Dr Roopali takes us on a tour of Russia of the 1980s. She talks about Military Academy, Indo-Soviet friendship, Bollywood films, and more. An exclusive for Different Truths.

The Soviet immigration officer stared at me with steel cold eyes. The box-like enclosure was mirrored on each side, with mounted cameras. He looked at my passport, and then at me several times. I didn’t match the photograph in the passport. The sad looking assistant that Ram Lal barber had sent home to give me a ‘heyer cut’ made me look like a scraggly new-born chicken.  I lifted my manicured hand stylishly and ran it through my hair, and smiled alluringly. But Captain Cold Steel stared sternly back, and waved a gloved hand indicating no preening. After what seemed like hours, he pointed at my purse, and snapped something in Russian. I was expected to overturn the contents. I almost died an ignominious death. The Government of India had, in its infinite wisdom, allowed me only eight dollars. The 20 more were from a shady character in a florist’s kiosk in Connaught Place. All one had to do was to sidle up and say, “Meri Jaan Gulaab Hai?” and, bas, your job was done! My brilliant neighbor, Mrs. Krishna Mazumdar, had helped me hide the money in a Carefree brand sanitary pad. Overturned, my carefree bag spilled its guts. Cashew nuts from the flight, lipstick, kaajal, sanitary pad and all! 

This was the Soviet Union in the 1980s. And I was standing at the door of the iron curtain. I could already feel myself in icy Siberia. But with one more suspicious look at my face and the not-matching picture in the passport, and Captain Cold Steel waved me on, apparently sick of looking at me. I muttered a fervent thanks to Ram Lal barber’s sad-looking assistant for not getting me sent to the GULAG.   

The spouse was waiting in the big hall where baggage arrival was not causing any excitement at all. The Air India jumbo jet from New Delhi to Moscow had brought me, a handful of government employees, and some visiting families. That was all. His white official passport did the trick and resulting in no customs curry or chicken pickle check! Within minutes, the black unfriendly cab raced through the wide roads of Moscow and its massive angular structures commemorating the victory of the Russian troops. I had always wanted to be here.

And here I was. 

The spouse was strangely silent. Was it my ‘new’ hairstyle? The penny dropped much later, and I figured it all out. Meanwhile, we had arrived at the Malinovsky Military Armoured Forces Academy. Situated in a former royal palace in Moscow’s Lefortovo district, this was one of the foremost military academies in the U.S.S.R. The massive, imposing building was originally designed to serve as a royal palace for Catherine the Great. Established in 1932 as the J.V. Stalin Academy of the WPRA Mechanisation and Motorisation Program it was renamed, in 1967, after Marshall Rodion Malinovsky, a Soviet military commander in World War II.

We were in the heyday of Indo-Soviet friendship. The actor Raj Kapoor and his Awaara Hoon song were still the craze. Soon India’s first Cosmonaut Wing Commander Rakesh Sharma would launch into space aboard the Soyuz T-11 with his Soviet counterparts Yuri Malyshev and Gennadi Strekalov. And a crack team had come from India to receive special military training. The spouse was one of them. That’s how I was here. It was my first visit to another country – with which I was already familiar. Those children’s storybooks are full of radiant pictures and delightful stories; those colourful stamps depicting Sputnik and flowers, some three-dimensional ones too. The stamps were sold by sneaky-looking guys lurking behind pillars in crowded high-end markets. We were informed they were currency to pay Soviet spies. Maxim Gorky, Tolstoy, Turgenev, and Chekov beautifully bound, could be had for a song.

We carried my suitcases, typically heavy with India, up five floors. On the fifth floor, a lift awaited us to take us higher up. Later, I discovered all buildings in Moscow were like that. Lifts operated only from the fifth floors. 

Tiny one-bedrooms lined the floors, and sometimes there was a big room with four beds. Four officers of the Indian Armed Forces were specially selected to receive training here. This was a very prestigious programme. They were each allowed their “lady wife” once during the one-year program, for a one-month sojourn.  The lady wives were prohibited from overlapping their visits.  

The Academy crawled with men from 50 different countries. I had to live in embarrassed confinement inside a small room, but able to listen to a babble of a myriad languages. The officers from Libya all looked like Gaddafi. Just super handsome! I wanted to murder Ram Lal’s sad looking assistant who had made me look like a scraggy new born chicken. I was the only young woman there, and nobody deigned to give me a second look! Even the spouse was mostly silent and preferred laughing and chatting with Tamara, the high-heeled blonde Russian interpreter.

During the day when the officers attended their classes, I chatted with the Babushka ‘grannies’, who were employed to iron uniforms, make beds, and do other sundry jobs. These Babushkas were real grandmas. They were especially gainfully employed in academies and museums because they knew the lived histories of the people who had been there before us. These elderly women had left home and hearth and joined the war effort.  Later, they had worked themselves to the bone in factories, putting in their might to rebuild a war torn nation. Not like the able bodied louts employed in our museums who loll about uncaringly right next to a Harappan artifact!

Each floor of the Academy had a kitchen, and between classes some of the good looking Syrian and Libyan officers would come up to check on stuff they had left to slow cook on the stove. ‘thing is, most evenings they would buy a rabbit or two or three from the nearby pet shop and slaughter them in the special halal way. This activity happened in the bath/shower areas. The rabbits were pot roasted with a can of tomato paste, and had to be checked up on regularly. As a result of these frequent culinary check visits, I would have to dive for cover, and cower inside my room. I also did not dare use the bathrooms. They had no locking system at all!  The spouse would have to stand guard every time I mustered the courage to use the loo or take a shower. One day standing disgusted guard, the spouse lost his temper. This was a Military Academy, and I was not expected to be there. Besides, none of the lady wives who had previously visited had such mad inhibitions. I was making him look like an idiot! As a countermeasure, I began singing loudly while using the shower. Hindi movies with bathing beauties were very popular in the Soviet Union and in the Middle East, so why not, I thought?! I was wrong! Life became hell for me, and I had to stop singing and resume sneaking around.  

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner were served buffet-style in the officers’ dining hall. Again, I was the only woman. It was not a help-yourself-buffet. You looked at the trays and stood in front of one. Then, and a highly made up set of women in aprons would dump pottage onto your plate, and give you a token, which you gave to the highly made up woman at a desk with an abacus, who would count the required amount and you paid in Roubles, which you couldn’t count.

But my saree, bindi, and references to Indira Gandhi always got me kindness and a smile. Mystery Meatballs in tomato puree, smelly parboiled rice and mashed potatoes were my staple. None of these dishes contained any spices that a self-respecting Indian would call a spice. I ate it without complaining, until the day when one of the Indian officers – perpetually shopping – and sneaking in rajma-chawal, informed me with a smirk it was minced horse meat– chevaline!

As the days passed, the colourful silk sarees I wore drew a great deal of attention. My chicken looks had slowly gone, and my hair had grown longer. The handsome Libyans still ignored me.

I couldn’t possibly compete with those beauties from their land. And anyway they were too busy cooking rabbits. Young Russian men would often stop me and strike Bollywood dance poses. The blockbuster Sholay, dubbed in Russian was playing frequently on state-controlled television. Mera Naam Joker, too.  I was allowed to jump the long Soviet queues with chants of “Indira Gandhi Indira Gandhi.” And many times I would be serenaded with ‘ochen krasivaya.’ Since then, I have travelled to many countries, but no one has ever said, “You are so beautiful!”

I was bound to fall deeply in love with Russia. 

Moscow was the showpiece of the U.S.S.R. Everything was big and beautiful. Big stores with long queues. Everything was in short supply except for lots of dry fruit and jars of pickled vegetables from Afghanistan. Children’s stores were five floors high. Filled with dolls and toys and science games. They were highly subsidised because they were for children. Here there was no short supply. Children were the prized possession of a nation that lost most of its male population to wars. Liquor flowed freely and drunken men swayed about, and sometimes they just fell on their faces. Women were everywhere. They drove tram cars, and metro trains, and cabs and worked in factories. Babushkas minded doll like grandchildren and were very friendly and warm. No woman expected men to stand up in buses or trains to give them a seat. Our chivalrous Indian Military Faujis often got snubbed!

The metro stations were theme museums. Near the Bolshoi Theatre the station had paintings and murals of ballerinas and dancers. Near the Olympic stadia, sports and games. There was one with many twinkling chandeliers. Russian icons, renaissance and modern paintings, porcelain and exquisite art objects. Trains came and went every 18 seconds, and the stations were deep inside the belly of Moscow. The whole city could take shelter if an attack were to come. This was the height of the Cold War. 

Getting a ticket to the Bolshoi ballet needed string-pulling. Like getting a high ranking Soviet official or a senior diplomat from the Embassy of India to give you a letter. The Embassy of India was where we went every week to drop off a letter to be carried in the diplomatic bag to Delhi, and then by the Indian Postal Service to its destination. We couldn’t meet anyone at the Embassy.   

While I sat in a small reception area writing my letter, I only heard loud voices on telephones ordering almonds, apricots, pine nuts, walnuts, you name it! Week after week it was all about idhar ka maal udhar. Russian troops were still in Afghanistan and our Embassies in Kabul and Moscow were busy procuring nuts and almonds at half price. It was like a wholesale market in that Embassy. Lots of haggling happened, and Punjabi expletives were generously exchanged. This was all the “work” they did there. Bolshoi and ballet were not to be understood. There was, though, a burly woman with red lipstick, slowly working her broom and keeping an eye on me. I knew she wasn’t there to keep the place clean. 

Knowing we didn’t stand a chance at our Embassy, we took a chance at the Bolshoi ticket window. We knocked and we knocked. The window would open, ‘Nyet’ would be thrown in our faces, and the window would be banged shut. Window after window after window. The spouse was persistent. He was a never give-up Army officer. He pulled out his notepad, wrote in Russian, “India-Russia Friends”, knocked on the window and slid the note in right before it banged shut on us. A minute later, the window lifted again, slid something back to us, and banged shut. Two tickets. The next show. Spartacus. 6 p.m.!  That was the Soviet Union in the 1980s.  It was bliss to be alive in that dawn but to be young and Indian was very heaven (thank you, William Wordsworth!). The Bolshoi Theatre was the grandest I was ever going to see. It is a symbol of Russia for all time. It was awarded this honour because of the major contribution it made to the history of the Russian performing arts. Although many theatres and performing arts arenas dot the Moscow skyline, the interiors of the Bolshoi Theatre are grand and highly ornate. 

The ballet began and as the story of the revolt of the slaves led by Spartacus unfolded. I was transported into an ethereal world…when the interval bell rang I returned to the intricate artistry of the theatre.  Champagne was served with red and black caviar laid out on damask clad tables. It was the first time I was going to taste it spread over a cracker. I did not want to miss this experience. I was sipping champagne with great leisure, savouring this forever moment – the Bolshoi, the caviar and the champagne when a sudden ringing of a bell and a military spouse’s parade ground voice hit my ear drum. “Hurry up! They won’t let you in if you dilly dally’ made me gulp the champagne and quickly swallow the caviar spread on a wafer thin cracker. This time I stumble scrambled into my seat. The quickly gulped glass of bubbly began its gracious influence on me. As the curtain opened to a standing ovation I began to fly in slow motion towards the stage to join the light-footed ballet dancers. The nine muses on the ceiling waved to me, and I slowly moved towards them. I was now the tenth muse. Only when the bouquets of flowers were being thrown from the balconies onto the stage that I fell from the ceiling with a thud! 

After dinner, the spouse expressed in a stern military voice his serious concerns about my atrocious behaviour. “This is the Soviet Union. You can be taken into custody and never be seen again. Where did you think you were?  Behaving like it was football match. No alcohol for you, ever!”  Sleep eluded me as the thoughts of a sturgeon fish chasing me, screaming about an empty jar of caviar took hold of me. I was not going to take this lying down. The champagne was lurking in my brain. Like Spartacus I too would rebel.

The spouse and his three comrades studied Russian intensively in India before leaving for the U.S.S.R. They now used it to whisper sweet nothings to pretty Russian girls in shops and restaurants. I was getting lonely. Language opens up vistas, and if you don’t know it, you are in a vast ice desert. I had only learned a few words from the Russian language audio books I had once bought from a bookstore in Delhi. These were sobaka meaning dog, nochevat, which means sleep and dver, meaning door. These came in handy. I could whisper some not so sweet nothings into the spouse’s ears every time he adjusted his spectacles to look closely at a passing beauty.  “Hey you sobaka. You dare nochevat with some Russian floosy and I will show you the dver!” It worked. His Russian was now used only for military matters. The other three comrades would bribe me with chocolates just in case I spilled the beans to their “lady wives.”

A trip to Leningrad needed permission. It was granted, and off we went to this beautiful city whose people were stronger than the walls of the city. That’s what they say – “Walls Be as Strong as The People of This City.” The nine-hundred-day siege of Leningrad, resulted in the deaths of some one million of the city’s civilians and Red Army defenders. Leningrad, formerly St. Petersburg was the capital of the Russian Empire, and was one of the initial targets of the German invasion of June 1941. Women had played an important role during the siege. And I, a stranger from another land and another time wept copiously at the sight of a dried piece of bread and the frock of a little girl preserved to remind us that hunger and starvation and courage in the face of certain death had been their only experiences. 

The sense of pride and achievement, the quiet celebration of the human spirit rising above all odds was so palpable and so moving. It was as if every feeling had been frozen in time. The devastation and human suffering consequent of war is felt by generations. The State Hermitage Museum in Leningrad (now St. Petersburg again) lodged some of the finest paintings and Russian art in some of the most incredible ornate interiors in the second largest art gallery in the world.

Returning to Moscow and the rabbit-cooking crowd, we went to see the mummified body of Vladimir Lenin. Frankly, seeing him lying there was no fun. In fact, he should have been up and about I strongly felt. I had a hard time suppressing my hysteria. The mortal fear of being deported, arrested or being suspected of drinking by the already-not-happy-with-me spouse quelled the feeling, and I pretended to be nauseous and hurried out escorted by a very stiff uniformed guard. Nobody seemed to drink water. Vending machines only vended sweet soda. Would I die of thirst? I felt like the mythical choker. In a restaurant where I asked for water, consternation broke out. Vada vada they queried. Vada? And then in Russian they wanted to know if I was sick! In the meantime, not speaking Russian meant I was getting lonelier and more dependent. A man going up and enquiring about women’s washrooms began to create problems. “Now you will have ME arrested” the spouse yelled.  

Everything in Moscow seemed perfect. The buildings, the museums, the stores, the metro, the circus, the streets and boulevards, the boat rides down the Moskva River. Yet something sad hung low and quiet everywhere. Something inexplicable. behind the glamour of a showcased city was deprivation. Firstly, of freedom. Everywhere everything beamed one way. All day long from speakers hung in shop fronts, in corridors of government buildings, housing complexes and high-rise residences there was this incessant “Mann ki Baat.” It was constant and incessant. The people’s voices, their mann ki baat no one seemed to know or care to know.   

The month was over, and I had no permission to stay longer. The spouse looked very cheerful. I boarded the Aeroflot flight from Moscow to London, another “off with your head” city. I was to visit my cousins. The air hostess was a portly elderly lady who brought around glasses of Champagne (yes!). There was no caviar. A sense of freedom washed over me. I grabbed the champagne and gulped it. At once, I flew right out of the window and sat majestically on the roof of the aircraft. My own magic carpet. Do Svidaniya! 

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Dr. Roopali Sircar Gaur

Dr. Roopali Sircar Gaur is a poet, travel writer, and social justice activist. A former professor of English Literature at Delhi University, and a creative writing professor at IGNOU, she is a widely published academic and creative writer. Her book Twice Colonised: Women in African Literature, is a seminal text on women’s socio-political empowerment. In 2020-21, she co-edited two poetry anthologies – In All the Spaces: Diverse Voices in Global Women’s Poetry, and Earth Fire Water Wind.

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