A Perfect Harvest: An East End Boy's Journey from Post-War London to Bhutan

By Kelsang Pawo

Kelsang Pawo was a lively, hard-working young East End boy who loved 'The Arsenal' and grew up during some of Britain's most challenging times. His uncles rubbed shoulders with the infamous Kray twins, and his quiet father kept his thoughts to himself, except on Saturdays when he stood on his soapbox at Speakers' Corner.

 

Understandably, life could have steered him down a path of struggle and poverty. But from an early age, he knew a wonderful life was waiting just around the corner.

 

Thanks to his loving, supportive mum, wonderful grandpop, and Mr Wilson – the teacher who made a vast impact on his life - he gleaned enough self-belief and confidence to decide on his own path, one in complete contrast to anything he (and his family and friends) had ever known.

 

After leaving his roots to sail the seas, Pawo got a taste for a life far away from London. He enjoyed many adventures, made lifelong friends (including such well-known names as Princess Diana, the Dalai Lama, Mother Teresa, Goldie Hawne, Jack Nicholson, and Dustin Hoffman) and, despite his young age, vowed to find indomitable happiness.

 

Join Pawo on his spiritual quest as he travels from London to Bhutan and meets his mentors and some of the kindest people, monks and nuns on the planet. From a simple message from a whale to being arrested in Lourenco Marques because he was outraged by inequality and a random meeting with a mysterious baroness, there is so much more to this one-of-a-kind memoir than you could ever imagine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kelsang Pawo
• Release date: Jan 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215752272

Book preview

A Perfect Harvest

A Perfect Harvest

An East End Boy’s Journey from Post-War London to Bhutan

––––––––

Kelsang Pawo

Copyright © Kelsang Pawo 2023

All rights reserved.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be hired out, lent or resold, or otherwise circulated without the author’s/publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

Contents

Introduction

Part One The East End, Birth to Fifteen

Part Two A Life on the Ocean Waves

Part Three India and The Himalayas

Part Four London and New Friends, Good Food, Film Stars and a Princess

Part Five Back to The Himalayas

Conclusion

Acknowledgements

Introduction

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This is a story of an East London boy who left his roots to travel the world to finally become a Buddhist monk in the Himalayan Kingdom of Bhutan. Along the way, he rubbed shoulders with many individuals, from the infamous Kray twins to Princess Diana, to stars of stage and screen.

He tells of these experiences and his eventual friendship with the Dalai Lama and the royal family of Bhutan. All were to play their part in helping him reach his ultimate goal of indomitable happiness.

It is quite remarkable to meet a man who claims that every moment of his life has borne fruit. There is no doubt that the reader of this book will be inspired to plant healthy seeds that inevitably lead to a Golden Harvest.

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Through past karma, you have gained a rare and precious human life.

Do not fall asleep now.

H.H the 14th Dalai Lama

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Part One

The East End

Birth to Fifteen

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I was still in short trousers when Mum bought me a wrist watch. I do not know how old I was. Maybe I was eight, or perhaps I was nine or ten. I cannot remember now. She waited until the house was empty. There was just Mum and I, her face lit with anticipation. This made me wary as to what was to come next. Mum was up to something, a conspiracy she was about to share with me.

I have something very special for you, she announced. Then in a whisper, she added, But don’t tell your father. He’ll go up the wall. With those few words, she took my elbow and half pushed and half led me up the wooden hill, as she called our staircase.

Mum led me to her bedroom. I wondered when I would ever tell Dad a secret. Chance would be a fine thing. We would need to have a conversation first. Chats with Dad did not happen in our house. Mum’s room was rare turf for me. I had only been in there on a few previous occasions. It was usually out of bounds.

Reaching up, stretching on tip toe, Mum felt around on the top shelf of her pine built-in cupboard. The door was thick with layers of fading paint. I can still see it now; it was the colour of old butter. Whilst watching her with one eye, I looked with the other at the lino under the window. I wondered, just as I did the last time I was in her room, why it had been cut so badly? The lino had been trimmed in an uneven, jagged line, perhaps even torn with a hope and a prayer. Part went under the skirting board, and another part did not. Perhaps the workman was inexperienced. Maybe Dad did the work himself and made a mess of it. The lino was clean, as was the room, but I could see ends of floorboards and thought it an unnecessary mess. Whoever did the work, with such little care and attention, could have done a better job of it. Or maybe it was me, maybe I had an eye for detail, or maybe I was just different in my thinking.

The gift that Mum produced from its hiding place came as a great disappointment to me. It sent me into a silence that I now associate with having been struck dumb. I do not know why, but I felt a deep sense of foreboding at being given a wrist watch. I wished Mum had not bought it for me. I did not want to be in this position, and I did not want to look at the lino either. I went into one of my, leave me alone moods.

‘Heartbreak Hotel’ played on the radio. Fitting, in a way. Mum usually sang along with Elvis, and she danced to his music too, but she was not singing or dancing, not right now she wasn’t.

I did not want a watch, and I know Mum saw this written on my face. I only wore it once, and that was for twenty minutes on the day that I received it. I could hear the disappointment in Mum's voice and saw it in her demeanour. For days to come, she would ask where the watch was. She could see it was not on my wrist. She would ask, had I lost it? Was it broken? I did not wish to hurt her feelings, but I felt strongly against ever wearing a timepiece and, in the end, had to tell her so. I did not understand the need or necessity to be encumbered by unnecessary weight. By weight, I do not mean the physical weight of a watch, but I did see it as a form of burden. Like negative thoughts, they do not actually weigh anything, they are just thoughts, but they are still in themselves heavy and, therefore, a burden.

Strange thoughts for a kid to have. But truly, I did not like the watch and did not like it in my bedroom either. It was like the crocodile I thought to be under my bed, the one that I was secretly afraid of throughout my young and formative years. I was no fan of Captain Hook as I thought his crocodile would bite me, only it would be my foot it would eat and not my hand. The watch I disliked so much even had a crocodile strap, artificial, but nonetheless, it was crocodile, so why would I wish to wear it?

I had no intention to ever be late for anything in life. I had been taught to be respectful of the time people gave to me. Therefore, through good manners, if I agreed to meet with someone, then I would always be on time. Why would things change?

I was too young to think these things through, but I suppose that’s what confidence is. It’s an element that helps us make up our minds and follow our instincts and help us make our own decisions. Certainly, I was a confident young man. I had a strong sense that not only my childhood but my life potential would be hampered or redirected if I was to adopt this alien timepiece as being an appropriate addition to my body weight.

I described my feelings to Mum with the kindest words I could muster. A watch is the first step to becoming a slave, I told her. I do not think she really understood my reasons for such a strong and heartfelt rejection. I told her that I would keep the watch safe, that maybe I would see things differently one day, and we both left it at that, though Mum did add that she was pleased I had not made a promise to her that I would not keep. The breaking of a promise is a person’s undoing, and eventually, the inability to keep a vow will bring about the end of the world, she foretold. On the subject of divorce, Mum foretold it would lead to homelessness and the loss of our green and pleasant land. Every couple that separates will require two houses, she would remind me, so if you get married, get married for keeps.

It is short statements of this nature that I remember from my childhood. Not because I ever thought these words would ever help me, or at the time, that the world would ever come to an end through a lack of moral discipline, but more because the circumstances of their delivery embedded the advice into my mind.

It was several weeks later that my grandpop told me that Mum had gone to the extra expense of having my name engraved on the back of the watch. It was beautifully done, written in italics, and I had not noticed. Shame on me.

My parents were the best parents in the world. I received undiluted love and true affection from Mum and no guidance or encouragement from Dad, but that suited me right down to the ground. That’s why I thought him to be the best dad in the world because he did not interfere, nag or drag me off anywhere for bonding purposes. I was a happy kid with a good life, and I had no wish to be like him. He was my dad, and I left it at that. He was never one to say much. In fact, he rarely spoke to anybody at all. The general opinion seemed to be that he lived and fed from a diet of misery. I do remember him telling me once that he would have made something of his life if it had not been for Adolf Hitler and his antics. I could not believe he would say something like that. I told him that we all had Mum and that should be enough for all of us.

I was always confident that I was going to have a good and fruitful life, free of fear, no doubts and no confusion. I believed that my success would likely be despite others and not because of them. I did not want conversations with Dad. He always brought me down. I was happier when left alone.

I felt that I was born and then placed into storage, waiting for my day or time to arrive and then my life would begin. I knew nothing outside of the East End, but I did know that life could be better than what it was. I made a vow to myself that one day I would have warm hands and feet all year round. Mum had a fear of the future and advised me not to be so cock-sure about my own that I should be watchful for pitfalls. They’re everywhere and mostly appear out of the blue, she would warn. Life can change in a single moment, just like that, she would say, clicking her thumb and index finger to prove her point.

I listened but kept most of my thoughts to myself, not because there was no person for me to talk to, or that there was no person who would listen, but because, like most kids, I was unable to express myself clearly. I did not want my confidence to be misunderstood. It was an underlying knowledge of prosperity that I had for my future rather than a conscious thought or vision of its certainty.

I always felt fortunate and, therefore, always believed myself to be so. If I had tried to express myself, I am certain that my tongue would have become knotted and Mum would have carted me off to what she commonly called the funny farm. Grandpop called the same place the local nut house.

I later read in the Hackney library that when Brunel told his father that iron would float, his father advised him to keep his thoughts to himself and not to tell the neighbours. I felt the very same instincts to keep my thoughts to myself, just as Brunel’s father had suggested. Mum had installed thoughts of the funny farm in my mind, and the last thing I wanted was to be a candidate for the white coat brigade.

Don’t misunderstand me, I did not believe that everything would go my way on a daily basis; indeed, they rarely did. There was always a hurdle or two to overcome. There were times when it rained and times when Arsenal lost. But I did believe that whatever low blow life may bestow upon me, I would be of a mind to cope and therefore, there would be no need to overcome any irritation, I would simply allow it to pass like an inconvenient rain cloud.

Dad was a great teacher. I had a living example, right under my nose, of what I did not want to become. I was desperately sad for him, but I was okay with it. I was learning lessons right from the off, and most of them came from him.

I would often defend Dad when need be. I was never comfortable when outsiders so to speak, took delight in telling me how crass he was. If anyone had a hard time with him, then it was no use coming to me as a mediator. Despite everything, he was my dad. His way was his own business and definitely not any of mine, and who were these people who thought it okay to run someone down via that person’s son? There were always lessons to be learnt. It’s not that I dismissed everything I heard. I logged everything that was said. But I did learn early that a gossip was an unhappy person and one to be very wary of. Grandpop told me stories of how gossips had poisonous and wicked tongues. He taught me how nasty, jealous and dangerous a foul-mouthed person is. His stories made great sense to me. Beware a gossip! On the dad front, Grandpop taught me to be grateful for my birth. You have a life, so go live it, he often said.

Dad always worked for a living. He never harmed me with his dower moods, and though there was no evidence, I somehow knew he was always there to keep an eye over me. Though, it is a possibility that he kept me in sight, so to speak, as he knew I was fully aware of his secret.  I knew he gambled, and he knew I knew. Therefore, he knew that I was aware of why Mum had to struggle financially at times.

My relationship with Dad was contradictory. I loved him but did not like him. His company was always awkward and never comfortable, as much as I tried to ignore it, it still brought with it a thick air that was definitely unpleasant. There was little oxygen to breathe when we were alone together. The atmosphere was draining like being underwater. If I had been wearing a necktie, I would have wanted to loosen it or take it off altogether. I felt strangled in Dad's company.

I would often avoid him, particularly if I saw him with his mates over at the Arsenal. He was happy there, especially when the Gunners won, which they usually did at home, and that seemed odd to me. How could he jump up and down celebrating a football victory and then come home a totally different person? I thought it very strange. I realise now, that I did not approach Dad at the football. I would not even say hello to him or wave to attract his attention because I did not want to see his mood change at the sight of me. I suppose I felt that the responsibility of his family was the source of his deep discontent. But I did love him dearly, in a sad sort of a way. I learnt to become grateful to him for my birth, as Grandpop had suggested.

Much later in life, at his funeral, Dad taught me one of life’s greatest lessons, never to assume. Never think we know everything about everyone and everything. Family members, like his gangster brothers, told me snippets of Dad’s difficult history, and if those stories were true, then there is no doubt he was a good man if somewhat damaged by hardships.

I did not need a bossy or overpowering father who told me to do things his way, and I saw it as a blessing that I did not get one. It would have led, most likely, to conflict. I was my own person. Life, as it was, prepared me for the future.

When I look back now that I have some experience to weigh things up, I can see that dad lived in pain and suffered mental anguish. Not physical pain, but unable to express his love and affection.

He was scarred by his past and hurt at the thought of the future. He did not feel secure. He could visualise that at any given moment, his world could collapse around his ears. Therefore, he held all that he cherished at a distance. Nothing and nobody could enter through his defence systems. He held up strong walls, as solid and impregnable as a bulletproof shield. I have spoken to him several times since his death, you know, in those quiet, reflective moments when a memory is sparked by a particular smell or somebody’s odd haircut. I know that most people would think this to be daft or even nonsense. But whether he has heard my words or not does not matter. I feel we have reconciled, and that is good enough for me. In my experience, it is true. It is never too late to make friends.

Everybody thought Dad was a tough nut to crack, but again, looking back, I can see signs, flashes that he definitely did care about all manner of things. He had solid opinions and would have liked to change the world for the better. He was a bright, and I think, intelligent man. He had high and very clear standards. There was much more to him than immediately met the eye. Too often we are quick to judge.

I recall when a condemned murderer was hung in Wandsworth jail. We youngsters were not supposed to know about these things, but of course we did. The radio on execution days would go to Big Ben, and the countdown to the trap door dropping was heard in every household. All went deathly quiet. The only sound in our house was the clunk of Big Ben’s hands turning toward the hour mark. I waited at the foot of the stairs for the BBC announcement that the condemned prisoner had been hung by the neck until dead.

Years later, I was to meet Georgie Ellis, the daughter of Ruth Ellis, the last woman in England to have been hanged for murder. Oddly, I met her in the same week that I met Princess Di. I wondered how Georgie dealt with this horrific memory of her mother’s execution. Sometimes she seemed to deal with life well, and other times, she seemed not to deal with things at all. Bless her heart. I liked Georgie very much.

Execution times were difficult for Dad to stomach. He had compassion, and he had vivid memories too. It was written on his face. At his funeral, his villainous brothers told me that Dad was forced, whilst in the military, to be a prosecution witness in a treason trial. Dad was a driver to a senior officer in Egypt. The officer was accused of colluding with the enemy. He was found guilty and the court sentenced him to death. This gave me great cause to think. We do not always know the contents of other people’s lives, the things that affect them deeply, those events that have a profound effect upon them. It is not always big things but often an accumulation of smaller things that gather and hit a person hard. Like any body blow, it takes our breath away and sometimes it is hard to recover. I have known several boxers over the years and all will tell of the accumulation effect of a jab in the face. The day comes when we are floored and can take no more.

In retrospect, there were signs of Dad’s better nature in many things that he did. Sundays he would often go off to Hyde Park, Speakers’ Corner, where, not every week but occasionally, he would speak from a soap box. I would go ahead of him and watch from a distance, just like I watched him at the Arsenal. I learnt a great deal watching Dad in this way. People would shout abuse at him whilst others cheered and clapped at his words. He was steadfast against the taunting and always said his piece but always came home defeated, never elated. He was a Labour man who wanted fair play and was never slow in sharing his political views.

Speakers’ Corner is very well known as the place where anyone with something controversial to say can freely stand up and state their case without fear of being arrested. It was and probably still is a very political place, and I am certain there would have been national security officials mingling in amongst the crowd. I thought this would make very good sense. If you give a person an opportunity to speak, then he or she will do so, and if controversial, a record can easily be kept of the event. Karl Marx, the communist, spoke at Speakers’ Corner in his day. I am sure the Government would have sent an agent to listen to him. They would have been fools not to have done. I imagined there to be a file on my father somewhere in Whitehall.

I would scan the crowd looking for the Secret Service. I would check out those in trilby hats and rain macs, the stereotypes I had seen on movie posters. I wondered if the spies had spotted me looking for them. I know Dad was not aware of my occasional presence. I would arrive early and leave late. It was a secret game for me, like being in a John le Carré novel. Later I read Rudyard Kipling’s novel Kim and thought that might be me too.

The tradition of Speakers’ Corner dates back to the Victorian times when all protest marches would end at Hyde Park. Even Emily Pankhurst and other suffragettes spoke there. Whether the marchers came to London from the North, South, East or West, Hyde Park was their destination. It is to be found near Marble Arch, a landmark that was built on the site of Tyburn village. Tyburn was most noted for the gallows that took the lives of many convicted villains from 1851. The end of Tyburn as a village was linked to the gallows being taken to Newgate prison, where those in debt were incarcerated, often with their families, until their debt was paid. I believe at the age of twelve, Charles Dickens lived in prison with his parents, who were regularly in debt.

London, like every other great city in the world, has a fascinating history. I discovered much of it whilst pretending as a youth to be an undercover agent. I wandered the streets of our capital alone, often with a runny nose and one sock up and one sock down, my only companion being my depth of curiosity.

This is when I discovered the museums and art galleries of the West End. I don’t know why I particularly remember my fascination, but I would stand and stare at the Bank of England on Threadneedle Street. Such a powerful, imposing building. It spoke to me of the Empire, of power and of dominance. It caused me to believe that my father’s passionate words for the working class were rather like an attack on a castle with a snowball. A policeman stopped and spoke to me on one occasion. He asked me with humour in his voice, if I was thinking of robbing it and suggested I move along. It was a Sunday; you could hear a pin drop. There was just him and me and his bicycle. I thought of our school hymn, ‘Rule Britannia’, a hymn that brought a tear to my grandpop’s eye.

Dad was working class and proud of it too. He believed in ruling classes. He believed the ordinary person was not equipped to run a country. He was proud to be British and felt few people were capable of looking after themselves, let alone the affairs of fifty-two million people. For this reason, he was content to see his employer buy a bigger house and a bigger car, as to him, this meant he would keep his job and likely get a pay rise due to the company doing well. That is all he wanted, safety and security. He had no interest in risk or aspiring to anything more.

I did not know my father’s father. I never did hear any stories of him either. I had no proof and I did not seek any, but I had grown up always believing that he was one of the chaps. He travelled across the country, knocked on doors and bought suits and fur coats from those who needed money to pay rent or buy groceries. Nan and he had six children. They all closely resembled each other, all having what I saw as an East End jawline, so without having to ask or wonder, I knew they all had the same dad. No need to ask questions if what you see supplies the answer, I would think.

My dad was the eldest of the six children, then came three younger sisters. All three married career criminals that at one time or another hit the newspaper headlines, and then came the two youngest, two inseparable brothers born less than a year apart. Children in those days were not permitted to listen to adult conversations. It’s not for your ears, Mum would say. But I saw the company my uncles kept and how they stood away from the crowd, eyes like ping-pong balls, suspicious, looking everywhere all at once. Always watchful whilst talking in whispers as they listened and nodded with some of the most intimidating characters a boy of my age could imagine. Often, I saw them with the Kray twins, who later were to become notorious and eventually, along with several others were convicted of gangland murders.

I knew one of their victims, Jack the Hat. I did not know him well, but on the odd occasion, he bought me and my mate Victor a packet of crisps and lemonade when we were larking outside the pub. It was not unusual for the villains to be good to the kids. Many of these guys had a good heart. It’s sad that Jack had such a sad end.

The Kray family lived along the road from us. This was another place where I often saw my uncles standing in the street chatting, but more often with the twins’ elder brother, Charlie, their close mate. I stood in the background and watched from the corner of my eye, watching the body language and reading the atmosphere. These guys had a definite chill factor, a coldness about them that was palpable. Their lack of warmth could be felt by just walking past their street door. The air they generated was menacing, aggressive and spoke of no messing.

I suppose if you lived in that world of villainy, then those of a kind were bound to know each other. Birds of a feather, Mum would have said. But better not to be seen. I kept my head down, still pretending to be a secret agent. This was my game, and I was good at it. There was very little I did not know about the twins and their firm. When anything went down, I was always able to add two and two together. As I mentioned, I was good at my calculations. This was further proof to me that the police were corrupt. If I was able to work things out, then so could law enforcement, but perhaps they did not want to.

The chaps, as they were known, always had their shoes shone to a mirror finish. Their suits were always stitched by hand by their chosen tailor. Just what the gangsters ordered, Grandpop would say.

Wives would starch shirt collars and cuffs and buy their men golden cufflinks. This seemed to be the trademark for those who moved in that world of dodginess.

These men were often adored by their families. their wives spoke of them with enormous love and affection, their children hugged them and sat on their lap to tell them with great excitement about their day. Friends were loyal, and integrity between them appeared paramount. They had a code of conduct that was clear to see and easy to understand. This code had little to do with fancy words and heroic stories. It was about honour, survival, and prosperity. It was about living to fight another day. This is why many of the safe blowers, lorry hijackers, jewel thieves and hold-up merchants steered well clear of Ron, Reg and their merry men. If the twins knew you had somehow come into money, then they wanted their share of it. They called it their pension. I suppose we could say that to the honest thief, the twins were parasites.

The smart, slick style of dress I mentioned was not limited to the few. There were many dodgy characters and many dressed in the same immaculate way.

Of course, I did not know the full extent of my two uncle’s activities. I am not certain anybody knew exactly what they did, apart from having some connection, or at least some influence over the unlicensed drinking clubs throughout the East End.

Certainly, these establishments were common knowledge. They had to be for people to know about them and use them. This naturally meant that my uncles were both connected and therefore protected. Something else for Dad to be depressed about, but it was none of my business. It was best that way. Even though I was called upon to run an occasional errand, an envelope from here to there, it was still none of my business.

Mum, her family and her background were a completely different kettle of fish. Goodness me, what a beautiful woman my mother was. Completely and utterly selfless. There to serve her family without question or waiver. I loved her so very much; she made my heart ache. I always complimented her. She had a figure to die for. I remember her slim waist. She was so warm, not hard but not soft either. She was perfect in every way. I remember she told me how she and her sisters-in-law, Dad’s sisters, would draw an ink line down the back of their legs during the war. This would give the impression they were wearing nylon stockings. There was no money to buy the real thing in their youth, so they faked it. I was surprised at this attempt to appear beautiful. As nice as Mum's legs were, it was her smile, her beautiful face and the graceful manner in which she moved that caught the eye. Mum was my Rita Hayworth, my Vivien Leigh, truly she looked like a walking, talking angel. Mum told me that young ladies in her youth drank vinegar, not too much, but a sip a day would keep them slim. Everything it seemed boiled down to image.

Without Mum in the house, the atmosphere was very bleak. When she came home, she brought sunshine, joy, and optimism with her. The house lit up and came to life with her presence. The house even smelt differently when she was out. It’s as though her perfume, her very essence, was missing. If I knew where she was, then I would go and meet her. Often, I would see her walking along the road, heavily laden with her shopping bags. Anything was better than waiting for her in the house. I sometimes thought that she might not come home. That she may have had enough of the life she was living. She could not read or write very well, but I knew she could always do well for herself. She was a worker and had a solid work ethic. It was circumstances that led her to remain near illiterate. Her brothers kept a very close eye on her when she was young and would not allow her out of their sight; this included school. They would not let her attend. They kept her at home, where they knew where she was.

Often, I would help carry her shopping. It really hurt me to the core of my being to see how she would struggle with several bags of groceries. One or even two bags in each hand and others hanging from her wrist, cutting off the blood flow, it seemed, leaving deep welts, marks that showed her efforts on our behalf. But as usual, never a moan left her lips. The hurtful thing was, as I mentioned earlier, I knew Dad gambled and he knew I knew, therefore, I realised he was keeping Mum financially short. But she always managed, and there was always food in the house. Always a clean house. Always patience from her and always a loving kindness.

Dad would disappear over to Hackney dog stadium, White City or Wimbledon, whilst Mum always had time for troubled neighbours who would call around on a regular basis to express their hardships. Mum always found time for them. Her response to them was always the same. Put the kettle on, she would say. We’ll have a nice cup of tea. I was never told what their troubles were. It was not for my ears, so I left the house and did my own thing. That always suited me. If there was nothing else to do, then I would join other lads. We would sit and chat about Arsenal and throw small stones