India 1986 and 2006

 ‘India Revisited’

By Val Yellow 2006

Published in 'My Weekly' magazine  

It had been 20 years since I’d first set food in India to take up a position as a volunteer worker for a residential school in Calcutta.

This year, I was returning to Calcutta (now called Kolkata) with my husband, Art, for a long awaited holiday, to visit a friend I’d made all those years ago – Sheila Chatterjer.

Landing at Kolkata airport was a contrast to my lonely arrival at the train station 20 years ago, but memories came flooding back on the drive to our hotel. Our senses were overwhelmed by the sniffling heat, pungent spices, deafening beeping of horns and throngs of brightly clad people, and I was glad to be back in the heaving congested city.

After a couple of hours sleep, we met up with Sheila at our hotel and the years fell away as we laughed and chatted together.

Art and I were to travel through India and Bhutan on a guided tour over the next two weeks, but Sheila invited us to visit with her family after the tour.

We gave her gifts – ornaments and handmade lace, also a copy of my diary and photographs taken from my previous stay.

Sheila’s warmth brought back memories of the welcome and support her family had given me, when I’d been miserable living in the school’s accommodation and they had taken me into their home.

Two weeks later, after an exhilarating but exhausting trip, I arrived at the Chatterjer home to meet them again.

Climbing up the stairs to the flat seemed to take forever – the difference 20 years make – but the flaking green paint was the same and inside, the large old-fashioned four poster beds, paperwork and brightly coloured clothes strewn around the flat were familiar; I immediately felt at home.

Washing our feet and hands first, as was the custom, we were welcomed with smiles and hugs by Sheila’s parents and younger sister Illa, along with her husband Bhaskar, and their two teenage children, Torsa and Rudra: evidence that time had really passed.

My diary had been given pride of place on the table in front of us and caused much laughter over the dinner table as we relived old memories.

Sheila and I talked about our jobs; I met her originally during my volunteer work at a school, the institution for the Mentally Handicapped in Calcutta. Since then, I’ve worked with people with learning disabilities.

Sheila now worked independently as a psychologist and we discussed the improvements in attitudes towards the disabled in both India and Britain.

We visited the beautiful Hindu temple where the family worshiped and afterward took a boat trip on the magnificent River Ganges.  

Sheila turned to me during the boat trip and said that I seemed so much happier than 20years ago. This is certainly true. As for Sheila, she explained that she’d no time for marriage, as she takes care of her mother.

With her sense of humour and the closeness of her family, Sheila does appear happy. I suddenly understood why the gifts we’d brought were not as important as my diary, as it spoke about people and places and friendships. I appreciated too the value of friendship I’d made through a chance meeting all those years ago.

We left Sheila and the Chatterjer home, and as we sad our goodbyes we all expressed the hope that we would see each other again.

Art and I had not been able to witness the sunrise over Kanchenjunga on our trip as planned. However folklore has it that if you miss this stunning picture then you will return to try again. I know that our memories of the Chatterjer welcome will easily draw us back. 

Original Story sent:

It was in March 1986, at the age of thirty-two, that I stepped for the first time into the very different world of India. The reason for my journey then was to take up a position as a volunteer worker for a residential school in Calcutta. I visited again, twenty years later to the month, but this time travelling with my husband Art on a long awaited holiday. So much has happened in the twenty years since I first met Sheila Chatterjer and her family who live in Kolkata; the new name for what was Calcutta. Yet on seeing Sheila, the years just fell away and it felt like only yesterday that we were last together chatting and laughing. And it was over the next few weeks, while travelling through India and Bhutan, that I began to understand why materialism means so little to the very welcoming Chatterjer family.

Twenty years ago I had travelled to Calcutta by train and had entered the heaving city station dazed and alone.  This time I arrived with my husband as part of a guided tour group, flying in to the relative quiet of Kolkata airport. This was just the start of our holiday. We planned to visit the eastern end of the Himalayan mountain chain and the hill stations of Sikkim, with the beautifully hand painted monasteries, before continuing to the  ‘Land of the Dragon’ as Bhutan is known locally. This was one of the high lights of our holiday, as the country of Bhutan has only recently accepted tourism into its richly cultured kingdom.

Immediately the plane touched down on the tarmac my memories came flooding back. And as we were driven to our hotel my senses responded with shock and awe to the deafening and continual beeping of horns, intermingled with the sight of so many colourfully dressed people. The heat was stifling, like stepping into a greenhouse, the air conditioning in our vehicle barely compensating. As we walked towards our hotel from the minibus I noted the pungent smell of incense, covering up who knows what less pleasant things. The more enticing aromas of spicy curry being prepared for lunch closely followed this. I had arrived once again in the congested city of Kolkata and I knew I was glad to be back.

Later that afternoon after a couple of hours of much needed sleep we met up with Sheila at our hotel. Immediately, Sheila invited us to visit her and her family at the end of our holiday when we had a few days free after the tour. We gave her our gifts, a typically English Wedgwood vase and plate and some handmade lace, also a copy of my diary and photographs taken from my previous stay. Sheila’s sense of humour and warmth brought it all back and I remembered vividly the way her family had welcomed and supported me so many years ago.

Two weeks later, after an exhilarating but exhausting trip, we meet up again, this time at the Chatterjer home. We arrive by taxi an hour late; Sheila chastises the driver for charging us too much and tells us we should have taken the metro. This makes me laugh. Sheila’s directness is still the same and I feel taken back in time as I turn to face the family home. And there, waving to us from the top floor, is her mother. The stairs up to the flat seem to go on forever – here I could really feel the difference of twenty years - but the flaking green paint is the same as ever. Inside, at last, I recognise the large old-fashioned four-poster beds that seemingly fill the rooms, and everywhere we turn there is paperwork and brightly coloured clothes. I remember it well and feel so at home. Art and I are shown to the bathrooms so we can wash our feet and hands, as is the custom. Each room has a ceiling fan twirling to try to disperse the heat, but the humidity makes the air feel like treacle. Sheila’s parents greet us with smiling faces and welcoming hugs. Sheila’s younger sister Ila is there to welcome us too, looking more or less as I remembered. With her are her husband Bhaskar and their two teenage children Torsa and Rudra: evidence that time really has passed.

On sitting down I notice that the copy of my diary has been given pride of place on the table in front of us (there’s no sign of the ornaments or lace we had given). Over a meal, this manuscript is the cause of much laughter. I am gently teased about my ‘honesty’ and the ‘clarity’ of my memory as they remind me that it was actually me who was the vegetarian then, not the family.  Later, while sitting up on the roof, as the humidity was beginning to overwhelm us, we talk about our respective families. There is much reminiscing, chatting and laughter. We’re not back at the hotel until late and fall immediately into a deep contented sleep. We are looking forward to visiting again the next day.

Refreshed, and with the storm having finally broken, we set off to visit – this time in a reasonably priced taxi. We walked through the front door and once again were given gifts and food, but for me the generous warmth of their hospitality was more than enough. It was with a feeling of ease and familiarity that I watched the mouth-watering meal of potatoes cooked in turmeric, dhal and rice served up. This time, twenty years on, I was treated differently. Art and I were handed plate after plate of delicious food while the family stood and watched us eat. When I asked about this we were told it was because we were their honoured guests. Once again I felt welcomed, along with my husband, into this kind-hearted Brahmin household.

Sheila and I talked in detail about our jobs. For years I’ve worked with Disabled People, particularly those with ‘Learning Disabilities’. I had indeed met Sheila when I worked as a volunteer at a residential school called ‘Institution for the Mentally Handicapped’ in Calcutta. I told Sheila how much I had admired her attitude all those years ago, talking to the children with respect, and how much we still had to learn in England. Sheila said she had left this organisation and now worked for herself, still as a psychologist, but with private clients. Sheila talked about the issue of family support for Disabled People in India and I talked about the movement towards ‘Inclusion’ in England. Changes for Disabled people are certainly happening in these very different parts of the world.

I reminded Sheila and her family how unhappy I had been; staying in the accommodation I was given at the ‘Institution’ and how moved I was when her family invited me to stay. Sheila’s mother then looked at me and said that as far as she was concerned my husband Art was her son in law, as she thought of me as a daughter. Once again I was touched by the kindness shown to us and the importance of ‘the family’.

We took a short taxi ride to visit the beautifully tiered and sculptured Hindu temple they worship at, and after we took a slow boat trip on the magnificent strong flowing Ganges. While we were on the river Sheila turned to me and said that I seemed so much happier than twenty years ago. This is certainly true. As for Sheila, I asked her why she’d never married; pure and simple, she said, she’d no interest and now hasn’t the time, as she takes care of her mother. And with her sense of humour, and the closeness of her family, Sheila does appear happy. It was then that I fully understood that ‘materialism’ and hence the gifts we’d brought were not as important, whereas my diary was, as it spoke about people and places and friendships. That made me think and I realised that a chance meeting all those years ago had resulted in a continuing friendship of immense value.

We left Sheila and the Chatterjer home, and as we said our goodbyes we all expressed the hope that we would see each other again. Art and I had not been able to witness the sunrise over Kanchenjunga on our trip as planned. However, folklore has it that if you miss this stunning picture then you will return to try again. I know that our memories of the Chatterjer welcome will easily draw us back.