to do his pubilicity hence the stage riot at Kala Mandir when Dubby suggested I lead some friends through the auditorium and onto the stage as Agit Singh sang Dum Maro Dum and Zeenat Aman danced. The trouble was that the audience thought this was a great idea and followed en mase. The concert ended early and Zeenat Aman never really trusted them again. I don't blame her.

The time came for me to leave and soon after Dubby and Desmond moved to Kathmandhu and their years of creating hotels and wonderful books.

You may ask why I am writing this today - well, Dubby always preferred the phone and a telegram to writng letters so early this morning my phone rang and as I drowsily giggled at some things never changing Dubby took me through the good and bad of the blogs. So I sort of owe it to him plus without his constant nagging when I was younger I would have left my writing to wither. This one is you my darling Dubs. I love you lots. xxx