“What prostitution?” he retorted warmly. “We have no prostitution in Thailand. It is illegal.”
A remark worthy of a Morarji Desai walking down Foras Road.
Turkish Delights
Which is the most beautiful city in the world? Before we answer the question we must agree on the essential constituents which make a city beautiful the same way as we do with hotels before we give them five-star status. A beautiful city must have three essentials: nature’s bounty, antiquity and a citizenry that has an identifiably unique character of its own. We have lots of cities in beautiful settings: to name a few, there are Rio de Janeiro, San Francisco and Hong Kong, where mountains and seas mate in blissful harmony. However, none of them have ancient buildings nor do their people have distinct and likeable identities. We have other cities which have great antiquity: Cairo, Athens, Rome, Paris, London, Delhi; their people also have distinguishing characteristics which make them Cairenes, Athenians, Romans, Parisians and Delhiwalas. But none of these cities are graced with hills and vast stretches of water. The one city which has everything that a city should have is Istanbul: seas, hills, ancient monuments and a highly civilized and sophisticated citizenry. If you have not seen Istanbul, you have seen nothing of the world. Green mountainsides covered with cedars, chestnuts, chinars, cypress, pine and fir dip into aquamarine waters off the Mediterranean, Marmara and the Black Sea. It has mosques, mausolea and palaces the like of which exist nowhere else! Saint Sophia, Dolma Bahce Palace which is bigger than Versailles, Fontainebleau or Buckingham Palace and infinitely more ornate (four tonnes of solid gold were lavished on its floral decor and every room is lit with cut-glass chandeliers, one of which weighs one and a half tonnes). Istanbul has ancient forts and over a thousand mosques whose shapely domes and pencilled minarets rise above huddles of apartment houses and bazaars. It also has some of the loveliest women of the world. Turkish poet, Eyuboglu, lists the things Istanbul reminds him of in a memorable verse:
Say Istanbul and mottled grapes come to mind.
With three candles burning bright on the basket.
Suddenly along comes a girl so ruthlessly female
So lovely to look at that you gasp,
Her lips ripe with grape honey,
A girl luscious and lustful from top to toe—
Southern wind and willow branch and the dance of joy—
As the song goes, “Like a ship at sea”
My heart is tossed and wrecked again.
It is the holy month of Ramadan. In all Muslim countries stretching from the Atlantic to the Pacific across the three continents of Africa, Europe and Asia, most adult Muslims fast from sunrise to sunset; in many, religious injunction is reinforced by state ordinances requiring closure of eating houses during these hours and social censure often takes the form of beating up those caught eating, drinking or smoking. The only exception is Turkey. Although ninety-nine per cent of its population is Muslim, the rigours of fasting and abstinence enjoined by Islam are suffered only by the poorer peasantry and the old. And that largely in the eastern regions adjoining Arab Syria and Iraq. In cities like Istanbul, Ankara and Izmir, roadside cafes are crammed with people sipping beer, gin-n-tonic or raki. In the parks young couples stroll along arm in arm licking ice-cream cones. When I express surprise and tell my Turkish escort that in most Arab countries (except Eygpt), Iran and Pakistan this would be punished by flogging; and that even in India’s Muslim localities such flagrant violation of the holy law might invite a slap or two across the face, he replies: “This is not Saudi Arabia, Iran, Pakistan or India; this is Turkey. We are a secular State.”
By 6 p.m. when the sun had lost its sting, we set out to inspect Izmir’s oriental bazar, Kemalihan. It is like anything you see in Delhi, Bombay or Calcutta and with just about anything you wish to buy. Milling crowds, hawkers’ cries and hooting cars edging along at a snail pace. After jostling through narrow lanes I found a shaded courtyard used as a chaikhana. It was an all-male establishment where men played cards or mahjong while taking Turkish coffee. By the time we came out, the bazaars were deserted and all shops had their shutters down. Although not many city Turks fast during Ramadan, they keep up the tradition of breaking “fast” (iftari) with their family and friends. I was told that a cannon would be fired at sunset to announce the end of the ordeal. I sat on the balcony of my hotel watching an orange sun go down in the bay of Izmir. My ears awaited the boom of the cannon and the call of the muezzin. Alas! no cannon, no sonorous cry proclaiming the glory of Allah.
Back in my room my Turkish friends joined me for a drink. Over the television we heard iftar service from a mosque. My escort rang up room-service for snacks. His order included smoked ham, sausages and salami. While they were sipping Scotch and guzzling meat which is forbidden (haram) I quietly switch off the telly.
Religious ritual, as Allama Iqbal had versified in his Jawab-i-Shikwa (Allah’s reply to the Muslims’ complaint) is only for the poor (and the less literate):
If any there be to crowd the mosques at prayer, it is the poor.
If any observe Ramadan’s fast and suffer pangs of hunger it is the poor.
If any at all there be who still take Our Name, it is the poor.
If any there are today who cover up your shame, it is the poor.
The rich know Us not; they’re drunk with the wine of wealth;
The enlightened community survives because of the poor man’s breath.”
Aziz and I are taking the Turkish air down the Kamal Ataturk Boulevard. Linden, chinar and blue sky above our heads; in front bevies of pretty girls hurrying homewards from their offices. I avoid ogling at them but Aziz provokes me. “Pretty, aren’t they?” “Very! But I am a Sikh and when I was baptized at the age of sixteen I had to take a solemn vow never to have anything to do with Turkish women.” I quote the original in Punjabi, “Turkani nalyuddh nahin karna.” A very moral injunction, I explain. “My ancestors were fighting the Mughals. The order was to fight their men but never molest their women.”
That was 263 years ago. The Great Guru had never visited Turkey nor promised relief after the Sikh-Muslim wars were over and one of his followers would find himself in Turkey. But behold who comes here? A doe-eyed, cypress-bodied young lass in salwar-kameez almost an inch taller than her male escort. ”Wow!” exclaims Aziz. “What a beauty!” Again forbidden fruit. “Pakistani,” I remark, “as Turkani as the Turk.” The couple pass by giving me a mild look of recognition as if asking: “What would an infidel Sardarji be doing in the land of the Faithful?”
Next evening at the residence of our Ambassador, Parimal Ghosh, I see the same couple in his garden. This time she is in slacks. We are introduced. They are Indians: Mr and Mrs Manmohan Luther. He is with some kind of UN agency—one of the three non-embassy Indians in Turkey. She is not forbidden; only beyond reach.
“Tell me some Turkish jokes,” I asked my friends in Istanbul. They came out with many; all except one were Turkish variations of stories I had heard before. This one was about one of their ex-presidents, Ceveder Sunay, who was apparently a lovable scatterbrain. Once when called upon to make an important speech he was anxious to create the impression that he was not speaking from notes. He had a summary of the speech tucked into the back of his necktie which he kept lifting up casually as if it were a mannerism. He ended his great oration to the nation with the words on the label: “Pure silk. Made in France.”
Apparently there is a community called Laz inhabiting a region along the Black Sea near Trebizond which has become the favourite butt of Turkish humour. Most of the jokes about the Laz centre round their inability to act rationally after 12 noon.
No comment.
Izmir is one of the oldest cities of Asia Minor. Relics of civilizations dating back to 3000 BC are found in abundance. Towering over the city are the ruins of an old castle from which you get a spectacular view of the rolling hills, the sea and the city. At the foot of the hill are the remains of an old market—Agora—with Greek and R
oman pillars strewn about. In an archaeological museum housed in the modern trade fair grounds (where India has a permanent pavilion) there is pottery (including oil lamps with erotic scenes) and sculptures of Greek gods, goddesses and warriors. In the foyer of the Buyuk Efes (Ephesus) Oteli (Hotel) stands a twelve-foot-high replica of Aphrodite with as many breasts around her belly as teeth in her mouth.
The road from Izmir to the ruins of Ephesus seventy-five kilometres away runs through picturesque countryside with castles looking down from green hilltops. Both sides of the highway are lined with stately cypress and poplar. The plains are covered with lush orchards of cherry, peach and fig trees, hill slopes covered with olives. The green of young cotton is interspersed with squares of gold of the sunflower. You pass through small towns with storks nesting on chimney roofs.
About forty kilometres from Izmir on the shoulder of a hill sits a fortress known as Goats Castle. It was so named because it was captured by a small band which overawed the defenders at night by driving up herds of goats with torches stuck on their horns to create an illusion of a vast army. A few kilometres beyond is Seljuk Castle guarding a large mosque and a museum which boasts of a rich collection of Greek and Roman sculpture and pottery.
The road winds up the Bulbul hills to a shady grove of chinar and cypress where according to legend Virgin Mary spent many years after the execution of Jesus. An old Capuchin priest with a flaming red beard and couple of nuns keep the candles of Christianity burning in the tiny chapel in this land of Islam.
Father Filiber speaks to me in shudh Hindi. He spent twelve years in Ajmer and Mount Abu. Since then he has lived in this sylvan grotto conducting tourists and pilgrims who come there.
Ephesus defies description. It simply has to be seen to be believed. Over 2,000 years ago it was one of the world’s most important cities inhabited by 2,40,000 people, rich, sophisticated and luxury-loving. All that remains of this once-flourishing seaport are wide cobbled streets lined by slender marble columns which marked the thoroughfares from the mansions of rich merchants. It had public baths, a huge library, theatres and a stadium large enough to hold all its adult population. A footprint on a slab of marble indicated the direction to the house of pleasure which has mosaic flooring depicting erotic scenes to whip up the jaded appetites of its ageing patrons. The presiding deity of this city was Aphrodite (also referred to as Artemis and Diana) with thirty-two breasts and hips broad enough to offer hospitality to a regiment of randy Ephesians. It was in this brothel that figurines of Priapus, the god of lust, were discovered. Two of them are to be seen in the Seljuk Museum. Priapus is a dwarf with a penis longer than his body in a state of perpetual erection (hence the word priapic). Priapus as he is now reproduced for key chains and lockets has him flaunting his organ by sticking out his middle; another exhibits its strength by supporting a basketful of fruit including a watermelon. Strange that a well-endowed giantess like Aphrodite should be mated with this puny dwarf!
Papua New Guinea
Clerks in the Central Telegraph Office in New Delhi never heard of Papua New Guinea. “Kitaab mein nahin hai”—it’s not in the book, they said. Friends had told me that letters addressed to Papua New Guinea often landed up in Guinea Bissau in Africa. However, I was able to establish communication and get a visa allowing me a week’s stay in this paradise on earth. The outward route gave me a seven-hour stayover at Singapore.
I remembered little about Singapore besides it looking like a seedy suburb of Bombay with lots of beggars, street walkers and pimps. I could not recognize it. The new airport is by far the swankiest I have seen with beautifully designed fountains and shopping arcades boasting of the best merchandise at the cheapest prices. A twenty-five-kilometre drive through broad avenues flanked with flowering trees led me into a 21st century city of towering skyscrapers of concrete and tinted glass—no litter, no beggars, no whores. They are banned. So are processions, including religious and political. “These people believe in working hard and enjoying the fruits of their labour in peace,” said Ghumman of the Indian High Commission. “No raula rappa”—noisy rowdyism. He knows what raula rappa has cost his state and his country. He comes from Gurdaspur.
I spent an hour with Shankaran Nair, our High Commissioner. He was entertaining visiting Indian professors from Australian, New Zealand and Malaysian universities. It is evident that Indians do better everywhere than in their own country The classic exception of prospering at home as well as abroad is M.S. Oberoi whose chain of thirty-one hotels now encircles the globe. The Oberoi Imperial at Singapore ranks among the poshest; its young and presentable manager B.B. Sood told me that their occupancy rate is the highest of any of Singapore’s five-starrers. I believe it from the number of take-away items available in every room: silk kimonos, French soaps, shampoos, shower caps, ballpoint pens, orchids. For many years I have never had to buy these things.
Papua New Guinea (hereafter PNG) is a pretty isolated paradise with very few flights from the outer world to its only international airport, Port Moresby. It does not receive many tourists nor do many PNGs go abroad. Australia is its window to the world. Although independent since 1975, Australian presence is still paramount. PNGs are aware that their identity remains a mystery. They are black, negroid and often confused with other black races. Poet Aruthur Jawodambari sums up the dilemma in a short poem entitled: “Where You From”:
Hi! Buddy you from Haiti or Harlem?
Now Sir, from Niugini,
Ah, from Afrika!
No, Niugini, north of Australia,
Oh, Northern Australia
An Australian Aborigine.
Many black folks live there?
Yes, only two and a half million
What’s the history?
History unknown
Niugini is not known round here
Yes, that’s true.
I had visualized myself as the first Indian explorer to discover this dark country of dense forests, birds of paradise, bare-breasted women and head-hunting cannibals. I was disappointed. There were eight Indians on the Air Niugini flight from Singapore to Port Moresby. Six hours later when we arrived at Port Moresby, the first man to greet me as I stepped out of the aircraft was a sardarji: Gurmit Singh Dharoch, head of customs. Like any Indian official he took me past the queue and cleared me through immigration and customs without my having to show any documents. Then he thrust an envelope into my pocket, “You will need this,” he said. It contained fifteen kinas in currency notes and coins of different denominations. A note inside explained that a kina was about the same value as a US dollar, made up of 100 toyes. Another note had a few lines on the PNG constitution. He had underlined its salient features: “This is a truly democratic country with a free press.” There were also some pictures of graves of Indian soldiers killed during World War II. First Indian indeed! They have been coming to PNG over the centuries as many name-places ending in pur and baad indicate. A paid PRO could not have done a better job than Dharoch did for his country of adoption. He delivered me into another group of Indians: O.P. Ahuja, Kaley, Gill and my host Peter Henshall, head of the Department of Journalism. Henshall decided I would be best off with my wantaks (wantak meaning countrymen). Throughout my stay I drank and dined with my wantaks.
The vegetation was familiar: rain trees, banyans, mangoes, papayas, bananas and bougainvillea. The people were not: short, stocky, swarthy with massive mops of hair on their heads; most men sported beards; most women were large bosomed and massive bottomed. Many were barefooted. Ancient and modern mixed without apparent tension. Outside an ultramodern air-conditioned supermarket I saw families of PNGs sprawled on the ground under the shade of a rain tree chewing betel nut (they add betel-leaf fruit dipped in powdered lime) and spitting out bloody phlegm. They told me that another trait Papua men have in common with Indians is wife bashing. What is unique to them is that in a society where polygamy is not frowned upon, husband beating is also not unknown.
German Honeymoon
“I do not know the language of this cool country and its pace is not mine. Nor can I interpret the clouds that pass,” wrote Else Lasker-Schuler, an eccentric German poetess who died in 1945. If a German could not find the Fatherland of her dreams in the country where she was born and reared, how much more difficult it is for a casual visitor to assess a people as complex as the Germans!
I have known Germany and have had German friends for over fifty years. At school we had a tall, golden-haired German girl, Ingeborg Baden-Hausen, teaching the Kindergarten. All of us boys in the senior classes fell madly in love with her. We were heartbroken when she decided to return to Germany to join the youth wing of the Nazi party. “If Ingeborg is Nazi, nothing can be wrong with the Nazis,” we said. I continued writing mushy, sentimental letters to her until she announced her marriage to a captain in the Luftwaffe. My second encounter with the Germans was in England where I befriended a lot of German boys and girls, mostly Jewish, who had fled Nazi persecution. “If the Germans can throw out such nice people, there must be something very wrong with them,” we said. During the war while we professed abhorrence for fascism, we exulted over German victories and said, “There can be nothing wrong with a nation which supports the Indian National Army and Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose.” When we heard of the horrors of Dachau and Buchenwald, the ghastly genocide perpetrated on the Jews and the terrible vengeance that the allies vented on the Nazis, we said, “Serve the Germans right! They had no business to allow such nasty people as the Nazis to do the horrible things they did.” And then with bated breath we saw the same Germany rise phoenix-like from its ashes to become more prosperous than its erstwhile victors; we learnt of the enormous billions they paid to relatives of victims of Nazi persecution and heard of young Germans volunteering for free service in Israel. “A people who can perform such miracles and can be so humane must have more going for them than any other people of the world,” we said. And so I found out on my recent visit to Germany. It was a nostalgic pilgrimage to a country which had aroused the strongest of emotions in my heart.
Malicious Gossip Page 14