The Writers’ Bar

For some time now, Nandu has had this notion, or dream if you like, of naming the old Savoy bar the ‘Writers’ Bar’.

‘But to do that,’ I said, ‘you’d have to get a few writers in here, wouldn’t you?’

‘Well, you’re one, aren’t you? Don’t you have any writer friends?’

‘Hardly any. And the few I know are teetotallers. The Hemingway type is out of fashion.’

‘Last year, when I was in Singapore,’ said Nandu, ‘I revisited the historic Raffles Hotel—it’s about the same age as the Savoy—and they had a Writer’s Bar with brass plaques on the walls stating that Somerset Maugham had been there, and Joseph Conrad, and Graham Greene.’

‘All very sober people,’ I remarked.

‘Yes, but they stayed there, and they must have had the occasional drink at the Bar, even if it was only a nimbu pani.’

‘Well, in the good old days, the Savoy must have had the occasional writer staying here.’

‘There was Pearl Buck. I still have her autograph in one of her books. She won the Nobel Prize, didn’t she?’

‘She did, but I doubt if she frequented the bar. I believe she was the daughter of missionaries.’

‘All the more reason for taking to drink. In any case, she must have looked in here from time to time. We’ll put her name on a plaque.’

‘All right. We’ve got Pearl Buck.’

‘What about Rudyard Kipling? He must have stayed here.’

‘My dear chap,’ I said. ‘The hotel opened in 1905. By that time Kipling had left India, never to return.’

‘You’re not being very helpful,’ said Nandu. ‘What about John Masters?’

‘Quite possible,’ I said. ‘He served with a Gurkha regiment in Dehradun. Must have come up the hill occasionally. Probably dropped in for a drink. Here or at the Charleville.’

‘Forget about the Charleville, it burnt down years ago. We’ll give John Masters a plaque. That’s two we’ve got!’

‘Why don’t we look up the old hotel register?’ I asked.

‘The previous manager walked off with it,’ said Nandu ruefully.

‘Probably wanted Pearl Buck’s autograph.’

‘Who was that fellow who wrote about the separation bell? You know, the bell they used to ring at four every morning so that people could get back to their own rooms?’

‘I’ve heard of the bell,’ I said. ‘But I can’t remember the name of the writer.’

‘Somerset Maugham?’

‘I don’t think he visited Mussoorie. It was a travel writer.’

‘The Gantzers? Bill Aitken?’

‘They are still alive. But if you ask them in for a drink, they might let you put their names up.’

‘A free drink, you mean?’ Nandu didn’t look too happy.’

‘Naturally.’

‘Let’s stick to the dead. Pandit Nehru stayed here. He was a writer.’

‘Yes, Nandu. But I don’t think you’d have found him in the bar.’

‘Sir Edmund Hillary?’

‘Well, he wrote his autobiography. Probably stopped by for a drink after climbing Everest.’

‘All right, I’ve got it! Jim Corbett!’

‘But he lived in Nainital,’ I protested. ‘I doubt if he ever came here.’

‘His parents were married in Mussoorie. You told me so yourself. And he wrote that book, The Maneater of Rudraprayag. Rudraprayag is only eighty miles from here, as the crow flies.’

‘All right, all right. And after shooting the maneater, Corbett tramped all the way to Mussoorie to have a refreshing beer at the Savoy. There was no motor road then, Nandu. He must have needed a drink very badly.’

‘It’s possible. He used to walk great distances.’

‘To shoot maneaters, not to drink beer. But let’s give him a plaque, on the strength of his parents having been married in Mussoorie. Who do we have now?’

‘Pearl Buck, John Masters, Jim Corbett!’

The plaques are being prepared. The Writers’ Bar will be inaugurated in the spring. If any reader can come up with a suitable candidate for inclusion, he’ll be entitled to a free drink.

Only the other evening, when I was into my third whisky, a gentleman who looked exactly like Rudyard Kipling, walked up to the bar and asked the barman, ‘Do you serve spirits?’

Before we could ask him to join us, he’d vanished.