An Ode to

Victorian Elegance

(By Manik Lal Bhattacharjee)

There is in remembrance of an association, eternal in influence and memory. Once in a long while comes a time that evokes nostalgia, awe, pride and grandeur. And being my last write up eulogizing my 'good old pals', can this be short ?

I joined Victoria in the early Fifties and spent. six years, which is a small but decreasing proportion of my life. There then again, I am grateful to my forebears, who in their wisdom arranged that my natal day would be timed so that I would be of a suitable age when Victoria would be shifting from the pre Independance age to the post Independant era. This enabled me to see many amazing changes. Circumstances resulted in the departure of the European teachers and students to other parts of the world. This, I feel, have inevitably altered the molecular structure of our carefully orchestrated Institution and this was the slow beginning of Victoria's rapid change.

After Mr. Bloud's retirement, VS. scattered the colourful pages of its 'fairy tale book' where everything ended "happily ever after." But, for so many of us, Victoria will remain as one of the most outstanding schools in our country.

I write about that 'Antique Victoria' which no Victorian who lived and breathed its air with me can deny. I write for those Victorians like myself who took to the English style floggings, who grew up by dancing, singing, wooing, quarrelling, bullying and even dreaming in English. I try to bring back that Victoria from mists of memory of its wonderful sights, great camaraderie and its thousand happy incidents to cherish for a life time. A Victoria that was much greater than its various parts added together.

Getting used to the traditional 'ragging', 'dhukking' and running the gauntlet in the post-prandial pillow fights and the interminable gab sessions of news and views, sense and nonsense, of tall yarns to who chases whom, I soon got acclimatized to the electric polychrome culture and learnt my way around.

There I was first taught to utter before each meat a Biblical prayer "for what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful, for Christ's sake. Amen." The rhymes, happy gay time, tuckmen's sumptuous 'grub', joyful mood and zest seemed a real sequence out of the film 'Alice in Wonderland'. The pageant went on, friendship and love, study and play, emnity and spitefulness jostling together weaving in and out the multi-coloured threads that made the pattern of life in Victoria, so complicated from outside but so harmonious within.

Victoria, then, had the super Pronab Roy in goal, other great performers were Arun Sanyal, Allen Twidy, Richard King, Sonarn Topden, Richard Blake, Shew Chong, Maung Maung Thein, Maung Maung Saant, John Webster, Pijush Bose, Bhabani Mallick, Subir Ray (Maddy), Praiwalla Shumshere, Vuthivarn of Thailand, Madukar Rana, Sailen Chatterjee, Paddy Jones, Warren Bertram, Davinder Bhasin, Kanchan Rana, Kumar Samit Roy, Jivan Rai, Kumar Pradyut Narayan (Chandi), Robert Wilson, Sujit Chatterjee Salil Mukherjee and so on, vintage players in a vintage age. Whilst it is difficult now to recapture most of the outstanding mements of matches involving Victoria, I recall the great annual football struggle between the top favourite Goethals Memorial School in 1954, when a sensational incident took place. About four minutes before the final whistle, the score being love-all, Maung Maung Saant of Victoria ran zig-zag with the ball and abruptly stopped inside the penalty box to take a big volley. But Parekh of Goethals came from no-where and snatched the ball away.

Furious, Saant with his log-like legs, gave Parekh a powerful kick on his back. Parekh retaliated with a vicious body blow. The referee, Father Carlson somehow had not noticed Saant's foul but saw Parekh's, and immediately awarded a penalty kick to Victoria. There was a breathless hush in the field. Mr. Bloud having a sharp nose poked it where ever he could. From the side-line he wagged his finger and winked at Chris Macdonald who was to take the penalty for Victoria, to miss the goal deliberately.

Suddenly, the traditional Victorian chorus worked up to a crescendo.

One-Two-Three-Four/

Who are we for?

Five-Six-Seven-Eight/

Who do we appreciate?

V-I-C-T-0-R-I-A".

Macdonald, running up to the ball, kicked it wide to the 'khud side'and the goalkeeper took a speculative dive on the blank. Mr. Bloud taking it as a doozie of a practical joke had a jolly good laugh.

Father Fitzpatrick, Principal of Goethals and a footballer of International fame, ran inside the field to embrace Mac of V.S. for missing the goal. But poetic justice ensured that from a Bloud's tip off, sprinter Allen Twiddy was put as the front runner to disturb. the composed Goethal's defence.

Mr. Bloud's tip for the V.S. defenders was to take long range shots into the opponents penalty box to create a jumble there.

Later in life, I have seen in football, that it is easy to create a melee from which a chance victory emerges and it is all the more easy to budge the opponents who are all out in the last minute attack.

From Maddy Ray's mid-field lob, Twiddy ran to the corner flag end and floated the ball which was neatly trapped by V.S. think tank Arun Sanyal, who back heeled the ball on a platter for Mac to balloon it inside the onion bag.

When on the T.V. I see Mohammed Ali in the ring, I see Victorian pugilists like, Richard Aing, Trevor Rhodes, Saant, Alexander Antrim, Tripti Thapa, Jitendra Shrestha, Robert Wilson and Gene Wright. [What about the Webster brothers ?]

My heart still continues to pump extra blood into my veins when I see them dancing with their own shadows and bouncing off the ropes. Their left-right combinations followed up with right crosses and upper cuts left many opponents no alternative but to hold on to the waist to evade such random punches.

As I see Carl Lewis, time stops for me, as I see instead Pronab Roy, Allen Twiddy, Kumar Rajib Roy, Maung Manng Sannt, Shew Chong, Chandi Narayan Salil Mukherjee going down on their hands and knees at the call of "on your marks" and then starters pistol, "Bang". That excitement to frenzy and our expectations to triumphs in 10 to 20 Sec flat sprint still makes me jumpy.

Gavaskar reminds me of Mr. Bloud, whose dexterity with any ball was excellent. His impeccable blend of style, foot work and strokes could send any ball over the cryptomerias and his cannon pot off the two cushions in billiards with his careful carelessness still baffles me. Mr. Bloud's careful carelessness was a tool to leg-pull many.

Once he called our games teacher, Mr. S. K. Chatterjee on the double who rushed down without his coat and tie. "Where is your Patiala Blazer and the Tie?" "Sir, to honour your summons, I hurried up to be punctual in time". Mr. Bloud introduced Mr. Chatterjee to Mr. Lobo, games teacher of Goethals

"See our new games teacher, so hefty and so lanky". Mr. Chatterjee later expressed his gratitude to Mr. Bloud "Sir, for your praise for me, I thank you from the bottom of my heart". Mr. Bloud's careless reply was "its elementary, don’t you thank me again from your bottom". Mr. Bloud had character and opinions of his own.

Avid interest in sports continued through his days in Presidency College which fetched him an University Blue in Cricket, Football and Hockey in 1930. He spoke with a twang which had a wonderful flow, full of anecdotes and insights into any subject. He was a bachelor, therefore, lonely and so he enjoyed mingling with the boys, but kept his vigil eyes on each classified gang of 'guys' like the 'jhug chaps', the 'bookworms', the 'dhuds', the 'bullies', the 'braggers', the 'buffoons', the 'sneakers', the 'french leavers', the 'bathroom rats', the 'bhutta chors', the 'faggers' and the 'khud side Romeos'.

To cover up the 'gangs', we did have the Scouts and the holy 'guys' like Rattan Siddhi, Bafna brothers, Tridip Das, Om Shreshtha, C.B Rai, Ashis Mitra, Ashoke Chakraborty, Pradip Dasgupta, Ashis Ghose, Nalni Kohli, Sujit Chatterjee and surely, yours truly.

Mr. Bloud had always been an out door sort of a man, never happier than hiking swiftly up and down the school precincts in search of our secret going-ons. How routinal was he, in the middle of the night he left his quarters by the back door tip-toeing with his rubber soles to 'nab' the bad 'guys' [Ask John Webster, about that! He claims that he lost his 'prefectship' because he swore a who he thought was me, but in fact was "Choach." as he crept around the dorms one night - johnf] and what always assailed him even on a easy 'nab' that he concluded with immediate floggings.

Adolescence, fortunately, has its moments of euphoria but not that much like the pranky elusive 'night-birds' like Zulu (Dipak Sengupta), Robert Kiernander, Robin Gurung and the Kangaroo from Jalpaiguri, 'Eklair’ Roy. They all came right out of the Batman's Comic Book. How they 'bunked' in eerie darkness up and down the 2000 steps of 'Jacob's Ladder' in 2 minutes would have puzzled England's Roger Bannister. It required a more technical person like Mr. Bloud to tackle such reckless 'guys' who took long fifteen to sixteen years to stand up straight but Mr. Bloud took no time to bend them down when ever he liked. After being mercilessly flogged, I heard our Zulu commenting to Mr. Bloud' "Sir, for what I have just received, may the Lord make you truly thankful for Christ's sake,". "Amen" was the chorus of the fellow culprits. Mr. Bloud reacted "Get lost you buffoons, you aren't worth the flogging."

While on Exeats as we sat on the 'Sky-rock', on a sudden Mr. Bloud was around and he carelessly sat in our midst. Agape, we listened as he generated his tall yarns of fighting the war as a Naval Chief, his Don Juan looks that got pretty girls waiting for him in every port, his advice to Sir Churchill to thrash Hitler, his tip at the Lord's Test that boosted Vinno Mankad to score almost a double century and so on.

To him, like Sherlock Holmes, everything was elementary when he frequently proclaimed to be a misogynist. But we 'guys' noticed the spark of romance in him when he blushed like a lovesick foolish lad whenever he met 'Ma Bally'. But wait a sec, don’t you believe the bad 'guys' rumour that he had ever engaged Daddy Bose as his postman.

Not every one is born with talent. Mr. Bloud's craving eyes revealed his patronising interest on each of us, his hard and tough training coupled with Hitler like shouts during our years of childhood through our moody adolescene to boyhood hatched us right out of our shells. As a teacher he was endowed with great gifts and a greater readiness to share them with us. In my facile mind Mr. Bloud like the eternal KanchanJunga still beckons. "Higher/Faster/Stronger/ and "keep the VS. flag flying".

In a cricket match between Victoria and St. Josephs in 1959. Victoria was put to bat to score 95 to win. But the umpire, Mr. Moss of St. Joseph's rejected two clean outs. Kanchan Rana's slow right arm breaker which ensured a break of twenty inches got the batsman out of balance and he gave a straight drive to Kanchan who dived to catch the ball neatly but with his back to the umpire. The umpire looked sky-wards disdainfully. But Mr. Brajen Bhattacherjee, V.S. side leg umpire pointed his finger heaven-wards. The bowler side umpire ruled "its decision and not the leg umpire's. He is not out".

Victoria's wicket keeper, Paddy was ill. Kumar Samit Roy was the replacement and it was his maiden first eleven match, he was basically a crazy footballer. But to start with, Victoria's fourth wicket perished for sixteen runs when Kanchan Rana and yours truly were at the crease. Both put up a semblance of resistance taking up the score from even sixteen to an odd of forty nine when St. Joseph's fast bowler Zalil delivered an in-swinger and Kanchan tried a forward drive only to miss. The wicket keeper dived and the ball got glued to his gloves. There was a simultaneous appeal from the wicket keeper and the bowler, for a caught out. The umpire from V.S. side with a spot consultation with the leg umpire, Mr. Moss dismissed the appeal. Kanchan merrily walked towards the umpire with his usual oily smile and said "Sir, it chipped my bat alright, I am out". Other side players including me stood agape. V.S. side umpire Mr. Brajen Bhattacharjee came to me with a confidential whisper "was it that necessary to be a Sporting Sam at this crucial time, furthermore. I see no girls to cheer up that hero". St. Joseph's indignant umpire, Mr. Moss commented "if that kid tried to pay me back with my own coin, it was a good try".

Kanchan's show distinctly revealed a Victorian spirit that satisfies the thirst of sportsmen. At V.S., we have imbibed that spirit and lived by it.

The game again had a poetic justice when Victoria wrecked havoc. Kumar Samit Roy came in as fifth down and kept me company for two hours with his score at zero. It was the last over and seven runs were needed to win, when the V.S. batsman celebrated two let-offs with two consecutive fours off the fast bowler Zalil.

In 1957, Mahammedan Sporting, I.F.A. League winners came up to Victoria after defeating Jalpaiguri by 14-0 and Darjeeling District by 6-0.

Though Victoria goalkeeper lanky Pranab Roy made four brilliant saves. Kurseong XI lost by 3 - 1. Our Prajwalla Shumsher scored the goal for Kurseong. Following a goal mouth lob by our left half Madhukar Rana, Prajwalla came from no-where, dribbled past the Olympian Ahmed Hussain, flicked the ball up and despatched a crisp volley into the net leaving the custodian Ahmed Akhter flat-footed. All bonds are not covalent or inseparable. Nor is trust easily gained or retained. All Victorians at the core had such trusts and bonds that still remains within them. Then too, there were drops of vitriol when the "house matches started".

In a football house match between Mallory and Irvine in 1956, the proceedings were made rough by Subir Ray (Maddy) and Chong of Mallory. Half miler, the late Tripti Jung Thapa of Kellas, was the referee.

The cacophony of shrieks, screams, whistles, cat calls and whoops from the fist waving fiery Mallory 'guys', made the play field like a war field.

As the game ended, Chong rushed to the referee and started pummelling him. That sparked off fist flights all over the ground. Although the Kellas House Master, the late Matindra Roy, brought the fight under control, the matter was sneaked to the H.M., Mr. Robert Martin Muir, who ordered immediate expulsions of Chong, Maddy Ray and U.K. Roy. This was withdrawn on the fervent appeal of Mr. Matindra Roy and the referee, Tripti Thapa, who said, "nothing much had happened". But the three culprits were suspended from the field for the whole year. Mr Matindra Roy faced a similar problem in a '58 hockey house match between Mallory and Kellas.

Madhukar Rana of Mallory and Sailen Chatterjee of Kellas had been intimate classmates since childhood. But both were fighting for the.'Cock House' and the match was the turning point for both the houses.

Suddenly, Sailen chopped the ball hitting Madhukar straight on the head and soon Madhukar took Sailendra on his left and swung his stick right Into Sailen's chest. The game was at once stopped by Matindra Roy who opined that "house matches can't be more important than friendship."

But, to any Victorian, his 'House' was above all.

I still remember the late Mrs Green, and her voice that sparkled like the glassy waters of Pagla Jhora rippling gaily over pebbles and sand. How she conveyed the right texture of delight that made "The Jungle Book," come alive like never before and rarely after. How she produced wonderful word pictures with her graphic and colourful descriptions as she brought before us. "Black Beauty," calling "Come along Lassie! Come a long!" Sadly, her golden voice will enthral us no more.

On the outset of the monsoons how gleefully we fashioned miniature race-boats. Down the drain that flowed from Mr. Bloud's quarters to our Library went our "Cambridge Oxford" boat race.

As the gleam of sunshine streamed to light up the foggy class rooms, "A Sun-Shine holiday' was announced before we demanded it.

Off we went, with a pinch of salt to repel leeches from our socks, chasing butterflies, stalking squirrels, our voices brimming with laughter, our slight figures flitting about between the trees hunting for beatles; spotting the Rajalals and Ranipilis with our catapults on the full stretch.

Still I remain with my Victorian ways, my heritage still embraces the man of eloquence the late P.C. Gupta's dazzling diction, articulation and his narration of 'The Robe' or "Sink the Bismarck".

My heritage still embraces the Hollywood stars like Gary Cooper, Stewart Granger, Gene Kelly, Glenn Ford, Liz Taylor and the prettiest of all, Ava Gardner. I still hear songs of Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, Harry Belafonte, Bill Halley, Alma Cogan, Doris Day and Connie Francis.

I feel that the aim of the Cambridge brotherhood in sponsoring Victoria in 1878 was to produce more obedient subjects to serve Her Majesty, their constructive missionary activity was to bring the intellectual and social atmosphere of the 'Cam Side' up the unmapped tracks of Darjeeling hills. The British have an enviable reputation for their commitment to the cause of education. Their thoughts towards education are like good seeds. The lamp they lit in Victoria has lit a thousand lamps. Then why did Victoria force us to speak only in English? A language cannot be mastered easily or quickly and requires 24 hours practice. English is the only language that brings various threads of our world together, the language in which I can speak to my Nepalese or Chinese or Burmese friends, the language that enables me to function in Madras or in Bombay or in Belgrade or even in Timbuktoo. The language that is serving me right now to express the complexity of that multi-form Victorian experience better than my mother tongue. The language that had eternally fostered a semblance in diversity. In most schools, students are taught to answer the questions. In a few schools students are taught to question the questions. Victorians were taught to question the questions.

Perhaps that’s how Victoria influenced many of its students fundamentally, gave them the basic faith and confidence in all inclusive, free thinking culture, helped shape their mind and the frequent floggings enhanced their endurance, which was needed in a future India of apathetic millions and to accept all hardships. These have inevitably made the students what they are later in life, as a Jolly good fellow, as the Army Chief, as a Home Secretary, as a Sports Journalist, as a Ranji Trophy player, as the Chakma Chief, as a Jumbo Jet Captain, as a Ship's Captain and a crafty organisor, as a Doctor, as an Engineer, as a Leather Goods Exporter, as a printing and packaging expert, even as the Head of a Nation. Victoria produced such high calibre students, that they form a solid network in any sphere of life anywhere in the world, which any Victorian can choose to draw from. Friendship in Victoria meant one soul in two separate bodies. And no wonder in the 'Bogs', how the Chineese, Sikhs, Nepalese, Bhutias, Tibetians, Mohamadan's, Europeans, Siamese, Burmese, Christians, Hindus and Bangladeshis chatted to each other, sharing one anothers joys and sorrows over the puff of a 'fag' is now unthinkable not only in our Assemblies but also in the U.N.O. .

Whenever, I land in Kathmandu even during a heavy pour a Kanchan Rana will be there to receive me with his usual oily smile.

Last year while in Dhaka, over the phone I spoke to our Kumar Samit Roy, Raja of Chittagagong hill tracks after thirty three years. K. S. and B. D. Mukherjee rushed to meet me and took me out to dinner in a five star hotel followed by a royal dinner at his residence the following day. I quote K.S.'s letter dated October 10, 1995. "How overwhelmingly we were engulfed by nostalgia. It was real fun traveling down these thirty three years of memory lane recollecting events and friends many of whom are dead and gone by now."

Who can forget the beautiful playing fields against the back drop of conifer trees and the snows of Kanchanjunga and of course 'Choach' with his hand resting on the iron rails just above the ‘PAV’ calling out in his only too familiar voice "Keep your length Tekka, don’t play the fool Kanchi, don’t play that cross batted 'Jharoo Maro' Bhatta!"

Or sitting on the 'Khud' against the western wall and shouting "going...... going........ gone." Ten more days to go home and finally Handsome's dinner bell summoning us to eat his 'Kala cuts' or 'Doll Jacks'. I can still remember that innings in North Point, you playing the swash-buckling strokes and I holding my end. Those halcyon days will never come back again but I do not think any of us can ever forget V.S.".

The entire credit goes to the institution, to its sincere teachers, its loyal matrons, the nurses and the bearer’s unswerving loyalty. They all treated us like God's children on a visit to this earthly hill.

Chips off the old block are no more, last of the Mohicans was the late Motindra Roy, an earthly providence, for his genius was like the sun's rays which pierced the clouds of ignorance with the light of his analytical mind. Do we not today lack men of such integrity, loyalty and zeal? Whenever I see the silvery moon on a starry night of June, I see my departed teachers and friends in the milky way. If I wish to seek help from them, I seem to get into. But our Carl Alfred Bloud is not in the stars. After his retirement, he got sick of his long sojourn in Calcutta. Being in acute penury, he finally decided to pack up and return home. 'Home' for him meant Victoria. In the Roman Catholic Church [Anglican Church? johnf], Victoria, being oblivious to the impending tragedy, our Kanchan Rana met Mr. Bloud in the last throes of his colourless death. He slipped away in the wee hours of one fine morning in 1978.

There was no wreath, there was no requiem, there was no Victorian to recite the poetic line he taught, "Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note." After all, he taught us once, "The path of glory leads but to the grave." He was interred near the filth of the V. S. septic tank where he still remains, devoid of any attachment, liberated for ever, all his actions, sacrifices, and his mortal remains dissolved in the Victorian soil.

WHERE

The mind Is without fear and the head is held high,

where knowledge is free,

where the world has not been broken up into fragments of narrow walls,

where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection,

where the clear stream of perfection has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit,

where the mind is led forward by 'THEE"Into ever widening thought and action into the heaven of

freedom. "

Let the hill's loving hands keep the grass lush and green over his grave. Let the rambling roses and raspberries bloom and grow around it. Let the breeze of our hills whisper non stop lullabies and ballads of our so beloved Carl Alfred Bloud whom we all miss so much and at all times. And with him what else do we miss ? The Doll-Jacks, Kala-Cuts, the cream covered jelly puddings, socials, Mag-Sulph and the traditions over the years. The wailing. wind scattering the last brown leaf of the Calender Tree. Examinations over, boxes packed, farewell dinner. The outgoing 'gang' with stuttering thanks and long pauses while delivering the "farewell speech." An awesome ordeal when the circuit of one's heart gets fused. With the rising flames of the 'Bonfire' the voices shattering the quiet of the hills. The time for the last song, on the last night of the school.Cocoa with rockcakes consumed with gusto. The melody of Auld Lang Syne dwindles with the twelve foot 'Bonfire', to ashes.

Some snoppers (?); going up to the 'longs' to conclude the 'rough and tough' for their grievances accrued during the year. The last morning, farewell visits paid to 'first dorm,' first class room, first or last desk for somewhere, inside or out, his name is engraved. After Lunch at the stroke of 12.30, the "going home bell" tolling out all its blues. Lining up for the, roll calls and then rolling down the "Camels Hump.' Echoes hitting the ear drums "

Riding down from VS

Upon the Bourgeoisie style

After nine month's mugging

It takes out all our fat.

The toy train gathering speed, the wheels taking up their songs, tiny carriages groaning and shaking, Tuckmen Gaffur and Intab on their last hust for their debtors. The Headmaster and the members of the staff waving 'farewell.'

The S. C. boys running along the toy train and gradually losing their speed, their tears enough to flood 'Balasan,' hearts beating like jungle drums, clothes drenched in sweat, remorseful sighs, the silence more eloquent than words like "So long!" or "farewell."

The dwindling and disappearance of the outgoing 'guys'.

Going! Going! Gone !

In the Dictionary, there are many sad words that cause a tear. In Victoria the saddest word was " Goodbye."

In this traditional way when I left Victoria all the loneliness in the world pressed upon my heart, as around every corner, every hill, a new wonder awaited and the heady fragrance of our century old Criptomerias swaying in the breeze was aromatic any time of the year.

Imperceptibly thirty-five years glided away and I feel too scared going down the 'Khud,' for there are no old friends to hold my hand if I go tumbling down. Many faces have vanished. The last one was Ashoke Gupta, plucked in the bud by the cruel hand of fate. Many voices have been stilled. Memory is something that no one can steal. But our Association is awake. Let us keep the values and traditions that enshrined our "QUO LUX' DUCIT" long long ago.