Um, we ARE from the Eastern side of Bengal
Dhaka and Barisal. Just saying.
True, but by all accounts, they had fun. Lunch at Firpo's, tea at
Flury's (sometimes; it was more often a home thing), dinner with a friend and then the night club at Theatre Road. Films at the New Empire, the Lighthouse or the Metro, where Mr. Hafesjee always had a ticket or ten tucked away for special guests. A box at the races, and a flutter on New Year's Day after the revelry, polo at XMas....people returning from long parties in the early (and not so early) mornings would have to dodge the street washing, when every major street was washed down before the day began. Friday lunch was obviously at the Bengal Club, but patriotic Indians tended to stick to the Calcutta Club. The chhota sahibs were herded into the Saturday Club, and the ridin', huntin', fishin' types tended to gather at Tolly for the gym. The muddied oafs and flanneled fools found their own niche on the crossing of Store Road and Ballygunge Road, later Gurusaday Road and Syed Amir Ali Avenue, at the CC&FC. Chhota sahibs at the first place I worked, some years before I joined, were known to break off for rugger after a light lunch, and to come back into the office in their kit to sign whatever letters they had to sign even before going home for a shower and a cocktail. Boxwallahs were non-U, uniforms were very U, and Sonny and Paddy Nazarganj threw lavish Christmas parties; if you were anybody, you would get invited. The Army was all over, the ex-Army was even more all over. Pearson Surita's little brother Ivan was a retired Major with a Military Cross, Paddy Baker from the famous paint company was ex-Irish Guards, Pratul Lahiri was in circulation with his own brand of doggerel verses for every occasion, some when the ladies were present, many, many more when they were not - but we used to get chased out and off to bed by 9, anyway.
In 1961, it was the centenary year for the world's oldest polo club (second oldest technically; the oldest was Silchar, established by one Major General J. Shearer, which went belly up when the British withdrew), and the finalists were Ratanada and Calcutta Polo Club. Ratanada looked unbeatable; the legendary Hanut, the Rao Raja son (if you are a Rajput, you will understand the code) and his sons, Kanwar Bijay and Kanwar Hari, and one other, and on our side (yes, our side) Prem Singh of the 80 yard hits, Col. Alec Harper, still in India, someone whose name I can't recall, and a mystery Pakistani, playing with a carbuncle which he dosed with internal and external applications of brandy. It was a six chukker match, and at the end of four chukkers, all the ladies of Calcutta (remember the song?) were wrapped in gloomy but politely applauding silence, Pearson from the sound of it was already thinking about his brandy and soda after the commentary was to be over; Ratanada were 6 to 4 (it was an open handicap tournament), and two chukkers to go. And then the bloody lot got a 40 yarder. In a 60 yarder, you get to block the goal you are defending, in a 40 yarder, you have to leave it clear. Bijay cantered back - he was then playing 7 or 8, his father was playing 9 because Jaipur was playing 10 and you couldn't have a Rao Raja playing the same handicap as a ruling prince, which is why Hanut was known as the only 11 goal player in the world! - and it was clearly a goal before he even took the shot. Sure enough, he hit it lofted and it was aimed right between the goal posts flying in at about four feet from the ground. Suddenly there was a bay in full gallop in the way. The rider checked his pony just enough to stop the ball, it fell to the ground, he picked it up with a deft tap, a longer stroke and he was away, in glorious full gallop down the left side of the field, away from us in the stands, so that we could watch every magnificent bit of it. The stunned Ratanada team rallied and raced off madly to defend their goal, but it was all too late! There was a swashbuckling angled cut, and it was in the Ratanada goal! 6 to 5 and everybody screaming their lungs out, all the high society ladies, all the suited gentlemen, even the syces.
The rest was a dream. Alec Harper was an immovable rock, Prem hit 80 yarder after 80 yarder (those who have played know what this means, the equivalent of successive overs of sixes on each ball for a batsman) and the Pakistani was death on horseback. 6 all, then 6 to 7 for CPC, and on the final bugle, an exhausted, delirious stand saw Calcutta the winners by 8 to 6.
Those Pakistanis who know the game and its players will sit back and nod knowledgeably when I tell you who that cavalry-moustached gent was who turned the game - it was Brigadier Hesky Baig.
Everybody knew everybody those days. Your granddad would definitely have known the Wrights. Bob Wright was the spitting image of David Niven, and was the son of Robin Wright, DIG Dacca Range, and Anne's father was a leading railway engineer.
