around the fireplace

Friday evening – which, in England, is another way of saying ‘Let’s hit the pub!’ It took me many years to appreciate the glories of an English pub. You may ask, as I once used to, why anyone would want to spend a perfectly good evening in a dark and smelly room in the midst of noisy, chattering strangers. It doesn’t seem a rational or useful or even very entertaining way to spend one’s time. But that’s where magic enters the picture – the magic of oak beams and low ceilings, of wooden floors and polished counter tops, of shining brass and twinkling glass, of a glowing log fire in winter and the deeps of an ancient leather sofa, and of the rise and fall of laughter and conversation. I can join in the noise, be part of the crowd, or I can sit contentedly in a corner away from humanity yet continue to be very much a part of it. In the words of John Wain, ‘How much of our literature, our political life, our friendships and love affairs, depend on being able to talk peacefully in a bar!’

Historically, the village pub along with the church, was the centre of village life. It was used as council chamber, courtroom, village hall, meeting point, and was the place where news and gossip was exchanged. The first pubs were ordinary homes, open to the public for consumption of ale that had been brewed on the premises, usually by the woman of the house. Over time, these alehouses became inns and taverns. These were often run by women, which was in keeping with their role as brewsters. Taverns served food and wine, but did not provide accommodation; inns provided food and lodging for travellers, and wine and ale if asked for. The Church set up hospices or hostels for travellers and pilgrims. The hostels provided food and lodging and ale. In 1536, when Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries, the attached hostels were taken over by private individuals and turned into inns. Over the centuries, these inns and taverns changed into the public house or pub as we know it today.

Everyone has their favourite pub – the local just round the corner, where they can hang out with their mates over a pint and a game of darts, or the one down the road where children are welcome till 6 pm and dogs till all hours, or perhaps the one tucked away in a corner of the village known only to a handful of regulars. Some prefer pubs where they can watch football live on HD TV, while others like their pubs old world where the TV, if it exists, is tucked unobtrusively away in a corner.

My favourite is the Crooked Billet, in Wimbledon Village. It has everything that a pub should have – ‘olde world’ charm by the gallon, including the mandatory oaken beams and uneven flooring, wooden tabletops and windows paned with thick cloudy glass. It even has a resident ghost – the spirit of an Irish woman that haunts the cellars. It is also warm and friendly, full of chatter and talk.

The Billet is one of the oldest pubs in Wimbledon Village. Some say it goes back to 1509, and was possibly the alehouse run by Walter Cromwell, the father of Henry VIII’s secretary Thomas Cromwell. But there are no historical records to support this theory. A Thomas Wray is known to have been the alehouse keeper of the Crooked Billet from at least as early as 1745 to 1786.

Legend has it that it was once the hideout of the highwayman, Dick Turpin, who was in love with the landlord’s daughter, Bess. I wonder if this Bess is the same as the one in Alfred Noyes’ poem The Highwayman - the landlord’s black-eyed daughter who waited for her outlaw lover at her window, ‘plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair’, and who died warning him of the king’s men who lay hidden at the inn.

The original Crooked Billet was not on the site of the present one but further down the road towards Wimbledon Common. The Crooked Billet on its present site is first mentioned in 1838, as run by a William Williams (who was there till 1881).  Today the Billet is one in the chain of more than 200 pubs run by Young’s.

But that’s not all. In addition to the history and the charm and all the beers and ales and what have you, the Billet also serves the most wonderful beverage of all – tea!!! Yes, tea in a pub. For a teetotaller like me, that’s the best of all possible worlds!

I have just returned from a day at the Notting Hill Carnival. And what a day it was – full of music, colour, dance and laughter. Here it is, in pictures.

The main parade winds slowly through the streets, the floats followed by dancers in spectacular costumes twirling, shaking, stamping.

More than a million people throng the usually quiet streets of West London, turning the area into a giant, two-day-long party.

Music is a big part of the Carnival and sounds of calypso, soca and reggae soon have the spectators dancing as well. Caribbean steel bands follow in a frenzy of drumming and drumbeats.

Local residents make themselves comfortable on sunny balconies overlooking the parade route, and hold their own mini parties as they watch the giant one on the streets below. 

Food stalls line the streets, selling traditional Caribbean fare – jerk chicken, rice and peas, corn on the cob, sugarcane, green coconut water, rum punch.

As the day progressed, so did the happiness level of the crowd – helped along by beer and grass. Alcohol and cannabis were the staples of the day, much as they used to be in the college festivals of my youth! Beer cans littered the streets, and the strong, sweet, acrid smell of grass filled the air.

And for those who want facts:The Notting Hill Carnival was started in 1966. It began as a local festival for West Indian immigrants, but is now a full-fledged Caribbean Carnival. It is held each August Bank Holiday, usually the last weekend in August. Sunday is usually Children’s Day, with a Children’s Parade, which is quieter and less crowded. Monday is the Main Parade, which attracts more than a million visitors. It is London’s most spectacular, most diverse event, and the largest street festival in Europe.

Today, September 22, is the Autumn Equinox, when night and day are of nearly equal length everywhere on earth. From tomorrow, in the northern hemisphere, the nights will become longer than the days, and the earth’s tilt will carry us towards the long evenings of winter.

Today, summer is officially over, and autumn is here. The bright sunshine of the last few days has been replaced by a muted, cloud-filtered light. The leaves of the horse chestnuts are already a mottled brown, as though rusted in the rain; smooth, brown conkers and their spiny casings lie among the fallen leaves. The silver birches stand stark and bare. The leaves of the oak trees, always the last to fall, have turned brown at the edges. The squirrels are busy, frantic, gathering the fresh green acorns as they fall to the ground, rushing to add them to their hoard, stored safely against the lean, dark months of winter.

For me, the changing seasons mark the passing of Time. The earth, tilted, spinning on its axis, on its fixed journey round the sun - the image brings with it a relentless, ruthless idea of Time. Time does not regard my griefs, my joys. It does not know that I exist. Whether I would stop it, extend it, or whether I would beg it to go faster, Time will not comply. It will move at its own measured pace.

Sometimes, though, Time breaks its measured tread. It flies so quickly that I do not see it go. It does not seem that it has already been a month since I was in Delhi, negotiating my way through streets clogged with traffic, in the sweltering sauna-like heat that descends upon the city as the monsoons begin to taper off. It does not seem that tomorrow my daughter, Vipasha, will be fourteen.

And then, there are days that do not end - days that I spent sitting by my mother’s hospital bedside, days spent in worry and grief, and sometimes even, days spent in hope.

Once in a while, Time stands still. Those are the moments to celebrate - and to be afraid of, for those are the moments of truth, the moments that change us forever. Such moments are rare, they happen perhaps once in a lifetime. When they do, hold them. Remember them. They are what makes life what it is - a celebration of the spirit.

Writing this piece, I have been drawn into a world of thoughts and memories, which are too many, too much mine, to share. I look up to see that the morning is over, that while I have been rambling, reflecting, writing, the sun has moved, the light has changed - and Time has passed.

Memory, how it works, and  why it works the way it does, is a mystery that no one has solved yet. Why do we remember some people and not others? How is it that we can recall some events with complete clarity and some events not at all? Colours, textures, even the smells of certain moments stay with us forever -  consciously, so that we can recall them at will, or subconsciously, so that a sudden trigger brings flooding into our minds, people, places and events we thought we had forgotten.

This morning, as I pottered around the house, fixing breakfast for the children, hanging out the washing, making a cup of tea for myself, I thought, suddenly and for no apparent reason at all, of the old guava-seller who used to be a regular feature of my winter holidays.

The old man would turn up on our doorstep, a basket of green and yellow guavas balanced on his head. To my seven-year-old eyes, he looked really really old, though perhaps he wasn’t much older than sixty at the time. He would be dressed in a dusty, white dhoti and kurta; he had wispy grey hair and untidy whiskers, and wore a pair of round spectacles with lenses so thick that they seemed opaque. He would cut the fruit into quarters, and sprinkle it with a black masala that gave off a sharp, pungent, but oh! such a delicious smell. If it turned out that the guava was a deep pink inside, and sweet, I would be delighted - for that was my favourite kind of guava. If the guava turned out to be ordinary, boring white inside, then my mother would admonish him, and insist that next time, he must bring the pink ones.

Steam-of-consciousness style, this memory triggered off thoughts and more memories of the other, itinerant pedlars who would come to our door or call their wares on the streets of my childhood. There was the potter, balancing an amazing number of earthern pots on his head, pots that would keep our drinking water cool in the hot summer months and flavour it with the taste and smell of clay. There was the knife-grinder, who would carry off all the kitchen knives to be sharpened, and return them an hour later, their edges gleaming. And the balloonwala, with his bright yellow, pink, blue and orange balloons bobbing along behind him. He would call to the children, Pied-Piper fashion, by blowing on a shrill, squeaky whistle, and when enough of us had gathered round, delight us with the strange four-legged beasts he fashioned out of thin, tube-like balloons that he bent and twisted as he pleased without them popping.

But my favourite was the kalaiwala, the man who came to ‘galvanise’ the kitchen pots and karahis. With a puff of his bellows and a sizzle and a hiss, he would turn the old, beaten, copper vessels, into shining silver ones. It was the closest thing to alchemy that I have seen.

Though I no longer see the kalaiwala, or hear the whirring of the knifegrinder’s wheel that often, I know that should I need them, I will still be able to find them, in a corner of some busy market, or down a narrow lane or gully in the older parts of India’s megacities where the past continues to exist quite regardless of the present.

Some vendors and their trades continue to flourish even into the modern way of life. The vegetable-vendor, the flower-seller, the milkman, the bread-wala, and the green coconut-seller continued to be regular visitors to my flat in Mumbai many years later. With a small child and a household to run, I was deeply grateful for the service and convenience these vendors provided.

When I moved to London, I moved fully prepared to face a life quite empty of such luxuries. ‘You’ll miss this service in London,’ friends had warned. ‘Nobody brings anything to your front door there.’

They were wrong - I get fresh milk delivered to my doorstep every day, and groceries as often as I like.

And, along with the convenient, I also get the exotic - the knifegrinder (yes, here too!) who asks ‘Need anything sharpened, luv?’; the fishmonger who offers me fresh fish and goes away shaking his head at my incomprehensible, vegetarian ways; and strangest of all, a few weeks ago, a smartly-dressed, middle-aged woman selling - manure!

Yes, manure. For my garden. At £2.50 a bag, knocked down from £6.50, an offer I should not refuse. When I do refuse, she points out that it will help to break up the clay in my garden, and ‘besides, all your neighbours ‘ave bought some.’ When I still hesitate, she hands me her business card. ‘A’right then,’ she says, ‘that’s me number there. Ring me if yer change yer mind. Anyway, I’ll be back in the autumn.’

Of course, such exotic visitors are few and far between.

Street vendors and itinerant pedlars had once livened the streets of London much as they had enlivened the streets of my childhood. They disappeared with the coming of the twentieth century.

Fortunately, in London too, the past continues to exist into the present - though in a different format. If one searches for them, the street vendors of London can still be found preserved in miniature books that consist of pictures of the various street-sellers with their cries printed beneath, and a verse describing them. The criers call out such wares as muffins, hot chestnuts, fresh herrings, eels, strawberries, cherries, primroses, matches, and newly-printed ballads. There are also pictures of knifegrinders, milkmaids, and chimney sweeps with their boys.

These books came to be known as the Cries of London. Most of these books were published between the seventeenth and the nineteenth centuries, and many of them were for children.

London Cries are also mentioned in the fifteenth century poem, ‘London Lickpenny’(written perhaps by John Lydgate):

London, where I live, and Mumbai,  where I used to live. Two fascinating cities that seem very different, but, surprisingly, are more alike than not.

Even today, after years of familiarity with Mumbai, I look forward to every visit there with a tingle of excitement and expectation. As my plane circles in the sky waiting for a landing space at the crowded Santa Cruz airport, Mumbai appears below me, spread out like a map in 3D. The Arabian Sea, grey and calm, laps gently against the city’s southern edge outlining it in silver and rust. The skyscrapers rise high into the sky from streets so very familiar to me. It’s not dawn yet, and the streets must still be relatively empty: from this high up in the air I cannot tell. In my mind’s eye I imagine the traffic building up, and see the whirling, twirling, colourful, noisy, smelly mass of humanity that makes up the city. My plane is given clearance to land, and as it comes in, the slums and shanty towns of Santa Cruz rush up to meet me, their tin roofs patched with blue plastic, and glinting in the rising sun.

I pick up my baggage and hurry out of the busy, crowded terminal. Noise engulfs me, so I cannot hear myself think: unintelligible announcements over the public address system, shrieking, blaring traffic, and running through and over it, the loud, impassioned chatter of my countrymen. I am glad to see the  familiar face of the friend who has come to receive me. She takes charge, and steers me firmly through the chaos. I climb gratefully into the relatively quiet haven of her car. ‘What a noisy bunch of people we Indians are!’ I think.

London, even at its noisiest, cannot hope to compete with the deafening clamour of Mumbai. London is contained, quiet and polite. The traffic, though heavy, is mostly silent: a sounding horn is something that turns heads. People speak in quiet voices, and loud conversations are met with disapproving glances and uncomfortable shufflings by those around you. Even dogs don’t seem to bark here, or when they do, they are shushed quickly and firmly.

London, despite its sprawl and size, usually does not give the impression of being a  big city,  made up as it is of many self-contained little towns, some larger than others, all stitched together in an orderly patchwork of terraced houses, narrow streets, green back gardens and paved patios.

Despite these apparent differences, both London and Mumbai are mega-cities, with a heterogeneous, culturally-mixed population and a rich and vibrant intellectual and cultural life; both are centres of business and finance, London doing at a global level what Mumbai does at the India level; and both offer its citizens anonymity, affluence, convenience, comfort,  and the freedom to live life in the manner they wish to.

There are other similarities too:

Each city has its own distinctive ‘language’, Cockney, the working-class speech of East London, and the ‘Mumbaiyya Hindi’ of Mumbai, dialects that are vigorous, vibrant, irreverent - and defining.

Both cities are often written off as ‘unfriendly’ by first-time visitors, who vilify  Londoners and Mumbaikars alike for their hurrying pace and lack of smiles, though both groups are essentially friendly, helpful people - if only they had the time!

Both cities have great wealth, and poverty too. In Mumbai, the homeless carpet the pavements at night; in London, the poor are less abjectly poor, but there are still too many of them - under the tunnels of Waterloo Station, in parks and parking lots…Beggars harass you on the crowded trains of Mumbai, and they harass you on the less crowded trains of London. There is a difference in the degree of poverty, yes, but ultimately poverty anywhere, in any degree, is cruel, ugly and a reminder that we as a species still have a long way to go.

Of these two cities, and of some of the people who live and work here, more in my next post.

Shylock. A thin, bent figure, with almost more venom and hatred and hurt in him than his old, frail, frame can take. He is a villain, rotten to the core, who tries in a most evil and unforgiving manner to take Antonio’s life and so revenge himself on the merchant: he hates Antonio, because he is a Christian and because he lends out money gratis and brings down the rate of usance in Venice.

Yet I cannot help a grudging sympathy for him.

He is a Jew, proud of his religion and his ‘tribe’, and therefore subject to the cruel anti-Semitism of medieval Europe.

He is a father betrayed most callously by his only daughter, who walks out on him without a backward glance, to marry Lorenzo, a Christian.

And ultimately he is completely destroyed by a law that some in today’s world would consider unduly harsh: though the Duke of Venice grants him his life, he decrees that half his wealth should go to Antonio, the other half to the state. Shylock, beaten, begs:

Nay, take my life and all; pardon not that:
You take my house when you do take the prop
That doth sustain my house; you take my life
When you do take the means whereby I live.

Antonio magnanimously quits the fine for one half of his goods, provided that Shylock will let him have the half to render it, upon his death, unto the gentleman, that lately stole his daughter, and that he do record a gift, here in the court, of all he dies possess’d, unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter.

Antonio is merciful, yes. And Shylock does not deserve such generosity from him.

But Antonio has one more demand - he declares that, for this favour, Shylock should presently become a Christian.

This breaks Shylock’s spirit, and makes me question this ‘mercy’ that Antonio shows the old man.

Shylock is a product of his own hatred as much as he is a product of the discrimination of the times. He refuses to show Antonio any mercy, and declares that he will have his flesh

To bait fish withal: if it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and hindered me half a million; laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies; and what’s his reason? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge. The villany you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.

I look at the world today, and ask: how many Shylocks are we still creating, how many Antonios do we still have, and how many Courts of Justice still exist that are as ‘merciful’ as the court of the Duke of Venice?

I do not like the answers that I get.

more by Shakespeare

It is late. The city hums softly, in standby mode. The day’s frenzy has subsided, and the crowd of tourists and office workers have given way to crowds of men and women spilling out of theatres, pubs and restaurants.

I walk along the river. Across, St Paul’s, its dome illuminated, glows a tarnished gold . The river laps gently at its sides, the lights from Victoria Embankment, Charing Cross, Westminster glimmering, reflected on its dark surface.

A swirling, noisy, laughing, crowd sweeps me up and carries me along – to decant me gently at the steps of the National Theatre. The crowd flies off and vanishes into the night, as suddenly as it had appeared. Where had it come from, which theatre, which pub? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. The night is still again. On its edges are the lights of the cafe, where late-night theatre-goers in evening dress are dining alfresco on the terrace.

I turn and walk towards Waterloo Station.

The underground passageways that connect the South Bank to the station are home to some of London’s homeless. The men lie bundled up in blankets and sleeping bags, fast asleep. The bright neon lights of the passageways show up the peeling plaster and scuff marks on the walls. I read Sue Hubbard’s poem backwards as I ascend once more into the night air.

Then a run for the train on Platform 2, and home to quiet suburbia.

It is quiet on the Common, and very beautiful. The sun is shining warm and mellow out of a clear blue sky, gilding the trees with gold. The grass is still green and patterned with the gold and silver of fallen leaves. A bird calls, a squirrel rustles amongst the trees. It is autumn now - the time of year that I love best, especially when I can be out for a walk on the Common.

Perhaps it was a day as beautiful as this when, nine hundred years ago, Gilbert the Norman first viewed his new estate of Merton. He was an important man at court, and King Henry I had given him many honours - made him Sheriff of Surrey and Sheriff of Huntingdon and also given him the Manor of Merton. Maybe it was Merton’s beauty that made him decide to live here  - because, unlike other lords of the manor, Gilbert did live on his estate.

Gilbert was also a devout man, and in 1117 he founded Merton Priory with the help of the Canons of Huntingdon. Hence Canon Hill, the origin of the name of my Common, Cannon Hill Common. It has nothing to do with guns, though antiaircraft guns were installed here during the Second World War.

The Canons did not like the site chosen by Gilbert, and moved the Priory to the banks of the river Wandle. Gilbert used to take a great personal interest in the Priory - he would visit the Canons frequently, always making sure that they were never in want. He ensured an increase in the Priory’s wealth and lands through his contacts at court. It was said that Queen Matilda herself had visited the Priory with her son - who was later drowned at sea while trying to save his sister’s life. Gilbert finally became a Canon himself and joined Merton Priory, where he died. Strangely though, he is not buried here.

Today nothing remains of Gilbert’s beautiful Priory except a single archway. Merton Priory was destroyed in the 16^th century during the reign of Henry VIII. 

Henry VIII broke away from the Pope and set up the Church of England with himself as its head.  This made it possible for him to divorce Katherine of Aragon and marry Anne Boleyn. It also made him rich, because he could now claim for himself the wealth of the old monasteries, most of which he demolished. One such casualty was Merton Priory.

The Priory was pulled down and its stones used to construct the foundations of the Nonesuch Palace at Epsom. Henry VIII built this palace for his third wife, Jane Seymour and lost interest in it after her death in 1537. More than a hundred years later, Charles II gave the palace to one of his various mistresses. This lady had no use for it, and the building was torn down. The stones used to build Merton Priory were used for other buildings one of which is the bandstand at Epsom.  And that is where they are today. On the original site of the Priory there now stands a large supermarket.

The lands of the Priory passed into rich private hands. One Richard Thornton bought the area where the Common is today as well as the adjoining lands in the early years of the nineteenth century.

Richard Thornton was called the ‘unknown millionaire’ - when he died he left behind a fortune of three million pounds, most of which went to his relatives and was soon wasted. Richard Thornton built a large mansion, Cannon Hill House in 1770 for himself, his ‘housekeeper’, his children and his sister and her family. The earth for the bricks came out of the Common - Thornton filled the hole he had dug with water and stocked it with fish. The lake still attracts ducks and geese and sometimes swans, though fishing is no longer allowed there. Cannon Hill House was demolished towards the end of the 19^th century.

Richard Thornton’s origins were humble. His father was a poor Yorkshire farmer, and Richard himself made his money running the blockade imposed upon British ships by Napoleon. He supplied hemp procured from the Baltic to British ships. His great opportunity came in 1812 when he became the first person to know of Napoleon’s retreat from Russia through one of his ships. He sold his hemp at very high prices and made his fortune before the news of Napoleon’s retreat brought down the price of hemp in Britain.

Thornton was a generous man and did much for the villagers and the surrounding areas. However, he is remembered today only by a single road named after him, Thornton Road, in Wimbledon, where he had held some property.

In 1924, George Blay, the man who is responsible for what the area looks like today, bought the estate. He undertook to build two thousand houses in the area, leaving seventy-five acres of open ground as a common. He received a government subsidy of £75.00 for every house that he constructed. The houses were designed by an architect called Taylor, who has not been heard of before or since. The housing estate was completed in 1939.The houses sold for £700.00 to £910.00. Each house had a front and rear garden, but the kitchens were small and not very well designed. I ought to know - I live in a Blay house! Blay had sold 54 acres of open ground to the local authorities for £17,500 in 1925 - and it is this land which is called Cannon Hill Common today. Blay disappears into history with his fortune - no records tell where he went or what he did after this project.

Today Cannon Hill Common is owned and managed by Merton Council. It is not a common in the strictest sense of the word, but more an unfenced park. It consists of woodland, meadows and the lake created by Richard Thornton. Oak and horse chestnut, willow, birch and ash are some of the trees that grow here. Many species of birds live and breed here. The red fox can also be seen, usually in the evenings but sometimes during the day as well.

The Common lies behind my house, and has given me many hours of peace and beauty.