I loved living in London, it is a wonderful city—one of the best in the world—and its shopping is incomparable. Every year, millions of tourists from around the world flock to Britain: the theatres are always running to full houses and Covent Garden is a favourite destination for visiting Americans who like the ballet and opera. Many private gardens are thrown open to the public in the summer. Buckingham Palace is a very popular destination for tourists during the month of August when the Queen and her family are away from London for their summer break. London is a cosmopolitan city, people from countries around the world have made it their home, and it is nice to see different cultures and mix with people from different backgrounds. London is indeed a great big melting pot. The Notting Hill carnival is world famous, and brings together different ethnic West Indian bands and the locals participate in parades; it is all part of the rich tapestry of this amazing country. London was my home for almost three decades and I must honestly say that I found the city to be warm and welcoming and I never even once felt out of place, stories of racism abound in one form or the other but I personally never came across any form of prejudice or unpleasantness.
The most desirable nursery school in North West London at the time was the Stepping Stones School in Fitzjohn’s Avenue in St John’s Wood, run by the Horlocks. Parents were known to put down the names of their children soon after conception. Needless to say, we put down the name of our offspring soon after it was confirmed that I was expecting. All that then remained was to put down the sex and name of the child as soon as he or she was born. Sajjan was accepted at Stepping Stones, much to our delight. There could not possibly be a bigger contrast between Mr and Mrs. Horlock—she was an absolute tartar and ruled the school with an iron hand, and not only the children but even the parents all had to fall into line or else face her extreme ire; her husband on the other hand was extremely mild and one hardly if ever, saw him.
When my son was three years old, he began school. Although he had seen his sister go to school every day, when it was time for him, he was not very happy. I remember taking him to school and handing him over to his teacher and as I was leaving I could see his lip trembling but he was brave and held back his tears, unlike his sister who used to bawl her head off at Welgarth School. Sajjan was not much into discussing his feelings or anxieties—if something was worrying him it would normally manifest itself as a stomach pain; I then had to slowly question and probe him till finally the cause of his worry would be revealed.
We normally travelled to India in early December once the school was closed for Christmas. We were about to leave in a few days, when one day his school teacher called me to say that Sajjan was complaining of a stomach ache, I went to school and as usual had to gently coax him to tell me what he was anxious about, and it turned out that he firmly believed that we would all leave him behind and go away to India!
In 1984, the Indian cricket team were playing England and my maternal uncle Maharaja Raj Singh of Dungarpur was appointed the manager of the cricket team. Knowing well how much the British loved cricket, I told Sajjan, who was about four years old at the time, to tell his teacher and class-mates that his great uncle was the manager of the Indian cricket team. He solemnly agreed to do so the next day. On his return from school, I questioned him and asked whether he had told them what I had said. ‘Of course,’ he said to me, ‘I told them that my great uncle is a Pakistani bank manager!’ It amused my uncle enormously. India won that year and I recall Raj Singh uncle bringing a large bottle of champagne to our house in Hampstead where he opened up the bottle and offered it to one and all, much to the displeasure of my mother who refused to toast the Indian win with champagne. However, we were only too happy to join him in the celebration.
My father had a great sense of humour but also had a very deadpan delivery that made us laugh. In Deborah Devonshire’s book she describes her father thus, ‘He had a turn of phrase he made his own delivered with a deadpan face and perfect timing.’ This pretty much describes my father as well: he was not just an indulgent father but an even more indulgent grandfather; he took to grand fatherhood like a duck to water and would bring sacks full of presents for the children every time he came to London for the summer. I recall that Anupama went through a phase when she was collecting erasers of all shapes and sizes and my father somehow managed to bring a new collection with him every year which she used to store in large plastic containers.
In 1982, my sister Madhulika and brother-in-law Rajvirsinh decided to go on a holiday to the United States with us. None of us had been there before and it was an adventure that we were greatly looking forward to. Leaving our parents to look after the children in our absence, we booked ourselves an American Express West Coast Wonderland tour, which began in Los Angeles. It was a long and tiring flight and then we had to get used to the West Coast time zone. We were joining our group in LA and thereafter would be travelling by coach across three states of Nevada, Arizona and, of course, California. Our guide was a typical fast talking American called Paul who then introduced us to our driver Guy for the trip—we promptly nicknamed him Guy the Gorilla after the famous gorilla in the London zoo, but not because he looked like one!
Travelling across the West Coast of America was an eye opener: it is just as diverse in its scenery, customs and wildlife as India is, as no two cities are the same. The highlight of our few days in Los Angeles was to visit Disneyland—a long held wish of mine, ever since my parents many years ago had brought back some magical film footage of the magic kingdom. While we were travelling from one city to the other, Paul would give us a pep-talk besides pointing out areas of interest- one of the first in the series, was about money. He announced that if we thought that guides and drivers with American Express were well paid then we were absolutely crazy. ‘The only way we survive,’ he lectured us, ‘Was through tips that people like you give us.’ He then demanded that each of us give him two dollars per person every day and one dollar per day to Guy. We thought about this and since we were on a tight budget, remarked that we were from a developing county and did not have the funds to match his expectations, and to our surprise he agreed and said that we could give them whatever we could manage.
While we were in San Diego we were taken to see the famous Sea World where the killer whale Shamu performed during shows. We enjoyed it greatly, especially when Shamu jumped into the water from a considerable height and we all got splashed. However, it is only now that I am more involved with animal welfare organisations and follow many animal charities on Facebook and Twitter that I realise how incredibly cruel it is to keep these huge predatory mammals in small tanks. Orcas are social animals that live in large pods and communicate most effectively with each other and traverse the huge oceans: for them to be confined in a small holding pool is very sad. They are also made to perform for the daily shows and it is very demeaning to see these dignified animals such as the orcas, seals and sea lions performing for our entertainment.
The most surreal city that we visited was without doubt Las Vegas; it is a town that thrives on just one industry and that is gambling. The punters at the slot machines bring large tubs of coins with them and settle down for the evening, and even wear a special glove to protect their hands from pumping the handle for the slot machine. We were staying at the Flamingo Hilton Hotel and the ground floor like all hotels in Vegas was full of enthusiastic gamblers. We too decided to try our chance and if I recall correctly, we managed to win the princely sum of 8 dollars. I think my sister and brother-in-law did much better than us. In the evening, we booked tickets for one of their famous shows to see Glen Campbell perform while my sister and brother-in-law, more plush with their winnings, went off to see Diana Ross. We were fortunate in having people from all over the world with us. There was some initial antipathy from the South Africans due to India’s strict anti-apartheid policy but it soon resolved itself and we were all good friends by the end of the trip.
Even in remote Bikaner, we serendipitously get some
interesting visitors, totally by chance which is the best possible way to meet new people and learn a little of their lives. Several years ago, an American couple and their little daughter and her nanny visited Bikaner and stayed with us at the Lallgarh Palace Hotel. I was sent a message by them that they would like to meet me. I invited them for coffee and it was quite clear from the outset that they were very interested in India and had managed to visit the most obscure cities and towns in the country which is rare for an American who in most part are very fond in of their creature comforts. They introduced themselves as Williard Huyck and his wife Gloria Katz, who were scriptwriters for Hollywood movies and television shows. Quite naturally, I was intrigued and asked them which movies they had scripted recently and they told me it was the second Indiana Jones movie, ‘Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom’, and although I am a diehard Harrison Ford and Indian Jones fan, this particular movie was the one I liked the least—perhaps, fleetingly it showed on my face and they stiffened; Willard said ‘it’s only a movie’, which of course was true.
I told them of the time that my father and I had gone to see the movie at our local Hampstead theatre. The film was meant to be set in India but since there were some fairly derogatory references to the country permission to shoot in India was denied to them and the film was subsequently shot I believe on location in Sri Lanka. The film, for those who have not seen it, deals with a murderous character played by Amrish Puri, who is in the employment of an Indian Maharaja, and in a banquet scene the guests are shown to be eating monkey brains which was extremely grisly and could never have happened in a country like India where the monkeys, however capricious and troublesome, are regarded as the incarnation of the monkey God Hanuman. During the interval, my father went out to buy a drink and told the female attendant serving him about how shocked he was at the movie and especially of the banquet scene. ‘In India we are mostly vegetarian,’ he told her, ‘we certainly do not eat monkey brains!’ I am sure that his comments went over the head of the poor salesgirl but I found it very funny. I am not sure if my American guests thought the same!
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My father and I at the Bikaner Thunderbolt Shooting Range in Bikaner.
7
‘Sometimes I wonder if men and women really suit each other. Perhaps they should live next door and visit now and then.’
-Katherine Hepburn
M
y father’s allergy to dust only developed after he retired from his active life as a member of the Lok Sabha. It is said that active people do not take to retirement very easily, and are at a complete loss as to how to utilise their free time suddenly made available to them. I am convinced that because all of a sudden he had so much more time on his hands and he internalised the mixed feelings regarding the change it brought about that this real or imagined allergy to paper manifested gradually. Toward the end, it became so bad that he would not allow a single file to be brought close to him unless it was thoroughly dusted and cleaned first. On the work front, it was an absolute nightmare for his office staff, so much so that all the books that my father read had to first be dipped in a bucket of water and then left to dry naturally in the sun! It was all quite extraordinary, most of all for his staff who had to ‘launder’ his books.
Food was pretty much an ongoing battle with him as were his weight issues. My father had always been overweight and he fought a lifelong battle to shed those last, persistent pounds. The paradox here is that when he sat down to eat his meals they were extremely spartan- tea and toast for breakfast, a simple ‘daal’ and ‘roti’ with some yoghurt for lunch and some eggs for dinner. It was the snacking in between meals that was the major problem. My father could not resist cheese, crackers, crisps, and chocolates of every description and, of course, ice cream. He was addicted to Coca Cola and even though the diet version was becoming popular he insisted on drinking the original coke with perhaps a dash of the diet version added to it which was no help at all.
Quite naturally, his weight refused to budge. ‘I am on a strict diet,’ he would tell us seriously, and the very next moment I would find him in the kitchen eating a cube of sugar. ‘Dad,’ I would say ‘I thought you were on a diet,’ and he would confirm the same, ‘Yes I am, but I was feeling a bit weak!’ However, in the end, it was this terrible habit of eating cholesterol laden snacks that must have caused his arteries to block up and eventually lead to the fatal brain haemorrhage that was to sadly end his life in September 1988.
Our family doctor in London, Dr. Kashi, told us quite categorically that my father never listened to the advice the doctors gave him, he preferred to do things his way and not take what he was prescribed or take the full course of medication as asked, ‘he thinks that he knows better than us’ said Dr. Kashi ruefully. My father’s bag of medicines and a weighty folder of medical reports and X-rays was his security blanket: in fact, they travelled with him everywhere, even to London. Quite naturally, he ended up paying huge sums in excess baggage. However, when the time came they were of no use whatsoever. My father loved doctors and not only did he know many of them professionally but also socially: some would also come and play tennis in Bikaner with him, or visit the range and watch him shoot. In most cases, family members with health issues have to be forced to seek medical help but not in the case of my father. It was he who proactively sought medical help and visited his doctors diligently and persuaded them to subject him to all manner of diagnostic tests, regardless whether they were really required or not.
My son, Sajjansinh who was born in 1980 had known only one Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, the redoubtable and incomparable Margaret Thatcher or ‘Mother Margaret’ as she was reverentially known to all in the Conservative Party and members of her Finchley constituency. She was a legend in her lifetime. Even from a very young age my son was very interested in politics and had a good grasp of what was happening in the political world, which was hardly surprising since both his grandfathers were very politically driven.
Sajjan was a great admirer of Mrs Thatcher, until one day we took him to see a film called ‘Cry Freedom’ in which Denzel Washington played the role of Steve Biko the South African activist and freedom fighter. The film was based on the real life story of a journalist Donald Woods (played by Kevin Kline) who was attempting to investigate the death in custody of his friend Steve Biko. It was extremely brutal in parts where Biko was in prison and was badly beaten and tortured by his guards. India, like many other countries was implacably opposed to the South African policy of apartheid- so much so that we were not allowed to participate in any shooting competitions or other sporting events where South Africa participated and this went on for several years, much to our despair. Margaret Thatcher in the United Kingdom was one of the few world leaders who refused to go along with the sanctions against South Africa. I never really understood her stand and though it was not expressed in quite such explicit terms, it was obvious that in her mind she felt that she must side with the white community in South Africa, regardless of their attitude to the black citizens of the country and their very poor record of respecting human rights.
After seeing the film and as we left the cinema, Sajjan was very quiet for some time he was a thoughtful little boy and then very solemnly announced, ‘I don’t think I like Margaret Thatcher, Mummy.’ I asked him why that was so and he said it was because she was siding with a brutal white regime in South Africa which was quite happy to torture black citizens who opposed their policies, as in the case of Steve Biko. It was a rather perceptive and perspicacious observation on his part, though he was only seven years old at the time: it also showed that he was a sensitive child with a kind heart.
When my children were youngsters there was only a hazy link to sugar being bad for the teeth and a contributory factor in childhood obesity. Our kitchen in Hampstead was full to the rafters with jars of biscuits and chocolates and the fridge and freezer brimming with cheese and ice cream, and it seemed that it was not only my father who loved sweet treats.
My son loved the drink Ribena which was a cordial made with black currants. The cordial was mixed with water and he could drink several bottles of it in a week: it could not have been very good for him or his teeth as it contained large amounts of sugar, as most cordials of this kind do. Anyway, he steadfastly refused to drink anything else, so we had little choice.
I recall when we visited India for the winter holidays we would have to take a couple of large bottles of Ribena which would, with great difficulty, last him through the holidays. Around 1990 when he was about ten years old, my friends Rita Kumari and her husband Ajai Singh who were posted in Riyadh at the Indian Embassy, invited us to come and spend some time with them. Sajjan and I decided to pay them a visit for a few days; Anupama was busy with her exams at the time and opted to remain in London and carry on with her revision work. Ajai Singh assured us that he would get all the documentation completed as far as the Saudi Arabian Embassy was concerned and which apparently was no easy task. MJ went off with our passports to get our visas stamped: when he got there he found that there were two queues in the visa office, one was for business travellers to the Saudi Kingdom and the other was for religious visits such as the Haj and Umrah (the shorter version of Haj), but no category for tourists existed. MJ handed in the passports and gave the reference number given by Ajay Singh to the man behind the counter; he in turn took the passports and threw them on to a large pile of passports lying in a heap on the ground. When he came back home MJ said to me ‘I doubt if you will ever see your passports again,’ but luckily we did and in a few days we got our visas as requested.
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