In to the heart of the educator

I was 19 when I began to study for my Hons degree at St. Xaviers College and found that I had a ‘study mate’, an external student, doing a B.Ed(Hons) degree. She was 40. As full time kindy teacher she was unable to attend lectures. I was given the job to ‘lecturer’ her in the evenings. We spent most evenings in the front verandah going through my copious hand written notes (oh, for a laptop!). Three years later we both graduated. That lady was Phyllis Pearson…my mum.

To get some idea of her tenacity and determination I will take you back to her privileged childhood. Mum was the eldest of seven girls. Well educated and possibly spoilt. She met my dad (Alfred) when she 18 and was married at 19. I was born a year later on their first wedding anniversary. Dad worked for the railways in an administration capacity whilst mum was a housewife. We lived in Dinapore.

When the war came mum worked as a cipher operator with the army in Khagaul. I was about six when I contracted typhoid and ran dangerously high fevers. The doctors said I was unlikely to survive without Penicillin (unavailable for civilians). Mum went to the highest military authority and begged for the drug. Her persistence paid off. I lived. To bring my fever down, I was placed on a waterproof rubber sheet covered in ice – also in very short supply. Mum would jump on her bike and cycle to homes to get ice from those few who had refrigerators. She would fill up her basket and pedal furiously back to the hospital before it melted. She did this many times each day until my fever was under control. It was this tenacity and determination that would later make mum a legend in her lifetime.

The war ended and dad was transferred to Calcutta. Mum was a typical housewife surrounded by servants. We witnessed the Great Calcutta Killings and found city life fraught with problems but we settled. It was just before the 1950s when mum got the bug to become a school teacher. She was allowed to have a go as an untrained teacher in the Pratt Memorial nursery in 1948. She was befriended by Basil Manuel, our local Anglican parish priest. He was secretly in love with her but nothing would come of this until some 40 years later.

Basil encouraged mum to approach the Bishop and get a scholarship to go to England and do her teacher’s training certificate. She got her scholarship (tuition only) and went to the Derby Teachers Training College for two years. And so began her career. And so also began her desire to become a university graduate finishing with a Masters. And this is how mum and I sat together and graduated with degrees.

In 1950 she sailed to England taking my sister Penny who was about seven with her. I was horrified that I was left behind. I decided then that I was unwanted and my sister was the favourite. I am ashamed to say that I carried this hatred in me far too long.

Dad took on bachelorhood. I was in St James School and very soon the ‘goondah element’ was nurtured by resentment and abandonment.  Dad worked long hours and even took in lodgers because half his salary was destined to support mum in England for the next two years. I hated my mum but missed her unendingly.

Meanwhile mum too was in for a shock. The college had organized digs for her with a family in Derby. She was greeted by her landlady with these words…’I didn’t know you were coloured!’ Rationing in England was a way of life. You spent half your shopping time in queues clutching ration coupons to exchange for miniscule amounts of butter, sugar, milk, eggs, meat (very rare) and bread. And the ‘whites’ often pushed past the ‘coloureds’ to assert their superiority. There was no turning back. Two years later she completed her training and returned leaving behind a very tearful landlady who now adored her.

On her return the new enthusiastic English trained teacher rediscovered her Anglo-Indian roots that fell well below her new ‘blighty’ standards. Dad was still the humble hardworking bloke she left behind. Mother was now a whirling dervish. High standards with a touch of arrogance was not of our liking. Penny was a pompous 9-year old pommy upstart and I was still the grubby unwashed ‘chokra’! Mother studied my school reports and concluded that I was a dunce. I had failed every subject. My father was given a lecture for his unsupervised failures and mother took charge…of everything.

There was only one course of action – boarding school. The Himalayas were ruled out and the Deccan Plateau was chosen – Bishop Cottons in Bangalore. And so began the best years of my life. I was about 15 when I bravely undertook the long train trip from Calcutta to Bangalore via Madras. Dad was a senior officer and I travelled in a first class air-conditioned coupe. My first day in school with my posh new Sherwood Forest green blazer, white shirt, matching green tie and school cap was about to be marred. I stood proudly to attention at assembly as our names were called. When my name – Beverley Pearson- was called out there was a hushed silence: almost every head turned to look in my direction. Oh my god what was a girl doing in this boys’ school. Later I learned that the captain of the girl’s school was a Beverley Wilson.

My maternal grandmother Nina (nee Griffiths) also studied at Pratt Memorial School. Neither I or my mother realized that she would become the principal of the school where her mum is listed on the Honours Board for 1913. Coincidences continued when mum discovered that the Clewer Sisters (who also ran St. Michael’s school in Darjeeling where she was educated) were listed as earlier principals of the Pratt Memorial on a marble tablet in the school hall. Later Penny was also educated in this school. Penny went on to become a graduate teacher and also taught at the Pratt for many years

Not long after mum returned from England she was approached by Austin D’Souza (Inspector of Anglo-Indian Schools) and Loreto House to set up a Teacher’s Training College in Middleton Row. She spent the best part of the next 10 years training future teachers for our Anglo-Indian Schools. Mum was then offered principal ship of St. Thomas’ Day School. Her vision, drive and vocation turned the school from primary to full high school certificate level. Her next move was almost inevitable…Pratt Memorial School. Her association with the Pratt now goes back 70 years beginning with her mother.

Mum had big shoes to fill. Miss Lawrence and Mrs Bobb preceded her. In mum’s eyes the head of a school was not the boss.  It was being a leader with a head and a heart. Indivisible. People mattered. Over the years mum’s concern with deprived girls took precedence. She would go to great lengths to track down vulnerable girls and almost ‘steal’ them away from parents who neglected them. She would admit them as boarders and educated them free of all fees. These Anglo-Indian girls found a champion in mum. She was unashamedly biased. She fought many a battle with her governing board who felt that her generosity was going too far. Mother was a formidable opponent. Charming, beguiling, flirtatious but very focused and determined.

I remember an incident when she was told of a very poor Anglo-Indian family living in a godown was negotiating the ‘sale’ of their nine-year old daughter to a local butcher. Mum was horrified and within the hour she was on their door step and the little girl was ‘removed’ from their care and admitted as boarder to the Pratt. This girl was eventually adopted out as a teenager to an Anglo-Indian family and today she lives in London with three of her own children. This I believe is one of many such stories.

Mother Teresa’s Ashram was situated directly opposite the Pratt and mum was a great friend to Mother Teresa. She could never say no to her. No deprived child was ever denied an education.

The Pratt had an excellent reputation as an educational institution – a highly desirable place to educate daughters. Many a privileged Indian family had their daughters in this school and their fathers held top positions in Customs, Police, the Courts, Banks, Universities, Transport, Hospitals and so forth. One phone call to a high ranking father from Mrs Pearson guaranteed support or funds. When the Pratt and St James School got together to run the annual Church Education League fete everything on the stalls, prizes and catering was donated. The CEL fete was legendary and it always ended on an open-air jam session where the families got to socialize and jam session the evening away. Many a romance and liaisons were forged. I know. I met my wife at one such function.

Whilst doing research on our ancestry I discovered that mum was a (nee) Haslop but mum’s dad birth certificate said he was Albert Victor von Zulesdorf (originated from Bavaria).  He met Nina Griffiths whose family came out from Liverpool, England. So where did the Haslop bit come from? During the First World war the British in India interned anyone with a German name. Grandad was interned for about six months and as soon as he was released he promptly changed his name by deed poll to Haslop.

During my mother’s time as an educator she never stopped being involved with all aspects of teaching and governing. She was the President of the Teachers Centre St James Womens’ Fellowship and the Association of All-India Anglo-Indian schools. She was the vice president of the Church Education League and the Governor of St. Thomas’ Kidderpore, St Pauls’ Mission Church and St. Thomas’ Church School. She was also a member of the governing boards of Mt Herman Training College, St Thomas’ Day School and Laeticia’s School.

If that wasn’t enough she took on the Hony Secretary role of The Bruce Institution, European Schools Improvement Association, St James’ Pastoral Committee and the Calcutta Diocesan Board of Education. Wait there’s more. She was the Convener for the Indian School Certificate and the Indian Certificate of Secondary Education. And somewhere along this line she was a managing committee member of St Josephs’ College and the Welland-Gouldsmith. And finally she was an executive committee member of the Diocese, Calcutta Trust Association, Board of Anglo-Indian Education, Synod of North India East India Charitable Trust and St Mary’s Home and Hospital.

Mum was also an accomplished piano player with a superb soprano voice. She led the choir and was chosen along with my sister Penny (mezzo soprano) to sing a duet – Ave Maria – in St Paul’s Cathedral for Queen Elizabeth 2’ visit to India in 1961. On 14 April 1982 she was presented to the Holy Father Pope John Paul, though a staunch Anglican, she was elated.

Mum worked a 12-hour day. Dad just curled up with a book and a glass of triple-x rum. He said he preferred a book to rabble rousing committees. Books were the source of all knowledge. He read everything on comparative religions. At some stage he became a Zen Buddhist. He was fascinated by the power of being able to move objects by thought. He loved philosophical discussions about god, religion and the meaning of life. I discovered why I was named Beverley. His favourite author was a Beverley Nichols. I am grateful I was already a teenager when he became besotted by the famous Third Eye series written by Lobsang Rampa!

Back to mum. When she decided to retire mum knew that my father (who had retired a lot earlier) was hankering to visit England and perhaps get back to Norwich where his forebears started. Mum did not want to leave the Pratt. It was her life. Reluctantly she resigned and moved to England where my sister Penny and I now lived. On arrival she fortuitously met up with Rev John Pothen (ex-James Church vicar and St Paul’s Cathedral) who was now looking after a large parish in north-west London. He needed a verger and offered dad the job which came with a 2-bed cottage in the grounds. Perfect. Not so. Mum had nothing to do.

Her drive and determination was in check. England meant nothing to her. Dad told her to go back and settle her affairs. So she went home. Dad was used to being on his own but we kept a close eye on him. He thrived, catching up with his sisters and a brother. But dad’s time was up. A month after his 70^th birthday he died from a massive heart attack. Mother was heartbroken and blamed herself for not being with him. She flew back and we cremated dad. His ashes are buried in the church grounds. A Christmas tree was planted over his remains. When I last saw it, some 30 years ago, it was already 10 metres tall.

Mum had to return to her roots. Calcutta was her home and heritage. She was fiercely Anglo-Indian but proud of her Indian achievements. She went straight back in to the educational system but with lesser duties helping out at other Anglican Schools. She was ecstatically happy.

Almost 10 years went by. I had now moved to Sydney leaving London behind me as an experience, not a home.

One evening the phone rang. Mother called to get my permission to marry again. “Who, I cried out. Father Basil,’ was her reply. ‘Oh my god, yes. Why do you ask, you don’t need my permission?’ ‘I just wanted to know that you did not feel that I was turning my back on your father, she replied. And so another wheel turned full circle. She was happiest surrounded by teachers, pupils, parishioners, ayahs, cooks and her Anglo-Indian heritage.

Her short married life with Basil ended a few years later when he too died from a major heart attack. As a vicar’s wife, mum was looked after by the church and was given a small 2-bed annex apartment to St James Vicarage and was asked to look after Monica House. Mum was ‘in charge’ again and loving every moment. She was never lonely. Visitors and tourists abounded.

We’d talk on the phone and I realized how frail she was getting…and how forgetful. My sister would spend weeks with her visiting from England but I was derelict in my duties. Mum often said, please come and see me before I die, not after. Her words were almost prophetic.

To my relief my aunt Cynthia (mum’s younger widowed sister) was also spending more time in Calcutta and kept a close eye on mum. In October 2004 Cynthia rang me and said that mum was dying. She was 86. I knew then that the greatest loving influence in my life was calling. I arrived in Calcutta to find mum in intensive care. She had shrunk in to a tiny skin-and-bones Auschwitz inmate. I was horrified. I could not recognize her. I turned my back and sobbed uncontrollably. In that moment I wished I had never come to see her. I wanted so much to remember her as she was in her prime. I was overtaken by the urge to unhook her from all the tubes in her body and pick her up in my arms, take her to the car and drive her to my 5-star hotel in Park Street where she could enjoy some luxury and pampering.

I sat by her side and held her hand and said “Hi, it’s Bev”.

“Hello my son. So nice to see you” she whispered. “Is Vern (my wife) with you?” Yes I replied, she is outside. Mum never heard me. She lapsed in unconsciousness.

We spent the next week with her but visiting hours were strictly 30 mins each evening. No more than five minutes per person.  The waiting room was always full. I learned that they were all teachers and ex-pupils who waited each evening to get a glimpse of mum. I got my five minutes but mum drifted in and out of consciousness. I was unable to hold a conversation. I was destined to never know if mum knew that I had been to see her. Cynthia assured me that she knew. I am still guilt ridden that I wasn’t there when she left us three months later. Mum died peacefully in her wheelchair outside in the vicarage gardens in the warm January sun.  She had just returned from church. She slumped forward, head bowed and her indomitable spirit left her.

I know she was taken directly to heaven where she truly deserved to be.

Over 1000 people attended mum’s funeral. The entire grounds and surroundings were packed. Two bishops, two MLAs, 10 priests, dozens of teachers, ex-pupils and well wishers crowded in to St James church. The entire church was surrounded by lilacs. Every flower shop in the New Market sold out that morning. The cortege brought Lower Circular Road to a halt as it wound its way to the cemetery. The police were called and motor cycle escorts led the cortege. The children from St James and Pratt Memorial lined the footpath as a guard of honour for over three kilometers. Simultaneously the Loreto House nuns and staff held a high requiem mass for mum in Middleton Row.

At a recent World Anglo-Indian Day six champions were honoured for outstanding achievement

Msgr. Eric Barber, Phyllis Pearson-Manuel, Leslie Claudius, Neil O’Brien, Sister Marisa and Mervyn Martin.

Mum would have been beaming with pride.

By Beverley Pearson

Sydney Australia

bevern2@tpg.com.au

Author: Beverley Pearson, 73 Mackenzie Bvd.,
Seven Hills NSW 2147, Australia Tel: 02 9631 9738

Beverley David Pearson was an up-country born lad who grew up in Calcutta. Schooled as a boarder in Bangalore (Bishop Cotton) and graduated with a BA Hons degree from St. Xavier’s College in Calcutta. Started life as a school teacher in St James School and moved to The Statesman as a management trainee in ‘61. Married Verna Robinson the same year and in ‘65 migrated to London. Pursued a successful career in publishing but found England cold, crowded, cramped and expensive. Migrated again… to Sydney in ‘82 where he and his family have settled very happily. Bev has now retired having after 42 years of working but occasionally continues to work part time as a Workplace Trainer and Assessor specialising in Communications and Work Safety. He’s currently an executive member (and Vice-President) of the Anglo-Indian Association of NSW Inc

Days of cakes, ale & a free spirit

Let’s raise a toast to this festive spirit. Days of cakes, ale & a free spirit Kolkata is where the Christmas spirit lasts. With no

preservatives added.

Mix a large portion of house parties, Midnight Mass at the cathedral, jiving at Rangers Club and merry making with family.

Add pieces of shopping, club hopping, meeting friends and relatives. Put dollops of Nahoums plum cakes and puddings and a wee bit of home made Port wine. Bake it in the oven of love and let the smell of Christmas waft in the air for long. It is just the perfect recipe for a merry Christmas.

It is that time of the year once again, when the kids are back and dads and moms have dug into their cupboards to take out their best clothes. Those quaint little shift stalls at New Market are there with their colourful knick knacks and Christmas trees, rows of shops along Park Street and Free School Street are festooned with colourful streamers, silver bells, mistletoes and holly, the clubs are gearing for the Xmas bash, local churches are resonating with Christmas carols and freshly baked plum cakes at Nahoums are off the shelves in a jiffy. For, if Burradin is near, the usual festivities cannot be far behind.

Christmas is a part of Kolkata that has been preserved in the original. No preservatives have been added. None are needed. The celebrations begin, as always, right from the first week of December when church services prepare the congregation, carol singing takes place in every local parish and the weekly community newspaper, The Herald, publishes articles on Christmas to build the festive spirit, says chronicler of the Anglo-Indian community and editor of the All Parish Paper, Melvyn Brown.

“It is a special occasion and reunion for the entire family as relatives, family members and friends from all over the world return home to be together,” he said.

Despite a large exodus of these community members to Australia, New Zealand and UK for better job prospects, Christmas is one time of the year when folks from far-off make it a point to return home to the city.

“I badly needed a holiday and what better way to enjoy Xmas than to be in the city where I have spent 40 years and be amidst old friends and former theatre group members to reminisce fond memories and indulge in spontaneous laughter,” said noted theatre personality Phyllis Bose. Having shifted base to Bangalore a few years back, Bose is presently in the city to spend Christmas with friends and relatives.

“In the earlier days, Christmas festivities would begin with regular house parties where musicians were invited to play all throughout the night and there was much revelry and merry making,” recalls jazz guitarist Carlton Kitto. Whether it was the Nandalal Court on Ripon Street, Bijoy mansion and Panchkothi on Elliot Road or those famous house parties thrown by the Tomkyns, Thomsons and Vivian Hanson of Elliot Road, the entire locality along with adjoining areas would be abuzz with revellers till the wee hours of dawn.

“We did not get individual invitations but were told through common friends and every one would prepare some cake, wine or food and come over to the party,” reminisces Kitto.

Old-timers remember with fondness the weeks preceding Xmas — ladies and young ones going to Pat Boone the tailor shop, to get their skirts and natty party dresses stitched, taking a bowl full of flour, raisins and eggs to the local bakery for making home-made sweet plum cakes, stocking home-made Port wine, going shopping to Hogg Market to buy turkey, the eternal favourite plum cakes, bakhlava, kalkal and marzipan from Nahoums and almond cake from Flurys. The seranaders i.e. the group of singers who went door to door singing carols and getting cakes and money in return or the poo poo bands which ushered the festival were hugely popular.

“Though the community has become smaller and several interesting events are no longer there, yet the close knit family ties and the various events at the clubs do their bit to add sparkle during Christmas,” feels Kitto.

While clubs like Rangers Club, Graille Club and Dalhousie Institute remain all time favourites during Christmas, others clubs too host Santa parties to add to the festive spirit.

Despite club parties and nightclubs gaining popularity among revellers, Xmas day still remains a homely affair with cakes, wine and family get togethers.

Endorsing the views is 21-year-old Treasure Kitto, daughter of Carlton who says, “The highpoint of Christmas is the Midnight Mass and meeting grandparents, cousins and friends.”

“The city has still retained the real meaning of Christmas and it is still a homely affair. It has not been carried away by the commercialisation of such occasions,” adds Bose’s friend Hyacinth Malkani, an old-resident of the city.

“The city is the best place to be in Christmas since it is not just a specific community celebration but one enjoyed by people from all walks of life,” says proprietor of a popular beauty parlour and an old-resident of the city, June Tomkyns. She adds, “The Xmas bonhomie in the city has increased by leaps and bounds and the family get-togethers is something I wouldn’t like to miss for anything in the world.”

According to Bose, there is a certain reality to the season and it is not just what can be bought and given but the warm smell of the Christmas cakes and goodies, the slightly out of tune jingle bells in New Market’s centre circle, the buzz to the Christmas spirit — not frantic or superficial but of people who share and experience each other’s festivals with equal enjoyment.

For, Xmas in Kolkata is all about reliving old memories and heralding the Yuletide spirit with Lord’s message of spreading Joy to the World.

As a case in point, Phyllis Bose points out, “Just the other day, I was at New Market and I suddenly saw this familiar old toothless coolie limping towards me and greeting me saying, Memsahib has come for Christmas? He actually remembered me. Tell me, where else in the world would that happen.”

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/articleshow/372544.cms

Book Review – Mrs D’Silva’s Detective Instincts and The Shaitan of Calcutta

By:  Glen Peters

A super enjoyable read. Filled with nostalgia for those Anglo-Indian’s who loved to travel on trains, manually drawn rickshaws, and over-burdened trams. Reminiscent of “old Calcutta”. The author, Glen Peters is an Anglo-Indian, born in Allahabad and immigrated to the United Kingdom in the 1960’s. He spent his childhood in a Railway colony close to Calcutta. His recollections of the places, sights, sounds and smells bring the City to life in the telling of this story. Joan D’Silva is a young widow, she has a 10 year-old son Errol, and is the main provider for her small family. Joan lives in Calcutta, and teaches at Don Bosco’s Catholic school. The story begins with an enjoyable picnic at the shrine of Our Lady by the Hooghly near Bandle. Many of us will happily recall our Anglo-Indian picnics – rowdy, social, the singalongs, and of course the delicious food. This is the background for the horrific find made by Errol. It is the body of a young woman lying by the river bank. The victim is identified as Agnes Lal a former pupil at Don Bosco’s. She was married to Xavier Lal, a much older very unpleasant individual. The marriage had been arranged by the Nuns at Don Bosco’s, who were ignorant to the fact that Lal was homosexual. Agnes’s 2 devoted and concerned friends Philomena Thomas and Anil Sen ask Joan to help find out what happened to their friend. In the interim however, Thomas James, GKW’s factory manager is murdered during a riot and the police arrest Anil Sen and extract a signed confession from him to the crime. Joan and Philip, her close friend get involved in the investigation, while Dutta, (the culprit behind the name “shaitan”,) encourages his followers to create havoc in Calcutta. Dutta is the self-proclaimed leader of the Workers’ Revolutionary Movement. Glen Peters spins an artful tale. Enjoyment on every page, as you read about the social gatherings, the many delectable foods, the servants interchanging pleasantries with their employers. Close your eyes and your are “there”. Do not be fooled, however, because below the surface the “real Calcutta” breaks through. Overpowering with murder, thievery, prostitution, police brutality and the unending, horrendous poverty all assail the senses. The great divide of the Indian class system becomes too great for the reader to comprehend at times. Memorable individuals portraying their intelligence, and weaknesses. I loved the “believableness” in the characters. And, if you have forgotten your Anglo-Indian words, there is a glossary at the back. There are some terrific recipes on the front and back covers of the book. I must admit I tried the mouth-watering Lucknow Biryani. Mrs. D’Silva is certainly a memorable character and I personally hope that Glen Peters will continue with her in books to come. This is an India I recall from my childhood and it was wonderful to return there.

Contributed by Lynette (Lynne) Rebeiro

Yesterday once more at Trincas

In its 50th year, we revisit this Kolkata institution with Usha Uthup, who found flame here

Almost providentially, the sound system at Trincas starts playing Yesterday as Usha Uthup walks in. Today, though, all her troubles seem here to stay. She is running an hour late for all her appointments; the traffic has unnerved her further and her mobile phone won’t stop ringing. “Why can’t I be left alone?” she bristles under her breath.

It’s a question that is easier asked than answered. Everybody wants a piece of Uthup—arguably Indian’s pioneering pop singer, whose career in popdom and Bollywood playback now spans exactly 40 years; and Kolkata’s claim on her was reiterated almost physically by Uthup herself when she publicly started wearing a jumbo bindi styled on the initial letter of Kolkata’s Bengali spelling.

Old world: (above) Uthup met her husband for the first time at Trincas; and the restaurant in the mid-1970s when film stars used to frequent it. Indranil Bhoumik / Mint

During lunch hour, Trincas is only half full. The place where Uthup first made her mark as a “nightclub singer”—a title she is proud to claim—visibly eases the tension in her as she settles down with a coffee, drinking purposefully from the plate. “This is distinctly Trincas, click this!” she urges the photographer between sips. “Trincas taught me to hurry,” she says—one of the many lessons learnt there.

There are Park Street old-timers who maintain that Trincas existed as an unassuming corner deli before the 50 years that the restaurant is currently commemorating. But all agree that it is only in these five decades that Trincas—under the stewardship of two friends, Ellis Joshua and Om Prakash Puri (the Puris continue to run it)—became the original home of live pop music in India, only to fall from grace when the Naxalite movement, the exodus of corporate houses and the Anglo-Indian community from the city, a higher entertainment tax regime and changing cultural morality teamed up to dent its fortunes. “But we never stopped having live music here,” says Shashi Puri who, along with her husband Deepak and son Anand, runs Trincas these days. “Not even for a single day over all these years,” she reiterates.

“Molly was a black beauty from the Middle-East”, J.L. Wadehra, the 69-year-old general manager of Trincas, muses. “And when she sang, there used to be a queue outside the restaurant.” Since 1961, when Molly became Trincas’ first pop performer and its first star, the restaurant has seen a long list of bands and performers stopping by—somebody such as Biddu Appaiah, before he and Carl Douglas became famous with the international smash hitKung Fu Fighting and much before Disco Deewane and Made In Indiahappened, even taking a cut on his professional fee to perform seven-eight months at Trincas, according to Wadehra. “Some years back, he came back with a troupe from the UK to film at Trincas, where he had started his career with the band Trojans and later as the Lone Trojan,” recalls Wadehra.

Savages, Flintstones, Checkered Tricycle—a band that had as drummer Indian rock music veteran Nondon Bagchi—Beat Four, Benny Rozario, Toto Wallang, Eve, Jenny, Linda and Flora—they have all performed at Trincas, as has a band called The Urge, which had in its ranks a young Goutam Chattopadhyay, who later on went on to be widely acknowledged as having pioneered the concept of Bengali bands singing their originals, with his own Mohiner Ghoraguli (Mohin’s Horses).

While other Park Street restaurants had musicians such as Louis Banks, Pam Crain and Lou Majaw performing jazz, soul and rock, pop music was the reason Kolkata’s party set thronged Trincas. “It was the era of great pop music and I remember being there at Trincas as a five-year-old as my father performed Tom Jones and Engelbert Humperdinck. And of course, I remember the blow accordion that uncle Joshua had gifted me there,” remembers Toto Wallang’s son Rudy, a guitarist and founder of blues band Soulmate.

It wasn’t easy to break out of the Trincas fold: Over the years, only one singer, Jenny, got “stolen” from the restaurant by The Oberoi Grand, says Puri. Neither was it easy to break into, says Sanjay Mishra, the Kolkata-born guitarist who moved to the US and, among other albums, recorded the critically acclaimed Blue Incantation album with the legendary Grateful Dead frontman, the late Jerry Garcia. “Back in the mid-’70s, our band Mahamaya was mostly rejected at Trincas and it was difficult to get past the Anglo-Indian mafia there. Mr Joshua was the godfather,” Mishra says, laughing.

On 1 October 1969, some of the stereotypes surrounding female nightclub singers in India were shattered at Trincas. That is when a young Usha Iyer (Uthup’s maiden name) took the spotlight at the crowded restaurant, wearing a sari and flowers in her hair and singing Little Willie John’s Fever. “There I was in a cheap cotton sari and not in a gown. I wasn’t fair-skinned too, neither did I have blonde hair. After I took over at Trincas, there were more Bengali families coming, possibly because the women found it safer with me around,” says Uthup.

But in those days, a lady singer in a bar had to get a permit from Lalbazar, the police headquarters, with strict guidelines forbidding interaction with guests or soliciting. “The only person I solicited in Trincas, I went on to marry,” Uthup says, recalling her first meeting with Jani, a tea industry professional. “After my first performance, he came up to me and said in a statesman-like voice, ‘You were good tonight’. I was like ‘Oi saala, this is good’ and fell head over heels in love. He stopped coming for my shows after we got married,” she says. The familiar roar of laughter follows.

Uthup went on to do the playback for some of Bollywood’s pop hits in films such as Shaan, Shalimar, Disco Dancer, Hare Rama Hare Krishna, right up to recent releases such as Tashan and Joggers’ Park.

It all comes back to Trincas. “I had a strong bass voice and was an oddity among female singers. But Trincas accepted me whole-heartedly. It’s hallowed ground for me,” she says as younger waiters hang around her table in reverential attention, not oblivious to Uthup’s 40-year association.

But it isn’t so for everyone. No longer, at any rate. A city musician who had performed there some time back complains of an indifferent and unappreciative audience. Yet another musician talks about the constant pressure to pamper the audience with whatever’s-on-TV kind of music, even the commercial Bollywood variety.

“But Trincas has always been with the times,” reasons Nigel Gomes, bandleader of Sweet Agitation, the in-house outfit of Anglo-Indian musicians which has been a regular at Trincas for 25 years. The band’s set list says it: Alan Parsons Project, Van Halen and Bheegi Bheegi and Pehli Nazaar, all together in a marketable mix. “Our music too is in the zone. We play for the audience,” says Gomes.

Admittedly, much has changed. The Anglo-Indians, Jews, Europeans, Armenians and expats who once patronized the place have been replaced by a different set of people with a vastly different ear for music. Puri shows us old photographs of actors Dilip Kumar and Saira Banu at Trincas, and talks about Raj Kapoor and Dev Anand visiting, Vishu Mohan Wadehra, who has worked at Trincas for 40 years and is proud to have been in the frame in Satyajit Ray’s Pikoo when the film-maker shot at the restaurant, points to the window table Amitabh Bachchan used to occupy during his early days in Kolkata, before he made it big in Hindi films. Two men wearing T-shirts of a mobile telephone company occupy the table now.

The photographs also tell another story. The wide arches that once dominated the hall have been replaced by a loudly painted low ceiling. The round comfortable chairs have made way for wrought iron ones; ordinary white tiles adorn the floor where once there were carpets.

Yet, at Trincas, where the music never stopped, the photographs throw up an important element that remains unchanged: The stage continues to be where it was.

Source – http://www.livemint.com/2009/08/21222736/Yesterday-once-more-at-Trincas.html?pg=2

Train of thought

TRACKING TIME: Royapuram Railway Station Photo: The Hindu Archives

Announcements about railway vacancies appeared frequently in The Mail, an evening newspaper published in Madras and now defunct. If there were ten posts to be filled, seven would be reserved for Anglo-Indians. The Anglos justified the trust reposed in their ability. The Madras Presidency especially had many Anglo-Indian drivers who stayed at their posts in times of trouble, with scant regard for their own safety. In 1946, when I joined the Madras and South Mahratta (MSM) Railways as an ‘A’ Grade Apprentice, an engine driver named Carr made headlines for his selflessness.

When Carr pulled the W-class engine Ashoka out of the Basin Bridge loco shed, he was his usual cheerful self. Powering the Calcutta Mail, Ashoka took the eastern route. As the Mail was not booked to stop at Ongole, Carr had to read the signal, take the appropriate line and keep driving. But the fast-moving Mail came to an ear-splitting halt – but not before ramming a stationary goods train. The signaller had lowered the loop line (where the goods train stood) instead of the main line!

If not for Carr’s last-ditch effort to save passengers’ lives, the accident would have gone down as one of the worst in Railway history. Moments before the collision, he hollered to his first fireman Magee to jump to safety. As he did as he was told, Magee lived to tell the tale. Buried neck-deep in coal, the second fireman also survived. At the wheel till the last moment, Carr received the full weight of the engine on his stomach.

When top MSM officials, accompanied by a big entourage, reached the accident site, Carr was in the throes of death. As he could not be extricated from the mangled mess, Carr watched his wife and children tearfully kiss him goodbye.

Another fateful accident in Madras Presidency forced the authorities to script a monumental law that is still in currency. It occurred in 1901 and involved the Postal Express, a passenger train with two of its bogies carrying postal material. The Express left Madras for Poona (via Andhra) with a driver and two firemen who shared a surname – MacFarlene. Not a coincidence, the driver was the father and the other two, his sons. Heavy rains on the Cuddapah-Guntakal line made the journey highly precarious and the train was trotting at five miles an hour. At Mangapatnam, the station master gave the all clear, but advised the driver (Johnson MacFarlene) to travel dead slow and stop if he was not sure of what lay ahead. But the danger ahead was more than the driver’s prudence can handle — a bridge running over a water body had got washed away and MacFarlene and his two sons met a watery grave. Following this accident, a law was passed to prevent close kin working together on the same train.

Life on a steam loco’s engine cabin was far from rosy. Forget the life-threatening situations along the way, the daily routine alone was a great trial of body and spirit. To keep the train going, the team had to engage in hard manual labour for long hours. The firemen had to constantly shovel coal into the firebox, which, at 180 degrees Fahrenheit, was an inferno.

To alleviate the hardship, Anglo-Indian railwaymen made up jokes that were a common stress-buster for employees of all the private railways across the Madras Presidency — the MSM, headquartered at Royapuram; the South Indian Railways (SIR), headquartered at Egmore; the Mysore State Railways and the Nizam State Railways (these railways were merged to form the Southern Railways in 1951).

While the Anglo-Indian was essentially a happy-go-lucky soul, he took his role as a railwayman seriously. Being in the Railways was a matter of pride. This attitude was best reflected in the way Anglo-Indian workers spruced up the locomotives. Some bought Brasso out of their pocket to burnish the engines. These inanimate machines were treated like royalty.

I fell in love with the XB224-class Queen Mary, when I first saw her at the Basin Bridge loco shed. When I first worked the locomotive, my joy knew no bounds. The Queen Mary came in 1927 to serve India for 20 years, but was in service for 50 years. In 1978, three engineers came from Britain to take her back to her homeland. The Queen belonged here. And she was dear to our hearts. When she left, I cried like a baby.

As told to PRINCE FREDERICK

NOEL ANTHONY NETO. Born in 1927, Noel (‘Bully’ to his friends) was a Superfast Special ‘A’ Grade Driver. His career began in 1946, at the Royapuram-based Madras & South Mahratta Railways (MSM) as an ‘A’ Grade Apprentice. After MSM merged into Southern Railways, he rose to the highest position an engine driver can aspire to. He has had the honour of working the historic locomotive Queen Mary on numerous occasions.

I REMEMBER

When an Anglo-Indian official questioned a ticket collector caught taking a bribe, the latter lost the ability to frame sentences. This is all he managed to say: “Please be kind to me, sir! I am a child of many fathers!”

RECALL

For the Anglo-Indians, being in the Railways was a matter of pride. Some bought Brasso out of their pocket to burnish the engines.

Source – http://beta.thehindu.com/life-and-style/society/article8888.ece

Honky – Tonk Man

Musician Ralph Parker’s journey from Madurai’s railway colony to Melbourne’s radio stations is amazing By S. Neeraj Krishna Honky-tonks were bars that served solace to the working class in southern America. To the tired bodies and souls, they offered spiritualism of a heady kind. And the discourse was complete with live music. It came to be known as honky-tonk music, later popularised as country music. Elvis Presley started off with honky-tonk music, before evolving as the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll. A temple town of India, Madurai in Tamil Nadu, has made an important contribution to country music. It gifted an artiste named Ralph Parker. This Anglo-Indian artiste, now based in the suburbs of Sydney, has carved a niche for himself in the global country music arena. First, he made it big in Australia. And in 2005, he was invited to Nashville in the US to cut an album. Nashville is considered the temple of country music. His classic Anglo-Indian upbringing instilled in him a love for music, says Parker, 57. At the age of 12, he started singing in the choir of a Catholic church in Madurai. It was during this period that Parker was drawn to country music. “In the 60s, American country music was making waves in India through radio stations in Ceylon,” he recalls. “The roots country music of the southern America fascinated me, with the wailing sounds of the steel guitar, the fiddle and the accent of those early singers.” Parker learnt to play the harmonica from his father, who worked with the Southern Railway. He used to be called to play at all railway school concerts. At 14, he started playing the guitar. Next came the clarinet, which he mastered by himself. Parker moved to Pondicherry, after entering government service. He cut his teeth as a musician in this lovely town. “There was a band there whose members were migrating to France. With a few other players from another broken band, we formed this new line-up which we named The Purple Haze.” The band went places between mid 70s and mid 80s. Kevin Noronho, a fellow-member of Purple Haze, gushes about Parker: “He used to be so passionate about music and he used to be creative and innovative. He was a fantastic guy, calm and helpful always. However, he used to be temperamental when it came to music; he was a perfectionist.” American country music artiste Buck Owens, who had 21 Billboard no.1s to his credit, heavily influenced Parker. “He was my idol,” he says. “I sang mostly his songs, so much so I was once titled Buck Owens of south India.” In 1988, Parker migrated to Australia. Hurdles welcomed him. “It was not all roses and sunshine at the start,” he says. “But hey, Indians are enterprising, we are fighters, we don’t give up and we don’t give in.” After ensuring a strong footing, Parker quit the band scene and went solo in 2005. He struck gold with his maiden album-a tribute to his icon, Buck Owens, who died that year. The Melbourne radio station went electric over it. Says Parker: “People wanted to buy the album, they wanted it to be played over and over on radio. This led to radio interviews and shows.” His adherence to “roots music” paid off well. His renditions were not adulterated with contemporary styles, thus giving the listener a feel of the old-school honky-tonk music. “Ralph Parker would fit comfortably into the genre of the country singers of the 1950s and the early 60s,” says Dr Romesh Mani, a connoisseur of country music. “He is spot-on with timing and pitch, and he pulls off the Texas/Tennessee accent perfectly.” The high point in Parker’s career came when a DJ from Bangalore sent his albums to a producer in the US. Nashville came calling: “The next thing I knew was getting an email from a producer named T. Jae Christian [a popular artiste himself] of Universal Sound Records telling me to pack my bags for USA.” Says Christian, who liked Parker’s traditional élan: “I was delighted with his vocal performances, and knew right away that I could record a great album with him in Nashville.” Parker recorded in a studio named Sound Control, where popular artistes such as Garth Brooks, Tanya Tucker, George Jones and Porter Wagoner have recorded their albums. And to his utmost joy, the sound engineer who recorded Parker’s tracks was a former guitarist of Buck Owens. The album-A High Price (for low livin’)-was an instant hit. Parker’s tracks rejuvenate weary bodies and minds. Tracks to which one can fix a drink perhaps and whistle away in a jiffy. Even a first-time listener can connect with the simple lyrics. Here are a few samples: Some Fools Some fools hang on when they know that love’s gone. They’ll cling to a memory for years… Some fools start drinking to keep them from thinking. It must help them fight backs the tears… And some fools don’t ever get over the pain of lovin’ somebody so strong… And some fools deal with their misery by singing these sad country songs… Thinkin’ about the good times I met her at the dance last week, she was such a pretty sight… We got into the mood for things that went on through the night… And I am just thinkin’ about the good times we had… Parker has fans all over the world. His albums have been going places. “High Price is an awesome album. The songs are of my favourite style in sounds and words. His songs are on my chart,” says Tom Kawai, a DJ in Japan. “Ralph Parker is great! He is a fantastic musician and knows what good music is,” comments Radio Tuetoburger Wald, Germany. When not crooning or composing, Parker is immersed in derivatives and foreign exchange trade. His wife, Alma (an Anglo-Indian), and sons Fabian and Ricky, who are also into music now, are of great encouragement, he says. Parker says he still is closely bonded to India, and often reminisces the good times he had here. He occasionally visits the country to meet his relatives. And something he simply cannot do without is south Indian food. Ghee roast, vada, sambhar and coconut chutney are his favourites, he says. Well, from the railway colony in Madurai to the radio stations in Melbourne, life has indeed been an exciting journey for Parker. And he is lovin’ it. The lyrics of one of his songs say it all: “I am a honky-tonk man, and I don’t seem to stop….”

Russell Peters releases ‘Red, White and Brown’ In US

If Russell Peters isn’t a house hold name then it’s time for you to find a new household.  Peters is a Canadian born comedic superstar known all over the world.  His parents come from Mumbai and Calcutta, but here is a more accurate breakdown of his family. ‘”My family and I are Anglo-Indian,” Russell explains.  ‘Anglo-Indians are a community of Indians from India who mixed with the British when they occupied India.  Both of my parents are Anglo-Indian and their parents were Anglo-Indians and so on,’ says Peters.

Russell Peters is so huge in fact that according to russellpeters.com ‘During a recent tour of Dubai, Russell sold tickets at the rate of one ticket every two seconds crashing all the online sales outlets as soon as the tickets went on-sale.’  In April 2005 Russell Peters broke ground by becoming the first South Asian to headline and sell out at New Yorks Apollo Theatre.  And his accomplishments aren’t only state side.  In June of 2007 Russell Peters became the first comedian to sell out at Toronto’s Air Canada Centre.  At the Centre he performed for over 30,000 fans over the course of two nights.  And if that wasn’t enough for him in February 2008 during his ‘Homecoming’ tour Peters was able to pack Madison Square Garden.

This performance was recorded for the cable channel Showtime and it’s being released on DVD for the first time as ‘Russell Peters: Red, White and Brown.’  This DVD has been released in different parts of the world but it comes out in the US tomorrow. So will the US dig it as much as other fans have? During the DVD you’ll realize that Russell Peters will take a stab at everything with a pulse leaving nothing sacred.  Whether it’s West Indian music and how he feels that it’s too easy to write (and too happy) to the difference between New York Italians and Italians.  ‘Red, White and Brown’ is the follow to his hit DVD ‘Outsourced,’ which was filmed at the Warfield Theatre in San Francisco.  Since it was released ‘Outsourced’ went on to go platinum 11 times in Canada, says russellpeters.com.

To justify his comedic success Russell Peters has been nominated for four Gemini Awards over the course of his career.  If ‘Red, White and Brown’ leaves you wanting more than you can catch him during The 20TH Anniversary Tour, which will go across Canada, the U.S. and the U.K.  Go to russellpeters.com for tour dates.

Courtsey - http://www.desihits.com/blog/article/russell-peters-releases-red-white-and-brown-20090126

Vanished Worlds – SUNANDA K. DATTA-RAY

The Absolute Anglo-Indian By K.C. Sen, New Millennium, £9.95

This book’s interest lies in the era and society it evokes. K.C. Sen, Bhaiya or Kacy to intimates, was Brahmananda Keshub Chunder Sen’s great grandson on one side and the great-great-grandson of General Sir Edward Barnes, governor of Ceylon and India’s commander-in-chief, on the other. But he is out of joint in concluding that today’s “Absolute Anglo-Indian” will become tomorrow’s “Obsolete Anglo-Indian”. Tomorrow was yesterday, not just for Anglo-Indians but for the fast, fun-loving Anglo-Bengali world of which he writes.

Sen was not Anglo-Indian in the sense of being “of European descent in the male line”, which is the legal definition. As he says, with his extended family spread out in India, Britain, Australia, France, Canada, Myanmar, Switzerland and Pakistan, he could truly have been called a man of the world. But it’s clear that two distinct identities overlapped in his consciousness. His roots were in the archaic Ingabanga society of 19th-century Bengal. Anybody who was anybody in the Calcutta of the Thirties, Forties and Fifties was a relative. Overlaid on that was the Anglo-Indian culture of the Rangers Club, the Grail Club and the club of which he says that “if ever there was a place that separated the men from the boys, and no angels feared to tread, it was the good old Golden Slipper.” Sen managed it for a while, but the links went deeper. Older members of that milieu still remember his unorthodox wedding invitation, “Bridgette and I are going to be married at the Golden Slipper Club.”

His world straddled Calcutta, Darjeeling and London — or rather, small gilded niches in all three, venturing regularly to Colombo and Simla. Rakish Cooch Behar royals, male and female, also descendants of Keshub Sen, loomed large in this fin de siècle society to which World War II and the 300 Club lent zest.

Sen played many parts. He was oarsman, poet, war reporter behind the Burma front, songwriter, composer, guitarist, public relations officer, box-wallah, radio broadcaster and, above all, impressario. His Cavaliers was a popular band. He was frequently MC at the open-air Scherezade nightclub at the Oberoi Grand. It is no surprise that showbiz characters pop in and out of these pages — Duke Ellington, Ross Parker, Alfred Hitchcock and, perhaps in the same genre, Lord Mountbatten. It “was over a cup of tea on the verandah” of his flat that he provided Satyajit Ray with Devika Halder a.k.a. Vicky Redwood for Mahanagar. She was part of Bandwagon, Sen’s group. He says that the voice off-screen in Mahanagar was that of Devika, but the song was a ballad, Time Gave Me No Chance, that he had composed in his rowing days. Major Sharat Kumar Roy of the US army was an unusual wartime buddy and surely the only NRI to be commemorated by a mountain in Greenland: he discovered Mount Sharat.

The book is a treasure trove of such nuggets, though, sadly, many of the illustrations are almost illegible. But though Sen provides enjoyable glimpses, laced with humour, into a vanished world, it would be idle to pretend he does full justice either to his august lineage or to the opportunities that were his. Indeed, one might apply to him Max Beerbohm’s immortal epitaph on George IV’s ill-used and ill-fated queen, “Fate wrote her a most tremendous tragedy, and she played it in tights.”

Paradoxically, Sen is least enjoyable when he pontificates. The constant jumping back and forth from Barnes and Keshub Sen to the contemporary scene is disconcerting. But for all its contrary title, The Absolute Anglo-Indian opens a window of nostalgia into the vanished phenomenon of Anglicized Bengali society.

Anglo-Indians plan gala affair (The Times of India)

KOLKATA: Anglo-Indians in the city are all set to celebrate World Anglo-Indian Day on August 2, with week-long celebrations starting on Sunday.

Way back in 1935, when the Government of India Act – precursor to the Constitution – was enacted, the community was recognised officially. Hence, the day is known as World Anglo-Indian Day.

This year, it promises to be a grand affair as Sunday marks the beginning of the run-up to the platinum jubilee year. The week-long programme will have carnivals, balls, outings and of course, some sumptuous Anglo-Indian cuisine. And all this is bound to whip up memories of the Fifties and Sixties – the glorious days of the community.

The number of Anglo-Indians in the city is believed to be around 3,000 and efforts are on to get them all involved in the celebrations this year.

Members of the community are praying hard that Sunday remains sunny because a day out complete with some yummy khana – as it is popularly called in Anglo-Indian parlance – has been organised at the Maidan tent of Rangers’ Club, an exclusive Anglo-Indian address.

Though organisers of all the four major programmes surrounding the occasion have kept the dress code relaxed, food will be strictly Anglo-Indian. So, right from yellow rice and ball curry to pantras, jhalfrezi, vindaloo, roast meat and plum pudding, it’s going to be authentic stuff all the way.

“Since Anglo-Indians are a typically beef-eating community, we are sticking to it as far as possible. Also, some dishes like vindaloo have dual ownership and though Goans claim that to be their speciality, the Anglo-Indians prefer to keep the title with themselves,” joked Denise O’Brien, wife of the Anglo-Indian representative in the Assembly, Barry O’Brien.

The carnival at St James’ School on August 2 has been organised by the Association of Heads of Anglo-Indian Schools. “Everyone can take part in the festivities, taste the goodies and play games. We have tried to include only the age-old Anglo-Indian favourites like skittle, feeding the clown and killing the rat. Though somewhat forgotten today, these can be so much fun to play,” said TH Ireland, principal of St James’.

The All India Anglo-Indian Association (AIAIA), the only national body of the community since 1876, has organised a special thanksgiving, followed by a sit-down lunch at Frank Anthony Public School on August 3.

“We will ensure that dal-bhaat is served in typical Anglo-Indian style for this lunch. You will be surprised to know that dal-bhaat is Anglo-Indian staple, too!” said Denise, also the secretary of AIAIA.

All eyes, however, would be on the gala Rangers’ Club ball on August 3 when women, in their best of gowns, waltz with their menfolk.

Help Needed

Hi,

Of late the number of visits to this blog have increased and I thank all for the support and getting the word around. Also, I would like any help I could get in the form of articles/news reports/personal recollections which I could then post on this blog to reach a wider AI audience. Please feel free to email me at sean.auckland@gmail.com. If you have any articles or wish to write one on famous Anglo Indians, I would be glad to post the same.

Thank you once again and please continue passing the word around.

Regards, Sean Auckland