Memoirs of a Worldly Guy
It was daylight by the time we reached Bombay and although the terminal was not as crowded as Nairobi's had been there was a moderate degree of chaos as an extended family milled around each of the passengers who had alighted. As soon as I had recovered my luggage I headed out to the taxi rank. My driver was a turban-headed Sikh whose speech was borderline unintelligible.
'Is your taximeter broken?' I asked him. He looked over at the meter and muttered something additionally unintelligible. It was enclosed in a greasy canvas cover that partially obscured the dirty face of the meter. I was being introduced to one of the variety of scams used by the residents of the ancient subcontinent. I knew I was going to be able to argue fairly effectively about the fare when we reached our destination because
the hotel was the same one as used by the flight crew. I had been briefed by one of the 'stewardi' on the distance to the hotel and the usual charges.
The side of the road from the airport was moderately uncluttered for the first mile but as soon as we passed out of the control area I was appalled by the sudden change. Both sides of the road were packed with 'dwellings' we would think of at home as the makeshift huts of the homeless. They were put together with every imaginable scrap of used material; chunks of tarpaper, odd pieces of plywood, cardboard and pieces of broken glass all seemed to have a function. This was squalor, jammed into view for the edification of the visiting tourists as if by prearrangement.
The 'Sun and Surf' hotel could well have been built specifically for the use of the transient aircrews and other well-funded elite visitors. It faced directly onto the Arabian Sea and was enclosed by high fences, evergreens and bamboo. After checking in I left my room and wandered down to the lobby. It opened onto a beach which seemed to be deserted for miles in each direction. I found it difficult to believe that there was such a tranquil and relatively uncrowded oasis within a few miles of overcrowded poverty. While I stood on the beach a young boy went past me galloping at high speed, bareback on a roan stallion. I could easily imagine myself standing on a remote beach somewhere in the Couth Pacific. Oops,..misprint! That should be South Pacific, although, on second thought I suppose I did lend a certain couth 'savoir faire' to the area when I was there!
I phoned the company who had expressed interest in 'Dry Magic' and the manager insisted that he visit me at the hotel. He arrived after dinner time accompanied by his No.2 man. Fiftyish in age and well-fed, they were both wearing shirt, tie and somewhat rumpled business suits. They had Caucasian features but spoke with the imitable East Indian accent copied so well by Peter Sellers. They readily acquiesced when I offered them a drink of Scotch whiskey back in my room. I found them to be friendly and humorous and felt that they would be reasonable business associates.
'That appears to be the end, gentlemen,' I said as I emptied the heel of the bottle into the glasses. 'Is there a liquor vendor nearby?'
'I'm afraid not,' replied Moammar, 'However the hotel has a stock of liquor for tourists if you request it at the front desk.' So they waited in the lounge next to the lobby while I purchased a 25 ounce bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label. We finished half of it back in my room while we made further arrangements for the following day.
'I thought you guys weren't allowed to drink booze,' I said at one point, halfway through the second bottle.
'Our religion requires us to abstain from killing animals or eating meat,' Moammar said. 'The reason we don't drink liquor is because we can't buy it; there is a virtual government-imposed prohibition in effect because of our fiscal situation.'
'I'm sure you've seen the cattle wandering freely about our streets without interference,' Rajiv added.
'Take this with you,' I said, handing the half-full bottle to Moammar as they departed. They were obviously overwhelmed and effusive with their thanks.
Moammar picked me up around 10:30 the next morning and we took a brief tour around Bombay. The main streets were crowded with car-driven traffic, buses and pedestrians and the shopfronts were covered with signs, more than half of which seemed to be advertising professional examination of human stools. Even this ostentatious display of vulgarity did not spoil my appetite for the magnificent chicken curry we were served at the 'Star' Restaurant later. At some point I remember us stopping at an Arc de Triomphe-type stone archway which Moammar referred to as the 'Gateway to India'. Following lunch Moammar said he would take me over to his office so we could have further discussions. Rajiv joined us at the office and we had a genial conversation for a few minutes.
'Would you care to see how we handle sulphuric acid now?' Rajiv asked.
'Of course,' I replied, so we trudged out of the office and entered a dilapidated Nissan hut at the back of their property. Almost the whole interior of the hut was taken up by a large black-painted tank lying on its side. It had a diameter of at least five feet and was roughly fiteen feet long; at the near end there was a bearded elderly man sitting on a stool covered with Manila hemp sacking. There were a number of empty glass carboys on the floor beyond him and he was just finishing the filling of one placed under a tap with a quick-opening valve. As the viscous liquid reached up to the neck of the bottle he turned off the tap and closed the bottle with a stone stopper which he carefully secured with wire. After watching the astonishing display for a few minutes we returned to the office. I was incredulous and anxious to talk to the owners.
'How long have you been packaging acid in that manner?' I asked.
'Oh, ten, fifteen years. Why?
'And how often does a government inspector come by?'
Moammar and Rajiv looked at each other in wonderment. 'Government inspector'! Why would a government inspector come by? I could see them wondering. Moammar gave voice to their bewilderment.
'Why would a government inspector want to see us?' he asked.
'I can't believe they haven't sent an inspector to approve your safety procedures,' I said. 'Sulphuric acid is dangerously corrosive and could blind a man in moments. The man I saw out there was clad only in a loincloth; he was barefoot and was wearing no goggles or face mask. That lack of protection would be prohibited in just about every other country in the world. What would you do if there were an accident and that man were seriously burned, or blinded even?'
'We would just hire another man,' Moammar said with a smile. 'There are lots of men!' Rajiv smiled too, obviously amused by my concern. I knew immediately that neither they nor their customers would be interested in paying the premium for dry sulphuric acid in a country where so little stock was taken in the safety and protection of workers.
Further discussion regarding the cost of dry sulphuric acid in such an environment was purely academic and was no longer considered, however I felt that my meeting with the two East Indian gentlemen was extremely edifying. Their religious beliefs and the manifold superstitious convictions they held dear were remarkable.
That evening I flew north to New Delhi and checked into the Hotel Ashoka. I have no clear memory of any meetings I may have had with industrialists but my adventures in New Delhi including the Hotel Ashoka and its personnel are fresh in my memory.
AEROGRAMME
Mr. Ron Helmer
Hotel Ashoka
NEW DELHI, India
Wednesday, March 25, 1964
It seems like an eternity since you left. I've got those 'mid something blues' I guess. After next week you'll be more or less on your way home and the time before you get home will be shorter than the time you've been away. If you can figure that out.....Dougie has been waking up at night just about every night and doesn't consider the finger any special reason. He just likes to have company. Last night he wanted to see Gretchen at 3 a.m. I could have strangled him......
We've had the most terrible cold weather; 20 and 15 below the last four or five days with strong winds....I talk to your Mom just about every day...Gretchen had her first Easter egg colouring caper yesterday..I picked up Cheryl, Jack's oldest and we had a great time. The package I bought and had things to paste on and holders to make as well as a cardboard Bunny house, which took Mother a while to figure out where slot A fit in etc. Cathy Montgumtree showed up so she was in on it too. Needless to say, Gretchen asks every hour when we're going to do some more. I used 10 eggs as it was.... I got your card on no matter what 'Ippens' --it looks fine--really, your humour hasn't changed. Also the squeals from Gretchen when she received the Beatles card could be heard for blocks. She has it pinned up on her wall along with two other cards you sent, so we will have a real gallery whensoever you return...Must close and go fix dinner--we're having stuffed flank steak--wish I were cooking it for you!
Love and kisses,
Jean
April 1, 1964, New Delhi
A colour postcard of the modern outdoor swimming pool at the Ashoka Hotel in New Delhi. It is large and kidney-shaped and has both one metre and three metres diving boards at the deep end.
Hi darlings!
I got April fooled! Did you? After two days in the tepid water of the Arabian Sea at the Sun 'N Sand in Bombay I checked in here, went straight to the pool and dove boldly in...to 50 degree F. water! Really puckered 'the ole ringbone' as Doug T. would say. Went through the phone book in Bombay and ended up having a hilarious day with a couple of acid merchants. Had a good meeting with D.C.M. in Delhi this afternoon. Off to see the Taj Mahal tomorrow. Much love to all!
Daddy.
The city of New Delhi is approximately seven hundred miles northeast of Bombay. Agra, site of the famous Taj Mahal is roughly one hundred and twenty-five miles south of New Delhi. Having concluded my business in New Delhi and with a whole day to spare I decided to take the bus to Agra to view the Taj Mahal. When I enquired at the tourist office of the hotel they told me I could rent a car and driver for the day for only 150 rupees (about $31.50). They finally admitted with some reluctance that there was an air-conditioned bus that made a daily trip to the tomb for substantially less and suggested I confirm the departure time directly with a phone call.
'We don't normally stop at the hotels, but the Ashoka is on the way so we could pick you up if you're in front of the hotel at 7:35 a.m. sharp!' the lady at the bus company said. At least that's what I think she said! I presented myself to the tall, regal-looking doorman at 7:30 the following morning.
'Taxi, sahib?' he enquired.
'No, I'm waiting for the bus to Agra!' I stated loudly.
'Very good, sir!' he said with confident authority. To be on the safe side, I was at the front of the hotel five minutes early. Five minutes after 7:35 I spoke to the doorman again.
'Do not worry, sir, the bus will surely come,' he said in his lofty singsong tones.
At 7:50 I spoke to him again. He looked at me as though he had never seen me before.
'Taxi, sahib?'
'No! I told you I'm waiting for the bus to Agra!'
'Oh, sorry, sahib, that bus has already gone!'
'Gone!' I cried. 'Impossible, I've been here all the time and I haven't seen a bus!'
'Ah, but that bus to Agra does not stop in front of the hotel, sir, only at the side.' he said. 'Very sorry, sir, perhaps you could hire a car.' I was literally stunned.
'What the hell's the matter with you?' I cried. 'I told you half an hour ago that I was waiting for the bus to Agra and now you tell me half an hour later that it doesn't stop in front!' I was furious. The doorman merely looked offended and strode away to the other side of the reception area. I looked around the side of the hotel but if the bus had been there it had long since departed. I returned to the lobby and sat down with steam coming out of my ears. I ordered a lemon squash (with gin) in an attempt to regain my composure. Some time later I resigned myself to paying for a private car and returned to the tourist office.
'Perhaps you could find someone to share a car with me!' I said hopefully.
'It's doubtful, sir, but we'll let you know!'
'Good!' I said, 'I'll be in the lounge!' I decided to wait about half an hour.
Why was I not surprised when a yellow-turbaned Sikh sidled up and informed me surreptitiously that a special deal could be arranged for only 125 rupees? He seemed to be completely familiar with my predicament! Where could he have received such information so quickly? Was it possible that the doorman had seen the error of his ways and had decided to be helpful? Fat chance! I could smell another Sikh scam in the offing! Sure enough, the young man said he could have me driven me to Agra in a taxi immediately; the fare would only be about twice as much as the bus fare. Of course, the bus was air conditioned and his taxi wasn't. I should have told him to go fuck himself but I was determined to visit the Taj Mahal and finally accepted the deal with a certain reluctance. He told me a car would appear in the parking lot in fifteen minutes. I jotted down the license number and to my surprise a good clean-looking compact showed up as promised.
The driver was a young Sikh, fluent in intelligible English and a complete master of his vehicle but he seemed to get his kicks from narrow misses with oncoming cars and trucks; I started for the floorboards more than once. Otherwise I sat alone in the back of the auto like an Indian prince, albeit sweaty and un-air conditioned, observing the bleak countryside which was interspersed with shrubs and small houses with peaked roofs that turned out to contain pure cowshit patties within, stored for fuel. The fronts of the houses had been plastered with fresh dung and incribed with fancy designs as a sign of pride and ownership by the builders. Years later the Canadian Colombo plan would show the natives how to drill water wells and irrigate and resurrect the land. When I passed through it was virtually barren desert. We passed only one small village, Mathura, en route and we slowed slightly in deference to the people scattered along the roadway. I felt like a royal visitor and was tempted to wave in the roundabout queenly manner at the brown-skinned locals who gaped silently in at me.
We arrived at Agra about 1 p.m. after a three hour drive. I had lunch at a local hotel then the driver picked me up again and we drove out to the Taj where I was able to find a guide who spoke good English and took a tour of the Taj that lasted about an hour and a half.
Bert Woody used to tell Gunner and me that all the bighorn sheep '....must have moved over to the other basin!' Needless to say this is the type of conversation I have with critics regardless of whether or not they have ever been to India.
'Did you see the Taj Mahal by moonlight?' they ask.
'No!'
'Oh, well, you haven't really seen it until you've seen it by moonlight!'
'Well bugger you! Did you see it by sunlight?'
'Of course!' or 'Well, I've seen pictures!'
'Well, was there water in the lagoon?'
'Yes, of course!'
'Ah, well!' I say. 'You haven't really seen it until you've seen it by daylight with the lagoon drained for cleaning, now that's an unforgettable sight!' That usually shuts them up.
I was told that some 30,000 artisans worked for 28 years to complete it. King Edward VII is reputed to have said 'The great who visit the Taj proclaim it indescribable, then proceed to attempt to describe it!' Well, here goes!
The marble walls of the Taj were inlaid with semiprecious stones but I noticed that the walls near the entranceway were smudged by the bodies of the Hindu guides who loitered about and that embedded gems had been prised out by unknown thieves or souvenir hunters over the years. In the crypt below the main hall the tombs of the Shah and his bride lie side by side. A direct descendant of the builder (if you believe that I can sell you the Taj for a good price!) burns incense, cries 'God is Allah and there is but one God!' and takes a rose from the top of her tomb. I saved the little souvenir and enclose it herewith to remind you how much I love and miss you all!
I connected with my driver again and we stopped by a shop that specialized in handbags made of rolled gold and silver thread embroidered on silk and satin and I picked up an item or two that I think may appeal to your discriminating taste. Then we set off again for New Delhi about 5 p.m. Since my plane was not scheduled to leave for Madras till 10:55 p.m. I had given myself a very safe margin (or so I thought), planning to arrive back at the hotel about 8:30 p.m. Things proceeded beautifully till about half way to town when a puff of smoke from under the dash informed us that 'summat was amiss'. Closer inspection revealed that a plug above the motor housing had come loose allowing oil to spray over the engine, whence the smoking. By this time the onset of dysentery had occurred once again and I was forced to wander off into the scrub to accommodate myself. A routine was established; the driver would go in search of oil and I would go into the desert to seek relief. We proceeded at reduced speed to the next gas station where the driver borrowed 5 rupees to buy 2 quarts of oil. Another trip into the desert was required. Off we went again for a few miles until smoking once again eventuated. My driver stopped the car, flagged down a passing truck and borrowed 10 rupees in order to scrounge a further supply of oil. We pressed on for a few more miles until the smoke returned and this time the motor began to sound like a cement mixer full of railroad spikes.
We chugged into a motor mechanic's shop at last, piston rods a-dangle and pistons a-flap where the motor expired with one last ghastly clank. No fear, it was only 8:30 p.m. and Delhi was a mere fifteen miles away. A wooden office chair was carried out and set by the roadside while my driver shot off to phone his boss. I sat in solitary Euopean magnificence, viewing the passing traffic, the curious looks of strollers-by and studying the brilliant outline of Orion, standing proudly astride the southern sky. At one point a kindly local lady approached carrying a glass of water!
Water? Migawd, anything but water! 'Very kind of you, madam! Thanks a lot but no thanks!' I visualized the local water going through me like the traditional shit through a goose! I had enough problems already!
'No fear, sahib, I have had success! A new taxi will come in five minutes!' my driver exclaimed when he returned. Time passed. Nine o'clock, nine thirty, nine forty-five. Eureka! the substitute taxi finally arrived and we piled in.
'Fear not, sahib, time is of an abundance! You will quite easily achieve your departure time!' said my original driver turning around from the front seat. But it is 10:30 p.m. before we screech to a halt in front of the hotel. They cannot find my luggage! Good Lord! What a way to run a railroad! The unexpected confusion is eventually sorted out when my luggage is found over at the gatehouse, where else? There was no need nor time to phone the airline. Off again, no fear, we'll arrive with ten minutes to spare. Or will we?
Perhaps I would have been surprised if nothing more had gone wrong. Relax, something went wrong! Just as the airport lights loomed at last against the black night sky there was a coughing sound from the taxi's motor. What was this? The headlights flickered off , then on again, then off.
'Slight electrical trouble, sahib,' muttered taxi driver #2 as he leaned forward and jiggled the ignition key back and forth. We swerved across the road, narrowly missing an oncoming car! There was a screech of brakes and angry horn honking. My God! I must have been dreaming all of this; surely no one would believe me. I began to chuckle quietly, a chuckle edged with hysteria to be true. The lights came on again and we proceeded another hundred yards before the taxi finally choked to a complete and final stop.
'Everybody out!' I cried. 'Push!' After five minutes of unredemptive pushing I came to terms with its futility. To hell with it, it was 10:50 p.m. Another taxi approached and I flagged it down, explained my problem to the two American passengers and they offered to help. Transfer the luggage and off again with all three aboard. Screech to a halt! Rush in!
'Sorry sahib,' said the check-in clerk, 'That flight is on the runway; there is no possibility of boarding.' I swear the son-of-a-bitch looked pleased!
'Surely you can have him come back; I can walk directly on board!'
'Too bad! You're classified as a 'no-show' and will be required to purchase a new ticket!'
'A new ticket? You must be joking! I've never heard of anything so ridiculous!'
'Give me your passport and your ticket and I'll discuss it with my manager,' he said, looking doubtful. He then walked through a door at the back of his counter area and was gone for about five minutes. He returned to inform me that nothing could be done. I argued some more and he disappeared for a second time, returning with the same gloomy comment. I was adamant and so was he. He disappeared a third time and finally reappeared to assure me that he was able to achieve success and presented me with a new ticket for the following morning. Am I being too cynical when I suspect that he was angling for a bribe? They call it 'baksheesh' in India.
'Okay, lads, let's go back to the hotel,' I said to my two taxi-drivers who had shadowed me closely throughout.
'I'm sorry, sahib, we cannot supply you with accommodation,' said the night clerk back at the Ashoka. I was getting a little sick of these surprises.
'That's ridiculous,' I said. 'I stayed here last night! I just checked out this morning!' I was beginning to get that old 'Twilight Zone' feeling again.
'I'm sorry, sahib, there is just not additional room available,'
'That's just bullshit, and you know it. Let me talk to the hotel manager!'
'The manager has gone to bed, sahib!'
'Well get him out of bed, then, for Chrissake!' I said testily. The frown on the beleaguered clerk deepened and he went over to the telephone and had a brief conversation.
'It seems we are able to accommodate you after all, sahib,' he said handing me a room key when he returned. I walked to the elevator pondering the strange habits of the East Indians.
When the unhappy yellow-turbaned Sikh arrived at the hotel for payment the next morning I summarized as follows:
Original contract for car 125 Rupees
Less Paid out for oil 15 R.
Paid to 2nd taxi (in vain) 20 R.
Additional night at hotel 60 R. 95 R.
Balance payable 30 R.
He accepted payment meekly with further profuse apologies, no doubt pleased beyond measure that I had kept silence with the hotel officials and kept his 'bandit taxi' job free from jeopardy.
Love and kisses,
The Dad
April 3, 1964
It was customary in India to require passengers to arrive two hours prior to departure time; that was for local passengers, not international. I arrived at the New Delhi airport two and a half hours early just in case. There were no more emergencies unless you count having my camera confiscated for taking a picture of the Indian Air Lines jet (they said Bombay was a military installation) but returned it to me before takeoff.
After we had boarded the plane we sat without air conditioning for about forty minutes before takeoff. It was like the early stages of the 'Black Hole of Calcutta'. Most of the Indian women on board were using decorative fans and attractive 'stewardi' in saris walked along the aisle offering tiny seeds to chew on. I tried one and found it as hot as a sip of Tabasco sauce. The theory was that by chewing something very hot you wouldn't notice how hot the rest of your body was. I don't think it would qualify as a physiological breakthrough.
I checked into the Hotel Connemara in Madras and phoned over to the Blue Mountain Fertilizer company and arranged a meeting for the following day. I met an English man in the bar who had been selling his product to Africa and India since the late twenties. His tales of travel by steamship and early aircraft were fascinating.
I remember visiting the home of one of the Blue Mountain senior vice presidents and marvelling at the elegant lifestyle of the wealthy class of East Indians. Alcoholic drinks were served by his handsome wife who was dressed in a gold and silver embroidered sari. She was walking in expensive sandals on polished marble floors. Filmy floor-length curtains covered the doors and billowed in or out with the occasional breeze.
When I met with the company management they asked many pertinent questions but I was unable to tell whether they would have further interest. They suggested that I make use of the air-conditioned company limousine they would be pleased to make available so that I could visit the village of Mahabalipuram, site of the Seven Pagodas.
I will always remember the experience of walking out of the air conditioned comfort of the Blue Mountain offices into the sunlit city street below. The sun beat down on my bare head wih all the force of a ten-pound sledge hammer. I immediately thought of Noel Coward's famous line. 'Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun..!'
I was once again sitting like a pasha in the back seat of the air conditioned limousine as we drove toward the holy town. It was only forty or fifty miles south of Madras but we drove slowly because of the human traffic on the narrow road. Little black children without a stitch of clothing played happily in the dust along the roadside. The native people of Southern India are much darker skinned than are those of the Northern regions. A redhead like me would probably die from the exposure these young children would receive during their roadside play.
-o-
There were ostensibly seven pagodas in the holy site at Mahabalipuram although I don't recall having counted them. Robed holy men decked with flowers roamed about the area and I was never sure whether this was a sort of Disneyland tourist attraction or a life style that existed completely indifferent to bourgeois influences.
The driver returned me to my hotel and I retired early to get a good night's sleep prior to my flight to Calcutta the following day.
AEROGRAMME
No enclosures allowed Sunday, April 5th, 1964
Calcutta.
I had a nice nap for two or three hours after I was ushered to my room at the Hotel Spence in Calcutta. The dysentery returned with a vengeance shortly after my arrival but now I am sitting up taking nourishment. I was about to go down to the lobby to write this but the room boy convinced me I should have some sandwiches. My diet is proceeding magnificently, incidentally. Having had dysentery to some degree for the past five days I can report there is nothing like it for peeling off the pounds. I feel fine, mind you, but I don't have much appetite and I'm chewing my tobacco real fine these days. The first two or three days I was in the powder puff stage and you could have lighted a cigar on my triple 'A' (angry anal aperture)! But, of course, you don't smoke, do you!
Much love to all, Ron
Calcutta, April 7th, 1964
Aerogramme
No enclosures allowed
Hi dear;
You'll notice I'm writing rather largely! I guess I'm sorta all wrote out after yesterday's long letter. Or was it the day before yesterday? I had just one business call here that amounted to anything so I've had a pretty easy time of it. Just as well! I've told anyone who wants to meet with me on 'normal' days they would have to come to my room. I've told them that if my condition worsens I'll just set up a card table in front of the toilet in the bathroom.
I've been reading 'Anatomy of a Murder' with great interest but reached the last 100 of 450 pages to find 33 pages missing right at the climax, so to speak. I'll murder that publisher if I ever find him!
I finally found India's most beautiful girl (personal prejudiced opinion!) singing at the hotel here. Suneeta is a stunning product of an Irish father and an Indian mother, born in Pondicherry, the one-time capital of Pondicherry, the tiny enclave on the east coast of India. It has had a checkered career, passing back and forth in succession from France to Britain to the Dutch for a period of three hundred years. Suneeta joined me for a drink in the bar one evening; once I told her I could get her a singing contract 'state-side' I was pretty much in control of the situation. (I never realized what an effective bull-shitter I was!). This afternoon I reached the high point of my visit when she rented a horse and driver carriage and invited me to join her and her 17-year-old sister to visit one of Calcutta's more exclusive spots for iced coffee, ice cream and cakes. Wizard! Naturally I think her most fascinating feature is the fact that she, as Crump would say, '...laughed like a drain!' at all my jokes. Too bad I have to leave tomorrow; I feel I was on the verge of performing a great service to inter-Commonwealth goodwill. Don't worry dear, I found out that both she and her sister live upstairs with Mama, so she's had no chance to catch me in private and smother me with moist Indian embraces. Aren't you glad?
Just three weeks till I see you all. I'm counting the days! Many hugs and kisses for everybody!
Daddy
-o-
On a stroll one day through the Indian market place Suneeta gave me some instruction on how to deal with the beggars that swarmed around me. 'Calculate how much you can give to them for the entire day then give it all to one beggar. Then stop! It's ridiculous to think you can patronize the millions who ask for alms. Make your religious contribution and then quit for the day.' I followed her advice and soon found that the trail of mendicants who had trailed after me when I was parcelling out my charity soon vanished.
-o-
One day I signed on with the Indian Travel Association for a day long tour of Calcutta.
'If you did what those people are doing you'd probably be dead in forty-eight hours!' said the gentleman standing beside me watching the East Indians bathing in the Hooghly. The Hooghly is one of the many rivers dispersing from the Ganges at its delta.
'They claim dead bodies float down this river on a daily basis,' I remarked, 'and I just saw a guy standing in the water up to his waist taking a drink of the water.'
'I'm not surprised,' said my fellow tourist, 'they say that if any child survives the first two years of life in this country there's not a bug in the world that can kill him!'
I decided after lunch that I had seen enough beggars, squalor and teeming market places to last me a lifetime so I opted out of the afternoon show-and-tell.
— The End —