Open Writing

Niahati is a very small village about thirty miles north of Calcutta, half way to Krishnanagar and approximately half a mile inland on the west bank of the river Hoogly. Although it is very small, I see that it is quite clearly marked on my Readers Digest Great World Atlas.

Almost a suburb of Niahati, on the very bank of the river itself is a village called Jagatdal. The entire bank of the river is lined with mile after mile of old jute mills.

Each mill had one or two jetties jutting out into the river. The factories for processing jute fibre had been built in the late nineteenth century mainly by British companies and with British raw materials brought out to India on British ships.

The rolled steel joist superstructures came from Dorman Long in the northeast of England. The steam raising boilers came from Lancashire and I think that even the bricks were imported from the midlands of England

The Mills were often managed by British Burra Sahibs, who came mainly from Dundee. In those pre-partition days the jute was grown in the fertile fields of that part of the Ganges delta then known as East Bengal, subsequently East Pakistan and now Bangladesh, and carried by buffalo carts to the mills in West Bengal for processing into gunny bags and carpet backing. Bengal supplied the world with its jute sacks and backs.

The death knell was finally rung for this lucrative worldwide trade when, in 1947, the British administration ( in its wisdom ! ) separated East Bengal from the rest of India and created East Pakistan. The two regions, previously totally dependant on each other, were now divided, not only by the religious divide between the Muslims of the east and the Hindus of the west, which they had coped with fairly well for centuries, but now by two increasingly hostile national governments.

The jute grew in the east by the hundreds of tons and there were no factories in which to convert it into fibre and fabric, and the west had mills by the mile, all with plant standing idle due to lack of raw materials for processing.

This is some of the background,why,in the early sixties some Indian managing agents who owned the silent mills made an agreement with Woolcombers Limited of Bradford in Yorkshire, to refit one of these mills with more sophisticated machinery for processing wool. India had quite a lot of indigenous sheep, and was also relatively close the world wool markets in Australia.

This final piece of the jigsaw explains why I, in my early twenties, a Bradford lad looking for some adventure and travel, came to be in Jagatdal in the 60's in charge of a dyehouse sitting just below the tropic of Cancer.I must say at this point, that in spite of the English having so much to answer for with regard to the plight of people of India in general and in West Bengal in particular, I hardly, if ever, was treated with animosity in the whole of my nine years sojourn in that country. I have witnessed far worse in Scotland.

At Jagatdal the river is about three quarters of a mile wide and a very busy highway for boats of all sizes. Small, one-man boats were used carry passengers across the river; there were no bridges for many miles in both directions. They were also used for river fishing, the owners selling their catch in the local markets. Larger cargo boats, often, but not always, powered by many men rowing with oars, were a major mode of transport, feeding the scores of mills and factories which lined the river bank. Small trolleys plied on miniature railway lines from the ends of the jetties into the godowns or warehouses servicing the factories.

The mill compounds were policed by privately payed Durwans who patrolled the premises round the clock. One of their duties was to check the jetties hourly and watch out for anything which became entangled in the supporting beams. In particular, if such a thing as a dead human body, floating down the river, was to become entrapped, which they frequently did, it was their special duty to free the body with a long pole and allow it to float away downstream.

If the body had been discovered in the jetty girders and the local police were to find out, the consequences and endless red tape would have been horrendous. Quite unofficially, they were paid a secret fee of 5 Rupees for every body that they pushed away.

Over the years the Durwans had developed a really clever technique. If they discovered a body, they would wait until just before the tide was due to turn and then pole off the body ever so lightly. With a degree of luck and some skill, the body would float away, and as the tide turned, it would float back and get entrapped again, ensuring a further 5 Rupee payment.

On really good days work would be to get the same body trapped two or three times. I think that there was a local record but never did found out what it was.

I remember that there were three forms of wildlife associated with these jetties. Firstly there were the emaciated dingoes or wild dogs that used to scavenge amongst the footings. They used to catch the flotsam and jetsam and remains of animals which became trapped in the girders each time the tide flow changed direction. You could often spot the dogs slinking away to carry large pieces bloody quarry to devour in a more peaceful place.

Secondly there were what we called the “flying crabs.” I’m not sure what they were really called. They were, of course, not crabs at all but deep reddish brown discus-shaped insects about the size of a small saucer which used to whizz through the air at a height of about 3 - 4 ft. making a sort of rattling noise. To say that they could knock you off your bicycle is probably incorrect, but I have seen people very rapidly dismount as a result of being shaken or frightened by the experience of being hit by one. I never remember anyone being bitten by one.

Lastly there were the snakes. Again, I’m not sure what precise species they were, or just how poisonous. Our doctor used to say that it was the ones with the pink eyelashes that you should worry about, but I must admit that I was not going to get close enough to see the colour of their eyelashes.

At about dusk ( which fell at 6.00 p.m. all the year round ) they used to crawl alongside the edges of the miniature railway lines and snuggle up to the rails which held the warmth of the sun for a few hours after it had set. The only lesson that you quickly learned, was that when you travelled around the compound on your bicycle, as you rode across the rails, you took your legs off the pedals and threw them very high into the air in front of you, to avoid the backlash from the snakes which you inevitably disturbed.

But it’s not about dingoes, flying crabs or snakes that I want to tell you, but about one of their more aquatic cousins the turtle.
One Saturday, two of us decided to take a trip on a rowed boat up the river from our jetty as far north as we could travel and be back before sunset. We struck a deal with two of the local boatmen who understood the vagaries of the tides and tidal bores and set off with a few bottles of well chilled Kingfisher Lager and a lunch box full of samosas, piajoos, pickles and chapatti on a leisurely trip up the river.

The boatmen had little or no English and we, to our shame, had probably even less Bengali, so conversation was extremely limited. We had a fine trip up the river seeing the sights and in due course as we turned round to come home, we spotted a small boat with two or three fishermen dredging the turning tide with their nets. Hoping to be able to buy a bit of fish from them we persuaded our boatman to take us across.

As we approached the fishing boat we noticed that they had caught very little. They had probably not been out very long. The deck of the boat was empty with the sole ( no pun intended ) exception of a rather large turtle. It was laid on its back and someone had threaded some thin rope through each of its four flippers and tied them all together so that it could be carried upside down rather like a big flat shopping basket.

Now I had read somewhere, that Lady Curzon, the wife of Lord Curzon the Governor General of India from 1899 to 1905 was so partial to turtle soup that they had named it after her. Lady Curzon Soup from fresh turtle was renowned initially throughout the Raj and eventually throughout the whole of the British Empire.

Being the Yorkshireman that I was, the first thing that came into my mind was “If its good enough for Lady Curzon, its good enough for me.” We did a deal, (and please remember we had no language in common), and suddenly, I found myself the proud owner of a large, (perhaps 2 ft across) heavy,( perhaps 50 lbs ), turtle-shaped, LIVE handbag. With most reluctant help from my boatman we manoeuvred this prize into the bottom of our boat, and set off home for Jagatdal. As we turned to leave I couldn’t help noticing the slightest of smiles of the faces of the fishermen who had sold us their catch.

As planned, we arrived back home in Jagatdal as the sun was setting across the western bank of the river. It took three of us to man-handle the handbag as far as my flat and we proudly laid it down on the back stairs. With great excitement I sent someone to summons Abdul Haq my bearer who also doubled as cook. I showed him the magnificent beast but I could tell immediately that he was far from happy. Looking back now, I realise that the situation would have been eased from the start if he had informed me there and then that Muslims are forbidden to touch and eat shellfish.

I had got it into my head that I was going to have Lady Curzon soup come hell or high water and HE had decided that for reasons best known to himself that he wasn’t going to go near the thing.

That evening, with the turtle still resting up-side-down on my back doorstep and its flippers still tied with string, Abdul Haq sulkily cooked me my dinner and I sulkily ate it. I then dismissed Abdul for the rest of the evening and repaired to my verandah with two or three chota pegs and some soda water to decide what should be done about the situation.

What did I know about cooking shellfish? I knew that if you didn’t know what you were doing you could make yourself quite ill and I remembered that when my mum cooked mussels (which was the nearest thing that I had experience of) she always kept them alive a day or two in some clean water and fed them with oatmeal for them to “purge” themselves, whatever that might mean.

There was nothing for it but to drag the damned thing to the unused back bathroom and manhandle it into the bath, put about 6inches of cold water onto it and sprinkle a couple of cupfuls of porridge oats in. As I carefully cut the strings which restricted the poor thing's flippers, little did I realise how close I must have been to having my fingers or hand torn off. But so far we had not even seen the turtle's multiple rows of needle teeth. Nor had we seen it’s ugly, old man’s head which it had retracted into its shell because of danger, nor the twelve inch long neck which attached the head to the body.

I firmly locked the back bathroom door and went to bed that night to sleep the sleep of the dead. The fresh air, the evening meal, the chota pegs and the struggle with Tommy turtle had all combined to have a heavy soporific effect on me and to use an old expression of my Mum’s “I didn’t need any rocking”

The following morning two things combined to wake me from by slumbers and dreams of dining and dalliance with Lady Curzon. The first was an even sulkier Abdul Haq with my habitual cup of tea and second was a rather unpleasant smell emanating from I knew not where. The bearer, obviously having given the matter some overnight thought told me that regardless of any consequences he was not going anywhere near the monster, and then explained that it was not allowed for Muslims. It was then that I had the very bright idea to have a word with one of the Hindu Cook-Bearers on the compound, and pay a handsome sum for the slaughter and preparation of the said beast, and it’s conversion into Lady Curzon’s delight. After all, they had no problems with chickens and turkeys. We always bought them alive and the cooks killed and cooked them. If you bought them dead you were never quite sure what they had died of. Even then, it was quite usual that after the slaughter you would find the crop or the gullet full of heavy ball bearings to make them weigh more.

The plan was a great one, and before sentencing the turtle to it’s fate I decided to go and have one last long look at it. Looking back perhaps I would have been better leaving well alone. However, off I went to the back bathroom, and as I approached the door I suddenly realised where the rather powerful smell was coming from. When I opened it, the stench was unbelievable. Its not easy at the best of times to describe smells, but this was one of the worst that I have ever had the misfortune to experience. It was a combination of rotten fish and freshly produced manure.

Also I now found out what the expression “purge itself” meant. The creature was still in the bath OK, and there was no possibility of it getting out, the sides were too slippery. But the lovely fresh water and porridge oats that I had left the night before had been replaced by a concentrated dispersion of turtle muck. It was absolutely vile.

With my left forefinger and thumb tightly pressing closed my nostrils, and the palm of the same hand covering my mouth, and my stomach wanting to commit an involuntary act, I quickly edged into the bathroom and pulled the plug to drain the bath, then turned on the cold water tap so that the water was running just fast enough to keep a steady flow into and out of the bath.

The bathroom door securely closed, me outside it and the turtle inside, I had to reconsider my great plan. I was still determined that come hell or high water I was going to have Lady Curzon Soup.

The first problem was trying to find a cook bearer who had a sufficiently strong constitution to do the dirty deed. I found one OK but only after serious haggling did he agree to a fee of 20 rupees (almost a week's wage ) but demanded another 10 Rupees for a gemadar to do the cleaning up and attend to the dirty work. I gladly agreed, and quickly left the flat and cycled onto the club for a three-finger-peg to settle my stomach and my nerve.

About an hour later my bearer came along to tell me that everything was cleaned up, the smell had gone and that they were ready to attend to the slaughter but that I should be present. When I got home, the Scotch courage inside made me feel confident that I would be fine. I went to have another look at the poor creature, and must admit that I was rather surprised at the transformation. In spite of what the bearer said, the stench had not totally gone, but in spite of the heat of the tropical morning it had dissipated into an almost bearable stink.

I’m not absolutely sure that smell ever did totally leave that back bathroom. However the creature itself looked much better. With the help of a high pressure hose pipe they had cleaned it down and it looked quite handsome, it’s brown and fawn shell mottled with beautiful concentric markings. But for the first time I noticed that the thing had a head. Whilst it had been strung up and frightened it had kept its head well and truly inside its shell. Now that it was a bit happier it kept just peeking the ugly head out of the shell to inspect its surroundings.

The executioner-bearer explained that since the shell was such an effective protection to the animal, the only way to slaughter it was to wait until its head and neck were sufficiently extended to enable him, swiftly to chop it off.

The turtle knew well what was going on and wasn’t having any of it. It would gently peep out but never leave the head and neck out long enough for the bearer to grab it. It needed tempting. The bearer went to our ice box and got some small pieces of fish out and held one of these about 18 inches from the turtle's head.

What happened next almost made me die of fright. In a flash the turtle’s head and well over a foot of neck, shot out of the shell and grabbed the fish from the bearers fingers. How he didn’t loose his hand I will never know. He leapt backwards and knocked me against the bathroom wall.

I had had enough, and quickly left the scene to go and look for the whiskey bottle again. I was in no mood for lunch. It must have been an hour later when the bearer came running out of the bathroom and from the delight on his face I knew it was finally dead. He advised me to keep out of the way until the gemadar had cleaned the place down again to rid it of blood, which advice I willingly accepted.

Then came the final straw. At the bearer's invitation I went in to look at the remains of the creature. He explained that there was no meat at all on it. When he had finally managed to get the shells apart all he could find were what might be called giblets. Which part of the confounded thing did Lady Curzon use to make her delicacy?

I thought long and hard and worked it out very carefully, of course the meat must be from the leg. The legs were the only major muscle in a turtle that did all the work swimming. I ask him to have a look at the legs for meat.

Although by this time the turtle had been dead for at least two hours, as the bearer plunged his sharp cooks knife into the upper thigh, the legs began to shake, gently at first but then with a ferocity much worse than when it had been alive. The turtle was fighting as valiantly in death as it had in life.

Enough is enough I thought we must get rid of the bloody lot. I never want to see another turtle as long as I live.

I was delighted to add an extra 10 Rupees to his fees to get rid of all that remained of the creature. Relief was the main emotion which gripped me for the rest of the day.

Secondly came bitter disappointment that I was not to follow in Lady Curzon’s footsteps. As I bemoaned my lot, thinking about Lady Curzon, it slowly dawned on me why I had only ever seen tins of Mock Turtle Soup.