by Gordon Gray
“Oh yes, Mr Gary, your office called, can you ring them urgently.”
The ‘urgently’ part of the message set alarm bells ringing in my head. When overseas on business and I get a message to ring home or the office ‘urgently’, I automatically assume the worst. I would normally brief secretaries never to use the word unless there was a real family problem. As Doreen was standing beside me smiling, then I knew it was nothing concerning her. I rang the boss. His secretary Pat answered.
“Hi Pat!” I tried to sound relaxed. “What’s up that you need me urgently?”
“Oh, I am sorry, Gordon. I know you are on leave, but as we knew where you are staying Terry said to call you.”
“Why, what’s going on?”
“Well, we had a fax this morning from the Abu Dhabi Navy asking us to go out and give them a presentation on command systems. Terry thought that as you were just up the road in Dubai, you could drive down and do it tomorrow.”
“He what? Pat, firstly we are due to leave here for the UK tomorrow. Secondly, we will need to send the navy the personal details of our team for security clearances to be prepared and that won’t be done by tomorrow. Thirdly, do they say in the fax that the presentation must be done tomorrow or at some time and date to be agreed?”
“The fax does not say” replied Pat.
“As I thought, Pat, nothing moves that fast out here. Anyway, you may also be surprised to know that as I am here on holiday, I do not have any work stuff with me – let alone my laptop or a C2 presentation. So what would Terry like me to do, buy a blackboard and chalk and start from scratch? Oh yes and, finally, would Terry like me to wear my Mickey Mouse T-Shirt and red shorts or my Calvin and Hobbes one with my blue swimming trunks, as my suit is at home?”
I could hear her laughing at the other end. “I told him that you would not have any stuff with you but he said to call you.”
“I know. Don’t worry, the boy just does not stop to think sometimes, does he, Pat?”
We left it at that amid general laughter from Pat and Doreen and dealt with the request properly when I got home.
Desert mountains of Oman
Dhows on Dubai Creek
Oman coast
Muscat bay near the royal palace
CHAPTER 11
India
What is India like?
“What is India like?” is usually the first question that people ask if they have not been there. The answer is that India cannot be described in a few words or sentences. India is like nowhere else on Earth. You cannot describe it properly, or convey what it is really like to those who have not been there. It is too big, too populous and too busy to describe. The size of India always surprises people. It is vast. It is the size of Western Europe. From the frozen wastes of the glaciers high in the Himalayas to the scorching deserts of Rajastan; from the glorious tropical beaches of Kerala to the high tea plantations in the Ghats and the plateau of the Deccan; it covers every type of topography and climate. The climate ranges from savage northern winters in the mountains to the pleasant year-round summer of the Deccan, to the summer heat of the desert; all governed by the unpredictable monsoons. Over one billion people live in India and to try and understand its history, which goes back for thousands of years, or its many religions, are lifetime studies on their own. India is commonly known as the biggest democracy on earth, but the day to day national and state politics are very confusing to an outsider. The different political parties and the personalities involved seem endless.
India is not a place that you just ‘go to’ for a holiday – as you might, say go to the Canaries or Barbados. India is full-on ‘in your face’ from the moment the plane touches down. It is impossible to go there without being totally immersed in it. India is all that the books about culture shock say it is and you are hit with culture shock on a daily, if not hourly, basis. It hits you every morning when you are there and every time you go back on a visit. From the fabulous Mogul palaces to beggars with deformed or mutilated babies tapping at the car window at the traffic lights; from superb five-star hotels to acres of shanty towns sprawling across hillsides and spilling across roads, docksides and international airports; India constantly hits notes in your soul right across the scales. Some of the world’s poorest people live here and yet India has its own space programme and a nuclear capability. It has recently chartered a nuclear submarine from Russia. The distance from abject poverty to five-star international luxury is just a matter of feet. It is a film star, Hollywood lifestyle for the rich, but nothing for the masses. In India, life is cheap and the veneer of civilisation is very thin.
I recall reading a newspaper in Bangalore that had two front page stories printed side by side. One was stating that a Singaporean company was investing tens of millions of dollars in a new technology and software centre in the town. The other article was praising the town council for its decision to build some men’s urinal toilets on the city streets to stop people going when and where they felt the urge. Culture shock is a daily occurrence that in time exhausts the traveller and requires him to retreat to the beaches or the hills to recover. It is, however, the people who make India a good place to be. The educated can do very well and the numbers of university graduates each year is staggering. Call centres recruit them by the thousand. For many graduates, a job in a call centre is often their first step in the professional world. In the small towns and countryside, in spite of the dust and dirt, motor fumes and the endless masses of people, the shopkeepers and stall holders in the towns and villages are always happy to explain what they are selling – whether it is colourful fruits; awful, fly-encrusted meats; or barrels of fabulous coloured spices and cooking herbs.
While many aspects of daily life can drive you mad, India with an easy relaxed attitude is great fun. But expect India to move at a western pace and it is the most frustrating place on Earth. My answer to the original question is always the same: “If you are interested in India, then you must go. If you are not at all interested, then do not even think of going there.”
First Visit
At the time of my first visit, I was not at all interested in India and had only heard the usual chatter about the heat and bouts of Delhi Belly. I was working for Plessey on naval minehunting systems and the Indian Navy had contacted us asking for a presentation as they had started a new minehunter project.
The boss, Bill Hawley, decided that he would lead a small team of three; Bill, Phil Bennett, a specialist sonar engineer, and myself. Bill flew out a few days before us for a couple of local meetings and Phil and I flew out together. Our flight landed at Delhi and we found ourselves in an old building that resembled a corrugated iron barn, but which later became the main domestic terminal. Within minutes, we were confronted with Indian logic. As the carousel for baggage was too small for all the baggage from our jumbo jet, the handlers put the luggage onto two different carousels at the same time and piled the rest of the baggage in a big heap in the corner. People were dodging about from one to another to find their bags. Phil and I eventually found ours, cleared customs and then, as Bill had instructed, we found the ‘pre-paid’ taxi office.
A driver was allocated and he took our luggage trolley and we fought our way past the vast mass of humanity that surrounded the arrival area. Experience taught me that every airport in India is like this, whatever the hour. Half of the people were waving pieces of paper with names on and the other half yelling: “I take bags sir, no problem.” “Here you use my taxi, mister!” Our official taxi driver headed off in a determined manner through the throng, pushing and shoving as he went. We followed as best we could. He clipped the ears of the child touts clustered round the terminal doors, who, we had been told, would make off with our bag if we left it for a moment.
As we left the shelter of the terminal the heat hit us and as we got out into the open, we were enveloped in dust clouds that billowed around the terminal and car parks. Our initial thoughts were drowned in a whirl of noise of car horns and yelli
ng people. We got to the car, still with small children tugging at our jackets and begging for money. The car, like most of those in the car park, was an Indian version of the old Morris Oxford. Built in India by Hindustan Engineering and now called the Ambassador. They were ubiquitous then and virtually the only cars on the roads. We climbed in and set off still with children banging their hands on the car and with their grubby faces pressed up to the car windows yelling for money. The driver was telling us: “Do not give, sirs, do not give!” as we drove off and out of the airport.
The ancient, but immaculate, white Ambassador ground and growled its way slowly up the ramp of the hotel, its engine protesting at this slight incline. We stopped in the large, ornate, red sandstone portico of the Ashoka Hotel. The doorman opened the car door. He was a tall man, splendidly dressed in a red and gold ceremonial uniform. On his head he wore a huge turban topped by a golden plume. We stepped out into another world. The noise had gone, the heat had eased and the dust was replaced by the still cool air in the portico. The Ashoka is a massive hotel, owned and run by the Indian Government. The hotel was favoured by Bill as it was off the main business traveller’s route, more traditionally Indian and it was handy for the British High Commission. As we entered its high ceilinged, cool lobby with long corridors leading off it, we were enveloped into its peace and calmness. Phil and I went into a recovery mode as we had both had our first, and by no means last, dose of culture shock Indian style.
“Glad you are here,” said Bill, who was standing by the reception desk in a suit and tie watching us arrive. “I will brief you and we can rehearse your presentations tomorrow morning in my room at 0900. I am in room 207. Until then, relax, but whatever else you do, either in the hotel or anywhere else in India, do not even think of drinking the water at any time. See you later in the bar, about six?” And with that, he disappeared off for his meeting at the High Commission.
The following day, with our briefings and rehearsals with Bill over, he suggested that as the next day was Sunday and neither of us had been to India before, we should go to Agra to see the Taj Mahal. So we did. Bill stayed in Delhi as he had been to the Taj before and said he had other things to do, but Phil and I became tourists and booked a bus trip through the hotel front desk.
The tour left early and got back late. The bus seats had broken springs, some of the seat backs were broken and just flopped back into the person behind, and the air conditioning was less than good – but who cares? This is India and we were off to see the Taj Mahal. The Taj was everything that we had ever read about it. It was awesome, spectacular and magnificent. How anyone could have conceived such a marvel of architecture and then supervised its design and building is amazing. 20,000 men spent around twenty years from 1632 building it and today it is still a jaw-dropping true wonder of the world. The Red Fort at Agra was also impressive in its own way as it contained the marbled remains of the palace that became Shah Jahan’s prison after his sons confined him there later in his life; and from where he could sit and look down the river to the shimmering beauty of the Taj and the tomb of his wife, Mumtaz.
Even though Phil and I were feeling exhausted after our flight out and the long day trip down to Agra, we were there, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, to meet Bill on the Monday morning for the meeting with the Indian Navy. The meeting was to be held in Indian Naval headquarters. This is situated in the magnificent sandstone Secretariat Buildings, designed by Herbert Baker in 1911 as a key part of Edwin Lutyens’ layout of New Delhi. The Secretariat is now referred to by all as North and South Blocks, as each set of buildings is a mirror image of the other across the Raj Path. The buildings also house many of the major ministries and offices of state, including the prime minister’s office. Further to the west, at the end of the Raj Path, lies the even more impressive Edwin Lutyens-designed Rashtrapati Bhawan or Viceroy’s House, now the official home of the President of India.
As we arrived, monkeys dropped from the many overhanging trees and scampered about the grounds. “Do not make eye contact with them,” warned Bill as he marched off ahead of us. It sounded as though he had met them before. Our presentations seemed to go well. They were conducted in a high ceilinged office, across a coffee table with three minehunting specialist officers and in a formal, but friendly, manner. This meeting, in 1985, was to be the first of a number of visits on this subject over the coming years. I visited Delhi in 1990 to discuss the same subject and today India is still talking about building minehunters. Things do move slowly there. In fact, this long period of time is fairly common for minehunter systems projects. It is something that all navies recognise that they should have, but as they are, pound for ton, the most expensive ships you can buy, then it is always something that ends up taking second priority to new sexy frigates or submarines.
Lunch Date
A few months later, the Indian Navy invited us back for further discussions on the command systems and I was sent out; this time on my own. At that time agents for defence business were legally required, although they were declared illegal some years later after various bribery scandals. Our agent, Eric, a retired naval commodore, was asked by Bill to book me into the Ashoka again. I had enjoyed the hotel and its restaurants where I had had my first tastes of truly Indian food. About a week before I was due to fly out, I received a telex from a sales manager at the Maurya Sheraton in Delhi. It said that they had heard I was coming to Delhi and would I like to stay at their hotel. They would arrange a car to collect me at the airport and offered me a free upgrade to an executive room. The rates offered were very similar to the Ashoka. This was a new one for me, being invited to stay at a bigger, better hotel, so I said yes. I duly arrived and checked in. The Maurya was a much more modern hotel and much busier than the Ashoka, It was geared for international businessmen as well as foreign tourists. It had a beautiful swimming pool and gardens, and the rooms were also far more plush and comfortable than the more basic ones in the Ashoka.
On the first morning, Eric met me in the lobby and we went to our meeting. As we left Naval HQ, he said, “We need to get back to the hotel as I want you to meet someone for lunch.” We walked into the lobby which was bustling with people. Suddenly, Eric was chatting to a tall elegant Indian lady with a dazzling smile and long flowing black hair that glistened in the light. She was wearing a long, bright peacock-green sari and looked magnificent. Eric then introduced me to her. Her name was Shashi and she was the sales manager for the hotel. This was the person who had sent me the telex. I had not realised from the telex that Shashi was a girl. She was a confident and well spoken lady, probably in her mid twenties. It transpired that she knew Eric through family connections and he had said that I was coming to Delhi and had been asked to book me into the Ashoka. Shashi had asked Eric for my telex number and sent me the invitation. And now, here she was inviting us to have lunch with her in the hotel’s executive club dining room.
She took us up to a small, quiet dining room on one of the upper floors. The club was well furnished with mahogany tables and chairs, decorated in a pale pastel blues, and the sun shone warmly through the net curtains. It had a quiet and civilised atmosphere. From the balcony outside, we had views across the trees to the government buildings of New Delhi. I often stayed at the Maurya after that and kept in touch with Shashi. She did well over the years. The last time I was there I asked after her and was told that she was the senior salesperson for the Sheraton Group in India.
Culture Shock over the hotel wall
The contrast between the civilised peace and tranquillity of the big hotels and the poverty, noise and dirt out on the streets could not be greater. The Maurya Sheraton has grown to be one of the top hotels in Delhi and is regularly used by visiting VIPs and heads of state. On one trip, I found that Hilary Clinton was staying there too with her daughter Chelsea. The extra added security meant that all cars entering the hotel were stopped and checked. The check was always exactly the same. The guard at the gate had a small mirror on a long pole with a pair
of tiny wheels attached to the mirror. He stopped the car, shoved the wheeled mirror under the front of the car, then waved the car through. End of search.
On one trip, I was staying in a corner room on the second floor in one of the executive rooms. After I returned from a meeting, I looked down from my window. The boundary wall ran alongside the hotel at that point and there was a building site on the other side of the wall. I could see a piece of tattered, black tarpaulin attached to the top of the wall by some string and stretched out with a bamboo pole towards an open wood fire. On the fire was a blackened wok and beside the fire, a young-looking woman in a dark green sari was fussing over her two small children as the smoke billowed around them. I drew the curtains and turned on CNN. Every morning as I got up, ordered coffee from room service, switched on the TV and went into my en suite marble bathroom for a shower, she was out there: washing her children from a bucket or cooking their food on the fire. Every night as I got changed to go down to the cocktail bar for a gin and tonic, she was there, feeding rice or chapattis to the children or playing with them in the dust and dirt of the building site. At night as I climbed into the king-size bed with a chocolate on the pillow, she was down there, outside the window, sweeping the area round her tarpaulin with a bunch of twigs as her fire dwindled to a dim glow. I, or rather, my employer, paid more per night for me to stay in that room than that woman would ever see in her lifetime. Yet she, and most of the others like her, and there are literally tens of millions like her in India, seemed to accept the situation and got on with the basic priorities of life – feeding and bringing up her children.