Danny's simple life in West Bengal.
A near perfect arrangement was the dhobi (laundry man). He came round every morning, collected your slacks and shorts (khaki drill), bush jackets and shirts (khaki cellular), plus anything else that needed washing. Next day it would all come back, beautifully washed and pressed. It only cost a few annas (pennies in old money). Your bearer organised it (and no doubt took his cut).
The job was done by the dhobi-wallah's womenfolk, who took it down to the river and thrashed the dirt out on a flat stone. Soap would cost money and it had always been done that way. You might wonder how long cotton drill lasted under this treatment. A long time, provided it was made in India. The tropical kit issued to us in UK was rubbish. The stuff had no guts, was rough, poorly cut and the khaki dye faded to a sort of pale yellowish buff after a few washes. The shorts hung baggily down below the knee.
One of the first things the new arrival did was to chuck this stuff away (together with the Bombay bowler), having ordered tailor-made khaki drill and cellular kit for a few rupees - 24 hr service - from the dherzi (tailor) in the local bazaar. Your Service cap was all the protection you needed from the sun, (and most people got hold of the Aussie " Bush" hat which could more easily be screwed up and shoved in some corner of the cockpit).
84 Squadron had a F/O Hartnell. At that time the Queen's dressmaker firm was Norman Hartnell, so of course he was "dherzi" Hartnell from then on !
As an officer, life was a little more luxurious, you had your own room and bearer, and slightly better facilities in your Mess. There wasn't much drinking. For a start, there was no beer. The war had cut off supplies of "India Pale Ale" and the like from home. Beer was brewed in some hill stations ("Murree") was one name, but there was no container then known to man which could hold it for more than 100 miles on rail before it exploded.
We fell back on spirits, fruit squashes and soft drinks. There was an Indian made gin - "Carew's" - and "Rosa" rum. Both were palatable in long drinks ("John Collins" was a favourite), but you had to be careful - any excess would bring a vicious hangover. We bought locally distilled whiskies and brandies (they burned with a beautiful hot blue flame). This jungle juice was not to be taken internally, but used in place of meths to fire-up the incandescent pressure lamps used in Messes (you might have one in your basha if you were lucky). There was no electricity, of course.
These pressure lamps gave a blinding light, attracting hordes of large flying insects - there was one beetle which appeared just before the Monsoon - it looked about the size of a golfball; this could give you quite a crack on the head if it flew into you at full throttle. Each basha had a humble hurricane lamp or two; this gave a poorer glow, just enough for you to visit the facilities after dark.
These would be of the "deep-trench" variety, or if "en suite", the "Thunderbox" (you might think that could not be bettered for onomatopoeia, but the Germans go one better with plumpklo). In lieu of water borne sanitation, the Hindu system has a special Caste of "sweeper", a hereditary profession to which is reserved the unpleasant but necessary task of emptying these receptacles. The Deep Trench Latrine (shades of a boring lecture on a warm Newquay afternoon) is worth a Post or two by itself and maybe it will get one.
Ablutions were communal, the bhisti (water carrier -remember Gunga Din ?) brought up hot and cold water and you just got on with it. I recall that, in most places, we rigged up a shower with a four-gallon can punched with a few holes, hung from a bamboo tripod.
These cans were everywhere. Coming with petrol or kerosene, the empties were used for water and almost everything else. The top was cut out, a piece of wood nailed across as a handle, and you had a bucket. They were halved longways to make bowls, file trays for the orderly room and drip trays for the mechanics. The bhisti used them. Half fill with water, put a blow-lamp to it, and you soon had a brew of tea.
Not that you often needed to do that. The char-wallah (really should be chai-wallah) turned up like magic in response to a call, and you soon acquired a taste for his brew. This was water (of doubtful provenance, but hopefully sterilised by boiling), tea, milk (buffalo), ghur (unrefined sugar), all boiled up together over glowing charcoal under the base of his urn. This hung from one end of a milkmaid style yoke, balanced by a tin box containing a washing-up bowl for pinki pani ( a disinfectant solution of potassium permanganate), cakes and his stock of glasses (no cups). The glasses were cut-down bottles, edges ground smooth. Carrying all this fore-and-aft, the charwallah got rich quick at two annas a glass.
More in a day or two,
Cheers,
Danny42C
All in the day's work !
Last edited by Danny42C; 5th May 2012 at 21:59.
Reason: Add Title.