大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by Chris Comer of Stockport Libraries on behalf of Mrs B. Lees, Harold P. Lees widow, and has been added to the site with her permission. She fully understands the site鈥檚 terms and conditions.

Harold had joined the RAF and trained as a fitter. He was posted to India and described his experiences when he first visited Calcutta.

鈥淭he first time I visited Calcutta I was walking along Chowringhee, the main street, when I was startled to see a funeral鈥�.The funeral procession comprised four men walking at each corner of a plank which was balanced on their heads. On top of the plank was a dead body, surrounded by flowers but uncovered. I saw a dusky yellowing face peering hideously out of the garlands as they headed for the burning ghat鈥�

鈥淐howringhee looked like any other main thoroughfare. It had shops, hotels and restaurants down one side and a large open space called the Maidan on the other. But step off Chowringhee and walk down any side street and you saw the real Calcutta. You smelt it too. It was said that if you put your head out of a train window when you were two or three miles away you could take a sniff and announce 鈥榳e鈥檙e nearly there鈥�.鈥�

鈥淚n the narrow streets you could see the reason. Piles of rotting vegetation stacked up at every street corner and the local population chasing away the carrion crows, the kite hawks and the pi dogs鈥︹�r beggars searching for food.鈥�

鈥淲andering about or sitting on the pavements were the white sacred cows and everybody acting as though they were the elite of the city. However inconvenient they made themselves they mustn鈥檛 be disturbed. You must step off the pavement to get round them; the traffic must swerve if necessary.鈥�

鈥淏ullock carts were the popular mode of moving goods and they were usually piled high. Drawn by two bullocks, they plodded along at a steady 2 to 3 mph. Once the animals were pointed in the right direction they ambled on until stopped. The driver usually curled up on top of the goods and went to sleep. A favourite pastime of the lads was to gently take hold of the bullocks heads and swing them round in a half circle without waking the driver so that when he woke up he was heading back the way he had come from.鈥�

鈥淚f you visited one of the bazaars the first thing that hit you was the smell: a mixture of chili, turmeric, ginger, clove, hot frying fat, incense and a thousand sweaty bodies. It took a long time to get used to their trading methods. We learned it the hard way. It was a battle between the ruthless sahib and conniving stall-holder鈥︹�︹�︹��

鈥淎 friend bought himself a genuine English briar pipe. He was a keen smoker and had lost old faithful on the voyage out. He was delighted to get a replacement. He filled the bowl with tobacco and lit it when we were sitting in a cinema. Within minutes the pipe suddenly burst into flames and shot up in front of his face.鈥�

鈥淎t the other end of the scale away from the shoddy and the fraudulent was the exquisite work of craftsmen: carved ivory, intricate filligree work and beaten copper utensils.鈥�

鈥淲herever we went in India we had to listen to the song of India. Listen and dodge. This was the noise of somebody who had been chewing betel nut getting rid of a mouthful of the remains.鈥�

鈥淕etting about in India, especially in the towns, meant using the transport system that was available. Tongas were popular and they came in various guises and all sorts of conditions. A horse tonga was a two-wheeled contraption pulled by a horse that was so old and decrepit that you felt you should load the scrawny animal onto the tonga and grab the shafts yourself.鈥濃��

鈥淭hen there was the Calcutta tonga. This resembled a derelict garden shed on four wheels drawn by two horses. It was known as a flea circus because if you were foolish enough to take a ride on one you may very well come out alive with them鈥�

鈥淭he modern version of the horse tonga was the bicycle rickshaw. Depending on the age of the rickshaw wallah you proceeded at the pace of dead slow to Tour de France speed鈥�.the streets of the city teemed with them. The stamina of some of the rickshaw wallahs as they jogged along for miles if necessary would have made them good prospects for the Olympic marathon. But to take a ride through a place like Bombay or Calcutta was like teaming up with the Angel of Death. They worked on the principle that they had more right to use the thoroughfares than any other form of transport and nipped between heavy gharries and shot across the front of moving tramcars and played at silly devils with bullock carts and private cars and anything that moved鈥�

鈥淥nly those who have been fortunate enough to have seen a double jointed tramcar moving along the centre of the street would believe it possible for so many surplus bodies to claw a hold on the outside of a tram and stay there as the tramcar moved. The only place the hangers on didn鈥檛 occupy was the roof. To see that you had to travel by train鈥�

鈥淓very time a train left the station there were human beings clinging to the sides of the carriages and sitting on the roofs. The railway staff made valiant and unsuccessful attempts to knock off the surplus bodies but they were like a colony of bees around a nest. Every time one was dislodged another took his place.鈥�

鈥淭he railway complex in the big cities resembled the feeding of the five thousand. Every inch of space including the platforms was filled with people: standing, sitting, squatting, sleeping or eating. In some places meals were being cooked over a portable fire. Few of them appeared to be genuine travellers. The majority were using the station as a form of lodging because they had nowhere else to go鈥︹�︹��

鈥淭he station was like a huge open bazaar. Vendors and wallahs were everywhere. You could buy cha, cakes, fruit, buckets of water, strange looking nuts and sweetmeats, cigarettes, newspapers and betel nuts to name but a few. Some of the items for sale 鈥� you could not even begin to guess what they were.鈥�

This story is an extract from a manuscript 鈥楲augh I nearly died鈥� written by Harold P. Lees about his wartime experiences in the RAF. It has been reproduced with the permission of his widow Mrs B Lees.

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