Saturday, July 11, 2009
London

While the rest of the world snoozed and had a lazy weekend lie-in, I awoke at the crack of dawn, read some more Potter, then showered, breakfasted and left my flat to catch the many buses that would take me to Wandsworth where I had an appointment with an Englishwoman who has written and researched extensively on British History in India from the 17th to the 19th centuries. Rosie lives in a very charming home overlooking a park in the beautiful hamlet of Wandsworth with her Goan husband Stanley who is also a historian and, according to her, has “written the definitive history of the Indian army”.

It amazes me that after a whole year in London, there are still some parts of it that I have never traversed. The bits south of Victoria, for instance–Battersea and Clapham and Wandsworth– are still unknown to me and in the bus today, I discovered them. Of course, the buses are the best way to see these hidden corners of the city as they take you through a maze of narrow streets lined with terraced houses whose front gardens are brimming with abundant summer foliage and scent-ridden blossoms. Jasmine is tumbling over moss-covered brick walls in an untidy disarray of fragrant blooms that grow sweeter at dusk. I have noticed that the plant we call “butterfly bush” (budeleia) in the States (and that despite so much care I have never managed to coax out of the ground or to produce a single lush flower-head) grows luxuriantly here, almost like a weed. It is seen in every hedge, its fat purple conical flower heads appearing almost as abundantly as lilacs. There are scarlet poppies growing wild along the roads and in ditches–they are truly weeds in this country– and hydrangeas have started to appear in a variety of hues. As for the hanging baskets, there must me some magic formula that causes them to explode as they do in England in a ferocious palette of primary shades as petunias flow copiously, bizzie-lizzies crowd the brim and leafy fronds of wispy ferns add to the bulk of these globular creations. I am constantly in awe of their abundance.

Rosie’s home is lovely–it is filled with the items she has purchased on her frequent trips to India–loads of Islamic artifacts from Lucknow. There is a gaddi, as was favored by the Nawabs of Awadh (formerly Oudh), covered in a sequin-laden, chiffon-like duppata. There are loads of pictures that hark back to good times in the Indian colony. The bathroom is a Cath Kidson creation–her wall paper and fabric designs are everywhere in posies of roses–in keeping with the owner’s name! The ‘Cries of London’ series of picture adorn the walls–a strange contrast, this Victorianness, with the Indianness of the black and white photos of Raj nostalgia outside.The kitchen is equally lived-in–loads of china line solid dressers, plants galore crowd around a tile-covered table. This is your typical English interior (the kind I have always adored and tried to emulate in my own decorating)… and then there is the garden with its own real apple tree laden with chartreuse fruit, some having already fallen on the lawn. I mean this is the stuff of which one reads in Enid Blyton’s books, isn’t it?–the apple tree at the bottom of the garden. And to see it in reality is rather overwhelming and I have to take a picture.

Rosie and I have a very interesting chat over a cup of coffee that she produces with some spicy samosas . Fellow academics have so much in common, not the least of which is their constant quest and delight in knowledge. She, like me, leads tours to India–her’s focusing exclusively on Raj History in the North. She shares her itinerary with me and I am intrigued to discover that there are still so many corners of India I have yet to traverse despite a lifetime spent traveling in the beloved country of my birth. I silently resolve to fill this lacuna in my wandering. She also informs me about new books about Anglo-Indian history that have just been published and promises to put me on to the authors. I am deeply indebted to her and her willingness to share her sources.

Then, I find myself saying goodbye. Stanley accompanies me to the bus stop and we chat about American colonial history in my neck of the Connecticut woods–Southport and Fairfield–what he calls “Puritan America”. He is soft spoken and I have to strain to hear him correctly. When my bus arrives, I jump on to it and several detours later–one of which takes me to Putney High Street where I find a complete set of unopened Penhaligon purse-sized scent phials in the Cancer Research Shop–I finally arrive at the National Archives at Kew.

I know the ropes here now and the systems that operate in this place–each place has different rules, but this time I am able to obtain a year-long Reader’s Ticket that gives me access to Confidential and Top Secret documents exchanged between officials on both sides–in Great Britain and in India at the time of the transfer of power. It is such fascinating information that I am enthralled and wish I could make notes about everything.

So much policy decision is becoming clear to me–the ones that prevailed with regards to repatriation of the Anglo-Indians in the UK makes absorbing reading and I realize how heavy were the odds against these people when they arrived here–and how creditable is their achievement in this country, even if slight in relation to their Indian counterparts–for they were clearly victims of racism and every attempt was made to keep them out of England and not to extend them a leg-up once they got here. Suddenly every story they shared with me about their early struggles in this country is all the more laudable. I now have a very good idea of the thesis I will create as I start to think about the writing of my book and the slant it will take as I begin to retell their oral histories.

Back home–the journey by bus took me exactly two hours–I transcribed one more interview–a rather long and very interesting one with Joe who has extremely unique views on his fifty odd years in the UK–then sat to eat my dinner while watching some nonsense on TV. I have to say that the Pakistani mangoes I bought in West Croydon are superb and tomorrow when I get to Wembley, I intend to buy myself another box–for not having had access to mangoes from the Indian sub-continent all these years while living in the States, I really do want to make the most of the opportunity I have this summer in the UK and pig out on them.