One of the perils of suffering from the third and final stage of Wodehousitis is that wherever you may be and whatever mischief you may be up to, allusions to Plum’s characters and situations lurk just around the corner.
Recently, I had the opportunity of visiting the historic city of Allahabad (or Prayagraj, as it is known these days) in the northern part of India. The couple who took the risk of hosting me were cast in the mould of Angela and Tuppy Glossop. Having sunk all their differences over sharks, they had long since settled down to a state of matrimonial bliss. They were the epitome of hospitality, fussing over me and pampering me no end. Three times a day, the lavish spreads on offer made Greed win over Prudence, as they say. Trips to exotic locales in the city were meticulously planned and executed. All the itineraries inevitably included stopovers at joints famous for their importance, whether in terms of geography, history, culture, or those offering a lip-smacking variety of street foods, sweets, and savouries.
Sangam, the renowned confluence of three rivers – the Ganges, the Yamuna, and the mythical Saraswati – made one wonder if students at Allahabad University ever organize boat-racing nights there, eventually depriving some of the rozzers on duty of their caps or helmets. Also, after every twelve/six years, when a religious congregation of millions of persons happens, whether someone like Ukridge runs a syndicate which encourages people to bet on the percentage of dysfunctional public toilets in the area.
The city also boasts of haing been the capital of India for a single day.
A friend like Rev. Aubrey Upjohn, who happens to be a senior faculty member at Allahabad University, offered to drive me around the campus. He was accompanied by his illustrious elder brother who practices at the local High Court and is also a former student of the University. The latter proved to be a treasure trove of the institution’s glorious past. While passing by the English Department, which was once headed by such a literary stalwart as Harivansh Rai Bachchan, one’s head simply bowed in reverence.
When passing by an iconic coffee house in the Civil Lines area, one is told of the small room in its corner which used to play the role of the Drones Club where famous literary figures of yore would meet up and exchange ideas of books and poems to be unleashed upon the unsuspecting public.
While driving past the majestic High Court building, one wonders if a beak as prominent as Sir Watkyn Bassett would be dishing out harsh sentences to some criminals inside its hallowed precincts. If so, one pities the latter who, despite having mentioned false identities, might still be meekly shuffling their feet.
While watching a sound and light show which highlighted, inter alia, the supreme sacrifice made by one of India’s freedom fighters, one wonders if either Roderick Spode or Stilton Cheesewright had ever heard of him.
When visiting Anand Bhavan, the ancestral residence of the Nehru family and the place which played a crucial role in India’s fight for independence from British rule, one comes across a room where Mahatma Gandhi used to stay when visiting the place. One shudders to think of the outcome for India if the British had ever conspired to entice him there with a good juicy steak, followed by roly-poly pudding and a spot of Stilton, possibly nipping his movement of civil disobedience in bud.
Of course, the icing on the cake was a meeting with Ma and Pop Stoker who happen to live in the city. Just like yours truly, the latter happens to be not only a Plum fan but also a movie enthusiast. Both were gracious enough to call on me and discuss matters of mutual interest.
Pop Stoker is done with the Telecommunications stream of the Indian Air Force. He has had a jolly good time there, especially because, unlike the other ‘arms’ of Indian army, which happen to have more of a stiff-upper-lip temperament, the air force believes in keeping its tribe happier. It does so by according ‘Humour’ a remarkably high priority. This would perhaps explain his fascination with the antics of Jeeves, Bertie, Ukridge, Lord Emsworth, and the rest of them. As and when he can tear himself away from Plum’s oeuvre, he loves spending his time goggling at divas like Sophia Lauren, Julie Andrews, Audrey Hepburn, Julia Roberts, Drew Barrymore, and Meryl Streep on the screen. Having settled down in the sylvan surroundings of Chuffnell Hall, he and his wife have a large heart, generously offering to host even lesser mortals like yours truly at their place.
Ma Stoker has not really been an avid Wodehouse reader herself. But matrimony comes with associated perils. She is not immune to the moments when her husband is spotted variously chuckling, guffawing and, to use a modern illusion, rolling on the floor with laughter. Investigations conducted at these junctures do keep popping up Wodehousean passages as chief suspects. And she excels at that profound quality found in the better or bitter halves of devoted readers, without which the very pursuit of reading would be rendered impossible – indulgence. She indulges Pop Stoker as he reads and tolerates him even as he sometimes reads aloud to her. It was this sterling indulgence, supplemented by a dash of feminine curiosity, which had brought her to size me up.
Both happen to be proud parents of Pauline and Emerald. Pauline assists a large conglomerate in her capacity as an Instruction Designer. Since she has landed a desk job, it is not clear if she still expects her loved ones to swim a mile before breakfast and then proceed to play five sets of tennis post-lunch. Perhaps her dynamism now manifests itself in the virtual world. It is also not known if she is fond of wearing heliotrope pyjamas, whether borrowed from a friend or bought online.
Emerald is training to be a lawyer with an institute of eminence. One is not aware if she ever lost a bet on the racing tracks and had to work as a cook to cover up the losses. She could be one of those soothing, sympathetic legal eagles a wannabe litigant could take her troubles to, confident of having her hand held and her head patted, restoring her faith in our judicial system.
When persons known to one from social media pop up thus in flesh and blood, it is a refreshing experience to talk to them over a piping hot cup of tea and a couple of fresh samosas, duly organised by my genial hosts.
It defies one’s imagination to believe that a city like Allahabad which boasts of a rich literary heritage hosts only a single fan of Wodehouse. I am reasonably certain that there are quite a few others. However, they hide themselves well.
Plum was not much off the mark when he said that “There is no surer foundation for a beautiful friendship than a mutual taste in literature.” With due apologies to him, one gets tempted to add fine arts and movies as well to his assertion.
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