Martha is Getting Married

January 23, 1953

Dear Martha,

You are going to be Mrs. Morrise on the 14th of February. I’d give a lot to be able to see you married, Martha. I can hardly believe it is happening. When I come home this fall you will already be an old married woman of eight or nine months. Won’t that be funny?

I know you are really busy and excited about now…and you won’t have time to think of writing to me. You are pretty good usually about writing, but you haven’t given me many details on your wedding plans. About all I know is that it is set for the 14th and that Mother is going down, and possibly daddy.

I want to know where the wedding is, and what you are going to wear, and what kind of a wedding it is, and who all is there, and just everything. If I were getting married I would probably be writing you all the gruesome little details.

I am very happy for you. It isn’t so sudden, I guess, but it seems like time had just flown by. When I was home you had only just met Jess a few weeks before and had started getting his first letters. Remember how we kidded you when you would get two or three letters at a time? Then I went away and you were so busy writing to him every night that only once in a blue moon did I hear from you, and then it was Christmas and I had a card from Jess, and probably put it in my “to be answered” pile, and all of a sudden it was Christmas again and he went home. Everyone at home assumed I would know what was going on from the next guy and I assumed from rather round about information that you were engaged. Letters from home kept referring to him in an off-hand way, like he already was one of the family. And at last you came through with a concrete bit of information - an engagement! Vacations! Quitting your job! Calif. bound! and no plans for the wedding yet. Now all of a sudden it’s set for the 14th of February - and here it is the 14th, almost!

Ann is growing up and busily dating; I thought she was 15 and now she tells me she is 16. Vic has turned into a music maestro. Bob and Cathy have a little one …. things at home are happening just too fast for me to keep track of. My Christmas card from Tommy Moore tells me he is also engaged with a date sometime in 1954.

Catching Up with Alan

January 13, 1953

Dear Alan:

I received your letter the same day as the one with letters for C.B.. Besides being disgustingly easy to read, your letter was most entertaining. I laughed and laughed -esp about your art gum eraser trip to Dacca. Perhaps you should type your letters more often.

C.B. is quite the boy. I was going to send your dice with him, but he’s sticking around longer than I expected and I don’t want them to travel all over South East Asia before reaching you, so I’ll send them today. Crowell thought he might be able to work his way a bit further around the world with them, he’s such a good liar.

All of a sudden Mannie is all inspired to take a trip to the Assam area. Was it your letter? He seems to think he might see some women who are not fully clothed. If Schmo hears about this he’ll be on the next plane. Schmo and the kid make a great pair, and you can imagine what the conversation around here is like. It gets to be a habit.

And speaking of trips, Barb and I are going to approach Teg today about possibly taking time off together in February for a South India trip. I’m sure it will be thumbs down -darn it. Mannie is talking about going too. ‘Twould be fun. Possibly you could join us somewhere? We thought we wouldn’t leave for the Assam area until next fall. We ought to get to Colombo while it’s nice. Everyone comes back raving.

Are you getting a new job as you expected? I presume you are still tres busy. You might write to Helen. She is pretty cheerful lately, but she was a very sick girl for awhile. She’d enjoy an added ray of sunshine in her long bed-ridden days. Her room is the gathering place of it all. Usually always has a room full of people in the evening——playing chess, usually. Had three boards going one night.

I played a couple of games with Baker and beat him and then he suddenly developed a genius for checkmating me in a ridiculously low number of moves.

I received the society page of the Idaho Daily Statesman yesterday, with a pic of my sis announcing her engagement and coming wedding - the 14th of February - Valentine bride. Also got a letter and pics of her and her guy. Can hardly believe it.

Barb and I were invited out to the DGC the other night to celebrate Russian New Years with WBWW and friends, the daughter of the Canadian High Commissioner, the daughter of the Commander-in-Chief of the Indian Navy, the daughter of the Philippine Ambassador and Parhadi Utomo and his girl, Juliette - also the A.D.C. of the C0In-C (?) of Navy, another Naval officer and an Iraq Embassy guy. We invited Morna Reid, the Canadian girl, to come with us the next night to see an Indian dance program put on by Mrs. Shridharani’s group - but things got fouled up and when we went out to pick her up she wasn’t home….. but we were glad because the program wasn’t too good - too amateur, too much straight singing and instrumental music. It was out in Daryganj. We sat upstairs in a balcony and spent our time watching the crowd, which in turn watched us. We had spaghetti at Mannie’s after. Schmo, Mannie, C.B., Barb and I.

Mrs. Butt left the other day….crying bitter tears Mannie said. The Grey’s are back. Haven’t seen them but once. They looked very happy. I forgot and said, “Well, Mr. Butt, how are you.”

Played a rousing game of badminton the other day with the kid. He’d stand in the middle of the court and reach out and gracefully return the birdie every time without ever taking a step, and I was running frantically all over the court. Have a sore leg and shoulder today.

When do you get descended upon by the little people? I can just see you changing diapers, etc.

Things have quieted down a lot here. I fully intended to go into retreat after New Years and not go out anywhere for two weeks, at least, but things kept coming up and since I’m just a girl who can’t say no… I haven’t managed to make it to bed before midnight but once. Baker is as much of a night owl as I - if not worse.

Did Mannie send you some of the pics we took on our pic taking tour? Come to think of it, I guess you had your own. I forget whether you had them developed here or not. How did they come out? Christmas time was so much darn fun. Can’t remember when I’ve been so happy in Delhi - unless it was around the 4th of July last year. We’ve sorta gotten used to our group as it is now, without you. It’s a little sad that the empty space that you left has gotten filled in so easily and in such a short time. I thought we’d always go around looking lost and sad because we missed you, like when you first left. It was so dramatic. Nothing to be dramatic about now. Wish you were back. Liked us as we used to be better - but Schmo’s a good addition. Love him. C.B.’s one of us now. Gad but I’m windy.

Got a bunch of extra X’s and O’s. Again I say, I wish you were here.

Be good. Love,

DPet (penciled in)

She Loses Her Jewelry a Lot

AmEmb - N. Delhi

The 2nd day of Happy New Year - 1953

Dear Alan

Happy New Year!

Your liars dice will be with your friend, Crowell Baker. In the meantime we’ve been rolling a few and he’s such a good liar that I must admit that he has won 22 buttons and a walnut from me.

This set is better than the Joe Krene set. Real fancy genuine pig skin cup with lid.

New Year’s Eve was for the birds. WBWW didn’t show at Mannie’s so we went on out to Maidens about 10:30 and he didn’t show there. We had the foremost center table - the lovely five of us until Rudy Shaw, who was there in another party came and joined us ….. So Barb was dancing with him, I with Mannie and Parhadi with his India girlfriend, Juliette. Peter finally called about 12:45 and rushed over. He had been sleeping since five in the afternoon. The silly goof wasn’t kidding either. He couldn’t get his eyes open until about 2:00. In the violent struggle for balloons Miss Tragedy of 1952 (yours truly) lost both of her diamond earrings. I didn’t realize it until the Mgr came up to our table with someone’s earring and said, “Did someone lose this.” I automatically felt my ears and gasped, “I didn’t lose that but I lost both of mine.” They were returned to me, one of them smashed badly and with two stones missing.

Anyway we left the Maidens about 2:30 and Peter and I went over to see what was happening at the Imperial. They had fabulous decorations there. Got to bed about 4:00, completely sober. Peter’s a funny guy. A stupendous dud in a dozen ways that you’re terrific…but a certain combination of the two of you,…..well! Do you suppose anybody ever meets their ideal?

The Nelms’ had a nice hangover party. Schmo and Crowell, Lil Isn’t-she-clever Godnek and I went shopping yesterday afternoon and I bought your dice and then I had them and Mannie over for dinner. Poor Mannie is in a bad way. His eyes pain him so badly he can’t look down. He had to meet the plane last night and stayed home this morning. He had the two boys and me in for lunch today and was going to see the Dr. this a.m.. I hope he doesn’t have jaundice. He looks like he might.

Helen is still feeling pretty bad. She has lots of visitors. Maryella and friends woke her up at 1:00 New Year’s Eve with a basket of candy, and some noise makers, hats and a live pigeon. She had them put the pigeon in the bathroom and in the morning found a few messes and let it out the window. She’s in a pretty good mood and her room has become the congregating place. I think we tire her out too much though.

I really quite enjoy writing to you. This isn’t the long letter I mentioned. I wrote that one and it was a masterpiece - but wisely I let it sit for a couple of days. I am fairly eloquent when I get a typewriter under my fingers sometimes. I think I waxed too much in this one, so I’ll shelve it. Some day when it won’t possibly make any difference to either of us, I’ll send it to you - just for your amusement. Guess I’ll remain cryptic for now.

Lots of Love

DPet (in penciled cursive)

P.S. Guess you know you’re my very favorite person and I hope we’ll be real good laughing intimate friends forever.

P.S. again. I don’t think I thanked you enough, or ever could, for the terrific Christmas present. I love it to pieces. It’s like wearing a pure gold grand piano on your hat for all the conversation it invokes. I even get comments from the locals. I lost the pin yesterday and the driver found it.

New Year’s Eve 1953

On Tuesday evening I went to my Boss’ house for the evening but had to escape and make a dinner engagement at the Taj, and afterwards a game or two of bridge.

I had been invited to a New Year’s Eve dinner at the Maidens Hotel by Parhadi Utomo of the Indonesian Embassy. He also asked Mannie and Barbara and Peter Wilson, a Navy Lt.. His date was a south Indian girl. The hotel was decorated gaily, and they had all the conventional big hotel props – party hats, balloons hanging from the ceiling, confetti, noise makers, floor show, a big clock telling the time and a lighted up 1953 at midnight. The first time I’ve ever been to a big commercial New Year’s Eve party like that. In the fray at midnight I lost my rhinestone earrings and they were badly trampled underfoot. One of them was minus three stones when returned. It was rather funny though, because I didn’t realize that I had lost them until the Manager came to our table with someone else’s earring and asked if any of us had lost it. I automatically felt my ears and cried out, “No but I’ve lost both of mine!” which amused my companion greatly, since no event takes place but what I lose something or other. We left the hotel about 2:00 and went back to New Delhi and Peter and I went to the Imperial Hotel to see what was going on. It was even bigger and more fabulous. At midnight they even released a bunch of pigeons.

The day after New Year’s Eve was a ‘hang-over’ party, at which I made an appearance, although I didn’t fit the category. I had four kids at my place for dinner that night. On Friday I was dead, and I hit the hay almost as soon as I got home from work. Saturday, I watched another football game, where the Marines beat the Admin. Section (which has an ex-professional man on their team). My friend ken, and another Marine and his wife and I all went to a show “Robin Hood” and had dinner at their place and played bridge again.

I thought I’d stay home all-day Sunday and start on these letters, but my place is like Grand Central station and it was no use. I was finally talked into another game of bridge and didn’t get farther in my stay-home-and-work project than to get all the junk out of my closet. So, the bearer put it back. Again.

There is a kid in town who went to Princeton with Alan. He’s been over a lot and he insisted on taking me to dinner last night and although we ate early, I still didn’t get started because Jim Grigsby dropped by my room and started telling us all about his New Year’s 10-day vacation staying with the Maharaja of Indore. He did some hunting and their party got a tiger, two leopards, a blue bull and a lot of other miscellaneous game.  Jim really had a fabulous time there. The Maharaja’s wife is an American and they have a lovely palace. I have met them. In fact, I have been in the same dinner party with His Highness. I went with Jim to dinner at Harold Milks’ (he is the Associated Press Man here) not long ago. The Maharaja was there. In fact, after dinner he politely tried to help a nice lady with her chair and took her so by surprise that she lost her balance and fell flat on her behind. The Maharaja is a funny looking guy. He has a beautiful, full Indian daughter. She is heiress to his fortune. She’s 18 and has spent sixteen years in America and two in London except for short periods visiting in India. She wears the Indian dress here, though, and has quite a time keeping up the traditions of an Indian girl, especially a princess.

Christmas Time

Chirstmas Eve one of the girls had 20 kids in for a lovely party. She had gone to a lot of trouble. We exchanged draw-name gifts and she had one for each of us, and also stockings. She had a lovely goose and plum pudding dinner and we even heard Lionel Barrymore read the Christmas Carol. Then at midnight I went to midnight mass at the Episcopal church with Alan, Mannie, and another girl.

Five of my special friends had brought all their gifts from home to my place and they were packed under the tree. So Christmas morning an hour before the other guests arrived we gathered there and opened our presents. I had a nice fire going and it was real Christmas morning-ish. I thought my things from home were wonderful. I especially appreciated the bridge cards and note cards, etc. That was a terrific selection and something I certainly will get a lot of fun and use out of. Also the socks are coming in mighty handy. I may even have to you ask you to hide a pair or two in your letters a little later. I only have two pair left. We don’t wear stockings at all in the summer but now that it’s cold I wear them at night when I go out. Still don’t have to wear them to work, thank gosh.

Gee it was good to have some real American candy. My guests devoured a box that morning and the other row have long since gone. I haven’t used the cherries yet. The Hatfields sent me a nylon slip. I was pretty well stocked up on slips and nylon never wears out, even with the hard dobhi wear, but it was very pretty and I’ll certainly use it. I also got some nice scarves and jewelry from my friends, the prize of which was Alan’s gift to me. He got one of the huge slave bracelets from Orissa, silver. It’s about four inches wide. Creates a mild sensation when I wear it. I’m crazy about it.

Our breakfast lasted until about 2:00 and from there I went with Alan and Mannie to visit different Embassy people around town and we finally ended up about six for dinner at another Taj girl’s place and after dinner to a show, “Where’s Charley.”

The next evening Mannie had about 40 people in to a big dinner party in the Taj lounge. It was in honor of two of the kids who got married on the 29th. On Saturday I went over and watched the Marine guards play football with the TCA team and had dinner and went to another show “Son of Paleface” with one of the Marines who I have been dating quite a bit lately.-Ken Parrish.

Next day was the wedding. Everyone was working on it. We made the bridal and bridesmaid bouquets. The wedding was in the Catholic Church and the reception at the Gymkhana Club. It was a real pukah (especially nice) wedding with all the trimmings. The two boys and I had dinner afterwards in another girl’s room. Alan left the next morning at 7:00 via plane. Mannie and I got up and saw him off. After work that day I went to Old Delhi with the new boy who I call Schmo (Frank Schmeltzer) and a kid who is travelling around the world in a rather leisurely fashion. We visited the old copper shops and bargained with the shopkeepers by candle light. David bought a lovely old samovar and we didn’t discover until the next day that it was soldered so it’s a stand. The boys bought some turned-up-toes shoes and we went through the Ivory mart and tried to get into the Jumma Mosjid (a mohammedin mosque). (This is the mosque she is photographed outside of on the home page of this blog.)

A Trip to the Holy City of Banaras

December 1952

I recently took a short, three day trip to the holy city of Banaras, where Hindus from all over India and southeast Asia come to bathe in the holy water of the Ganges River. We had a very National Geographic-ish trip up and down the waterfront in a govt motor launch (glorified row boat) and took lots of pictures. We saw the Chinese, Burmese and Japanese temples and the place where old Buddha himself used to sit and contemplate his navel. We also, out of politeness to our good host and guide, suffered through practically every mile of the 28 miles of Banaras University’s roads in a bumpy dusty jeep.

The nicest part of the trip was the morning we were leaving. Mannie and I got up before sunrise and went down again to the river to watch the sun rise and see the early morning activity of the waterfront. We walked all up and down watching the Sadhus in their saffron robes or sack cloth with their faces white with ashes and their rope-like hair, sitting in front of their little fires; watching the many people of all ages, sizes and shapes taking their baths in the holy water of the Ganges, along side the burning ghats were half burned bodies are thrown into the river for the turtles to finish, along side the washermen upstream who beat their clothes on the rocks and lay them to dry on the dirty bank; along side the other people who are brushing their teeth in the river water. Everything goes on along the banks of the Ganges - but have a drink. The water is holy and therefore pure. In fact tales are often told of the water being tested many times and always ringing pure. I brought home a small bottle of water to have it tested by our analyst, but haven’t done so. I probably crossed myself up by using an old vitamin pill bottle.

It’s lovely and picturesque and crowded and horrible all at once. The temples rearing their head on the brink of the river, one of them long since sinking to its doom, now with water lapping against the facades of the dome once majestic structure; the holy cows wandering freely among the crowds; the multitudes of cripples, diseased and dirty beggars who swarm the steps; the hawkers with their vegetable and fruit and sweet stands; the hawkers who sell Sadhu beads, one of whom made a sale here; the lazy river rolling ceaselessly by, wide and deep and peaceful, and long long ago endowed with purity from the Gods; all these things made it more than a short, hurried, costly and mostly uncomfortable trip.

At the hotel we found the usual large, rather bare looking room, big pots of charcoal cinders for heat, hot water carried in by hand, and the always dependable British cooked meals that taste mostly of mutton fat. The snake charmers put on a show and we watched a mongoose on a death struggle with a cobra. Other performers came and turned cartwheels and climbed long, long flexible poles which they had dug into the ground and from the top of which they struck precarious and fantastically dangerous looking poses.

Short Letter to the Folks

November 28th, 1952

Dear Folks,

Just a note to say I thought of home on Thanksgiving day and hoped you were having a nice time. About 14 of us went together and had a lovely big dinner, with Turkey, at Joe Krene’s house. We had pumpkin pie and sweet potatoes and all kinds of nuts and fruits and everything. Mannie and I played a game of chess afterwards. That seemed like a Thanksgiving-ish thing to do.

The enclosed snap was taken in my room with a flash camera. I’m standing next to the fireplace mantle and that’s my Dancing Shiva. You can’t see too well, but it has four arms, a cobra goes off to one side, surrounded by flame, standing on a little baby that’s supposed to be an evil spirit. It’s one of the better known pieces. I have a very nice one.

Anyone heard from Martha lately? I presume she’s in sunny Calif. I owe her a letter……I’m in the throes of getting my Christmas letters written. I’m trying to do a short one to everyone and hope it makes up for the many I owe.

I have started visiting the dentist. He filled two teeth the other day and lightly polished off my front tooth with the chip so that it isn’t noticeable anymore. Monday I’m going to have my two upper wisdom teeth pulled. I have a very good dentist.

Now that the winter season is here I’m having continual fights with my closet again. Just don’t have anything to wear. There is a constant stream of parties and places to go and it’s not hard to run out of things to wear. Scottie brought back from the States a nylon net skirt, two layers pleated, the under one green, the top one blue. Also a piece of blue velveteen for a blouse. I bought it from her and am having the blouse made now. I bought another one from her and had it shortened into a short formal, which is also being fixed - so that will help.

I just haven’t much to say. so bye.

Dorothy

The Carnival

Wednesday, October 26th 1952

Dear Alan,

Scottie teletyped you today about their leaving. I guess it is pretty definite about their being transferred to Rangoon and they are all excited. Scottie is still building on her wardrobe. Barb and I had another chance to say “Pig Pig Pig” at her again today. She blossomed out in another new bedspread dress. She just now came in with a pile of stamped airmail envelopes which she is going to address to herself in the States so Jacob can write her twice a month about how Hammie is getting along.

I hardly had a chance to miss you at the Carnival. It was a fiasco. Thousands and thousands of people, every booth so crowded that it was sheer folly to try to get into one. The crowd was rather unruly, too. Kept stealing money off the gambling tables and cheating. In spite of everything, however, they made around Rs. 50,000, about twice as much as last year. Scottie’s dursi dreamed up some devil’s outfits for us. Short skirts, red helmets with horns, a tail, and we wore long red leggings and red Punjab shoes, carried a pitchfork. Barbara made my face up with eyebrow pencil until I couldn’t recognize myself, even. I had more fun being incognito. Our bar made the second most money - second to the food bar which had a lot of expenses that we didn’t, so we might have even been first. The square dance went off o.k. once they got started, but the crowd had to wait about half hour while they located Mrs. Becker and then the phonograph wouldn’t work. I forced myself to watch all the way through Dive For The Oyster, but left in the middle of the Virginia Reel. I didn’t see any of the rest of the program. Joe Krene and Hi Howard looked terrific. Hi had gotten Turkish trousers and vest outfit made of blue satin. Joe had a beautiful outfit much like last years only more so. Barbara looked real cute too. She wore a blue skating outfit of Scotties, black high heel pumps and a little pill box cap. She carried a riding crop and looked like a cross between a monkey on a string, an usherette and a circus animal trainer.

The night before the Carnival, Ann Boyle had a costume party that was really a party. Bob Donald, the Swiss Hotel Mgr and another guy came in tux outfits, minus the pants. Barb and I were “Time to Retire” kids in nightgowns, long stocking caps and carrying candles, your red headed girlfriend and Paulie Ruffing were real cute pumpkins. Al Boyer was unrecognizable. Ken Parrish, too. There were about ten guys from Germany there in straight dress but everyone else was “fancy dress.” Tillotson and wife were the witchie woman in Charles Adams cartoons and the three armed man. She was terrific. They had some wicked drink they call “Sinful Skinful” which had almost everyone under the table before the party was over. I was all ready to drive Joe Krene and the Germany Wallah’s home until Joe revived a little at about 3:00 after some coffee at Dora Warren’s. He made it o.k. Barbara had gone home early in a cloud of misery because Joe was ignoring her again, and then Joe was bitter and said things like, It’s all her fault. It should be 50-50 and it has to be 75-25. So Barb swore off Joe again and said it wasn’t worth it and she wasn’t going to let him matter, and I said ha ha.

Anyway in an impulsive moment I told one of the Germany wallahs that I’d take him sight seeing next day so I wandered around Old Delhi with him taking pictures. Sun night Joe had us and Barb and Mannie and the Red Head and Scot and George out for spaghetti dinner. We got out her little wheel and I made a fist full of money (about Rs. 12/-) with a start of 7 annas.

Mannie and I and Charlie Potts and the Red Head went to see Charlie Chaplain in Monsieur Verdoux Monday night. It was very funny all the way through but for some silly reason I laughed the hardest at the place where he went to see the wealthy widow and sat down on the couch and rested his chin on his hand and his elbow slipped off the arm of the couch. (I keep wanting to put an “r” in couch.)

Jim says Honhonnoh. I don’t know what it means. Sounds like huho. Maybe he means just to tell you hello, but he’s got a cold; except that he spelled it for me.

The Red Head pulled a funny the other night at Joe’s. We were talking about people coughing and keeping other people awake. Gale Hargrove told Barb she could hear her coughing when actually it was Ellen Watlington. I said that Pat’s bronchitis was doing a good job of substituting for her cat when she’s in heat. (in pencil here she wrote in parentheses (the cat)) The Red Head said, “Now that Alan’s gone I’ve been able to sleep all night.”

Ben Hall and his wife are leaving tomorrow for Calcutta. He’s nice. If I have time I am going to get a package ready for him to take you. They are going to be staying in the Grand for awhile, too. I presume you are still there. Jim wants me to play badminton after work so I may not get it ready. If not it will go with Scot. This is only to arouse your curiosity.

I run these off so fast that I probably don’t make sense and they look like hell…. However, a letter’s a letter, I always say, except on Sunday’s when I go to visit my (who is it?).

I.S.M.Y.L.C.*

(cursively written in pencil)

DPet

*I Still Miss You Like Crazy

We Couldn’t Decide Whether it was a Horse, a Dog or a Pet Falcon.

Oct 21 1952

Dear Alan,

Mrs. Saxton sends you a big hug. She was very sorry to hear you had been transferred. Isn’t she terrific? The old man is still in Travincore. She had Ellen and John, Jim G and I for dinner and kept us entertained the whole time with her stories of London. She told us all about her son, Anthony, who is a great friend of the young King Hussain of Jordan at Harrow, and the weekend they spent together in London. And he told us about trying to comfort Ahmed’s wife in London. It seems he ran off with the wife of some Delhi Naval Officer and his poor wife, Billie, cries all the time and has lost three stones. Mrs. S and John make lively dinner conversationalists. They both know all the gossip of Delhi. You would have enjoyed it more that I because you are more apt to know the international social set of Delhi. I mostly just had vague ideas of who they were talking about.

We sat in the back yard for a little while, all bundled up in wool shawls. Mrs. S. ran in and got a torch and took us out in the back to explore an old tomb. It was a headstone that they had found hidden in a bunch of old leaves and brambles out behind a bougainvillea clump. It says: “To The Joyful Sinner of The Skies… (BUSH) Born January 26, 1934. Dies December 4, 1937. Happy Hunting Old Man.” We couldn’t decide whether it was a horse, a dog or a pet falcon.

We left rather early and Jim and I decided to run out and see what was going on at Tiki’s B’day party at Haus Kaus. On the way out we came upon an accident that had happened a few minutes before. The car was demolished. The driver, Hooper or Hopper or something like that (with the Coca Cola Co.) was wandering around the road on a daze with blood all over him, quite obviously drunk. He came over to the car and asked if anyone spoke English and wanted to know what had happened and if he had hit anyone and if anyone was hurt. We assured him that he seemed to be the only one hurt, that he had hit a road barrier and that we would take him to a doctor or home. He insisted he didn’t want to inconvenience us and we had to practically drag him into the car. We took him to 22 Prithviraj and let him out – not knowing quite what to do for him. He insisted he wasn’t hurt and would be all right. So we went on to the party and found that he had been there, gotten mad at his wife and left. So she rushed home in tears with a friend to take care of him.

It was a pretty pukkah party. Two bands alternating, portable dance floor, rugs and tables all over the grass, a bar…..the whole Imperial lawn transported except the fountain. Everyone was in slacks and sweaters and all having a gay time when we arrived. I went around and said hello to everyone, wished Tiki a happy birthday, escaped from the lavish flattery of the Afghan First Secretary and the twining arms of Ali Khan to a corner where Juan Muzaros, the new singer, and some of the Imperial band boys were being entertained by Ann Marie Keenan. Juan is a nice quiet fellow. I liked him immediately…probably because he looks exactly like (No, not one of my brothers) my Greek boss in Chicago that I like so well. I told him that he looked Greek to me and he said, as a matter of fact he is part Greek. Everyone was there, except Mannie who had gone to the airport, and you. We didn’t stay very long.

Newsy Letter to Alan

Tuesday Morn Oct 21

Dear Alan,

I wrote you a letter last night just after receiving yours, in which I told you how much I miss you. This is the newsy one. This may reach you first as the P.O. was closed when we stopped by on the way to the Chancery with the letter. Mannie was taking me in the Bandecoot (pardon me. Sloth. We had a flat tire Sunday.) to get a letter which he had seen for me in the pouch and which I hoped was from Martha, but it turned out to be an announcement of another baby in my Uncle Gene’s family.

Mannie and I went to see the play “Dangerous Corner” the night of the morning you left, with the V. Butt’s and the Basnetts. It was extremely well done and no strain to watch because everyone knew their parts so well. Octavia Smith was lovely in her green eyelids and Mannie’s friend, Joy Michael, was positively enchanting in a British looking green taffeta. Wish you could have seen it. You would have thought it was the greatest.

Shirley Baumg….had Jim G. and Ken Parrish and I over for bridge Thursday night. I surprised myself and managed to have a pretty good time. Shirley’s incorrigible good humor was just what I needed. Friday morning I went to the Cricket matches with the Campbell’s, Hi H. Pat Whitney and some Stan Vac Indians. By chance we came at an exciting time and those who knew explained the game to those who didn’t and we left for lunch all excited about the high score the Indian team had chalked up that afternoon. Pakistan was going to be up in the a.m. and we decided to all go back. We picked Helen up at lunch time and convinced her that she should see a Cricket match so she went with us. It was boring in the afternoon and I got sleepy after about 20 minutes and Helen was also ready to go home so we took a taxi.

Mille Krause had Jim G and I and the boy who lives in Alan Campbell’s old room in for dinner and bridge. She had her front porch all decorated with Divali lights. The boy who lives in Alan Campbell’s old room is a nice boy, but a dud.

Divali day was grim. There were lots of fire works about town and much more activity in the Taj than last year. Everyone had lights in front of their rooms and DP’s bearer even came with a bag full for her room. Helen had a car ordered to go light seeing – but I ended up not going because I remembered that I had been invited to go to Dharam Yash Dev’s house for open house, which I did with Millie. I was to meet Helen afterwards and go to a show “Broken Arrow”. In the process of getting a car to go to Dev’s I picked up a date with Ken Parrish for the show and when we got to the Plaza it wasn’t there, so by the time we got to the Odeon I thought the girls must have already gone in but I found out next day that the others had backed out and Helen had ricocheted from theater to theater several times, afraid I would be waiting for her at the Plaza and she must have just missed us at the Odeon….so she went home and didn’t see it.

Sunday night I had Pat and Adrian over for dinner and bridge – and Ken Parrish. I’m still amazed at the Basnett marriage. People pick funny people to fall in love with, don’t they? Needless to say, Pat and I literally skunked the boys. Some 2100 odd points. I refused to worry about the dinner and it was o.k., except that he had baked apples for dessert and had made a bad mistake. He stuffed them with mayonnaise, of all things.

The Cooksey’s are well pleased with Sam, I hear. They fired both their others. All dropped by to see Helen the other tonight, complaining that none of the girls would go with him. Can’t you hear Helen saying, as only Helen can, in her Born Yesterday voice, “Don’t tell me your troubles.”

Almost everybody was at the Maidens last night. Barbara and Scottie and Geo, and Jim G., the Milks, the Holmeses, and a bunch of His Highnesses and Her Highnesses were all in a big party celebrating the birthday of the Princess of Indore who is about 19 and has lived most of her life in the States and England. She’s a pretty little thing. Jim G. was busily making out. They were all pretty loopy when they arrived at the Maidens. Had been drinking Scotch and then Champagne. Scottie’s tummy wouldn’t take it after a high sign from Jim. I went and held her head for a while. Another party was Tiki and Biki’s. Tiki’s birthday also. Maryella and the Awaigins were there among others. Then a group of Sikhs and Glae Hargrove. I wonder what the Ambassador would say if he could see his secretary out on a date. Wow! Was she ever gone. Chuck Mullin was there in a party of four – strangers to me. I was in a birthday group also. Bob’s birthday. Bob’s a pretty good dancer. Ken doesn’t dance. That crowd is too fast for me. Ann is having a costume party Friday night to which Barb and I are invited. We came home from Maidens about two and woke Ann Marie up and she made coffee. Guess that’s not a rare occasion. She loves it. It was a gay ribald evening. We missed you. Cried myself to sleep. Woke up this morning with a rhinestone necklace on.

I note one of your Calcutta wallahs is coming through Delhi for consultation Thursday. He is Ben Hall. Will be Operations Officer, USIS. It’s now 10:30 and Scottie just came in to work. Guess George had too much last night too.

Barbara says this: “Tell Mr. Campbell that I’ll have to write him a big long letter one of these days when I get around to it…and give him a big hug and a kiss from me…and tell him that he’ll have to come up and see us pretty soon and we’ll go down to see him. And tell him to keep an extra charpoi handy.” She laughed when I said, “For you?”

I’m going to Capt. Saxton’s with Jim G. tonight for dinner. Tiki Oberoi is having a birthday party at Haus Kaus, which I’ll have to miss, and don’t mind if I do. Mannie and Maryland and I went out to the nursery the other day and brought home a carload of plants. Mannie got another huge banana tree. I got three rose bushes and two papaya plants, a fern and a split leaf philodendron. Oh yes, Barbara went too. Mannie also went over to Old Delhi and got more birds. You see, life still goes on and people do the same old things, but nothing’s much fun anymore.

E-grek, it’s time to go take notes at a meeting. Bye. Love, Dotty

Scolding Her Sister Draws Reward

Typed on United States Information Service- American Embassy 54. Queensway, New Delhi.

MARTHA JANE PETTIJOHN…..I SELDOM IF EVER HAVE BEEN SO FRUSTRATED…AND THIS IS TO INFORM YOU HERE AND NOW THAT IF I DON’T HEAR FROM YOU SOON ( AND I MEAN SOON) YOUR NAME WILL BE STRICKEN ONCE AND FOR EVER FROM MY BOOK.

I just got a letter from Ann today, the first from anyone at home for over a month, which enclosed a letter you had started to me and which got as far as ……AND THERE HE WAS. Big as life and twice as…

Honestly, I know you must be busy and all that, but I should think you could spare just ten minutes and scribble a paragraph about what’s new in your life. I know that Jess came home, and you were in Calif and then at home……when? How long? Where now? Where’s he going? When? Are you engaged? Married? Broken off?

I could launch into a big long letter about how sad I am lately and how badly I need letters from home to fill in the gaps in my life. You see, the light of my life has gone out. Alan was quite suddenly transferred to Calcutta. It was so sudden and such a shock that although it has been over a week, I still haven’t quite recovered. We had a teary reconciliation before he left which accomplished nothing except to make us both more miserable…and now I’m living out my life from day to day, hoping it will pass quickly until I see him at Christmas. Aren’t we women the sad apples when we fall for a guy. I’m past the crying myself to sleep every night stage and now I’m just numb.

Things keep happening. Tonight is a costume party…tomorrow night our big Women’s Club Carnival at which I had the camel picture taken last year which is the big social event of the year and I’ve managed to be out every single night since Alan left, mostly playing bridge. I’m dating a new good looking Marine, but I only feel more like crying when he leaves me at my door. He makes a bigger fuss over me than Alan ever did. How dumb can you be. Hope you are one of the lucky ones in love.

There are a lot of things I could tell you, but I won’t….just don’t have the heart to write now. After a couple of weeks, I’ll be back to normal and, if in the meantime I get a satisfactory letter from you, I’ll send you another book, no doubt.    O.K.   You’ve had it!  (pencil signed Dotty)

Letter not dated.

Martha darling.

Just got your wonderful, wonderful letter and don’t have a second to answer before this mail goes out so will drop this short, short note and say thanks two million and it is so good to be hearing from you again and just to keep the mail rolling betwixt the two of us answer this right away and I will write again and get it out with the next mail out and then you answer that too. I’m just sending copies of a couple of letters I wrote home, which I assume that you see. I imagined that the folks send the letters on. But in case not, here they are. I have some big adventures to ell you about. I have a big long letter all written to Irene and will tell you some of the stuff I have told her but in a later letter. This is all for this time. Sorry I can’t take more time. But write.  (In descending double spaced to the right …) Love Love Love Love (and signed DP)

Letter to the Missing Alan

The Letterhead from this letter.

Monday, October 15 1952

Dear Alan,

Just had a shot of adrenaline. I knew you would write – so can’t imagine why your letter was such a shock. I meant to have a letter there waiting for you when you arrived but just couldn’t say anything – My first attempts were pretty sad and every letter I’ve written since Wednesday I’ve re-read and torn up but they all added up to the same thing. I miss you so much.

I thought I’d better wait until I could be sane about it. I’ve managed to keep occupied – mostly with bridge games. I’m so grateful for anything to keep me busy and surrounded with gay laughing people. Ha! I thought I hated Delhi a couple of months ago – but I really wouldn’t have left it if I could have because you were here at least. Now, I’d go home tomorrow!

Mannie has been very nice. He misses you too. Everyone does. I have a lot of things to tell you on the incidental side, which I’ll do tomorrow with a typewriter under my hands. Its now 8:20 and Mannie is going to take me over to the Chancery after he finishes dinner to get a letter he saw for me in the pouch. Still waiting to hear from my sister. On the way I’ll drop this at the P.O. Helen will add a line.

Seems like a month since you left. Sorry you’re disappointed in your job.

They are playing “Idaho” on Helen’s record player. Barb just dropped in all aglow in black nylon net and rhinestones—carrying a wool shawl. She’s so cute.

Gotta go now. Thanks for writing. I’ll write you more. I love you more than you could ever know. I’ll not say it again. I’m just saying it now cause I think its sorta nice to always know that someone does. I guess you already knew. I’ve got a bad pain in my chest and my throat hurts. ‘nite  Love Forever, Dot

Brain Fever Bird Letter

Monday, September 15, 1952

Dear Mom,

Your letter arrived Friday. I’m so sorry about your allergy…and I know how hard it must be for you to keep out of the yard. Sure hope it clears up soon. Seems funny that after all this time you should suddenly develop an allergy like that. Probably due to nerves.

So many things happening at home. Bob’s trailer house sounds nice. Does it mean that he will be stationed at San Luis Obispo? What will be his address? To whom are you renting the basement?

Vic and Ann are quite the little travelers. You said Vic stayed in Hagerman, do you mean with Edna and Roy? And the way Ann is getting around – Seattle, Spokane and now San Francisco – she’s probably going to be a world traveler sooner than I became one. I presume she made a little money this summer. She might be like her big sister with regard to money, too. It’s always been easy-come/ easy-go with me. I want to make a Christmas present to Ann this year $100 out of our joint-savings account for her – right now if she needs it – with a premature Merry Christmas from me. All I ask is that she study hard, have a good time, and write me a letter now and then.

About me. Yes, I’ve recuperated somewhat from my blues and bad dreams. Saturday was my one-year anniversary and now I’m on the down grade. Be seeing you soon. And I am taking good care of Dorothy. I take three vitamin pills a day of various letters all the way down from A to X and breakfast every morning, etc., etc. I did get the red and white nylon and expect to get it made up soon.

The attached installment of my continued story also went to Irene, the Hatfields, Vera (never have gotten around to writing to her so I thought I’d include her in on this one) and I think I’ll send another to poor little Tommy. Tommy Moore and I have become great friends since he visited with me in Washington. He’s very faithful about writing and I’ve failed him now for several months. He’s a really nice kid.

The enclosed pictures are a few I picked up in Kashmir. I took almost a whole roll of colored slides (which are still in my camera) and these are the (other) only ones I got. We had a Kashmir party the other night, we four girls who went, and had several other kids who are going up this month over for dinner to give them a dope on what to expect. The other girls took lots of pictures and I will get copies of theirs. I would like these back to include in my India scrapbook though – so keep track of them for me, huh?

Haven’t heard from Miff for several weeks. What goes with her? Also, what about Irene? The poor kid always seems to be having her troubles. Nothing serious, I hope. At least I hope her troubles aren’t a further development of a rather sad entanglement she spoke of in her last letter to me.

Oh, yes. I wonder if you could get some Dramamine pills from Ed and send them to me in your letters some way. Every time I take a trip, I think about it and then forget to ask for them. I have borrowed from Helen so much that she’s almost out. Her sister sends them to her in her letters. If I do much travelling, I’ll need a lot of them. Don’t know why I’m such a baby – even in a car on windy hill roads.

ROUND ROBIN ( A letter sent around to friends and family where the members keep adding to the letter telling how and what they are doing.)

Dear Robins:

There’s no such thing as a Robin in India, so I’ve changed into something more local….a Brain Fever bird. My, it takes the Robin a long time to fly from her to Melba, Idaho… to Seattle, Washington… back down to Davenport….then back across the states to New Jersey … and on down to New Mexico…and then the long flight back to India. I think I could just about walk it myself in the time it takes. Martha’s was the first dated letter in the Robin (I don’t know what happened to the Melba one) and her’s was dated July 11. I just got the Robin a couple of days ago.

However, it’s probably a good thing – because if I run out of things to say if it comes around any oftener than every other month, I suppose the home folks do too…..and I’m pretty windy.

I believe I have written a couple of “books” to the folks since the last Robin flew around…about my trips to Nainital and the latest one to Kashmir. I hope they can be included in the Robin if they haven’t already gone around.

I am sitting on needles and pins for the next pouch, hoping that it will carry some news from home or from Martha as to the latest developments in her plans. Martha sure does write a well phrased letter…always so neat and grammatically correct, with no misspelled words or hanging participles…and best of all, most interesting.

It was nice to hear from the Clive’s in Davenport. Zita did a grand job of summing up the status quo of the family in general. And to answer your questions. First, I’m not “going steady” although I realize that my letters must smack pretty strongly of one Alan Campbell. It just happens that he’s a very good friend and we do a lot of things together. Also, I didn’t mean that I would be coming home before my tour of duty is up…so that means that I have one more year here…and as I say in almost every other letter, if time flies as quickly this last year as did the first, I’ll be coming home before I know it. And when I do get home, I hope to get around to see everyone. I’ll have a couple of months leave. In the meantime, keep adding your word to our Robin.

The Bob’s must be safely settled in their trailer house by now. I hope you are still in San Louis when I come home. I always did want to see Calif. Your offspring will be toddling by then.

Ruth and Ross, I hope you like your foam rubber mattress better than I liked one that they gave me here. I had it about a week and turned it in. Was a local product, and probably not like the state-side ones. I found it hot and smelly and hard. So, I turned it in for an old wreck of an inner-spring from the go-down that sags in the middle and pokes me in the back, but I still prefer it to the rubber one.

We have just passed through a ten-day period of festivities and celebrations called Dussehra. Parades and fireworks, people making puja to their gods, the city packed with villagers who came in for the celebrations, everyone decked out in their brightest and best. The grand climax of the celebrations was staged Sunday evening at the Ramlila grounds. Four of us went over about 4 o’clock to get seats in the diplomatic enclosure with invitations issued to some of our officers who weren’t here to use them.

Eight Days in Kashmir-or “Pale Hands I Love”

September 8, 1952

EIGHT DAYS IN KASHMIR – Or “Pale Hands I Love”

A does of Dramamine, taken in a belated attempt to alleviate an “up tummy” feeling acquired somewhere over the hills above Amritsar, put me into a troubled doze after we took off from Jammu – where I said goodbye to dry, hot plains and looked forward to eight days in the “beautiful vale of Kashmir.” So when we landed at Srinigar, I rubbed my eyes and yawned and then groaned a good healthy groan. I thought we were back in Jammu and that during my sleep we had tried and failed to make it across the mountain pass.

My only conjecture, upon being assured that this truly was Srinigar, the capitol city of Kashmir, was words to this effect: “It’s all a grand international hoax. They cajole you into coming to Kashmir and when you arrive and find nothing but a dry, hot desert they must pen you up in a pair of shorts and let you fry a nice crisp brown and then torture you into a pledge of secrecy – so that word never leaks out that it’s all a grand international hoax.” My three companions glumly nodded in assent.

Our houseboat man was there to meet us, and we started our relationship with a quarrel. We were quite piqued to find that he had taken the liberty of hiring a taxi to meet us at the airport, when we could well have taken the airport bus into the city with the other passengers and saved Rs. 15/-. With many an ear-ducking shake of the head and wave of the hands he assured us that we should “Don’t worry, lady sahibs, I’ll take care of it.” So, we crammed our luggage and ourselves into the taxi and rattled off down the hill.

We made a compact between the four of us that since we were not tourists, we would not be treated like tourists, and nobody was going to put anything over on us. Old India Hands by now, we laughed up our sleeves at a group of round-the-world tourists who asked all sorts of silly questions – like, “Are the people in India going hungry?” “How many servants do you have?” “What does the red dot on the forehead mean?” We had smiled tolerantly at the airport in Jammu when the practical joker of their group produced a little machine and delighted the natives by turning out crisp new dollar bills – and we smiled tolerantly when he staged a smashed finger act at Amritsar with a rubber appendage – but we laughed uproariously at the Srinigar terminal when the wallahs smelled the tourist scent and surrounded the dumbfounded group of 3 days in India travelers with their miscellaneous wares and cries of “Tonga, sahib?” “Shikar?” “Mere sat ao,” while we struggled authoritatively through the crowd saying “Jao!” “Mujhko kuch kuch nahin chaiya,” letting them know that we live in India and know our way about. We natives look with scorn on the loud mouthed eager American tourist who is taken for a ride by the wily merchants of India and they are the source of a good many funny stories.

Our Entry Permits registered, we rattled on from the terminal to Dal Gate where our houseboat was docked in the river. The departing guests were a breathless young couple on a honeymoon tour. They waved gaily across the river from our porch as we boarded the shikar and approached the houseboat and told us, wide eyed, how wonderful everything was as we were being unloaded and they loaded onto the shikar. “Do they wash the fruits and vegetables in pinkie water?”  “Is the kitchen boat clean?”  “Where do they get the drinking water?”  we asked them. “You have to be so careful,” we added, “almost everyone picks up a bug in Kashmir.” And they looked at each other in alarm and said helplessly, “We didn’t think about it….the food just appeared and we ate it.”

But the tourists were hardly out of earshot when our hard cynicism turned to very tour-ish screams of delight as we inspected our new home. First, the living room was bigger than our little rooms at the Taj – two comfortable, good-looking couches, four easy chairs to match, coffee tables, lamps, glassed nook shelves and knickknack corners, a desk, Persian rugs on the floor, fresh flowers, pictures on the wall, a shelf of books – solid comfort. Then the dining room – the same size, large oval walnut dining table; six high-backed old fashioned chairs with velvet seats, one wall filled with china and glassware; a buffet table loaded with silver service; a big bowl of luscious fresh fruit – everything! Then the little galley – neat and clean. The food is cooked on the kitchen boat which drags along in back of the houseboat and where the houseboat family lives. Three bedrooms, one double and each with a bath. The sign in front read: “NEW EAGLE” Hot and Cold Running Water – Sanitary Fittings….meaning sink and bathtub. The “john” a wooden seat and pail. Our shikar was named “HAPPY VALGA” Full spring seats.

Dinner was ready for us upon our arrival – and we thought they were probably putting on the dog (literally speaking) for us for our first meal, but we found that the food was quite well prepared during our whole stay. The other three girls are especially fond of corn on the cob and once they discovered it was available and taught the cook how to prepare it with a touch of vinegar in the water to make it tender, they had two ears apiece for every meal until they got their fill…while I substituted three or four big fresh pears. Our house boat owner, and father of the family, left the rest of our care up to his son Kadir, who spoke rather good English and who went with us everywhere. Another boy, a cousin I think, named Ahmed waited on the table and helped around the house. He did not understand anything we said to him, but we seemed to amuse him greatly and he always answered all our questions with “Yes, Miss Sahib” and a giggle. We did not discover the fact that he was not understanding our questions until the third day, because Kadir would hear us ask for things and kept Ahmed on the track. One evening, however, Helen conjectured the fact that everything we said was going over his head, so we tested him. He was “bringing potatoes.” The invariable answer, “Yes Miss Sahib – (Giggle).” Our hearty laughter was accompanied by one from the kitchen where Kadir was backstopping poor Ahmed. So everything we ate from then on was “Baked Potatoes” but Ahmed knew the joke was on him and he would only duck his head and grin shyly when we asked him again.

After dinner Helen and I took a shikar ride around the lakes while Mary and Lillian rested. The shikar is a long wooden shell, painted on the two ends, with a canopy over the middle, under which you recline on “full spring seats” (as every shikar advertises on their name board). They are very comfortable – like a bed with a high headboard also equipped with full springs. On the other side of the headboard rode our faithful Kadir and in back of him the two shikar boatmen with their stubby heart shaped paddles. One of them sits way out on the point, the other further down toward the middle of the boat. They have been rowing shikars since the age of three or four and the paddles gurgle through the water and clump on the boat frame in perfect unison. At night they always sing the “ethnic music of Kashmir” with the clump of their paddles as the drumbeat. Our favorite was Ismeal, the other, Sultan. We liked Ismeal, or Is Smile as we called him, because he looked so healthy and clean and flashing black eyes, and he somehow didn’t look like a Kashmiri, or an Indian, or a Tibetan – but like a boy-next-door in the States. Every once in a while, out of the clear blue sky, they would both shout out in unison, “Good Luck Lady Sahib – HO!” which always brought forth peals of laughter from us and we would turn around and smile at them over the seat back and they would grin and bend their heads and backs into furious paddling to hide their embarrassment. We spent a lot of our time exploring the by-ways and channels between the lakes; gliding through rushes and sea-weed; past big beds of flowering lotus; past islands built up through the years by the natives from sea weed which they drag up from the bottom of the channels with long poles – islands which grew monstrous pumpkins, rows of cockscomb, fruit trees, red peppers and all the wonderful fresh vegetables you could name: past other shikars, sometimes over flowing with an Indian family, sometimes bearing a local merchant out in search of tourists with a boatload of his wares; past little flat barges full of sea-weed or piled high with pumpkins or red peppers or flowers, sometimes empty except for a small boy kneeling on the very tip with his heart-shaped paddle slipping through the water; past big house boats being moved from one lake to another. The big barges full of seaweed and mud and the houseboats are all moved through the channels by long poles. They are stuck down into the mud at the end of the boat by a man who then walks the rail at the side of the boat, leaning on the pile walking the boat under him until he reaches the other end, where he pulls his pole from the mud and runs back to the other end to start over.

And then there are the dongas where the river people live. They are perhaps six or eight feet wide, maybe twenty feet long, with two or three unglassed windows, a thatched roof, and no furniture except a charcoal stove. Miscellaneous pots and pans and articles of clothing hang around on the walls and bundles of bed clothes against the wall serve as chairs. We always had our camera in lap ready to snap at a moments notice, but were never able to catch one of the women who are always perched on a window sill, usually with a baby in arm, watching life paddle by. Immediately when they would see us lift our cameras they would turn their heads or cover their faces with their shawls – Muslim women still hold their old purdah ideas & even though they don’t always have their faces covered, they don’t want to be photographed or stared at too long.

Our second day in Kashmir we spent going to and coming from the Shalimar Gardens in the shikar – what part of it we didn’t spend wandering through the famous gardens singing “Pale hands I love, beside the Shalimar,” shoo-ing off the hungry dogs from our lunch, and lining up the little garden waifs to have their pictures taken. The gardens – a riot of color, waterfalls everywhere with a row of flowers arranged along the ledge under each fall, old Mogul shrines, lily ponds, picnic-ers everywhere on the expansive lawns, and “Do Not Pluck the Flowers” signs. - - And then we visited the Nishat Gardens, which were made of the same only more so.

Kashmir is primarily Muslim. All the men wear little fur caps, or bright colored felt skull caps. The women wear huge shapeless coat-dresses like the doll dresses we used to make as children, with huge arms and no belt, as wide as they are tall. In the winter they carry under them, hanging to a belt in front, a “belly warmer” which is a clay pot encased in a wicker basket into which hot coals go. The average size “belly warmer” is about as big as a tea pot and must be terribly uncomfortable to wear. Imagine a hot tea pot bouncing around on your tummy. The dresses are in two parts, the top one is often embroidered around the plain round neck and a little way down the front on each side of the neck opening with gold thread – and this is their good dress for special occasions. Everyday wear, the dress is turned inside out, and a drab dirt colored or grey dress appears. I suppose they get a new dress every year or so and wear it, turned one way or the other, until it is black and ragged. The Kashmiri people are not very colorful, as a result, in their clothing. The women are very interesting, however, because they all have big heavy silver earrings in their ears – the older they are, or the richer, the more earrings they have. Some of them have ear lobes two or three inches long, pulled down by the weight of dozens of heavy silver rings through the long loophole in their ears. They also have a cord running up over their heads to help bear the weight of the silver. It seems that the family wealth is displayed there and on their arms, laden with bangles.

Monday was a Muslim holiday called Eid day. We were told by our houseboat man that thousands of people would congregate at the Eid grounds to pray and that we should see them, so we hired a cab, took him (Kulaki Kharni), his son Kadir and the four of us about eight miles out of Shrinigar to see the goings on. There were already hundreds of people gathered when we arrived, and we immediately set out with our cameras cocked to take some character studies. The wallahs all had their wares spread out in rows across the field – and as usual we were one of the biggest attractions there. When the four of us traveled in a crowd it was almost impossible to make our way along for the big crowd of people who would gather around us to watch our every move. I found that if I walked a little way apart from the other three that I didn’t attract so much attention and I managed to take a few pictures – however I lost sight of my friends during one effort and when I looked around for them after I had my picture of the old man smoking a hookah turned safely on my spool – they were lost in the crowd so I wandered up and down, back and forth, pushing my way past an increasingly dense mob for about a half hour before I finally saw them forging bravely through another mob across the field. I had had to keep walking constantly because once you would stop for very long you would soon find yourself literally hemmed into a circle of staring faces that you couldn’t see through.

When I’d joined forces again with the other girls, we voted to blow the joint and headed for the car. Sheik Abdullah drove past just then in his Cadillac and while the crowd’s attention was temporarily diverted, we made our get-away. At the gate of the field we had to wait for another fifteen minutes in the car for the incoming crowd to thin and while we sat there our driver took advantage of the time to seek his fortune from a young sadhu in saffron robes and long flowing hair and beard. The sadhu presented us with a typewritten letter saying that he was on a pilgrimage of some sort and would anyone happening to meet him along the way please help him out, if only with a piece or two – so we crossed his palm with a couple of annas and went on our way. We weren’t even very sad to be missing the sheep slaughter. All over the field back there were bunches of sheep being sold to the people for sacrifices. It seems that on Eid day those who can afford to do so will sacrifice a sheep and give it to the poor and it is believed that when they die the sacrificed sheep will be there to help them over the gap into heaven. Their sacrificing of sheep goes back to Abraham who found the sheep in the bushes just as he was about to sacrifice his son. We also didn’t go into the part of the field that was fenced off for praying because we would have had to take off our shoes and leave them at the gate, but we looked over the fence and saw the acres of men kneeling toward the West (facing Mecca), raising their arms in allah to their God.

In our rush to get away from the teaming mobs we left “Father” and Kadir somewhere on the grounds and hours later, back on the boat, Kadir appeared with a hurt accusing look on his face and said, “You left us there, we were praying.” I suppose they had to walk all the way back into town.

In the afternoon we shikared over to the Naguim Lake where the United Nations people all live on houseboats. Shrinigar is their summer station. There are three tea boats in the middle of the lake where we went for a swim. Lillian and I each got on the ends of a 20 foot plank and paddled away from the tea boats toward one of the houseboats on the side of the lake, from which we heard riotous singing, and as we approached three heads appeared at the windows and they waved us on. So, we made friends with a young newlywed couple, he British and she an Australian, honeymooning in Kashmir from Madras, and with their friend of the Peter Lawford face who was resting after a long tour of border duty out in the wilds. He took Helen for a motorboat ride while the other three of us went to look at houseboats.

At this time, we were still docked over on the river near town where there was little privacy and lots of noise, especially early in the mornings when we wanted to sleep. Mr. Kharni said he would move the boat over to the lake for Rs. 30/, to which proposal we all objected strongly since our expenses were already running us higher than we had figured because we did not realize that everything would be extra, like the rental of the Shikar at Rs. 4/ per day (imagine two men living on 80 cents a day). So, we looked at and priced a couple of houseboats that were already on the lake and found that we could get a very nice one (but not as nice as our New Eagle) for Rs. 12/ and already there. Poor little Kadir peered over the seat back with frightened eyes and implored us not to make a decision about moving until we had talked to his Father, because if we moved it would be a shame on them because we didn’t like their boat. So we talked to Father that evening and he agreed that he would move the boat for nothing if we would stay with him…..and we were happy because even at Rs. 15/- per day we still loved our boat the best.

One of our friends in Delhi had been in Kashmir before and recommended this boat to us. She has made friends with the Nedou brothers who own the big hotel there and she had given Helen a few things to take up to them – so the next evening we set out to visit the hotel and deliver our package. We were invited up to the Nedou house and sat in a living room with the floor completely covered by a tiger skin rug bordered with leopard. The Nedou’s were very anxious to be hospitable to any friends of Tiki Oberoi and our girlfriend, Mariella, so they offered us their big black Buick for the next day’s trip up to a deserted village in the hills called Gulmarg.

The trip to Gulmarg involved a four-mile climb on ponies. Once up there we found ourselves in a big grassy valley surrounded by higher mountains, and beyond them higher ones still, capped with snow. Those to the north, we were told, were over in Tibet. At one time Gulmarg was a favorite resort station for the British, but today it is practically deserted. Nedou’s have a hotel there, where a lovely dinner was arranged for us. There were two guests in the whole hotel – which has room for about a hundred. They have a grand golf course there – a natural pasture with gullies and ridges and stream lets. Lillian and I played nine holes – spending most of our time searching for the balls among the white puff balls and toad stools all around. Our caddies knew no English, except enough to say “Thank you! Memsahib,” when we would occasionally hit a good ball.

We started back down the trail when it looked like it was going to rain, and were plagued all the way down by our horse wallahs who trot along side in their bare feet all the way up the four mile trail and all the way back down. They wanted us to give them baksheesh before we reached the bottom because they said the horse contractor would take all the money and they only got Rs. 10/- from him a month (or $2.00) as wages. We assured them that they would get their own baksheesh – quite aside from the payment for the horses….but the guide who also went along was smart. He stopped us about halfway down and said that he lived close to there and would we please pay him there so he wouldn’t have to walk back up from the bottom. His charge was Rs./- each person. In his effort to prove himself a top-notch guide he had brought out all chitties and he was especially proud of one written by some French Embassy person in 1946 which said, in effect: “This guide, Gulam Hassain, attached himself unshakably to me and insisted on accompanying me on a trek to the Frozen Lake, 12,000 (some odd) feet, with a party of four – three of whom dropped out of the climb at 9,500 feet.” And it went on to say that his services proved invaluable, in spite of the fact that they hadn’t been solicited. Gulam couldn’t read but since everyone to whom he showed all his chitties always no doubt singled that one out to read aloud, he assumed it was a good one.

Our sixth day was spent in shopping along the Bund. We had succeeded thus far in beating the wallahs who came around in their shikars away from our door and told them all that we were going to do all our shopping in the shops – so with a fist full of calling cards that they had left with us we set out to spend our money. Our fist stop was at Subhana the Worst, who has a good selection of wood work and paper mache, but they are stacked in such disorder in his big barn-like store, and nothing is marked with a price, and ended up in disgust with no purchases. He had put us all in a very belligerent mood, so we descended on all the poor merchants along the Bund like an army of irate ants. – had them drag everything down off their shelves, told them all what terrible taste everything was, showed great disgust at the colors used in their embroidery, strongly objected to every price named and beat them down to a reasonable price and then marched out of the stores with little or no purchases. Jewelers, cloth merchants, woodwork and paper mache merchants, curio shops – none of them escaped our raids, until at last we came to Sufffering Moses who had his shop down on the river on a house-boat. He’s a wise one. Everything is marked, dusted and laid out neatly on shelves that are handy to reach. The whole store is bright and clean and very modern. His prices compare very favorably with the others and Mr. Suffering, as we called him, who is about the seventh in a long line of Suffering Moses’, lets you roam at will inspecting everything and adding to your pile of purchases. So Suffering Moses got most of our money….and we didn’t find out until we got home that you can even bargain with him, although everything is neatly marked.

Doro’s Suffering Moses find. She continued to collect “Little Laying Down Horses” throughout her life and travels.

The Kashmiri’s are famous for the handicrafts. They do a lot of woodcarving, have learned to make beautiful paper mache things, and are especially fond of embroidered things. Every article of clothing, tablecloth, chair cover – or anything made from cloth is very intricately designed with embroidery work. They even make embroidered rugs. New people in India often go crazy over the Kashmiri stuff because there is such a lot of hand labor that goes into it and it sells for so little. However, as you begin to refine your tastes it soon begins to look very junky and cheap – there’s just too much of it.

The next day our resistance was low and we started letting wallah’s come up on our front porch to show us their wares, just for entertainment’s sake, and from one of them we got some pretty nice bargains on jewelry and curios. Suddenly we realized that we were spending all the lovely sunshine days under a roof so we frantically sun-bathed so we would all have good tans when we returned to Delhi. So, all day Saturday we spent on the floats and the surf boards. This was my first experience with aquaplaning, and I loved it.

The next day at noon we left Kashmir. We hadn’t ever gotten up to the old fort that stands on a high hill beside the lake, nor up to the mosque on another hill – and we didn’t go trout fishing – but we had had a nice restful vacation and all grown several pounds fatter. We still didn’t see anything about Kahmir to rave about except the fun of living on a houseboat on the lake. The mountains are rather like the Owyhee range in Idaho, no pine trees, unless you go far out of Srinigar. I was no doubt spoiled by my recent trip to Nainital where the dainty little lake is nestled in among very high, terribly verdant, 9,000 foot peaks that are so close all around that you feel very intimate and friendly with them.

I hope I haven’t bored you with my very detailed account of my trip. I’ve had fun writing it, as usual, and also as usual it has grown into a book before I noticed that I was rambling.

Funny Questions That Come in to the Office

August 28, 1952

Dear Folks,

The attached is an account of my most recent trip. I sent the original to Martha in a happy birthday letter. I am leaving this Saturday morning by plane to spend eight days in Kashmir with three other girls. I suppose you will be getting another travelogue then.

I realize that I haven’t written for ages. I haven’t had much inclination to write for several weeks and it is always hard getting back into the groove. I received the red and white nylon, Ann, and thanks a lot. Now to get Dhursi busy on it. I could sure use it right now.

Some time ago I believe mother asked whether or not I could project some film here if it were taken at home. I don’t now recall what sizes she mentioned but anyway through our films officer I would have access to just about any size. That gives me an idea – I could easily buy some movie film and borrow a camera and send you a roll – what size would be best?

I get the most lot of strange calls as secretary to the PAO (Public Affairs Officer). Just now a man called from Shri Ghandi Industries – a cottage industries firm – and asked if I could tell him what ox bile is. It seems their Calcutta branch got a request from some firm in the U.S. for ox bile. Now I ask you……..   I’m afraid this is one question I can’t answer. It seems rather obvious that it is bile from an ox, but I can’t very belittle the man’s intelligence by giving him that kind of answer so I’ll go along with him and admit that it is a big mystery and suggest that they write the firm involved for further information as to what they are ordering.

I got a call the other day from a woman who wanted to know if she could attend some lectures she read about in the paper, with which we have no connection whatsoever.

A few days after I return from Kashmir it will be a one-year mark for me. From here it looks like a long, long time. At the charming age of 25 I guess I finally lost my heart and got it stepped on. Anyway, my first year was one of my happiest and I’ll probably be able to weather the next one. I’m no competition for a beautiful redhead….but now that I’ve been knocked down out of the clouds and have had a chance to clear my eyes and look around I find there are other fish in the sea who are ready to bite, and I’ve been keeping busy (if not busier now that I’m not so obviously “exclusively his”) if not entirely happy with the second bests. But don’t let me bother you with my romance problems.

It’s now time to go home. I’m playing bridge tonight with a new Stan Vac fellow and others. I’ve become quite a bridge fan of late. Seems to be “the thing” here and I find I am not so dumb as I expected. I’d like to make a date with you for a game in about a year. Huh?   O.K. this is it. Dorothy

I Danced With A Maharaja

This chapter is called “I danced with a Maharaja” 8/13

I just arrived in Delhi at 6:00 this morning after five days in the mountains.

A group of seven of us went via train, bus, canoe, and rickshaw to a hill station on a lake, called Nainital. Everyone told us we were crazy to go up into the mountains during the monsoon season, that we might just as well sit in Delhi, where at least the sun shines part of every day and where we could go swimming and catch up on some rest, etc., as to go all the way up to Nainital ( a trip of about sixteen hours) just to sit in a cold old hotel and watch it rain. But we couldn’t see wasting two free days, Wednesday and Friday, in Delhi – so we all took Thursday off and tried our luck at Nainitel in the rain. We took our rain slickers, a deck of cards, and an average of three books a piece. We had made arrangements with Thomas Cook, the travel agency, for sleeping bags for the train trip and their little man met us at the Old Delhi station and steered us through the throng of waiting bearers to our “First Class” compartments. Alan Campbell, Barbara Moore and I shared ours with a fat Indian Army Colonel, who immediately upon our leaving the Delhi station proceeded to huff and snort around the compartment preparing his bed on the upper berth and then retire to the “bathroom” (everything has to be in quotes to show you that I had to call it something and that is the closest thing to it) to change into bright striped pajamas. He hoisted himself into the berth above mine, stretched out and began to snore. The three of us sat down below and played “rummy” for a while before we also turned in – and I tried not to think about the Colonel’s feet protruding out the end of the berth above my head or what I would look like should it collapse under his weight. Our bed rolls provided a fair degree of comfort. At each station they never failed to blast a shrill whistle of some sort right outside our car, it seemed, and at one point our car was switched back and forth so much that I was almost sea-sick, but I did get some sleep. I woke up, however, with a rib-cage ache that stayed with me my whole first day. I couldn’t take a deep breath. At Bareilly we changed to another train, narrow gauge, that chugged along up a small hill for four hours in the early morning through some wild tiger country. We were all seven together in this car and we threw open all the windows and doors and enjoyed the greenery slipping by and the cool fresh air. At the last station, Kathgodam, we piled all our luggage on the platform and tried to ignore the eager coolies and the flies while we waited for a bus to arrive to take us on up the mountain. We chartered a bus for ourselves and with our luggage and the seven of us we almost filled it. The rattling old Chev bus had seven held breaths behind its motor as we started the laborious climb of 22 miles. There was a slow, warm drizzle of rain, but no fog, and we saw some more beautiful countryside on the way up. We stopped every now and then for water at little wayside lean-tos where the natives came immediately with the baskets of fruit to sell us. At one place we were delighted to purchase through the window of the bus a bag of monkey nuts (peanuts) which had just been toasted over a charcoal fire, and a large lemon about the size of a grapefruit, which went from eager hand to eager hand to be sniffed and wondered at by all seven of us lemon-starved Delhi-ites. We don’t ever see lemons here although we have lots of limes and oranges.

All along the way there were men working half-heartedly on the road. They were usually all huddled up under an umbrella made out of palm leaves or some other kind of brown leaf, and they looked like giant turtles along the side of the road. I think we must have been the first new arrivals in Nainital for months because our bus was immediately surrounded with hundred of coolies waving their brass number plates at us and shoving each other around wildly in an effort to capture our luggage. A little booklet that we picked up in Nainital called “Visitors Guide to Nainital” described it this way, “Each incoming motor is loudly cheered and crowded by simple and hardy hill coolies, Dutials, who clamour for the luggage, and by rickshaw wallas, offering their services.” We loaded our bags onto two rickshaws two of the kids on another, two of the elected to walk around the lake, and Alan, Barbara and I hired a rowboat which Alan and the boat wallah rowed. It was misting ever so slightly, but it was a nice ride. We kept pace with the rickshaws along the road and arrived at the far end of the lake at about the same time, joined them and after a short climb arrived at our hotel.

We paid Rs. 15/- a day for our rooms (approx. $3) which included a living room, bedroom, dressing room, and bath. The bathroom had a tin tub with a drum of water sitting at the side, a table with a large porcelain bowl and pitcher. The bearer carried in hot water in a bucket. Our toothbrush and drinking water was in an old gin bottle on a shelf. Both the bedroom and living room had fireplaces in them and we made good use of them for it was quite cool there. We went down to lunch in the dining room soon after our arrival to test the food, and found that it was very British, and therefore rather tasteless. Everything is cooked in mutton fat and we had mutton for almost every meal. Thus, the creation of a little joke. One of us would say, “How do you like Nainital?” And the answer would be “Not Ba-a-a-a-d.”

After lunch we rested a while and then walked down to visit the bazaars. They were much the same as any other Indian city. Little open shed-like rooms – a cloth merchant, shoe stall, toy shop, cane shop, vegetable stand, jeweler stall, groceries, books, etc. Each one full to the brim of their particular product – not an empty place anywhere except a small bench and the middle of the room.

The people seemed very cheerful and happy – and there were millions of little children running around half naked, playing hide and seek in and out the stalls, playing jacks with pebbles, making all the same little children’s noises that American children do.

Four of us got together for a game of bridge that evening, the only time we had the cards out.

We all screamed with joy the next morning when we woke up to a bright blue sky and immediately after breakfast we all mounted horses and started up the trail to the top of the highest peak, Cheena Peak, some 8,568 ft. It was about five miles on a steep trail, but the horses were used to the trip and the horse wallahs ran alongside or hung on the horses’ tails to guide us on our way. We got some magnificent views from the mountainside and from the top could look across the valley to distant mountains in Nepal. The top Cheena Peak is flat and from the horse shelter a little foot path brings one to the town end of the peak, where we sat on the edge of a sheer precipice of some 2,000 feet with the whole of Nainital stretched out in a grand panorama below. The lake looked much larger from that height, instead of smaller as we would have thought. We could hardly imagine Alan and friend rowing the length of the lake in something less than a half hour. It was a lovely day and a magnificent view for taking pictures. I hope my rusty trusty camera produces some nice colored slides from the trip.

After lunch we hobbled down the hill from the hotel on our newly acquired horse-legs to try our sea legs at the yacht club. We each joined the club for some Rs. 3/- and they hired 3 sail boats, two of them with a hired skipper and one without, which one Alan skippered. He had had some sailing experience at Princeton, he said, so Barbara and I were brave and chose to sail with him. We trimmed the jib and he steered the thing. There wasn’t much wind and we mis-cued at the first turn so the others got ahead of us. Guess Alan wasn’t as expert as the others because we trailed along behind them all the way across the lake, only occasionally getting into a good wind and leaning over to one side picturesquely. On the way back we becalmed and ended up having to row back to the club.

In the course of the day we all got sunburned, for which we were very happy so that we would have some proof that the sun really did shine.

The next morning it was sunny, and we went rowing all around the lake. On one side of the lake there is a little temple up in the rocks. It looks like a cave with the rocks around it painted bright orange. They have bells strung up outside the cave and as the worshipers come up to do their puja’s they reach up and slap several of them so that all day you hear the chiming of those bells out over the lake down below where a holy man lives on a small ledge in a tent. People climb up and down from the temple to sit and talk with him, his little house is hidden from general view by greenery on the edge of the ledge, but if you come up from one side in a row-boat you can see it. We later rode around the lake on horses and got a close-up view of the cave temple and heard the temple keeper chanting his prayers.

It began to rain softly in the afternoon, but we put on our raincoats and took horses up another peak to a place called “Dorothy’s Seat.” It was a lovely ride through the fog and from the top we could only look down on clouds, but it was quite warm, and the rain made the forests we rode through seem very close and intimate.

There was a dance at the yacht club that evening. We had brought formal dresses with us, thank goodness. The yacht club is mostly British and very wealthy Indians. Everyone was very nice to us and we met the commodore of the club, his wife and daughter, Sheila.

And then I danced with a Maharaja. He is the Maharaja of Jind and he looks the part. A rather young, stoutish tall, fellow with long zuit suit style hair combed back in a D. A. (as we say in Chicago) meaning duck’s tail. He owned one of the yachts and one of our girls moved right in on him and he asked her to come along with him the next day when they had the races – which she did. It was a very British party with lots of mix dances, etc. There was one girl extra in our crowd and one little Indian fellow chose me to ask to dance just after we got there and had settled down in a little group. He very properly asked Jim Grisby, who was sitting next to me, if he could have a dance with me. Jim looked helpless and said it’s up to the young lady. I looked more helpless and accepted and then the kids all sat around and tried to keep from laughing at me as he dragged me frantically around the floor doing some strange step I had never experienced before – me with a look of pure tragic despair on my face. The next one that came up and asked me to dance was shorter still and funnier looking so I hastily said that I had accepted the dance with Alan and then informed him that he had that dance with me. He had just asked Barbara to dance and just after he told her that he had to come to my rescue, the little guy asked her to dance and she was stuck.

Alan and Barbara and I left before the others and walked up the hill to our hotel. The bearer had a nice fire going in the fireplace and we read a while before going to bed. It seemed so good to have a fireplace fire and we thought of our skeptical Delhi friends who insisted it would be a waste of time to go to a hill station.

Saturday morning was rainy. We hired horses again and centered around the lake. By this time, I was almost accomplishing the trick of riding in an English saddle and did a little posting. We went for a couple of walks and explored the bazaars at the other end of the lake in the afternoon. We had rowed across the lake and the sun came out enough so that we got some pictures of the bazaar section. That end of the lake is called Malli Tal and the other end where out hotel was located is Talli Tal. The Malli Tal end is a little village all built on the base of two mountains which come together at that point in a “V.” When you look across the lake from our end you see the two mountains coming down with the buildings all clustered at the base, and then blue sky in between, so that it looks like the end of the world beyond that. Up close you look out across a deep, deep valley with smaller mountains across the way. The clouds come rolling in through the gap and one minute you will be shading your eyes from the sun and carrying your jacket over one shoulder, and the next minute you’ll be wrapped in your jacket peering through the fog. On the way around the lake that afternoon Alan and Barbara and I sat in one of the benches along the lake side to watch the sail boats and the fog slide by, when suddenly it started to rain and we had our first really hard monsoon rain. We scampered across the street to the shelter of a shop and came upon the other four of our group who had been shopping along the lake-side shops. Our shelter happened to be a Kashmir wallah and we had everything in his shop out looking at it while we waited for the rain to subside. Alan bought a funny looking British schoolboy type hat and one girl bought a white Kashmir shawl.

We braved the last of the storm and made it to another shop where two Sikh fellows sold toys. We dragged Alan away from a ball on a strong string attached to a cup on the end of a stick and ran to the next shop where we bought some honey in three weights, heavy (dark), medium and light. Then at a photo shop we picked up a hand full of little pictures of Nainital for 1 anna each – dropped in at the Yacht club to see what was going on – nothing – so we climbed the hill to the bazaar on Talli Tal. I bought a choli in one store – a red one all decorated with little mirrors embroidered around in green. You buy them unfinished and have your dhursi fit them to you. It is the blouse that Indian women wear under their sarees. Alan bought a pair of Indian sandals and put them on and we went on up to the hotel and arrived with a blistered toe for him and a side ache for me.

That night was another dance at the club and Barbara, Alan and I were having such a comfortable quiet time reading in front of our fire that we decided not to go this time. The others went except for one of the boys who felt a little shaky because his horse had fallen on him in the slippery mud that afternoon. It started misting again and Alan and I put on our rain slickers and hats and went for a walk down to the lake in the rain. We stood on the mall and could see the couples dancing by the windows of the yacht club. It rained hard for a few minutes and our pockets even got full of water. We both had on tennis shoes and we squished along in the puddles like ten-year old’s. As we were on our way back it suddenly stopped, and a couple of clouds rolled by and then a few stars came out. Now doesn’t that sound romantic.

We didn’t do much Sunday morning except rest and get ready to go home. We took rickshaws down to the other end of the lake this time, loaded our bags into two cars and were off down the hill. Alan, Barb and I hadn’t made reservations on first class going down Sunday because we had thought we would leave Saturday, so we had quite a time when we got to Bareilly and there was no place for us on the train. For a while it looked like we were going to have to spend the night in 3rd class. If you could see the people crammed into those boxcar looking cars on hard benches you’d understand how we felt. Alan was practically beating the station master over the head. We had sent a telegram from the hotel but it evidently didn’t reach him. Otherwise they would have put on another first-class car. Finally they put us in second class coach that we had to ourselves and with our sleeping bags it was almost as nice as the first class ones….except that at 4:30 in the morning when we got into Ghabana we had to get off and change to another one. When we changed, we couldn’t all get together so Barbara ad I went into a car which was for ladies only where there were two other ladies (Indian) and a baby…and Alan was in the other compartment with a man. We arrived in Delhi at 6:00 this morning and came to work. Even though I did catch considerable sleep on the train, I almost fell off the chair while I was taking dictation this morning.

It is good to get out into the country a little and see how the Indians really live. Delhi actually is quite a cosmopolitan city and certainly not typical of an Indian city. Each trip I take serves to improve my understanding of the people and I can do a fair job of talking to the shopkeepers, etc. It isn’t often that you get to a place where nobody speaks English, though. When I walked into my room this morning with my bags in hand, I nearly fainted. I had just had all the nail holes plugged up and painted over before I acquired my new bearer and I suppose he thought he was being real helpful when he hung every single picture I own (seven) all over the room, helter-skelter, some high, some low. So now I have the nail hole business to go through again. End of the page……and all for now. It’s been fun writing it, hope you can make sense out of it. 

Love, Dorothy

Suffering Heartbreak

August 26th, 1952

THIS IS A HAPPY BIRTHDAY LETTER!!!

Dear Martha,

It is quarter to nine as I start this letter. The second page was partly done about a month ago. The first few pages are especially to you and the last part is a carbon of a letter which I plan to write to the folks. At least now I plan to do all this. We’ll see how the evening progresses. I took the first half hour out to re-read some of your letters and copies of mine to see just where I left you. As I remember it, I was in a rosy haze somewhere after the 4th of July.

The immediately following is a quoted letter I started to you before I went on a trip to a hill station this last weekend. I didn’t get it finished and in the meantime my feelings have altered slightly….but just for fun I’ll let you in, again, on the inner workings of this girl’s parched mind. Right now this seems a little silly, again, but I do remember that I was most unhappy and this letter I started to write to you doesn’t even begin to express adequately how completely miserable I was. Well here goes:

“This will no doubt be a sad-sack letter, so don’t pass it on to anyone. I haven’t had the heart to write in the last several weeks (This was written August 8th) and am just now on the crest of a rough climb back to normalcy after a desperately hard climb up a heart-breakingly bleak and thorny read after the light went out of my life about three weeks ago. It hasn’t been easy and after three weeks of climbing I’m still a long way from my former blissful, bumpy, but ever mountainous, travelling.

This blow, of course, is something that I have always halfway expected but refused to admit would actually fall, and I still wasn’t prepared for the impact when it came. I don’t think that I am an especially emotional person, and certainly not easily upset so I was even surprised a little that I could be so affected. Perhaps I have exaggerated my feelings even to myself out of a sense of appreciation for the tragic drama of it all, because in three weeks I have made a fairly good adjustment. Sometimes I’m even quite happy and have a pretty good time, if I don’t happen to think about it.

For a few days and nights, I didn’t think I’d ever again be able to laugh—and all that rot. I thought and thought and thought and beat the pillow and cried all night trying to decide what to do with myself and where to bury my misery – and at one desperate moment I was ready to go so far as to ask for a transfer or something equally as wild, because I could not stay here and remain sane with this weight on my heart and the torturer so ever present.

What finally solved the problem for me, or at least put it on ice, was that I finally in desperation arrived at a policy and composed in my mind what I could say, given the chance, and then steeled myself to wait for an opportunity to deliver it. You wait and you wait and before you know it the healing balm of the passage of time alters things a little and soon it is no longer necessary to use your line, and you adjust yourself to the new climate and devise a new line to fit the situation and wait again for another opportunity – and in the long run whatever that is left unsaid, the better.

It actually boiled down to this. What was there to say. I am still mentally awake enough to realize that pleadings and crying and entreaties at a time when the affection wanders will never recapture them – but more likely drive them completely away. I had never gotten a commitment of any kind and everything I had ever imagined, either pro or con, were just that, my own imagination. How could I say, on the strength of that, “How could you?” The answer would obviously be, “Why not? Who ever said we were more than just friends?” That is what my line had to be. We have said that, at least. And all of a sudden, we were no longer even friends. So, I decided that since I had never demanded a confession of his feelings either love or otherwise, and never knowing for sure – thinking one time yes and one time no – that it still wasn’t a confession I wanted (in fact I feared a confession which would more than likely be negative ) but just to go back to the blissful ignorance of never knowing but having every reason to hope. It’s the hope that was suddenly gone.

So, in my groping’s in the dark my only out was to figure out something that I could cling to that had the shape and form of hope. It was a flimsy thing, but it was enough to save a dying sailor. I told myself that it was possible that this thing could be a temporary infatuation, and that if so, the best thing for me to do would be to weather the storm as best I could and be the “always the same sweet girl” type that I have always tried to be – so that if it did happen to blow over some day there wouldn’t be any memories of words that couldn’t be called back to further darken the scene.

If it didn’t turn out to be a “temporary infatuation” with him….then my own attitude would at least be the groundwork for a possible existence under the strain of seeing him every day. (Have I neglected to tell you that there is a new girl – a redhead – in the Taj and HM has gone quite head over heels for her it seems.)

So, I’ve been sweet and gay and have tried to look my prettiest and act like nothing in the world has occurred to ripple the waters of my contentment. What it has accomplished, at least, is that he doesn’t act like a scared rabbit when he sees me, he doesn’t, by tightening up his face into an indifferent mask, remove me into the category of a stranger, anymore. The undercurrents are still raging but the river’s not coated with ice and the waters on top are quite calm and occasionally catch a sparkle from the sun.

We are going to Nainital this weekend for four days, I think. I am tortured by wondering whether or not he’ll really go. I don’t see how he can stand to go away and leave her. I wonder how we will get along. Barbara is vacillating about going, Helen can’t go and Mannie refuses to consider going up during the monsoon season….and I am adamant about going but have made it very plain and quite clear that it is entirely up to the individuals involved and if they don’t want to go it is perfectly all right with me, but I’m going anyway because there are four others going up from the Taj and I could go with them.

I don’t quite understand – and yet I understand perfectly – this sudden change in attitude toward me. You will remember my last letter or so being just full of happiness over how he had been toward me. This change came suddenly after the redhead had been here about a week. I was talking to Mannie one afternoon and he all of a sudden told me that he and Alan were taking Barbara and the redhead to Maidens. This was a Saturday night. I went to a late show, I think, and tried to forget the pain in my heart but came home and threw myself on the bed and cried for hours. She lived then over on the corridor in back of me right straight through – so 2:30 he brought her home and I was still awake so I saw him tell her goodnight, with some relief, although I couldn’t have expected a much different behavior on their first date. That was my roughest night. The next day, they (Mannie and Alan) came over and got me to go to Rashtrapati Bhavan to the museum and that was when I realized the full significance of it, because he was very withdrawn and “eyes averted” and I had to stick close to Mannie and chatter gaily to him to keep back the tears. Next day, Monday, he called me at the office and asked me if I wanted to join a group at the Ambassador’s house to practice square dancing so that we could be on the program at a community project center about 80 miles from Delhi where community project leaders from all over India are in training. I was sorta glad about that but discovered that night that he wasn’t going to go himself….so it ended up that Mannie and I went with a group of TCA people and it was quite fun (I’ll tell you about it in the family section of the letter.) I had visions of HM having a date with the redhead that night (Friday but found out later that he only played bridge.) So, I forced myself to accept dates and go out as much as possible and have fun – my heart aching.

Well, the trip is over and I’m still not his girl, but we have the makings of a friendship of a sort – with me still clinging desperately to the shadow of hope. I have been extremely popular since we got back and haven’t stayed home one night. Hi Howard, the tall Stan Vac boy had been quite attentive and there is a fellow in town who is going in with another guy from Los Angeles to write and produce a movie for Errol Flynn who will be in Delhi in about three months to produce and star in it. He is very interesting, tall guy who has aroused the interest of the Embassy. I have been singing up and down the halls and have projected myself into quite a happy mood – even if I’m crying on the inside. All have noticed my seemingly happy mood, and I suppose wonder, which I think is good.

I’m only able to talk myself into being happy because it seems like an extra bonus to be even a little bit happy, because just to be a little bit happy, after just going through a period when I didn’t think I’d ever really enjoy one moment of life again is so good.

Vera, Come For A Visit?

Typed on official letter head for The Foreign Service of the United States of America

Aug 12th, 1952

Dear Vera: (Dorothy’s mother’s sister)

I promised myself that I would make an effort to write a one-year-resume letter to everyone on my address list, or at least to my nearest and dearest. Tomorrow, the 13th, marks one year in India – and I’m making a late start if I expect to get them all by Christmas, even…but here you are on the top of my list. The attached is an extra copy of my most recent letter home. I have written literally volumes to the folks, but it seems so hard to write anyone else because there is so much to say after a year and in the beginning I just didn’t get around to writing.

It’s hard to believe I’ve actually been here a year. The time has literally raced by, and they say the second year goes even faster. We’ve just had the last of the monsoons and after another month of warm weather we are off again onto the glorious winter. I, personally, have found even the hottest of the summer rather bearable, with memories of Chicago’s summer still fresh, and this winter coming up makes up for anything.

I haven’t heard from home for a good long while, so I don’t know the latest developments, but last I heard from Martha she was all a-flap over the pending arrival of her beau sometime in September. From New Mexico the White Sanders had arrived for a visit; Bob had just recently received his commission in New Jersey and we had news that there would be an addition to his family before long; and Anne was getting rich on farm labor and looking forward to her Junior year in high school. So, life goes on at home, while I busy myself in my own little sphere and sometimes almost forget I have a family.

What can you tell me? I want to know what Ray is doing, where why and how. Also, the two Moore boys and families. Also, please say hello to all my old friends, especially Jean and Mark. I suppose you are still swamped with work at the School. Why don’t you take an around the world trip and stay awhile with me in India? I’ll save my leave and we can do a tour around south India and Ceylon – see Calcutta, Bombay, Hyderabad, Bangalore, The Alora and Ajunta caves, the Taj Mahal, etc., etc. People do it all the time. Vera, is it really so fantastic an idea?

What can I tell you about India at this stage of the game, when every-thing is old stuff to me? I should have done it all when I was eager and excited over every camel and snake charmer I saw. So, with this poor excuse for a letter I’ll quit here. It’s just to let you know that I think about you often and wish you could share some of my experiences with me. You’re the type who would have done this, and not me.

Love, Dorothy

New Red Head Hits Town By Storm

July 28, 1952

I only have a few minutes to make the pouch and guess it’s about time I’m letting you know again that I’m still kicking. Not much of interest to tell about lately. I got a letter from Virginia Clark Allen the other day, which was quite a surprise. She tells me that Kenny is engaged – there goes the last one. Also said that she was expecting a little one for Christmas.

Just got a call from Alan saying that we are going to go to a village Friday night and give a square dance exhibition. There is a big demand for the Americans to do their “square dance” at different festivals, etc. This will make the third one. It should be fun going out to the village.

Yesterday, Alan, Mannie and I went up to Rajtrapathi Bhayan (the President’s Palace) to go through the museum there. They have a lot of old Mugul and Rajput paintings, stone carvings from the famous Ajunta and Alora caves and from temples all over India, pottery and clay figures that have been dug up from old buried cities and some of the stuff comes from the 3rd century B.C. I spend the better part of each weekend that we don’t go out of town at the swimming pool catching up on my exercise. I would simply amaze you – and I certainly amaze myself and all my friends. I seem to have no fear and I’m doing things that even scare the lookers-on. I just have a lot of nerve and as a result of that and a lot of time at the pool, I’ll end up as a passing fair diver.

I’m a little down-hearted lately – and don’t know exactly why I’m probably in love and I’ve at last got some serious competition. A beautiful new red-head has hit town by storm. Alan took her out Saturday night. For about a week now I have been having weird dreams about going home. There I am all of a sudden and I can’t remember how I happened to go home and nobody at home even seems a particle interested in the fact that I’ve been to India and the worst part is that I don’t remember the trip home or why I didn’t finish my tour here and I realize that I’ve lost my mind and I wake myself up screaming. Each time I think it is so real that I say to myself – always before I just dreamed this and now this time know I’m not dreaming. I’m so relieved to wake up and discover that I really was only dreaming after all.

One of the mali wallah’s was scared of my poor little dog and when Scooter nipped playfully at his heels he kicked out at scooter and began to run had a big tray of cement on his head, fell down, got bit on the leg and arm by Scooter, gave himself a bloody nose and a black eye and now Scooter is in the hospital for 10 days observation for rabies and the man had to go have shots, etc. etc…..and the whole thing is costing me $5, if he doesn’t have rabies, and I don’t know how much if he does. So, Scooter is going to dog heaven when it is all over with. He’s getting to be more trouble than he is worth. He has also discovered that there is a world outside the Taj walls.

No more time or paper so bye for now. Dorothy

Just A Short Note (But Not Really)

July 12, 1952 (To Martha in pencil)

JUST A

Short note to let you know that you may possibly be getting a visitor up your way from India. He is Chris Sexton, who’s parents are here with the British High Commission. He worked his way over to India on a steamer to visit with his folks and was here for several months. He’s a cute boy. I always called him Christopher Kringle. He was always interested in “you Americans” and hadn’t known many Americans before he met us. He went on some of our parties with us. Used to come up to USIS quite often to see Jim Grisby and always stopped in and spent an hour or so talking to me. Very skinny kid, with lank, long blond hair. He is on his way to Canada and the ship he has signed aboard will stop in Seattle. He has your home and office address and the office phone number. It will be a couple months before they arrive, I suppose. He is the one who started the famous sayings around here, “My God, she’s enormous.” We were all playing leap frog and football and doing tricks on the back lawn one day after a picnic to the old amphitheater lake and Chris was going to try and swing me around by an arm and a leg. He just got me off he ground and about half a swing around when my face bit the grass and I went sliding along for several feet face-downward. Poor Chris was horrified at dropping me, and all he could say was, “My God, she’s enormous.”

BUT AS

Long as I’m at it I may as well chat a bit. This is Saturday morning at work. My boss just got back today after a week in Kashmir and he really has a face full of sun. Just now got notice from Embassy that we are to go on different hours, a little longer during the day and no work on Saturdays….and that’s o.k. by me. Just fired my bearer, Sami Lal a week or so ago and have been using Pat Whitney’s bearer, Narayan, to take care of the cleaning, and my clothes, and I eat with Barbara. She did the same thing a month or so back, so I guess we are even. I’m on the lookout for a new bearer. Doesn’t take long for the word to get around and every day a couple of seamy looking characters show up looking for a job. I’m going to be real careful in selecting the next one. It’s practically like picking a husband. You just have to have someone you can stand around all the time. I got so I couldn’t stand Sami Lal, and he was therefore, away from the place most of the time. Poor little guy, I hope he can get a new job. He wasn’t a bad cook, but I had trouble getting him to do certain cleaning jobs which he considered beneath his dignity. I tried to explain that it didn’t matter to me whether he did them or not, just so long as they got done, but they didn’t so he got the axe. I kept him for months with everyone saying, “Why don’t you fire that stupid bearer,” because I didn’t have the heart to let him go. It was surprisingly easy when it finally came down to it. He accepted it with an apathy that seems to be rather general among these people. They have had so darn much kicking around that nothing surprises them. They just accept everything, death, disease, poverty, as a matter of course.

NOW THAT

I’ve almost filled a page and spent a good ten minutes doing it…it’s time to go home. Barbara and I are going to try and bum a ride to the pool and spend the afternoon trying to rejuvenate our tans of a week ago. I haven’t any soul stirring news about the latest Cambellittis developments. He hasn’t missed one night all week coming over to spend an hour or two with me, even though we haven’t gone anyplace or done anything. This is a new development – but doesn’t stir my soul. Maybe he’s just lonesome. Anyway, it’s a habit that I like and one that he had dropped for months and months after our first “new people” months.

HERE IS

The second page already of a short note, and this is Monday morning. My weekend was very quiet. We did go to the pool Saturday and I went crying over to Barbara’s Saturday night when I discovered that Alan, who I hadn’t seen all day, went off to a party without even asking me if I were invited or coming over. I had slept in the afternoon – my charpoy pulled into the middle of the room directly under my big over-head fan, the desert cooler in the window roaring away, so he could have come by and found me asleep – but doubt it. Helen also was invited, and she went with Mannie. Barbara refused to let me slash my wrists with a razor blade so I went home and sat in Helen’s room playing the piano for hours. Barbara and Joe Krene came over to see how I was later, and we ate peanut butter, jam and crackers and sang “I don’t want to set the world on fire,” in high falsetto voices as loud as we could. I stood on my head practicing diving position for awhile and Barbara and Joe engaged in fisticuffs (boxing). Finally, we admitted we were all bored and our frenzied attempts at gaiety weren’t working—so they went away, and I trudged gloomily back to the piano, and sat for another hour playing the black keys only, improvising to suit my mood. Came a tap on the door pane and who stood peering in but Mannie. Since Helen’s door was locked from the outside he came around through mine and flopped on the bed. I went on with my Oriental sing-song playing while Mannie, who seldom drinks and who had too many at this party, went on semi-sleeping. Pretty soon Helen, who had come home with Alan from the party and they stopped at the Club for a dance on the way, came home. There she found me staring into space, fingering the flats, and Mannie conked out on the bed, and neither of us would utter a word. She got some things out of her kitchen and with a “Hundreds of crazy people all over my house,” rushed out. Came back a few minutes later saying that the table at Alan’s was set for four and for us to come over. The suggestion of food brought Mannie to his feet – he can eat more and oftener than anyone I know – and though I was reluctant to go over, I went along. I wasn’t hungry and still in a “purple fog” as we always call it when we are depressed, but I sat on the floor by the bookcases and read “Mouse Maid Made Mouse” from the Indian equivalent of Aesop’s fables. I did condescend to eat four olives – and after their repast I took the dishes into the kitchen off of Mannie’s room and rinsed them off. In due course there followed a dishtowel fight in which fray I was wounded on the leg when Alan, not knowing his own strength or realizing what the flip end of a wet dishtowel can do, displayed an elaborately fancy “touché” in fencing pose. I very bravely concealed my pain and our fight turned into a chase when I ran home. Helen was at the piano as we went by her room, so we pressed our noses to the pane and the strains the French National Anthem wooed us inside. Helen and Alan (with me leaning on the mantle piece listening and drinking in the cuteness of…) and eight verses of “I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night”, and twelve of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” Helen looked down and saw my wound and said, “Good Heavens, what happened to you,” and my secret was out. Poor Alan was fraught with despair when he realized what he’d done – but I refused to beat him with Helen’s bamboo pole. I sneaked out when he was moaning face down on her bed and instead of going to my room, I sat in the wicker lounge chair on the veranda in the dark of the shadows to see him go home. My “purple fog” was only a “blue mist”. Pretty soon he came out and came over to my door, instead of turning the other way and going home..so I spoke to him from the shadows and he came over and sat down for a while. Anyway, I was riding a pink cloud with silver lining when I retired a half hour later.

Sunday – the pool again and I nearly killed myself trying a double roll from the high board. Alan wasn’t there but when we got home he arrived about the same time with a five foot banana tree in hand and with lots of advise from the side-lines he and Al Awagain dug a hole and planted the banana tree. His other little itty bitty one had died. Alan is a horticulturist in more ways than one. Loves to dig around in the yard. Mannie too. You should see their veranda and yard…just full of all kinds of palms and potted plants. Mannie has a few little trees he ties up with the strings to train them a certain way and he drags in big rocks from our trips, etc. Many a Sunday afternoon I have sat and watched them re-plant the Wandering Jew and dig around in the other pots. Alan got a hanging basket plant once and hung it from the arch of the veranda and the poor thing was almost beaten to death by the palm tree nearby so he moved it and it still looks mighty sick but we think it will live.

Anyway, the banana tree was planted, and we christened it “Chicita” with nimbu pani’s. After the T.T.P.S. (Taj Tree Planting Society) broke up we took Alan’s and Mannie’s cold chicken, potato salad and cucumber slices down to Barb’s room and we opened a can of beans and Vienna sausages and heated them and sat around on pillows on the reed mat floor and ate. Then we went our separate ways home. I was frustrated, as usual when I don’t have a goodnight chat with H.M. (His Majesty), so I moved the furniture around in my room again, taking out a big long ugly book rack I had putting in a small one that Pat Whitney gave me. Pat came along and I fed her about five cokes and we started talking about bridge. I have decided to learn the game, since I heard somewhere that it is a good idea to try to become interested in the hobbies of the MOTH (man of the hour) and T.B., alias H.M., alias the MM (mad mali – a mali is the man who cuts the grass and plants the flowers, etc.) and sometimes we call him P.E.N. Campbell, meaning Party Every Night Campbell, when he is especially popular for a week, likes to play bridge, or at least is always being invited to dinner and bridge.

Pat Whitney is my neighbor on the right, been in India for years, works in the Ambassador’s office, loves to eat and looks it, big brown eyes that blink and flash, short permanent hair that always stands on end giving her a wild look, a sharp brain that knows a little bit about a lot of things, talks a lot, likes to talk and goes through all kinds of facial contortions as she talks, has two Siamese cats, not too popular but a good hearted soul that is fun to have around for short intervals----knows her bridge, but good. She stayed until almost 1:30 showing me the ropes.

AND TODAY

I’m tired! I’ve even run out of trivia – so I’ll leave this as a short note at that……Don’t expect to ever get a letter from me again until both of you write me one….and a nice long one.      So bye.        AND LOVE,

P.S. All these initials is another latest craze. We initial significant phrases and then let the other guess what we mean. Barbara and I are always going to spend a S.I.N. (self improvement night), etc. Sometimes they guess real funny things.

PPST! I think I’m in love. I try not to think about it too much and I refuse to consider what’s going to happen to me when one more year and two months are gone. It makes me sick….sick I tell you. In spite of all the improvements, I still don’t know how I stand, for sure. I don’t even dare hope, for how could anyone as wonderful and cute and sweet and nice and all the adjectives you can think of that are complimentary ever ever feel the same way about a slob like me. (Typed over this last sentence: I shouldn’t have to say it to myself.)

PSST again. Please keep this a secret.