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     As my folks recuperated at Digboi, India, in May of 1942, Japanese reconnaissance aircraft began overflying the refinery and oilfields there - obviously taking photos - and making my parents extremely nervous.  What they had witnessed in Burma, gave them the impression the Japanese Army was unstoppable.

      Jap Mitsubishi Ki 46 Reconnaissance Aircraft   

     Mom and Dad discussed it at length, and decided they had to get out of India.

     As you shall see, dear reader, it proved to be the worst decision of their young lives.

     As soon as Mother was strong enough, they packed up their meager possessions in steamer trunks and, with the help of Tulah-Rhum, made a mad dash by narrow gauge railway across the length and breadth of India, to Bombay on the west coast.  It took them a week to make this journey, and they were required to bring their own drinking water, food and bedrolls; even though they were booked in a “first class” compartment. It was also dangerous. 

     An Indian family had locked themselves in my folks’ assigned compartment, and wouldn’t come out.  So my parents missed that train and caught the next one a day later.  While en route, Mom and Dad learned the train they had missed was waylaid in the Sin Desert by bandits and robbed. 

     Several White and native passengers had also been taken off that train, and held for ransom; including the Indian family that had squatted in my folks’ compartment.

     Needless to say, they were all greatly relieved to at last roll into Bombay.

     Victoria Station, 1942, Bombay.

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     Most people don’t realize that the city of Bombay is actually part of an island, called Salsette; sitting on a finger of land at its southern tip.  While to the east of this peninsula lays Bombay Harbor, with the vast Arabian Sea spreading out to the west.

     And then there was the infamous Bombay beggars; my parents thought they had seen the absolute worst in Rangoon and Calcutta; but in no way were they prepared for the sickening sight that greeted them.  As they approached the city’s outskirts, they found hundreds of unfortunates lining both sides of the railway track - begging for a number of miles – and suffering from all manner of diseases and deformities; armless and legless beings with enormous, open cancerous wounds, bearing faces and bodies caved in from previous accidents.  Even the very air conspired to appall; bearing the pungent aroma of open sewers and things rotting; blended with the hidden sent of spices.

     Until you experience a dose of elephantiasis in your testicles, requiring them to be

transported in a wheelbarrow, you really have nothing to bitch about.

     Welcome to Bombay, dear reader.

     My parents settled in at the Taj Mahal Hotel on the waterfront right next to the 

"Gateway of India.” 

     This was an ornate yellow basalt and reinforced concrete arch - standing at 26 meters in the Muslim architectural style of the 16^th century – erected in 1911 to commemorate the royal visit of their majesties King George V and Queen Mary of England.  As for the “Old Taj Hotel,” it was built in 1903, adhering strictly to the traditions and luxuries of the old-fashioned British Raj.

     Taj Mahal Hotel Lobby 1942

The mixed bag of refugees passing through the hotel along with my folks.

 

         View from my folks’ room.

     The dining room.

         And for the diners’ pleasure: the Taj Mahal Strings.

          The Taj Mahal Garden in 1942.

     From 1987 to 1992, I had occasion to visit this grand old hotel approximately every three months on layovers for Singapore Airlines.  Being aircrew we were always put up in the original old wing, which was a time-warp left over from the glory days of the raj.  Sometimes though, I’d get restless – sleep eluding me - and I’d slip out of my room after the midnight witching hour; ultimately prowling the ornate archways along the well manicured garden.  And if I had the correct amount of alcohol coursing through my veins - and would squint just right – I swear, dear reader, I could see the gossamer ghosts of my folks, Tulah-Rhum and Pinkie.  All decked out in tropical whites; strolling in the moonlight through the garden.

  

        The Taj Mahal Garden in 1987.

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