Tuesday 1st November 1983
We awoke late and tucked into a banana and omelette breakfast at Jaggis. I was still feeling a bit weary and lightheaded when we set of for the railway station. I was carrying George’s knick-knacks as he had sold his nylon daysack to a native for 40 Indian Rupees.
At the station we were subjected to the usual palaver form-filling and battling against queue jumpers in the long wait for the Ticket Window. We got a reservation for 23:00 hrs. tomorrow night and aided a lost German to do likewise. From the station we had a nasty cup of tea in a tumble-down hovel which the lady of the house was trying to patch up with mud.
We returned to the restaurant opposite Jaggis, as they had proper cups, and dawdled over guide books while we sipped a more wholesome cup of tea. I wrote an aerogramme to Ted Dalton in the Territorial Army (I was a member of the UK Territorial Army from 07/04/1982 - 24/11/1983 and achieved Red Beret and Parachute Wings with the 10th (Volunteer) Battalion, The Parachute Regiment, 4 Company which was based at Duke of York’s Headquarters, Kings Road, Chelsea, London.) I posted it along the way before we trolled up to the Taj Mahal again.
We passed an army unit drilling in an Indian Army Base and laughed over reminiscences of our own army drilling experiences and memories. At the gate to the Taj Mahal we had another tea and, as it was now getting dark we decided not to pay to go in, but to sit and watch the tourists from a warm stone alcove to the left of the entrance.
Some of the tourists/travellers are in a wretched condition, mainly Europeans that have spent months or years in India on a vegan diet and the pursuit to find themselves, and their brown weathered skin does little to conceal their pitiful skeletons.
We risked life and limb walking back along the unlit road with bicycles and scooters whizzing about in the gloom with no lights on of course. Scooters roared passed with their electrical systems failing due to the batteries running out of life because of the rider’s permanent pressure on the horn.
Back at the Pradesh Restaurant (opposite Jaggis) we had supper. I enjoyed a good meal of egg curry, mixed vegetables and rice washed down with a good cup of coffee. George selected a wrong-un in his choice of fish curry and spent ages spitting out fish bones. The luxury of a Gaylords choc ice at Jaggis take-away counter was a welcome addition to our diet and restored my fortitude.
We wandered down the locals main drag and were ushered into a music shop by a sitar student. His instructor gave us a loud, clichéd western concoction to the loud strumming of a guitar as we tried not to laugh. Another short tour brought us back to Jaggis and after another choc ice we retired to our room.
I lay on my back with a stiff neck looking up at the railway rails supporting the crudely whitewashed ceiling above the green mouldering walls of our cell. George is sniggering as he reads a letter from Martin (our friend who is intending to come out and join us) and does some simple exercise with much wheezing and panting.
We eventually nodded off with the light on and the ceiling fan whirring at full blast, reminiscent of the opening scenes of Apocalypse Now ("Saigon, shit. I'm still only in Saigon. Every time I think I'm going to wake up back in the jungle. When I was home after my first tour, it was worse. I'd wake up and there'd be nothing...I hardly said a word to my wife until I said yes to a divorce. When I was here I wanted to be there. When I was there, all I could think of was getting back into the jungle. I've been here a week now. Waiting for a mission, getting softer. Every minute I stay in this room I get weaker. And every minute Charlie squats in the bush he gets stronger. Each time I look around the walls move in a little tighter. Everyone gets everything he wants. I wanted a mission, and for my sins they gave me one. Brought it up to me like room service").
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