Standing outside the engineer’s workshop, I reached into the top pocket of my overalls and drew out the packet of Rothmans that lay within. Hah! I’d come up here for a breath of fresh air but had instead lit up and drawn deeply on a cigarette to clear my mind as much as anything else. It’s the symptom and action of a smoker to go through this ritual before doing or attempting anything. So much for fresh air.
The cloying, hot air of the lower deck, laden with the smell of diesel, had driven me up to the upper deck. It wasn’t so much the fuel but the breath and odour of sixty other stokers in a small, cramped mess — heavy with cigarette smoke and the tang of beer — that eventually proved too much. I made my way up the ladder, past the dining hall and galley that were still serving food onto stainless steel trays for the men coming off the first dog watch, and finally out onto the upper deck. Expecting, and hoping, to find solace in the cool and fresh evening air, I was met instead with the humid and fetid atmosphere of a kind I’d thought I’d left below. This was India — Bombay, to be precise — for that was how it was still known in 1975 when HMS Glamorgan of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy docked there en route to the Far East.
Leaning on the guardrail, I surveyed the quayside. A large, wet spot hit my face; at first I thought someone had spat, but as it was quickly followed by another and then several more, I realised it was raining — and how! Oh dear God, when the rain comes in July in India, it comes with a vengeance that has to be seen to be believed. Welcome and life‑giving as it is to the Indians following their dry season, it was a shock to those of us used to moderation in British weather. Great arrows of water streaked from the sky and bounced up from the jetty to the height of a foot, determined to get you on the way up if they hadn’t got you on the way down. I retreated further down the starboard side to the cover of an awning to escape the deluge.
To my right, and seemingly oblivious to the rain, stood a woman on the quayside clothed in a long cotton dress, now sodden and hanging limply from her thin shoulders. She wielded a long metal bar with which she pried cobblestones from the jetty. I remembered seeing her that morning doing the same; now it was evening and she continued still. I had no idea whether this was paid work from the Harbour Board or some kind of private enterprise — theft — she was engaged in. Whatever it was, she was hardworking and persistent, to the extent that there was a yawning gap in the formerly metalled surface, now reduced to mud and sand and quickly turning to quagmire in the monsoon rains.
To my left, at the bottom of the brow, stood a large rubbish skip conveniently placed for the ship’s garbage. It was filled daily with the paraphernalia and detritus of naval life, which included a large quantity of items deemed valuable by the locals. Chief among these were the beer cans discarded by the crew — courtesy, perhaps, of the Navy’s policy of three cans per man per day. Yes, the famous tot had gone five years earlier, and the men of the Royal Navy had to make do with cans of McEwan’s Export. Still, as they say, it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good, and the men of the ship provided many empty cans each day to supply the vital materials for those who dwelt around the docks.
At first I wondered what it was they did with all the empty cans, until I saw a man sitting beside a shack hammering them flat while his companion nailed them to the roof. Tiles. An ingenious bit of recycling born of necessity years before it became a fashion in the West.
I became aware that a head and shoulders had joined me at the guardrail. After a moment he asked if I was going ashore, and when I agreed that I was, we moved off to get ready. By the time we crossed the gangway the rain had eased, and we found our way through the docks amongst the pallets and containers, chasing the rats as we went, until we reached the main gate of the port.
From the relative quiet of the docks at that time of day, the gates opened onto a whole new bustling world of chaos and confusion. Darkness was not far away, and the orange glow in the sky formed a perfect canvas for the silhouette of the Bombay skyline — its modern buildings with a forest of aerials mixed with ancient domes and stupas from the Mughal era. The city, too, was beginning to light up, even in this poor area, with a multitude of small shops each trying to outdo its neighbour with strings of lights festooned across their fronts. Lanterns hung in every doorway and window, fuelled mostly by oil or gas as insurance against the frequent loss of electricity — no surprise considering the haphazard wiring.
Illuminated signs advertising Sony, Coca‑Cola and a dozen other household names helped to light the pavement littered with potholes and rubbish that had nowhere else to go. And just as the detritus of human life piled up at the edges, so too did the people who had nowhere else to go, making their homes on the street — lean‑tos of sticks and polythene set up against the side of a shop here or a wall there. Others had no such luxury and possessed only what they stood up in.
On the pavement at the corner of the street one enterprising man had set up a ring of bricks in which he had made a small fire. A steel wok sat over it, with nuts roasting in its shimmering heat, which he sold for a rupee or two. The smell of the nuts was appetising enough, but I felt I shouldn’t dare to partake. Apart from the occasional scent of food, the overwhelming aroma was that of sandalwood, burned in many places. Only when we walked past the dark chasms between buildings, where the stench of human waste cascaded out, did we realise why the incense burners were so necessary.
It was then that a most unusual sight hove into view. There was a commotion behind us, and turning round I saw a crowd of women in brightly coloured saris being parted by a man sitting, legless, on what appeared to be a skateboard. He paddled his way along the pavement with his bare hands, scattering people as he went, until he came close enough for me to see him properly. It was impossible to tell his age, thanks to the enormous shock of filthy grey hair that extended down to his equally unkempt beard, out of which — I swear — insects were emerging. His lined face, at least what I could see of it, was blackened by the dirt of ages, with only his yellowish eyes standing out as they stared wildly in every direction. Tattered shorts failed to hide the short stumps of his thighs, and it was a wonder he could balance on the wheeled contraption that was his only means of mobility. I swerved to let him pass, whereupon he disappeared into the distance, scattering more people as he scooted along.
It was about then that we came upon our destination — a seamen’s club housed in a building that had clearly seen better days. Inside we found a warren of small rooms which eventually led to the bar, empty apart from a few Chinese huddled over a table playing cards in a dark corner. We ordered beer and played a few games of pool with one cue on a table with red baize — the most colourful part of the place — but soon grew bored and decided to return to the ship.
Stepping out onto the street, we found the rain still falling, though less heavily than before. We might have taken a bus, but when one came along it appeared to be full. That was when I realised I hadn’t taken full account of Indian innovation and inventiveness. The bus stopped and was immediately swarmed over by would‑be passengers. Those who couldn’t fit inside climbed onto the roof or clung to any handholds they could find on the outside. Staggering under the weight of its human cargo, the bus slowly moved off down the road and was gone, leaving us to walk back to the docks.
Further down the road we came upon another bus stop where a couple of people waited, having presumably found nowhere to hold onto on the previous bus. On the pavement close to them lay, at an unnatural angle, the figure of a young man. We were used to the sight of people — homeless and dispossessed — living and sleeping on the streets, but this was different. To us, he appeared to be dead, and by the way the people at the bus stop turned away, disinterested and perhaps embarrassed, I guessed that he was. Observing the rule that we should not involve ourselves in local customs, affairs or politics, we moved swiftly on, and before long we found ourselves again facing the gangway of the ship.
By now it was late, and the woman with the iron bar was nowhere to be seen, though there were fewer cobbles than when I had left. The hut was still leaking, but tomorrow we would drink more beer in the knowledge that it would soon have a fully tiled roof — courtesy of the drinking men of the Royal Navy and McEwan’s Export ale.