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.
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