On Saturday evening, Val and I had been invited out to dinner; our first proper fully social occasion here. Kaveri, one of the teachers in the INSET workshop, is a member of the university Drama club, and had invited us to a restaurant in Hazratganj, a busy central area of Lucknow, to meet Mohit, the professor who leads the group, and some of the other members of the group. The restaurant was Zaika, on the top floor of the Continental Hotel. After a certain amount of confusion finding the place, we were greeted there by Mohit, and one of his students, an expert in Hindi theatre. And in a short time, the other four members had joined us.
From that point on, there was no lull in the conversation. Mohit is clearly knowledgeable, but also made it clear that he was there to listen to me as well, so there was never a lull, even when, eventually, we got round to ordering drinks and food. And consuming same. It was clear that his students were also articulate and passionate about theatre, telling us of their previous productions, most recently a Hindi version of Twelfth Night. (Enabling me to show photos of my own performance as Malvolio.) They also told us of a Theatre in Education company they had formed (though nearly all of them were teachers as their day-time job), and of its progress from being founded around the time of Covid.
But they made it clear they had come primarily to listen to me, and I duly obliged. On the subject of theatre, I could talk for England, I did try hard to involve others, but there again Val was forced to pull me up from time to time to allow others to contribute. There were three women at the table, the third (sorry, no name comes to me now) being very quiet. But Kaveri made some interesting points, and at an appropriate time, I gave Val a big introduction, listing her achievements at uni and work. We had both feared she might be a little side-lined by the conversation, because it was pretty much all about theatre, but she made some telling observations, particularly around the wider benefits of Drama, most particularly in business. I think they all enjoyed watching our own interactions, and the good-natured, good-humoured way we treated each other.
Mohit made sure that all of his students had the opportunity to contribute, but in fact the most voluble of the group, Rohit, it was more difficult to shut up, so passionate was he about theatre. But his total commitment to Drama and its place within the curriculum was good to see.
And once again, as on so many other occasions in the past two weeks, I was thoroughly enjoying myself. I made lots of jokes, of course, most of which went down well, but also felt that I had acquitted myself pretty well on the whole. And towards the end of the evening, I received an invitation to take some workshops/give some talks at the university, once Aesop was over. I think everyone was in agreement that it had been a most splendid evening.
The following day, Sunday, Val and I were determined to use to get out of the apartment and to go for a walk. But we both agreed it was sensible to get Arvind to take us to a big Western hotel, the Renaissance, a few kilometres away. It was adjacent to the Gomti riverfront park, which we intended to explore.
On arriving there, we went straight up to the restaurant on the fourteenth floor, just in time to order some eggs and avail ourselves of the buffet. It had, of course, the most magnificent view, not really over the green park, but of the enormous and impressive Ambedkar Park almost adjacent to it. The park was an extraordinary place, a vast open area, floored in marble, but with some huge and impressive buildings. Most notable was an avenue of life-sized concrete elephants, about thirty on each side, which I had caught a glimpse of on my previous visit last year. I had assumed then that this was some relic of the colonial era, but in retrospect this was a foolish notion; such a surreal place would never have been constructed during the reign of the buttoned-up English. We asked our friendly waiter about it, and he was very dismissive about the notion of going there. Hot and smelly, he said. And look, he said, pointing down, there is nobody there. And it was true, there were very few people.
I was inclined to take his word for it and head straight to the riverfront park, but Val rarely simply takes people’s words for things (while I am always inclined to believe them; another of the (many) points of difference between us.) And so we took a tuk-tuk (Ha! Another of my favourite expressions from last year in Nepal!) to the Elephant Gate entrance, went to the wrong ticketing booth, at one end of the entrance plaza, where all six windows were closed, and plodded over to the symmetrically placed one, a hundred metres away – the scale of the place was vast throughout – where one window was.
An interesting little scene. We were waiting for the guy in front of us to be served, standing a metre or so back so as not to crowd him, when two other guys looked to walk past us. Spotting this, I stepped forward, and blocked them off with arms akimbo. They accepted this quite readily, but if I had been stupid enough to allow room for them to squeeze past…
It took me back to an incident forty years ago, when a large, well-dressed Indian man had tried the same trick in a queue at the railway booking office. I had turned and given him a shove, which sent him flying. So maybe I am being cannier and less aggressive now when dealing with exactly the same behaviour.
We entered the main plaza, and discovered that Saksham, our waiter, had been entirely and completely wrong, for the place was an absolute marvel, and it was a privilege to be there, and to have the place very largely to ourselves. It consisted of a huge open area, dotted at wide intervals with large buildings, as well as many elephant statues. But the place was not without its pitfalls (literally); although the ground appeared at first glance to be flat, smooth marble, in fact there were hidden steps all over the place, some two foot high or deep (depending on which way you were travelling.) We both stumbled at least once, but it could easily have been far more serious. (Another trip to hospital?)
The other, more serious, issue was the heat. There was little shade to be found, and I in particular was feeling its effects, so we entered into one of the halls, where we hoped it would be a little cooler. And was… a little.
The hall, like the park, was dedicated to the memory of Dr Bhimrao Ambedkar, a social reformer from last century , particularly concerned with the treatment of Dalits (untouchables.) Quite astonishing that he should have inspired such a memorial. This hall was dedicated to statues and bas-relief murals dedicated to his life. The one which dominated the entrance, by directly facing you, strongly resembled an Indian version of the Lincoln Memorial, with an almost identical pose, but others were more homely, including one domestic scene where he had a dog at his feet. For me, a significant matter was that in all his statues, he wore glasses. Personal reasons, obviously, but also because it used to be my friend Joe’s party piece to be able to take one to the (very few) spectacled statues of London; he drove a London taxi.
I was suffering from the heat, so while Val went round taking photos, I borrowed one of the security guard’s plastic harden chairs (the only chairs in the place.) The other security guard lent me his newspaper so that I could fan myself, but before long there was qute a crowd surrounding me, watching this strange spectacle. I was then able to indulge in one of my favourite activities here, making Indians laugh. They tend to be a dour people with strangers, and in addition many of them are wary of acting inappropriately, especially with people in authority and western tourists, and so can be reserved, and/or suspicious. But as soon as I let it be known they could take pictures, and moreover prepared to risk making a fool of myself in pursuit of a joke, any joke, they lightened up, and were cheery and bubbly.
One guy made my day as he finally walked away. “You are a funny man,” he said, and gave a high-pitched giggle. No greater compliment.
