An Ambassador To The Residency

I wake to my alarm at 8am, collect the copy of The Times Of India that has been slid under the door, and call down for coffee. The 24-hour hot water is tepid, but I bucket-shower anyway, take my notebook and some cash, camera and map, and head off to Lucknow station. The booking centre is in a separate building and is a splendid piece of architecture, built along the same mosque-like lines as the huge main station. I fill out the booking form for my train to Allahbad and take it up to the counter; there is the usual jostling queue at each of the 20 windows, except one - the credit card payment counter. I walk up as two Indians are being turned away for trying to pay in Rupees, and slide my form under the disinterested clerk's nose. Within five minutes I have a confirmed ticket; I am amazed how stress free this booking was, and will make it policy to use my Visa whenever possible, as very few locals can afford this luxury. I walk back to the heaving carpark infront of the station and search for one of the few Ambassador taxis that hide amongst the cycle-rickshaws and oversize auto-rickshaws called Vikrams - six seat three-wheelers that operate fixed routes on which up to eight passengers share for a small fare. The street vendors sell everything a prospective rail traveller might need for their journey: shoeshines, padlocks, luggage repairs, food, ear cleans and "erotic" magazines - printed on rough, thin paper, the Hindi text smudged with no pictures other than the one on the cover showing a demur looking young lady with almost all of her clothes on. I find a big, white Ambassador with leather-sheathed chrome uprights on the wings and a chrome-trimmed visor extending out over the top of the windscreen; the windows are deeply tinted and have neatly tied net curtains for even further privacy. These cars have been produced by Hindustan Motors in West Bengal since the 1940s, and although improved over the years, are basically the same British Morris Oxford that they were modelled on. They epitomize motoring in India, even if they are primitive: weighing in at over a ton, with a 1500cc diesel engine that struggles to produce a paltry 37 horsepower ( about half that of a basic Ford Fiesta ), they're not particularly fast, and all four wheels use old-fashioned drum-brakes. I ask the driver to take me to The Residency, and we set off at a leisurely pace through the crazy traffic; I slide across the smooth leather back seat when we swerve to avoid suicidal rickshaw wallahs and Leyland bus drivers. The drive is a delightful experience, the car a fascinating piece of living history, eccentric and lovable. I pay the driver off after the journey - I will take a cheaper rickshaw back.
The Residency of Lucknow was besieged in 1857 after the British takeover of Avadh, and is preserved in the condition it was in after months of desperate fighting and sustained canon-fire. The red-brick walls are pocked and scarred, the tower half-destroyed but still standing. Over 2000 people - loyal Indians, women, children and British soldiers - died before the siege was lifted, many from cholera and gangrenous wounds in the appalling conditions. I walk around the well kept grounds, chipmunks scurrying along the path infront of me, parrots startled from the tall palms flying overhead. As with everywhere in Lucknow, there are very few women to be seen, and any I do see avert their eyes quickly; I'm used to the attention of the locals by now, but for an Indian woman to look at a foreign man would be unthinkable, perhaps punishable, although I'm sure they are as curious about me as the men are.
I take a cycle-rickshaw back to Charbagh. The wallah has a neat grey beard, a white skull cap, cooli shirt and pants, thick wool socks under sandals, and one dark brown tooth at the corner of his mouth. His rickshaw is brand new - black framed with big chrome mudgaurds, a red plastic passenger bench, the hood decorated with gold muslim embroidery; it is a Nirmgl DX model, made in steel by Khalsa Products, and he is very proud when I compliment him on his machine. We ride slowly through the bazaar, one of the streets lined with gun shops - like the Azad Gun House - the dull black gleam of the weapons seen behind flimsy glass fronted cabinets in open doorways. There are shops selling barbed wire, plastic pipes, and Butan Tuff 5-Ply Vimal Socks; Alico Furnishers claims to be "A place Of Latest Wooden And Steel Furniture", while the Imperial Cycle Co offers Atlas, Hermes and BSA bicycles. The wallah calls out "Hallo! Hallo!" whenever anyone gets too close to us - the cycle-rickshaw's horn. Past The Sadar Bearing House and Kanpur Delhi Goods Carriers, then I gently shake the wallah's shoulder and point to a bookstall set up under the shade of a corrugated iron lean-to. My eye was caught by a cheap counterfeit copy of the official railway timetable - trains at a glance - and the colour photograph on the cover. It is a badly printed, error ridden copy of my genuine publication, and the editor has unwisely selected a picture of an American EMD F-Unit diesel instead of an Indian train of any description; the classic, 1940's locomotive carries a yellow livery and is lettered for the Royal Gorge route, a preserved tourist train running on the old Rio Grande route from Georgetown in Colorado. Why on earth did they use this picture, and how did they find it?
I direct the wallah to drop me at the Chief Guest bar not far from the Deep Avadh hotel; it is the usual dimly lit and curtained drinking hole, a handful of Indian men drinking Haywards 5000 - the strongest beer on the drinks menu - at the tables. They have run out of Kingfisher, so I order a McDowells rum with a Deep's Fire ( Light Up The Fire Within ) soda mixer. It is 42 percent proof and tastes like methanol; it catches my breath and makes my eyes water even when diluted with all of the Deep's Fire. I ask the waiter for Will Classics, but he only has cheap Gold Flake Navy Cut; I buy two single cigarettes and he gives me a matchbox too: in India it is matchbox, not a box of matches. An Indian man walks into the bar with a massive double-barrel shoutgun slung over his shoulder, orders a neat White Mischief vodka, downs it in one and leaves. I leave the bar and the half-finished drink and walk out into the gathering dusk; I am as drunk after two large sips of the raw alcohol as I was after the unknown drink in the awful Bus Pub in Hungary: will I ever learn?
I drink a cold Kingfisher in the dingy bar to get the taste of the McDowells out of my mouth; the walk back to my hotel in the dark enough to sober even the most intoxicated traveller. I order a vegetable biryani to eat in my room and have an early night; as I lie in bed I can still feel the bump-bump-bump of the rickshaw ride: in spite of being new, one of the wheels was already buckled.