Unforeseen Consequences- On acting days!

Post author:Noel Rands
Post published:July 21, 2022

I would never have guessed at the time that taking part in play readings at the British Embassy in Tehran in 1980 would change my life. The invitation to take part had come from Martin Williams, then 1st Secretary Commercial and later Head of Chancery. I left Tehran in 1990 for Bombay and Martin left for other posts including Head of Chancery in Rome and the same in New Delhi when I arrived there in 1984. One day he received a telephone call at the High Commission from Amal Allana, a television film director whose father, Ibrahim Elkhazi, was the finest poet in the English language in India. She was making a television series about 4 famous freedom fighters in Pune (formally Poona) and did he know any English actors in Bombay? “Try Noel Rands at Midland Bank”. She called, came to my office, and asked if I would play the part of the Secretary to the Marquess of Reading, the Viceroy of India, in the two episodes about the trial of Gandhi. We discussed this and I commented “We made many mistakes, didn’t we?” and she replied “Yes, you did. You made many mistakes. But remember two things. At the time you didn’t think you were making mistakes and at the time the Indians didn’t think so either”. I felt rather relieved. I was taken to “Smart and Hollywood”, a tailors who made costumes for TV dramas and met the Marquess and another colleague. However, remembering how annoyed London had been over my acting in Cairo, I turned it down, thinking it was a shame as I had liked the other two actors.

A week later, Amal’s assistant called saying they really were stuck and could I think of anyone. I weakened and agreed to do it. The filming would take place in Pune in the grounds of the building used in the Attenborough Film and Tom Alter, an American who had lived in India for ages, had been in Gandhi as the doctor when his wife was dying. (in passing may I mention that outside Pune is village which is the home of the Varkari sect. This provides most of the Dhabbawallahs in Bombay which provides an amazing service. After you have gone to work, your maid or wife cooks your lunch which goes into metal Tiffin boxes. There are usually 3 with a metal strap round them and they are collected from your home or the local station. There they go on a train to Bombay, are collected and delivered to your office. There are between 4,500 and 5,000 dhabbawallas and 175,000 to 200,000 Tiffin boxes a day. You see them pushing wooden trollies piled high with boxes which are colour coded or numbered or have a sign on them and it is estimated that there is maybe one mistake in 6 million deliveries. Quite often a person’s name signifies their occupation, like Baker or Fletcher in the UK. For example Darawallah is a Wine merchant – Dudewallah is a milkman. The owner of Gallery 7 in Hong Kong, which I helped run for 5 years, told me her sister was at school with a girl whose name was “Yasmin SodaBottlePopBottleOpenerwallah!” Maybe “Rands” is not that bad a name after all)

To cover the excuse for my trip to film in Pune I arranged to meet the Chairman of Bank of Maharastra at the Head Office for a banking meeting. The Marquess (played by Lance Dane) and I shared a room at the hotel where we stayed overnight. Tom mentioned that when he was in the Attenborough film, catering was supplied by the Blue Diamond hotel and was served at an impressive buffet. Ours was more basic. I enjoyed it and it was an experience. (About 12 months afterwards I was at a lunch at the British Ambassador’s home in Rangoon and one of the other guests was from the British Council. I mentioned filming in Gandhi and he said “Didn’t you jump over the flower bed to announce Mr Gandhi had been arrested?” He also had been in the film! Small world. ON a later visit, I was at an evening reception of VIPs together with a visitor from BBC World Service. We stayed behind after the guests had gone for a nightcap and Mrs Fenn, the wife of the Ambassador, told us that after a previous Reception, on a Sunday, her butler produced a large and expensive ruby which had fallen out of a ring. She waited for a call from the owner on the Monday and again on the Tuesday. On the Wednesday she went down the guest list to see who was wealthy enough to own it. She narrowed it down to three, called and one said that indeed it was hers. She asked why she hadn’t called to she relied that she was worried that f it wasn’t found she might think one of her servants had stolen it and spoil the relationship. So she called her Astrologer who told her not to worry as she would receive a phone call on the 3rd day. And that day was the 3rd day! Don’t underestimate astrologers)

Some time later I was asked if I would act in the trial of Tillak, a newspaper editor, as Government Secretary and assistant to the Governor of Bombay Governorate, George Lloyd. He was played by an Englishman called David Gray and he was accompanied by his wife Caroline. I liked them enormously; they were staying in smart rooms in the Royal Bombay Yacht Club. I was sad when same time later her left her for a younger and rather glamorous Indian lady.

We had a scene where I, heavily bearded, (glued on!) had a tracking shot of David and me walking along the side of the building and turning into the entrance. I kept getting the words wrong and Amal remarked “Noel. If Oh Shit was in the script you would be word perfect!” The scene was split in two and we completed it. Since then, I have never taken lines casually! Amal told me not to worry and in one scene” Tilak” needed 34 takes!

This lead to me acting in adverts for “Fryums. You wanna tryum” where I played the husband with a wife and two small children. It seems I looked more like her husband than her actual husband. (My “son”, by the way, is now a Lieutenant Colonel in the British Army!), as a commentator on Roger Bannister breaking the 4 minute mile record in an advert for Jensen and Nicholson’s paint and also in an advert for Dinesh Suiting with the cricketer Sunil Gavaskar and a blonde girl. I am looking down my nose at him over my copy of the Financial Times with a London Underground sign behind us. This appeared in just about every magazine in India. When I arrived in Hyderabad, Delhi, Bangalore or Madras my regular driver would fish a local magazine from under his seat and said “Sahib. Is this you?” On one occasion in Bombay I had a call from the General Manager of Indian Overseas Bank in Madras saying “Mr. Rands. Usually we see you in one of two places, Either in our office or on television. WE have not seen you in either place for far too long. When are you coming to see us again?” On my next visit, 10 days later, he and his colleague wanted to talk about Indian film stars and whether I would be interested in doing a rather important piece of business. Later, when I was visiting Madras to promote a conference on Countertrade (I didn’t just do acting!), the day of my appointment, the Friday, was declared a Bank Holiday to commemorate the sudden death of Abdul Gaffar Khan, known as the Frontier Gandhi and I lost a day’s appointments. On the Saturday I tried to squeeze them back in and when I arrived, unannounced, at IOB the Representative from Bank of America was left waiting as I was shown in. A senior visitor from London was once asked by a rival British bank “What does Midland get out of Noel’s acting?” He replied that I was the best-known correspondent banker in India and could get an appointment in any office any time I liked! It was true but Oh how fleeting is fame!.

Lance lived also in Bombay and we became great friends. He was enigmatic as the story of his past kept changing as he told he was a different age to various people and also varied where he had been born. However, he was a brilliant photographer using available light and varying the shutter speed rather than flash and his photographs were pin point sharp. He introduced me to his friend David May, a businessman and also a photographer, and I was invited for dinner. He lived just up the hill from my flat. One of his servants was an extremely handsome 17 years old who had just arrived from Mangalore, named Vaman. Two years later Lance was evicted from his flat and moved in with me, together with an incredible collection of artifacts. It was like living in a museum. (When the Chairman, Sir Kit McMahon, arrived on a visit, I put Lance in charge of showing Lady McMahon the Elephanta caves and she was charmed) For 3 years I had done my own cooking as my maid, and later her brother who took over, didn’t cook. Not as bad as it seems; using my trusty Madhur Jaffray BBC book I would order the food, arrange for the items to be chopped and peeled, and so the drudgery was cut out. (There was a big ledge outside the kitchen window. A US visitor from Crocker National Bank, when told I missed the barbeques on my terrace overlooking the Nile, asked why I didn’t but a small barbeque on the ledge. I said “Watch” and put out of the window on the ledge a small piece of raw meat. Within seconds there was a flurry of wings and the meat disappeared. “That, I said, was a Kite Hawk” My maid” said,” Yes, now they go to eat Parsee people”. The Towers of Silence were not that far away where the dead Parsees are placed on racks on the top and are devoured by the birds. They do not believe in defiling fire or the earth.

David was retiring and so Lance suggested I recruit Vaman (who had announced that he wanted to work for the man at the bottom of the hill). It worked out very well even though it had an uncertain start. He joined me in March 1988 and I was going to stay with the cartoonist Marion Miranda in Goa, taking his wife, Charlie, and son with me. Vaman came as well plus Melwyn, my driver and I borrowed the office Mercedes. The Deputy High Commission asked if there was a chance of my going via Pune to deliver the Queen’s Telegram to an English lady, a relic of the Raj, about to celebrate her 100th birthday (actually it was a copy in case the original was delayed). It was a difficult journey as the road from Bombay was in an awful state and Melwyn was fasting for Lent; his wife was pregnant, had twice had a miscarriage and he wanted to pray at a Catholic shrine in Goa. We left the home after delivering the telegram and I took over driving. We left Goa on a long drive and Mrs Miranda said we must stop as it was getting dark and Melwyn must eat. On the left we saw the lights of a restaurant and impetuously I turned into the entrance, not realising that Melwyn’s frantic “Sir! Sir” meant that I had missed the drive and was driving into a ditch. It was a bit like the end of “The Italian Job” with the Mercedes balanced in the middle and the front wheels in the air. I suggested putting stones under the front wheels but was told by Melwyn to get out and get help. Charlie and I went I to the restaurant where Charlie asked a bare-chested man for his sahib. It turned out he was Captain Saxena who owned the restaurant and had a cook who had worked for Lord Mountbatten. Helpers shot down, stones were put under the wheels, I was asked to get in and reverse and out we popped like a cork and parked. In the end it was a really jolly evening and Captain Saxena was great fun. Despite that, Vaman decided to stay with me.

At the end of the year I was transferred back to London and I took Vaman with me, again as my cook/housekeeper, as my new job, Private Banking (which I hated) meant I had to entertain clients at home an d do a lot of travelling. After a couple of months, I was on an Overseas trip when news came that his mother had died suddenly of a heart attack. When I got home (he was 20) he threw his arms around me, burst into tears and said, “You are all that I have got”. I promised always to look after him. My parents loved him. He came with me to Hong Kong and after some time I told him he had to meet people of his own age. He went out one Sunday and met Mary, from the same part of India, and they married in St Joseph’s Cathedral on 2nd January 1994. Vaman was the working in an art gallery as a framer and ended as Manager of the Framing Department. Victor was born on 23rd April 1996 and I was flattered to be asked if he could call me “Grandad” I took him on his 1st day to school and also every day after we moved to Croydon. We returned to London on 31st July 1999 and Justin was born on 16th January 2001 so I have two grandsons which I adore. Victor got a BSc (Hons) from Nottingham University (I used to drive him there and back) and Justin is now at York. An ex colleague asked “Are they really your grandsons?” Well, I have been there since the day they were born, taken them both to cricket matches when they have been playing and to school everyday and, quite frankly, I think I have earned the title. Vaman, by the way, worked for a UK framers on Museum Quality works and once made the frame for a Francis Bacon which sold for $30M. We all live together in rural Croydon, currently battened down.

Next time I will tell you about filming in Hong Kong and also the Rann of Kutch where again I had a glued-on beard. I do hope this has not been too self-indulgent.

Noel Rands
8.5.20

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Heart of the Indian monsoons

The twirling Jasmines revived in awe
Peeping up to the swirling of the winds
They anticipated a soothing downpour
From the balmy clouds loftily gathering

Gulmohars stood tall with boughs opening wide
While Sita-Ashoka brushed aside its stays
In prep the Champak lowered its spirited blossoms,
Offering me scents in the rapture of its sways

The air felt warmer and cuckoos sang peculiarly
They tweeted tuneful tones of the advancing rains
Sooner feathery feet collated in thrilling euphoria
Predicting a splendid monsoon’s display to gain

Now the skies went deeper and sombre,
Majestically summoning a bright celestial flash
And at the crack of a reverberating thunder
They unfurled into a harmonious sprightly bash!

They poured in mellowness over exuberant fanning peacocks
Over sweet-scented Indian lilies and Indigo bays
Welcoming all flora and fauna into a festive alliance
In this dazzling dance of monsoon days!

At this sparkling flurry of the rain
I pranced like a child into memories’ lane
Recalling a girl in pigtails capering homeward
To the playful beat of monsoon games

When it poured it poured, over tiled rooftops and pedlar’s carts
Over vibrant raincoats that all looked so surreal
And would I start inviting other children?
Alluring them to lunge with me into puddles…

At home mothers sought the opportunity
To prepare monsoon favourites to savour
And so we huddled cosily in a crowded kitchen
To sip cardamom chai and relish bountiful flavours

Gone are those days and memories can fade
Yet newer ones are meant to be created…
For this is the design intended by nature
To thus heal every being and every creature

As the rain abated nature enthralled me in its splendour
From the drenched earth and wild balsam smiling,
To the nostalgic shoots of turmeric and mogras inviting
Oh how their verdant hues grew even brighter with fragrances vividly enchanting!

Monsoons bring alive great ancient traditions
For the onset of the season heralds auspicious festivals
These are rather unique and colourfully portrayed in India
With celebratory drumming, pageantry and mirthful hysteria!

There was the sense of ancestral souls sending down blessings
When prayerful venerations were diligently observed…
Marigold garlands being offered with heartfelt thanksgiving
Even for the souls’ peaceful resting and to invoke abundant favours

The sun soon shone as foreseeable as the rain
Bringing with it a peaceful rainbow’s promise
Thus consoling the hearts that seek revival
Through the Creator’s abounding love and graces…

The freshness from luscious plains under coconut trees gliding
The togetherness from all livings beings warmly uniting,
It simply nourishes the soul’s thirst that feels so satiating
For divinity brings Indian monsoons to the heart’s wanting

I still felt that enormous tranquility walking in India’s pouring rains
As I heard that childhood rhyme of joy again and again,
From little children distantly echoing- ‘Rain, rain come again,…’
Even decades later the redolent tune joyfully remains!!

Chai talks in leisure socks

Walking through a distant memory
I soon paused to ponder over a silent alley
It was to reminisce fondest memories of grandma and her fascinating stories,
Of those chai talks in leisure socks, all brimming at her scintillating soirées!

Yet even long before that was a time I knew, when cheer found no expression
And this alley’s laughter was meagre to share, all cloaked in suspicion
Folks spoke little and went quietly about their affairs each way
In their boredom ruminating as to where their happiness lay…
For, fun-filled gatherings were shrouded in fear and so people hid in their superstitious depths,
It only got them drooped in silent tears and hopeless melancholic days

Yearning for ‘joy in living’ the older community looked out for a change in site
They wished there was heed given to this their unacknowledged plight
Now eagerly awaiting this miracle when a sudden change did occur one summer’s night,
And to everyone’s wonder it was an awaited welcome sight…
It came by unknowingly, draped in a sea blue saree that held a sincere expression
For this teacher of cheer came beaming by to eliminate dispirited impressions

Snapping out of my thoughts I noticed the time-worn verandahs succeeding in vibrant colours
They brought back overwhelming memories of those by-gone recipe’s and their quintessential flavours
Circling my stance around the timeless hedges of green locks
I got nostalgically swept into our cosy dilapidated blocks
They sent me whirling back into thoughts,
As I recalled grandma’s chirpy entry into this neighbourhood’s mystified lot!

Grandma Rosemary stepped into our quiet alley to brighten those mundane clocked pre-evenings,
Bringing with her a spark of wits and some valuable practicalities
She quickly reached out to neighbours over doorsteps genuinely enquiring of their welfare
And ended up engaging them for a chai and chat in order to dispel their despair

Our indistinct neighbourhood soon stirred
And from nowhere gathered many…
Intently they listened to a fellow familiar narrate
Life’s Intrepid ventures aplenty
They out-poured their feelings too onto this newly found remedy
Wondering in thankfulness that this source surely is a boon’s bounty

As their ears got tuned to grandma’s profound perceptions,
They hovered around our parapet narrating life’s scores by the dozens
Yet grandma’s stories were seasoned and coated throwing in her charisma so enchanting
To everyone’s delight she sprung like a lotus from a quiet pond, all very inviting!

Now daily at the strike of a span gathered they
Chatting around on our street’s verandahs decked from clay
Sitting in their favourite spots their eyes would begin to sparkle
Like the enamoured children lured by a piper’s melody
And so, not withholding her passion for forthright thoughts,
Grandma’s reflective paradoxes poured out steeped in life’s humorous plots!

Soon fresh pakoras and spicy bhajas by cart-pedlars came to be sold
To the whiff of chai poured by my mother and neighbours from of old
Over marigolds and jasmine twirls their whiffs drifted
Over pedlars’s fruit carts and my seasonal surprises
And Oh! the ‘mazza’ of it all sparkled my newly inspired senses!

Grandma’s chai community grew even larger by her vivacious rhythm
Each addition bringing in an account of their own..
Their empirical versions abounding, at times loony
While others daring and risky and some stupendously funny
Yet there was a lesson in each account to treasure
With instances of reflection and laughter being their measure!

The older folks soon started thinking of their unit’s welfare
Of bringing their older community together in well being to share
They cooked in turns many delicacies bearing many constitutions
I remembered the yummy savouries when invited to partake with discretion
How I relished every morsel while listening to their chai chats after meals
It all began to imbue within those wise words and folk lores tunefully pleasing!
From discussing health issues, bringing in herbs to initiating magnetic therapies…
Grandma thus opened gates of practical wisdom among the gated communities!

I remember Grandma speaking of family life and its undulating stances
Of sadness and happiness and all of life’s incentives
Her mellow narratives many a times spiralled in articulated rhythms
While listeners slurped on spiced tea made from cardamoms and cinnamons
How the aura and radiance permeated me in this atmosphere of infusions
Leaving me thoroughly influenced to apply the lessons learnt from grandma’s conversations
Her popular anecdote was- ‘Every home and neighbourhood has a familiar unflavoured story,
Those who never speak ill of it were considered wisely’

Yet there were other life’s tales she spoke of, those mystical instances…
Not long before she had worked as a security supervisor at the Gokak Falls mill-
One hot day, when lying down by a tree after a meal during a break
A cobra crawled from the rear tree up her slender neck
It stationed majestically near her head in a watchful tone
It wouldn’t move nor hiss as it settled its bone
Bewildered passer-bys saw this spectacle and came to stand firm
Knowing the safest course was to stay still while the lady was resting unbeknown
Yet later they tried to distract the serpent away
But it hissed to open its hooded display
And finally when the lady came to awaken
The snake quickly traced back to retrieve its burrowed position

Then there was this instance that I clearly remember
Grandma spoke of encountering spiritual souls
Once… as she walked from a jungle toward home in sandals torn,
All but lost in her young widowed grief thinking of circumstances forlorn
Then, further from the jungle side-paths she crossed into tracks unknown
And felt the sun going down in despondent sobs alone
Sooner from nowhere appeared a mysterious man
Clad in white kurta dhoti bearing a staff in one hand,
With his countenance covered by the vermillion setting sun
He enquired of her anxious nature and of her destination
Then he listened quietly with empathy in his bearing to her rendition
While he spoke not a word yet somehow it calmed her trepidation
Grandma gestured toward a village narrating her woes
While pouring out her shocked heart that had seen miseries’s course
Understanding that her need of the hour was more than finding her way
The silent man just nodded to her helpless poignant display
And somehow grandma felt comforted in her thoughts and feelings
Whilst she was brought back to her path secured toward her home…
Now when she turned around to return an appreciating gesture
Gone was he this angel in radiant vesture
She paused to look up the path they’d come
There only remained a peaceful silence with a gratifying assurance!

Grandma imparted several secret excerpts from her vocal journal of life
Her tuneful expressions were so inspiring and at times entrancing
Even though life brought forth dingy tones eventful in disguise
She learned that she had to carry on no matter what was felt inside
When she ran out of solutions she strode bravely through her challenges
With discipline and self taught abilities which brought forth untold advantages…
Widowed early in life with 2 younger children to rear
Tragedy followed on additions after the demise of her oldest daughter fair
Watching them grieving the five orphans with no one to care
Grandma came to fend for these little ones in her living of meagre and bare
She followed them through with devotion and family prayer every night,
Every child and adult was sat when candles were lit around the icon of Lord Jesus Christ!

Grandma also spoke of a time of prosperity and grandeur that presented her from early life
Her ancestral horses and carriages and their property’s abounding pride
Of how she’d adorned knee long necklaces of gold and jewellery spellbinding
There lacked no dearth for the family’s mortal wanting
For in her younger days her sea green eyes and bronze hair shone like a doll
She was indeed praised for her fair face and her slender stature tall

Then there came plague and war and a devastating famine
With dead rats to dispose, deceased to bury and the village’s homes burning
There was starvation and communities walked over kilometres to fetch water
And collected wild amaranth and grains over laden sarees together
All historical facts she unfolded in her unique style with colour
It sent everyone into spherical modes of reliving the narration with atmospheric wonder

Grandma was forgiving and never vengeful
Her mantra for life was- ‘Make Life Meaningful’
She believed in being happy, and also that one needed to be active for life
In every little way work and laugh so as to balance the two, thus celebrating being alive
She always mentioned- ‘Idle times pile on illnesses and repercussions galore,
So choose a hobby to share and impart wisdom gained from yore’

Grandma succeeded in decluttering the negatives by focussing on the positives
And so taught the community to make most of life and to laugh out aloud!
She taught them to enjoy the little things that made their day
From bits of chocolate to traditional celebrations and folk music sways
From smiles that went grinning wide… to tolerance in families
And comforting those broken hearted by giving hope in weaker circumstances

Snapped out of my thoughts by a ‘hello’!
I turned around instantly to recognise a face with a furrow,
It was my old neighbour alive and grinning
She reminisced those happier days when grandma was alive, the neighbourly banter and those delightful evenings…
While some folks had moved away and some others departed
Yet some stayed put carrying on the spirit of ‘laughing’,
In the hope of imparting ‘the truth’ learnt and their graces,
Those vivid narrations of seeing life through another’s glasses,
Remembering a spirit so distinctive that made such strides,
There carries on grandma’s exuberant spirit and her infectious smile!!

-Dedicated to grandma Rosemary RIP🌟- July 2024

The Attic – A Child’s Christmas Wonderment!

Dedicated to my 6 year old Joshua 🎁 🎄 🎅 🎊

Above the small bedroom perched a silent attic
That huddled under the shelter of barrel tiles and clay
Its sloppy space made it seem even more mysterious
With dusty boxes and bundles hiding in its obscure bay

I watched the space from below through a ceiling mesh
All sparked with dreams of wonder and excitement
And dared promise one day to climb that rickety ladder
That cleverly hid behind the door tucked away

One noon I squinted through the mesh to hear
Noises of a peculiar sort that interested my skin
They allured me in tippy toes to the spot
Where the ladder’s latch opened from a twill

Grabbing on I tugged up the ladder’s rung
Onward trailing towards the sparse shimmering patch
Holding my breath to avoid waking my mum, stealthily
I tread, passing cross-eyed by my tabby’s hatch

As I landed up my tabby surveyed my curiosity to find
Web covered paraphernalia of peculiar sorts of archaic kinds
Expectations drew me too into my child’s world of fantasy
Which I’d always sought after within a library’s canopy

Boxes of old dolls, toys and Christmas cards unfurled
Together with my family’s heirloom of brass pots and nickels
Exploring further I stumbled on an enormous box
That contained the most exciting object in the loft!

My eyes twinkled when I hurriedly rushed to open it
And they even got brighter to uncover a tiny broken shed
It was like a barn with a stable of mini wooden posts
And at the centre lay a straw-manger bed!

Beside this box stood another one that seemed pretty
As I opened there popped up 3 kings with the set of nativity
But soon I heard my name being called from down below
So I dashed down the ladder disguising my face that blushed mellow

The next few days that followed it got me quiet
Watching for opportunities to sneak up in the attic
But to no avail, days grew closer to Christmas as fast
And my venturing secret almost grew impatient to last…

Once again I found myself magically up in the attic
Checking on the little crib that needed much repair
So I pulled off the straying bamboo from the overhead crop
And thatched it in bits to the crib with a flair

From them on learning ways to get sneakily into the attic
I got further ideas to improve the manger’s essence
It also started me into growing corn, barley and wheat
To improvise naturally a village scene on a ply board spread

As days came closer to Christmas my dwelling grew in the attic
For it was an elaborate affair…
To paper craft a backdrop of Herod’s palace and Jerusalem
And finding colours to paint at night over the earthen nativity ware

And so the exhilarated spirit made stupendous efforts
To work and keep every relevant undertaking a surprise
Yet mainly to present baby Jesus that Christmas
With a token offering from a young heart’s pride

Now on the Eve all set and ready for my revelation
I cleared the living room end and placed there the family’s dining table
On it I arranged the saplings springing verdantly in slopes
Together with a Bethlehem’s scene encircling them like a globe

Then from the attic came down the earthy bamboo-hay crib
Together with various freshly painted nativity statues in a box
Planning on I set the crib and statues in their strategic places
While my mum peeked approving with an all knowing nod!

Ready to greet around the manger’s scene there stood,
Blessed Mary, St Joseph, hovering angels and cattle and all!
Then I secured a miniature lantern with fairy lights streaming
To festively illuminate the backdrop of my Jerusalem standing tall!

Soon gathered my family to watch that blessed sight
When I placed baby Jesus in the manger after mass over midnight!
And thus carried on a tradition if not decades but for long
Yet to me the memory of it all remains emotively strong…

Uncles, aunts and cousins visited us to wish after services
And praised the scene and undertaking with many nods and kisses
The glowing lights around the crib kept us warm
In one spirit we sang ‘Come to the manger’ one and all!

My senses held close those sights and sounds in heightened elation
Realising then that the humble attic held my dearest possession
Mum grinned as she felt my heart leaping proud
And brought out port with fruit cake and festivities to celebrate!

Soon my tabby drew her long yawns under the crib’s main table
As Jim Reeves carols begun and we dreamily gazed upon our Christmas tinsel
And while the family’s kin took their seats around the Crib of hay
Mum was left wondering on where to lay the Christmas buffet that day… 😊

5 December 2023

God’s place!

I once knew an old man walking with incense burnt
From home to church he’d keep its fragrant light unperturbed
Until he reached the vestibule to genuflect-
Raising the thurible high he served the almighty in reverence praise…
Soon outside the church people stood waiting
Following him for counsel, wisdom and his benevolence
He would hurry to offer help from a tiny space
Thus he was set in deeds towards God’s place!

Moving down years: a thriving plan and pleasant days
Under the blanket’s cosiest “me” space
There lives a man who may only hoard
He keeps vindication over his conscience board
Judging and hurting and distancing brothers
Remembering every wrong from the past, he lives life only to repay others
Day after day his blaming thoughts make a pace
For every wrong passed he’d settle God in a place…

Under a shiny sun and hallo moon
Chasing passions to secure our lives of doom
Oblation tables are placed with solemn wishes
Offering without meaning its true reasons
Offering not beyond the good received, and
On we try to compensate with newer ways-
Just a measure of fairness and feel good charity
It is only to blind our consciences and its plays
How hard we strive to push God into a place…

We eat, drink and unconsciously say
Life is short and so be merry and gay
Living neither happy nor sad lives we don’t realise
That we treat life like shallow throws of dice
Without considering our actions blindly following
The most modern commodities of a worldly belonging…
We pacify our hearts in illusion’s sways
And as we stumble we forget God and His place

Hear, we hear talks of peace while loathing outruns
Lofty views being delivered yet no better outcomes
Wanting and winning under greed’s obsession,
As we witness the good weak under subjugation
When desire calculates every political move it makes,
Its rationalising actions nurture a vicious spate
Soon to be moving pawns into a confusing state,
Thence, we chose to abandon God’s place…

Where does it all go wrong…
Does God have a place?

When we strive with conscience to not hurt others,
Lighten a neighbour’s hardship and bring about wonders
Offer love’s charity that permeates hearts-
Choosing to forgive and forget, and
Reaching out offering help over horizon’s borders
Thus bringing joy and seeking fellowship of true colours!
But not keeping accounts of our good deeds,
Yet sewing Love and Compassion into a perennial lace,
It is then in our hearts that ‘God Makes A Place’!!

18 January 2023

To those who follow me
So far ahead you haven’t yet been born
I leave this message:
If you’ve an interest in who we were
Look in the C20 censuses
Until you come to 1961.
There you will find us, Anne and Peter Smith
Married the year before and filling in
Together our first census. Imagine your surprise
When you find he’s called the captain, I am mate
(Though in those unenlightened times
I should explain I was the breadwinner,
Since I was older, he still a student,
But yet he was the household’s head
And I the wife or mate-those were the rules).
What, you will wonder, can these titles mean?
Were we of fishing stock and owned a boat
To earn our living catching, selling fish?
This answer makes no sense when you can see
The boat we lived on was in Oxfordshire
Just outside Oxford on the river Thames
Where it is known as Isis by the folk
Who like to use historic names.

Why did we live there? Then as now
Decisions made because of poverty:
We couldn’t afford a house or flat in town.
Was it idyllic? I seem to hear you ask
Down through the sentimental years.
Well yes and no I say, depending on
Which bank you faced when you were on the boat.
One bank was on the border of the park
Where trees and pastures captivate the eye,
And songbirds serenade the passing lovers.
Alas! On the other bank our boat was moored
Against the municipal rubbish tip
Where all day long the rumbling lorries came
To dump the detritus of Oxford homes.
One day – I’ve seen it since and so I know –
It would become the site of playing fields
As green and pretty as the opposing side
But not when we lived there.

On Sunday mornings student boats went by
Practising oarsmanship from early hours,
We were awoken by the gentle swell
Of waters from the boat-race-hopefuls’ wakes
Cries through loud hailers on the other bank
As coaches cycled past: In…out…in…out..
And: Easy oars, and: Bloody well rowed chaps.
In contrast sometimes we’d look out and see
In total silence coming up the river
A flock of quiet bathing hats
Swimming to breakfast at the Iffley inn.

And when the human beings gave them space
Swans, ducks and coots would swim majestically
Or bob along the surface of the water
While voles and shrews foraged along the bank
Until they met our cat who caught and ate them –
All but the tails and feet, and these she left
A kindly offering upon the boat.

You won’t find any of this in your research
But will be left to speculate
On who we were and how we managed there.
You’ll get it wrong just as I know we do
When piecing facts together, trying to make sense
Of what we know about our ancestors.

for my mother

You’re sitting on a table
In a photographic studio;
You are three or four,
Pretty, with long dark ringlets.
Your face is self-contained,
A half smile on your lips,
Not that childish openness
Of sullenness or delight
We might expect to see
A few years later, here you are again
Standing outside your grandma’s house.
Your face is serious, though pleasant,
No wide smile here; only a guarded look
Under your wide-brimmed hat.

Not tall, with sloping shoulders,
Blue eyes, black curly hair,
And a straight Egyptian nose –
You were Nefertiti, a friend said of you,
You were lovely in your youth.
Yet in your whole life
There are few photographs –
But for a few at school
Or with friends in the WEA –
Which show you smiling
Relaxed and natural.
Lines of self-consciousness
Stiffen your face.

I never doubted that you loved us
Although you didn’t demonstrate
With hugs and kisses after we were babies;
Clean house, clean clothes, good food,
Unerring memory of what we’d like
Or mentioned liking in the previous year
When choosing presents.
Desperate to make a perfect family
You lacked experience of family in your life;
Your face was often furrowed with concern
Lest you fail us or we fail you –
Which made it almost bound to happen.

After your father died at Passchendaele
Leaving those touching postcards
Promising good times when he returned
Your mother went to work, and for six years
Your nineteenth century grandparents
Gave you their love and moral standards –
Not many hugs and kisses I would guess.
When you were nine your mother took you back,
Gave you a stepfather and new brother too,
And some years later a half-sister came.
After you left his house your grandfather
Killed himself – you found this out
For no one told you this or talked of it.
And so you thought it must have been your fault.
Your mother’s was a cold unlovely house;
Always you thought of grandma Speller’s as home.

So, with no father and a cold mother,
A grandfather you thought you’d forced to die,
You needed love, you longed for love,
Far more of it than anyone could give;
But dared not always show your own in case
Your love was not returned or – even worse –
Those you dared love would die or go away.

And now you’ve gone, along with all the rest,
Parents and grandparents alike,
Not knowing how your love remains alive
In all your children who remember you,
And in the families they have themselves,
Not even trying to make them perfect,
Knowing they can’t be, more relaxed in that
Than you could ever be.

When you were here I went along with you
Not making demonstrations of my love.
But now I think you might have welcomed my
Showing more clearly what you meant to me.
It was not easy work; you were disturbed
In ways we could not rectify.
I wish I could have told you what I know
Now, since you died, that no one can
Replace the mother that you were for me.

After the Epiphany:

So, they came from Jerusalem,
These strange exotic people
Speaking in other tongues,
And gave our baby presents:
Gold and frankincense and myrrh.
And Id expect you to ask,
When we’re telling the whole tale,
The inn overbooked, the star, the shepherds
And these rich men who,
As far as I could understand them,
Just followed the star here –
I’d expect you to ask
‘What happened to the gifts?’
Not presents, after all, that you could hand
Straight to a new baby.
Although of course they were always his.
And we were a carpenter’s family,
Not rich or wanting to be showy.

But the gold did come in handy
When we had to go to Egypt.
We had to leave in a hurry
After I had a dream, when an angel
Told me not to hang about.
And, as I knew from Mary,
You don’t argue with an angel;
So we were spared the appalling tragedy
Of massacred children, bereaved parents,
Being on our way to Egypt,
Where I couldn’t work, so, as I say,
The gold came in handy.

The frankincense and myrrh I locked away
When we got home again.
Mary and I always went to Jerusalem
For the paschal feast; when Jesus was twelve
And almost a man, we took him too.
We travelled in a parish party;
Jesus was a popular boy
And in general obedient,
So on the way home it was some time
Before we knew he was missing.
He’d stayed behind in the temple
Listening to the rabbis
Amazing them with his questions.
Look, he was a really bright boy,
So Ifelt proud and angry at the same time
For upsetting his mother so.
Anyway, when we were talking things over,
He told us he’d taken the frankincense,
Given it to the priests in the temple.
He thought it’ d be all right
As it was his own frankincense.
Which of course it was,
And he was after all almost a man.
So it was all right by us.

About the myrrh:
Jesus never found a use for that.
But at a later paschal feast,
On the terrible day when they took my boy
And crucified him, they gave his body
To someone who had a tomb all ready.
Then Mary took the myrrh, and she
And the other women -for death as you know
Is women’s business- prepared the myrth
With other spices and ointments
For the body after the Sabbath was over.
But as you know, when they went to the tomb
There was no body to anoint.

So I really don’t know what happened
To the myrrh, the third present.
There were, after all, other things
On our minds after that.
But that was the end of the gifts
Brought to our Jesus all those years ago;
And now it’s all finished
Mary and I live quietly, and John,
Jesus’s friend, comes round to see us.
Sometimes we talk of the past;
Sometimes it’s easier not to think of it.

The Comic Muse knocked on my door.
Wearing a tutu over black leggings,
And a mediaeval liripipe.
She also had a black eye.
‘I was told you were kind’ she said.
So I invited her in
And gave her a steak for her eye,
Reducing my calorie intake.
Before I could get her to talk
The doorknocker called me again.
With tearstains all down his cheeks,
And wearing black jeans and a hoodie,
There stood the Muse of Tragedy.
‘Is she here?’ he asked. ‘ I was told so’.
‘You’d better come in’ I replied,
‘And explain that black eye to me’.

They agreed over their cuppa
They’d had a row about Shakespeare.
He said the comedians weren’t funny
And were really quite tragic in parts –
Falstaff’s rejection for one,
And Shylock’s loss of his daughter.
She claimed there were too many laughs
In the tragedies, which ought to be sad:
Juliet’s Nurse for example,
And Cleopatra’s servants at play.
The debate got quite heated, they told me,
With plays and plots tossed about
Till finally fisticuffs flew.
The Comic Muse came off worse,
Since Tragedy’d had more to do
With fighting (just think of the dead
At the end of one of his plays).
Hence the black eye.
He was sorry about that but wouldn’t
Go back on his earlier grievance;
And she still felt she was right.
So I couldn’t let them go home
With their arugment still unresolved.
We sat for a bit eating biscuits
And silently drinking our tea

Till the doorknocker sounded again
And would you believe? There was Shakespeare!
Like the Droeshout engraving to look at –
Though perhaps that was only because
He knew I would know who he was
From that portrayal alone.
I invited him in (as who wouldn’t?)
And told him about the affair
And asked if he’d act as the umpire
For the sulky and still silent Muses,
Comedy with a steak to her eye.
So Shakespeare sat down between them
And tasted his tea with suspicion
As he’d never had it before,
And decided he found it thirst-quenching
And soon even asked me for more.
He looked at the Muses quite gravely
And yet with a twinkle I thought
And addressed them as his inspirations
Which got their attentions at least.

He explained that he needed both Muses
To do what he wanted to do
Which was to write plays about people
And make them seem real to those
Who came to the plays to experience
Escape but also emotions
They’d recognise from their own lives.

Through a mouthful of biscuit he said
That life wasn’t all games and fun
But that even in desperate times
We could usually laugh through our tears.
So he needed them both as a playwright
And please would they stop making war
And bring back the balance they’d brought him
So that modern playwrights could draw
As much as he had from both of them –
And please please said Shakespeare with passion
Tragedy mop up your tears
And Comedy chuck out that steak now
And wash all that blood off your face.
And both of you, get back to work.

A grin crossed Comedy’s face
And even Tragedy smiled;
They finished their tea and departed,
And when I went back inside
Shakespeare had vanished as well
Though I’d hoped against hope for a chat
I might have supposed it a dream
But for three empty cups on the table
And all the biscuits had gone.

Toiling hands!

The rugged Toiling hands seen an arid day on ploughshares
Sweltering heat making no changes to his course
Mingling deep in chapped clay ceaselessly working through the land,
Trampling the hardened soil to loosen with
furrows deepening the expanse, unshaken;
For life hath matched the forehead’s furrowed bands

His land stretched for miles, widespread over the fertile plane
Verdure pastures in plenitude and vegetables and grain
Treasuring the vales and hills and lake he grew
While wandering folks speculated on the natural wonders he knew
Then later travelled he to many a distant lands in search of fortune and favour
Destiny proved otherwise, for the more he pursued man-laid ambitions the more he felt convinced with a life’s yearning fire,
Of valuing his green country scenes and farming
Nature sustained closer to his heart yet even more in serving those purposeful preserving intentions with an unwavering desire!

And beyond his land lay our civilisation’s justification;
Of packed concrete jungles that cared less for it’s indigenous living
Brushing aside all carefully established old systems of self sufficiency,
Relying wholly on continents for supplies and commodities and grain,
Erecting more grids and towers and paved surfaces over forests
Living unconsciously, while sparing no space, nowhere to be found a trace of Mother Nature’s beings…

Through decades marked a catastrophic decline in the village life for green farming
And villagers resigned their interests for naturally breeding livestock and green growing
Farmers left their communities selling estates and head towards urban trends
And so, Lurers filled their pockets raising lofty edifices for gain
Humbly stood I to witness this lonely farmer proudly holding his stand
To fetch for his younger family less be gruels, earned humbly by his own hands!

Tender memories of childhood years swept my mind
With~holding not my steps I clambered down the rocky slopes to find
A long time forgotten kindred spirit from years
And saying hello we dissembled a few tears
Oh how the sunken eyes met with sincere fondness
To cherish the almost erased past of forgotten true richness!

I recalled little hands with beaming faces playing in wet marshes along the village taps
And mums keenly watching them while bathing plump toddlers on their laps
Grannies eagerly cooking nourishing supper over smoky earthen pots
Tempting hungry little mouths to line up and savour flavorous mouthfuls
And lo!.. summoning kin to dinners from their red thatched huts

We reminisced trailing exuberantly along rolling tyres, and shaping toys out of mud
Mounting onto our hemp corded swings by the tranquil rivulet shouting endlessly
Of grand aunts and uncles and their lost family trades
Our cheerful visits to the sweet meat pedlars to hurriedly fill mouthfuls
Playing voraciously Gilly-Danda on the neighbour’s jasmine scented verandah
Then stealthily creeping back into our homes invariably late for supper…

We spoke of charming old days when numerous decorated bullock carts packed with gratified Farmers lined the narrow tar streets, setting off for harvesting,
Proudly presenting their Bullocks with iridescent tasseled horns at midday dazzling
Villagers donned in brilliant pagadees, dhotis and beaded festive sarees with ritual teekaas adorning!
And keeping ready every tool in sacks of gunny,
Loaded they the wise old elders together with families and infants
Cramming all together towards the golden fields of crops and honey!

Memories from Years flown by held onto me clinging,
When the closing sun shone bright glowing every peasant’s cheerful face
And the warm rejoicing after crops were gathered echoed miles away
Surrounding the grain spirited folks gathered to open in unison traditional folklores
While feasts from their harvests steamed over vermillion fires
Upon feeding everyone and favouring every effort that went in,
They made it a season’s closing festive song and dance to welcome a new beginning!

Afar to be now, village communities had moved away for non-rural pastures and so had I
And nowhere were to be found those farmers or familiar chore gatherings
Nor the tradesmen noisily beating tools in their rowed sheds
Neither the cows parading early in multi hued horns towards meadows
Nor the vibrant and festive zatras of bangles and evoking village folklores
Oh how time had turned people and spaces into a different world…

Soon enough leisurely wafting warm aromas swayed the fields
And muffled whispers continued under the cool banyan trees
Cheerful greetings surrounded my ear lobes, and loving folks nudged to feast on traditional spreads
The family and kin and all sat down to partake, thanking God for the day
That brought forth togetherness and happiness,
Precious moments soon sped away!

Winds now gathered softening clouds to it’s bosom,
Sweeping up wishes in the air, dispersing sparking gold dust in leaves of crimson
It was time for goodbye and we wished each other well as we parted in reverent praise…

I had not known a farmer of a more greener kind
Cultivating yields with such dedication to humankind
When all throughout sought their own progressive sways
Determined stood an epitome of wisdom besieged with committed genuine ways
Where could we find such worthy humans that were Godlike
Caring for our universe and it’s creatures alike!

Humbly his soul worshipped the very ground he lived on, the trees and the rivulet,
Hoping one day his life could leave his little ones something to emulate!!

Holding on to those gracious insights that a visionary soul had inadvertently given
I smiled into the oblivion reflecting to applaud an honourable living!
Could we leave on worthy footprints of humble living, instil nature’s words of wisdom to our offspring?
Should we be stepping in strides of solidarity by serving and preserving our cosmos and it’s beings?,
Could we restart again being self sufficient… turning back to a community, planting trees, green sowing and reaping?

My last glance of the scene remained to be a hopeful world into memories to be fulfilling!
I remember ~
Toiling hands that Never quit when life challenged it’s route,
Toiling hands that sowed seeds with an endearing conscience,
An earnest soul that persevered with a resonating essence
Bringing to us an awakening into a truer vocation of sense!

How promising the ploughing wheels turned…on and on
In rhythm with iron shafts sowing the seeds and burying the weeds forlorn
Heralding a joyful scene of abundance that would unfold in months, to repeat on and on for years, and decades to come!!

Jeannette D’Souza – September 2021

The Joys of a fish market

Revolving on it’s rugged hinges the gigantic rustic door came to a squeaky halt
Revealing glad customers alighting as if from a Mayfair stall
While eagerly queuing fish eaters hurriedly rushed into it’s empty narrow slots,
Gaily thrusting the dark wooden portal to an abrupt stop
Tumultuous voices soon hailed from the inside as shoppers poured in,
From every corner of the fish market echoed vendor’s vocals a-welcoming!

The jolly known fishmongers each displayed their bountiful pride,
Enticing customers to purchase at their every whimsy stride
Traditional names of fish they ritually recited,
And carefully studied their patron’s enquiring disposition when it all but a lighted
While arrays and multitudes of untold fish in mounds they displayed to behold
Icy creatures ceremonially dressed in slithery scales of blue and grey, and silver and gold!

Experienced pescatarians eagerly lifted their choicest fish’s lids to rhythmically test
For freshness of fish’s gills that was gifted from the plentiful Indian ocean afresh
Following my mum’s trace I tightly held onto her saree then with larger gleaming eyes
Imbibing in all her probing techniques and conscious budgeting under the dimming market lights
Then soon began her eclectic buying, picking up a few irresistible surprises
Some fish to be fried, some to be pickled in jars and others to be curried

Humble seasonal catches were honoured accepting all of nature’s shapes and sizes
Society valued everything for freshness even the crustaceans clawing devices
And to mention catchy music from Boney-M to Abba that was enthusiastically blared,
Fascinating the young and the young at heart livening the facade’s atmospheric air
And grandmas and grandpas spiritedly chat about their bargained purchases,
Inviting onlookers and acquaintances in amicable greetings filled with graces

Arriving from the monumental church outside the market familiar faces too quickly habitually stood,
Extending conversations from mundane chores to lengthy gossips from the community’s neighbourhood
While little innocent faces in open mouthed wonder witnessing the wrapped sea’s produce,
Curiously poked their fingers into the eyeballs and gills learning it’s fishy clues
After enough they impatiently harried parents to elude the market’s piscine smells
As dusky hues emerged in the balmy evening’s billowy spells!

In those days a thriving fish market promoted a community’s affair
Holding families and kins close together over chats and meals to share
Fridays were set apart for religious observances in communities,
Cooking at home fresh fish and sea foods was customary with veg delicacies
Abandoning meat markets towards fish markets the faithful all sauntering a-tread,
On their way supporting local farmers buying from their greener healthier spreads

Oh the taste of fresh fish nothing remotely could compare,
When doused in steaming curry and flavourfully prepared
Those handed down recipes from great ancestors lay secretly in store,
From marinades to curries and crispy fried methods galore
And their aromatic drifting wafts invited in neighbourhood’s friendly ties,
Wowing the morsels of fish prepared in coconut curry that they relished over steamy rice!

Back at home my mum exuberantly prepared our freshest catch,
Marinating it in spices and herbs over redolent cookery family chats
While younger generations playfully entered the kitchen,
To witness, learn and remember tradition’s carefully passed down cuisine
And sampling the ancient tastes truly revived Friday’s humble supper,
It was a family custom to savour dishes and prayerfully hallow together!

Decades passed… and the fish market’s scene soon changed
Bringing in newer trends and fancier stalls with heath and safety reins
Oh how time had moved on making communities feel distant…
As if a wand had wavered over society’s togetherness making it’s progress persistent
The old cobbled narrow alleys with huts and cycles, the banyan trees and cats around the market’s corners all were swiftly cleared
Even the cosy engaging discourses with it’s hovering crowds from church-way disappeared
Leaving nothing of the old ways while paving way for cold edifices,
Tarred streets and ostentatious vehicles parked over bleak cordoned spaces

Fish lovers still poured in to buy fresh fish and remembered those historic favourite recipes
They also sadly recalled the older bygone fraternity that offered their friendly advices…
I paused to fondly reminisce the old folks who’d say, “Thorn stuck in the throat no problem,
Just eat large morsels of rice for the thorn to be swallowed away”…

Now it seems centuries passed after Mums make their way to heaven leaving fond remnants behind,
With memories fading yet the thought of fish dishes bring back joys of a warming kind
And so in newer lands we find brighter prospects and then eventually settle
With fondness narrate to our offspring those days of fresh fish eating and it’s benefitting mettle
When customs disappear, traditions change and newer ones begin
How do we pass on the treasured ancestral learnings and recipes and the goodness therein?
Explaining to these little ears oh how can we make sense…
To distinguish the wholesome fish from the fancy fish fingers neatly mend?
Hoping, Yes!
For only when we encouragingly engage those little hands to prod the real and experiment,
Then will they learn the source of all good things, their humble beginnings and truer ends!

29th March 2022

(dedicated to a passionate cook on her death anniversary- Annie D’Souza, my amazing mum who taught me amongst many things also to cook and savour fresh fish. RIP mama dear ✝️)

Pyrope’s illuminations- Human greed a destructive force

Pyrope’s illuminations sustained thy ambitions into alluring dreams
Where humanity was compelled into treacherous devastation unseen
Enticed in it’s lustre thy hunger for power and thrones burned bridges, coercing nations asunder,
Cruelly did thee lunge forth dissecting every race with thy greedy hounding thunder
Forewarnings brushed aside…vales were to lay in tears from tormented decimations,
Horrendous unparalleled cruel appetites within this Pyrope’s civilisation

Pyrope’s illuminations caused the mind’s transmutation
Followers marched in corroding consciences – for insane masters led a prototype generation
Hatred sewn hearts emanated belligerent actions, deeds borne of a baneful kind…,
Prudence and charity all dismissed and to human integrity blind
Liberty lost at stakes while in plastic Glory furnished,
Eyes settling over dominions grasping it’s control, where brotherly love be torn and tarnished…
Pyrope, why did thee gain and not have vanished?

The essence from uniqueness being lost; Thee being thee and Me being me
Devalued the strides of peaceful coexistence and freedom,
Fortunes at hand failed to satiate thy craving and ye sought more
Thy Oppressions spake with threatening alliances no care worthy,
Bringing back the bygone dust of war’s misery
Sanctions on humankind, sanctions abused, empathy drawn on rations
A charter drawn to what- mine is Mine and thine is Mine?
Every living being crawling helplessly under thy yoked tyranny,
This ruthless entity serving it’s lethal avarice, for humanity an imposing malady…

The elephants with tusks contorted at loggerheads in vengeance’s seething wrath,
Trampled and devoured existence and vegetation amass
Transforming victims to black soot under thy foot’s nuclear Midas,
Now young sons lay shrivelled unburied upon mounds of grass
Noxious smoke bathed debris looming higher and lasting for years,
Left sucklings at dead breasts ceaselessly wailing in despondent tears

Pyrope’s desirous spell ultimately brought forth this impending doom
All Earth’s Sunlight blocked now reducing it’s space into a whirling gloom
Destroying the very foundations of life, dispersing ash and disease,
Cowards, comrades and the brave now all lost alike in a frenzied seize,
Oh the ghastly calamity the tragedy, when forewarnings stood justified
Bringing down Sovereigns and deliverers of this sphere on bended knees…
The entirety witnessing extremes of Dark freezing nights turning to blazing days,
Rays that once nourished the surface now setting empires ablaze

Tarry on the mountains ye Lots and ye wives or hurry with children toward the seas,
Nay this be not Sodom even worse nor is this history’s repeating speech
Moaning madness for every kind in the lands,
Is this not thine own greed’s doing…Wallowing in pyrope’s empty dazzle?

Where we be parts of cosmos’s thriving nature not turning it around…
For nature was the entity handed down not to subjugate but to build,
Ye hast taken it for granted to relentlessly yield,
Has Discernment being distorted or escaped altogether from these slaughtering fields?
Strangling with thine hands the gifted fauna and tearing the flora’s mantle,
Leaving no space untouched by it’s instant Midas even the wilderness lays throttled

Lands now parched appear weary from trembling under exploding impacts
Lie they dark and barren, turning back civilisations and green wonders to a ghostly past
No grain to sow and no harvest to grow,
Digging the oceans and coasts for survival to the morrow,
Plunging Murkiness of Years to come with starvation and sorrow
Was nature not to be honoured and be fortified?
Now it lies wasted together with most humankind
Sentencing everything to destruction, was it not seen plainly to thine eyes?
Pyrope’s treacherous sting hath stung

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth…,How the Mighty have fallen, oh how the Fallen have all fallen….
Pyrope’s illuminations- a virtual reality you served,
This diety hath not given thee wisdom nor love
Closing thy scruples for want thus fostering fear,
Pyrope’s worshipping progeny was then thy end not here?

Far fewer mortals from this inevitable trauma and fate,
Flee towards warmer lands in confusion’s haste
Succumbing to decades of this cloud of smoke they travel and lament
“Oh what have We done to Us, how could this happen”
In anguished minds and stricken fear drawing aside the shroud of terrors,
Cursing and crushing finally then the very roots of thy gluttonous errors…

Alas too often fellowship and peace are easily threatened obliterating innocent victims
By every civilisation’s covetous powers under Pyrope’s enslaving beacon

Now all dreams of greed burying deep under the grim miry clays,
They dig the forsaken grounds and regretting so their afflicted days
Thousand mile years to restore every precious progress and by the day eagerly counting,
Strengthening the frailty of conscience they now value the ancient master’s teachings

With time the conscious relenting hearts in unity will draw nearer,
Building back the destroyed earth by those very hands that once inflicted horrors,
So will they gradually lift up the promising remnants into plain loving bearers!

Now then, all ye remember these engravings in stone
Small Wars leap into Conquests in a twinkling loosing sight to humankind’s existence,
Earthly Powers fuel waste if not executed with a consistency of Prudent direction
While nature’s resources when used wisely lie in faithful resurgence,
Giving the cosmos a chance to grow in it’s radiant abundance
For Greed only serves greed and Wrath returns wrath,
Fake Glory replicates it’s performance and giveth falsehood back,
Yet Acceptance and Tolerance of all race bring in a multitude of grace!
With appreciation a nation’s arduous efforts and talents progress,
Values stand like pillars to community’s thriving success
Then Integrity yields harmony and charity invariably kindles love,
Peace resonates peace, Love begets even more love!!
Above all, Kindness cometh over fairness, and judgements meekly sit under Thy Mercy’s dove!!!

3rd March 2021

An Autumn’s Solace

Autumn Ruby berries and glossy Ruddy chestnuts smiled to invite nature’s beings
Hushed footpaths along dewy barks winding upwards stretched unseen
Luminous skies revealed the embraced boughs and entwined greys,
While the warming sun nursing my core led me to “The precipice of hope” for days

Feathery silhouettes perched solemnly onto the wavering knotty bends
Calling out in cheerful tunes to their flying friends
Walking in reflection I transcended into a reverie of a spell to unfold;
Those gracefully descending leaves harkened to my soul!- landed they in multitudes draped in russet and bronze, ochres and maroons grandly lined in crimson golds

Oh how their peaceful floating in resplendent robes uplifted my senses
Carrying me up in spirits as they encouraged my advances!
Joyously giggling into this trance I awakened- suddenly being endowed with childlike manner
Redeemed spectator was I at this marvellous show of transcending colour!

Nature presented it’s season’s warm rug to tread on, engaging me-
Caressing my heaviness within myriad tints and lights ; Conversing in deep rustles and soft muffles
Every step telling me a familiar story, of stormy hurdles
Of rewarding successes, of life’s gain and losses, of pleasures and sacrifices…

Winds carried those mysterious leaves as they got swooped up, and lo they summoned in an iridescent sacred shower!
Echoing gently to enjoin; restoring lost hope and fervent faith to uncover…
My gaze rested on them and yet distracted by despondent feelings from within,
Soon reckoned I in submission to The Eternal might of my desire for living…

Vivid memories of childhood years filled my mind
Of enchanted days and spirits sublime!
And yet we fled those years with haste in an eagerness,
Forsaking the essence of life and it’s spirit’s vigour that was boundless
Rushing into the industrious world that would eventually weary our lives, travelling through time so hastily- to invade our consciousness…

I gazed with intention at the expanse in the sky
To eagerly hear celestial words of wisdom and not question why?
Moments passed dampened cheeks that witnessed the mystical radiance
I soon paused to perceive Elysian voices from this glee of a foliage, my thoughts seeking to hear their tender resonance…

“ We must follow distant paths, play our roles to gladly witness this part of our journey’s bend,
Disperse higher, give and glow even brighter; a forgiver the wiser to gain…
Then gather in unison to say our goodbyes, making of ourselves final offerings on stone-paths lain”
Assuredly beaming they continued whispering;
“For this is no end, there are journeys to be made and yet a new beginning, continue
Seeking in prayerful supplication for your best and wishful moments to be-create a-loving”

Gathering thoughts from that earnest counsel and caring aspiration
Wonderingly paused I over to take learnings in breaths from them
Cheerful givers fulfilling their destiny so….
I imploringly offered faith-filled wishes up high and let all falterings go

Almost clambering in dissembled pain toward the peak walking and gasping
I witnessed the red lit Cross once again from that hopeful precipice; humbly gracing the serene skies and radiantly emerging
Once again a heartfelt invoking to the Almighty’s benevolence touched the distant ends
To bring solace and healing, my unseen dreams to amend!

Prayers get answered in Summers, Winters, Autumns and Springs!,- in the heart’s deep hallowed sunsets and risings
They hasten not always, yet in due time they gradually satiate the soul’s desires;
To deeply relight and align, Serving the maker and the creation it’s purpose,
To help faithfully live life in gratitude and an unconditional love to find…
Then should we not stand rooted to help heal our universe, and it’s inspiring nature, and in diligent works and prayers- not witness the Divine!!!

19th November 2021

Our destination was a tall grey building with brown shutters and rotting vegetables on the pavements. IN” We went down a side street to a brown door and a little sign “Mother Teresa IN” on the wall outside. Kitty spoke to a young nun inside and we were escorted to small spartan room, containing a plain table and 5 chairs; three pictures were on the wall, a large white Bible in the middle of the table and a ceiling fan overhead. Kitty told us that it was the only one in the home. The nuns slept without them in their rooms; the vow of poverty had been taken that they had taken ensured that they all had the same food as the patients. They had only two uniforms; one on and one in the wash. rose
We sat, Kitty telling us which chair to leave empty. We chatted quietly for a few minutes and then Kitty arose saying “Hello, Mother how are you?” as someone walked through the curtain behind me.
How does one describe meeting a person who is a legend in her own lifetime, who dismisses fame and her own achievements saying it is the Lord working through her? I stood as a tiny old lady walked past me. Much photographed, she shouldn’t have been a surprise; but she was. The main first impression was that she was ordinary; not in an overt sense, just that in a crowd she wouldn’t have stood out. She wore the white robes, trimmed at the edge with blue, of her order. A cross on a pin secured the robe on her left shoulder. I was introduced and she took my hand in her own, big hands and gazed up at me and you had the feeling that, at that moment, you were the most important person in the world to her.
That of course is the secret; it is only when you talk to her, hear that firm but gentle voice, hear the utter conviction of her faith and work that you appreciate the drive and energy. It is not overt. She knows that “The Lord will provide “ and indeed he doesn’t let her down. She spoke of a man coming to see her who needed a special drug for his extremely sick daughter, a drug available only on import. At that moment a benefactor arrived with a selection of drugs as a gift with the very drug and the exact dose at the top of the basket.
We learned of her various homes in India and abroad, of a new home in New York for AIDS victims. Knowing we were British, for our benefit she spoke very kindly of donations from British companies in terms of money and properties. Those were the only names she at the touch of mentioned; no monarchs, no presidents, no celebrities. My friend Michael Bennett spoke of Ethiopia and how one man has started Band Aid; she thought she had met the man concerned in Ethiopia but she couldn’t quite remember. A name isn’t important, it’s the deed that counts. She mentioned walking down a London street, seeing a man sitting in a doorway, a picture of misery; on going up to him and taking hold of his hand, of his face lighting up the touch of another person which had not happened in a long while.
It was easier to help the poor than the rich because she could give the poor something to relieve their suffering, but the rich had everything material. When I asked if she found sympathy and understanding from World leaders, she replied that yes, she didn’t give them any peace until they did!
Her main concern was for the terminally ill, giving them a “beautiful death”. Many arrived embittered at the fate about to befall them and she wanted to give them peace of mind. She said that we were just the pencils, God did all the writing and thinking and she never worried about the enormity of her task.
One note of sadness had been the reason for her recent absence from Calcutta. Two of her sisters, one aged 25 and the other 35, had been killed in an accident in Dehra Dun during the monsoon. They hadn’t needed to go out that night but they had insisted as there was still work to be done. One was killed outright, the other swept away in the river and her body recovered afterwards. Mother Teresa’s main thought was that fortunately the driver who had been saved had a large family so “God is merciful”.
She touched upon waste, how when she flies she asks stewards to give her any leftover food, so she can go on board with one bag and come off with three. Air India and Indian Airlines give her leftover food from flights into Calcutta but she regretted the absence now of foreign airlines. There was waste to an excessive degree in the West which she wanted to utilise if she could.
And that was it. A conversation over almost an hour. A voice firm and gentle, a direct gaze into the four of us when each spoke, an impression of utter conviction and inner peace. One could not but feel humbled at such transparent goodness. She would not allow any photographs but gave each of us a momento, an extract from the Bible. Dear…………(any our name) “See I will not forget you. I have carved your name on the palm of my hand. I have called you by tour name. You are mine. You are precious to me. I love you.” (Signed)
God Bless you. Mother Teresa.

She recited it to us. Michael and I made a donation which she accepted without looking at it; it was the spirit in which it was given that mattered. She never asked but always accepted.

And so we left. She had treated us with the same respect, kindness, patience and understanding she would have treated the highest and the lowest.

We went on to see her home in Prem Dhan. It took 500 patients with separate dormitories for men and women. The patients are taken literally from ten streets; the destitute and the dying, the mentally handicapped, the lost. Most arrive in rags and clothes are found. A nub, round faced, placid and happy showed us around. The overpowering smell was of excretia dulled by disinfectant. Emaciated figures sat on beds, lay on beds, some who were obviously in the ebbing twilight of life. Incongruously a plumpish, long-haired, bearded, Kurta clad Englishman was sitting on one of the beds. It appeared he had been attacked and robbed on the train from Benares, losing money, passport, everything. He had arrived the previous evening and the sister said she could not turn him away.

She showed us the workshops. How they take coconut husks, soak them until they rot, dry
them out and then the local women beat out the fibers and use them as stuffing for mattresses. How newspapers and magazines are collected and the paper recycled and how nothing was wasted. Vegetables are grown in the grounds (of which were once ICI storage sheds) but not enough. She showed us the small chapel and we stood silent, even humbly, at the back during a service for nuns.

Calcutta’s memories for me are varied. The green, the lawns, the temples, the architecture, the huge white memorial building to Queen Victoria (an English Taj Mahal), the slums, the beggars, the people. Mother Teresa (who was Albanian, born in Kosovo in what was Yugoslavia) remarked that if you only saw squalor in Calcutta then you should open your eyes and look again. She had told me that she came to Calcutta originally as a missionary; perhaps God had directed her. The British Deputy High Commissioner had told me that she had placed the Order of Merit, given to her by HM the Queen, on a statue of the Virgin Mary as it was “Our Lady who deserved it”.

Noel Rands
Calcutta, September 1987.

I Know that He is there!

I know for surely He loves me,
For I see His protecting light softly speaking to me!
I know that He is constantly listening, quietly standing there,
Shielding me from every harm I cannot see!

I know that He is there when all the world sees a storm
He keeps me covered under His mantle, unperturbed and strong
Even though all seems but in turmoil around
I feel a peace deep in my being, my mind and beyond!

For I recall a sad time when I sobbed uncontrollably
Calling out to Him from the sunken wet pillow
I could feel His warm touch, softly over my cold hairless head,
Gently gracing my unsettling heart to restore and mend~
~That was the moment in the night I searched around
To see no one there nor did I hear a sound,
Yet I know that He saved me!!
Those times when I thought I could be dead
He lifted me calling me back to life instead

I know that He was there then carrying me
Even through complete loss of hope when I was distraught
Through life’s doubts, inner struggles faced with fear, and distress of loss
He forgave all my past errs….. He healed my illness, my weakness and carried my cross

Oh how He has soothed me, with music soft unknown to my ears
He has brought me out safely, wiping tenderly all my tears!
Sending assurances as I looked up into the sky
With messages to convey His love in clouds of “J” and “Y”
~ Even commanding the wind and weather to calm down….. to help me pass by….

You taught me to embrace those difficult times Oh Lord, skies showing a promising Rainbow
You taught me about death and life, You assigned love within to overflow
You taught me to call out Your name through holy scrolls, and You would appear
Consoling me when times get rough, and bracing me with fortitude to secure

Your hand guides me leading me on to a new way
Your love has opened my heart to all those who fall astray
Your light had rooted me firm even though I could falter
Your faithfulness holding me close always, my saviour and master!

Lord I know that You are interested in every area to see me thrive
Directing my thoughts and words and action and this gift of life
You help me forgive those that go wrong, and strengthen the feeble to warmth
You help me pick up your staff with a renewed fervour so strong

You speak to me in dreams, showing me ways, Preserving me on your path from faltering sways
You defend me and lead me, giving success to all my dreams
You favour me with untold numerous surrounded blessings!

How I yearn to See Your face, with joining hands
To say meaningfully “Thank You Lord”
Even when I did not know You, You still cared for me my awesome Father and God!
Looking back I know that Your love brought me Home, for
To Praise You is my life’s benevolent reward, and to be with You in eternity forevermore my Yahweh God !!!

30 September 2021

Toiling Hands !

The rugged Toiling hands seen an arid day on ploughshares
Sweltering heat making no changes to his course
Mingling deep in chapped clay ceaselessly working through the land
Trampling the hardened soil to loosen with
furrows deepening the expanse, unshaken;
For life hath matched the forehead’s furrowed bands

His land stretched for miles, widespread over the fertile plane
Verdure pastures in plenitude and vegetables and grain
Treasuring the vales and hills and lake he grew
While wandering folks speculated on the natural wonders he knew
Then later travelled he to many a distant lands in search of fortune and favour
Destiny proved otherwise, for the more he pursued man-laid ambitions the more he felt convinced with a life’s yearning fire
Of valuing his green country scenes and ways
Farming life sustained closer to his heart yet even more in serving those purposeful preserving intentions with an unwavering desire!

And beyond his land lay our civilisation’s justification;
Of packed concrete jungles that cared less for it’s indigenous living
Erecting more grids and towers and paved surfaces over forests
Sparing no space nor trace of Mother Nature’s beings

Through decades marked a catastrophic decline in the village life for green farming
And villagers lost their interests for rearing livestock and crop cultivating
Farmers left their communities selling estates and head towards urban trends
And so, Lurers filled their pockets raising lofty edifices for gain
Humbly stood I to witness this lonely farmer proudly holding his stand
To fetch for his younger family less be gruels, earned humbly by his own hands

We reminisced trailing exuberantly along rolling tyres, and shaping toys out of mud
Mounting onto our hemp corded swings by the tranquil lake shouting endlessly
Of grand aunts and uncles and their lost family trades
Our cheerful visits to the sweet meat pedlars to hurriedly fill mouthfuls
Playing voraciously Gilly-Danda on the neighbour’s jasmine scented verandah
Then stealthily creeping back into our homes invariably late for supper

We spoke of charming old days when numerous decorated bullock carts packed with gratified Farmers lined the narrow tar streets, setting off for harvesting
Proudly presenting their Bullocks with iridescent tasseled horns at midday dazzling
Villagers donned in brilliant pagadees, dhotis and beaded festive sarees adorning ritual ticcas
And keeping ready every tool in sacks of gunny,
Loaded they the wise old elders together with families and infants
Cramming all together towards the golden fields of crops and honey!

Memories from Years flown by held onto me clinging,
When the closing sun shone bright glowing every peasant’s cheerful face
And the warm rejoicing after crops were gathered echoed miles away
Surrounding the grain spirited folks gathered to open in unison traditional folklores
While feasts from harvest steamed over vermillion fires
Upon feeding everyone and favouring every effort that went in,
They made it a season’s closing festive song and dance to welcome a new beginning!

Afar to be now, village communities had moved away for non-rural pastures and so had I
And nowhere were to be found those farmers or familiar chore gatherings
Nor the tradesmen noisily beating tools in their thatched sheds
Neither the cows parading early in multi hued horns towards meadows
Nor the vibrant and festive zatras of bangles and evoking village folklores
Oh how time had turned people and spaces into a different world

Humbly his soul worshipped the very ground he lived on, the trees and the lake
Hoping one day his life could leave his little ones something to emulate!!

My last glance of the scene remained to be a hopeful world into memories to be fulfilling!
I remember ~Toiling hands that Never quit when life challenged it’s route,
Toiling hands that sowed seeds with an endearing conscience,
An earnest soul that persevered with a resonating essence
Bringing to us an awakening into a truer vocation of sense!

September 2021

Until I boarded the Queen Mary in December 1964, for 2 cruises over Christmas and New Year to the Canary Islands, my only experience of regular sea travel was the Wallasey Ferry, the daily joy of travel between Wallasey and Liverpool across the River Mersey. I had been to Dublin on a really awful school trip when I was 15 and had crossed the channel twice for holidays in France, once there on a bicycle to Paris aged 16 and another by car and down to Cannes. However, the Ferry was a regular trip and involved, when the weather was good, the entire upper deck perambulating in a clockwork direction to offer the experience of walking across. As a Sea Cadet I had gone on a conducted tour of the “City of Oxford” and we had finished up in the dining room which, to a 16 year old, was amazing. Crisp white table cloths, sparkling glassware and an array of silver cutlery plus a proper menu. Looking at all the cutlery, a knowledgeable young sea cadet colleague whispered to me in a thick local accent:- “Me Dad has told me about this. You start at the outside and werk your way in!” We worked out also that “Indian Condiments” meant “Salt and Pepper”. This useful information proved invaluable when I sat at our regular table in the First Class Restaurant of “RMS Queen Mary” for the first time.

I had been in awe of the Head of the Department, Bobby Mayne, and grew to respect him. He was so pernickety, a Captain Mainwaring character, and ruled his group of young sailors with a rod of iron. We left the office at 5pm precisely and not a minute before; you watched the clock until the minute hand hit 5. If you made an error at sea he would be down on you like a ton of bricks but would defend you, fiercely, to his superiors. It made me not want to let him down and forfeit his trust. I tried to follow his example. For example, when I got a dressing down from the Assistant Manager at International Division in Manchester for a rather serious error, I accepted it and took to one side the actual perpetrator and said “Roderick Nigel, what the hell did you think you were doing?” That attitude paid off as the staff knew that they could rely on me.

In the department before I was trusted to board a ship, one of my tutors had been the legendary David Garmon Jones; three piece suit, sizeable stomach and a watch chain. David it was, who in the restaurant bar of the “Queen Elizabeth” had described to his 3 colleagues the actress Elizabeth Taylor, who was on board, as “Nothing more than a trollop. Nothing more than a trollop!”” and turned to the man in the next seat at the bar saying “And don’t you agree, Sir?”. He replied “I’m afraid I’m not in a position to comment as I am her Private Secretary”.

On my first trip the “Officer in Charge” was Tony Cramp, Deputy Head of the Department. Tony was extremely handsome, so sophisticated and languid, so different from the fat new boy from Merseyside. I used to look at him in awe and observe the way he draped himself over a chair in the dining room, tried to copy him, failing miserably. It was pointed out to me that on board that I was not “Noel Rands” but “The Midland Bank man” if anything went wrong; a useful lesson for when I became the Midland Bank Group Representative In Tehran, Cairo and Bombay.

Another hurdle, apart from selecting from the enormous selection of food on the menu at lunch and dinner, was the wine list. At home I can’t remember my parents ever buying wine although Algerian wine called “Hirondelle” was not unknown to me. My colleagues pointed out that

“Mateus Rose” was 7/6d (35p) and, if we wanted to go upmarket, we could choose “Mouton Cadet” at 10 shillings (50 pence). I did learn about other wines including “Clover Joe” (Clos de Veugeot) and “Chateau Gruaud-Larose”, neither of which I can now afford. On one trip with Bobby, he ordered Haut Brion which was wonderful but now several £100 a bottle. He was a little surprised at the price even then.

The next challenge was the Captain’s Reception, clad in Black Tie for the 1^st time in a suit I owned and not hired, and having to make conversation. I remember meeting Sir Robert Robinson, who had won the Nobel Prize for Chemistry in 1947, and he deserved a further medal for putting up with my inane and uneducated chatter. It was so different from the Wallasey Ferry where chatting to strangers was not looked upon favourably!

I was, of course, the “No 4” (there were 4 of us on the Queens, 3 on the Mauretania and 2 on the Caronia) and so I had no choice on whether to do the Tourist Class bank out and Cabin back or vice versa; the No 3 would decide. On that first trip we were fortunate with the weather; I was not the best of sailors. My next trip was on the Elizabeth, the return trip to New York, followed by a return trip on the Mary. It was so rough! I travelled to New York in Tourist and the office on the Mary can go through an arc of 120 feet when it pitched. (On Sunday mornings we were invited occasionally to the Commodore’s cabin for post religious service drinks. I have seen the bows of the Queen Elizabeth dip below the water!) I had to stop serving from time to time, throw up in the waste bin, and continued counting out US Dollars (Traditionally, 3 x 20, 2 x 10, 2 x 5, 10 x 1) to male passengers, invariably smoking green cigars and completely ignoring my problems. We stopped for lunch at 12noon and my colleague remarked “I went down to see how Noel was getting on, but he looked so awful he made me feel ill so I left him!” Alongside our office on the Mary was the Baggage Master’s office staffed by the wonderful Monty. On the way back on one trip:- “What is that madam, you bought some ‘am in New York! You can’t take ‘am into the UK, madam. It’s not allowed. You give it to me and I’ll get rid of it for you! No, madam, my pleasure” and then to me in a whispered aside “My wife loves a bit of ‘am!” (“am = ham!)

On board we had staff quarters which we used when we boarded and again in New York. However, after we sailed it was over to the Pursers office to see what 1^st Class Cabins were available. They were wonderful and I suppose the main reason I have never done a trip on one of the new Liners was knowing I could never afford to travel in the same style of luxury once available to me. We did have the run of the ships and we liked the Caribbean Room in Cabin on the Elizabeth. One trip, I tried to look more sophisticated by not wearing my glasses and, trying to find my colleagues in the Tourist Class Lounge, I saw dimly a group in DJ’s, joined them, and realised I was sitting with the band. They were quite welcoming.

One thing you realised was the warmth in which you were held by all the officers and crew. We were regarded as completely honest (The junior pursers did not believe that we did not take a cut on the rate for ourselves when we were handing out different currencies on cruises. When at the Sunday Morning Church Service they announced a collection for “Seamen’s charities on both side of the Atlantic” I was never sure if a cut was taken from that as well!) It was hammered into us when we started that you treated everyone from the Commodore down to the junior waiter with the same respect; and we did. We would give a cabin party (The No 4’s cabin!) for the pursers, shop girls, Engineers and Radio officers; a lunch time beer for the Bridge Officers (which could involve a game of spoof) and we were invited to the Radio Officers for darts.

There were our own parties on the way out for 1^st Class Passengers (Going through Seyds or Dunn and Bradstreet, having got the passenger list from the Pursers office, to find any Midland Bank customers). On a New York Crossing, tact was required and an understanding Bridge Officer to allow us to nip down the Gangway at Cherbourg (Forbidden to passengers) to get some Duty Free (“OK, Noel, if you bring me a bottle of brandy” which usually was Prince Hubert de Polignac). On Board were could draw an allocation but it was never enough to slake the guests thirsts at our cabin parties. Looking back, the allowance we had on board was miserly and the bank did well out of us via our own money. For Cabin and Tourist lunch time parties we could claim “10 shillings” a head, which helped.

One lesson I learned. I had asked “Mrs Goldberg, would you like another Gin and Tonic?” She glared at me and said “Mr. Rands! I never have another Gin and Tonic” Then she smiled and said “But I would like a Gin and Tonic”. One regular at our crew parties was “Big Norah” who ran the shop on Promenade Deck on the Queen Elizabeth, was having an affair with the masseur in the Turkish Baths, and who had a cut glass accent. She would start with a G and T and then another and then…………….. by which time her accent had shifted to Cockney. However, meeting her the following day it was “Noel! Thank you so much for a really lovely party” and the cut glass accent was back!

Tact was required. On the Mauretania I was asked by a passenger (it was a Mediterranean cruise from Southampton) ”Eh lad, what time does boaat get in to Villy-frank-ee”. I replied politely that the Mauretania was due into Villefranche at 10.30am the next day. He turned to his wife and said “Lad (sighhhhhhhh – those were the days!) says we get into Villy-frank-ee at aff past ten”. On a trip on the Elizabeth, sailing from Piraeus to Alexandria, an American passenger was surprised which I declined to change some Greek notes back to US Dollars. I had to explain that they were not bank notes but the entrance tickets to the Acropolis!

I spent 4 years in Atlantic Department (ending with the first voyage, a shake down cruise, on the QE2) and it was my version of going to a university. I was taught how to behave in public, how to treat the Crew and the passengers with courtesy and how to live with 3 colleagues, seldom the same, for trips lasting from 2 to 10 weeks, starting as the No 4 and finishing for 2 years as the Manager – Officer in Charge. I made lasting friendships which continue to this day. It served as a learning process for being a Group Representative in a foreign country; how to converse with Ambassadors and government ministers, how to get respect from your local staff and how to take an interest in your surroundings. (Plus pay better attention to the Arabic. For years I was certain the response was “Sabah El Foul” and not “Fol” May your days be full of Jasmine, not baked beans! Well, I thought it was a local thing!)

One final thing. The Queens used to dock at Pier 92 in New York which was at the end of 52^nd street, at the end of which was a bar. The Smoking Room Chief Steward on the Queen Elizabeth told me that 90% of the crew, who might have been on board for 20 years, never saw more of New York than that bar. I like to think that my horizons became a little broader!

Noel Rands

Now, Secretary The British Egyptian Society

An Ironical World, maybe !

Oh How Beautiful could this amazing world be!
Observed the grey haired philosopher chatting over the bystanders to me
I quizzically paused and asked him had he dreamed of it
When happenings on earth were as dreadful as were we

His mystical bearded countenance bore creases from of yore
And at mid day his browned sunken eyes told a story of a hidden score
When not I who was a little cynical there at the park
Abruptly reckoned with him to pause at last

In time and space he said were we justified
with nothing to carry onward or hold onto afterlife
“Yet why should there be so much suffering” he questioned
Yielding just gain by far many were the funny actions of the unawakened

Why was there more Knowledge and a lack of wisdom ?, I queried
Why was common sense swept under when facts were learned
Could an entirety of erudition teach us of a harmony in all living existence?
Should only nature followers carry our earthly spheres’ burden on their shoulders

‘Why was proving an insipid point more forcefully sought than sorting out estranged relationships’ I gasped
Why was Hatred more desired and why not loving deeds of life surpass?
Why was there a longer life time and yet no time for loved ones to give
Could birds of the air teach us more than believers forgive ?

Why had the courses of our natural rivers shrunk
And concrete made canals of entertainment sprung ?
Have we forgotten how to sow and when to reap
Have we completely lost ourselves into obscured constellations deep?

Why could leaders talk of bringing home peace yet go out to battle? cried I
Why could not everyone strive to live for peace instead of fighting eye for an eye?
Had this world of seers lost their track
Can no one see the dead end after technology cracks

“How could I” uttered he “reroute now this flurry multitude of mortals
Who craved for power and fortune, for swollen fame with unceasing self adulation”
Would anyone give heed to his simple old advice and it’s humble course
Where could he find those concerned souls to salve this universe

Further now his gaze sunk as if his conscience had being tested
And thus he began speaking knowing well of his own regrets
Once there was a life of plentitude and dazzle
Of Many nights dining under a canopy of merry snuggles

And later on matters of finance and ciphering became his mettle
Yet not a soul could he give more than seizing to settle
Then out of nowhere did karma turn to be
All gain washed away into oblivion in nothingness stood he

For long dewy summers all his yearnings did die, and oh did a lover flee,
Of fleeting satisfaction did not his wandering soul now seek !
Lost from everything and everyone he travelled far and away
For miles and miles in search of insight into the bleak

Fewer a genuine masters did he encounter as well as confront the gurus that cheat
Far more the dearth of heroes , of fewer fruitful actions could they speak
Looking deep within his soul did Enlightenment strike one day, a final chord with fate
Thus began his truer journey into offering wisdom and healing hate

And so I intently listened deep to his expounded vision
Of humanity choosing to offer their lifetime to selfless devotion
Favouring the long lain paths of genuine consciences and honour
Dedication, sacrifice and solidarity of spirits with a renewed ardour

“Pray continue on “ beseeched I “before time runs away and we inevitably stumble”
Can we turn this ever evolving sea of selfishness from us lost mortals?
Could the eyes of earthlings open up to see ahead it’s ramifications as a last chance
Could we try Keeping differences aside and giving to the universe with a natural stance?

“Resign one’s self to Contentment midst the least of fortunes” quote he
“Rather strive for equal in measure of doing good that was exemplary
And when the world thinks you foolish Just Carry On
With clarity of vision remedying all the wrong” !

“Persevere in sowing seeds of love and awaken the blind
Relentlessly pursue healing purposes for which nature hath assigned
Heed and follow the gentle gestures of celestials
Love being it’s quintessence leaving all sublime”

“Could we turn back our ways” I asked “To times of eons past “
When life was simple and living was not so fast
Where humans sought to live each day lovingly though there be little
By plainly partaking in savouring moments and letting bygones settle

Sunset then gloriously revealed it’s parting and “I must off “broke he,
To find more souls for the sake of universal accord and harmony
With faith, seizing his last days travelling to reveal to our kind
For life here is not eternal and acts of kindness must we leave behind!!

August 2021

Childhood Friendships

Could childhood friendships teach us more
Of truer connections within life’s teachings
Gently sketching indelible perceptions with tenderness
Fostering toward an unseen world yet to unfold

By chance I encountered a shadow one day
Tucked away in loneliness, her eyes yearning to befriend
Humbly stood watching while glowing faces of pupils feast
So timidly hiding her bleak tiffin scarf beneath

Friends seemed rare and none to embrace
Such was the calamity of those poor
Could I join her in tearful lifting cheer
From society’s grasp of superstitious fear

Towards a meek smile I turned
To find apparent gestures of a friendly nod
Something within my heart stirred
And I quickly moved my pace toward untold

My own meagre meal had nothing extraordinary
Neatly wrapped with a doting love I knew
We shared some amiable laughs and food
Softly lifting away tears, it was a true friendship begun anew

Returning home from school was a dread
Yet that day kindled an exhilarating tread
An exciting reflection on pleasant moments
Too much to contain and revealing itself

Daily at class breaks was my stance lingered
To eagerly meet that friend introducing her to our girly huddles
Then hurriedly securing a parapet spot to share some cheer
Adding far many delightful moments of childhood chuckles!

Attending school was a solace now filled with ritual
Sauntering together entwining plaits and enjoying sweets from pedlars
Playing land-water-bridge and shouting our hearts out by the timber posts
All seemed to be even more fun when school gates reopened

Inspiring teachers carved us new dreams
Friendship circles nurtured them to their seams
Our young minds enlightened by devout reverent nuns
Creating a sublime world that transcended visions to ward fulfilment

Seasons run their course and classes changed
Our youthful minds now absorbed to achieve those daunting grades
Roting those last minute details when busy resounding school bells timely called thus
Still hoping that our kindred friendly spirits would never leave us

The morning bells kept pealing as years quickly passed
A decade of academic toil and poverty were over at last
The send off at my alma mater was a poignant one
Friends tearfully parted with mementos, autographs and quoted puns!

What would one give to have the simple days of plaited pig tails in colourful ribbons appear
When recalling those fun days of Hop scotch, and congenial joshing
Of hiding ice gollas and eating hot sweetmeats in oily papers
Dissembling cheeky mouthful grins when teachers appeared!

Now loving friends get older, nuns and teachers cease to be
In our very grown up world far away from childhood friends, with children of our own must we
Redolently narrate those fond days of hearty fun and truer friendships
For none like those years of our childhood friendship’s bliss!

16-07-2021
Alma mater- St Joseph’s Convent High school
Camp Belgaum

We find this often said “food is ubiquitous”, sought after and enjoyed heartily everywhere you go. This idea dawned awakening me one day when I went along for clothes shopping and found cookies being offered there, next inside a mall savouries were sampled…at the grocery store I found cooked food temptingly displayed on shelves to sell, and not to mention the arts and crafts shop too sold nuts and raisins.

In today’s world our media bandwagons an idea portraying food as some mystic charm wrapped in a typical light of well-being, and so much for that you are stuck deciding… is it going to be a tasty meal or a healthy meal today, any enticing idea sells food with economical budgets and hyper marketing.

After all this revelation I wondered “Is it necessary to cook food at all? ….furthermore was I feeding my family right?”
Growing up I thought that everyone cooked, because home cooked fresh food has no additives, preservatives, colour, flavour enhancers, saturated fat, added sugar with heaps of salt packed neatly in a host of chemicals.
Although I knew that “It’s good to know what’s IN your food”, yet did I care about this enough to make that time to cook daily meals for my family from scratch!

Now I do enjoy my “once a weekend takeaway“ albeit I try to order the healthy stuff.
Moving on ….. I asked some of my friends and community members when I started discussions around this topic and found that although the majority did not cook from scratch yet more numbers never cooked.

I generally enjoyed cooking but pursuing and changing careers meant nothing but stress and more stress, with this impact on health together when good food was neglected got me ill until one day I realised I had to change my habits for good and start afresh cooking from scratch.
Someone asked me what this meant, I said that beans on toast was not exactly cooking from scratch…

My mum and gran always kept this phrase repeated around our home“ You can always find someone to clean your home but you cannot find anyone to cook you the food of your taste or choice “ Moving away from home for brighter prospects I later understood what this meant- it is when I started to learn from this phrase that I begun cherishing family recipes and enjoying cooking for well-being.

Thinking back as to when I really started cooking to where I am today, it has taken me time, deep observation and efforts to learn the benefits of food on health, what the joys of eating tasty food can be that could also nourish one’s being!

I had made up my mind to start cooking at home from scratch through the entire week which meant no tinned food, readymade pasta, stock cubes, no additives or added sugar or excess fat…..except counting aside 3 meals to cater for naughty taste buds(-:)
An interesting journey lay ahead soon to begin, making new discoveries, furthermore to deeply acknowledge –
Food is the essence of life itself and good food it’s well-being!!!

In my next blog I will chat about my story into: making a choice of ingredients, focussing on essential organic produce, scrapping all packaged foods from my food list and experimenting newer recipes boldly!
Join me on my wonderful journey of discovering food for health and enjoyment…

Jeannette

Village Picnic by the washing ghats : Part 2

My keenly medicinal grandma foraged about for wild berries yet engaging in conversation with the cart man
Soon the day grew warmer….. for dancing sunbeams caught sight of the river, encouraging all to take a refreshing enjoyable dip and then start cooking
As smoke from the fire drifted with light winds into the woodlands, the wafting spicy herby blends mingled amongst wild chicory and bamboo bushes enticing all to lunch.

Granny made her way into the camping site with washed wild jamuns and karwondas nestled in her saree pallu, she arranged them gently into her handy woven leafy banyan bowls
My uncles were roasting fish caught fresh from the river banks , the joy of eating fresh food cooked over open flames was a family ritual by the river banks
The women delightfully served hearty chunks of slow cooked meats and rice onto plaintain leaf plates for all to begin
There was never a tastier meal enjoyed except by the river banks , where the peaceful percolating sounds of water soothed hearts and feathered friends made a pleasing echo chirruping

Soon it was time for a siesta and it seemed as though every being laid their tired limbs calmly down tucked away from the radiant sun only to be tickled by balmy winds
Time passed by as the calmer sun now emitted it’s first blushes of saffron, gold and vermillion in the skies adorning it in celestial splendour, sunset was not far away and the aroma of chai hovered over the dying fire….
My mum and aunt began tying up the tautly dried washing whilst the cart man languidly harnessed the bulls, it was an enchanting magical day for all, but soon to be roused.

In the distance my uncles were seen nervously hurrying down the rivulet gesturing in anguish
As they rushed closer to explain the sounds of roaring lions not far away, the party packed fearfully and rapidly within seconds mounted the cart that began hurriedly home

Within minutes the sun seemed to fade in shadows deeper under the lush arching trees and, the lion’s roaring grew audibly stronger
It was time to rush the already speeding bulls as everyone nervously gulped
With the heavy wagon labouring up muddy hills every being around felt tense under missed silent breaths for fear of every hope diminishing
The clamorous resounding roar seemed closer and even closer….
With tightened grips over cart supports my Granny and all whispered silent prayers gasping and wondering how lucky if they escaped the hungry creatures nostrils.

Cart man and lad were doing their best speeding the animals, even too numbed to feel any brambles that callously brushed them by their noisy cart’s sway….
And knotted tree branches ominously hampered hopes towards safety as they rushed on their way
Time seemed to pass slow and the stories of man eating creatures were haunting to light every passenger’s imagination; the party trembled in despair as the tumultuous roar seemed furlongs away, only to be separated by muddy bogs
The skittish bulls hastily scrambled through the ghats like never before speeding from the lion’s scent not looking twice beyond and,
then emerging from a side way bog did rundown the hill encouraging every charging speed under the masters hands holding control tightly still.

The roaring abruptly halted for at last the passengers caught sight of an open bright road, and thankfully charging ahead for that cheerful sense of civilisation they made out of the deep deep ghats, and now the roaring grew dimmer and dimmer
With grateful hearts in their relief they uttered a prayer in unison that day!!

Even unto her last days my mum recalled this beautiful and thrilling tale…, how a natural world of simple living beside wild life had almost come to an end.
Yet like a timid sheep awaiting eternity to befriend her, she vividly retold this venture scenically as she sunk slowly deeper and deeper, and towards her end.
Eons hath passed it seemed
Her vivid narrations of extraordinary village life and it’s hardships remain deeply within….. ingrained in my mind and heart like some enchanting story and forever it seems!

Village Picnic by the washing ghats : Part 1

Dawn appeared gloriously draping it’s shimmering warm light over tall banyan and jackfruit trees, peaking through their abodes keen beaked habitants melodiously chirped awakening noises
Scents of marigolds, champak and hay filled the air, and fresh morning dew danced rhythmically from the palms of golden lit plantain leaves
As the glow brightened the atmospheric aura felt light and mellow… heralding a sunny forecast, a perfect day for a picnic by the washing ghats.

Peeping from beneath some wonderfully tall banana trees was our tattered cosy animal shed; awakened by sun beams probing through- cows, goats, pigs and chicken all jostled out hither thither from their humble patches and to their troughs sped
Our unpretentious thatched family cottage stood prominently attached to our quiet yet proudly standing family run grain mill .
Backing the mill was a coal shed and enveloping it partly there grew our family herb garden harmoniously!
For it must be said that my granny’s Ayurvedic herb garden was held sacredly dear, as a physician she tried to heal every villager from ailments and disease fear, and….She was regarded mystical for those cured there, throngs offered her their respects with produce and offered her a prayer.

Squeaking and rumbling through an obscure muddy pathway a hefty bullock cart on fours came to a halt outside the family verandah
Awaiting it’s passengers the jolly cart man loosened the yokes that harnessed our brilliant pair of burly oxen that donned swirly colourful horns
Meanwhile rummaging sounds emanated from my family cottage, it’s enthusiastic dwellers swiftly carrying out their chores
Whistling tunes and gesturing for more ropes the cart man nodded to a young helper lad… who was enthusiastically feeding the animals
Cart man and the lad spun tuneful melodies, and soon after securing the animals back onto yolks were offered cups of warmly spiced teas.

Resonating sounds from cheerful banter poured out from across the front door post , out came my pair of uncles who humorously piled up laundry onto the wagon cart waving out readily
Until hurriedly came through mum, my gran and aunt; each carrying large earthen pots of raw meats with spices, and all clambered onto the rear of the bullock cart nodding and beaming
Clucking sounds the cart man made initiating the mammoths, who with little sense of urgency began heading their way.

Into the cart wagon squatted the family snugly, they held on to it’s colourful supports much like spectators at a show
The majestic oxen paced up taking it’s passengers across familiar neighbourhood surroundings , beyond the archaic catholic church perched atop peeling , beyond vast expanses of timber wood stacks and then lastly through an open rail crossing
Journeying further-on enrapturing scenes of wild florals unfolded, followed by wild life and deep thickets gliding on in a trance like state.

Energetically the oxen tread down meandering country paths further into dimly lit deeper ghats Light seasonal rains had encouraged viridescent hues emerging under humongous tropical canopies, the air was crispy fresh and darker surrounds all shrouded in green
Gradually emerging thenceforth sunlight eventually trickled onto the brighter luminous forest floor, ….
and surging sounds of the river course gushing grew stronger and stronger holding everyone’s anticipation in spellbound galore.

They were almost there, the river eventually unfurling it’s rivulets lined by shiny boulders, and then…. it splendidly opened it’s mouth into a gushy expanse at the heart of the jungle
What a sight to behold!!! nature revelling in it’s best attire, yet sublimely greeting it’s audience
Tall trees of Mango and Jammun sat towering over brightly lit wild flowers encircling the wide expanse, and basking in their shelter softly tiptoed the bashful forest deer, rabbits and other wild beings !
Not far from this effusive welcome they stopped by some weathered boulders , fastening their bulls and setting them hay
A little further under a quiet nook the family nestled over jute blankets their belongings, moving eagerly the men gathered barks and dried twigs to light camp fire and by the banks the women gaily started on with their chores of washing.

To a new home called Belgaum!

“Tonga-wala ! Tonga-wala, jaldi jao jaldi”

(Hurry fast Tonga-man)

Exclaimed in Hindi the amazed child, with trepidation and glee!

How could he ? ..amidst twenty hundred scurrying and pouring

out of the tumultuous station bay

All the Tongas and Tuk-tuks tooting to invite passengers across wet fields of hay!

Not long before Journeying since dawn, doning disheveled hair , dreamy eyes and toys a cuddling,

stepped down from the train two siblings in their sunday attire, behind mum trailing

Rushing out to see the exciting new town that stood in view,

with lined pandals, thatched huts and smaller confectioners anew!

Enjoying the hustle I skid in wet mud getting a little mucky, quickly my hair away from wide eyes plucked-

to see people smiling and greeting loved ones, with garlands and Kumkum in palms cupped!

I watched travellers negotiating through a tiny dingy thoroughfare,

whilst gulping scents of heady fragrances , of sweet jasmine and sun kissed marigolds sweeping the air!

Eager Pedlars, weavers and toy sellers displaying their colourful handicrafts and food,

tempting hungry travellers with their wafting delicious aromas and delightful goods!

Resisting this temptation I glanced at my weary mum

checking her tattered pochette, finding a paltry sum.

Peckish and exhilarated I soon found myself distracted in sounds, sights and smells,

all hitting my head I started to giggle, giggle uncontrollably, until my jaw and cheeks hurt.

It was an atmospheric enchantment for a child of eight!

Treading the muddy path towards the Tonga carriages we scampered,

With bulky luggage, burdensome walking yet unhampered

Hovering canines under wagons noisily hounding us, yet we lept away fearlessly watching buffaloes grazing on in the distant hay

Continuing towards the winding lemon Tonga queue that yolked aged mares and, tightened safe under their master’s gaze.

Our mystically towering Tonga-man in an enchanting turban appeared

Mum began habitually bargaining the ride price that was exorbitantly uttered

It was the practice in those days , of familiar haggling exchanges around in the open..

All lending their own charm in noisy customs draped with passerby’s supportingly gathered

Shying away from them I slipped with my brother onto the large Tonga carriage bewildered!

Mum could haggle no more but to please us for child cheer

Boarded luggage onto the carriage with help from fellow folk near

Off we paced with 8 feet trotting round the bend

Oops oops cried the tongaman for the carriage had almost had its end..

Ambling lopsided with extra luggage and perching on it, a new rainbow feathered friend!

Roadways shrouded in mango trees soon unfolded displaying verdant pastures, a sight to be reminisced…

Villagers passing by expressed their friendliness, further on an array of quaint cottages dotted streets with lively porches covered in striking rangoli patterns

My heart grew warmer as we nodded past children smiling, playing verandah games amidst evening lanterns

Our Tonga impressed them much and, women in bindi peeking out through their curtained doors, covered in vibrant sarees stood beaming.

And soon our Tonga stopped outside a worn old colonial cottage, tucked under terracotta tiles over a green facade

A pleasant grateful feeling arose and to our Tonga-man’s blessing – standing over the Tonga seat triumphantly I cried “our house”

We jumped laughing out of the cart onto the street to find cheerful relatives welcoming,

With so much love to offer and a tray full of supper awaiting!

Dusk approaching fast, we raced thrilled peeping into every corner of our tiny wood laden home, even the attic room,

Joyously abounding to find a cheerful window to sit by and watch the streets lights and sights bloom.

Neither the gloomy weather nor the torrentious rain wet our intrepid spirits!

Making that reminiscent evening a vision of greeting decades down memory lane…

Those first moment impressions of Belgaum whisper childlike gaiety into my heart every time it starts to rain!

Sept 2020