PM's & First ministers

[Des Taff Jenkins]

Hi Rod.
Was it warm enough to have a swim in the Ganges?
Des

[happy daze john in oz]

The Ganges, what a river.
It is for washing, accepting ashes of the deceased, a sewer among other things.
One thing about India, they do not waste any natural resource such as the Ganges, it is multifunctional.

[Rodney Mills]

Yep Johnno. You could make a "killing" in India. Only outlay would be tall glasses, ice and an eigth of a lemon and the Ganges water (Strain out the lumps), and you could pass it off as iced tea.

"Just gagging John."

[j.sabourn]

When I was an apprentice we were in Cochin and I was nightwatchman so had the days free . One day went ashore with the intention of visiting what everyone was calling a gin farm . Two off putters to India as the mystical East , on way have already described a young girl lying in the gutter giving birth to a baby and people ignoring and just walking around. Finally on reaching my destination the Gin mill consisted of an Indian dressed in a turban drawing the sap direct from a tree and putting it in a glass for your convenience. The surrounding fauna consisted mainly of children mainly with limbs missing arms or legs, supposed to have been done by their parents to give them a future life of begging. People today pay money to see India, but they are never shown the real India from air conditioned ships and planned tourist trips. JS…..
Somehow although 70 years ago, I doubt much has changed. So any Philanthropists on board dig deep. JS
Maybe miracles do happen and today there are some of those childhood beggars now in their eighties still hobbling around on one leg assisted by one arm with a crutch carrying on with their profession. JS.

[happy daze john in oz]

Indians are now the largest proportion of migrants to Oz.
Most are quite friendly and work hard, some of the best fruit and veg shops are run by them at a much lower price than other shops and supermarkets.
The gov of India last year said that many of the population would need to move overseas as India was getting too crowded.
Last I heard UK is in the same situation.

But as to first ministers, the Pm of Irish Republic has resigned.
He bats for the other side but on this occasion was bowled middle stump.

[Harry Nicholson]

As India is in the frame, here's a snip from my published memoir, "You'll See Wonders":


The Great Eastern


11th November 1958.
SS Mawana slips from the Hooghly river into the noxious waters of Calcutta's Kidderpore Dock to load tea. Our agent ascends the gangway, his bearer follows close behind with a sack of mail on his head. The agent reckons we'll be here for a fortnight.
Victorians deemed Calcutta to be the Second City of the Empire after London, yet Rudyard Kipling referred to it as The City of Dreadful Night. This time of winter, the air across the sprawling metropolis of six million is layered with the brown haze of cooking fires. Poor people burn omelette-sized cakes of dried cow dung. Beyond the central district of smart offices and hotels, any vertical surface, be it dwelling or factory, is adorned with brown pats in their thousands. Women squat at the base of walls to fashion pancakes of fresh dung. They stick the cakes to the wall in neat lines, row upon row, until the wall is covered.
Despite the malodorous air, after two weeks at sea we lose no time in leaving our immaculate air-conditioned vessel to stretch our legs ashore. The usual throng of beggars besiege us outside the dock gate, including variously maimed children — some on crutches. A legless boy scoots around on a set of wheels, I remember him from my last trip. A blind man, tall and thin, stands to one side, storklike, and rattles his tin. There's a pleading woman with a child swaddled within her faded sari. Some beggars are independent, others are in teams run by beggar masters. I brace myself. As usual I am appalled and squirm inwardly. I might admit to a few charitable emotions but would rather not have them challenged in this way.
To reach the bicycle-rickshaw wallahs who shout for our custom, we toss into the air a few five-paisa coins. The pair of burly, moustached policemen who man the gate, stout bamboo canes in hand, look on with indifference.
As we clamber aboard, Alf slips a hand into his breast pocket. His Merseyside growl is low, 'Here you are, love'. The carpenter's thick fingers drop a one rupee coin into the palm of the woman in the faded sari, 'Yer babby's face looks a bit pinched today.' I glance at him — a rupee is fifteen minutes pay for my grade and I'll be earning more than a chippy.
Six of us set off in convoy, two men per vehicle, weaving among wandering vendors and honking trucks, along pungent streets, intent on India's finest hotel. We could have taken a taxi with a Sikh driver (the safest conveyance) but, even though the beggar folk must think we are made of gold, we do need to eke out the shore allowance drawn from our wages. Alf's charity to that beggar woman would have paid for the hire of these rickshaws or bought him a pint of beer in Liverpool.
There is a hub-bub ahead. Our rickshaw wallah's knotted calves stop peddling. The rickshaw fellows are Hindus — that's plain from their hair cuts, trimmed close to the scalp with a tuft left to sprout from the crown. I've heard that Lord Krishna pulls on the topknot to retrieve the spirit of the dead.
A crowd has formed to harangue the driver of a lorry. The throbbing vehicle is typical of Indian trucks: multi-coloured, decorated with eyes that ward off evil, festooned with strands of cheap beads and lozenges of mirrored glass. A statue of Ganesh, the elephant-headed god, disperser of obstacles, sits atop the cab roof. We have an obstacle — a humped zebu cow takes her ease in the middle of the road. She's chewing a discarded newspaper. The lorry's fender has nudged the sacred beast, hence the fuss. There is an onslaught of taxi and lorry horns before the boney white animal gets to its feet, hindquarters first, then the forelegs. Her pendulous dewlap sways and her floppy ears flap as she tosses blue-painted horns then wanders away, masticating her sheet of newspaper.
I sense the touch of small fingers on my bare arm. A beggar child thrusts a hand into our rickshaw. Black eyes shimmer like pools in his earnest face.
'Backsheesh, sahib. No mamma, no pappa.' As we pull away, I dole out a few paisa. The flimsy aluminium coins satisfy the lad.

[Mo Docherty]

Empire (india) strikes back

[Des Taff Jenkins]

Parramata is now one big Indian City, when the Indian PM was in AUs on a visit that was where he went. Mahatma Gandhi would bee proud.
my goodness me.
Des

[Gino Griffiths]

The one thing I could never eat was curry, the smell of it on the BTC tankers every breakfast time didn't put me off my egg and bacon, but it was something I could have done without. My wife likes a light curry but she takes my stew out of the pot before she puts any in for herself.
Can't remember ever having a meal while in India.
Des

It's only a matter of time before our government forces us to have curry for breakfast, dinner and tea,'under the guise of multi-culturalism''. And if we dare tio speak out we'll be branded as racists.

[Gino Griffiths]

Stirred a memory John. My late wife and I touched down at Bombay on route in 2004 to visit our son in Sydney. There was an announcement that we could disembark for a short while.
The majority of us stayed on board. Then the cleaners came aboard. I'll never forget the general eye watering, rank odour of BO as the scurried up and down the aircraft picking up bits of rubbish. My wife couldn't bite her tongue. She said loudly, 'OK they may not have heard of deodorant but for God's sake they must have heard of soap and water'.That was then.
By contrast, my brother is currently in Delhi having a hip transplant. Because of a FOUR YEAR, PAINFUL DELAY IN THE UK, he couldn't wait any longer and after much research he went there for the op. He couldn't praise the surgeon, the hospital and all his aftercare team highly enough. He said the hospital was like the NHS in the UK before the idiots here got rid of matrons and bought in highly paid bean counters to run our hospitals. The UK Health Minister should be forcibly taken there to find out for himself how to run a health service - because ours now is not fit for purpose.