Around The World With Prem Bhatia
Excerpts from his International coverage
In Stalin's RUSSIA
My first contact with Russia occurred in Delhi, over the application for an entry visa. A four weeks wait for a diplomat sounds unusual but from Soviet Standards it was speedy disposal. This objection to being "hustled" confronts one again and again in Moscow, but it ceases to irritate after a gradual adjustment to the local tempo, for which there is early and plentiful opportunity. Whether it is an order for a meal or a request for an appointment, the response is leisurely and often unpredictable. Sometimes, on high Government level, there is no response, for which the reasons are not always obvious, but the pattern is indentical slow, deliberate and circuitious.
At Helsinki a soviet aircraft, which carried me and my family to Moscow, provided our second contact with Rassia. Snow had fallen the previous day, and the air, damp and cold, cut through the body where it was bare during the brief journey from the waiting room to the plane. Inside the plane it was warm—practically the one luxury we were permitted throughout the four-hour flight to Moscow.
Probably because civil aviation does not feature in the earlier part of the five year plan, air travel in Russia is far from comfortable, but it is welcome over distances which dwarf Indian journeys to a stroll in the back yard. As the children screamed for food – not without reason – we gazed expectantly from one end of the machine to the other until we learnt that Russian planes do not carry food for passengers. This was an early reminder of different standards, which never fail to upset some visitors. We, too, sighed nostalgically for smiling hostesses on other aircraft and their touching concern for our imaginary appetites.
We soon found that our plane carried no steward, male or female, A tough, a thickset man who came nearest to that functionary, looked in twice from the pilot’s cabin, said we could smoke and then sank heavily to sleep in one or the empty berths. He woke up only when we landed in Moscow. There was an air of informality about the whole journey. No one bothered us about the seat belts, there was no circulation of voyage charts, no warnings about the landing. One felt that the crew thought the whole business of flying those 800 miles an inconsequential interlude, not worth the fuss people in the west make over air travel.
Four months later, travelling by train from Moscow to Brest litovsk – a journey of 30 hours – we found conditions different, possibly because the railways have received more attention since the war. We had a separate bath room between two sleeping compartments, found a continuous supply of sweet milk less tea and gorged ourselves unblushingly in the restaurant car on enormous quantities of food and drink. There was even a radio receiving apparatus on the train which continued the Moscow tradition of endless public service. Our regretful parting from Russia, at the end of this journey, was tempered only by relief from this friendly but instistent entertainment.
Rain had been falling before we landed at Moscow’s main airfield, 15 miles outside the city. It was bitterly cold, made worse by a chill wind. First to enter the aircraft was a woman police officer who collected the passports. We then learnt to our surprise that she insisted on our baggage being searched. When she was informed by representatives of the Indian Embassy that we had diplomatic visas she replied that, nevertheless, the search would be made because we had no laisser passes." This is a document which the External Affairs Minister in Delhi had, of course, forgotten to procure, Its absence had caused no difficulty in other countries enroute, but Russia’ s obedience to rules permits of no exceptions. When a shocked member of our Embassy rang to the Society Foreign office, he was asked to apply in writing.
As the Foreign office suggestion may have held us up at the airfield for a week, we abandoned resistance. The inspection then began. While one person went through our clothes, another looked into my books and files not sparing even my private papers and bank statements. At the end of their job, the two appologised , shook me by the hand and smiled. We were friends again.
When we drove into Moscow it was almost 9 p.m. At the Metropole Hotel, where most foreigners are lodged, the chamber, maid breamed with smiles at our children, for nothing will move a Russian more than the sight of a baby : our son and daughter, we soon found out, were out greatest personal assets in that country. After finishing a moderate dinner, which had been ordered by a friend, we saw the bill and suffered our first major shock in Russia. The meal – a soup, fish and vegetables bread and butter and a bottle of beer had cost us the equivalnt of Rs.500/-. We slept badly.
What I inevitably saw – and remember – is what interested me, also what, in the unparalleled conditions of that country, a foreigner, particularly a diplomat, is permitted to see. It is with no bitterness that the proceeding reservation is mentioned, but disappointment and frustration were a common reaction. These have not however, affected my impressions, which are mostly happy, sometimes a shade amusing, always, I am sure, free from animus, because my admiration for Russia has only grown, not lessened, with my visit.
One notices quickly in Moscow the personality of the people in their architecture. Not only the Kremlin, which we were shown round by a charming woman guide who spoke only Russian, but also the modern buildings, are massive, built to last. Wide, spacious roads and squares proclaim the physical vastness of the country and the impression is enhanced by the fact that more than three –fourths of the public squares are closed to traffic : they are just left gaping as space. Continuous washing of the roads – an irritating impediment to traffic – and of buildings is one indication of the Russian’s attachment to the collective property. Sometimes the habit amounts to a craze. At the end of our rail journey Brest Litovsk, the train was being wiped and polished even before passengers had time to get out.
An amusing uniform feature, of Moscow’s pedestrain traffic is the people’s weakness for food, walking or stationary in queues, men women and children are often engaged in one common pursuit : eating. Whether it is ice-cream, of which several varieties are on sale in summer and winter, or just plain bread, the Russian suffers from no inhibitions over their consumption. One notices, too, the heavy purposive manner in which the Russian goes about his business, always in step with his companion, if he is not alone. This amazing uniformity in walk – never too fast – characterizes men, women and children alike, even when companions vary in size and age, even when they are out for a stroll in the park. It is probably nothing more or less than collective living extended to the roadside, but it never fails to impress, particularly because it carried no trace of aggression.
Outstanding among the mental pictures which one carries back from Russia – and which startles one in the early stages – is the spectre of the State presiding over human and animal activity in several forms. Nor only does one live in a hotel owned by the state or buy one'’food from shops which the Government owns and runs (with clockwork efficiency) : one daily rides in buses or taxis which the state controls in every detail ; one reads papers which belong to the Government or the party (which runs the Government) ; one goes to theatres and cinemas which ,again are state owned and conducted; and – to cut a long argument short – one raises even one’s family under the vigilant eye of the relevant State Ministry. One thankfully remembers at least one.
