"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.
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