L enore B lackwood was born in Sydney in 1928, and travelled to the UK in her early twenties with ambitions for a theatrical career. These gave way to a passion for travel and she travelled extensively in Asia, Europe, Africa and Latin America, stopping to work along the way or returning to her London base to make her living in many forms of employment.
She resettled in Sydney in 1986 after seven years in Mexico, where she taught English as a Foreign Language, an excellent occupation for a traveller and one she greatly enjoyed.
She developed a small business exhibiting and selling ethnic textiles and tribal jewellery to finance her continuing journeys, shorter now and always returning to Sydney.
In 2017 she wrote Loving Mogadishu . This is her second book.
First published 2021
Kerr Publishing Pty Ltd
Melbourne, Victoria
ABN 64 124 219 638
2021 Lenore Blackwood
This book is copyright. Unless stated otherwise, all images are included in the above copyright. Apart from fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, or under the Copyright Agency Ltd rules of recording, no part may be reproduced by any means.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
ISBN 978-1-875703-49-4 eBook
ISBN 978-1-875703-48-7 PoD (Print on Demand)
BIC Category: AUTOBIOGRAPHY: General
BISAC Category 1: BIO002020 BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY/ Cultural, Ethnic & Regional/Asian & Asian American
BISAC Category 2: BIO023000 BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY/ Adventurers & Explorers
BISAC Category 3: BIO022000/ BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY/Women
Cover and book design: Paul Taylder of Xigrafix Media and Design
National Library of Australia PrePublication Data Service:
Contents
Prologue
Where? How?
First Steps
Learning the Ropes
Sevagram
Backtracking
Agra and Pandeys Projects
Delhi and the Daisy Chain
Srinagar Snapshots
Pahalgam and Mr Gupta
Yatra Achieved
Prem a Brother for Life
Snapshots People and Places
The Monotony Breaker 1
Konark and the Temples
The Monotony Breaker 2
Hyderabad and the Osman Family
South India: Adjusting to a Different Culture
Radha at the Madras School of Social Work
French Mother at Pondicherry
Temple Town to Temple Town
Lush Kerala and Mysterious Mr Rae
To Ceylon, Finding Work of a Sort
Prologue
Y ou should at least give her bread and butter in the morning.
No, said Prem in a tone that brooked no argument, she is one of us. She wants nothing that we dont have. Bread and butter today, he said with a knowing nod of the head, the next thing shell be asking for eggs. The thin edge of the wedge.
Barsin had made an informal morning call at brunch time and the middle-aged Parsi woman, friend and associate of Prems at the Bombay stock exchange, was surprised to find a foreign woman sitting cross-legged on the floor scooping up spiced vegetables with torn off bits of chapatti .
Prem was showing me off, his find, and I was playing up the adaptability I was always being praised for. You are so adaptable, people said, awestruck by discovering a memsahib in their midst only ten years after Independence who was mucking in, eagerly lapping up Indian life. I was often offered concessions that would make inroads into that adaptability. I refused most but accepted some, like the woven mat I sat on in the dining area of the large family kitchen for I had been struggling to maintain my crossed legged pose on one of the small wooden boards close to the floor that all the family members used, perched on them like statues on plinths.
Prem was my rakhi brother and good friend, and I was staying with his joint family in a small crowded flat in an old area of Bombay that offered unending interest.
Seven months earlier I had left the plane at Santa Cruz Airport hung over from two days travel with almost sleepless nights, a bit confused, a bit apprehensive, for in June l956 I had no role model for what I was setting out to do and no guide book, no Lonely Planet.
Now I was back in Bombay after a circular journey and I was proud to consider myself an honorary Indian.
I had experienced the most fulfilling, fascinating, illuminating and richest time of my life so far, and probably forever.
CHAPTER 1
Where? How?
T he origins of my Indian journey need some explanation. It was quite a few years before the rush to India, the heyday of swamis and gurus and ashram s, of Beatles and joints, of sitar s meeting guitars, of starry eyed-westerners following a well-worn trail, with lots of spaced out drop-outs along the way.
For some time I had not been acting true to type. The typical young Australian traveller left Australia on a passenger liner, lower class, flatted in London with fellow Aussies, hitch-hiked around Britain and then did the continent as half of a pair, or trundled around in an old London taxi with a group of like-minded easy-going travellers. I had done all that, skipping the taxi, and then veered off to become a loner as I had found my objectives differed to those of my companions.
I had also clung to my ambition to work in the theatre and between rare jobs in repertory companies this meant sticking around in London working in menial jobs and doing the rounds of theatrical agents, attending the occasional audition. Packing it in to go off travelling with just a rucksack and a very tight budget was cancelling out the little ground gained but the urge was so compelling this was what I did now and then.
The summer of 1955 was remarkably sunny, balmy, even hot and I was employed by a theatre company playing a Butlins holiday camp in Pwllheli, North Wales. The usual relentless weekly rep routine of a new production every week was replaced by a turnover of the same few plays as there was a new intake of happy campers every one or two weeks. This meant we had an easy routine.
In my time off I swam from sandy beaches in warm sea and explored the countryside, rambling along winding lanes flanked by banked hedges with foxgloves and hollyhocks spearing the tangle of wild roses and masses of unknown wild flowers. I was revelling in where I was but still very restless, consumed with longing for knowledge through travel and I hungered for the spoils of wilder far-flung places.
The previous summer I had made a memorable trip to Italy and thought I had found the love of my life as far as countries go and planned to go back. Nevertheless, more distant reaches pulled at me I was a balletomane and longed to compare Galina Ulanova with Margot Fonteyn but Russia could only be approached with an organised tour and that was not for me. I wanted to go somewhere my compatriots did not. Iceland? I could travel the open road and lose myself in vast grasslands grazed by wild horses, marvel at spurting geysers and thermal springs, turbulent rivers and placid icy lakes, volcanos, glaciers, icebergs and a rugged rocky coast battered by thunderous seas. Alas, it would be far too expensive for me.