Aya Toofan

Imagine this - early morning, about 5.30. A mist rolls in from the river making everything chilled and for those of us just coming home a little cold in our finery. In the centre of the maidan, the Victoria Memorial stands to the right of  the racecourse: the reason for all of us being there so early. This was in my jockey days and I was often coming from a sleepless night of passion to watch the latest inamorata ride out as the horses came to the track for their early morning workouts and gallops.

I would sit , yawning and sated, lazily looking around me as the obsessed fiddled, cursing with binoculars as they peered through the mist to see who was working well, how much the jockey had kept in hand on his gallop, My mother would rarely have her horses do more than an eight anna gallop - she felt the horse left the race behind him on the track and needed to be fit for Saturday,

Recaffinanted I would go home and bathe and then set out to meet the others - on a Wednesday the handicaps came out and we would go to Flurys, drink hot chocolate and plot and plan the betting that would take place over the weekend. If it was Tolly race time my parents would inevitably fall into a row where my mother would accuse my father of not having a clue how to handicap and him telling her she had no idea how to run one. They really didn't speak to each other again until Friday.

If it was RCTC time I was in love with my jockey, who was married with a wife in England, far enough away to make it seem OK. Of course  it wasn't but he was special and I loved him so a few months for two years were better than nothing at all.

From the small baba who had believed that racing was about the exit form the starting gate I had arrived as a seasoned race goer. I bet and sometimes won. My best ever bet was on a horse called Aya Toofan, which roughly translates to Here Comes the Storm. It was monsoon and the sky was black - I had a hundred rupees left and I put it all to win on the horse. Everyone in our box and the box next door laughed at me.

The race started as the storm started, black clouds emptying their rain like sheets of bullets, thunder rolling around the track and forked lightening finding its way into ground all around us. A great cheer went up form the crowd - "Aya Toofan!"- as he splashed past the winning post some two lengths clear of everything else in the race. The price - 50/1. Not bad for no sentiment in racing.

There was a party that night as we danced the night away until the wee small hours and then rubbing our eyes headed back to the track.

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.

Monsoon

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Imagine being covered in a wet blanket that is hot. Your limbs are slow to move and everything is an effort. It feels like thunder but the sky is empty. Everybody is tetchy, quick to argue. There is nowhere other than a roof top to feel some air.


And then... a single fat drop of water comes from the sky, followed by another and another until the deluge seems imminent. And you go outside and smell the rain and feel its coolness soak your clothes and hair and you laugh. The monsoon has come.
The Rains Came: A Novel of Modern India tells of time of waiting for the monsoon and as a teenager it was one of my favourite books,deeply torrid romance and a brilliant film.

For the poor of the great city it brought both relief and misery, the cleansing water giving relief but the flooding that ensued gave misery to many whose only home was a shack made of cardboard or a large pipe that turned into a river with the floods

For us as children it was sheer magic. Floods ankle/knee deep to be waded through with screams of delight. A friend had a blow up dinghy which we paddled down Burdwan Road feeling like great explorers

My old school had had its gates forced open be the floods and we went inside to see desks and chairs bobbing merrily in the muddy water.

Once, on our way back from Tollygunge, the skies opened and faster than we could drive the road in front of us flooded. My friend Shashi was  driving, the usual mob in the back: Harish, Darius, Annabel, Pomi and me. The car stalled - the boys offered 'helpful advice', Annabel and Pomi and me got out and started to push through the ever deepening puddles. Finally the boys got the message and we pushed and pushed and pushed, past the lakes across Chowringhee and then the engine sputtered into life and like the film 'Little Miss Sunshine' we ran to catch up and jump in.
I don't know why it is such a joyous memory, something about the sheer desparation, the mother of all rows between Shashi and Harish (she was always fiery), the being soaking wet or just the laughter as we kept on pushing and the laughter we caused from rickshaw wallahs and street vendors that made it a moment of pure joy.

In a city built on marsh land the water tries hard to reclaim its old ways and the river,  Hooghly, the artery of the city swells alarmingly. Once or twice a year there is a bore tide, where the tide rushes form both ends of the river to meet in clash of waves up to seven feet high. It is possible even when standing on a rooftop safely some distance from the water to feel a real fear that the river continue to rise and the wave will take us all.

And then of course, the Monsoon races, I received an announcement yesterday that they were due to start. These were not the cold weather fashion parades, but still the RCTC provided a good card that allowed for a few horses to pull off some major coups. There was a particularly nasty stallion called Aya Toofan (here comes the storm) who hated the statring gates and hated his jockey - had been known to turn and bite his foot during a race. He was at the end of his racing days and was seen as Darius put it; a donkey.

The time for the race neared and the skies above grew blacker and blacker; we could hardly see the 1400 metre start. I stood up in the box and said, " the storm's coming and he'll win", they all laughed and I went and put my last twenty rupees on Aya Toofan. When I got back to seat the race had begun and the lightening forked the sky and the thunder made the buildings shake. Further down the course for us by the home bend there was a cry of ,"Aya Toofan," and he was indeed coming yards ahead of the rest of the field and the rain and the storm and the shouts of the crowd spurred him on to win. For this was not a favourite but never has synchronicity seemed so perfect and all there that day understood and cheered for a bad tempered but great hearted horse.

Yes, I will tell you - 100/1!  Never listen to those who say don't back  it, it's a donkey, or those who say sentiment has no place in racing. They are both wrong.

When we moan at our wet summers and the grey rain we forget the elemental joy of the monsoon and its life enhancing properties, let us cherish our rain a little more and find the joy of splashing about in puddles again.

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