Brian on the Brahmaputra

by David Fletcher

  The flight back took them over Bangladesh. From twenty thousand feet it looked very crowded. Kolkata domestic airport was also crowded, but in a different sense; it was full of people waiting for their luggage, the luggage handling system and the number of luggage carousels having been overtaken some time ago by the number of luggage-bearing arrivals. The luggage handling system was also a bit brutal; it violated the integrity of Karen’s case. Nothing was missing, but it was now in no fit state to cope with its imminent onward journey to Heathrow. This was a problem. Karen and Tim, with Sujan in attendance, would now have to report this to an airline representative. For it was the airline’s responsibility. But this meant they would have to engage with the airline’s unavoidable bureaucracy.

  While this was underway, all the other Nature-seekers were parked in their coach just outside the arrivals hall. There they enjoyed a great view of a whole army of yellow Hindustan taxis – and an example of Indian humour: a sleeping rickshaw driver being relieved of his shoes. He had taken his shoes off, not to visit a temple, but to secure some further comfort while he invested in an extended doze on his rickshaw. This allowed two of his colleagues to sneak towards him, liberate his shoes, and leave him to wake to the surprise of disappeared footwear. Unfortunately Tim and Karen returned with Sujan before he woke, so Brian was unable to establish whether the rickshaw driver, on discovering his shoeless state, thought what his friends had done was a great wheeze which he only wished he’d thought of himself or whether the shock at the loss of his prized and probably valuable possessions killed him on the spot. However, the damaged-case case had been sorted. The airline had offered about a tenth of the value of the damaged item (on the basis that a similar (looking) item could be purchased for this amount from any street vendor in Kolkata) or alternatively the prospect of a large set of forms to fill in and the outside chance that there might be a better compensation deal sometime in the future. As there were only three hours to go to dinner and Tim and Karen were aware of the plight of their colleagues on the coach, they had accepted the former offer. And the coach was now ready to make its way into the centre of the city.

  The Nature-seekers had made this same journey when they’d first arrived in India. Their trip to Assam had started with an overnight in Kolkata, and so this was the second time that they had travelled from the airport complex into the middle of “that great city”. So now there wasn’t so much a sense of shock on board the coach as a sense of horror and dismay. Kolkata unfortunately is not a great city but it is a terrible warning of what the whole world will turn into if more and more people consume more and more of its resources.

  Brian tried to see it some other way, but he just couldn’t. Kolkata was crowded, dirty, decrepit, squalid and above all desperately ugly. Even at the beginning of their route there was ugliness. This was an area where huge blocks of apartments were now being built to accommodate the upwardly mobile young of Kolkata, and whilst the individual apartments might very well be excellently appointed on the inside, from the outside the blocks themselves looked like something out of “1984”. Brian imagined Winston Smith making his way over the bleak and dreary wasteland that surrounded these buildings, wrapped up in a raincoat despite the searing Kolkata heat and wishing he was somewhere else. Not, however, in the city itself. For after this bleak “affluent” suburb comes the real Kolkata, a Kolkata of unfinished buildings, dilapidated buildings, ramshackle buildings, abandoned buildings and buildings that look like prisons. These latter are amongst the worse: squat, neglected blocks of apartments with balconies protected from the attentions of the ubiquitous house crows by heavy lattice metal work or concrete screening – which must make their interiors studies in stifling claustrophobia. Brian could not imagine spending a day in them let alone a lifetime. Nor could he live with the rubbish dumps, the ever-present litter, the filthy open urinals, the starving “sacred” cows, the wretched looking dogs, the wretched looking beggars – and the constant noise and the constant demented traffic… For as in Jorhat and Guhawati, vehicles in Kolkata are all driven as if they are trying to outrun a tsunami and as if there is some prize to be had for whoever first wears out his horn. Brian even wondered whether there was a driving test system in India, and if there was, whether to pass the test one had only to demonstrate a competence in horn-craft, and in particular an ability to sound a horn at least ten times per minute whether it was warranted or not.

  Life is lived on the roads of Kolkata – on its pavements and in its vehicles – and in such a manic and congested manner that Brian knew he could never cope with it. Such a frenetic existence in the midst of such unremitting ugliness would be simply intolerable, and for once he was unequivocal and unforgiving in his views. Whether Mumbai and Delhi and other Indian cities were quite like this place he did not know. But as far as Kolkata was concerned, it was one of the most horrible and most distressing places he had ever visited. He had seen poverty before all over the world, and neglect and “unpleasantness”, but he had never before seen anything quite like this place, and never anywhere that was so unbelievably ugly. It made him feel so thoroughly dismayed that he hardly noticed the risk to his own life in the rush of traffic – held at bay only by a super-sized helping of that magical new dimension. Had he thought about it more, he may have concluded that this agent of salvation was the only thing in Kolkata that was either magical or new – or that seemed to work as was intended.

  That conclusion, however, would not have been accurate. It would have ignored the Oberoi Grand Hotel. This was the Nature-seekers’ destination and the hotel in which they had spent their first night in India. It was in the very middle of Kolkata, it had been built by the British in the Nineteenth Century, and whilst therefore not new, it was magical in the extreme and it worked not only as a grand hotel should work but as a great hotel should work.

  It was a five-star establishment and the best place to stay in Kolkata by a long way. It had not been the original choice for the Nature-seekers, but after the attack on the hotels in Mumbai, one of which was its sister hotel, the Oberoi Trident, it had clearly experienced a dramatic fall in its own bookings. Hence a deal had been secured that meant that the twenty-three Nature-seekers could rest their weary heads in its sumptuous surroundings for presumably the same cost as that of their more modest initial hostelry. Furthermore they had to share the hotel’s three hundred rooms with no more than twenty other guests. The Oberoi, despite its obvious attractions, was being avoided. Maybe after the national elections and when the Mumbai attack had become a distant recollection, its business would return to normal. But for now it was virtually at the exclusive disposal of the Nature-seekers, and Brian for one couldn’t wait to get back there.

  He had to wait no longer. The coach had just pulled up to the frontage of the hotel – protected from the thoroughfare itself by a series of barriers and a squad of guards – and the Nature-seekers were now disembarking – and knew what to expect next. This was an initial greeting by more guards who were stationed behind large elaborate gates (it really was a guard-crawl today) and equipped with metal detectors that they used to check that none of the Nature-seekers was armed. This was all performed with the maximum of grace and the minimum of offence, after which the new visitors to the hotel were allowed to approach its entrance. This was across a handsome courtyard, in one corner of which was a sand-banked machine-gun post manned by two regular soldiers. The authorities were taking people’s security very seriously indeed. As was the management of the hotel. For now there were more guards and more metal detectors at the hotel entrance, more body sweeps, and now a search of hand luggage, accompanied with the same degree of charm and deference as was on display at the gate.

  And then you were in! The glass doors opened, the traffic din outside disappeared in an instant, and you were standing there in an air-conditioned sanctuary with Mendelssohn soothing your travel-weary self as you came to terms with your new surroundings. In the middle of all that ugliness out there was this haven of absolute
elegance. There were chandeliers with muslin-wrapped hangings; there were beautiful flower displays and beautiful objets d’art; there were rich carpets and intricately carved woodwork. Indeed there was everything to make you think that you had just been transported from purgatory to a rather well-appointed heaven. Even if you didn’t believe in heaven and didn’t deserve to go there if you were wrong.

  Brian bathed himself in his new situation. Opulence really wasn’t at the top of his wish list and he was still very conscious of the sea of deprivation that swirled around the outside of this establishment. In many ways it was rather obscene that such an establishment could even exist in such a place. But it did. And whether he felt decently guilty about this or whether he just cast his conscience to one side and simply enjoyed it while he could, he would not change that fact. So, no contest really.

  First up was a laze on an over-sized bed, second was a leisurely ablution in a marbled bathroom, third was a change into some respectable clothing, and then fourth was a sally forth – to the bar. Here, in what could have been the lounge of one of the more thoughtfully appointed gentlemen’s clubs in London, he and Sandra both demolished a pair of gin and tonics and chatted for the last time to those of the party who were finishing their holiday. There was now something to say to all of them, even Jim. They had spent only a few days together, but they had shared a lot. And Brian had formed an opinion of them all. Just, as he was sure, they had formed an opinion of him.

  Tim and Karen, he’d decided, were Mr Un-fashionable and Mrs Very-fashionable.

  Karen was very fashionable in every sense. She was fashionable in her choice of clothes, in her hairstyle – and indeed, in her entire demeanour. She “moved” fashionably. And she was also fashionably thoughtful and fashionably just a little bit mischievous.

  This last fashion accessory in her make-up may have been a result of her having Tim as a husband. Because here was the clear winner of the “most-unfashionable” contest on this trip – albeit not in terms of his appearance or his demeanour. No, Tim had earned this title by being the most unfashionable member of the group in terms of his character. Everything about his nature had been out of fashion for years. Because here was a man who was staid, restrained, sober, deeply honest, hardworking, diligent, careful and conscientious. This combination of qualities might have made him just a little bit dull, but they were all qualities that Brian admired greatly and qualities that in many aspects of life were now entirely passé or simply the subject of others’ derision. Fortunately, Brian thought, Tim would remain out of fashion for the rest of his life.

  Then there was Rosamunde and Judy, the heterosexual pair of ladies from the Home Counties with whom Brian had shared some time but not much and to little effect. He always thought that everybody with whom he engaged would have an impact on his life, some a significant impact and others barely an impact at all. Rosamunde was in this latter category. Whereas some people he had met had virtually bent his chassis, Rosamunde had not even put a dent in his paintwork. He was already having trouble remembering what she looked like, and all he could recollect of her as a person was that she was a physiotherapist who had met Prince Charles. Or was that Pam? No, Rosamunde hadn’t even scratched his wing mirror.

  Judy, however, had put a small chip in his windscreen. For how could he ever forget the impact of that flying pebble that was her discourse on real tennis? He would never forget it. And whilst it might not change the direction of his life, he would always be aware of it, as if out of the corner of his eye. So that every time, for the rest of his life, whenever the subject of real tennis cropped up, he would think of Judy – even though she didn’t play it herself and probably thought her husband, who played it all the time, was a bit of a saddo. Brian wondered how they reconciled their level of interest in the sport – and whether they ever admitted the existence of fantasy tennis (as played at Wimbledon). And if they did, whether they ever questioned why it was about a million times more popular than their own real variety. He suspected they conveniently ignored it.

  And so to Ron and Irene. Ron, Brian considered, was a little like a new flavour of ice cream, which initially is so tasty that you can’t get enough of it, but which soon loses its magic and leaves you desperate for just vanilla. At the beginning of the tour this most uncomplicated of individuals had been one of the more open and more affable of all the Nature-seekers and was never at a loss for something to say. He was a welcome and “easy” companion. Unfortunately, however, his ability never to be at a loss for something to say was unbounded, even when all he could assemble to say was either irrelevant, barely interesting, positively tedious or a combination of all three. And so the desire for that vanilla, somebody with a few less stories about their offspring and their holiday in Fuerteventura. That said, he was a good-hearted sort of chap. And Brian knew that if he was looking for anyone to accuse of being a bore, he might start by taking a look in a mirror. Irrelevance and tedium weren’t quite his stock in trade – but he was well aware that he would often supply them as a special offer whenever he’d run out of everything else…

  Irene was not a bore. She had less to say than Ron, but what she did have to say was often thought-provoking and revealing. She was the antithesis of a self-absorbed liberal and therefore very good company.

  The same could not be said for Pamela and Julian. Whilst they were similarly thought-provoking, the thoughts they provoked in Brian’s head were ones only of frustration and exasperation. They were the most “culturally inclined” of all those in the party. They were in their element in the temples and in the rural villages and appeared to look at every aspect of Indian life through a pair of cultural spectacles that blinded them to everything else. In particular they appeared blind to the very real and often very negative consequences of the culture that so fascinated them, and Brian was constantly bewildered by their “intellectual denial” of its detrimental impact. Many people in India were living miserable lives and much of this suffering could be laid at the door of an unreformed way of life held back from reform by traditional beliefs, the sort of beliefs that they found so “culturally stimulating”. They exemplified the very soft and very hazardous approach of many liberally minded intellectuals that pays far too much respect to the conventions of the past at the expense of the reality of the present. Brian couldn’t really dislike them; they were a very pleasant couple. But he could never empathise with their outlook on the world. It was silly and it contained within it everything that was needed to frustrate real progress and with this progress, real enlightenment and real liberation.

  No such criticism could be levelled at John and Vivien. In Brian’s mind these two were heroes. Two people who had devoted themselves to science (and to enlightenment), two people who were civilised, amiable and cogent, and two people whose intellect shone through everything they did. Indeed, in many ways, they were everything that Jerry and Edith were not…

  And that is probably all that needs to be said – or should be said – about this last pair of leavers. Except to say that Brian had now convinced himself that this Donald McGill pair really were on the wrong holiday – by mistake. He just hoped that they’d make it back to Britain without finding themselves in Mali or North Korea on the way.

  Jim would have no such problems. For all his peculiarities, he was very well organised. Most civil servants are – especially when it comes to looking after their terms of employment and their pension arrangements. In fact Brian was constantly worried that one day they’d manage to negotiate themselves not just an indefinite guaranteed income, but also an indefinite guaranteed life. That they’d all become bloody immortal. And that really would be the end…

  But now another end… The end of the group of twentythree and their trip down the Brahmaputra. Tomorrow thirteen of them would be gone and the group would be reduced to just ten – plus one other: Sujan. It would be his job to make the next few days as rewarding as the past ten, and maybe even to find for the rump of his charges, a tiger – in the killi
ng zone of the Sundarbans! It wasn’t likely. Indeed Brian thought it was no more likely than his finding a cure for coughing. His was worse, Sandra had developed a dose of her own, and all the remaining males in the party, other than Sujan, had now succumbed to the curse of “the hack”. It didn’t come with any other of the usual cold symptoms, but it didn’t need to. A constant sore throat and a dry, barking cough were quite bad enough on their own. Brian just hoped they’d all leave it behind in Kolkata.

  After all, if they did find a tiger, they wouldn’t want to scare it away…

  11.

  Hanging by its drawstring from the handle of the door was a white linen sack. Brian had known it would be there from his earlier visit to the Oberoi and that it would contain his complimentary newspaper. He collected it, walked back into his room, withdrew and discarded the newspaper and then studied the sack. It was like the drawstring sack he’d kept his pumps in at primary school. Although not exactly like it. His footwear holder from all those years ago, he thought, was made of cotton not linen, and it was a cotton printed with pale peppermint stripes and therefore lacking the monochrome elegance of the receptacle he now held.

  He considered imparting this riveting piece of personal history to his companions at the breakfast table. But he’d already told Sandra, who had been less than captivated by his tale, and he judged that Derek and Yvonne might be similarly unimpressed. Why, after all, would a retired Concorde pilot and his wife have the slightest interest in anything to do with drawstring sacks, particularly when they had on their minds an imminent trip to the Sundarbans and all that was on offer there? Furthermore, this was the first time that Brian and Sandra had Derek and Yvonne to themselves; they were normally fastened to their permanent travelling companions, Dennis and Pauline. So Brian was eager not to make a blunder and thereby prejudice his relationship with a couple with whom he would now be in close contact for the next five days. He therefore asked them about their children instead. Experience told him this was always safer ground. It was never especially interesting, but as his own contribution to the topic was normally just nodding his head in agreement at the appropriate times, it was virtually impossible to make a faux pas.