It is hard but let me try and give you a picture. We called our part of the town “One Town” or “Soldierpeta”. The beach road was just around three kilometre in length. There was no outer harbour then and most of us stayed a street or two away from the sparkling clean sea. As kids our playground all summer was the beach and the beach road. We swam, fished, and caught crabs. We wrestled and played football. We played Holly-Colli, Sticks and Stones, Tops and Gilli Danda till it was dark. As winter advanced and the beach became cold we cycled and played rough games under the massive banyan trees around the Recruiting Office. We lit small twig fires and told ghost stories. The trees were full of squirrels and chattering of birds and flying foxes that ate figs on the high branches above.

Along with a bustling local community, Soldierpeta also had a good population of Anglo Indians, a fortuitous result of the intermingling of the British soldiers who occupied Vizag earlier and the swarthy young local ladies. Well known families were all over One Town, the Lamonds, Hilliers, Larives, Halges and so on. Many of them migrated out of Vizag and India but some remain even today in different parts of Vizag. As we grew old enough to appreciate the opposite sex, we sighed and watched Pauline, Wendy, Julian and Vivian stride proudly along the beach in their short floral skirts escorted by their boyfriend of the day.

In the evenings, as the dim low voltage lights came on in the homes on the beach road, the sound of Jim Reaves,  Dean Martin, Bing Crosby and Pat Boone  wafted into the air. In the absence of TV, conversations flowed like streams through the neighbourhood. Everyone knew everyone. And on Saturday evenings, we clambered on to a wooden box to peep over our wall into the Sacred Heart  Church where live bands rocked the night as energetic dancing couples displayed their fluid skills on the dance floor. As the night proceeded, some got into brawls but there was too much love in the air and nothing serious ever happened. On Christmas and New Year we boys would be very welcome in every home. We gorged ourselves on kul kuls and patties and drank blood red homemade wine under Christmas trees with big orange cardboard star and silver bells as record players played a scratchy Christmas tune in the background.

Sailors from all over the world descended on Vizag port. These big tough men with bulging biceps and tattooed arms were called “Shippys”. After much sailing these men were keen on some company. A line of cycle rickshaws waited eagerly at the port gate and ferried them to the two famous hotels  on the beach road. The New Costis and The Marina Hotel did roaring business till the wee hours of the morning. They had large dimly lit halls that served as bars, dance floors and a place to socialize. Loud live bands played Ventures, Shadows, Elvis and Bill Haley numbers and everyone danced like crazy.

Perfumed and painted young women, from all over India, looking lovely in the dim light, sat at the bars or at the tables encouraging the sailors to drink themselves silly. The rooms in the premises, rented by the hour became busy as the night progressed. And long after midnight when the band stopped playing, the Shippys staggered out of the hotel, got into their rickshaws and sedated by alcohol and other exertions went quietly back to their ships. Some came back and others sailed away to their mistresses at other ports or perhaps to their families back home.

One Town was indeed full of wonderful characters. There was Chacha, the professional smuggler who kept watching the ships that brought his contraband, usually cigarette cartons and scotch, through a telescope. There was Smith, who wore a frayed black jacket and repaired lighters. I shall never forget the remarkable athlete, Merry Irwin, who built boats. And Nippo, who swam into the sea every evening so far that we could only see him as a speck in the water. He always came back after an hour or so, much to the relief of his myriad girlfriends who watched anxiously from the shore.

That was before the outer harbour was built. When the overhead conveyor belt went through our locality the port told us it was sealed and all would be fine. They lied. Soon many had to leave that part of town. One Town was a magical place, but those days have now been lost in the haze of coal and iron ore dust.

(The writer is an environmentalist and a member of the Vizag chapter of INTACH)

source: http://www.articles.timesofindia.indiatimes.com / The Times of India / Home> City> Visakhapatnam / by Sohan Hatangadi, TNN / July 21st, 2013