Andrew Duff

One day a couple of decades ago, my brother rang my parents to ask where they were born, for an Army application form he was filling out. My mother responded “Dad was born in Edinburgh, and I was born in Simla”.

“Edinburgh too then?” was my brother’s response. I never quite worked out if he was joking.

Simla is, in fact, one of the former imperial hill stations in India, used by sweating Raj types to escape the heat of Delhi and it’s surrounds. As my maternal grandfather was one of those types in 1935 (being briefly with the Indian Army), my mother ended up being born there.

So, despite the fact that the Raj is (quite rightly) slipping quietly into irrelevance for an Indian nation with 60 years of far more interesting history since Independence in 1947, it felt like an obvious destination for me. My grandparents died well before I was born, and I have always been curious about their life.

Actually getting to Simla, however, was something of a trial. The only direct option through the hills from Dharamsala was a “semi-deluxe” (Government-run) overnight bus, leaving at 9.30pm and arriving at 5am the following morning. In a country where they have invented the term VVIP (Very VERY Important Person) to trump the VIPs, I had a feeling (duly confirmed) that the journey would be more “semi” than deluxe.

Nevertheless, I got there in one piece. Arriving in near-freezing temperatures at 5am, it became clear why this town must have felt a bit like a home-from-home, particularly for Scots. The ensuing stiff 200m climb in altitude to get to my hotel – where I was then given a single bar heater to head off the bitter draught coming through the paper-thin door – confirmed the initial impression. If it hadn’t been for the monkeys in the pine trees, it could have been the Highlands.

After a kip, I set out (more in hope than expectation) to see if I could find any evidence of my mother’s short-lived stay.

I quickly met a couple of dead-ends (in the state Library and the Church) before walking up the well-worn stone stairs to the Town Hall. I entered a small wood-paneled late 19th century room in a state of some disrepair. Ten official-looking Indians studiously shuffled papers. Tentatively, I declared my intention – ahem, did anyone know if they would have records for births in 1935?

It quickly became clear that the records did indeed exist, though finding them might be another matter. A kind-looking man and a bustling woman led me upstairs. I was warned that it might take “some time”. Given the horror stories about Indian bureaucracy, I prepared for a long wait.

But only minutes later they returned excitedly with a register. We found the year 1935, and turned to find May 8th (the birthday in question). April… late May… but no May 8th. My two co-investigators looked almost as disappointed as I was – until I noticed the words “Death register” at the top of the page. Oops. Back to square one.

The woman bustled away, returning a quarter of an hour even more excitedly. This time we definitely had the dusty Birth Register and eagerly turned the pages. January… February… April… And there it was:

Name: Robina Jane
Father: LGFRH Bell MC, RA [in a sign of the times, no column for mother]
Residence of father: RA Mess, Sabathur
Born: Patmore Nursing Home, Shimla

(The intense pleasure of the discovery was greatly magnified when I found that that the Date of Birth in the Register was plainly recorded as 8 April, not 8 May. The truth? No-one’s sure, and frankly, it doesn’t really matter).

My new-found genealogist friends hurried off to prepare a duplicate Birth Certificate – my mother will now have a rather natty “Government of Himachal Pradesh” one.

I sat and stared out of the astragal windows at the buildings of this strange hangover town from the Raj. It felt like I had found something I was meant to find. I have to admit that tears ran down my face as my own waters broke – it was a more emotional moment than I expected. I have heard about Simla all my life and always wondered what it was like.

The rest of my time in Shimla was equally filled with incident. I had lunch with a Tibetan Lama (Chanting Master at the local monastery who I had met on the bus, and who gave me a silk scarf for safe passage through Tibet); and had a bizarre 10km walk with a wonderful 65-year-old Indian Singer and Writer, Jaswant Hans, followed by dinner with him and his wife in their house. I felt strangely at home.

I am now in Delhi, and heading for Calcutta tomorrow. More anon.

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Beauty in Perfection – The Taj

The Taj Mahal is such a cliché these days that everyone worries that it won’t live up to the hype.

I and two friends arrived in Agra determined to avoid this. We employed two tactics – first, we crept up on it, visiting the Red Fort to get a the view down the river Yamuna on the first day. Secondly, we arrived during the full moon phase, getting the opportunity to view it by near-full moonlight the night before we visited. Both hinted at what was to come.

The day of the main visit arrived. We arrived at the gates at the recommended ungodly hour.

We immediately found ourselves under fire from a series of would-be guides. Rather than prolong the agony, we selected one partly on the basis that he bore more than a passing resemblance to an Indian version of Oddjob. But when his first sentence in English turned out to be utterly incomprehensible, I had to cut him short. He waddled off, clearly crestfallen, but returned in double-quick time with another man.

I looked our replacement up and down. If you can judge a man by the crease in his trousers, then this guy was top-notch. He was 70, a former schoolteacher with excellent English and a proud, upright bearing. We agreed terms. As he set off at a crisp pace into the main area, I thought it polite to enquire as to his name. Without breaking step he responded “Master!” It was clear who was in charge on this tour.

“Master” and the other guides are convinced (often rightly) that people only really come to the Taj for the photos. They therefore make it their business to know every spot for a “classic shot” on the walk through the garden to the main Mausoleum. Every 50 yards or so, Master would pause, and issue the stern command “Come! Camera! Please!” We were expected to drop everything, give him our cameras, assume the position, and get snapped, while he issued firm commands such as “Back!”, “Please! Come this side!” and “Smile!”

Unfortunately the speed with which he dispatched each photo meant that many of these rendered the Taj’s beautiful symmetry at rather Dutch angles. They are rather wonderful.

As we walked on, his impeccable explanations of the history and the 22-year construction came into their own. His love for this astonishing building came shining through. The beauty of the Taj lies in the minutest detail of an inlaid piece of jade or agate just as much as in the whole building seen from afar. It is a truly gestalt experience.

Three hours with Master at the helm passed in no time at all as he hustled us through back doors and shared his tales gleefully with us.

As we finished the tour, he finally let his guard down, revealing his true name – Shamsad Uddin. Shamsad sheepishly produced a couple of crumpled photos. The first was of him guiding India’s most senior general, the second of him guiding Lalu Prasad Yadav (see previous post).

We had clearly drawn the long straw – it had been our lucky day.

Beauty in Chaos – “very too much Holi!”

I had a taster of the Holi Festival while in Udaipur. As it turned out, that was not even worthy of being called a taster.

Minor celebrations go on for a month, but everything culminates in the main event held on the night of the Full Moon and the following day, when vaste swathes of India become madness personified and throw coloured dye, powder, and sometimes even paints at each other.

As the festival is associated strongly with the Hindu deity Krishna, we decided to head to Vrindavan (near Agra) where he supposedly grew up for the main event. Our rickshaw driver was clear – “Vrindavan is very too much Holi!”

We prepared to leave Agra. Our friendly Punjabi hotel owner warned ominously of ruined cloths and less pleasant substances being flung with abandon in impoverished Vrindavan. I therefore decided to try and blend in, buying a white Kurta Pyjama. Which did nothing of the sort.

Remarkably, my new attire stayed near spotless as we hurtled precariously in a rickshaw up towards our destination, huge bonfires on the roads illuminating our path.

Morning came, and I headed for the Pujah (morning worship) in the Krishna temple to get a sense as to what this was all about. For us Brits, the “Hare Krishna mob” tends to mean the shaven-headed tambourine-banging crowd on Oxford Street or Princes Street. There were a few of those in the temple, but they were vastly outnumbered by Indians demonstrating a level of devotion and love in worship that is amazing to observe and hard to describe.

By 7.30am, it was time to head onto the streets. The madness began. After half an hour we were all covered and had been well and truly “holi’d”. Unfortunately, wandering hands were sadly in abundance and the girls had to head back. I continued to explore alone – for which pictures speak louder than words.




We returned to Agra by train, feeling not the least out of place in dye-spattered clothing. It had been an amazing 24 hours, encompassing two spectacular experiences – one of architectural perfection, one of colourful chaos.

An overnight train last night, and I’m now in Amritsar on the edge of Punjab province by the Pakistani border. More in due course.

[P.S. They say it is good luck when a bird defecates on you. Certainly, since the first incident on my first day in India (Bombay street corner), things have gone pretty well.

The second incident happened exactly 120 days later, in slightly more pleasant surroundings, while gazing at the Taj Mahal. Perhaps the Gods felt I needed an update. Or a reminder.]