SF. Pt.11f. India proper.

The Punjab was hot and humid. The sky hung like a damp grey turban. Punjabis worked in the fields, drove taxis and rode bicycles. Small Punjabis played in puddles. Punjabi dogs curled up in odd corners. Simon and Arthur had a look at Amritsar. They met an elderly Sikh who took them around the Golden Temple. We are meat-eaters explained the elderly Sikh, very warlike.

In yet another nameless mosquito ridden hotel somewhere in Old Delhi they met a Frenchman. ‘I was in ze Himalayas,’ said the Frenchman, ‘I studied wiz a wise man. I can drink wiz my paynus and eat wiz my an-us.’
‘Really,’ said Simon, ‘care to show us?’
‘Fuck you,’ said the Frenchman, ‘I don not a comedian.’
‘Of course you don,’ said Simon. Later, over marsala dosa, they both agreed, they had been right not to invite the Frenchman out for lunch.

In Calcutta colourful effigies of multi-headed elephants and/or monkeys were being borne through the streets by crowds of pink drummers. People were throwing powder and petals at each other with great gusto. ‘Looks like we arrived on Red Powder Day,’ said Simon.

Somebody took them to see God. He turned out to be a fat, naked Brahmin covered in butter sitting on a cushion in a house in a back street. And surprisingly young, barely in his teens. God asked, ‘Why did you come to India?’ Arthur started to rattle off the standard explanation about self-knowledge, meaning of life etc. but Simon cut him off. ‘You’re God,’ said Simon, ‘you tell us.’ There was an uncomfortable silence followed by a hurried exit.

They seemed to spend a lot of time in railway stations. First class waiting rooms held a particular attraction. Especially the ones with showers. ‘All in all,’ said Simon in one such waiting room, ‘perhaps the British didn't do too bad a job in India. Don’t get me wrong I’m not defending imperialism but just look at the infrastructure, the trains, the system of government...that’s all down to us.’

One day in Bombay they decided to visit Grant Road to see if it was true about the girls in cages. One should at least have a look don’t you think? The cages were empty but there was a whole street of shops with girls outside beckoning to men. Simon wanted to have a look inside. Arthur wasn’t so sure. He found a place to drink a lassi under the scrutiny of the usual crowd of curious spectators while Simon conducted his research. Later Arthur asked how it had been. ‘Interesting.’ said Simon. ‘They put me on a sofa and tried to get me to choose a girl. It was a bit embarrassing really. Then I went with one of the girls to a stuffy cluttered bedroom. She took her clothes off casually and lay on the bed. I just stood there. Couldn’t do anything. The baby on the floor didn’t help matters. Yours? I asked. Yes, she smiled sadly, no papa. That’s all she said.’ Arthur listened quietly. Simon had only been in there half an hour so it could have gone one way or the other. Best not to push it.

They found some floor space in a Sikh temple where they were quizzed about their motivations. Plates of dal were provided. Big bearded men with swords at the temple entrance were clearly more than just decorative. They felt safe. But there was a three night limit so they soon found themselves homeless again.

A family of beggars made room for them in the doorway of a shipping office. Sleep was difficult and it was hard to imagine sinking any lower. ‘Well it could be raining,’ said Arthur and suddenly it was. They sat all night in the doorway watching torrential rain sluice debris from the street...cow-shit, cabbage leaves, marigold petals, pink powder, newspapers, betel nut juice, dead rats, a corpse, you name it...away it all went out into the bay.

‘Sod this,’ said Simon as it grew light, ‘I think we’ve hit rock bottom. I’m phoning home’ A plane ticket promptly became available for pick up at the BOAC office and Arthur was on his own. What to do? He remembered hearing something about an ashram on the Ganges. A place to stay cheaply and study under a guru who knew the meaning of life. Or perhaps he should go to Goa and sit on a beach before that idea got too popular. Maybe he should go south to Madras, see if he could get over to Malaya somehow? So many decisions...