When I was about ten there were terrible anti. Muslim riots that had Abdul and his father sleeping in the flat for their own safety. We stood on the roof and watched the Muslim quarter go up in flames. They were in some way linked to the first Pakistani war and nobody bothered to ask the Muslim population where their allegiances lay. They were cause for some unspeakable violence and a form of race hatred that went beyond its need. Abdul had not desire to live in Pakistan - he came from Bihar and was a Bihari first and then a Muslim. The fires burnt for many long nights and then - stopped. India had won the war, retained Kashmir and everybody returned to their normal lives.
The best kind of riots where the ones that happened at Tolly on race days. Tolly was a icon of class and caste consumerism and it really was no wonder that the a city living under Marxist rule would it hard to stomach. Tolly was always high on the list of organised riots usually caused by a big punt on a horse that could not win but had rumours about finding its fitness in time for the race. One of the leading goondas took a fancy to me and came over as we arrived for the races, "Baba at three o'clock you must go", I told Mum and thought no more about. At three o'clock the heavily backed favourite ran and lost. Instantly my friend threw a Molotov cocktail towards the stewards stand and started shouting, loudly, 'No race, no race".
We moved quickly of the course and went and hid in the bar where we saw the riot in all its glory. The thatched roof of the eighteenth bar was set on fire but no one came close to the main building. It wasn't pretty - policemen charging with their lathies, homemade petrol bombs crashing against the sides of the stands. About six o'clock they all began to disperse and I crept out to see Pebble Eyes, my informant form the morning. 'Time to go home now baba - we made our point", he had a cut on his face and I managed to persuade him to let Dad take a look, which he did, put in two stitches and gave him some antibiotics. From that day he was my friend.
Another time after a race day I had persuaded my friend Jimmy Gordon to take me down to Second Lane to see Peter Yeti. It was a ridiculous idea - Jimmy was driving his dad's Rover - impossibly wide for and impossibly narrow lane. We knocked down a bicycle and were instantly surrounded by a noisy mob pushing and kicking the car. Suddenly a man's head appeared at the window, "Taras Bulba yes?", I nodded and he spoke loudly and clearly to the crowd - he took one hundred rupees from Jim for the bike and then got into the front of the car. "They won't follow you with me here in the car. I won 5000 rupees on Taras Bulba today. I must repay my luck." he chattered away until we reached Park Circus and suggested we went home - which we did.
On my 21st birthday I had a real mix of friends on the roof on our flat. There were all my my friends form Harish and Darius to Ivan Alford and Peter's sister Jean. ~Imagine my surprise when our rescuer went up to my Dad and introduced himself as Mr Ghosh, punter. I thought we would all die of concealed giggles and hastily took Mr Ghosh to the roof were I left him with Ivan with strict instructions to keep him away from Dad.
Calcutta is such vibrant city and an emotional one too. What amazes me know is how certain I was that I was in no danger - after all if the chief goonda calls you baba and warns you what will happen you've got to be pretty sure you are and will remain safe.
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