25 May 1945 the Chorley Guardian, page 6
A Chorley lad describes the varied life of an Indian town
By TC Gillett
"The Imperial Japanese army is now in India. We shall be in Chittagong within seven days."
So said the news announcer from Tokyo radio on February 11, 1944. But the Sons of Nippon never got to Chittagong and on February 11th 1945 when I sailed with a convoy from this port southward for about 200 miles in the wake of the retreating Japs. Some day maybe the world will hear the full story of the exploits of the 14th Army composed of Empire troops, British, Indian and West and East Africans, how they overcame incredible difficulties and turned back the Japs from the land gates of India.
Chittagong is a seaport on the eastern side of Bengal. It is the starting point of the Ledo Road and the gateway to the Chin Hills, the Abakan, and Western Burma down to Rangoon. Much used by early Portuguese merchants and adventurers, it was later a headquarters for the Honourable East India Company. It is a small port, with the peace-time population of about 30,000 but it has assumed considerable importance as a supply base during this war.
Having spent some weeks in the vicinity of the town, I am familiar with its rambling Main Street, unpaved and covered with 3 or 4 inches of fine dust, it's ramshackle rows of shops and a cosmopolitan population. There is the "Well Come" hairdressing salon where I went to get a haircut for four annas, with two annas "backshish" for the assistant and where are you can admire the result through a badly cracked mirror surrounded by pictures of voluptuous Chinese pinup girls.
One can get a really good feed of either English or oriental dishes at the Chungking Chinese restaurant owned and staffed by Chinese. The food is not only good but clean, an important consideration out east. Or one can sit in one's underwear in one shop and have one's shorts or slacks lengthened or shortened by the Nhurzel wallah (tailor) at one side of the shop doorway and shoes repaired by the mooches wallah (cobbler) on the other side.
A PLEASANT CHAT
But, better still you can spend a pleasant time, as I did, chatting with Abdul and his son who keep a cloth and a silk shop at the crossroads. The old man is about 70 summers with a long flowing beard and an aristocratic countenance I would love to photograph.
Squatting, Gandhi fashion, on the floor and smoking contentedly his long Indian pipe, this is an ambitious affair with a tube about 4 feet long from the mouth to a receptacle on the floor containing the smoking mixture, he discourses of variety of subjects and displays a good knowledge of world affairs.
Meanwhile his son who like his father, speaks good English, brings out for your inspection a variety of goods. There is an exotic looking Chinese housecoat or kimono in pure silk pure white silk with a highly-coloured, dragon worked on the back. "Only Rs.100, your English memsahib will be dee-lighted." We very much doubt it, however so he smilingly produces a beautifully embroidered shawl "straight from Kashmir and only Rs.75" (about £5.10s. 0d)
I will offer him 50 then 55 he comes down to 70 but we remain at those figures so he proceeds to empty his shelves showing me anything from ladies silk underwear to Persian carpets
If it is evening the shop will gradually fill with a variety of natives, young and old, who squat round in a circle and enter into discussion with deep concentration emphasising the points with expressive gestures of their hands. One evening I sat with them for some time but the discussion was carried on in Bengalese. When asked what was the subject, of Abdul smilingly answered "politics."
Standing outside his shop one afternoon, I counted at least 10 different nationalities in the busy throng in as many minutes. The majority were servicemen, British, American, Indian, African, Chinese et cetera with many refugees from Burma and China.
The beggars, so familiar a sight in every Indian town and village were present in large numbers, often repulsive and a pitiful site. When a voice at my elbow cried "Salaam sahib" I turned to find two boys carrying a rude bamboo structure on which was placed, what I at first thought, was the mangled body of a child. It proved to be a small boy paralysed from head to foot, completely nude and with his limbs twisted into grotesque shapes. A brass plate was balanced on his chest to receive offerings of sympathisers.
Servicemen are warned out here not to give to these beggers as it tends to encourage their numbers. But it would've taken a stonier heart and the mine to refuse this one. A couple of annas thrown on the plate and I was soon besieged by others. There was a young girl of about 12 or 14 years carrying a small child, her face and arms and the nude body of the child being completely covered with large suppurating sores; whilst an old man minus legs from the thighs, swung across the road on his hands.
Tanks, guns, marching men and the whole panoply of war passed along the road in a cloud of hot dust so that it was a welcome change to turn and greet a more peaceful site in the persons of two Sisters of Mercy. One was from Ireland and the other from Australia and they led a long double file of happy chattering little boys and girls in neat brown uniforms, mostly dark Burmese and paler slant-eyed Chinese. All were orphans or unable to trace their parents; human wreckage from the wars in Burma and China.
The sisters and their charges are housed in a wooden ramshackle building having had to evacuate the convent which is now use of for Service purposes. Adjacent to it is the little cathedral of the Holy Rosary, which with the Hindu temple is it only building in the town with any pretensions to architectural beauty. In the nearby Roman Catholic cemetery I came across many names like Gomez and Gonzales, evidence that there are still many descendants of the early Portuguese living in the town.
End
Advance to Letters From Abroad 1945-46