*     *     *     *     *

Flag of India.

Flag of the British Raj: 1880 - 1947.

    Bombay, India:

     I was assigned my first trip to Bombay, with SIA, on 3^rd December 1987.  As for the Bombay Airport, it was an absolute dump.

     My first clue; was the inability of the Indian controllers to radar vector us.  Instead, we’re required to fly over the airfield at altitude, track outbound using a VOR radial to the Outer Marker, perform a procedure turn - turning us 180 degrees – and then intercept the ILS to track back inbound to Runway Two Seven (270°/090° magnetic, West/East).  A time and fuel wasting, antiquated instrument approach right out of WWII.

     As for the terminal, it was old, tired and badly in need of renovation.  

     In spite of this, Bombay Airport did have some amusing episodes.

     On one layover, we were assigned Gate 47, at Terminal 2, which required us to use taxiway “G” – a taxiway I hadn’t used before.  It was the captain’s leg – meaning it was his turn to taxi the 747 – and my turn to run the radio, check the airport layout chart, and keep a sharp lookout for obstacles.  In so doing, I immediately noticed how unusually narrow this taxiway was.  Plus, from my right seat thirty feet above the ground, I spotted a perpendicular wall ahead, running up to and stopping well short of our taxiway.  Engine number three looked okay for clearance, but engine number four was going to pass directly over the end of this concrete block wall.  From where I sat, well above the engine and wall, it appeared to be a tight fit.

     As the cockpit passed abeam of the wall, I craned my neck to keep track of engine four’s approach.  Remember, dear reader, the 747 has swept wings – placing the engines well behind the cockpit.

     Despite my diligence I became distracted, as the other side of the wall came into view, by an Indian airport security guard in khaki uniform and beret.  He had leaned his British Enfield rifle against the wall – dropped his trousers to his ankles – and was squatting on his haunches taking a dump.  He looked up at me – I looked down at him – and he threw me a perfect British soldier’s salute as he continued to defecate.  I sat there a moment utterly stunned.

     Welcome to Bombay, dear reader! 

     Oh shit!  What about engine four?  Too late!  When I recovered from shock and glanced back at four, the engine was already sliding across the wall.  Fortunately for me it wasn’t dislodging any concrete blocks.  Even so, it must have deafened that security guard, no doubt assisting in his defecation; carry on, private.

Bombay teems with people.

     After clearing immigration and customs, all bone-weary 21 of us were loaded on a crew bus for the long, 45-minute haul - in horn-honking, bumper-to-bumper traffic – to the southern tip of Bombay Island.  There, by the harbor, we were off-loaded at two historic Bombay icons.

     The first was the “Gateway of India.” It was built to commemorate the visit of British King George V, and Queen Mary, to Bombay in December of 1911.  Disappointingly, they only saw a cardboard model of the structure, as construction didn’t begin till 1915 and was completed in 1924.   Its design is a combination of Hindu and Muslim architectural styles - built from yellow basalt and reinforced concrete – with a central dome at 48 feet in diameter and standing at 83 feet above ground level.  Plus, on each side of its archway, there are large halls that can hold 600 people.

     In Watts, L.A., we’d refer to this arch as: “One big motherfucker!”  Which, in all actuality it is, and faces out onto the harbor, where all the big wheels from Europe would land to start their exploration of India.  Hence its name: “Gateway of India.”

     Conversely, my parents and Pinkie passed through this archway on their way out of India in 1942.

    Additionally, the last British troops to leave India following the country's independence - the First Battalion of the Somerset Light Infantry - also egressed the “Gateway” in a ceremony on 28^th February 1948, signaling the end of British rule.  Which I find ironic, dear reader, for this massive archway was originally built as a symbol of the power and majesty of the British Empire; oh...how the mighty have fallen.

     The second icon was the five-star Taj Mahal Hotel, practically next door to the “Gateway of India”; possessing two wings. 

     The seven-storied old wing, which opened on 16^th December 1903, was constructed in exotic Moorish, Oriental and Florentine styles that truly capture a sense of eye-pleasing mystery.

     At one period another hotel, called “Greens,” was the old wing’s neighbor, and was famous among the sailors of the port for its cheap rooms and wild parties.  They weren’t very good neighbors, so the Tata Group bought it in 1973, knocked it down, and erected the new wing: the 22-storied Taj Mahal Tower in a sterile-modern design.

     Both wings offered panoramic, romantic views of the Arabian Sea and harbor.

     We aircrew were always put up in the old wing, showcasing traditional Indian influences with beautiful vaulted alabaster ceilings, onyx columns, graceful archways, hand-woven silk carpets, and crystal chandeliers - reminders of a different era: the historic, romantic British Raj.

The old wing’s gallery.

My room – something leftover from the British Raj.

     The old wing of the Taj Mahal Hotel was also the last hotel my parents resided in, before being shipped back to the States on the S.S. Brazil during July of 1942.  As my mother was five months pregnant with me at the time – despite it being 45 years ago – whenever I did a layover here, I couldn’t help but feel it was a “homecoming.”  I usually got a room right out of a movie set, with a huge four poster bed (no canopy), living room with writing desk, plus a spacious, enclosed balcony having intricate arches and divans.  In the years I had layovers here, I often wondered if I ever got my parents old room.

     The old wing’s main restaurant was right out of something from the “Arabian Nights,” producing the best Indian cuisine I’ve ever had.  Plus they had a stage that put on an Indian folk dancing show while I dined.  The female dancers were in traditional costume and exquisite.  In the band I spotted a harmonium – the miniature hand-pumped organ – precisely like the one my mom played for all those hundreds of ship’s passengers waiting to be torpedoed by a German sub.

Folk dancers and the harmonium.

     On one of those restless nights when sleep abandoned me, I’d slip out of bed well past the witching hour and head for the hotel’s garden.  Stretching out on a lounger, with a bottle of bourbon for company, I’d endeavor to get sloshed.  At length, with half closed eyes, I’d see Dad, Mom, Pinkie and Tulah Rhum leisurely strolling round the garden in their tropical whites.  Oddly, visions of these ghosts comforted me, chasing away all concerns and worries; allowing sleep to possess me.  At least until the hotel’s gardeners woke me the following morning.  

The hotel’s gallery and garden where I’d pass out and see “ghosts.” 

     Since I usually had a three to four-day layover, generally on the second day I’d catch “cabin fever,” and have to go exploring. 

The hotel’s logo and doorman.

     On my first foray out of the hotel, in 1987, I experienced a terrible shock: beggars!  There was literally a mob of them, a half-block away, resembling vultures waiting outside the hotel, blocking my way to the city.  They were in filthy rags, with dirty hands having oozing sores – clutching at me – hanging on in the hope that I would pay them to let me go.  Problem was, if I paid just one – swarms of them would come out of the woodwork – grabbing me and demanding payment also.  What to do?

Bombay beggars pouncing!

     I took a clue from the local cops.  Right off I noticed they weren’t armed – instead they carried a length of bamboo roughly three to four feet long – which they whirled about their heads inspiring crowds to disperse.  

     For some odd reason, Indian mobs prefer to be shot as opposed to being struck by this bamboo rod.  Hmmm...  So I went right out and purchased a stout, wooden cane, with a metal tip at one end, and a thick, round knob at the other.

     The first time I stepped out of the hotel with my cane – I waded right into the crowd of beggars waiting for me – whirling the cane above my head as if I was about to strike them.

     Well, let me tell you, dear reader, I felt comparable to Moses at the parting of the Red Sea – the mob split apart – forming an unobstructed path only for me.  No more grabbing me with filthy, diseased hands bearing oozing sores.  Not once did I have to actually strike any of them.  I christened the cane my “Bombay Beggar Beater,” and never left Singapore without it when doing a Bombay layover.

     Oh yes, dear reader, I think we’ve already established the fact that I’m not a very nice man.

       *     *     *     *     *