Fires

It is so weird how the mind works - you are just chatting to someone (in this instance, me to Peter) and suddenly a random remark evokes a rush of memories. As we chatted about gilets, red boots and Land's End Clothing he said something that reminded me of the mountains and Kalimpong. Fires in bedrooms. You see we always had a fire in the bedrooms in the mountains so one slept with the gentle glow of embers, the scent of pine resin and gentle crackling of the wood as the fire slowly burned through the night.

And then the memories came flooding back, whisky and brandy bottles filled with hot water, snuggled into a crocheted cosy and pushed down so the bed was warm. Kancha bringing up pails of boiling water to fill the tin bath so we bathed in the morning in a bath, that had probably been to Gyantse and back in its lifetime, in front of a newly rekindled fire.

This may sound as if I have confused my memories with those of someone older and from another time but I promise this is true. At 4500 feet Kalimpong got cold at night. As a small child I would be tucked into bed, kissed and left to drowse in the firelight as downstairs I could hear the chatter and laughter that now seem such a hallmark of my childhood. As it got later sometimes the sounds got louder, the laughter more manic and Auntie Annie could be heard singing some ditty from the music halls of her youth. If I judged it correctly I could then creep down, hide under a table and watch entranced as the dancing started.

If you have never seen Nepalese dancing it is hard to imagine, it is both graceful and life enhancing: the beat of the tabla and the sweet sound of a flute join the voices as they sing of the love of a boy for a girl, of how the girl invites and then repels. The dancer or dancers reenact the song with the gentlest of hand gestures, use of the eyes and a constant circling and twirling as the story reaches it end. Then suddenly the mood would change, the drum was beaten faster, handkerchiefs pulled out and the men using the drum and our clapping as rhythm performed fast and furious gymnastics to the song Nainitala - Desmond excelled at this and the boys who sang always made him dance this at least once. I would get too carried away and clap loudly from my hiding place, get caught and sent back to bed.

One night Auntie Annie called us all out to the porch - once a year a flower bloomed and it was this night. We looked in awe at the purple blossom and then out across the valley to the far away snows, the spirit lights and above a huge and pendulous moon hanging in a sky studded with stars so close you could touch them if you stretched.

All this from one comment about having a fire in one's bedroom. That Marcel Proust knew a thing or two.

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Mountains and aunties

When I was growing up it was considered impolite to call close friends of your parents anything other their names, Mr or Mrs Whoever or, you called them auntie or uncle. I therefore had a myriad of aunts and uncles who were no relation whatsoever but still gave a young child a sense of extended family.


Every summer, until my mother was accused of being a spy and refused a permit, we went to the beautiful Kalimpong for three to four weeks and stayed at the Himalayan Hotel. It was run by three ladies, daughters of David Macdonald a former British Trade Agent in Gyantse, Tibet. They were what they called, "a Himalayan cocktail", a combination of Scot, Tibetan and Lepcha. They were remarkable women.
Auntie Annie, in the picture, was Annie Perry, she had married Fred and he had died sadly all too long ago. She wore, as all three did, black trousers and brightly coloured silk shirts and, always bright red nail polish. 


To arrive at the hotel after a tortuous drive up from the plains climbing to 4,500 feet and to see the building and far off Kanchenjunga and then to hear, "Hi, hi", and be met with bloody Marys for the adults and nimbu pani for me. Oh, that was such a joy and excitement.

How could anyone not feel blessed to see those mountains? They weren't always on view of course, the mist faded in and around them giving us brief expectations of what was to come and then suddenly it cleared  and from the garden, under the camellia tree we would sit and watch, entranced.

The Kalimpong years were a time of golden childhood memories. My mother took me everywhere with her and I was always more surrounded with adults than children. Although at eight I had a Tibetan boyfriend called Tenzing - he was nine and we held hands a lot. But to be child surrounded be adults means that a certain level of behaviour is expected. My second father Desmond Doig, always said, "Don't be boring darling." and I have endeavoured to follow his advice ever since. Not being boring meant not bothering the grown ups when they playing cards, discussing politics or observing that most Indian of customs - the afternoon rest.

Auntie Annie never rested but would be out in her flower garden and always available for a chat and to tell the name of the flowers or to teach some rude music hall song she remembered from her youth - 'Roll me over in the clover, roll me over, lay me down and do it again." I didn't know what it meant but I sang it with great gusto at every opportunity causing giggling embarrassment all round.

Auntie Vicky, the middle auntie, was the intellectual one. Because I was missing school she gave me lessons in the mornings, writing of course and Babu French which I still speak I suspect with a Bengali accent as she did. She remembered the extraordinary Alexandra David Neel arriving in Gyantse dressed in lama's robes and being very imperious and demanding, and then adding with a sly smile, and smelly. Auntie Vicky was 'my' auntie, Annie my mother's and the youngest sister, Vera was loved dearly by my sister.

Auntie Vera was the other port of call in the afternoons - she didn't sleep but would sit reading or writing letters. She was very fat and very pretty and gentle. Her sisters could still make her cry. She was the beloved confidant of the Queen of Bhutan and this gave her a certain grandeur. She taught me to crochet and told me of ancient scandals to do with the Bhutanese and the Sikkimese; sadly, none of which I can remember or even understood at the time. I wish I could. One winter she came down to Calcutta with Ashi Kesang, the queen and they were at performance given by the Bolshoi that I had managed to force my sister in to taking me to. (My family never understood my love of ballet) In the interval Auntie Vera beckoned us to the box and of course we went. I curtsied, my sister pinched me. But Auntie Vera was in her element, loved and beautiful in that moment. She told she had seen Anna Pavlova dance there at the New Empire when she was my age and how beautiful she had been.

And for those of you that think all this has gone, the picture above is the hotel today run by one of the aunties real nephews. What a lucky, lucky little girl I was.


http://www.himalayanhotel.biz/english/index.html