The Duke of Kent, Wimbledon and I

It was 1985 and I was in England. A colleague had taken me to Birmingham to visit an exhibition of plastic machinery at the Birmingham International Exhibition Centre.

As we visited stall after stall we came towards one that had some very bright lights shining inside. There was a crowd around the stall with some policemen blocking the way. We stood there, craning our necks to see what was going on. We could see a portly man in long black robe, weighed down with silver chains all over, earnestly explaining something to another man in a suit whose back was towards us.

My companion said, “That must be the Mayor of Birmingham in his official finery. But, who on earth is the other bloke?” At that moment the ‘other bloke’ turned and we could see his face. I said right away, “Oh! That is the Duke of Kent.”

My companion thought that I had just said the first thing that came to my mind. He looked at me with ‘doubt’ written all over his face and ignored me. “It is the Duke of Kent”, I insisted.

My companion thought that it was time to stop this pest and asked a nearby policeman, “Who is that with the Mayor?”

“The Duke of Kent” was the prompt reply.

The astonished friend asked me, “How did you guess?”

“I did not guess. I see him every year at Wimbledon……. on the TV! So, I knew.” (It was TV for me, no telly, as the English call it. The other such term that I find funny is brolly – for Umbrella)

* * * * * *

I was sitting at “home” and watching the news on the ‘telly’ and talking to the landlady, (I was a paying guest with an English family) her husband and daughter. My watchstrap got undone. I took it off and rubbed the mark it had left on my wrist and wore it again. My landlady noticed the ‘unusual’ mechanism of the strap fastener and remarked, “Oh, that looks very clever. May I take look?” I took the watch off again and gave it to her and showed her how to work the ‘clever’ mechanism. “Oh, I had never seen one such before!” she exclaimed. “Is it very Indian?” she asked.

“Not at all”, I said, “The duke of Kent wears one such!”

She would not believe me. How could this Indian, who was on his first visit to England, possibly know about the Duke of Kent and his watchstrap?

It was 1980 and the inimitable Borg had just won his last final at Wimbledon, (or, should I say the Championships?). The camera pans to the Royal Box and there you see the Duke and the Duchess of Kent applauding the “Ice Borg”. The Duke’s watchstrap comes loose and he re-does it - exactly like my watch - and hence my extraordinary ‘knowledge’.

Driving

One of my dreams was to attend a full-fledged concert in England. I got the opportunity when one of my English colleagues offered to take my other Indian colleagues and me to one. I had a real good time, since the Halle Philharmonic played, among others, “Beethoven 5th” – one of the very few compositions I was familiar with.

On the way back to the village we stayed in, (Rugeley, Staffordshire(*1), in the British Midlands) we had just entered the village when we came across a road junction with traffic lights, which turned red as we approached. Even at that late hour, when no other living being was visible as far as the eye could see, our colleague, Keith Butler, stopped the car, shifted the gear to neutral and waited without a hint of impatience. I asked him, why he stopped the car when he could not see anyone anywhere? (Especially, the police?)

The simple answer was, “I don’t want to learn a bad habit”, fingers drumming the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the invisible horizon. I was impressed. The light turned amber – no reaction. The light turned green, first gear, look left and right to ensure that no maniac, who did not follow his own strict code of conduct was about to violate the signals and ram into us, and then we were on the way.

Wow….

The other story is from Germany. A colleague and I had landed at Frankfurt(*2) and we were driven to our destination, Lohr am Main. Our driver was a shop floor worker deputed to do this job – to earn a few (tens of) extra Deutsch Marks perhaps.

We were driving at 180 kmph. The speedometer had a maximum of 220 kmph. I asked the driver, “does this car really do”? He did not have much English, but said, “awww…. (lots of contempt) Japanese car, not too much power”.

If we happened to travel at 100 kmph in a car in those days in India, we would brag about it to our friends. Neither the roads, nor the trusty, rusty Ambassadors would allow such breakneck speeds. So I was thinking “look at this man, he is driving at 180 and says that the car does not have too much power!” Then I looked out of the window, other cars, mainly German and Swedish, were overtaking us with disdain.

One car in particular is vivid in memory. A black Mercedes, driven by an old man, with a scarf-wearing wife next to him, passed us in a hurry. The old man held on to the steering wheel as if he did not have the energy to stay upright without its support and would collapse if he let go of it. But it was out of sight in no time at all.

After driving at this ‘sedate’ pace for an hour or so, we left the Autobahn and entered a village road. A board indicated that the speed limit was 50 kmph. The car faithfully slowed down to that speed. As we drove along we came across two more boards, a speed limit of 40 kmph for trucks and a no overtaking sign. And, promptly, we approached an articulated truck driving at that speed. Our driver followed the truck at a safe, respectable distance. I was waiting for the driver to look hither and thither and try to see if he could overtake the truck. (No police in sight you see?)

But no such luck. We drove for the next hour or so at that pace without our driver showing any signs of distress.

Wow… again.

I am sure, no Indian needs me to describe what would have happened in India in a similar situation!!

1 Interestingly, most people mistook it for Stratford (upon Avon, the Bard’s place)
2 This was an experience by itself. As we approached the tarmac and the aircraft descended to land, we could see the tarmac flying past us below. So most passengers braced themselves for the inevitable impact when the wheels hit the tarmac. It never came. We started slowing down without the inertia throwing us forward. Then the passengers realised what had happened. The pilot had given us a perfect landing. After some moments it took us to realise what had happened, our reaction times increased by the overnight flight, someone started clapping. Everyone joined. The whole aircraft applauded the landing. We were greeted with a businesslike Danke Schön!