KOLKATA-MUMBAI. November 17th - 25th.

Monday. First, the daily search for another hotel. I try the Maria Hotel, in Sudder Street itself, and this works out well, and I stay there for the remainder of my time in Calcutta. 230 rupees, own bathroom etc, no TV (so you don't have to listen to other people's), and predominantly western backpackers, who tend to be reasonably considerate late at night, as opposed to the locals (whom I've cynically come to think of as the Bellowing Bengali's) who never seem to shut it until about 2 in the morning. There is plenty of surrounding noise, from other places, but it's far enough away to not be bothersome. After brekkie, I walk across Chowringee to AJC Bose Road, (formerly North Circular Road), and, with the help of LP's excellent instructions, find Mother Theresa's Headquarters (the 'Motherhouse'), up a back alley. Like everything in Calcutta there are photo restrictions, but you are allowed to photograph her tomb, where tourists and nuns alike almost seemed to be keeping a vigil. There is a very informative 'museum', which is actually a few score yards of text and pictures of her life, where I spent so much time that I forgot to visit the upstairs, where 'Mother's' room, with a simple camp cot and her few belongings, are on permanent display. Afterwards I visited the Park Street Cemetery, which contains many old graves, especially from the Colonial period, in derelict condition. There were many crows flying noisily above, and if one had been of a suitably hysterical disposition it could have been quite spooky. Occasional signs on the trees warned against indulging in any 'inappropriate' behaviour in the cemetery, but the guards let in beggar children, so that even here you are continually hassled for money.

The U.S Consulate in Calcutta is in a road that used to be called Harrington Street. With the general 'Indianisation' of Calcutta's street names, Harrington Street must have come up for review. Bengali's are well-known throughout India for their sense of humour, and on what can only have been on a Friday afternoon, it was decided to rename this street Ho Chi Minh Sarani.
This I must see, I thought, and tracked it down. There were police posts at each end of the block where the Consulate was, and I asked if I could go through. The Consulate building seems quite small, and if you didn't know otherwise, you'd think it was something like a two-storey factory. I snuck a shot of it from a distance, and walking closer espied a shiny brass plate at one end of the building : "Office of the Consulate-General of the United States of America. 5 Ho Chi Minh Sarani" Aha! But no sooner had I zoomed the camera onto this priceless artifact, than people came running from various directions, saying 'You can't take a picture of that'. Fortunately I hadn't, because they demanded that I show them the last shot taken, not being about to take my word for it.

Back in Chowringee, I decided to investigate the length of Park Street, as it is reputedly the home of some good eateries. Walked about a kilometre and a half, almost to the cemetery, but nothing. Walked back, and tried the other end, 400 or so metres of unimposing-looking street, which of course was where all these flash-looking cafes were. Went into 'The Street' cafe where I feasted on some decadent and over-sweet confectionery. The air-con was so high that after 15 minutes you were freezing, and I had to ask for the 'loo. A disinterested finger pointed to the far end of the cafe, which was alongside the entry ramp for an undercover car park. Nothing there, so I walked out through a glass sliding door, and down into the car park, from where there was the car park entrance to an obviously 5 star + hotel. Further enquires led me across the lobby, up a corridor, up to level 2 by lift, then 'down there, turn right', another hike, and finally the plushiest 'loo of my whole trip. On the way back a comely and smiling receptionist in the foyer made eye contact, and after I'd bared the fangs, she gave me this few minutes spiel on the advantages of staying at this hotel, backed up with numerous brochures etc. I mean I've got the day-pack on one shoulder, the white t-shirt, (decidedly grubby by now at 4pm), and here I'm getting the royal treatment. How'd you be? When I eventually returned to the cafe, the waiters looked as if they thought I'd done a runner. I did some internet in the evening, but didn't feel hungry, and went to bed dinner-less.

Tuesday I discovered an acceptable cafe in Chowringee Lane, near the internet shop, (serving porridge for brekkie - a rare treat), and I ended up having brekkie, lunch and dinner there. In between times I visited the Victoria Memorial and St Pauls Cathedral. The Memorial was built to commemorate Queen Victoria's reign, after her death in 1901, and was completed 20 years later in 1921. It is surrounded by extensive gardens, and is at its best when viewed from the other side of an adjoining lake. Inside are a number of galleries, modern art, history of India, and surprisingly, quite a bit on personalities of the colonial period, that have possibly been there since the Raj. The northern end of the gardens is a bit of a Lover's Lane, and I must have passed seventy or eighty couples holding hands and whispering sweet nothings etc, still in broad daylight. Such public displays of affection are most unusual in India.

It was getting towards dark when I arrived at the cathedral, and inside, a sprinkling of people at the back were sitting and listening as a pianist played soothing music near the front pews. There would have been about 40 inert ceiling fans suspended from the roof, and a few swallows darted above them. Many memorials to Raj era military men about the walls.

Wednesday I spent a few hours at the Indian Museum, which is just round the corner from Sudder Street. Many many galleries, which could take days to look at properly, on all aspects of Indian life and history. You aren't allowed to take photos inside with a mobile phone camera, but it's okay to do so with a digital camera.

LP makes out that buying a railway ticket in Calcutta is very time-consuming and a big hassle, so I weakened, and ordered a 3AC one from a travel agent's in Sudder Street. 1900 rupees and come back in a couple of hours. When I did so, I was issued with a 1700 rupee ticket, so presumably the guy gets commission from the railways, and also puts 200 ruppees in his own pocket. Plus the ticket didn't show a carriage or a seat number, as I was 'wait-listed'. 'What does this mean?' "That's okay, there are plenty of seats, just ring this number two and a half hours before departure time to find out your berth number".

After, I went for dinner at a place in Mirza Gharib recommended by LP - the Golden Dragon. I should have twigged that all was not well, because the doorman had his eyes glued to a small window in the door, and I had to slip past him to get into the empty restaurant. Inside was a re-run of the experience at the nearby Tea House earlier in the week, with the young Chinese manager being berated by a large Bengali guy in full bellowing mode, the two of them ringed by a half dozen waiters. I stood to the side looking at some fish swimming in a tank for some three or four minutes before someone thought to suggest a table. Later the action moved upstairs, followed by a middle-aged Chinese lady, who may have been the chef. As time progressed, there was a good deal of noise from upstairs, and several times what sounded like furniture being knocked over, or possibly thrown. Every so often the Chinese lady would come to the bottom of the stairs and give a running account of the proceedings to the waiters. Meanwhile, I was enjoying a quite commendable sweet and sour chicken, and concentrating, as far as possible, on a pivotal moment in Anna Karenina, where she comes clean, (regarding her infidelities) to her husband.

Thursday I went on quite a hike to 38 Elgin Road, the Bose family home, from where Netaji Chandra Bose 'escaped' early in WW2, making his way to Berlin and subsequently Japan, where he raised an Indian National Army, comprised mainly of Indian POW's released from Japanese camps, to fight alongside the Japanese Army in Burma. The house (no photos allowed inside), is like a museum, with the family's personal effects, and lots of photographs and commentary. Remarkably, after imprisonment by the British for sedition, he later, in the 1920's, became a sort of chief government officer for Calcutta, and later still the leader of the more belligerent face of the Nationalist movement. The museum charged some ridiculously small amount for admission, something like 5 rupees, and whether it was that, or because I was a westerner, I don't know, but all the attendants were rather surly, to the point of terseness. Bose himself disappeared in mysterious circumstances after boarding an aircraft in Saigon at the end of the war. Apparently Indians in general are a bit ambivalent regarding him, but he is considered a hero in Bengal, and they have (rather appropriately) named the Calcutta airport after him. Be that as it may, one of my aunts absolutely loathed him. She and my cousins were on the last 'plane to India, from Mandalay, as the Japanese entered it. They settled in that part of Assam that is now called Nagaland, and 3 years later had to run for it again, as the Japanese and the Indian Nationalist Army approached. If you ever wanted to get Aunt Kitty going, and hear her swear, you only needed to bring his name into the conversation.

By the time I got back to Chowringee I was hungry and very thirsty, and I tried out a newly-discovered cafe, the 'Blue Sky' in Chowringee Lane. Two mango lassi's were followed by three large glasses of tea, and somewhere in there I put away a prawn and sweet corn soup, and a sweet and sour vegetables and rice. The trouble was that the 'prawns' were a few miniscule shrimps of indeterminate age, and thinking about it afterwards, it seemed as if the main dish had been some veggies, put on a plate, with some sweet and sour sauce poured on later, almost as an afterthought. The result of this injudiciously-chosen meal was to be apparent on the morrow.

Friday, in retrospect, turned out to be a day in which I wished I'd never got out of bed. I had decided on a two-day assault on a number of must-see things on my list, and after an early start I got the Metro from Park Street to Kalighat. The Calcutta Metro was the first one in India, and is very simple to navigate, as it is just one line, running north to south. I understand that an east-west line is mooted for 2014. After avoiding the clamourous rickshaw wallahs outside the Metro station, I took off in completely the wrong direction (LP's Office of Vague Sketchmaps strikes again), but after several enquiries ended up at Khalighat, a Hindu temple devoted to Kali, the Goddess of Death. There was a police cordon all around it, and I had to be zapped and searched twice before I got in. The procedure at this place is that a number of goats are slaughtered there early in the morning and the flesh is gradually fed to the Goddess throughout the day, by way of appeasing her. LP says, that for 50 rupees, a guide will usually take you up to the front of the queue to see the Goddess, so I anticipated that someone was going to 'attach' himself to me. This occurred, and this rather well-spoken, highly articulate and persuasive 'guide' showed me around the temple, where they were still hosing down the abbatoir section, and, as if at a given signal, a score or more people at the Goddess' mouth stood over to the side so that I could observe the noisy and somewhat disgusting proceedings there. In the course of travelling around, it was impressed upon me that the meat was eventually used in meals for the poor, and that financial contributions were needed to assist this. I think the effects of the previous night's dinner were already starting to kick in, because I was feeling quite nauseous by now, and counting the minutes till I could get away. The punchline was that we ended up alongside a small pool, where another man pulled out a ledger which purported to show 'contributions' to the cause, written in by individual tourists. My guide pointed to the most recent one, supposedly by a German guy, for 2,100 rupees. '60 bucks!!' I almost fell over backwards, but fortunately recovered my balance, as you wouldn't want to have taken a dip in this pool. Pleading my own unique brand of poverty, I did eventually own up to having 100 rupees on me. 'Make it 200'. "No can do". I eventually wrote in 100, and gave them my complete stash of 10 rupee notes, which came to about 70 rupees. That amount of 2100 seemed a bit sus from the start, and thinking about it afterwards I reasoned that people might give a round figure like 500, 1000 etc - but 2100? An uncharitable person might think that if you used the same pen you could write a '2' in front of a 100 rupee contribution, but it would never occur to me to think that.

From there it was less than 100 metres to Nirmal Hriday, Mother Theresa's first enterprise, a hospice for the homeless at 51 Khalighat Road. I wasn't certain if it was visiting hours, but the door was open, and I wandered in., past a sign that said ' If you want to make a contribution, give it to one of the nuns - don't give money to the patients'. Just a few steps, and you entered the ward. In a space probably half as big again as the Dandenong Library workroom, there were 45 low metal beds, like camp cots, in 3 rows of 15, the beds very close together. All the beds were occupied, and a lot of the patients wore identical multicoloured shirts. At one bed, a westerner, wearing examination gloves, was performing some procedure, assisted by a large blond woman, both of them in street clothes, while a nun looked on. As you would expect, all the patients looked very ill, and feeling extremely voyeuristic, I beat a hasty retreat. Apparently Mother Theresa used to visit there every day in the early years, and in old-age would still visit every Sunday, first tackling the least popular task - cleaning out the drains of the latrines.

Returned on the Metro, and as the early part of the evening peak was starting, it became more and more crowded. As the train is getting close to a station, a dulcet female voice advises which station it is, and then says 'exit on the right' (or left, as the case may be). As we are approaching 'Esplanade', my stop, I realise that I'm on the wrong side of the carriage to exit, but by adopting a couple of the positions described in all reliable sex manuals, I manage to manoeuvre to the open doors. Not however quickly enough to forestall the dozen or so people pourng through the door onto the already crowded train. I feel myself being carried backwards, and in a charge worthy of a Collingwood forward, manage to break through a gaggle of females at the door and leap onto the platform, with the doors closing around me. If they'd been blokes I wouldn't have had the strength for it.

My plan was to stroll through the Eden Gardens, then onto St John's Church in BBD Bagh (reluctant home of the original 'Black Hole of Calcutta' monument, and burial place of Job Charnock, founder of the Raj's Calcutta) ; have a look inside the GPO ; and visit Millick Ghat, where there is a must-see flower market. And on the morrow, (my last day), to Visit Tagore's house and the Ramakrishna temple and museum complex, a few kilometres downstream on the Hoogly. Instead, Montezuma's Revenge - which, to be geographically correct, we could call Delhi Belly - kicked in , bigtime. At first I wondered if it was payback from the Goddess Kali for my parsimoniousness, but on thinking about it, I favoured the 'Blue Sky' as the culprit.

For Saturday and Sunday, I mainly lay low in the hotel, unable to venture anywhere. Fortunately the "Maria" has 5 internet terminals so I was able to catch up on e-mails etc. I did do a quick trip on Saturday to the 'Taj Medical' (chemists) in Mirza Gharib, and bought some big (prescription only) horse tablets over the counter, and some rehydration salts, from a boy who looked about 15 years old. Anxious not to burn a hole in my stomach lining with the tablets, I took them with (bland) food twice on Saturday, with no improvement, but on Sunday I took them on an empty stomach, washed down with 300 mls of lemonade, and things were looking perkier by the time I got the train Sunday night. I think the staff at 'Fruit and Juicy' were getting worried, because all day Saturday I was feasting exclusively on yoghurt, or custard or mango lassi's all day. Sunday morning I wanted to look for some souvenirs in a nearby market, but after walking about 300 metres decided to abandon the idea.

After being 'wait listed' for the train last Wednesday I was a little concerned as to whether I actually had a booking or not. The ticket I received had no carriage or berth number on it, and didn't even specify for which class it was. Playing with the internet on Friday night I found the Indian National Railways site, where you could enter your IP (a multi-digit sort of ticket number) and check the status of your ticket. No status then, or again on Saturday night, but at least it confirmed that it was for the 3A that I had paid for. As it was a day and a half's journey, and I was due to fly home from Mumbai on Friday, I was keen on leaving on Sunday if possible. However, by 4pm Sunday the carriage and berth number was there, so I got packed and checked out. Interestingly, the same trick that I got caught by in Macleod Ganj was tried again here. The morning that I took the room at the 'Maria', I was yet to check out from my previous hotel, so they asked me for a day's payment to hold the room, which was fair enough. Now they tried to charge me for 7 days (including the current day, Sunday, because I was way past the 10am checkout time). Once I reminded them that I had already paid for one night, all (without any check being made) was instantly okay. If I'd been in good nick I would have been happy to walk back down to the river the way I'd come a week ago, and get the 4 rupee ferry to Howrah Station. As it was I still felt quite weak, as the tummy was only just starting to come good, and ended up paying 250 rupees for a taxi, which was far too much.

At Howrah there was a westernised cafe on the concourse, and a dozen or so western backpackers were eating there. I imbibed some lassi's and (big step forward) some Lay's chips, without any after effects. The cafe had an odd payment system, whereby you had a look at the counter display cabinets first, to see what you wanted, then you went up to a booth and paid for it and got a docket, and gave that to the man behind the counter to get your items. Some of the backpackers were real 1970's hippie-looking, and I got talking to one of them while we were queueing up, and it turned out that he was from North Fitzroy. He seemed quite amazed that he'd run into another denizen of the inner suburbs whilst in the wilds of India. I'd laid in some chocolate and bikkies for the train trip, and thought I'd augment this with some lemonade and Lay's chippies, now that I wouldn't have to carry them far. Had just handed over a hundred rupee note, when all the lights in the station, every one of them, went out. I just froze, wondering what was going to happen next, and after a minute or so the man next to me switched on the torch on his mobile phone and handed it to kiosk man, who counted out the change by torchlight twice, to make sure I was satisfied I hadn't been cheated. It took about 10 minutes for the lights to gradually come on before things went back to normal. With still 45 minutes to departure I wandered down to platform 21, and noted incredulously that a large series of boards there carried sheets of the names of the people in every carriage, including "Bariness" in berth 21, carriage 1B. The 'sleeper' carriages were already packed like sardines, and I thanked my lucky stars I had a 3A booking. Carriage 1B was clearly marked, and I was soon in my (window) seat. This train was a lot newer and a bit more upmarket than my last one, with the chai wallahs and soft drinks and food vendors soon in evidence, and this service lasted the whole trip.

There was still a good half hour before the train left, and I began sizing up my travelling companions. You can't choose your travelling companions, and you have to just go with who you get, but I can't help always starting with a scale up to ten, and deducting points from that. An guy who was I suppose in his early fifties got on, with a girl of about twenty, presumably his daughter. She had one of those high-pitched rapid-fire sort of voices, and she just didn't let up, with a hundred words to every two of his, and contemplating 35 hours of listening to that, I quickly downgraded the carriage to a 5. Fortunately she was only seeing him off, and soon left.

I spoke a couple of times to a young well-dressed guy opposite me, which he just ignored -so no noise pollution there, up to a 6 now. The guy in his early fifties was the life and soul of the party, talking with the whole carriage, and sometimes addressing a remark or two to me, and I'd just grin politely. It took me quite a while to work out that he was actually speaking to me in English. Later he asked me where I came from, and it turned out that he had been some sort of sanitary engineer, and had once been on a week's study tour in Australia. The trouble was that I only understood one or two words in every ten that he spoke, but he alluded a few times to Berrima and also Barlow, where he had visited sewerage farms. Berrima I know quite well, but Barlow? A young couple sat next to me. They had a little kid of about 4 with them, great sunny personality, enjoying the trip immensely. The wife told me her brother is studying for a doctorate in some branch of I.T. in Melbourne. 'Part-time taxi-driver?' "No, he works part-time in a software company". Soon people start stretching and yawning, and making 'going to bed' sort of movements. After getting shafted up onto the top bunk for two nights last time, I thought I'd sit and see what happened. Sanitary man, who'd stopped talking half an hour earlier, due to several long coughing fits, goes off to the 'loo. To my surprise, the guy who'd completely ignored me before, then motions that I should occupy the lower bunk on our side, and he lets down the middle one and climbs in, leaving me no option but to lie down also, and I'm soon under my blanket. I can't resist looking at Sanitary Man's face when he comes back, which is a picture, dropped jaw and all. He eventually climbs up into the top bunk, succumbing for a while to further coughing fits, so that I feel a bit guilty - but not for long.

It takes me a long time to go to sleep, probably because I'd spent so much time in bed, and in general taking it easy the two previous days. Also, although there was no icy draught from the air-con, I was quite cold. The train is scheduled to make 35 stops between Calcutta and Mumbai, and after a couple of hours the young couple and the baby get off. A stop or two later a couple of guys come into our section, and there is a bit of crashing around of travel bags under my bunk. Metal loops are provided under the lower bunk so that you can chain your bag to it, which I have already done, but I had carelessly left my day pack (containing my camera, mobile phone, etc) beside my bunk. Silent man, who had been gently snoring until now, immediately woke up and stuck his head out of his bunk. A tall man stretches out on the opposite lower bunk, just resting there, no pillow or blanket, which looks a bit sus, so I lift my day pack into the bunk, and curl up around it and go to sleep.

Actually it turns out the next morning that the tall man is a doctor, a really pleasant, unassuming guy, who is returning to the town where he works in a hospital. Of course I don't suppose he's about to mention to anybody what he does, unless he wants half the carriage queueing up for a free consultation, but I noticed he had a large plastic shopping bag with him, from some company that deals in injection equipment. As I'd only a few hours earlier read a really alarming article in the Calcutta Times about botched injections, I asked him if he worked in that line of country, and he says yes, I'm a doctor. I showed him the article, which claimed that 60% of injections given in India are bodgie, resulting in 3 million deaths a year, which I worked out was 0.3% of the entire population. He read the article, and then grimaced and said that the figures were probably exaggerated.

Another guy, who'd been on the train all night, and whose presence hadn't really registered with me, was Varun. He had these piercing eyes, and the full mo, but didn't say much and I'd more or less decided he was some sort of gangster, but once we got talking it turned out he had an engineering degree, had worked in a software company, and was now studying for an MBA in Mumbai. This guy's English was so good that he was (politely) correcting my English sometimes.

During the day another young guy got on, built like a brick outhouse, and just sat there staring at me all the time. You get this a lot. Obviously, in a country of a billion Indians, you sometimes run up against people who've never been in close proximity to a westerner before, but usually a smile and a couple of words elicits a similar response. This guy looked like he'd probably be a bodyguard to someone, when he wasn't tearing phone books in half, and I avoided eye contact and went on reading my book. Later Varun and I and the doctor were discussing some topic at length, and this young bloke said a couple of words a few times, and I realised that he was just painfully shy. Later I talked with him for quite a while, and it turned out he too was at Uni in Mumbai. The strangest thing though, was that this incredibly well-built and husky-looking bloke had this really softly-spoken falsetto voice, and I just couldn't get used to linking him with the voice. I asked him if he worked out, but he said no, though he used to do a bit of swimming.

Anyway, I got my come-uppance for my lack of sympathy for Sanitary Man, who had got off the train in the morning. Despite being clear of the air-con, I still developed a raging head cold, with the fluid pouring out of me. Being in close proximity to half a dozen other people I didn't think it would be fair to keep blowing my nose on TP every two or three minutes, so I resorted to holding my nostrils with TP and breathing through my mouth for a while. To my amazement, after about 45 minutes the running nose stopped, and didn't recur, so I have filed this discovery away for future reference.

During the second night I was a lot more tired and felt a lot warmer, and had a much better rest. Movement started before 4.30 am, as the train was scheduled to arrive at CST (main) railway station at 5.25, and most of the others were getting off a couple of stops earlier. Actually arrive at 5.15, with the plan of getting a suburban train further south as far as Churchgate, and perhaps walk from there to Colaba. Everyone I asked looked mystified, and said the only way to go was by taxi.

Calcutta. The Motherhouse, Mother Theresa's mission at 54A AJC road (formerly North Circular Road).

Calcutta. Mother Theresa's tomb at the Motherhouse.

Calcutta. U.S. Consulate.
The brass plate just to the left of the gate reads :
'Office of the Consulate-General of the United States of America. 5 Ho Chi Minh Sarani'

Calcutta. Park Street Cemetery.
These colonial-era graves are (understandably)
somewhat neglected.

Calcutta. Along AJC Bose Road.
The age of the specialist. This guy seems to just renovate tail shafts.

Calcutta. Along AJC Bose Road. This whole block was just guys selling car spare parts that were laid out on the pavement.

Calcutta. Victoria Memorial. The north end of the Memorial gardens are a favourite Lover's Lane, and these coaches and horses are an adjunct to that.

Calcutta. Victoria Memorial.

Calcutta. The Victoria Memorial.
Built to commemorate the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Victoria in 1901, it was not completed until 1921.

Calcutta. St Paul's Cathedral.

Calcutta. St Paul's Cathedral, from the grounds of the Victoria Memorial gardens.

Calcutta.
Colourful office block along Chowringee Road.

Calcutta. At The Bose family home at 38 Elgin Road. SB Bose was a prominent figure in the anti-colonial campaign. While Gandhi advocated non-violence, SB Bose favoured any means of gaining independence.

Calcutta. Bose escaped overland via Moscow to Berlin. Subsequently a German submarine took him to the Indian Ocean where he was transferred to a Japanese submarine and thence to Tokyo. He raised an Indian National Army, mainly from Japanese P.O.W. camps, which fought alongside the Japanese in north-western Burma and into India. At the end of the war he left Saigon in an aircraft that disappeared in mysterious circumstances.

Calcutta. Along Chowringee Road.
I'd say the guys in the right-hand building are in trouble.

Calcutta. Courtyard of the Indian Museum in Chowringee Road.

Calcutta. The Kali Temple in Khaligat Road.

Calcutta. Nirmal Hriday (Sacred Heart) - Mother Theresa's Home for the Dying at 51 Khaligat Road, next door to the Kali Temple.

MUSSOORIE-DEHRADUN-KOLKATA. November 12th-16th.

Wednesday. Tomorrow evening I get the train to Calcutta, and I decide on a nice lay-in today, and then on getting my house in order. First some overdue, and lengthy, podiatry, then a trip to the other end of town via Camel's Back Road. Unfortunately, this time the visibility is down to a few hundred metres at best, and according to LP it is like this for much of the year.
I am interested in 4 places that I'd like to visit because of family associations, none of which anybody has heard of, and I'm thinking 'Gazetteer of India' (and I hear everybody screaming out 'internet, internet!'- but for some reason it hadn't occurred to me at this stage). I'd found the Library, (at the 'Library' bus stand) the first day I arrived, but it was now some sort of Hindu temple. Later I mentioned this to the bookshop man, but he said the Library was definately still open. I ask and ask, and finally find it upstairs above a row of shops. An elderly lady who speaks pretty good English is waiting there too, as it is the librarian's lunch hour. She says it is a subscription library only, but she will ask for me. One look at the approaching librarian convinces me I'm not going to get anywhere, and I'm not wrong, but I do get directed to a 'public' library at the Picture Palace. The 'Picture Palace' apparently closed down years ago, but the name stuck, and it is now the name of the whole of that end of town. To me the name evokes, (in the early decades of the twentieth century), the 'Mems', (up from the plains), strolling along the Mall, with kids in tow, looking forward to an evening's entertainment at the new-fangled moving pictures.

I've made up a shopping list of things that I need to buy, including 'super-glue' for some running repairs ('scusez pun) on the welt of my runners, and a weighty tome for the 35 hour train trip, (got 'Anna Karenina', which should do nicely). Weighed down, I eventually arrive at the library, and state my request. The young female librarian looks me up and down, and says 'could you speak in Hindi please' (not a good sign, I gotta tell ya). Once we've got that sorted out, I show her a list of the four place names, explaining that they are in India. She checks in the card catalogue, and then makes her way right down to the end of the library, and then comes back with a book for me. Nothing unusual about that, except that she is seriously disabled, so that her left leg sticks out at a wide angle from her body, giving her a sort of crab-like way of getting along. She gives me the book, saying 'India'. It is a history of India from the time of the Harappans (3000 BC?) till medieval times. I give it my serious consideration for a minute or two, and then tell her that it's not quite what I wanted. In the meantime, another lady, one of the library users, has a look at my list, on which one of the place names is 'Wellington', but she reads it as 'Washington', and this necessitates the librarian making another perambulation of the library, to return with the United States Stock Exchange Annual for 1952. The thing is that if I was in her position the last thing I'd want is for people to help me, but on the other hand I'm sitting there cringeing, and thinking 'please don't let her go for any more books'. Another three or four unsuitable books arrive all at once, which I have to reject. So I ask if I can take some photos, as the library interests me. On one side of the library there are all Hindi books, which I imagine accounts for most of the library's usage. The other side has books in English, some 'History' and a lot of 'English Literature', which is mostly novels. What intrigues me is that most of the novels seem to date from the early decades of the twentieth century, and ninety-five per cent of the authors would have vanished without a trace. From a book dealer's point of view, there may have been some items of interest. I looked in a couple of early Hemingway's which I'm sure were first editions. The only other library users now are two newspaper-readers, so I sit and have a nice chat with the librarian. She is a diminutive and very pretty girl, and her name is Anjeeta. She raised the subject of her disability, and seemed to have a comfortable acceptance of her situation. When I left she said not to forget to come and visit the library again the next time I'm in India.

I then made a trip to a 'Domino's Pizza' shop that I had noticed on the Mall this afternoon. The smallest ('personal') size was about 6 or 7 inches across, and I had a cheese and pepperoni with side orders of capsicum and olives - what a beauty! Washed it down with a latte that I had to get from the Cafe Day shop upstairs. Cafe Day is a coffee-shop chain that I've noticed right across northern India. They tell me it's not an international chain.

Thursday morning I lie in late, and wander down to the Picture Palace bus stand mid-morning. The bus that I came up on is sitting there empty, so I get the best seat and wait while the bus gradually fills up. When it is, everybody has to pile off and get on another bus, and I am lucky to get the last seat - 'it always happens to me'. Though the trip up took an hour and a half, the return trip is one hour. The bus hurtles downward on the horn, and anything coming the other way at a corner has to stop. On the rare flat (but winding) spots, the driver fishtails the bus along, then whizzes downwards some more, driving entirely on the brakes. If the brakes faded you wouldn't touch bottom till half a mile down. In bush dancing, if you're being swung round and round, the only way to avoid getting giddy is to stare straight in front of you all the time, and this trick works with these buses - in order to avoid losing all your breakfast, you need to find some fixed point high in the roof of the bus, and just stare at that all the time. Unfortunately, not everybody knows this, and on this trip three people started chundering out of the windows simultaneously - which makes you really start looking forward to your next bus trip.

At Dheradun I need somewhere to leave my backpack for a few hours, and in preference to any sort of 'left luggage' facility at the train station (which might or might not be open when I need to retrieve my backpack), I take a room at a really el grotto hotel near the railway station, for 200 rupees, where at least I'll also be able to freshen up before the train. At the desk is a long list of instructions for the desk staff, signed by the lady owner, which began 'If at desk, don't be useless, and doing nothing, but be doing something useful'. When I walk out afterwards there are three of the hotel staff sitting under the sign with their feet up on the desk, watching cricket on the TV. Most of the hotel is in a state of dereliction and disrepair, except for an Alsatian dog, (fortunately chained up), that took about a month off my life, and I picture to myself that the lady proprietress must be a venerable nonogenarian who hasn't left her room in years.

I had mentioned to Brother Muldowney about the German internment camp in Dehra Dun, and he immediately said that it was at Premnagar, about six kms out of Dehradun, where the I.M.A. (Indian Military Academy) is now. So I decide to quiz Mrs Mishtri at the travel office as to the best way of getting there. But the office is closed, due to a religious holiday, (naturally), and the security guy there gets me a reasonable quote for a tuk-tuk for the trip. The tuk-tuk drops me outside the main entrance to the camp, and as civilians seem to be just wandering in, I follow them. However, I am soon stopped by an armed guard, but fortunately an English-speaking officer comes up, and I have quite a yarn with him, explaining my interest. There are some solid looking buildings about the place, and he says they date back to 1932. He seems like a nice guy, and I can sense that he doesn't really know what to do with me, so rather than get him into any sort of trouble (the place is like a regimental depot, with people marching about everywhere), I say that's okay, I'll just have a walk around the outside perimeter of the camp. But this would probably be a feat of epic proportions, as I walk about 2 kms, and I'm still only part way down one side. However, I do see an old gateway in front of an obviously unused and over-grown part of the camp, with a standard British army issue concrete water-tower beside it, so I decide that must be my grandfather's old camp, and take a photo. I have a look through a nearby village and market, and get another tuk-tuk back to the station, albeit via a route of quiet backroads, and not through the horrendously traffic-choked Gandhi Road etc.

I had pictured myself having a leisurely couple of hours dinner at the Hotel Meedo before drifting down to the train, but the Mafia say that the dining room doesn't open till seven. So I mount an expedition to Rajpur Road, where LP says all the half-decent cafes are. This only takes about thirty five minutes on foot, easily achieved along a Gandhi Road that had seemed quite daunting on the night I arrived. Ellora's Melting Moments is a real find, where I have the two best jam tarts ever, lashings of jam surrounded by cream, in a light, flaky pastry base, plus an excellent latte. The lights have just gone out, but it is still daylight outside, and as the place is crowded, I sit at a table with two identically-dressed guys, light grey suits, white shirts, red and white striped ties. There are another four similarly-dressed guys at another table, and I begin to fear Jehovah's Witnesses or Mormons. They start to talk, and it turns out they are all officers-in training at the I.M.A. They tell me that they do one year's training, then one and a half years post-grad, and pass out 'with two pips' (full lieutenant). Bearing in mind that I probably won't be able to buy suitable tucker on the train trip, I stock up at Ellora's with an enormous packet of coconut biscuits, and some chocolate and lemonade. Then I moved on to a very good Chinese Restaurant, for a final blow-out. Back at the hotel, I re-pack my stuff so that I won't need to dive into my big pack during the trip, freshen-up, and go to check out. A different lot of boys are on duty, and can't understand why I'm leaving before the night, and call the lady proprietress, who is not a nonagenarian, but a rather comely lady in her late 30's or early 40's, who urges me to come back and stay again, next time I'm in town.

The 8.25 train comes in about 8.10, and a man goes along the train sticking up notices of the names and the seat numbers of all the people in each carriage. I'm in carriage B1, but my seat number (and some others) don't have names alongside. To confuse the issue, the middle of the carriage (on the outside) points B1 towards the rear, and B2 towards the front of the train. The carriage has just 2-tier bunks, and I'm sitting across from a lady who has been visiting her son at school, and is returning to Bareilly. She is very chatty, and while we are talking the ticket inspector comes along, and disinterestedly points out that I should actually be in B2, instead of B1. I decide that I'll move when I have to, and later have a snooze sitting up. Then a guy gets on who has the correct ticket for the seat, and starts reading the Riot Act (in Hindi), and so I move to B1. This is a 3-tier carriage, and two guys are stretched out, one on my lower-bunk, number 25. So I sit on the lower of the 2-tier bunks by the window, and we chat for a while. Then the train stops, they get off, and straight away a whole load of people get on, and soon 6 people are sitting on the two lower bunks 22 and 25, and me and another guy on the lower bunk by the window. One lady doesn't look at all well, and most of the others don't look all that agile, so I can see I've got Buckley's of scoring my lower bunk. There is some talk of getting ready for the night, so I wander down to the 'loo first. This must have been interpreted as a given signal, because when I return a minute later, the middle bunks ( which fold up against the back wall during the day) have been let down, and all the bunks are occupied by supine figures, except the two top ones. A youngish really evil-looking guy gets into one of the top ones, and I get the least desirable one (that is, the one facing the front of the train, so that you'd get flung out if the driver slammed on the brakes). The agility of a monkey would be useful in gaining access to these upper bunks, and once I'm in I reflect that it's weird that the oldest of our group has to be the one that gets the top bunk (a little prior discussion would have been nice). Anyway, that's not my main worry, which is that the air-con vent is pelting cold air out of the roof nine inches above and six inches to the left of my bunk. I improvise a pillow out of my 'Lonely Planet India' and a jumper, and wearing all my clothes, including my fleecy, I use the provided blanket doubled over, plus the pillow, plus 2 sheets folded over several times, in order to insulate my body core from this Arctic blast, and so preclude my having to get up and swing my way to the 'loo in the middle of the night.

Most of the other 7 people in our little section drop off immediately, and as about 4 of them are really loud snorers, it very quickly begins to sound like feeding time at the zoo, and I can't really blame the child in the next section who begins wailing. Soon however, most of the lights go out, and as the train is a very slow-moving one, I'm soon rocked to sleep, and apart from having to come to and turn and stretch my right leg occasionally, I have quite an acceptable rest. Next day the evil-looking one (who I later realise is probably just slow) takes off to elsewhere in the carriage, leaving seven of us, which are Tapan and Anushila, plus the parents-in-law of their son, who have all been holidaying together, and two brothers from Calcutta sitting by the window. Tapan is a retired mechanical engineer who worked on modernising steel mills in India for 30 years. Has visited all the Australian steel centres, loved the Aussies, hates the English (guess who didn't mention his antecedents). They live at Kalyani, an hour's train-ride out of Calcutta. The in-laws come from Assam. One of the two Calcutta brothers is rogueish-looking and voluble, and loudly goes through a lengthy prayer ritual each morning. His brother is very quiet. Anushila has a striking resemblance to Pauline, who used to work at Moorabbin Campus. Not physically particularly, but she had Pauline's eyes, and the same way of looking at you from the side, and bending in towards you as she spoke - it was uncanny. Anyway, we got on like a house on fire. She has quite a good voice, and at one stage sang some Bengali songs. Then she said that she would sing an English song for me, and started in on 'Eidelweiss'. This is the only song from the 'Sound of Music' that I like (and know the words of, to some extent), so I sang along with her. This unleashed a whole repertoire from the 'Sound of Music' and so I had to sit there and try to look interested. I tried to keep a straight face when she talked about them escaping from England into Scotland in the movie. Anyway, it was a really good day. Anushila and Tapan were a really great couple, the in-laws a bit quiet, but the two brothers were real good company. I think the seven of us all enjoyed the day, including the mother-in-law, who is apparently quite unwell with bronchial and heart problems.

Next day Anishela and company got off at Kalyani, and soon we were drawing into Howrah. Howrah Station has a reputation as a place where hundreds of homeless kids live, who storm incoming trains to see what they can find. One of the brothers says to me 'be careful at Howrah - many bad people there', and I nod conspiratorially. I wouldn't be as uncool as to say 'what about the hundreds of streetkids?', but I resolve to stick like glue to the two of them until we're out of the station. What happens is that not one street kid turns up - it was easier than getting out of Flinder's Street in the morning peak. I had worked out from LP that you can get a ferry from Howrah across the Hoogly River to Bishe Ghat, from where it only seems about a kilometre's walk to BBD Bagh, where there are a handful of likely-sounding cheap hotels. There are 3 ferry terminals at Howrah, and I get directed to one of them. Get on the ferry and ask a well-dressed looking chap if it goes to Bishe Ghat. He looks at me dumbfounded, and another, slimy-looking guy chips in and says yes it does. Then I notice el slimo exchanging glances with some other slimes, and seeing a kiosk on the wharf that I'd missed, I get off and ask there, and get directed to another wharf. The lady at the ticket window there says she has never heard of Bishe Ghat, so I slip into plan B, which is to get a ticket (4 rupees) to Babu Ghat, from where it is a somewhat longer walk to the main backpacker area around Sudder Street in Chowringee. Wait on a ferry, and when it's full we all have to get on to another ferry that hoves alongside. My entire previous Indian experience has been one day in Calcutta when I was 18 years old. I was absolutely fascinated with the city on that occasion, and swore I'd return later, but never did. Now, crossing the Hoogley 25 years later, I can still feel that magic, and feel glad that I've made the effort to get across to Calcutta this trip. Unfortunately, there were some street kids on the first ferry, two girls about 10 or 12, one with a baby, and a boy about 3 or 4. He pushed a begging bowl at me, and I dropped some rupee coins into it. Once I got off the ferry, they stuck to me like shadows, and for the whole two kilometres that it took to get to the New Market, I was followed by this immovable procession, the girl with the baby constantly saying "Uncle, give me 60 rupees for karna" (lunch). Everybody in Calcutta, from beggars and rickshaw drivers to cabbies and touts calls me 'Uncle'.

Finally lose them at the New Market, mainly I think because they might have been trespassing on someone else's turf. With the aid of the excellent LP sketch map of Chowringee I easily track down the first place on my list, the Capital Hotel in Chowringee Lane, with the inevitable hotel tout in tow, who had nearly had a seizure trying to get me into the hotel of his choice, a bit further down the road. LP describes the Capital Hotel as about as charming as a prison, but I don't really notice as I'm a bit exhausted from the train trip, and sleep and doze much of the day. In the evening I venture down Mirza Gharib, which is reputedly the home of some Chinese restaurants, and find the really excellent Tung Fong, which for decor, service and food would be equal to any swish Chinese restaurant in Melbourne. Back at the hotel, I realise that the hotel, (unfortunately), has room service, and as the hotel boys tend to sit at the top of the stairs , near my room, that's where the (loud) buzzer is, and up until midnight it makes sleep impossible, and then starts up again at 6 am.

Deciding on a change of venue, I am up very early, and wander over to BBD Bagh, as I can see that anywhere around Sudder Street will tend to be a bit noisy. It is a fascinating area, full of small markets and roadside stalls, and after some to-ing and fro-ing, I find my first choice, which is a hostel for Buddhist monks etc in Robert Street, which sometimes lets travellers in. As silent as the grave, but unfortunately full, as is The Broadway Hotel in Ganesh Chandra Avenue. In retrospect, this was just as well, because BBD doesn't have the western-oriented cafes and internet facilities that Sudder Street has. It's still not yet 10 am, so I decide to wander over to Dalhousie Square, (now called BBD Bagh, as is the whole of the surrounding area). As an 18 year old I overnighted in Calcutta for a night and most of a day, staying at the Great Eastern Hotel, near Dalhousie Square. In the early days of the Raj the square was called Tank Square, because a tank (reservoir) in it's centre held Calcutta's drinking water. I don't know if the water would still be fit for drinking, but the tank is still there, surrounded by colonial-era buildings on all sides. I wander down the western edge, and immediately a particularly tenacious tout attaches himself to me. This one has a novel angle, he says he works in the police office nearby, and 'knows everything' (not about me, I hope). Gradually the offers to 'guide' me around Calcutta start to creep in, and I get rid of him by doubling back to take a photo of the Post Office, and then keep doubling back. Then another guy attaches himself to me, who needs 'money for an operation', and when this falls on deaf ears, starts making offers to 'guide' me. This is a Sunday morning, and there are not really many people about the square. I wander over to the eastern side, where there is an army post half way along, and pull out my camera and take a photo of the Writer's Building. This elicits some muffled shouts from the army post, so I wander across the road towards the Writer's Building where there are two more soldiers, who inform me that it is forbidden to take photos of the building. I beat a circumspect retreat, and decide it might be time for the Great Eastern Hotel. LP says that it has been under renovation, but 'should be up and running when you read this'. I am envisioning taking morning coffee and cakes in some civilised tea room of the hotel, but alas the hotel looks as if it is being dismembered. The main entrance is still there, with what looks like a doorman outside, and I sneak a photo while he's looking the other way. Then, sure enough, as I go past him, and try to get a longer shot, the security guard (I now realise), comes running up 'no photos' "Why?" 'because of management vision'. Nothing loth, I cross the street a bit further up, and take a general picture of the street. Is it my fault that the camera tilts to the right and zooms in on the hotel? I just make it back to the hotel by 12 o'clock (check out time), and book into the Time Star Hotel in Tottie Lane, the next street.

After a snooze, I venture out for afternoon tea to a place I noticed last night at the corner of Mirza Gharib and Park Street, called the Tea House. Half the menu seems to be ice cream based delights, but when I enquire : 'we don't have any ice-cream'. I instinctively feel that the plethora of cakes at the glassed in counter could be of a certain age, so I settle for a grilled cheese sandwich and two large pots of tea. This cost me almost as much as the hearty meal I'd had at the swish Tung Fong the night before. This wouldn't have been so bad except for a loud shouting argument that was going on between the chef and guy in charge at the front, which kept moving between the kitchen and the front and then back again, keenly followed by half a dozen waiters, so that service was virtually non-existent. I had to ask 3 times before I got my second pot of tea, and it's a mystery to me how anybody found time to grill the cheese sandwich. The show went on when I was having another lie-down at the hotel, where for about an hour it sounded as if someone was on a whiskey-fuelled rampage. Plus the rooms have TV, and as there's a twelve-inch gap between the top of the walls and the ceiling, you get to listen to everybody else's TV as well.

I retreat to an internet shop. This one I particularly like, because it has ample room, so that you don't need to get into any compromising positions with the other users when entering or leaving the cafe. Many internet places in India ask to see your passport, and then they register your details. This place has a very high-tech method of registration, whereby, as well as the normal procedure, you have to sit in front of a computer, which displays your image on the screen, while you type in all your details. Not everybody is happy about having to do this, particularly Indians, and every night that I've dropped in to the cafe there is at least one altercation, tonight being no exception. Have a late dinner at the Tung Fong, which is in full swing, despite it being a Sunday night, and when I get back, all has quietened down at the hotel.

Mussoorie.
The Tilak Library at the Picture Palace.
Taken from just in front of the desk of Anjeeta the librarian. I did take other pictures, including
of her, but they all came out too dark.

Mussoorie. Camel's Back Road.
On my way home one night, this loo had been locked up, but the cow was patiently standing outside, as if waiting for it to open.

Dehradun. View from the hotel room that I used for a few hours while waiting for the train to Calcutta.

Dehradun. Indian Military Academy.
This derelict and overgrown part of the camp looked as if it could have dated from my grandfather's time.

Train from Derhadun to Calcutta.
My companions on the 35 hour trip.

Calcutta. Near Dalhousie Square.

The Great Eastern Hotel is getting a make-over.

Calcutta. Near Dalhousie Square.
Entrance to the Great Eastern Hotel.

Calcutta. Dalhousie Square. The Writer's Building.
The official name of the square is now BBD Bagh.
B, B and D are the initial letters of the names of 3 martyrs in the early years of the Nationalist Movement, who attempted to assassinate Dalhousie in the Writer's Building, but killed some minor official by mistake.

Calcutta. Chowringee Road.
It was Sunday morning, and a couple of hundred goats were being driven along what is normally a very busy road.

Calcutta. Chowringee Road.
Bamboo scaffolding on a multi-storey building.

Calcutta. Dalhousie Square.
The General Post Office. This is built over the actual site of the 'Black Hole of Calcutta'.

Calcutta. Dalhousie Square.
This 'tank' was the original water reservoir for Calcutta, and this area was originally called 'Tank Square. The white-domed building is the post office.

Calcutta. Park off Chowringee Road.
This man was a driving force in the 19th Century Indian Revival.

Calcutta. Park Street.

MUSSOORIE. November 10th-11th.

Arriving at Mussoorie. There are two bus stands in Mussoorie, one at Gandhi Chowk, called the Library bus stand, and the other, 2 kilometres away, and at the other end of the Mall, called the Picture Palace bus stand, near the market. All the el cheapo accommodation is within walking distance of the Picture Palace. Get off there, and walk to the Hotel Broadway, on Camel's Back Road. I had rung them from Shimla, but it's all news to them. Have a small room with private bathroom, 200 rupees, and an excellent view once you've stepped out of the room. And monkeys take a short cut across a horizontal bar just above the bedroom window. Camel's Back Road is a 3 kilometre scenic walk to Gandhi Chowk, with excellent views across the valleys and to quite large sections of the snow-capped Himalaya in the far-distance. Take some great photos, none of which I could upload to my blog, because the camera setting had been on 'video'. After this first day there was continual low cloud, with nothing visible, and I have since sticky-taped the setting on the camera to 'automatic'. At Gandhi Chowk I have an ice-cream cone, possibly my first ice-cream in India. There are many Indian tourists and holidaymakers around. Mussoorie is another 'honeymoon' destination in India. My main interest in visiting Mussoorie is because my Mum used to spend time here during the hottest months, but also my 3 brothers were at boarding school here, and when I was a kid my second-oldest older brother often used to tell me yarns about it. On the way back along the Mall, I stop at a bookshop, and ask if they have any books about Mussoorie in the pre-war period. The English-speaking bookshop man pulls out half a dozen, and when I mention that I'd be interested in visiting the site of St George's College, the old school of my brothers, he says that St George's is still alive and well, and gives me directions on how to get there.

I see an internet shop, and ask the man if I can upload some photos to my blog, using a usb cable. You have to ask, because some places don't like you doing it. The internet shop man says 'no, but I can put them on to a file, and you can upload them from that'. The same thing had happened in Kasauli, with excellent results, and so I agreed (unfortunately). Two hours later, after he had made numerous experiments on 'speeding up the process' it was taking about 7 minutes to upload one, instead of the normal 2 minutes. And he'd minimised everything (in the interests of speed), so that several pictures were in the space of one, etc. etc...
I finally pleaded an (imaginary) dinner appointment, and made my escape. The next night, at another internet shop where I was allowed to do it myself with a usb cord, I had to scrub all the previous night's pictures, and start again.

As I hadn't eaten since breakfast, I went to the only decent-looking place in town, the Tavern, an upstairs bar and restaurant, where I ordered a Chinese meal. The only other occupants were 4 westerners having a beer. An urbane Indian guy was doing covers of some traditional numbers, and the 5 of us would clap. The others left, and he had a rest for a while. Then a crowd of about 10 Indian young people arrived, and he started up again, but I'm the only one giving him a hand
(I'm locked into it now). So he starts doing all country and western numbers, obviously just for me, ones that I knew, and I'm sort of singing along with him. We had exchanged smiles at the end of a couple of earlier numbers, but now he's grinning at me all the time, and I'm thinking xxxx, I've gotta get out of here a.s.a.p., which I do as soon as I've finished eating.

Tuesday morning I have breakie at the hotel, and am able to get porridge, the first since McLeod Ganj. The bookshop man has said it's a straight road to St George's, about 6 kilometres past the clocktower. Do my usual party-trick of taking a wrong turning, at the clocktower, thereby adding a couple of kms to the trip by the time I've realised my mistake. A young fellow on a motor-bike that I ask, says to me : 'in my experience, I find (when travelling), that it is imperitive to keep asking, all the time'. "My God, yes, what a brilliant idea, thank you ever so much". I ask, and I ask, and I ask, including two guys in a mini-van, one of whom appears to think that I'm the funniest thing since Charles Chaplin, and screams hysterically, uttering the few odd English phrases he knows, and I retreat, uncharitably muttering about some poor village that's now short of its idiot. I get pointed up so many unlikely-looking roads that I resolve to leave early on the return journey, so as to leave time for back-tracking from wrong turnings.

St George's is at the end of a quite thriving-looking village, with a big arch bearing the name of the school, and two guards in guard-boxes, in uniforms that are suspiciously police-like. I explain that I need to go to the office, and get waved through. The office is closed till 1.30, and as it's just past one, I have a stroll through the school, and take some photos. When the office is open, I explain to the lady there that I'd like to find out any info I can regarding my brothers' time at the school, and she organises for someone to bring me a sort of entry and exit register for the years 1908 to 1940. This is a mine of information, as I find that my eldest brother started there in 1928, but it didn't give an exit date, which was probably 1930, as I know that he signed up for the British Army in that year. My other two brothers started there in 1930, and finished there at the end of 1931 (with 'good' characters). I've just about finished copying the entries for each of them in my notebook when one of the Patrician Brothers arrived to get his mail, and started talking to me. I explained my interest, and he said 'Oh come with me, and have a look in the archives, we have all the year books there'. In my brothers' time all the Patrician Brothers there were Irish, except for one (token?) Anglo-Indian. Now there are only two Irish Brothers left, and Brother Muldowney, 40 years at the school, is one of them. He walks at a fast clip, with me lagging behind, answering questions as we go. 'Grandfathers English?' "One, and one Irish" 'Name?' "O'Donovan", and I note an imperceptible wince. These archives are something of an achievement, because although the school was originally founded in 1853, the archives were only officially opened last month. Unfortunately, the collection of 'Manorites' (the Yearbooks) are a bit thin on the ground for the late twenties/early thirties, so we go to his office in another part of the school, where he has a collection of several decades worth that an old boy of the school left them. I do find that my eldest brother was in standard 7 in 1930, that he won a prize for being fourth in the class, and although I have no memory of him, I was able to identify him in a class photo, from other photos that I have at home. After this Brother Muldowney said 'tea!', and then 'where the hell is that boy' and after he'd called to a servant outside 'Chai. Tea!' we went to a sitting room where cake etc. had already been set for the Brother's afternoon tea. None of the others turned up though. 'I expect they're off running or playing sport with the boys - sport mad, they are'. He told me that he had at one time been on a study tour to Australia, mainly Sydney, and he rattled off the names of the suburbs that had Patrician Brothers schools that he'd visited, and they were suburbs I'd either lived in, or knew well. Finally he walked with me to a separate exit from the school, and pointed out a more straightforward path where I could walk towards the main road and back to the town. Along this path I came across the most incredible war memorial, an actual fighter aircraft from WW2, mounted on a thick steel stanchion, and silhouetted against the sky and the valleys below. A plaque listed a dozen or so old boys of the school who gave their lives in WW2.

After deleting the photo disaster from the night before, and uploading everything again, I thought about dinner. After lashing out for the past two nights, first at the Ashiana in Shimla, and then at the Tavern in Mussoorie, I thought I'd better control myself, and made for a fairly-basic looking place in the Mall. They don't have a toilet, so I order, and go down some wide steps on the other side of the road that they point to. I wander down this slope, and as it's fortunately dark, use the first bit of greenery that doesn't look as if it belongs to someone's house. I think I might have mentioned this before, that for a man at least, India is one giant toilet, you constantly see guys having a wee virtually wherever they feel like it. Back at the cafe, the lights are out, and I lend the guys there my torch. One of them brings out what looks like a candle off a birthday cake, and lights it for my table. All through the meal the lights intermittently go on or off.

Mussoorie. Along The Mall.
The top part of the restaurant revolves, but only if there are customers.

Mussoorie. Along The Mall.
At the Revolving Restaurant.

Mussoorie. Along The Mall.
I haven't been given one plastic bag from a shop since arriving in India. Most purchases get wrapped in newspaper.

Mussoorie. Camel's Back Road.
Horseriding along the road is quite popular with Indian tourists.

Mussoorie. St George's College.

Mussoorie. St George's College.
St George slaying the Dragon.

Mussoorie. St George's College.
Memorials in the chapel garden to a number of the Patrician Brothers who are buried in Mussoorie.
(A couple of them had lived to nearly 100 years old).

Mussoorie. St George's College.
Painting in the dining hall of a bird's-eye view of the college.

Mussoorie. St Georges College
The very helpful, (and entertaining)
Brother Muldowney.

Mussoorie. St Georges College.

Actual full-size WW2 aircraft used as a war memorial to the dozen or so Old Boys of the school that died in the war.

KASAULI-SHIMLA-DEHRADUN. November 8th-10th

Leaving Kasauli. Saturday morning I drift down to the bus stand after a hearty breakfast, and soon track down the 'Kasauli Queen'. At Dharampur the bus to Shimla is waiting for us, and a couple of hours later I get dropped off at the same spot as when I first arrived in Shimla. The obligatory hotel tout attaches himself to me, but I maintain a monastic silence all the way through the Victory Tunnel and up the long steps to The Mall, and by the time I reach the Hotel Classic he has vanished.

I tend to use Lonely Planet a lot for planning my strategy for accommodation at the next stop, and for working out what things I want to see there, but don't bother much with their 'Eating' suggestions, as there are usually always acceptable places near to where you are staying. Shimla has been a bit disappointing in this regard, so I study the LP, and make a list of 4 possibly-okay places.The first of these is the 'Ashiana' on The Ridge, which I try for a late lunch, and find to be excellent : large circular restaurant with picture windows, sink-in-able chairs, efficient waiters, and scrumptious food. In order to build up an appetite for dinner I walk a few kms to The Glen, a forested area supposedly reminiscent of the Scottish Highlands, and to Annandale, former site of a very famous racecourse. This gives me an excuse for a return foray to the Ashiana for dinner and another of its mood-lifting meals.

The hotel tells me that the first bus to Dehradun (apart from the 5 am one), is 9.30. After cutting it a bit fine the day I left from McLeod, I decide now to take off early, and arrive at the bus station around 8.30. Consequently I get bundled onto an earlier bus to Pranta, from where you can get another bus to Dehradun. In retrospect this move was a mistake, because the bus stops for anybody who waves it down, plus it stops at Solon for half an hour, for no good reason as far as I could see, and so the trip takes a lot longer. I realise too, that the previous day, if I'd left Kasauli early, I could have got off at Solon (between Dharampur and Shimla), and got a Dehradun bus from there, and therefore gained a day. Only problem is, then I would have missed out on the two life-saving meals at the Ashiana cafe - (if you do 'A' then you can't do 'B'). After a twenty minute wait at Pranta, a Dehradun bus turns up, apparently full already. I manage to get on, mainly because several people in front of me in the queue jump out again once they see how full it is. The consequence is that I'm sitting on my backpack about a third of the waydown the aisle, with the conductor having to practically leap over me. Later some people get off and I move towards the back of the aisle, and some people give me an edge of their 3-person seat. This puts me into a good position to snag a seat when someone behind me gets off, but some people end up standing all the way.

The Clement Road bus station where the bus terminates is 5 km out of town, and so I get a tuk-tuk into the centre, with Cheech and Chong. Chong, I suspect, was only driving for the second time in his life. Neither of them had a clue where the Milan Palace, (my hotel), was. It didn't help either that Lonely Planet said it was in Gandhi Road, whereas it is actually (I later found out), in Hardiwar Road. I end up abusing them and setting out to find it on foot, along a street that not only doesn't have any pavement, and a non-stop stream of traffic, but also people on motor bikes and scooters are driving against the traffic, at the edge of the road where you have to walk.

Nobody has heard of the Milan Palace Hotel, so I decide to try navigating scientifically, and working out from LP that the hotel is near the railway staion, I ask for directions to there. Then I start asking at all the hotels, and finally, outside the enormously-signed Grand Hotel, a guy (hotel-tout) points up, and in miniscule lettering, next to the Grand Hotel, and 5 metres to the left of it, is the Milan Palace. I'd only gone past it three times already. (The 'Palace' part ends with the name of the hotel). I ask for a room at the back, where nevertheless the decibel-rating is quite high from the nearby traffic, and just when I think it couldn't get any louder, some sort of religous procession, with an enormous band, starts up outside as well. I beat a hasty retreat to the dining room of the nearby Hotel Meedo, where, despite the Mafia-like waiters, I get a passable and quite enjoyable dinner. Back at the hotel everything goes quiet at about 11 pm, and I sleep like a log all night.

Next morning, (Monday), before I take off for Mussoorie, I go to the railway station to see if I can get a ticket to Calcutta for Thursday. No 2AC, no 3AC, and no dreaded 'Sleeper' class, not till Thursday week. How am I supposed to get there - by local bus? Aha, but, (for an extra 300 rupees), we have emergency seating (for foreigners), so I end up getting a 3AC ticket for Thursday night for 1490 rupees (about 42 dollars). 2AC is an air-conditioned carriage with 2-tierbunks, and 3AC is air-conditioned with 3-tier bunks, I now know.

Also before leaving, I want to try and find out the location of an internment camp for German nationals from all over India, that was situated at Dehradun during WW1 and WW2. Its most famous son during WW2 was Heinrich Harrer, leader of the German mountaineering expedition to the Himalaya in 1939, until he and his team were interned on returning to India after the commencement of hostilities. He and a friend later escaped back over the Himalaya to Tibet, a journey he described in his book 'Seven Years in Tibet'. (He was the one in the movie that looked like Brad Pitt). Anyway, my Irish grandfather, who had already served about 45 years in India, was put in charge of that camp for the duration of WW1. My mother still lived at home then, until she got married in the second year of the War, and I can remember her talking about life in Dehradun at that time. Then it was apparently just a whistle-stop, not the teeming metropolis that it is today.

In pursuit of this quest, I had already made an abortive attempt at the railway station earlier. Nobody was manning the Tourist Information Counter, so I asked at the 'Enquiry' counter next door. 'Go to the Tourist Information Counter'. 'But there's nobody there'. 'Yes there is'. 'No. there isn't'. 'Well wait there till somebody comes'. Sometimes I feel like a character in a Kafka novel. So, as I still had a couple of hours till check out time at the Hotel, I battle my way to the main Tourist Information Office halfway down Gandhi Road, where the delightful Mrs Mhistri, who can't herself help me, directs me to Mr Joshri at the Local Intelligence Unit, across the road ('Who can'). I'm beginning to wonder if I'm walking into some sort of subcontinental KGB trap, but the Unit is a sort of registration place for foreigners working in the Dehradun area, (including Tibetans). However, I draw a blank, as the busy and obviously overworked Mr Joshtri knows nothing about it.

After a leisurely and enjoyable late breakfast at the Hotel Meedo, (much, I imagine, to the chagrin of the Mafia waiters, whose TV viewing I interrupt), I wander over to the Mussoorie bus stand, conveniently located next to the railway station. Every bus I've been on so far in India has looked as if it should have been retired years ago. The Mussoorie bus is so new that it still has the plastic coverings on the (light-blue!) seats. The trip takes about one and a half hours, over a mountain road with about roughly two thousand bends, and is uneventful except that a small child, sitting on the lap of the man in front of me, was sick ALL over him. The sight of this man's friends using about 2 boxes of tissues to clean him up, while the bus zoomed around 'x' number of hairpin bends, was not for the squeamish.