The Raj below the salt: Devasis Chattopadhyay's book brings history alive

A society's history isn't just about kings and conquerors - it's the people who shape the story

HARRY HOBBS OF KOLKATA AND OTHER FORGOTTEN LIVES: Some unusual Caucasians of 19th century Kolkata and their intriguing tales

Author: Devasis Chattopadhyay

Publisher: Niyogi Books

Pages: 315

Price: Rs 595

  You might imagine that the era of colonial India is well mapped, with little left to say. After all, we studied our downfall and resurgence in history books decades ago. If we have learnt any more since then, it is the terrible extent of the cruelty and barbarism of our colonial rulers.

 

Yet, as this book shows us, we would be wrong. By delving into the stories of those forgotten or not considered worthy enough, fascinating aspects of life in 18th and 19th century India are revealed.

 

 

It is appropriate that Devasis Chattopadhyay starts his quirky tome with the man he has named it after — Harry Hobbs. A piano tuner. Not the setter of standards or the toast of British Indian society, nor indeed the signer of proclamations. Instead, a man of the people but with inside knowledge. Hobbs was an adventurer, going wherever pianos were, across the exotic Orient. Along the way, he became a man of the world, with eyes and ears for what worked and what didn’t, who was important and who could be.

 

It is a revelation to me that so many of those who people Mr Chattopadhyay’s book are not better known. Calcutta (now Kolkata) was India’s most colonial city, a true imperial capital in a way that its successor Delhi could never be. The Bengali remains a contradiction here —on the one hand, quick to pick up European customs and mannerisms, and on the other, ready and eager to throw bombs, embrace anarchy, and celebrate death to the imperialist. Thus, one would have expected nothing new in Mr Chattopadhyay’s work and instead one is amazed, delighted and horrified.

 

Hobbs was not just a piano tuner. He was a keen observer and an excellent chronicler of his times. He wrote about trends and customs, about new arrivals, successes and failures. The goings-on at punch houses and taverns, the inner workings of kitchens of the rich and famous, the interactions between the memsahib and the khidmatgar, the arrival of ice in the city. Bengal’s famous novelist, Mani Shankar Mukherjee, author of Chowringhee, made into that famous film starring Uttam Kumar, knew Hobbs who regaled him with stories of Calcutta life.

 

Mr Chattopadhyay’s collection is eclectic. For instance, the supposed lover of Marie Antoinette, Antoine De L’Etang, was exiled to India apparently because of the dalliance. He made his way to Calcutta, where he met Julian Soubise, a Caribbean slave who was freed and brought up like a gentleman in England only to be turned out. Soubise taught riding and fencing, and De L’Etang became associated with his riding school. After Soubise’s death, De L’Etang ran it. He wrote a few books on the breeding and lineage of horses in India. But De L’Etang’s legacy was also of the family he left behind. His beautiful granddaughters, the Pattles, all made important marriages. From one of these comes the well-known author Virginia Woolf, and from another, writer and amateur historian William Dalrymple.

 

The complicated stories of India’s connection to writers William Shakespeare, William Makepeace Thackeray are also here. I should correct that to Calcutta’s connection, although when it comes to Thackeray, Mumbai has a say too. Members of all these families — uncles and nephews — came to India, to work and make their fortunes.

 

The most horrific story is that of slavery and indentured labour, and how one of the Prinseps — another illustrious family name, one of whom married into De L’Etang’s family — played a role in continuing the tradition in India even though it was abolished in Britain. Mr Chattopadhyay weaves the story into that of the simple little cowrie shell, which became accepted currency in the slave trade. The plight of indentured labour, not slaves, not free, sent across the world to work in British colonies is effectively told through the words of the slaves themselves.

 

A society’s history is not just that of kings and conquerors, the vanquished and the victor. It is the people who make the story and efforts like Mr Chattopadhyay’s open our eyes to the past in lively and engaging ways. Whether it is the detective Richard Reid or the hotelier Shirley Tremaine, these are names we ought to remember. In my working life as a journalist in Bombay (later Mumbai), journals were always strong on local history and nostalgia. Kolkata has not made a strong enough case for its days as Calcutta, bar a few well-known tales of Christmas, Warren Hastings and Job Charnock, for instance.

 

This book fills some of those gaps. However, where the book suffers is in the telling, or rather the editing. There is a lot of backing and forthing and too many repetitions of the same instances across several tales. This only serves to confuse the reader, because you lose context as you wonder if there is a new significance to the matter being repeated. A bit of tidy editing and tightening of the text would have avoided this shortcoming.

 

Having said that, the read itself is fascinating. Mr Chattopadhyay’s research is remarkable. Importantly, he has made connections to better-known moments in history and to current times as well. This keeps the reader engaged, and wanting to know and learn more. Because Mr Chattopadhyay is not a historian and a writer by “passion” rather than profession, his style is all his own. A bit pedantic, a bit light and sometimes full of understandable outrage.

 

He says at the end that Hobbs remains his favourite character and it is not hard to see why. Salute to the writer for championing the piano tuner over all else. One in the eye for snobbery and colonial snootiness!

 

The reviewer is an independent journalist who writes on the media, politics and social issues