6th November, 1943: Bombay to Poona

 "Wake up, we are almost in Bombay" brought me off the top rack-come-bed. After a wash and shave, I felt I could just sit down and watch the countryside flash by.

The desert, by this time, was many miles behind, here the vegetation is rich and dense. The cool morning, the scent of pasture and trees still wet with dew, was the same India that we had seen yesterday and the day before. Streams and lakes, ponds and rivers, pools covered with lilies, cattle knee-deep in thick pasture - it was like waking up in Britain on a summer morning. Occasionally, I could see a few big houses, the Indians appeared to be living under much better conditions, but a closer look revealed hamlets of mud and grass huts. And so near Bombay!

Like all towns I know, the slums are not hidden from the passenger's eyes. Never have I seen so many people living in such hovels, filth and disease must have been accepted by these poor devils as a matter of course. They live far more like rats than human beings, breeding and flourishing in this pestilential area. Some of the buildings are large blocks of flats, but each flat is a small self-contained smelly hole, housing a number far too great for good health. Such places should be burnt down, destroyed and forgotten. If one block should collapse, and by outward appearances, this is not so highly improbable as one might think, the hundreds would be rendered homeless. Without any sense of exaggeration, block busters would not be needed, a twenty pounder per block, and what have you...

Almost in the city, one sees places little better than the grass huts of the villages out in the country. Nearer the centre, the housing conditions slowly improve until one comes to the centre of large blocks of flats, separated one one side by wide streets, and on the other by narrow passages about three or four feet wide. All cities have their pride, and slums are usually pushed where few will see them, near the docks, around the gasworks, up against the good yards and railway sidings. The visitor sees the main streets and so often goes home with the impression that a certain town he has visited is a splendid credit to the city authorities. My man, if you must see a town, regard it also from a railway carriage window, do not bury your head in a newspaper. Bombay is like other towns, but what it has to hide is ten times worse than anywhere I ever saw in Britain.

The train pulled in, and two porters brought our luggage on a truck. They refused a rupee I offered them, it was not enough for them. If they live in a hovel such as some I saw, I can understand their greed. But, I was no millionaire at the time, and asking them when they would be rich enough to retire, I turned away. They followed me, and made it quite clear they would accept a rupee. I felt like telling them to go to hell, but was weak enough to give it to them. How many ignorant people, I wonder, are robbed right and left by this kind of people.

Our party of six had several hours to wait at Bombay. Having left our luggage in safety, we left the station, and walked thro' some of the streets that could hardly be called the main streets of the city. The district is an Indian native quarter - not slums by any means, but dirty and smelly. Unless I had been to India, I should still be under a false impression - India is mystic, the smell is a mystery, a very unpleasant blend of nauseating aromas - or shall I say "stinks". The pavements are covered with garbage - rubbish, puddles of dirty water, animals and animal dung, red blotches of dried spittle of those who chew the "beetle nut". Beggars lie in it all, others stand or sit around in groups, some sit in doorways, watching their own children playing around in it all, and all the while a few old women with baskets and small brushes, try to keep such a street clean. God knows what the slums must be like.

We walked to the front, the fresh air was a blessing. In front of us stretched out the bay, peaceful the water calm, not a ripple to be seen. A few fishing boats were preparing to leave, sails were hoisted and the sound of oars came across to us. At this early hour, the sun was bright and very hot. Walking for any length of time was an effort. Half an hour's easy walking brought us to the centre, and here we had breakfast.

In the city centre, more like an English city, are large shops, offices, banks, municipal buildings, churches, hotels, restaurants - and crowds of people, sightseers idly walking around, business men dashing hurriedly. The streets are clean, the pavements clear apart from dozens of small stalls where the "Cheap Jack" does his trade.

Nobby, Loftie and I, who were together, returned to the station for our luggage and found that it had been taken by the other three. We returned to the centre again, not walking this time, but by the suburban railway. Feeling hungry, dinner seemed to be the most obvious thing to seek. We found a Chinese restaurant. At the foot of the menu card we saw the words "A surprise awaits you here". This was true enough, but not the surprise one might have hoped for. The food was poor, small in quantity, the waiter was most surly and miserable. My appetite was damped out of existence. Perhaps his surliness was deliberately done to lessen our appetites so that the little food we had would be sufficient.

After wandering round the streets another hour, we were ready to leave. This was not because I felt I had seen all I wanted of Bombay. I was too tired to be as interested as I might have been. At the station we met the other three, Ron, Eddie and Jock. We were soon aboard the "Deccan Queen", the Bombay - Poona express. On this train, we see the slums of Bombay, but once outside the city, the countryside is green, rich with trees. The few lakes, creeks and rivers adding their charm to the quietness of all around.

The mountains ahead draw nearer, and, the decreased speed of the train indicated a climb. The valleys that penetrate into the range of mountains, gradually fall away, deeper and deeper from us. Little grass hut villages dotted around the rivers, lakes and other sources of water supply, hug close together. Other villages, at the foot of densely wooded hills, like toadstools closely clustered at the bottom of a tree, half-hidden by grass and foliage. The train climbs steadily for about an hour, winding its way up the sides of there mountains, plunging through tunnels, curving around bends, clinging tightly to the cliff at one side, while on the other side, the ground vanished to a valley hundreds of feet below.

After the climb - we are on a plateau, no mountains are to be seen, the country opens out into a vast plain. Fields of grass and pasture, small farms, village camps, occasionally a small factory so much that makes the place like Britain.

When we finally arrived at Poona, it was dark. We did not know where to go, so waited on the station for a service waggon which one of the boys rang up for. All our luggage was in one heap on the platform, and nine porters sat round it. They may have had nothing else to do, and gathered round for conversation. They may have been guarding it from harm, but it is easier to believe that they all anticipated that they were on a good thing, and that the tip might be handsome. The long wait was too much for them, by the time we left, we only had five waiting. In fact, all these were not needed.

I was rather surprised to see on Poona station, about five women, as dirty as any I had seen, lying on the platform trying to sleep. They were continually scratching, but the dirt on them encouraged the little foreigners they might have on them to multiply. So Poona, for all its grand name, has its poor or beggars - probably both.

We arrived in camp, found a billet and went to the mess. Norman Keywood, another staunch pal of mine, secured some sandwiches for us.

Having no lamps in the billet, we made our beds, after a fashion, with torch lights to help us, climbed into them, and went very soon to sleep.

5th November, 1943: Journey south through Rajasthan

 The night had been chilly, the rocking of the train magnified by the long wakefulness of some of the early morning hours did not go by un-noticed as during the day time.

The train was at a standstill when day was breaking. A waiter inquired whether we wanted some tea. What a reception hot tea and toast had.  We were at Luni Junction, and having finished the tea, got out to stretch our legs.

A little chap, about eight or nine years, asked for some "char". By some good fortune, we managed to get him a cup full, it was still warm. He drank it, and stood outside our carriage window for some time, singing away. He was cold, poor devil, and the clothes he had on would not help him much. They were little better than bits of rag tied around his naked body.

What surprised me so much about the beggars, they always came to where the service men travelled, never to the "First Class" where the rich Indians sat. It seems the same everywhere, the money one has makes one's heart hard, or the person with a hardened heart is the one who is able to save. The poor, however poor they may be, are kinder, show more human feeling, and are more prepared to help one who might be worse off. I am not condemning all the wealthy class, many of whom are real human Christians, but there is a general tending towards this way.

We waited at this station for almost an hour - but as soon as we were on our way again, we saw greenery - the desert was behind us. Most of this countryside appeared to be poor grassland, land that was not cared for thro' poor quality soil, lack of labour or of enterprise. Singe trees growing everywhere in this golden, sun-baked grass how like parts of England after a few weeks' dry weather in June.

I had bought myself a packet of Indian cigarettes, which I was going to try. The taste is not very pleasant compared with the cigarettes we have become accustomed to, but without the paper, they might be healthier to smoke. they are hot to the taste, and smell like a smouldering leaf fire a gardener might have when he is burning up the leaves and weeds in the garden. A box of matches is most essential, the cigarettes go out continually.

After breakfast, served in the same way as last night's dinner, we all returned to our coach. There were six of us in the party, Nobby Hall, Ron, Jock, Eddie, Loftie and myself.

Around Marwar Pali, grass huts, mud built houses, semi-cultivated land amid the strangely formed volcanic rocks, primitive life in every way, and in the middle, a modern factory. One never knows what to expect next in India. At the station, a choir of native children sing for us, accompanied by one of the tiny ones playing a crude, very primitive, hand-made violin - or something resembling one. A tiny bunch of small bells on the bow added harmony to the music from the strings. Having no change, I gave one a packet of Indian cigarettes to them to share. The boy who had them kept them all. The only other packet I had, I shared between them by handing them out. One boy, standing away from the rest, refused a cigarette - he was very interested in the choir, but was certainly not one of them. Several people enjoyed the antics and music of these kids, many natives gathered round, but when they were asking for baksheesh, no one, not even the well-to-do offered to put a hand in his pocket. I thought it a poor show.

Beyond here, the trees became less in number, until the countryside becomes one mass of yellow shades, burnt, shrivelled up grass in which large flocks of goats and cows seem to thrive. The only inhabitants of this region appear to be shepherds or cowmen, tending their flock. What a lonely life it must be, they must either talk to their animals or go mad after a time. Here and there, a well is sunk, and the water is used to irrigate corn and rice fields. On many farms, the peacock seems as common as geese do in Britain. Their beauty is lost in such desolate regions where hardly a soul sees them. These peacocks must feel like the man who shaves and dresses to go out during the black-out hours. Someone might turn up, and if nobody does, it is still grand to be clean and well-dressed, even in the dark. 

On a hill, a temple stands, probably a Hindu temple to "Light", one of their Gods. This, I suppose, is the centre of communal like of the whole neighbourhood.

Water is drawn from the wells, by oxen. Generations ago, this would have to be resorted to anywhere, but today, with all the modern machinery, is India so behind because the old system is good enough, or is it because the people are so ignorant of modern methods and too poor to afford it. Even if Britain cannot step in, surely the Indian government can, and should.

God helps man who helps himself, but by God help the man who doesn't, and cannot. At Marwar Junction, the water supply on the train is replenished. Like most Indian communities, this was not without those that seek baksheesh. One boy had some less familiar Indian slate coins which he sold. Although their actual money value was very little, the addition to the collection made them well worth the money. I was on the platform but for a few minutes before I was hemmed in with children from six years of age to ten. I must have looked something strange to them, they only wanted to talk. I picked out the smallest chap and taught him the English Salaam, i.e. the handshake. They they all wanted to do it. When this was finally over, they all wanted to do it again. I felt like some hero might have felt when everyone within distance wanted to shake him by the hand. The kids enjoyed it and so did I. I pity the man who is so aloof that he cannot sometimes become a child again.

Approaching Rani - we cross several dried up rivers and streams. The land is dry, and before the next rain, the soil must be parched and cracked for lack of moisture. Fields of rice and corn are grow where water may be found, otherwise the land is almost without value. Rani itself is a very odd collection of buildings; everything is incongruous, houses with good stone walls have old thatched roofs, badly built places have good roofs. There is not street as we know it, simply a collection of individual buildings, most of the facing the station. The turbans worn by the few people on the station are massive things.

At Falna, I managed to buy some oranges, the fruit on this station is much more expensive than at Hyderabad. At first the boy refused my rupee because there was a small tear in it, but on second thoughts, he took it. I had started to walk away thinking he might try to accepting it at half its value as some had offered to do before. I do not mind giving, but to be robbed and be thought a fool, never, if I can help it.

Erinpura Road, a station amid a cluster of mud huts, a few with tiled roofs, in a grain farming district. The farms, as we came down the line, got bigger and more frequent, the kinds of animals became larger. Nearby is a river, a source of water supply, but the supply is indeed low, the river is almost dry and most of the bed being nothing but hard baked mud. Occasionally an Indian town or village can be seen from the train, several miles away from the railway. Life is primitive, trains are not necessary. Life is slow, if one had to meet a train, why do as we in Britain do, rush madly at the last minute and dive into a train that gets us to a station in time to clamber into a packed carriage as the train is drawing out. To start an hour earlier is all that is necessary for them, and what is that when it must take weeks to cultivate a field that could be ploughed by machinery in a few hours.

Several hills, the most strange and picturesque I have ever seen, appear like magnified castles of pebbles and sand that a child might have built, this is probably a mixture of volcanic lava and ash, and the countryside becomes rocky, and poor.

Nana, a station, but nothing else. I had wondered where the millions of Indians live, a country so densely populated but very little indication of this. In the distance there is a large town. The lonely shepherds we see, the children playing around, the few girls in the fields, all have homes somewhere, so there must be tiny villages hidden from view. The villages, I imagine are near the foot of the hills that have the temples built on them. Several hills have such temples built at their summit. In many ways, the landscape resembles parts of England or Wales, but the heat of the afternoon always reminds one that it is not so.

Sarup Ganj [Swaroopganj], a few stone built houses with wood tiles on the roof. Most of these are warped, and for a country like India, they must be useless, such roof must leak badly.

Kivarali, where the land becomes more level, where the land is cultivated, and strangely enough, divided into fields, is a station near a small village almost completely hidden in trees. The land is watered from wells, drawn by oxen. Amid these fields that are cultivated more scientifically than I had seen before in India, is a few acres of trees, and among these trees, a complete village, difficult to see although only about fifty yards from the train. To complete this picture of beauty, near the stream stands a woman dressed in scarlet, two men in white with brilliant pink turbans, and the colours are reflected in the still water near the stream.

Dirty tenements, filthy little hovels form the approach to Abu Road. The size of the station indicates that there must be a town of a few thousands somewhere near. The station building has a roof of many little domes, a crude imitation of the domes on some of the great Indian temples. This is a closed in station. One good humoured Indian elderly chap came down the train saying "hello" to everybody. He did not ask for baksheesh, or wait to see if any was forthcoming, but seemed to be there to make everyone feel he was welcomed. There are no beggars on the station, not because the district has no beggars, beggars are professional men in India and live amongst all communities. This seems to be a district of hardworking people, and their pride perhaps, or their determination to prevent scroungers living around prevents beggars on the station. This is not a railway ruling, otherwise no beggars would be found at any station and most beggars would willingly pay for a platform. they are simply not allowed at the station. Those people that are there are pleasant, friendly, speak quietly, and seem more civilized in every way. 

Beyond the station, although there exists much ground that is of little value, that which is tilled and cultivated, is done more scientifically. Huge fields of rice are harvested, and cattle graze in fields that but a short while ago had been grain fields. Was this a rotation of crops, it looked like it. The trees that grow in these fields are left, maybe in the middle of a rice or corn field. Pruning is done quite frequently but why the trees are left is difficult to understand. The best way to find out would be to ask, but the natives speak no English, I speak no Hindustani.

Half an hour's run from Abu Road, the railway line enters a plain, the land becomes nicer, and acres of rice, corn and a little sugar cane stretch away to the distance for miles.

Palanpur, another pleasant district. The station, like the surrounding countryside, is clean and fresh. The people go about their work quietly, there is no mad shouting or wild rushing around. Flowers grow up lattice work showing the pride these people take in the station, where everybody can see. On the roof of this station, sit many monkeys, waiting for food to be thrown to them. These monkeys are regarded with great favour by the Hindus - a harmless animal and a pet. They are not regarded as sacred.

As we leave this district behind, in the distance, I noticed a huge modern farm and outhouses - surrounded by several small houses. Was this communal work?  - or was it a farm owned by a landowner, employing many people to work for him. The land was well cared for, and the ripening crops showed that labour was not in vain. If this farming gives better results, and the people are paid well for their work, are housed and clothed decently, then why only an occasional sign of it. Most of India could be farmed by the Indian government employing all the agricultural workers a better wage, and giving them better food and clothing. Housing might also be solved in this way, and contented workers always turn out better work than a man who is dissatisfied and worried.

In the centre of this small community, a beautiful white temple. These simple people do not keep worship out of their daily life. Life is toil and hard work, yet they must be thankful to some supreme being, even for their hard lot. As to their work, any farmer might pride himself for such meticulous care that these simple folk take in their irrigation of these small "paddy" fields. Wells are dotted around everywhere, man and beast are continually at work, their reward being the pleasure of seeing the harvests gathered in.

At the next station, the majority of the men and boys were a black fez. These are Mohammedans, their mosque in the town cannot be seen from the station. Many of the older men grow long beards. An old woman came round selling small buttonholes or posies of flowers. It was the first time I had seen flowers sold in India. Mingling with the crowd, but very soon worming their way to the front, the little "baksheesh" kiddies got busy again. It is not necessary to see them, not even to hear the words "Salaam Sahib - baksheesh" - that high-pitched monotonous continuous sounds of voices is sufficient.

This is at Siddphur Station, the town being mostly built of stone, but the tenements would hardly stand up to the weight of smoke from a smoke bomb. An epidemic of flu' and continuous sneezing would just about batter that district to hell. Where ever a large town is, we might expect a river, towns are built near rivers, the water supply being of prime importance then a man decides to settle down on the land.

Some fields of cut sugar cane, tied in bunches to dry, look like a Red Indian camp without the canvas and skins thrown over the base skeleton of each wigwam. In the field stands a large leafy tree, perched on its topmost branch the dark mass of a huge ugly vulture, waiting for death to over take something that it might have a meal. On its way from the fields to the town, a caravan of oxen-drawn vehicles, laden with grain, slowly drags along. The crude vehicles must hamper the animals taking the load they might, some of the vehicles, built of massive wood planks, look a heavy load in themselves. At the next station, where monkeys again are seen to climb all over the station, stands a huge warehouse. Outside this warehouse are huge bales of cotton seed and sugar ready for the refinery. The people who knew very little about the rest of the world, their own world being their dirty little hovel, the paddy field and the temple; were clothing us and feeding us. Their cotton would be made into articles of clothing which their small means could not afford, their sugar would make cakes, chocolate sweetmeats etc. which would probably be a luxury beyond their pocket.

The sun had set, dusk fast falling over everywhere was hiding the huge fields of grain that stretched as far as eye could see. India was being lost in darkness of night, but the train ploughed on. Some of the secrets of India were being hidden from our sight, so to speak, and we had to be content with the little peep into the life of the people. 

It was night when we drew into Ahmedabad, where we had to change trains for Bombay.

We had fifteen minutes in which to change. At home, we could manage it easily in this time, but here in India, where we are the foreigners, it was not easy, especially with all the kit we had to move. We got our stuff and hurriedly caught a couple of porters and made several inquiries for the train. Hundreds were after the same train, and it was almost panic. People were shouting and dashing backwards and forwards frantically in search of friends, luggage, porters, railway officials and trains. Porters, having to do much in a short time ran up the platform, high sided luggage on their heads, some-time crashing and skidding along the ground. This would be followed by the mad yells of annoyed travellers, and the officious shouting of railway men and officers. But we caught the train. We could now settle down to sleep. It had been a grand day.

1st November, 1943: The Americans

 During the morning I had a cup of "char" at the canteen. I could have eaten a breakfast, but one rupee out of the little I had to spare was too much for such a meal. The kitchen where the meals are cooked is not very highly polished, in fact it is always full of smoke and smells of burning fat and charred wood. Some fruit is fine, far more worthy of the sacrifice I would have to make.

After "tiffin", Bill, Loftie and I went to town. I had an exposed film which wanted printing. A good looking beggar woman, whom I knew from previous meetings, approached me, but before anyone could get a word out, I hear her talk "Baksheesh lady, you poor, me very poor", and to my astonishment she dropped a one twelfth anna coin in my hat. I felt like giving her all I had, it only amounted to a few annas, but restrained the foolish impulses. This woman is really beautiful, and she has a sense of humour. I gave her a cigarette and managed to convey to her that it would not make her head spin, - I hope. She in turn, with a smile written all over her face, assured me that it would not. This conversation was most amusing, for hardly a word was spoken by either of us.

We had dinner at camp, and with it the remainder of my money. I went to see Laurel and Hardy in "Air Raid Wardens". Joe came with me, and although the film is hardly up to their standard, it gave us a good hour's amusement.

At the end of the film, some Americans made their ignorance so obvious, that I did not know whether to pity them, laugh or scream at them. A few who stood near us yelled at a few Indian natives for walking out while the "Stars and Stripes" was played. Naturally, I thought them extremely patriotic and over zealous in their efforts to show this, but when they in turn started to walk out when "The King" was played, well...I am beginning to think them an ignorant set in many ways, and they suffer badly from "inferiority complex". This almost contradicts their actions, but why do they do such childish things, why make such ridiculous scenes in the street, unless it is to draw the attention of the crowd. When we were in Canada, and American soldier came up to a pal of mine, 

"Say - are you British?"

"Yes - I am"

"I'm an American see - I'm as good as you."

Who wanted to deny it, his own feelings that we, the British thought ourselves superior, and why should they think this.

America is such a young, grand nation, but the individuals are very small. When they realize this they might wake up to realities and act natural; it has been my privilege to see such Americans, and they are human, sensible and friendly.

As Joe and I sat down to a meal and Indian came in and started to argue with an American soldier. He, the soldier, looked a sullen dirty kind of chap, not typical of their average. The Indian left and returned with an M.P. [military policeman]. 

Apparently, this soldier had refused to pay for something, or had tried to swindle the man. The M.P. defended the Indian, and for once I take my hat off to the military police.

Indians are hard dealers - they bargain, and always get the better end of the deal, one has to be careful with dealing with them, but his word is his bond, he is no low cheat, he will not do any industrial swindling.

4th November, 1943: By train across India

 I heard the clock strike five, but this conveyed nothing to me, I was not really awake, just enough to realize how comfortable and warm a bed can be in the morning.

At half past five, we were up and packing - a camel cart outside was waiting to take our luggage to the station. At six thirty, we were on the station. There we found many natives, most of them wanted the same train as we were. Some were fast asleep on the floor, men, women and children outstretched everywhere, their little bit of luggage beside them. Looking up, gazing around, some of them too sleepy to realize what they were doing there, or even to realize where they were, they simply gazed absently around them. As realization dawned upon their fogged brain, and the time of the train drew near, they would up and make a frantic rush for their tickets. Most of the Indian people had not the slightest idea of a queue, it was all just a frantic scramble round the ticket office. The tall man at the back would try to reach over the heads of those in the front, while the short man pushed up against the office wall tried to get far enough back to be able to see the clerk through the window. It was laughable, yet pitiable. The porters, dressed like most Indian natives, but in red instead of white robes, dashed madly up and down the platform, carrying luggage on their heads. The train came in, and for three or four minutes chaos was the only word for it all. Porters yelled, travellers shouted, everyone talked loud enough for all to hear.

Our party had to split up, for Eddie, another Eddie this time, a navigator, and I got in together. The din and the shouting was gradually subsiding, order was developing amid all of the chaos, and very soon the whistle blew. We were on our way.

We drew out of Karachi - it was still dark, but we could see that in a period of minutes we were in the desert. Very shortly we stopped at Drigh Road, where one soldier got off. Once more we headed into the desert and very soon came to Malir, a new place built in an oasis or a very richly cultivated district. Palm trees and rich shrubs. Was this the end of the desert? Was it hell! It is now daylight, and I as I look through the window, I see sand and cactus, ninety nine per cent sand. The dull grey and bleakness of the sand is gradually changing - the sun is rising, greys turn to gold, coldness to warmth.

At the next station, a small building with "Water for Mohammedans" displayed on a board nearby rather puzzled me. This is drinking water from some main or well that Hindus will not, or are not allowed to drink owing to some religious belief. This is entirely surprising on my part. A fellow passenger whom I asked about this informed me that I am correct.

Just outside the station an elephant, the first I have seen in India; here is employed to move heavy cargo to the train. Nearby, on the road, there are a few camel drawn vehicles, so common in Karachi, that are heading for the desert, a wilderness of empty space, We pull out of the station again, and once more we are plunging ahead into the desert. It is a real thrill to sit back, completely lost in the desert, but with absolute faith in the navigation of the plate-layers.

At Jungshahi, where a great deal of pottery is made from the clay pits around, we got out, and walked up the platform. Hundreds of natives crowd onto the platform as well, to stretch their legs and to seek refreshments. The third class passengers, the Indian poor, are really third class. Talk about a raw deal, they have to sit or stand any where, the seats are occupied by a lucky minority, more are travelling without seats. A British train during August Bank Holiday could not compare with these, for overloading.

At Jhimpir, the people who sell refreshments carry the food in safe (meat) like boxes, upon their heads. Under their arm they carry a stand. When a customer comes along, the stand is put down, and the box of food is put to rest upon it. Much of this food has to be prepared in some strange way, I haven't the least idea what it is or what is done to it. Heavy bags of flour are taken off the train, and bare footed coolies carry them around. What a way of making a living, I am sure one of those bags would break my back. I should be on my knees in no time. In this desert waste, such a community as this little village, must, to a large extent, be self-supporting.

Once more we are in the desert, here, miles from everywhere, an occasional small field of maize or "Indian Corn" indicates the presence of water, and the presence of big beards reminded me of what the Wise Men of the East who came to Bethlehem must have looked like. The women are also dressed according to wealth, religion and creed, just as the men are. The poor woman is but slightly better dressed than a scare-crow, the rich are draped in clothing fit for a queen. We are near the Indus, and the land is cultivated from the water of the river. In the fields, some natives are harvesting a minute portion of India's great corn crop.

Our next stop is Hyderabad, where we have to change. From the train as we approach, it looks like a clean town, huge ventilation very conspicuous  above the roof tops. After a good meal, we went to explore this wonderful city. What a welcome we had, beggars with outstretched arms were there to meet us, and greet us "Salaam Sahib" - but always followed with the word "Baksheesh".

We walked up through the native district, filth, stench, flies, open drains, dilapidated buildings, decrepit old buses, oxen and donkey carts, natives sitting in dust and garbage, fruit barrows, the fruit being almost hidden by flies, dogs, goats and cows eating garbage and waste thrown into the open drains. This is what we saw but it looked clean from the train. We only saw one scene that was encouraging, a small group of clean school children returning from school with their slates under their arms. We had two more hours to wait, the heat was terrific and were not interested so much in the European quarter. I am trying to see the India of the Indians - one can read about the other India in books and see it in pictures.

We had very good accommodation and bought some fruit to eat on the journey. Just before leaving Hyderabad, I noticed a wedding party getting on the train. The bride was in the coach, the groom outside talking to her and the friends that had gathered around. Just before pulling out, a man, presumably the groom's father, put a garland of beautiful flowers around the groom's neck. The groom then ran back, and got in the train a few coaches down. This may have been because he wished his bride to have the comfort of a "Ladies Only" coach, but more probable, it is an Indian custom - or religious custom that the do not travel together. How unlike weddings at home, where the bride and groom want to be together away from everyone else.

As we left the station, children ran alongside shouting for baksheesh until they were out of breath and could keep up the chase no longer. We were in the delta, or near enough for irrigation and on either side cotton fields are cultivated. The plant is not unlike the raspberry canes - but one cannot really tell from a moving train. Groups of pickers, usually young girls, stood waist deep in the fields of cotton. The cultivation is very primitive  - oxen teams being used to till the land. It is not intensely cultivated either. Trees and shrubs grow everywhere - almost a half-hearted attempt to develop the district. Perhaps Britain would be more wise by giving them a few tractors and teaching these few natives how to grow bigger and better crops. This land is near enough to the river to be cultivated far more intensely, is it to somebody's interest that this is not done, or is it lack of foresight on somebody's part. I wonder if Mr. Amery has even thought of this, the increased crops would help us, the modern methods would help the Indians.

Again, this district is left, and once more we are in the desert. Occasionally, we find a few more cotton fields, water from wells sunk in the ground. It is primitive enough to use oxen and plough and draw water from these wells. I conclude that these wells were dug out and the soil removed by lifting out by hand. Some water runs through small channels from large canals fed from the rivers.

Tando Alahiar [Allahyar] is an Indian town in the centre of this region, and near the railway a large cotton warehouse with stacks of huge cotton bales indicate that the labour of this region, primitive as it may be, is not without some reward. This looks like any other town here, have houses without chimneys. These do not enter into the building of houses; if fires are needed for cooking, smoke, usually wood or charcoal smoke, has to find its own way out. The land we pass through is alternate desert and cultivation, probably due to the winding of the river sometimes brings it near the railway, at other times taking it far away.

In the semi-desert, a few small herd of oxen, or flocks of goats are seen, what they live on is a mystery, unless this half withered shrub and the cactus that grows in great quantity has some exceptional food properties. Suddenly we come to another station, crowded with natives. Everything springs to life, passengers, porters, baksheesh people, children, fruit sellers and cigarette and sweetmeat vendors. The length of turban is a mark of distinction, and one Indian, with enough cloth to make a ship's sail passed hurriedly by.

Outside the town, a large government fruit plantation, beautifully kept. To be able to do some real apple scrumping here would keep me happy while the fruit lasted. For the first time, I notice that the hard work of the porter is not only a man's job, but women and young boys also do it. It is incredible to see women, slaving away during such a mad rushed five minutes for a few annas.

In Britain, since the war has called upon so many men, women porters are employed, but not to carry heavy burdens upon their heads. They have trucks and barrows at home; here it is all physical labour and effort.

A large grain warehouse outside the station - the results of the labour of hundreds of land tillers. The land ploughed and being ploughed at the time must have had grain crops. Small landowners whose very existence depends upon what they get out of their small plot, are not going to let the land remain idle long.

Wake up Britain! You cannot get everything out of India without putting something back in. Give her the means to help herself to help us. The rich of India are not inexhaustible. By expecting more out of her, before long will solve the food problem - give the people the tools, and show them how to use them.

The answers one usually gets are that the farmer owns a small amount of land - the land is owned by millions of small holders. This may be so - but cultivate the land that is wasting, land that no poor land owner wants because he cannot till enough of it to make a living. To hear people say that it is impossible because it is a huge problem, let me say, England once was as primitive, once the rich wheat fields of East Anglia was a marsh, most of Nottingham was a forest, the Welsh Valleys were wild and uncultivated. The problem was solved. So it will be with India after hundreds of years one thinks; but India was cultivating its soil when we fought with spears, bow and arrows; yes, even with clubs. India still uses the oxen, the people still dig channels to irrigate the land, water is still drawn by ox or camel, occasionally by donkey. There is a difference in progress.

At eight o'clock, I went for dinner. This was my first meal on a train in India. Were the people of Bengal starving? Then why the variety of courses on the train? "You, White Sahib, rich man" - I began to see now. There may be starvation, but not due entirely to lack of food, but because some people could not afford to eat it. The rich Indian Sahib is to blame for this, but Britain should step in. India wants home rule but Britain is unwilling, but until we do relinquish our power, let us for God's sake teach them a little about food cultivation and distribution, and while helping India in this war, develop our distribution at home.

At dinner, I had the uncomfortable feeling that these waiters did not want you to eat too much. The service was good, but when the waiter looks at me as I take the food off the dish he is holding, he looks as though he wants you to stop. This may be first class service, but give me less service and don't spoil my appetite. It gives me the feeling that I eat which I have no right to eat, that I am robbing someone else who may be in more need of it.

When dinner was finally over, I returned to our compartment, it was now dark. We were entering the Sind Desert and to keep the windows open in case I might [?] something in the gloom was impossible. Dust raised by the passing of the train entered through every nook and cranny. I had to be content to read until it was time to retire.

3rd November, 1943: Last night in Karachi

 As Loftie and I were leaving Karachi we had our money this morning, and now, we would be gone.

I paid Banana Willie the two rupees I owed him. I don't know what I had done, but he thought a lot of me for some reason. He gave me an orange - baksheesh - poor chap, but I felt he had given me a gift of immense value. He had, from his pay, a rupee per day.

During the evening I called at the gift shop once more, and bought a few things to send to Birmingham. He, too, became a good friend of ours and spoke quite freely upon many subjects he insisted that I should see the Post Office registration receipt for the parcel he had sent for me a few days earlier.

As this was my last night there, we had a good supper at our favourite restaurant, the Chinese place. Steak, onions, bread, butter, ice cream and apple pie always gives me a feeling of well being. Loftie had joined us for supper.

Joe, Loftie and I returned to camp, we had to get up early. Joe - we would be seeing in very soon in Paona [?], left us and spent another hour or so wandering around.

2nd November, 1943: Two sides of Karachi

 Yousaf Witchcooy - our banana man, called rather early. I asked him for his autograph - and in good English, he replied, "No, you write, I can't, I never went to school". To hear of an Indian never having been to school is less astonishing than to hear that he had. But, Banana Willie, he did rather surprise me, for he is a man who has travelled all over Europe. He had a heart of gold though, and this seemed to be appreciated by all. Some of his best sayings are really humorous, especially coming from an Indian.

"Take it easy, kid"

"Rich man OK! Me - poor man buggered up"

"Good oranges today - the real MacKay"

Yousaf, pal - keep up that good spirit.

We all went to town during the afternoon but did not stay there long, we were back again well before dinner time. Joe and I returned after dinner, but followed another street where the tram lines are. This street is full of European houses - occupied largely by the White man Sahib. It was dark, and a mere glance was suffice to see the people through the lattice work doors and windows. In several houses we saw beautiful white girls but we were "on the outside looking in"

"What have we done to deserve all this?" We were feeling lots of things - but such things are not our lot. 

We walked on through what I had begun to think of as the "Beggar Land". We walked on for about two miles, into the native side of town. It is a beautiful district, wide streets and large flats and boarding houses on either side. Indians were the only people we could see, we must have been out of bounds, but we were out to see Karachi. The crime in the service is not the deed, but allowing oneself to be caught doing it.

One little beggar girl followed us for baksheesh, "Banana Sahib" she kept repeating, and I gathered she wanted a banana. She was a sweet kid of about eight, but not backward or bashful. She was not satisfied with the half anna I gave her. I gave her the last coin I had - an anna - I was now flat broke. At last I felt in a position to approach any beggar and say "Me poor - me no money". It might have done some good, but I very much doubt this.

All these huge blocks of buildings had verandas. People sat or stood on these and chatted quietly. The night air is so good, so cool and fresh after the unbearable heat of day. Just as many British people might go outside on a clear evening after a heavy day's rain, to breathe freely again, so these people came out for the cool breeze of night.

We saw a worship meeting looking from the outside. Men and women sat on the floor - all dressed in good clothes, the men wearing skull caps. We did not stay there many seconds, these people might be very touchy where their religion is concerned.

Upon our return walk, we called at a native café, it looked dirty enough from the outside, but inside it was better than we had expected. Joe was going to spend his last chip. We sat at a table, and a native waiter came running up, took our orders for iced drinks, and thinking this was his opportunity for a tip, put the fan on for us. We were not in such a pleasant financial position, so we wasted no time over our drinks. Why should he waste his electricity for nothing. This was hardly cricket.

We had another drink at the native café near the station, and old Joe, as per usual, "Keep the change, blow the expense". He had two annas left.

31st October, 1943: Church and memories of home

 Bill Gibson, Loftie and I dressed for church. Joe is never a church goer, and it was more than we could expect to get him to come with us. This English, Church of England service brought back pleasant memories of home. It seemed almost impossible to believe that we were out in India during that service.

After tiffin we played cards for a short while, but feeling irritable, I lost my temper and dropped out. I was glad really, cards and the heat do not go together.

We spent the evening at the canteen. were we did a little letter writing and a great deal of talking.