Still talking to himself, he continued, ‘Barmaids—that’s too foreign a concept.’ Then he turned to me, ‘Now that you’ve had your ice cream, your brain must be cool enough. Give me an Indian version.’
I couldn’t think of anything. ‘There’s the saqi in the Rubaiyat.’
‘Rubbish, that’s hardly Indian.’
Just as we were getting intoxicated with barmaids, Juneau said, ‘There’s a well-built man outside looking for both of you.’ Rising in irritation from his chair, Bose-da said, ‘Go find out who dares intrude into our haven.’
The intruder was none other than Sutherland. ‘I’m going out for lunch,’ he said, ‘I just wanted to remind you before I left.’
‘You can rest easy,’ I reassured him. ‘We’ll definitely meet Mr Hobbs today.’
The person who would have been happiest to see this story being published as a book is no longer alive today. It was he who had unearthed the secrets of Chowringhee for me, it was he who had encouraged and inspired me, saying, ‘Dig, and you’ll strike gold.’ But I wasn’t been able to do it while he was alive and there was no proof anywhere in the city of the long years he had spent in Calcutta. A shop named after him had survived for some time as an intrinsic part of the history of Chowringhee, but, away from the public eye, even that shop had disappeared.
Many old-timers might remember Hobbs; even a few people from our generation might do so, but one day his memories will disappear from the minds of the busy citizens of this busy city.
Emerging from the hotel, we walked to the Esplanade. Beside me Sutherland said, ‘I feel a little uncomfortable walking down this road. I seem to be stepping on some amazing chapter of history at every step. Hardly any witnesses to those times exist any more—there used to be so many mementoes of old Calcutta on these roads, but you people have destroyed them all.’
Turning to him, I said, ‘There’s still one witness—the lovely Raj Bhavan, behind a veil of thick greenery, which has seen a great deal over the ages.’
‘There will come a day when, like a tape recorder, a past recorder will be available—we’ll be able to sit before an old house and listen to its autobiography.’
‘If only that were possible!’
‘Don’t give up hope,’ he said. ‘I’m sure we’ll live long enough to see such a machine being invented. It won’t be difficult to rescue the past—after all, nothing of what we do, say or even think goes waste, it only leaves one corner of the universe and accumulates in another.’
‘Is that why the poet has said, “none of life’s treasures can be discarded?”’ I asked.
Smiling, he replied, ‘The day we can make the mute past talk, the world will be transformed. Only historians will be in trouble; they might even lose their jobs. All that will be needed instead of research scholars and professors is an operator.’ He laughed like a child.
Listening to him, who would guess that his subject was actually medicine, that it had nothing to do with history?
We saw a young man sitting on the pavement, with a parrot in a cage in front of him. ‘What’s this?’ Sutherland asked in surprise.
‘Future recorder,’ I said with a smile. ‘All the documents of the future are with him—you can find out everything here.’
Rubbing his hands together, he said, ‘I fear the future very much—let’s avoid this.’
Hobbs was waiting for us—his arms wide open in welcome.
‘Barmaid?’ The old man seemed to have gone back to some distant past at our question. ‘Those days are lost forever, never to return. There’s only one person who could have answered that question—Mrs Brockway, wife of Father Brockway of the Union Chapel,’ he said almost to himself.
Sutherland shook his head. ‘I tried to meet Frenner Brockway, the British MP and friend of India, because I was very keen on finding out about his mother, but I couldn’t dig up anything. All I learnt was that his father had been a priest, and that he was born in Calcutta, which explained his great fondness for India.’
‘Mrs Brockway was very concerned about Calcutta’s barmaids,’ said Hobbs. ‘I’ve heard she used to weep for them. If it hadn’t been for her, we might have been sitting at the bar of Shahjahan, or any other hotel, savouring a mug of beer or a round of whiskey being served by a woman even today.’
Sutherland said gravely but with a touch of embarrassment, ‘I don’t drink, though.’
‘You don’t!’ Hobbs was astonished. ‘Better be on your guard! If Gandhi-ji’s disciples find out they won’t let you go back home. They’ll build you a dispensary in a shanty next to the Sabarmati or some other river, and you’ll have to spend the rest of your life there.’
Sutherland smiled a little and said, ‘That would be wonderful. I may not know much medicine, but from what I know I can tell that India needs lots of doctors now, lots of trained people.’
Hobbs came back to barmaids. ‘Ah, those good old days!’ Looking at me, he said, ‘Let me test your general knowledge—tell me, when did ships start sailing through the Suez Canal?’
All I’d read in my geography textbook at school was that a Frenchman named Ferdinand de Lesseps had built the Suez Canal, but when he had done it, and when the waters of the Red Sea and the Mediterranean Sea had mingled, holding Europe and Asia in a close embrace, were things I had no idea about. Nor, for that matter, could I make out what the Suez Canal had to do with our story.
‘Our story is intimately connected with the Suez Canal,’ said Hobbs. ‘Before it was built, those reckless adventurers went around the Cape of Good Hope to come to Calcutta. In the absence of hotels they spent the nights in barges at Chandpal Ghat. No blue-eyed beauty came running across the ocean to entertain them, so if the craving got really bad, they had to quench their thirst with the strictly Indian variety.
‘Then, in 1762, William Parker decided to open a bar for the entertainment of Calcutta’s gentlemen. Only alcohol was on the agenda, barmaids were not part of the scheme of things. The board, too, granted a licence, on the condition that the house couldn’t be kept open in the daytime, for if it was, the younger lot would start playing truant.
‘Many more bars came up after that, but it was barmen, or khidmatgars as they were called, all the way. Even Le Galle, who had taken the contract for wining and dining the barrister and his cronies during the trial of Nanda Kumar, didn’t have barmaids in his tavern. He charged two-and-a-quarter rupees for every lunch and dinner. Mohan Prasad ordered that the meals be sent to the court—sixteen lunches and sixteen dinners every day. We know of Nanda Kumar’s hanging, but haven’t kept track of Le Galle. After the verdict was delivered, Nanda Kumar became immortal by going to the gallows but there was no trace of Mohan Prasad. Eventually, Le Galle had to go to court to recover his dues for the lunches and dinners he had served—he had to sue to get his six hundred and twenty-nine rupees.’
Hobbs handed cups of coffee to us.
We were about to protest, but he said, ‘I’m not anti-India, but those who are under the impression you don’t get coffee anywhere in the world except at the India Coffee House should pay me a visit.’
Without sparing a glance at our bewildered faces, Hobbs continued, ‘It was after the Suez Canal was opened that eighteen-year-old Englishwomen, with nectar in their breasts and wine glasses in their hands, started coming to Calcutta. Which is why restaurants and hotels in Charnock’s city began to flourish after the canal was opened in 1869.’
As he spoke, Hobbs slowly went back to the past when barmaids used to stand at the bar and serve drinks—not local women, but authentic Englishwomen. Newspaper advertisements would announce: ‘Our new barmaids will be arriving in Calcutta by such-and-such ship from London.’ Some would come on six-month contracts and others on two-year ones. The British representatives of Shahjahan and Hotel de Europe would write, ‘Have located a beautiful girl, do you want her?’ The reply would be sent immediately: ‘We have great faith in your taste—we hope you won’t let us down before Calcutta’s customers!’ B
ack would come the answer: ‘I’ve been sending barmaids not just to Calcutta but to major ports round the world for many years, and I’ve never heard a word of criticism. Girls I’ve chosen have turned around the fortunes of hotels—they’ve doubled sales at the bar. To tell you the truth, my only concern is that hotels in Calcutta can’t hold on to the girls. Before their contracts run out, the girls ensconce themselves elsewhere. That harms me—they promise to send me a part of their salaries, but I don’t get it if they change jobs.’
‘Have you seen any of these barmaids?’ I couldn’t resist asking.
Hobbs laughed. ‘Do you think I’m a spring chicken? And do you suppose I came to Calcutta just the other day? If I’d come a little earlier I might have even seen a slave or two.’
‘Slaves!’
‘You youngsters know nothing. Even halfway through the last century, human beings used to be sold in Calcutta. English ladies and gentlemen and even the local gentry would buy boys and girls from Murgihata and bring them home. If they ran away, they would place advertisements in the papers, promising rewards.’
‘I only hope those who served drinks at the hotel weren’t slaves too,’ Sutherland said seriously.
The old man’s face lit up. ‘No, as far as the law was concerned they were certainly not slaves—but the hardships that I’ve seen and heard of could add a new word to the dictionary. I can show you an old advertisement for your very own Shahjahan Hotel.’ Hobbs rose from his chair and brought out an exercise book from his cupboard. It had newspaper clippings in it going back many decades. Turning the pages, he stopped at one. ‘You may not believe me, but I have proof.’
We read the advertisement. The manager of Shahjahan Hotel had announced proudly: ‘On 22 September, Miss Marian Booth and Miss Jane Grey will be arriving at Kidderpore on the SS Hawaii. They will not hesitate to spare any effort for the pleasure and well-being of the guests of Shahjahan Hotel!’ Underneath, bold letters informed readers: ‘To maintain the hard-earned reputation of Shahjahan Hotel, the two beauties will be kept under lock and key during the day and after duty hours at night!’
I was feeling a little embarrassed knowing that we were probably intruding on Hobbs’s time and work, but Sutherland didn’t seem bothered—and nor, for that matter, did Hobbs himself. Shutting the exercise book, he said, ‘Lucky I kept this clipping. I had never imagined such a trivial beginning would lead to such momentous happenings. I knew Silverton, the manager of Shahjahan, rather well. In fact, he bought the hotel eventually. The Armenian Christian Gregory Apkar had stayed at Shahjahan Hotel once upon a time. Those were dark days for Shahjahan—the owner didn’t pay any attention, the building was crumbling, provisions weren’t available. Apkar had quarrelled with the staff, and then written a letter to the manager on the hotel letterhead: “If anyone can identify a hotel worse than this one, I’ll give him a reward of five hundred rupees.”
‘Silverton had rushed to see him. “We’re very sorry—but we’re very hard up,” he had apologized. “If we weren’t, we could have shown you what a good hotel is like.”
‘This was probably the first time in history that a guest became so angry with a hotel that he purchased it. Apkar obviously didn’t want for money. He wrote a cheque for the entire amount and made Silverton his working partner.’
‘“What was the response from the advertisement like?” I asked Silverton.
‘“Very good—lots of people are waiting with bated breath for the twenty-second of September, making enquiries to find out if the barmaids will start work the same evening; the connoisseurs are just too impatient.”
‘Silverton invited me to the bar on the evening of the twenty-second. Hoteliers normally don’t invite people, but my relationship with Silverton was a little different, he did invite me occasionally. That night the bar and dining room at Shahjahan couldn’t have held one more guest. Young men with the best of manners and the worst of intentions were present—but the new girls didn’t take the stage.
‘“Hasn’t the ship arrived, then?” many of those present started asking.
‘“It has, and so have they, but they’re very tired today,” Silverton said with folded hands.
‘“We’re not exactly as fresh as roses ourselves,” quipped one of them. “After a hard day’s work, we’ve ignored the rain and even got soaked to make it here.”
‘With a show of great humility, Silverton said, “It’s Shahjahan Hotel’s privilege that you haven’t forgotten it despite the inconvenience caused to you. Keeping in mind the state of your bodies and hearts, Miss Dickson has brought some of our best bottles from the cellar, specially for you.”
‘The young men started chuckling. “We demand old wine from new hands.”
‘The middle-aged Miss Dickson stood at a distance, sour-faced. Next to her stood a barman built like a rock, a small brass bucket of ice in his hand—he looked as though his job was to crush the ice, but that was an excuse, for he was actually a bodyguard. Nobody bought drinks from Miss Dickson that night—no one seemed interested in a bargirl who looked like a coiled, shrivelled length of rope.
‘“Should we wait?” the customers asked. “The new ladies could have a rest and then come to the bar.”
‘“I’m sorry, they’re so tired that they must have fallen asleep by now,” Silverton explained.
‘He was quite agitated by then. The young men shouted, “If necessary we can go and request them. And if that’s a problem, we’re off—Lola is waiting for us at the Adelphi Bar.”
‘They left in a group, as Silverton stood by with a long face and Miss Dickson stared at the wood on the counter, refusing to take her eyes off it.
‘“What’s wrong?” I asked Silverton.
‘He took me to his room and said, “Let’s have dinner by ourselves in my room. I’m in trouble.”
‘I heard all about it in his room—it was trouble all right. The lady named Marian Booth who had disembarked was at least forty-five years old. Silverton had discovered this at the jetty itself, though he hadn’t been able to say anything. Jane Grey hadn’t disappointed, though. Now Silverton was up to his ears in trouble—if it got out that he had spent a fortune to bring an old woman over, Shahjahan’s future would be doomed.
‘The whole thing did get out later—the hotel had been cheated. The girl whom the agent had chosen, spoken to and even seen off at the ship had substituted the old woman for herself in the hold of the ship at some point and made off. When the switch was discovered in Calcutta, it was too late to do anything.
‘Shaking with rage, Silverton called for the woman and asked, “You’re Marian Booth? Are you telling the truth?”
‘She protested in a shrill voice. “What? You dare doubt the name my father gave me?”
‘“And you’re twenty-five,” Silverton said through clenched teeth.
‘“More or less,” she replied.
‘“Less, no doubt,” he said, gnashing his teeth. “If you only knew how much damage you’ve done me. I don’t even have the money to send you back and get someone else—and even if I could scrape together the money, there’s no time. I’ve served notice on Miss Dickson, and Miss Grey can’t possibly run such a large bar all by herself.”
‘I asked Silverton, “Since she is here, what can you do? Aren’t there any middle-aged women in London bars?”
‘I still clearly remember what he said in reply. Despite repeated usage it hasn’t become stale, and it’s probably the last word on this city: “Calcutta is Calcutta.”
‘“It might have worked in London,” he said, “but it won’t work here. Two old women had cheated two hotels on Chowringhee like this in the past. It would have cost a lot if their return fare and compensation, as stated in the contract, had to be paid. But they didn’t go back—they set up shop in the shipping neighbourhood of Kidderpore.”
‘The old Miss Booth pleaded, “Give me a chance—I promise you sales won’t go down.”
‘Silverton wasn’t willing. He sent for Miss Grey. Poo
r Miss Grey had been tired out by the journey and had fallen asleep. Rubbing her eyes, the demure Jane came and stood before us, looking quite scared at first. I could read the hints of tragedy on her face even then.
‘“Do you know how Miss Booth managed to pull the wool over everybody’s eyes and turn up in Calcutta?” Silverton asked.
‘Miss Grey didn’t have the answer to that. With downcast eyes she said, “I was preoccupied—I was leaving home, without knowing if I would ever return.”
‘I simply couldn’t fathom how this reticent, soft-spoken eighteen-year-old would work at the bar. Before leaving the room, she said, “I haven’t met a kinder lady than Miss Booth—she looked after me throughout the voyage.”
‘A few days later, I heard that Miss Booth had joined the ranks of the lipsticked and rouged Kidderpore girls. And that hundreds of made-in-England gentlemen and made-in-India Bengali babus were thronging the Shahjahan bar to accept whiskey from Miss Grey’s gentle hands. It was about these Bengali babus that Davy Carson had written in his song: “I very good Bengali babu/in Calcutta I long time e’stop”.
‘A friend of mine named Robbie—Robbie Adam—confirmed that I hadn’t been wrong about Jane. He set eyes on her for the first time when he went to Shahjahan for supper, and saw for himself the plight of a girl from his own country in a Calcutta bar. It would have been better if he hadn’t. He would have been spared plenty of misery; he wouldn’t have had to go through the ordeals that the Creator had planned for him.
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