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