Happy Times Book_Volume 1

["The facade proclaims Heinz\u2019s \u201cimmediately recognizable style, characterized by serpentine curves, heavily ornamented balustrades, columns and cartouches\u201d, but what sets 21 apart, from practically all other homes, are its interiors \u2014 the dramatically wide and winding staircase that provided an ideal setting for dramatic and majestic entries. Then, the sweep of the living and dining spaces, made rich by the colours that my aunt so loved, the stately dining room embellished by its view of the Ganesh Pool. The wide, large, gently curving, and what can best be described as door-windows, affording constant and continuous communication with sunlight and the garden and emerald green lawns, surrounding a lotus pool, with scattered flower beds providing splashes of colours. The garden could also be viewed from the meandering open verandah, alongside the drawing room, whose rear was adorned by a curved brick red jali (trellis work) permitting sunlight to stream in. Here, many a relaxed hour was spent by my uncle and aunt, over their morning and evening teas, which were always served in style. Finally, what embellished all were the artifacts \u2014 the paintings and Rajasthani and Mughal miniatures hung on walls, and the bronzes and sculptures in lightly lit alcoves or on pedestals, in frozen, majestic poses. True, 21 Golf Links lacked the spread of Lutyens\u2019 imperial bungalows, but this was more than made up for, by its elegance. Appropriately, the lives of my uncle The drawing room at Golf Links and aunt proceeded at an unhurried pace, characterized by a certain rhythm and grace. Growing up in the Gentle Fifties\u2003|\u200391","I was able to observe all this, as I stayed for my first year in College at Golf Links. To an impressionable young man, just after school, the first and lasting impression of their home was of one of opulence. There seemed to be plenty of everything, all casually strewn around. Morning tea in the verandah was followed by an ample breakfast in the dining room; lunches and dinners being a combination of western and Indian dishes, not elaborate, but always tasty. Uncle Manohar acquired a style of conversing that was refined, laced with a sardonic sense of humour, and he kept us all thoroughly engrossed, more by his manner of narration than by what he actually said. In the early 1960s Uncle Manohar had only just turned 60 but chose to adopt a very leisured style of speaking and moving, with a shuffle, which added a certain dignity, that came to characterize all he did. His sartorial tastes\u2014suits stitched in Savile Row, shirts, ties, dressing gowns, and shoes from Bond Street\u2014combined to give him an air of affluent elegance; he reminded me very much of the ageing but charming Maurice Chevalier in Gigi. Uncle Manohar I loved visiting, prying and rummaging in his delightful wood-panelled study with an open fireplace, a heavy, carved desk with a drawer full of expensive pens, rows of pipes and paperweights on the table, bookshelves with bound volumes, of all the latest in literature, racks with row upon row of shoes that appear never to have been worn. I was, often, sorely tempted to pick up a few things, but desisted, realizing that the servants would be blamed. 92\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","Uncle Manohar\u2019s bridge sessions had the wealthy and influential ensconced around the tables. These included Dharma Vira (ICS, and then Lt. Governor of Delhi), industrialists the Charat and Bharat Ram brothers and their ilk. Evenings had the social elite and many diplomats of the city. Annual vacations were ritually spent in Europe and Kashmir. Since his office work involved him only for a few hours, I had the good fortune of having long chats with Uncle Manohar. What he had to say never failed to hold one\u2019s attention; the conversations reflected leisured wisdom, borne of experience, and his views of persons and activities always possessed certain sophistication. He did, therefore, ensconced in Golf Links, appear to be \u2018of the manor born\u2019, and I miss his presence greatly in this home. Aunty Aruna, with her looks, jewellery and chiffons retained a certain charm that never left her; there was also a great deal of the innocence and coquettishness of a young lady, aware of her attractiveness, about her. One incident says it all. When she was well into her eighties, and having some trouble with her eyesight, she asked my sister Bunty to suggest a good ophthalmologist. After examining her, the doctor pronounced, \u201cAunty you have a cataract, that will require removal\u201d. Her response: \u201cWhat rubbish Doctor, only old people have cataracts!\u201d During those days, Anji, their elder son, was in Cambridge and London, and therefore an occasional visitor. Neeta, freshly back from England, grew, by the day, in grace and beauty, and her gentle and sensitive nature was something of a soothing balm for me; a \u201cfresher\u201d at Stephen\u2019s. Growing up in the Gentle Fifties\u2003|\u200393","She had a very large circle of friends, both male and female, who were gifted, presentable, and effortlessly part of the younger social set of Delhi: Ranji Sethi, \u201cShoky\u201d Bhatia, Baby Thadani, Uma and Aruna Vasudev, Romesh Bhasin, and Gita Berry. Next came my generation\u2014their cousins Roshan and Aftab Seth, Romi Chopra, Ravi Katari, and my friends Bambi Rao and Neel Mani. Neeta and me at 21 Golf Links Vikram, the youngest of the Seths, strikingly athletic and handsome, also joined us occasionally, when on vacation from the Doon School. Golf Links was accordingly host to an almost never-ending stream of parties\u2014shades of \u2018La Dolce Vita\u2019! The years in Delhi were eventful and joy-filled. From Delhi we shifted to Bombay, where my father was allotted one of the flats in a block constructed and owned by Burmah Shell at Altamount Road. The accommodation was perhaps the first centrally air-conditioned apartment block, and by Bombay standards, luxurious, but not particularly large\u2014we had only two bedrooms\u2014but what made living in these flats a very pleasant experience, was the exceptionally large, verandah overlooking the sprawling metropolis below. Every evening was made magical by the carpet of city lights, sparkling below. 94\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","But the influence of brick and concrete and of dwelling spaces on the quality of life is at best, partial, and unfortunately, our experience of living in these luxurious surroundings was not joyous. The apartments at Altamount Road were almost all occupied, by British executives and their families. My father would look down on most of his Anglo-Saxon contemporaries, as very few were University graduates, and almost none had made it to Oxbridge. Since their jobs back home would have been clerical, and their dwellings, unimaginatively modest, occupying luxurious apartments, and being attended on by a large number of servants, went to the heads of the memsahibs if not the sahibs as well, and developed in them, what our children now refer to as, \u201cattitude\u201d. Whatever it was, the families were excessively aloof and formal and I don\u2019t recollect a single, happy exchange, or our being invited over to a single home. Once Bunty, my sister, was invited to a birthday party in the gardens below, and I remember her recounting on return, that none of the other children bothered to ask her to join in their play. Many of us, belonging to anglicized families, occupying spaces earlier occupied by the British\u2014the bungalows, the clubs, the cottages in the hills \u2014 develop a nostalgia for \u201cthe good old days\u201d forgetting, that had the Raj continued, we would certainly all have been excluded, looked down upon, if not abused, by persons, many of who were quite certainly our inferior, in both merit and attainments. In Bombay, the happy memories were of the days that we spent with family and friends. Uncle Potla was posted in Bombay at the same time, so, many weekends were spent together \u2014 Daddy, Mummy, Uncle Potla, Aunty Nandita, their sons Badshah and Rana, Bunty and and me \u2014 either at their flat in the apartment block Joy Eden in Colaba or at ours at Altamount Road. Growing up in the Gentle Fifties\u2003|\u200395","What was particularly enjoyable were breaks when both families drove to the shacks of either Shell at Juhu or Imperial Tobacco, at Marve. These so-called shacks were really spacious, rather luxurious habitats, bang on the sea beaches, each with two or three bedrooms, dining-drawing rooms, and kitchens, replete with all the required gadgets \u2014 the customary thatched roofs added merely to give them a rural look. We had our portions of the beach and the oceans entirely to ourselves, so we were out from early morning till late evening, splashing, wading, swimming, and surfing with waves that were powerful, but gently so, returning, only when ravenous, for delicious food. Bombay days bonded our families. There was only a year\u2019s difference between my father and Uncle Potla, and I remember my father remarking, more than once, that if something happened to either of them, there was no cause for anxiety, because the families would be looked after by the other. Premonition? Certainly prophetic. \u201cThose were the days my friend, we thought they\u2019d never end...\u201d goes a song we are all familiar with; however, end they did, tragically. One evening, when I was walking up Cumballa Hill towards our flat, a car whizzed past, with my father in the back seat. It was only around 5 pm, so I was excited at the prospect that Daddy had returned home early from office. My joy was short-lived, for on reaching our flat I was informed that my father had suffered a heart attack. Weeks and months passed by, with Daddy, uncharacteristically lying down most of the time. The Sen Brothers took turns in coming and staying with us, and there was an endless stream of friends and well-wishers. But overnight an extremely lively, joyous being acquired a dignity and gentleness\u2014this was not him, not him at all. 96\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","I reproduce his letter to me when I returned back to Mayo: My dearest Buntu, It is only three days since you left but sometimes it seems an age and so often that you are here, somewhere around. The home is full of your presence and so are our minds and our hearts. If one thinks conventionally one would say \u2014 what a terrible holiday it was for Buntu. Nothing else Uncle Goalie on a visit to Bombay to see Daddy but sickness and strain. All that is true but there is more to it than just that. For looking a little deeply, one finds that in spite of the sickness, because of the strain, our family achieved a new closeness, and we have never been so much a part of each other and of the family as a whole. In that sense the holiday was a new experience or rather a deepening of an old experience. How much we enjoyed having you with us and by \u201cwe\u201d I mean Mummy & Bunty and Ty Sing Ty (Satyajit, the youngest child), George, Margaret and Ginger. You did something for each of us and so a part of you is always with us. Well now you are back in Mayo for your last term as a schoolboy. This time the emphasis will have to be on studies and more particularly on the Senior Cambridge. Work methodically, plan out your effort and set yourself targets in each subject for each week and see that you attain them. You may have to sacrifice some of your extracurricular activities but that is only for a few months. Don\u2019t however neglect your exercise. Growing up in the Gentle Fifties\u2003|\u200397","You must keep fit right through and exercise will help to this end as well as tone your brain. Swim regularly and hard. Try your hand at Tennis. Exercise regularly in the gymnasium. We are all well here at present. I am off to Delhi on Wednesday morning returning here on Sunday. How I wish I could have taken your Mummy with me but that cannot be. Labernums outside our home Well, Buntu, there is so much I want to say but I don\u2019t know how to start or to end. You are my brain, my muscle and my blood and in you are my hopes for the future. I would not have put them anywhere else. Lots and lots of love, from Your loving Daddy The letter never ceases to move me to tears. A few months later, Shell sent my father on a trip around the world. From Cambridge he wrote: ...Mummy has very probably given you the news of the London heart specialists\u2019 verdict on me. In case she hasn\u2019t \u2014 and she has such a lot to do-here it is. 98\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","After examining for an hour and a half, taking a cardiogram of his own, examining pretty well every inch of my body, and after studying the cardiograms and blood reports taken in Bombay, the specialist declared that there is nothing whatsoever wrong with my heart. Whatever it may have been, the discomfort I suffered was not, a heart attack. I am, in the specialist\u2019s view perfectly fit. This is great news: the shadow that threatened to darken so many years has lifted and I feel I have been given a second lease of life. I think of all the trouble I gave you all, how I spoiled your holiday and how in return I got from you nothing but sympathy, consideration & love. I am so glad it is all over now...\u201d But tragically, it was far from over. The diagnosis of the Harley Street specialist was, on hindsight, incorrect, for a year and a half later, my father passed away, while in vacation at Calcutta. This is how I described it in the monograph I wrote on him: On the 22nd of December my father suddenly passed away. The end was as brief as it was sudden and even before his brothers and family around him realized the graveness of the situation, he had breathed his last. Though it was so Our dogs George, Maggie and Ginger, with Bunty unexpected, it is exactly and me the way Father would have liked it to have been. He had eagerly anticipated this holiday. It would have meant a family reunion after an interval of six years. When the moment came, he Growing up in the Gentle Fifties\u2003|\u200399","was at my Uncle Potla\u2019s house with Mother, Sumita my sister, and my younger brother Satyajit; and the time when the rest of his brothers with their families would join him seemed so near. He was with the ones he loved and in Calcutta, the city which meant so much to him and where his roots were. The evening previous he was playing a game of cricket with my cousins, Badshah and Rana. That is how \u201cthe Gentle Fifties\u201d concluded for our family. 100\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","V College Years ST STEPHEN\u2019S","A s mentioned in the chapter on Mayo College, the school I went to, I just managed to scrape through with a First Division in my Senior Cambridge examination. However, strangely, no doubts of my being able to gain admission to a decent College at Delhi University ever crossed my mind, far from giving me a single night\u2019s disturbed sleep. This, for most of us, in the early \u201960s, was taken for granted, as was becoming a member of the Delhi Gymkhana Club, or the India International Centre (IIC); \u2018Khan Market\u2019 cronyism was at its peak! What one remembered about the admission process was the \u2018Interview\u2019. Once again appearing for this did not cause me a moment\u2019s anxiety. It turned out to be a convivial, highly civilized affair, with the principal, Mr Satish Sircar, in the chair, his receding curly hair parted in the middle, giving him the distinct academic look of the \u201860s, flanked by two members of the History faculty, having what appeared to me to be a very pleasant chat. I honestly can\u2019t recall the questions asked because the exercise was so comfortable! On my return home, I was asked, very generally, how the interview went, and I responded, very generally, that it went well. And that was that: everyone, including myself, assumed I was in! Incidentally, I learned later, that one of the things that helped, was Principal Sircar being strongly in favour of admitting boys from Mayo because they came across as simpler, more decent human beings! That was 1960; things hadn\u2019t changed much five years later, when Vikram Badshah, also from Mayo, appeared for his interview, facing a Board consisting, apart from the principal and lecturers from the English Department, the legendary Bose Sahab. 102\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","A word about Prof S K Bose. Though his lectures in Philosophy were effortlessly brilliant, like G H Hardy of Cambridge, his central and absorbing passion was cricket. Only one question was asked of Vikram and responded to by him. \u201cI see that you were good at cricket and squash in school. Are you a good batsman or good in the field?\u2019 asked Bose Sahab, eyes glinting, his cigarette dangling from his lips. \u201cI am good at both, Sir\u201d was Vikram\u2019s somewhat immodest, but accurate reply. \u201cHe\u2019s in\u201d, announced Bose Sahab, totally omitting to ascertain the opinions of the remaining members of the Interview Board, who nevertheless assented, immediately and most willingly. 2018. My PA at the India International Centre (IIC) asked me whether I could assist in her daughter in being called for interview by Stephen\u2019s. Before I approached anyone, I decided to enquire from her, about the subject her daughter had applied for, and what the average of her best three subjects was. I was informed that she had applied for History Honours, that her subject average was 98%, and that she had obtained 97% in History; but she was not being called for the interview! This was the transformation that had taken place. As I mentioned in the last chapter, for my first year in College, I stayed with my uncle and aunt at 21, Golf Links. There was considerable debate in our family about whether I should be given a scooter to commute to College and back. My mother was nervous about whether it was safe, my father was equivocal; ultimately it was my Uncle Mohit\u2019s argument that prevailed; having a scooter would enable me to devote more time and energy to my studies. The argument won the day. College Years\u2003|\u2003103","It gave me great joy to pick up a spanking new, gleaming blue and grey, Lambretta from Connaught Place and drive it to Golf Links. I took my father for a spin, him sitting on the pillion. After his return to Bombay, he wrote: \u201cIt seems only a day ago that I saw you with your Lambretta \u2013 that we rode out together in the moonlight. I never tire of trying to tell Mummy just how much the Lambretta means to you. It is, of course, her gift to you.\u201d My father also took me to Connaught Place, where two accounts were opened for me\u2014one at a Burmah Shell petrol pump at Janpath, and the other at Ramakrishna Book Stores at Connaught Place. I remember the bookshop very vividly\u2014 a long, narrow room with shelves going up to the ceiling, crammed with books, some almost falling over\u2014the owner, a slim figure with a finely chiselled face, was familiar with all his books, and looked forward to my father\u2019s visits and the chats they had about the latest arrivals. Every morning, I would fetch my good friend Bambi Rao from Pandara Road and then head for the Ring Road, where the morning drive to the University was unadulterated bliss\u2014wide, gently winding, smooth, uncluttered roads, past the Red Fort, the wind on your face and clear sunlight blessing you for the entire journey. We were young and strong and very happy. Entering Delhi University, laid out in the extensive and perfectly maintained grounds of the erstwhile, Viceregal Estate, and St Stephen\u2019s in particular, always gave one a good feeling. College\u2019s buildings and green courts, designed by the gifted Walter Sykes George, an Anglo-Indian architect, and a member of Lutyen\u2019s team, provided an almost severe, monastic appeal, a welcome 104\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","contrast to the monumental structures that dominate the Capital. The thick stone walls, spacious and airy classrooms, bereft of coolers or air conditioners, proclaimed the grace and majesty that restraint possessed, making the entire campus distinctive, and those who enter it, felt part of a different world. Since I was down with an attack of jaundice, I arrived at Stephen\u2019s a month or so late. The History Class was one in which students of the Second and First Years sat together. When I responded to my name being called out for attendance, many faces, mostly seniors, turned, and so once the class broke, I was surrounded by many who dished out slips, ordering me to come to their rooms. I was, nervous, anxious, and prepared for all manner of things beyond narration. However, since a month had elapsed, the spirit of ragging had wilted dramatically, and was practically on its way out; so, after visiting two rooms, and enduring verbal exchanges that made little sense, I headed for the Cafe. On the way I met Roshan and Aftab Seth, Aftab though also in his First Year, cigarette in hand, comfortably sauntering around, as if he owned the place. And this is what typified College\u2014a place, utterly comfortable, where you were left to do whatever you wanted to, at the pace that you wanted, with no compulsion to do anything. It was such a welcome contrast to life at a boarding school, where every moment of every day was decided by others and severely regimented. One had to attend only a few lectures every day. Lecturers of the History faculty took you through the syllabus comfortably, one lecturer relying on a high school textbook, the other on notes that remained unchanged for decades, the third an old Stephanian, who had just joined, being harassed, and bullied by Second-year students, College Years\u2003|\u2003105","whose classes therefore never failed to terminate, abruptly and prematurely. Prof Mohammad Amin was abroad on an assignment, but despite his absence, was talked about a great deal; his lectures on Medieval Indian History were said to be absorbing and enjoyable. He was known, equally, for his sense of humour, both in and out of class. The spartan Assembly Hall of College was embellished only by a well-known quotation from the Bible painted in large letters on the masthead over the stage: \u201cJesus said \u2018I am the light of the world........\u201d This was effortlessly and famously translated by Amin Sahab as: \u201cJesus ne kahan, \u2018Main Nur Jahan hoon\u2019\u201d The only lectures in History that absorbed one and which were, therefore, memorable, were those delivered by Prof P S Dwivedi. Short, with a deliberately unkempt presence \u2014 un-ironed clothes, dusty slippers that could do with a round of polishing, and a Capstan cigarette dangling from his mouth \u2014 Dwivedi Sahab revelled in being a figure, fiercely \u2018un-Stephanian\u2019. Dwivedi Sahab He began his lectures with a deliberately strong UP accent- staccato sentences, 106\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","darting at you, till, slowly, but surely, the lecture took off and ascended \u2014 a combination of impressive erudition, prodigious recall, and effortless reeling off of Sanskrit shlokas \u2014 he, like the description of Napoleon poring over his maps and notes \u2014 appearing to \u201cgrow and grow\u201d as his lectures progressed, till he, effortlessly and totally, dominated the scene. His innate abilities enabled him to affect an easy-going manner, bordering on laziness. He would get up late, saunter through his lectures; land up at the Cafe, having lunch at home when it was almost tea time. However, evenings with Dwivedi Sahab at his home, over tutorials or an invitation to coffee, revealed his larger, more gentle presence\u2014 an unwavering adherence to principles, and an immense capacity for affection, that shone through, despite his carefully cultivated facade of brusqueness. He developed in all of us, an abiding love for the richness and glory of Ancient Indian History, a subject few Stephanians would have been drawn to, in the normal course of events. Quite naturally the relationship that developed with him continued, long past his retirement, long past our own retirements. His erudition made us lazy\u2014for, whenever we were confronted with a question or a piece that puzzled us, \u2014 rather than labour at books, we would ask Dwivedi Sahab, \u2014 either while sitting with him, or, very often, over the \u2018phone. One would always be rewarded by immediate and detailed responses, supported, by specific references to texts. A few years ago, Dwivedi Sahab initiated a small discussion group, which he christened \u201cSaptarshi\u201d, which would meet every month, over a couple of drinks and a meal, at the IIC, or his home, each session, involving one of us to initiate a discussion. College Years\u2003|\u2003107","These sessions continued, even when, at first his wife, and later, succumbed to Cancer. One afternoon, when it was Dwivedi Sahab\u2019s turn to introduce a subject, he had to go to a hospital for a Chemotherapy session. This being the case, while waiting for him at his home, we all agreed to the skipping of the discussion session and move straight on to a meal. And then he entered, \u2014 looking, quite naturally, worn out. He rubbished our plans, and insisted on making his introduction\u2014and what a presentation it was! He spoke, standing for around half an hour, putting forth the provocative proposition, that all the traits of character, possessed, and exhibited by Yudhishthira, in the Mahabharata, were despicable, reeling out, as usual, stanza after stanza from the Epic, in support of each contention. It was a stunning performance, which left all of us mesmerized. Harish Trivedi, who taught English at Stephen\u2019s, and who was part of our Group, stood up, amidst the applause, to say a few words. He said, \u201cSagar\u2019s performance has been magnificent, the exposition being such, that we could not but agree; however, I am certain that, if asked to deliver another lecture, expressing a point of view diametrically opposite, he would do so, equally irrefutably, buttressed, as always by frequent references to copious and esoteric texts\u201d. That was vintage PSD at his best! Many years later, after he was admitted to the hospital, I visited him. Though his body was battered, mentally, and in spirit, he was all there, sternly correcting his daughter-in-law, Rashi, who responded to a summons of his, by a \u2018Han Ji\u2019 stating, by way of correction that \u201cit is \u2018Ji Han\u2019 and not, ever, \u2018Han Ji\u2019 \u201cand rapidly reading up some reference in preparation for a visit of Suresh Sharma, an ex-student of his. 108\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","He did not live long after he was discharged, and mercifully so, because hospitalization had rendered his body a wreck. On his leaving us, orphaned and forlorn, I was reminded of an old African proverb that went, \u201cWhen an old man dies, a library burns to the ground\u201d. However, apart from PSD or a few gifted lecturers in other disciplines, the essence of the Stephanian experience lay outside its lecture halls. Any effort at acquiring knowledge was treated with disdain and had perforce to be a surreptitious, clandestine activity, which when accused of, was to be promptly and stoutly denied! Nevertheless, those who were gifted went on later to scale heights in their careers. Amongst those who took Economics in our time was Montek Singh Ahluwalia, who had the unique distinction of managing a First, whilst at the same time being President of the Oxford Union, later excelling at the World Bank and the Govt. of India; Prabhat Patnaik, equally distinguished in the discipline, but staunchly Leftist and Suman Naresh, who went on to teach at Cambridge. Being Stephanians, our most vivid memories of most, were their quirks. A story that did the rounds, apocryphal, no doubt, was of Montek when attempting to ensure victory on the tennis courts, making detailed calculations about the angles at which the ball was best deflected by a racquet, despite which he lost all matches! Suman Naresh, very bright, effortlessly so, with a quiet sense of humour, and good at debate, was amazingly laid-back, in fact, plain lazy. He was appropriately portly, but despite the bulk, managed College Years\u2003|\u2003109","to glide gracefully when he moved; and contrasting with his attire, which was exceedingly casual, were his ever-sparkling spectacles. It was somewhat late in the morning of the first day of the Economics exam when Suman glided past the Staff Common Room. Recounted below was the conversation, that was said to have taken place, between two members of the Staff. 1st: \u201cI thought I saw Suman Naresh walking down the corridor.\u201d 2nd: \u201cIt certainly was him.\u201d 1st: (somewhat agitated): \u201cBut should he not have been in the examination hall?\u201d 2nd: \u201cHe should indeed have been there.\u201d 1st: \u201cAsk him what he is doing, hanging around in the corridor.\u201d 2nd: \u201cWhy don\u2019t you ask him?\u201d Reluctantly, the first Lecturer summoned up the will to approach Suman. Lecturer: \u201cI say, Suman, have your final exams not commenced today?\u201d Suman, smiling lightly, spectacles sparkling, \u201cThey have.\u201d Lecturer: \u201cThen why are you not sitting for the exams?\u201d Suman: \u201cI didn\u2019t sleep well, and felt a bit tired this morning, not quite up to it.\u201d And as the saying goes, \u201cThat was that\u201d. 110\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","Aftab Seth, always, utterly relaxed, enjoying even his own performances while acting or debating, went on to win a Rhodes Scholarship and later joined the Foreign Service. It may be noted here, that in our time, more than half the numbers of Rhodes Scholars were from College. What did, of course, help, was that most of those who took the interviews were Stephanions, resulting thereby in the creation of a self-perpetuating elite. Ours was an un-celebrated but convivial group, consisting of the urbane Dileep (Bambi) Rao, Ashok Nath, alias \u201cPluto the Dog\u201d, Neel \u201cFunny\u201d Mani, Teji the swift Sardar, who sported a \u2018Bullet\u2019, (most nicknames, courtesy Bambi), Karti Sandilya, nephew of Dr. S. Gopal, blessed with an intellect, matched by a sense of humour, both of which were keen and Ravi \u201cBaba\u201d Katari, the handsome son of the Naval Chief. We were often joined by \u201cDoscos\u201d \u2014 Romi Chopra, Aftab and Roshan Seth, Inderjit Badhwar, and others We met every day, in and out of College. None of us in the core group managed a \u2018First\u2019. I was vaguely conscious of my father\u2019s brilliance but had no inkling of how outstanding his attainments were. It was only when I was composing the piece on his life, to be read out at the \u2018Shradh\u2019 ceremony, that I came to learn of his spectacular academic career\u2014his scoring 98% in History in the Intermediate Arts exam, after finishing a two-year course in a year, a record-breaking 78% in his BA History, which he took from Presidency College, Calcutta, and a First in the only exam he took while spending a year at Cambridge, with an added distinction of an Exhibition from King\u2019s College. College Years\u2003|\u2003111","Knowledge of all this would have cast an impossible burden of expectation on me, knowledge which my father gently and consciously withheld. But since both, he and Uncle Mohit had achieved their \u201cfirst-class firsts\u201d in History, which came to be known as the \u2018family subject\u2019, I, not unnaturally, aspired to achieve a \u201cFirst\u201d. My father took the trouble of visiting the College and meeting members of the staff teaching History. He told me later, that they were of the view that I possessed what was necessary to achieve a First, but that in the Arts examinations, there was always an element of doubt. I don\u2019t know whether what they expressed reflected what they felt, or whether they were just being diplomatic and polite, with a doting father. However, as the good old saying, \u201cbe that as it may\u201d goes, I was reasonably confident of managing a First, with luck, particularly as I managed to regularly get A-, A, and occasional A+ in my tutorial essays. As it turned out, I got only a middling Second, and Karti Sandilya, the other student in our batch who was expected to get a First, got a Third. This news was for me, frankly shattering. I was consoled by a letter from my Uncle Dunda (Surojit, supposed to be the most brilliant of the brothers), who wrote that it was right that I should be feeling upset and that I should never reconcile myself to second-class outcomes. I have dwelt on an examination setback at length, because, for almost all of my father\u2019s brothers, examination results occupied a pre-eminent place in their assessment of people; and after my father was no more, their opinion, counted for me, a great deal. A greater disappointment awaited me in Cambridge. 112\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","Fortunately for me, the formative years of my career were spent in Madhya Pradesh, where no one had heard of Pratap (Bundle) Sen, far less of the other Sens; I, therefore, developed with my colleagues, comparison with whom, I felt I did not fare too badly. Looking back, over the years, I have acquired the conviction that distinction in examinations is only one component of a man\u2019s success in life. Incidentally, Karti went on to have an extremely successful career in the Foreign Service and the Asian Development Bank. Strangely everyone in our motley gang managed to do reasonably well in life\u2014Bambi and Baba ascending the heights in the corporate world, Karti joining the Foreign Service, Neel the WHO, Pluto and me, the IAS, and Teji making his millions in Canada and India, enabling him subsequently to relish the delights of living in palatial properties in Shimla and Delhi. The Doscos were a shade more successful in life\u2014Roshan going on to pursue a career in acting in England, Inderjit Badhwar excelling The Cafe College Years\u2003|\u2003113","in journalism, and heading India Today, besides occupying other positions of distinction, Aftab\u2019s achievements have already been referred to, and flamboyant Romi going on to become an extremely creative Accounts Executive in Hindustan Thompson, simultaneously being cast very much centre-stage, nationally, as a result of an old and genuine friendship with Rajiv Gandhi. Stephanians of my time normally recall the sheer enjoyment of the times shared; high on the list Kooler Talk being, the fares served in the Cafe, most notably scrambled eggs and mince, made famous by Dolly and Shelly, Kooler Talk, and the ceremonials around a \u201cPalaeolithic\u201d monument on the Ridge. Also etched in the minds of those who participated were the keenly contested Cricket matches with Hindu College, resembling medieval jousting tournaments\u2014our version of the Oxford-Cambridge Boat Race, the Debates-most notably the prestigious \u2018Mukarji Memorial\u2019, the Shakespeare Society, the annual play of which became one of Delhi\u2019s cultural events of the Season, the excitement of the late evening sessions of the Informal Discussion Group (IDG) where during the question-answer sessions, the young flexed their mental faculties as they sparred with well-established intellectuals, delivering the talks. I was told that one evening, the IDG was being addressed by my Uncle Mohit, (then a senior member of the Communist Party of India). As he 114\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","began attacking capitalists, he was asked by a student: \u201cDon\u2019t you believe in following Jesus Christ\u2019s advice of \u2018turning the other cheek\u2019?\u201d Mohit\u2019s response: \u201cI also happen The Informal Discussion Group (IDG) to have read the Bible my friend and would like to remind you of the episode of Jesus throwing the money lenders out of the Temple.\u201d This brought the House down. Delhi University had its share of outstanding guest speakers. I recall attending several lectures by Krishna Menon, whose intellect and sense of humour were legendary, and who never disappointed. One particularly poignant memory is, after the debacle with the Chinese, Prime Minister Nehru came to address the students, and when the audience showed signs of being restive, he remarked, with anguish that was transparent and innocent, \u201cI have come all the way to share my thoughts with you, and you don\u2019t have the interest or the patience to listen?\u201d And then there was the memorable address delivered by Krishna Menon after he was sacked as Defence Minister, being held responsible for the setback the country suffered. He spoke for hours, while the audience listened in pin-drop silence, recounting detail after detail, of the relations that Britain, and later, India, had with China, which College Years\u2003|\u2003115","commenced with what he described as, \u201cFrancis Younghusband sauntering into Tibet, and forgetting to return\u201d. And then, after receiving a standing ovation, his concluding announcement, tinged with nobility, was, \u201cGentleman, there is one person around whom all of us should rally, and that is the Prime Minister\u201d. Plays staged by the Shakespeare Society were memorable. On one occasion my aunt, Tara Ali Baig, recounted her Jewish hairdresser having tears in her eyes when speaking A play by the Shakespeare Society of Zahid Baig\u2019s performance as Shylock; and I can never, ever forget Roshan Seth\u2019s moving lament as Lear, after the death of Cordelia. It is also true College was unique in Delhi University in having a system of tutorials; \u2014one to one\u2014where often much was exchanged and imbibed beyond discussions on the tutorial presented\u2014as well as the strong presence of Christian values, the most notable of which were a sense of fairness and respect for the equality of all beings\u2014 something practiced by most members of the teaching staff, most of whom were not Christians. There was also no trace of sectarianism and casteism; in place of which, there was a strong presence of innate egalitarianism and uncompromising secularism. 116\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","If one were to attempt to sum up the \u201cStephanian experience\u201d it would be to excel in producing, what was the Anglo-Saxon ideal of those times\u2014the \u201cgifted amateur\u201d. The Stephanians\u2019 conviction was, that since they were dwija \u2014the twice-born, the select, the elect, everything had to come easily. And come easily these did, due to innate talent, family backgrounds, and the name and fame of Stephen\u2019s\u2019, and a link between public schools and hallowed foreign universities. This was a recipe bound to succeed in 1959. Finally, very frankly, College was more of a pleasant experience than an enriching one. After my second year at College, my father left me with my Uncle Mohit, who was sharing a North Avenue MP\u2019s flat with others. In one of his letters, my father wrote: I am happy that you are with Mohit at 33 North Avenue. Living within his immediate influence will be a great experience and I am sure that you will be just that little different for it, for many years. Mohit has great humanity and there is about everything he does and says and thinks, a noble consistency. I think you will find it easier to study at No 33 and that you will live in the republic of letters. Make the most of these opportunities. Uncle Mohit recalled, these days thus: Till he came to Delhi he wanted his son, Buntu (Probir) to stay with me\u2026 I wondered whether Buntu would be able to adjust, coming as he did from a public school\u2026 and Burmah Shell background of luxury\u2026. Buntu adjusted very well\u2026 He became a part of our semi-commune type of life\u2026. We were all busy in our own ways and we got along well\u2026. Those were happy days and as happens we thought they would never end. College Years\u2003|\u2003117","So began our relationship. But very soon a great tragedy struck. As I mentioned earlier, my father had gone to Calcutta to spend a holiday with his brothers, when he had a heart attack and passed away. He was only 41. His death shattered so many, in particular Uncle Mohit, who wrote: I still do not know why should so resplendent a person, giving so much and with so much more to give, just be wiped out in a moment? It is, of course, fine to know that he is remembered. But life is greater than memory, however golden. Bundle among all the persons I have known wanted to live, and certainly deserved to live. Even after more than five decades have passed since his death, his presence has not dimmed. He continues as very few others, to be a part of my life, of its joy and sorrow, both. Nevertheless, death is final and puts people beyond recall, no matter the strength of remembrance. Bundle, dear Bundle, has gone, not into oblivion but, gone forever.\u201d In the days of bewildering grief some people tried hard and managed to reach me and pull me back from futility. Vanity of vanities, all is vanity, Bundle\u2019s death proclaimed. What is the use of striving, at a personal level when in one blow suddenly all can perish? Right by my side was Buntu whose grief was no less. I was something that my father had left to Uncle Mohit, so he saw in me a charge, someone whom he would have to nurture into manhood. This he did constantly, persistently, and with all the intensity, sincerity and love that only he could summon. Our relationship assumed many new dimensions, deepened, and became for me, precious beyond words. 118\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","After returning to Delhi, we shifted from North Avenue to Nizamuddin East. The flat was shared with Raza and N L Dhar. Raza was quiet and kept mainly to himself; Dharsaheb was a voracious, almost compulsive reader, whose occasional responses to attempts at conversation were almost always, sardonic. Uncle Mohit began his \u201cmanagement\u201d of his nephew. He had previous experience, having, in his teens, run the house in Calcutta, when his mother was crippled, and his father, who was immensely physically powerful earlier became frail and ailing after several heart attacks. He brought up his two younger brothers, Goalie and Dunda. This was part of the family folklore I grew up with, so I willingly acquiesced to the regimen he charted. The only luxury was my Lambretta. As mentioned earlier, when there was a debate on whether I should have a scooter to commute to college, he argued for it, with the logic that it would enable more time for studies. However, after arrival, since I was all of 17, it facilitated, quite naturally, a variety of other pursuits as well! As I wrote, that was the only luxury. He and I (more often he) drew up a routine. This included exercise, study, commuting, studying, rest, studying, half an hour to search for or spend time with, girlfriends, studying, eating, studying, reading, studying, and sleep. It was, however, not quite so dreadful, since he was most often not there, and when he was, he also occasionally, willingly, turned a Nelson\u2019s eye. But the experience was wholesome, rather like the routine of a boxer or a student of the classical arts, under a superb coach or guru. Living with some measure of austerity was also good for the soul; the atmosphere was almost monastic. College Years\u2003|\u2003119","Spending so much time with him resulted in my feeling more at ease in his presence, since previously he was for me only a legend, and the young are scarcely ever comfortable with legends. He saw his next task as getting me into King\u2019s College Cambridge. He wrote to all he knew intimately\u2014 his tutors John Saltmarsh and Christopher Morris, The long corridor-verandah his friend the legendry historian Eric Hobsbawm, E. M. Forster, I G Patel the distinguished economist, and others. His efforts bore success, and when I was in Calcutta on a holiday, I got a letter from Saltmarsh stating that, after many exchanges of many letters, he was happy to inform me that King\u2019s would be welcoming me. The letter was on parchment stationery and Saltmarsh\u2019s signature was calligraphic. It had the flavour of what was for me, the \u2018Promised Land\u2019, and I was ecstatic. I proceeded to Hyderabad to spend time with Uncle Mohit and Aunty Vanaja before I set sail. There was a lot of love and attention, and before I left, they gave me a book on Indian Art, on which Uncle Mohit inscribed: \u2018\u2019Buntu, To whom Cambridge is choice\u2019\u2019. He had, before this given me by word and deed, a glimpse of what the Greeks called \u2018the good life.\u2019 No one could have prepared me better. 120\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","VI England and Cambridge","L eaving India was one great rush, so my memories of departure are hazy; what remains crystal clear are my thoughts and feelings on reaching England. It was a bright, sunny day, and as the aircraft circuited before descent, gazing from my window, I was pleasantly surprised at the sights of long stretches of green. At Heathrow airport, I was met by a chauffeur in uniform, sent by the Roses. To introduce the Roses: Previously in Burmah-Shell, India, Philip Rose was now a Director of Shell, U.K. Both he and his lovely wife, Leonie, were friends of my parents in Bombay, so my mother wrote to them, requesting that they look after me while I was in England. Philip Rose, the quintessential This they did to an extent unimaginable, Englishman and they treated me, nothing less than they would, the son they never had. They will occupy much of this chapter, as they did much of my life, during my years abroad. As the car spread through the streets of London, I was struck by the gleam of the traffic and buildings. In my mind\u2019s eye, probably drawn from the literature I had grown up reading, I had always pictured London as grey, gloomy, wet, and fog-bound, so gliding past buildings and cars bathed in sunlight, all appearing spanking new, uplifted one\u2019s spirits enormously. The air was, of course, pure and bracing. 122\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","We finally reached a pub on the Thames, where I was welcomed warmly by my Uncles Potla (N P Sen) and Dunda (Surojit Sen), with Philip Rose (whom I shall henceforth refer to as \u201cUncle Philip\u201d), all dapperly turned out\u2014Uncle Potla and Uncle Philip in blazers and Uncle Dunda in a traditional Harris tweed jacket\u2014beer mugs in hand with broad welcoming smiles\u2014it all seemed joyously unreal. Warm embraces accompanied by a great deal of laughter, backslapping, and good cheer. Lager and Bitters downed; we went in for a steaming hot pub lunch. London could not have been more welcoming. After lunch Uncle Philip took me to their home, which was to become my home, for the next several years\u2014a delightful, quaint, period cottage, at Hampstead, practically abutting its historic Heath. As one entered, one descended a few steps down to the dining and drawing room, followed by a few steps up, to the bedrooms; wooden flooring all the way, adding to the charm. I was greeted by a warm embrace from Aunt Leonie, perfectly groomed, (something constant with her) with silver- grey hair adding a touch of regal dignity, Uncle Philip, smilingly looking on\u2014he of medium height and stocky build, wide forehead, and Uncle Philip and Aunty Leonie England and Cambridge\u2003|\u2003123","curly hair, with a broad, ruddy face reflecting good living and a pipe completing the picture; he did in some way remind me of my father. Also sniffing around was their much-loved French bulldog, Mr. Pickwick. I was shown up to my room, which though small, had all of what one may require, by way of comfort, made cosy by central heating, a few carefully selected, interesting books, and a luxurious, inviting, eiderdown, with an electric blanket below. After brief unpacking, I sank into the bed, lost to the world, till it was announced that tea was served. Hot tea, toasted sandwiches, followed by a brief walk on the Heath, with Uncle Philip and Mr. Pickwick, to restore one\u2019s appetite, with a choice of Sherry or Scotch at home, welcoming one back. After a couple of generous pegs, we moved to the table for a sumptuous offering of an excellent roast, with potatoes in jackets, vegetables, and cranberry sauce, accompanied by excellent white wine. Pudding was followed by liqueur and coffee. One was to discover, to one\u2019s delight, that such meals were standard fare in the Rose household, Uncle Philip being both a connoisseur of wines, as well as being a gourmet, and Aunt Leonie, an outstanding cook. Uncle Philip was an excellent raconteur, with an easy sense of humour and Aunt Leonie\u2019s ways were very caring; so, meals were both lively and enjoyable, something always to be looked forward to. It did not take me more than a few hours to feel completely at home, and very, very welcome. The Roses like all good British hosts had mastered the art of making guests welcome and cared for, whilst at the same time leaving both 124\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","their guests as well as themselves Wikimedia Commons plenty of time to do whatever each wished to. Basics were taken care of\u2014 heating, warm clothing, material for reading\u2014but there was no fussing. I was presented excellent guidebooks and a tube map, adequate currency and told to explore London by the day and join the Roses, in time for the evening constitutional on the Heath. At sundown, Uncle Philip prepared two pipes with his expertly mixed tobacco, poured generous pegs of Scotch into two gleaming crystal Alistair Cooke\u2019s Letter from America was a weekly radio series broadcast glasses, after which we settled down for a game of chess. on BBC Another pleasant ritual was tuning Wikimedia Commons in on the radio to listen to Alistair Cooke\u2019s weekly \u201cLetter from America\u201d broadcasts. Once or twice a week Uncle Philip drove us for meals to town. We sampled the famous Roast of Simpson\u2019s-on-the Strand, where the Carver was ceremoniously handed over a tip of sixpence, pubs that were specially chosen for their atmosphere, and a meal at the legendary 19th century Reform Club, where the staff knew the exact preference of each Simpson\u2019s-on-the Strand England and Cambridge\u2003|\u2003125","member\u2019s drink, as well as the intervals, after which he required replenishment, and if you occasionally used its rooms, at what temperature you liked your bathwater ! Once or twice a month one went to a concert at the Festival Hall or watched a good play. Wikimedia Commons Visits to the theatre had their accompanying rituals: one dressed up, and had a quick drink at the theatre bar, another couple during the interval when discussions on the playwright and the play were initiated and resumed over dinner at a nearby restaurant. The Reform Club I tried to repeat these experiences when I revisited London, during an official tour in the 1990s, but somewhere the magic had disappeared\u2014 I had changed, London had changed, but most importantly, the Roses\u2014with their style, \u00e9lan, and savoir-faire, were no longer there, As I mentioned, Uncle Philip was full of stories, which he recounted in a style all his own. I was fascinated most by those relating to India. The British in India were known for their capacity to tolerate idiosyncratic behaviour in those, accomplished, who worked for them. The Roses had a butler called Moses who used to devote a great deal of care and attention to preparing the daily hisaabs (accounts). 126\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","According to Uncle Philip, however, much of the advance given were, the hisaabs of Moses would invariably show, as what Moses termed a \u201cDue it\u201d (i.e., money owed to him). In those days there was Prohibition in Bombay, so once or twice a month, Uncle Philip and friends would drive down to Juhu to pick up cases of smuggled whisky. Uncle Philip recounted that, on one occasion, he got a dozen empty scotch bottles filled with tea and placed them in the boot of the car, the smuggled whisky he bought, being placed, under the seats. At the barrier, the Police asked him to open the boot, and after they discovered the bottles, announced that these would be confiscated, hoping in all probability for a bribe. However, to their surprise, Uncle Philip sorrowfully handed the bottles over to them; and then shot off to Malabar Hill, when, on reaching home, he handed over the precious booty safely under the seats, to Moses. Adventure over, following a hot bath Uncle Philip, after taking the glasses out, and polishing them, asked Aunt Leonie for the treasured scotch, to be informed that the contents of all the bottles were poured into the kitchen sink by Moses, muttering \u201cDevils\u201d while carrying out the ritual. Amazingly Moses survived and was not only retained; but given due respect. Decades later, when I was at their cottage in England, I found that Uncle Philip kept a close watch over the cost of living in Bombay, to adjust the monthly pension he sent his beloved Moses. Though Uncle Philip was considered, with Bobby Kooka of Air India, as one of the two marketing geniuses of India, he shrugged this off with the declaration that anglicized India was \u201ca paradise for mediocrity\u201d. England and Cambridge\u2003|\u2003127","Creative Commons - Share Alike He coined two memorable slogans for Burmah- Shell: \u201cBurmah Shell in India\u2019s Life and Part of It\u201d and \u201cYou can be Sure of Shell.\u201d To one of these, there is an interesting story. The prime hoarding in Bombay, the one across Marine Drive, was hired by Caltex, the rival oil company, for one of their campaigns. Every day there was a fresh, large bold The iconic tagline announcement,\u201d Monsoons due in... days.\u201d When an embarrassing \u201c0\u201d was reached and the Indian monsoons, unpredictable as ever, failed to oblige, Uncle Philip hired the hoarding and put up the declaration: \u201cMonsoon or no Monsoon, You can be Sure of Shell.\u201d Sadly, by the time I reached England advertising had lost all subtlety in exposition; what did succeed, were advertisements like those of a competing oil company. \u201cWe put a tiger in your tank.\u201d So, Shell kicked Uncle Philip upstairs, with a room in the iconic Shell Centre, overlooking the Thames, with a splendid view of the Houses of Parliament across the river, but with practically no work. Disciplined as always, Uncle entered the premises, punctually on time, dressed in a three -piece suit and a bowler hat, return the greetings of the Porter and proceed up to his room. He was equally punctual in departing, \u201cleaving no arrears of work\u201d! 128\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","After spending a week with the Roses in London, I took the train to Wikimedia Commons Cambridge. As I mentioned in the last chapter, because my father and Uncle Mohit went to King\u2019s College and left outstanding reputations, I was admitted to this most intellectual of Cambridge\u2019s colleges, without a great deal Punters on the Backs of effort. Wherever one travelled in England, on being asked where one was studying, the reply \u201cCambridge\u201d always elicited a raised eyebrow, and when asked \u201cwhich College\u201d, the reply \u201cKing\u2019s\u201d never failed to merit yet another raised eyebrow ! On arrival I was warmly welcomed by my father\u2019s tutor, John Saltmarsh, who told me, that keeping in mind I was from India, he had made special efforts to have me lodged at the \u201cGarden Hostel,\u201d across the river\u2014a totally modern building, with large rooms, central heating rising from the floors and sunlight streaming in through large glazed windows, the room itself resembling a luxurious suite of a first-class hotel. Entering I saw the table strewn with invitations of all shapes and sizes, welcoming one and inviting one to join this Society or that, a pleasant change from being ragged as a \u201cFresher\u201d at Stephen\u2019s! Reproduced below is an extract from a letter I wrote to my old Principal, Jack Gibson, on my arrival at King\u2019s: England and Cambridge\u2003|\u2003129","Creative Commons - Share Alike Here I am in the finest university in the world, thanks to my father and you. Term opened with a burst of October sunshine and both the city on its riverbanks and the surrounding countryside looked especially lovely in the cold brilliant autumn light. Cambridge has a powerful atmosphere of place and I do not think I shall ever again feel life with such pristine clarity and freshness. Here indeed is the perfect union of Nature and Man. Standing on the solemn, perfect structure that is King\u2019s Chapel, I felt I was born again... The perfect structure of King\u2019s Chapel I have a lovely room and have brought a gramophone. King\u2019s has a very fine record library and I spend many hours surrounded by the soothing sounds of music. My taste for classical music, first acquired at Mayo, has grown with the years and though I do not claim to understand much, music has become a major part of my life...\u201d My first invitation was to have tea with Saltmarsh in his suite of rooms. A crop of white hair leading to long grey side whiskers, thick set, but with an ever so gentle tone, he looked, every inch, a character straight out of Dickens. A brilliant student, he was elected as a Fellow at the age of 22, but his first love and passion was the magnificent Chapel of King\u2019s College, which he researched on as well as continuously and lovingly guiding visitors around. John Saltmarsh 130\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","My thoughts went back to what my father had written during his visit to London and Cambridge in 1959: From London: This week end I go to Cambridge and you will be glad to hear that my Supervisor of Studies, Mr. Saltmarsh, who is now Vice Provost of King\u2019s, has invited me to dine with the Provost of Kings at the High Table \u2014 Quite a distinction. I shall spend a night as a guest of the College and another night at Trinity College \u2014 It should be very interesting. And after his arrival at King\u2019s: It is a great joy to write to you from this address. How calm and beautiful this place is and the world of learning seems detached, filled with a disinterested passion and very far away from money, petty ambition and all the smallness of the universe of business and everyday life. I am in Cambridge for two nights and already feel considerably different. Of course, the weather helps \u2014 it is gloriously sunny. Last night was taken to dinner at the High Table with the Fellows of Kings, men of learning and some of great distinction. We walked in procession through the great dining hall \u2013 I was at the lead, as a college Guest, with the Vice Provost. The students stood up as we entered and the Head Scholar recited \u201cGrace\u201d in Latin. It took me back 21 years and as the sonorous Latin words rolled out, I felt I was, once again an undergraduate at King\u2019s, eager, young, and restless. An age ago...\u201d Of course, this vision of Cambridge and its dons was, as was often the case of much of what my father conveyed in his letters to me, very idealistic. Years later, reading C P Snow\u2019s The Masters, one had a glimpse of life in a Cambridge College that was very different. A few days later we were invited to an introductory address by the Provost of King\u2019s, Noel Annan. Noel Gilroy Annan, Baron Annan, was elected to a Fellowship in absentia at the age of 28 in 1944. He reigned over King\u2019s as its Provost from 1956 to 1966, lecturing in Politics at the University. England and Cambridge\u2003|\u2003131","What was most memorable of what he said was, that Cambridge was perhaps the first, and the last time in one\u2019s life, when one could involve oneself in a wide variety of things, or nothing at all, and even if one chose to do nothing, one did not fail, but the loss was all one\u2019s own. He also spoke of the primacy given by King\u2019s to \u201cthe intellect\u201d. We were then taken to \u201cHall,\u201d Annan introducing persons whose portraits adorned its walls, which included John Maynard Keynes, and, somewhat unusually, Annan himself! I carried with me a letter of introduction from my Uncle Mohit to the living legend, E M Forster, with whom he exchanged letters over the years. A few days after I delivered the letter, we crossed each other close to the bridge over the Cam; stopping to look at me with a twinkle in his eyes, and a smile on his lips, Forster asked me, \u201cDo you find the natives here friendly?\u201d The legendary E M Forster There are two other stories relating to Forster that are worth recounting, one which was told to me, and the other which I was witness to. The first related to an American producer of films, wealthy but thoroughly illiterate, who was advised by a friend that the novel, A Passage to India would make a film that could be a money-spinner and that he should write to E M Forster, making him an offer. He did so, and Forster wrote back thanking him for his compliments, but stating that, in his opinion, the book would not make a good film. 132\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","Puzzled at the response, he went back to the friend who made the suggestion, stating \u201cSay, what\u2019s wrong with this Forster guy; he turned down the offer of.... million dollars!\u201d It was then suggested that, since Forster was the greatest living novelist, he should perhaps be offered a higher amount. The American wrote back, stating that on reconsideration, he would like to double the sum offered; to which he received a negative response, similar to the one received earlier. He went back to his friend expressing astonishment at the attitude of \u201cthis Forster b... r.\u201d The friend now felt that, since Forster was the greatest English novelist, he probably expected the producer to visit him and make him an offer, personally. So, off the producer went, after seeking an appointment with Forster, across the Atlantic. Landing up at Forster\u2019s rooms at King\u2019s, he promptly announced: \u201cMr. Forster, on reading your novel again (a lie, since he hadn\u2019t read it even once), I realized what a great film it would make, and decided to seek to meet you personally, with an offer significantly higher than the last.\u201d Forster, after serving him tea, and exchanging the usual pleasantries, said finally: \u201cI still feel the novel would not make a good film.\u201d After the American billionaire stomped out of his room, Forster turned to a young friend of his, who was a silent spectator to the whole episode, and announced: \u201cThe high price of integrity!\u201d The second, which remains a gem I carry with me in my memories, was when Forster invite us to tea in his rooms. England and Cambridge\u2003|\u2003133","While we were exchanging silences, an American, yes yet another, barged in. Thereafter there flowed from the American a loud, somewhat raucous \u201cstream of unconsciousness\u201d till he stated: \u201cYou know Morgan, we were punting down the Cam today; what a pleasure it was.\u201d To which Forster broke his \u2018sanyasi-like\u2019 silence to remark: \u201cAh! that rare thing, \u2018pleasure\u2019!\u201d After which he relapsed into the silence, which he seemed most comfortable with. I carried away that remark, which has remained with me since. I didn\u2019t study much in the first year and landing up with a fairly high \u201cSecond\u201d, thought, if I put in a great deal of hard work and had a greater deal of luck, I may land myself a \u201cFirst\u201d. For a short while, I took my essays to my tutors John Saltmarsh and Arthur Hibbert. Saltmarsh was not overly impressed with what I presented, and Arthur Hibbert, ebullient and brilliant, took delight in discussing everything, other than my essays. And then, for most of the remaining period, I had Christopher Morris, who was also tutor to my Uncle Mohit. Geoffrey Christopher Morris became a Fellow of King\u2019s by dissertation, thereafter, staying with the college, till his retirement in 1971. He specialized in Tudor and Stuart constitutional history and later taught the standard course on\u00a0 political thought\u00a0 from Plato to Rousseau. He was known for his range of learning and his ability to produce a paper, with ease on any given subject. He was also noted for his interest in his students. 134\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","Christopher\u2019s rooms matched his manner\u2014comfortable, comforting, mature, and avuncular\u2014his speech-measured, clear, with a comforting drawl, and a pipe easily ensconced on one side of his mouth. Christopher, more often than not, praised what I brought, restoring in me the confidence that I could fare well in my finals. After the tutorial business was over, the conversation invariably turned to India, which he had visited a few times, trips he enjoyed, as he did his Indian friends, the most notable being Khushwant Singh. Tutorials were the distinguishing feature of the Oxbridge system, and creatively structured and developed with care and sensitivity, became the quintessential experience of these ancient universities. Christopher Morris summed it all up by a remark of his: \u201cKing\u2019s teaches students, not subjects.\u201d But tutorials could, to begin with, be daunting, regarding which lies a very interesting tale. Bhaskar (Chanu) Mitter, who presided over a dozen or so Boards\/ Committees in Calcutta in the \u2018seventies\u2019, including the company I worked for\u2014Clarion McCann\u2014being also distantly related to me, told me of his first experience of tutorials in Cambridge. He was required to present his first essay to his tutor, a don with a formidable reputation\u2014I think it was Maurice Dobb or someone equally daunting\u2014 and he was naturally quite unnerved at the prospect of his having to do so. So off Uncle Chanu went to the great library of the University that had forests of books, and shelves rising to the ceiling. Climbing up one of the stairs, he approached a shelf high up, from which he took out a slim book, bearing a little-known title. England and Cambridge\u2003|\u2003135","After reaching his room and seating himself comfortably on his leather chair, picked out, what he considered, was the most obscure chapter, and proceeded to transcribe it with care. He thereafter entered his tutor\u2019s room, armed with his recently acquired confidence. \u201cAh Bhaskar, you have brought something you wish to share with me?\u201d, his tutor announced by way of welcome. He was then offered the customary glass of sherry and waved to a chair. \u201cPlease read out what you have brought.\u201d While Bhaskar Mitter read out, the tutor, slumped comfortably in his chair, pipe in mouth, came out, every now and then, with remarks such as, \u201cThat\u2019s interesting,\u201d \u201cNice thought\u201d, \u201cWell put\u201d and so on, Bhaskar buoyed by each remark. When he finished, the tutor requested: \u201cBhaskar, would you mind climbing the stairs behind you? I think it is the third shelf from the top. And the fifth book from the left.\u201d Bhaskar\u2019s heart sank on recognizing the volume. \u201cPlease fetch that. Now please set yourself down, and open if I recall correctly, the third chapter\u201d. A further unpleasant shock of recognition! \u201cPlease read it out for me\u201d. All through this embarrassing exercise, the tutor kept making complimentary remarks, very similar to what he had made earlier. At the conclusion, the tutor, removing his pipe from his mouth, remarked, with a slight smile: \u201cBhaskar, a remarkable coincidence of ideas, would you not agree?\u201d 136\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","Attending lectures in the University was always a pleasant, and often, an exciting experience. Particularly memorable were the lectures of J H Plumb, the presiding \u201cpundit\u201d of the History of England in the eighteenth century. Short and bald, Plumb used to enter the overflowing classroom, commencing his narration with a funny story, that had the audience in splits, his lecture thereafter continuing in this vein, story after story, that had us all laughing continuously; but what was remarkable was the subterranean flow of serious history\u2014an exceptional tour de force. Very different were the classes of T G P Spear. Percival Spear lectured on the \u201cHistory of Modern India,\u201d both at Stephen\u2019s and Cambridge, but while he left behind him quite a reputation in Delhi, in Cambridge, strangely, there were few who had any interest in the subject or his lectures. In fact, what struck me at Cambridge was the complete lack of curiosity concerning India, whereas, by contrast, we Indians were well-versed in British history and culture. In my second year, I was given a room in the old building, with mullioned windows that overlooked an equally ancient, cobbled street. In my room England and Cambridge\u2003|\u2003137","I had an elderly lady \u201cGyp\u201d who did up my room and who always announced her entry with a very cheerful \u201cWhat a lovely day it is, Sir.\u201d No account of life as an undergrad at Cambridge would be complete without references to the very active life after the sun had set. There were parties galore, in many rooms, of practically all the Colleges. Whenever an Undergrad felt listless or restless, he would proceed to two institutions\u2014Addenbrookes Hospital, which had it full complement of nurses, and the \u201cInternational Centre\u201d, where all the young au pair girls from Europe congregated. There he would put up Notices that would read: \u201cParty! Party! In room.......... College\u201d. \u201cAll with birds and bottles welcome\u201d. (The entry pass was an accompanying girl and a bottle of wine) And by evening his room would be overflowing with partygoers. Sometimes, for large parties, three or more Undergrads would join, pooling their rooms; the first would be the room where overcoats were dumped, the second the \u201cparty room\u201d with drinks, music and dancing, and the last would be referred to, appropriately, as the \u201cother room\u201d! As you will have guessed, the host\/hosts would know very few of the guests. One evening, when most of the girls had slipped away, the party seemed to drag on. We were silently, somewhat sullenly, knocking back our drinks, when turning to the person beside me, I remarked: 138\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","\u201cThis is decidedly a very dull party.\u201d To which he promptly replied: \u201cI agree and wish people would leave; this is my room\u201d! Another memorable incident was when my best friend, Arun Bhatia who was at Peterhouse, told me that he had met an attractive girl and her companion, both of whom were au pairs, at the residence of a don. It was early evening, when, after throwing a couple of stones at the windows of the room in the uppermost floor, Arun called out the name of his acquaintance. The windows of the room on the floor below were opened, out of which peered a venerable, silver- haired gentleman, who remarked in a kindly tone: \u201cYoung man, I don\u2019t know your name, but if you wish to date a young lady, you must get her name correctly; it is... and not...\u201d He then proceeded to announce: \u201cBoth the young ladies, who assist us in the house, are away for the evening, but if you feel like having a cup of coffee or sharing a glass of sherry with an old man, you are most welcome.\u201d The gentleman was none other than Herbert Butterfield, Vice Chancellor of the University! For Undergrads, after sundown, the law enforcers were the \u201cCollege Porters\u201d and their accompanying \u201cBulldogs\u201d (young men selected for their athletic prowess), all three attired in tails and top hats. Their evening sport would consist of Porters proceeding to spot Undergrads in Town without gowns, and \u201cBulldogs\u201d chasing them, the final outcome depending on whether the Undergrad could out- sprint the Bulldogs, to enter his college premises. A word about the venerable institutions of \u201cCollege Porters\u201d. England and Cambridge\u2003|\u2003139","Creative Commons - Share Alike Porters reigned in \u201cPorter\u2019s Lodges\u201d at the entrance to each College, and while they addressed Undergrads with a \u201cSir,\u201d they all had complete, and ill-concealed, contempt for them. Once when I asked after a particular Porter, referring to him by name, the \u201cHead Porter,\u201d who had an uncanny resemblance to Alfred Hitchcock, declared loudly: \u201cWe do not encourage Undergraduates to address us by our surnames... (Long pause) Sir.\u201d Selwyn College, Cambridge Porters I was stung and stunned into silence. Lodge The incident weighed on, me, and so one day, when we crossed each other\u2019s paths, he in imposing full regalia\u2014three-piece suit and top hat\u2014I summoned up courage to declare my well-rehearsed piece: \u201cMr.....\u2019 I need to remind you that you are my Head Porter and not my etiquette teacher.\u201d He stiffened, lifted his nose, said nothing, and proceeded on his walk. I was secretly, more than a little pleased with my effort. A few days later I got a note from the Senior Tutor, \u201cpresenting his compliments\u201d\u2014an unmistakable \u201csummons.\u201d When we met, he asked me about the incident, which he was required to enquire into, since there was a complaint from the Head Porter. His initial concern was about whether there were any racial undertones, and when I declared there were not, he asked me to narrate the incidents. 140\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren"]