From the Khyber to Ceylon (Chapter 8 - Across India)

Notwithstanding the ten years of independence, a strong English trend still exists in some parts of India. Bangalore, for instance, presents a queer mixture, rather like the town of Winchester in a tropical suit. During a one-day stop we stayed with an intrepid Englishwoman of uncertain age, who, like the hotel proprietor in Lahore, mentally refused to accept a fait accompli. She entertained us, with unconscious humour, by giving us a brief history of the town, which prefaced a fund of stories concerning mainly the military indiscretions in the old days. We were told about the Brigadier and the polo ponies, the young subaltern who had been caught at an embarrassing moment with the Colonel's wife, and the relief of the hill stations during the heat.

While the old lady talked, a host of crusty, military gentlemen glowered forbiddingly at us from their smoky canvases on the walls. The whole interlude was a fascinating glimpse into a bygone age, related by this woman who lived-heaven alone knows how in this 'brave new world'-exactly as she had done twenty-five years ago. She lived alone, apart of course from a couple of 'boys', in a bungalow which was very comfortable though not luxurious. England remained for her a nostalgic memory to be cherished, but not to be marred by visiting the land of her birth again. She would, we were told, die in Bangalore. I felt rather sorry for the old lady; she seemed so alone.

We left very early the next morning for Trichinopoly. During the night there had been some rain and the air was fresh and invigorating. The tarmac road was also greasy and treacherous, as was the laterite border. We began to sing as the last houses with their still-sleeping occupants fell behind. By six-thirty we were already forty miles south of Bangalore and in the highest of spirits. Everything was so promising that I should have known there would be something unpleasant. It happened just after we had watched with bated breath an extraordinary sight: a snake and a mongoose fighting like fury in the centre of the road.

Perhaps it was the early hour, or possibly in the struggle they had over-spilled from the lush jungle edge. But there they were, these two arch-enemies, rolling, spitting, biting, and sliding across the bitumen. I pulled up not ten yards from this deadly battle and we watched, engrossed, as the tide turned first one way and then the other. This was no walkover for the mongoose. We had seen a staged fight in Bombay, where an old man produced both adversaries from a sack to entertain a morbid crowd, who, I suppose, derived some pleasure from seeing the mongoose swoop from the sack and despatch the snake with one bite. But this was the real thing and the snake in this drama was no drowsy, overfed bait.

Again and again the mongoose, like a flash of furry quicksilver, darted in to the attack and in return was bitten by the reptile who was a mite quicker. The mongoose was flecked with blood; obviously the snake (about three feet long and russet-hued) was not venomous.

Finally, in a last desperate bid to kill, the mongoose flung himself into the striking coils, regardless of the razor-like teeth which we could see quite clearly in the snake's jaws. Somehow, he withstood the onslaught of slashing bites, got a grip on the slippery throat and in less than half a minute it was all over. The victor dragged the corpse back into the undergrowth. For him, breakfast was served.

For Nita and me, however, the stop to watch this ferocious battle almost ended in disaster. While I had been poking about in the undergrowth to catch a closer glimpse of the mongoose, a big diesel truck had lumbered past heading for Trichinopoly, and in another twenty minutes we had caught up with the lorry and were being choked with exhaust gas. As Nita said afterwards, we should have stopped for a spell and so let the truck get away; the road was too slippery to play tag. But prudence was a missing quality with me that morning. Repeated blasts on the horn failed to shift the lumbering brute from the centre of the narrow road and the driver could not, or would not, hear my persistent hooting. After enduring five miles of choking fumes and a view restricted to flapping tarpaulin, I had had enough. I pulled out into the rough and opened up. . . .

We hit the washout at about forty-five miles an hour. In the last agonizing second I instinctively snatched the front wheel sideways to lessen the impact. It didn't soften the blow much, but probably saved the front forks.

The familiar montage quickly followed: a sudden and painful close-up of the ground-a fleeting glimpse of the sky with a big truck tyre flashing past a corner of my vision-a rushing noise and a shower of stars and asterisks as finale to the ghastly sequence.

The immediate aftermath, too, followed the time-honoured pattern. A shout to my wife and the agonizing second of silence before she replied in a shaky affirmative, then a hasty scramble to cut the engine which was screaming at a horrible pitch, with the rear wheel spinning wildly; and finally a hasty pat at my own anatomy to see if it was still intact. With the machine upright once more, we leaned upon one another to survey the damage. It could have been much worse.

We placed on one side in a neat pile everything that was a write-off, including various items of shredded clothing, a broken pipe, and a pair of sunglasses. Fortunately our camera gear had been well padded. We used up a couple of bandage rolls and a bottle of disinfectant, and then made an exceedingly strong cup of tea. The scooter was still mobile (despite a handlebar which required bashing with a rock to a reasonably horizontal position). Shakily we mounted and started off down the deserted road to complete our journey.

For the rest of that day I drove carefully enough to pass any driving test and Nita, never one for recrimination, reminded me that the next time when she yelled into my ear 'Don't overtake' I might do worse than heed her warning. Meekly I agreed. When she decides to become a back-seat driver it is usually with sound reason.