Kolkata and Assam, 2017-2018

Kolkata (or Calcutta) is not everyone’s idea of a Christmas destination. I need to explain.

The idea for the trip goes back to my maternal grandfather, James Robertson, who came from Dundee, worked his way up in the jute industry and ultimately ran a jute mill in Calcutta, over a hundred years ago. The objective is, in a way, to retrace his footsteps.

The Assam bit is an extra. It has all been organised by our very good friend, Jane Points, whose firm Points South took us to Kerala last year. Normally Jane doesn’t send her clients to anywhere she hasn’t been herself. But she mainly concentrates on the south, so this is a bit different. For some of our trip we are guinea pigs.

Getting there

First stop Dubai. We stay at the Millennium Airport Hotel, recovering with no difficulty at all from the joys of business class travel with Emirates. We make a discovery: the combination of business class, with all its fast track amenities plus, crucially, a (recovering) broken ankle, gets you speeding on a wheelchair to the front of seriously long queues – and I, the accompanying carer, trot along too. (As many of my readers know, Mary broke her ankle last summer and still prudently walks with a stick.)

Why the Dubai stopover? Not to savour the delights of Dubai, but rather to avoid night flights. I’ve decided that I don’t do night flights any more. I reckon you can get to most places without them, at the price of spending a night or two on the way, as necessary. Calcutta in one go would involve an 11-12 hour flight, which, with the five and a half hour time difference, you can’t squeeze into a day. But this way: you have a 7 hour flight to Dubai; a night in bed; and then a 4-5 hour flight to Calcutta next day. All good.

Arriving in Calcutta

We arrived in Calcutta late in the evening, to be met at the airport by our guide Paras Nath Dwevedi, easily identifiable by his trademark hat, which makes him look a bit like a cowboy.

Paras is our man from Royal India Holidays. They, in the shape of the boss Newton Singh, are Jane’s local agents. They are in charge. Indeed, Newton was on the phone to me from Delhi as we drove into town to make sure all was well.

We all have our preconceptions about Calcutta – the crowds and the poverty. As soon as we left the airport, mine started to be challenged. We sped along a six-lane dual carriageway. But when we got to the centre, or near it, the real Calcutta showed itself: dense traffic, composed of buses, taxis, rickshaws, tuktuks and, needless to say, hordes of people – though, interestingly, in contrast to my previous experience in India, no cows.

The Oberoi Hotel, where we were billeted, provides the most unbelievable contrast. It’s right on one of the main drags, now called Jawaharlal Nehru Road, formerly Chowringhee, and you approach the somewhat concealed entrance through a seething mass of humanity on the pavement outside. Then, as you pass the guards and are welcomed by the turbaned doormen, you are in a world of peace and elegance.

Orientation on Day 1

We met Paras in the morning. He is a Brahmin, originally from a village west of Calcutta, who worked for some years in Delhi and came to Calcutta 25 years ago. So he’s not a Bengali and said that he doesn’t really speak the language. He speaks his local mother tongue, as well as Hindi and of course English. Virtually all Indians are at least bilingual.

Our first destination provided a more turbulent introduction to the city than even Paras was expecting. It was the Kalighat Kali Temple with long queues of people trying to get in. Paras somehow avoided the queues, but not the people. We had to fight our way in and managed to pass a shrine where some unsuspecting goats were waiting to be sacrificed. We soon decided to fight our way out. I then read in the guidebook that up until 1835 on Friday of each week a boy was beheaded as a sacrifice to the relevant god. Maybe it was the Brits who called a halt to this . . .

By way of contrast we then went to St John’s Church, an 18th century building set in a peaceful

garden away from the multitudes. Inside it there are plaques and memorials to British residents of Bengal, including some that tell moving stories. Mary was in tears reading of a mother (called Henrietta, as it so happened) and her baby daughter who died of starvation during the siege of Lucknow in 1857.

The grounds of the church have a mausoleum to Job Charnock, the founder of the city, as well as a memorial to the infamous Black Hole of Calcutta (1756).

We had some lunch at the Indian Coffee House. This has become something of an institution and is frequented, according to the guidebook, by the local intelligentsia. Paras was able to point out the table at which Setyajit Ray, the maker of the film Pather Panchali, used to sit. Lunch for three cost Rs500 (£5). I had to check if I’d got the decimal point in the wrong place (easy to do). I hadn’t.

Paras is a fan of Mother Teresa. He told us, with some emotion, how he met her as a driver. But then, years later, he came across her again and she actually remembered the previous occasion and called him by name. (I refrained from mentioning the late Christopher Hitchens’ polemical views about her.) He took us to the so-called Mother House where she lived and where the Missionaries of Charity that she founded still has its headquarters. Paras as a Hindu was impressed by her pluralist view that, if people understood their own religion properly, religious distinctions would fall away.

For the record, we also went to one of two Jain temples, the Paresnath Temple: meticulously clean, with rich decorations covered with small glistening mirrors and coloured marble.

Day 2 in Calcutta – Christmas Eve

One of our objectives in Calcutta was to visit the prestigious Tollygunge Club, known to all as “the Tolly”. It’s a private club with, apparently, a 20-year waiting list for membership. My motive for wanting to visit is hard to explain: it’s certainly not on the normal tourist agenda – and indeed you have to be invited, or have the benefit of the kind of reciprocal arrangements available to those (not including me) who are members of its equivalents in London.

My reasons were partly a fascination for these relics of colonial times, now taken over enthusiastically by well-off Indians; and partly having heard about the club from friends. And this all links up with my original reasons for coming to Calcutta in the first place; so bear with me.

Anthony and Mayella Figgis’s daughter, Sophie, (Anthony having been at Cambridge with me) spent time in Calcutta some 30 years ago with her then boyfriend, now husband, Martin, during their gap years. Talking to them some time ago, I learnt that they had worked in a jute mill, the name of which (Titagarh) rang a very loud bell. The name was certainly connected with the jute mill that my grandfather had run all those years ago. As the jute industry had gone through such troubles, it had never occurred to me that my grandfather’s mill might still be there, and even operating. So this inspired me to do some research and eventually to come to Calcutta.

That’s just the background. But Martin and Sophie mentioned that they had met and been looked after by Anne and Bob Wright, he being President of the Tolly. Martin suggested that we look them up if they were still around. It turned out that Bob had died some years ago, but that Anne was now living in Delhi. So we couldn’t see them. But many people, including Paras, said they knew them and what wonderful people they were. For no very logical reason, it encouraged me to see the Tolly.

The next challenge was how. I thought that Allen & Overy’s contacts in India might be helpful. Indeed they were. One of the partners of Khaitan & Co (a firm A&O knows well) enthusiastically said that his parents-in-law would be delighted to invite us to the hallowed precincts of the club. And this they did, he Santosh Agrawal being a distinguished pediatrician, having done his training in Edinburgh and London. We were only able to have coffee with them and see the club briefly, but we will definitely stay in touch. Santosh and his wife Usha are delightful and interesting people.

With apologies for the fine detail of this digression, I should get back to the Tolly. It seems to be predominantly a golf club, but actually it has tennis courts, riding facilities and even a racecourse. It was apparently originally owned by the family of Tipu Sultan, the ruler of Mysore in the south of India, who was defeated by the British (with help from his neighbouring enemies) and whose family landed up in Calcutta. The main clubhouse is in fine English classical style, but is at the moment being heavily refurbished, so it’s a little difficult to appreciate the studied calm that doubtless normally prevails.

On the way back into more central Calcutta, we made a discovery, which, I apologise, involves more exploration of my grandfather’s history. I had dug out a photograph of a large house that was presumably where he and his family lived in the first decade of the 20th century. Under it is written in, I think, my grandmother’s handwriting “Judges Court Road”.

Santosh and Paras both knew where Judges Court Road was and that it was, sort of, on our way. We drove down the road, with some difficulty and, lo and behold, there, behind iron gates, at

number 11A, was a very similar house. It was difficult to see because of the gates, but I managed to convince myself that it might well have been the very house.

We admired the two famous bridges that cross the Hooghly River and link Calcutta to Howrah on the other side. The oldest, opened in 1943, is said to be the busiest in the world in terms of pedestrians, with over a million people crossing every day.

We also saw Dalhousie Square, needless to say now renamed (BBD Bagh) although Paras still uses the old name and says others do too. This allowed me to admire, and photograph, the so-called

Writers’ Building, which used to be the headquarters of the East India Company, then of the British civil service, and now of the government of West Bengal – except that it seems to be deserted. The current government have decided that they don’t like it as a place to work (probably understandably), but partly, according to Paras, because it’s red and their colour is blue. Was he pulling my leg? The new government, which took power from the communists a few years ago, is led by a lady, Mamata Banerjee, whose picture appears prominently all over the city and who is known to all as “Didi”. Blue is certainly their colour: Bright blue paint is still being liberally applied to railings, curbstones, and even buildings.

Our last sight of the day is the massive Victoria Memorial at the southern end of the large central

park called the Maidan. It looks rather like the Capitol building in Washington DC. It houses a museum, but seemed to be much too crowded to allow us realistically to see it in the time we have.

Which prompts a comment on Christmas. There we were in Hindu territory, assuming – and indeed hoping – that we might be escaping some of the worst excesses of Christmas. Not quite. Paras explained that Indians like their holidays and that they are very happy to celebrate the holidays of all the various religions. This means that Christmas is a public holiday and the streets are full of people having fun. It also means that large numbers, not including us, wear little Father Christmas red hats.

At the place where we had lunch the background music was Silent Night played over and over again – and all the waiters of course had their red Santa Claus hats on. On the following evening (Christmas Day) we planned to go to a restaurant a little way from the hotel, but Paras strongly advised against. The streets would be thronging with partygoers and would be impassable. We took his advice, but did manage to see some evidence of what he was talking about. Phenomenal crowds and bright coloured lights, mostly of Santa Claus and his reindeers – not too much evidence of the baby Jesus.

Christmas Day and the jute industry

This was the day we planned to explore the jute industry – not perhaps a normal way of spending Christmas, but fascinating.

I had tried, over the months before our visit, to make contact with – ideally – the jute mill that my grandfather had managed or been involved with. It seemed impossible to get any replies, let alone any guidance that might help identifying which mill it was. One of the names I knew from my childhood was, as already mentioned, Titagarh, but this turned out to be the name of the whole area. The best we came up with was through Jane’s local agent. Newton and Paras between them had contacted one of the mills that was still operating and had secured an invitation to visit. The mill was Kelvin Jute.

We were met at the gate by the General Manager, no less, Om Prakash Parikh. He is a somewhat lugubrious figure who smiles seldom and speaks little, but was wholly welcoming and happily showed us round. We followed the journey the material makes from its raw state until it gets turned into the heavy, course, tough cloth that gets sold for sacks and the like.

The factory looks as though it has been unchanged for all the hundred years since my grandfather or, more likely, his contemporaries worked there. Many hundred machines crank away, making a deafening, throbbing racket that must be hard to endure during a long working day.

Kelvin employs about 3,000 workers. It operates all day and all night, every day of the year,

certainly including Christmas. Working conditions seem fairly dire. There are no apparent safety precautions: each machine is manned by one or two men using bare hands and wearing no protective clothing. Needless to say, there were no women.

We were ushered up to the spartan office of the General Manager and were joined by the head of Human Resources. She, Deepika

Tripathi, is a young attractive 25-year old who speaks excellent English and was much more communicative than her boss.

Before we left, we saw the 11am change of shift take place. The departing workers were intrigued to see who these curious foreigners were. Much photography took place and our hosts were keen to get copies of the photos. We had the warm feeling that they enjoyed meeting us and showing us around. The gang of workers were also much amused by it all. I guess they don’t get descendents of Dundee jute wallahs turning up every day of the week.

After our immersion in the jute industry we went to the famous Howrah station, said to be the largest in India, possibly the universe. It has 27 platforms, populated by the seething mass of humanity that we have come to expect. But it’s all remarkably well-ordered, clean and civilised. Paras took us up to the station restaurant, somewhere we would never have thought to go, or even been able to find without him. He placed our order at the counter and, in reasonably short order, the food emerged served by waitresses wearing, of course, Santa Claus hats.

Calcutta gives every impression of being a civilised place, where people are tolerant of each other and certainly friendly to us. But there are tensions beneath the surface. There were two instances of this when we crossed to Howrah on the ferry. At the ticket office a violent fight started between two young men, broken up violently, and with some difficulty, by another. Then, as we disembarked, the seemingly placid Paras, as he was asking whether Mary, with her walking stick, could go through a different gate, got into a loud shouting match with the official in charge that almost came to blows.

I have to add, of course, that these impressions of civility and tolerance are the impressions of a tourist who only went to the relatively prosperous central areas. Off the beaten track you see poverty, with people living on the streets. But we did not see beggars, by way of contrast to my memories of Bombay some years ago.

Before we leave Calcutta, I should make a trivial confession. I can’t bring myself to call it Kolkata, as it is now officially styled. To me, trying to say it with the very slightly different pronunciation seems as pretentious as pronouncing Paris the way the French do. I was pleased to hear the locals doing much the same as me. I wish we could more readily accept that cities are called slightly different things in different languages. I sense no pressure from Italians for us to call Milan Milano – or from Austrians to call Vienna Wien.

Change of scenery

We spent a day going to the north-eastern Indian state of Assam. The idea is to see a tea estate and then a wild animal reserve, the national park of Kaziranga, famed for its one-horned rhinos.

We flew to Guwahati, the capital of Assam, which was unproblematic, and were then driven for five hours, re-introducing us to the joys and perils of Indian roads.

I say “re-introducing” as we had sampled the driving conditions a few years ago in Rajasthan. The rules of the road are the same as ours, but the practice is dramatically different . On a dual-carriageway, trucks and buses almost invariably grind along in the “fast” lane. Seriously slow vehicles such as tuktuks and even carts do follow the rules and stay in the slow lane. The result is that cars normally overtake on the inside (undertake) but also have to weave in and out, avoiding tuktuks, bicycles, handcarts, pedestrians, as well as the odd cow – which latter, of course, fails to observe any of the above rules or conventions.

The final part of the drive was not dual-carriageway and so was, if anything, more hair-raising, with people overtaking when they shouldn’t, forcing the on-coming vehicle to swerve onto the edge of the road to avoid death. It was getting dark towards the end of this exercise, making one wonder whether the trip to a tea estate was really worth it.

A note about when it gets dark in these parts. The whole of India is on one time zone and Assam is at the far eastern end of it.. The result is that it gets dark early – between 4.00 and 5.00 in the afternoon – and light early in the morning, if you happen to be awake to notice it. It does mean that you have to make the most of the morning as the afternoon quickly disappears.

Wild Mahseer – an ex-tea estate

Having banged on about the difficulties and perils of getting there, I had better say that, happily, it was worth it. Wild Mahseer is one of the calmest, most civilised places you can imagine, seemingly far away from anywhere. It is not really a tea estate, although it was once. It is surrounded by tea bushes (which you have to search out to get a glimpse of) and the main house, or bungalow as they call it, was the house of a tea planter. It is now in the hospitality business: a place for people to stay in, relax and enjoy the wild life, both animal and vegetable.

The place was taken over in 2005 by the current owners. It is run by Pashant Sahgal and his wife Rayna, as well as a Sikh, Hardev Singh, the general manager. He told us that he had been in the tea business since 1962, enabling Mary to talk about tea. Mary’s grandfather was a tea planter , possibly in Assam, and her father, having been born in Calcutta, was a tea broker. So tea is in her blood, as is jute in mine, providing another motivation to explore Assam. It turned out that Mr Singh knew Mary’s father’s firm of brokers. He also mentioned the name of a tea estate in Assam that rang a bell with Mary, making her think that indeed it must have been in Assam where her grandfather did his planting.

Pashant Sahgal had also been in tea and staged a master class in how to taste and assess the quality of different types of tea. We compared CTC tea with the “orthodox” variety. CTC means crush, tear and curl, indicating a further refinement to the standard tea making process. I found myself preferring the bog standard. Up with PG Tips!

Today the emphasis at Wild Mahseer is on the environment. We were taken round the garden by

the delightful Sangeeta, who seemed highly knowledgeable about the range of plants and spices being cultivated, but said that she has a degree in sociology and wants to do social work.

Monkeys are a delight to us, but a problem to the gardeners and conservationists. During the day you don’t see them, but as dusk approaches they invade – rhesus monkeys. You know they’ve arrived by the alarming banging on the roof of the bungalow. They jump from the trees and start playing around. Sangeeta explained that they like to dig up the plants – not to eat, just for fun. The management would love to be shot of them, but realise that it wouldn’t be consistent with their conservationist ideals. Indeed!

A word about the buildings. The main house, referred to now as the “Heritage Bungalow”, was where the tea planter lived in days gone by. It has been restored and refurbished immaculately with the objective of creating, in perhaps unrealistically lavish style, a British tea planter’s

house of a hundred years ago. You can stay there (it has three bedrooms, plus drawing room, separate sitting room, and library), although no one was when we were there. Our bungalow isn’t quite so lavish but still top quality.

Each evening we assembled round a bonfire before dinner. Which leads me to comment on the weather. Assam at this time of year is not hot, although during the day the temperature does creep up to around 25 celsius – in fact, perfect. In the evening it gets cool, making the idea of a bonfire very welcome. (I should add that Calcutta is much the same in terms of temperature, although beset by haze and, I suppose, pollution.) In general, the advice to travellers should be to forget about the shorts and summer cottons, and put in a few extra jumpers.

We only spent one full day there. Who were our fellow guests? Mostly Indians from other parts of the country, but some foreigners working in the likes of Bangalore and taking a break. No Brits.

Kaziranga National Park

Kaziranga is not too far from Wild Mahseer by Indian standards, a mere 2-3 hour drive, not particularly horrendous.

We stayed at the Diphlu River Lodge, by all accounts and certainly confirmed by our experience, one of the best places in or around the National Park. It’s on the Diphlu River, a relatively small river that feeds into the massive Brahmaputra, that itself ends up in the Ganges.

We got two pieces of exciting news on arrival. The first was that a tiger had recently killed a

cow on the other side of the river opposite the Lodge – and there it was, the dead cow but sadly not the tiger. The second was that Prince William and Catherine (aka the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge) had stayed in our very room during their tour the year before. This was evidenced by a plaque outside, with the ambiguous letters WC emblazoned on it. We had to be in the right place.

Kaziranga is home to wild animals, the most famous of which is the one-horned rhinoceros. But it also has tigers, elephants, buffalo and all kinds of exotic birds. One is warned not to expect to see a tiger. But the rhinos you can’t miss.

The Lodge, as you might expect with its royal visitors, is superb: attractive bungalows built on stilts, peaceful, overlooking the river. On arrival, they suggested we go down to the river to watch an elephant being washed. The guests were invited to participate in this, which many did. We watched from the bank, thinking it too soon to start wading in the murky water. The elephant, as it emerged, looked a healthy happy beast and we were told that it had a good relationship with its mahout.

Into the Park

Our first drive was that afternoon. We had a jeep to ourselves, driven by the knowledgeable Bablu. We saw rhinos, elephants, wild boar, buffalo, a fish eagle, a few deer (swamp deer, appropriately), and, despite Bablu’s efforts, failed to see a family of lizards. Bablu, like most guides, has an amazing ability to spot animals – at the same time as driving and, of course, talking on his mobile phone.

One problem is that the animals tend to be relatively far away. You drive along well-maintained dirt

roads, but can’t divert across the swampy grasslands to get closer. The solution is to take an elephant safari, but we were warned against this as it would be too crowded. I think the real reason is that it’s difficult for them to get slots. (We met some people who think it’s cruel to the elephants.)

First full day in the Park

During the next day there were two drives, the first in a new area to the western end of the park where the Dephlu flows into the Brahmaputra; more hilly and wooded, looking glorious in the early morning sunshine.

We had an early start, getting up at 6.00am, with thick early morning fog. You drive along in an open jeep – equipped with blankets and hot water bottles, both much needed.

As to the wild life, we saw more of the same, but got more familiar with the birds, not just little ones, but eagles – lesser spotted, fish eagles (probably the most common) and a serpent eagle that likes to dine on snakes. The other excitement was a gibbon, not easy to see in the trees. Bablu of course

spotted one. (They are apes and so closer to us than the ubiquitous monkeys.) We watched it performing its gymnastics on the branches of the tree above us.

Kaziranga rightly prides itself on the work it does protecting endangered species, particularly the rhinos. It is home to 70% of the world’s population of the one-horned variety and is apparently doing a good job in fighting the poachers. There are now about 2,400 in the park. There are also over 100 tigers; and some 1,400 elephants.

I did another drive in the afternoon, Mary taking a rest. I was happy to get much closer to one of the rhinos than we had managed to do earlier. This made me more relaxed about not doing the elephant safari, which some of the other guests thought well worth it. I was eventually put off by being told I would need to get up at 4.30 in the morning.

Last day in Kaziranga

We opted to do a river cruise rather than take another ride in the jeep. This involved going to the Brahmaputra and taking a medium-sized barge just for us, manned by three boatmen. The idea was to watch the dolphins. This you do with some difficulty. We managed to spot about half a dozen as they jump out of the water for a split second in order to dive down to get their breakfast.

We landed briefly on a sandbank in mid-river and watched one of the boatmen fishing for his lunch. He caught one eventually, which he hurled onto the sand. There, I’m afraid, it was allowed to die a lingering death. We couldn’t work out why he didn’t put it out of his misery. None of them spoke much English.

We spent the afternoon at leisure, having declined to visit a tribal village. Been there, done that – even if in other parts of India. I painted a picture, not one of my best.

A small point. I spent much effort getting some cash – needed only, frankly, to give the expected tips. I’d been assured that there would be ATMs at Kaziranga. Well, up to a point. We stopped at one on the way back from the drive, but there was a queue of well over a dozen patient individuals, so we moved on. But, alas, all the other ones on the way were closed. I had to make a special trip to another village where (happily for the various tippees) the ATM delivered the goods.

I feel I ought to add something about the fellow tourists we met both at Kaziranga and at Wild Mahseer, to give some idea of the range of people who choose to take holidays in Assam at this time of year. Almost all were Indians or Indian residents. The only exceptions I can think of were a quartet of friends from New Zealand, a couple living in Wellington (he a criminal barrister) and a male couple living in Jersey. Otherwise it was Indians all the way, although some were foreigners resident in India, such as a French family living in Bangalore, the father working for Société Générale. One Indian family was represented in strength by three generations, the grandparents living in Bombay and the leader of the pack (in technology) living off Victoria Road, London W8. Interestingly they all seemed to be speaking to each other only in English. Our best friends were a mother and daughter from Bombay, the mother working as an HR manager, the daughter still in school diligently doing her (French) homework in leisure moments. As indicated before, there were no Brits.

Finally, another general topic in Assam – the food. All good, not particularly spicy, and similar at both places. You find a row of, say, half a dozen tureens and help yourself buffet-style. It’s very easy to eat too much. Breakfast, by contrast with the main meals, is on the basic side, even at the wonderful Dephlu River Lodge. (I must stress that the comments on breakfast most certainly do not apply to the magnificent spread at the Oberoi in Calcutta, where all the food isn’t just good, it’s excellent.)

Up the Hooghly River

The final leg of our trip was a river cruise up the Hooghly. We got an immediate surprise when Paras delivered us to the quay. We saw in fron t of us a large 2-3 storey vessel with some 25 cabins; and then discovered that there were to be only six passengers, us and two other couples. The other two appeared to be Indians and we thought to ourselves that we were going to get to know them quite well during the five days of the cruise. The staff on the vessel outnumbered us by a considerable margin.

The good news revealed itself as soon as we introduced ourselves to our new friends. They turned out to be delightful and educated South Africans, living in Durban and Pietermaritzburg respectively. One couple were both lawyers in Durban; the other comprised another lawyer plus his wife a teacher. They described how they were descended from “indentured” workers imported to South Africa from southern India by our British ancestors in the mid-19th century. Being Tamils and having to make their way in an alien environment, they prospered. Happily the mother tongue of our friends was English – in fact they said they couldn’t really speak more than very basic Tamil, if that.

We were welcomed by the man in charge of the vessel, Shukanta, a very bright and competent individual who we got to know well. We also met our guide for the various places we were going to. He turned out to be pleasant but very hard to understand. Our new friends also had their difficulties, but interestingly less so. I assumed this was for two reasons: first, they may be more attuned to the Indian intonations; and secondly, they, being Hindus, were more familiar with the legends behind the places he was trying to describe. We indicated our troubles to Shukanta and he said, not to worry, he would guide us too. He was very intelligible and immensely knowledgeable on all subjects.

Chandannagar

Our first port of call was Chandannagar, originally a French settlement, destroyed by Clive in 1756, but later repopulated by the French and administered by them from Pondicherry during the years of British hegemony during the 19th century. When independence came in 1947, they hesitated and only opted to become part of India a few years later.

Could we see much French influence? Frankly, not much. There is a large church, built at the end of

the 19th century in solid, classic, European style – not particularly French.

The most obvious French item is a statue outside the house of Robert Clive’s opposite number, M Dupleix, now a museum. The statue shows Liberty holding up the flag of freedom as depicted in Delacroix’s famous painting.

In the evening we were regaled by an amazing group of Bengali dancers, we feeling embarrassed that all five of them were performing just for the six of us. The leader – a wonderfully expressive dancer – provided a conundrum: what sex was he or she? He/she had a distinctly masculine face, an apparently female physique, and seemed to perform largely as a woman. The answer was that he is male. He is training the group of definitely female dancers and is responsible for creating their elaborate and colourful costumes. He, in particular, manages by his dancing to interpret the music and the varied emotions of the stories he enacts as well as, if not better than, any dancing I’ve ever seen.

Kalna

We had to get up early for the next stop – to see some temples. Mary opted to stay in bed!

Actually, the temples were worth seeing, particularly the most beautiful called Pratapeshar, dedicated to the Lord Shiva. There was also another, Nava Kailasha, which had its curiosities. It

consists of two concentric circles of 108 mini-temples, each containing a small cylindrical stone representing a lingam. What is a lingam? One theory is that it’s a phallic symbol, which is certainly what it looks like and what I always thought the word meant. But we were told that no, it represents Shiva and his potential and energy. One could perhaps run with both theories!

Matiari

In the late afternoon we had another shore visit, this time quite different, to see the local metal workshops in the village of Matiari. We looked in at various places to see, in each case, a workman executing just one stage of the manufacture of the metal artifacts. One was a foundry, another had someone doing the polishing. The final one was where a highly skilled craftsman hammered out an elegant design of a peacock onto a small tray. Price: Rs 1,000 (£10). I couldn’t resist.

Murshidabad

This was the northernmost point of our cruise: the ancient city of Murshidabad that was the capital of Bengal in the times of the fearsome Nawab, Siraj ud-Daulah, before he was deposed and killed after the battle of Plassey in 1757.

Murshidabad is about 85% Muslim The Muslim nawabs stayed in place throughout the British times and until independence.

Our mode of transport from the boat into town was a horse and cart. Mary was reassured that the horse – quite a modest pony – was well looked after by its owner.

The main sight is the palace complex, now a museum. The palace was designed by a British architect. It looks like the British Museum, although rendered in a pastel shade of yellow. Tourists stream into it in phenomenally large numbers.

Also to be seen is the so-called Imambara, a large, two-storey building that seems only to be used for an annual Islamic prayer session. It has been a school of sorts but is now completely empty.

There is a small mausoleum in the grounds for Siraj ud-Daulah. Opinions about him vary quite dramatically. Our guide assured us that he was the best of all the nawabs. English historians are perhaps biased as he was arguably responsible for the murderous “Black Hole of Calcutta”. Lord Macaulay’s description of his indolence, cruelty, and sexual appetites is a classic. Macaulay may also have been biased; but he was at that time supported by contemporary Indian historians. It is important for a ruler to be sure who writes up the history, as Churchill once observed. The Nawab is well served by modern Indians: they regard him as one of the first freedom fighters – a view that might surprise some of his subjects as they lie in their graves.

We also went to a Jain palace and temple. It was originally built, in European style, for an 18th century nawab, but was then bought by a rich Jain family. They built the temple in the grounds. We heard about the unusual dietary requirements of the Jains: no meat of course, but also nothing that grows underground, so no potatoes, no carrots, no turmeric or ginger. They also can’t eat after dark. They have a fishery, although the fish are obviously not for eating. They are ritually buried and there are many fish motifs in the grounds.

Mayapur – the Hare Krishna centre

After Murshidabad, we turned round and started to come back to Calcutta. Our first stop was at Mayapur.

This was a big surprise – the world centre of the Hare Krishna movement. When you approach, you see from the boat an enormous dome, which looks uncannily like Brunelleschi’s dome on the cathedral in Florence. It turns out to be work-in-progress, the main component of a collection of temples, inspired by the man who started it all, Sri Prabhupada.

Up until now, we had noted the almost complete lack of white faces, even in Calcutta. But there was a surprise in store here. Many of the devotees are Europeans and Americans. A group of four of them were chanting the familiar Hare Krishna prayer in a session that continues all day and all night, as it has done since the days of Sri Prabhupada.

Shantipur

This is a town that is apparently wholly devoted to making saris. The industry consists of innumerable small workshops, each seemingly operated by one person.

We landed at what appeared to be a small village on the river bank. But no, we were told that it was just an outlying part of the large town of Shantipur, which has long been famous for its hand-woven saris.

We saw each stage. An elderly man was sitting on the ground feeding raw cotton onto spools with the aid of an ex-bicycle wheel that he was spinning round by hand. We peered into another hut to see a woman operating a hand-loom, powering it by foot. And finally, the sales hut! Yes, we happily bought our sari material in beautiful colours, even though uncertain what we’ll do with it – probably not making saris. Each piece was Rs1,600 (£16).

This was where we parted sadly from our South African friends, who were about to embark on a further leg of their tour.

When we left the village, the crowds gathered. They, particularly the children, were fascinated to see these foreigners and to have their photographs taken. A crowd of at least 50 people lined up along the bank to wave goodbye!

Bandel

Our final stop before getting back to Calcutta was the town of Bandel – to see a church.

A church was originally built here by the Portuguese. Then there was an invasion, this time not by us but by the Mughals. Then a miracle: a statue of the Virgin Mary was lost in the river; then found miraculously with her intervention. Following this, the church was built and the statue put back in position. (I may have got some of the detail wrong.) The statue is now there for all to see, beautifully and apparently freshly painted. We were assured by the sacristan, if I understood him right, that it is exactly as it was in the 17th century, with no repainting required. Verily another miracle!

Again, we were the object of much fascination. Groups of young girls, in particular, were keen to

photograph us with them. We feel we are becoming the most photographed people on the planet, although members of the Royal Family must still be maintaining their lead.

Vivada Cruises

A final word about the cruise. We certainly enjoyed it, even though, as we left the vessel, we were asked to, and did, record our views about it reasonably frankly. The boat is by no means luxurious (I think the word “luxury” was unwisely applied to our cabin). The cabin was basic and pretty small. The shower room was shabby, the water wasn’t quite hot enough and the loo didn’t flush very well. All of which was bearable if you weren’t expecting luxury.

We talked to Shukanta about it and he said that the vessel was due for a refurb of some description, though I had my doubts about whether the market could support the cost of the kind of refurbishment that would be ideal. Over to Vivada Cruises to work that one out.

The positive side of it was that the staff were excellent. Shukanta is a star and the restaurant staff were charming and immensely efficient and helpful.

There was another plus. Vivada had arranged to show a three-part documentary about the Ganges, produced by the BBC. It was brilliant, particularly the episode about the wildlife in the delta, the area known as the Sundarbans – where Vivada organise cruises . . .