Utterly interesting

Hardit Singh Malik was born on 23rd November 1894 in Rawalpindi, West Punjab, which is now part of Pakistan. He was born into a prosperous Sikh family and grew up in a large ancestral mansion with his father, three brothers, their families, and servants. His father, a contractor who specialized in building railroads and bridges, played a significant role in shaping Hardit Singh's early life. The family's success in business established them as prominent landowners in the region. His father indulged him by fulfilling all his materialistic desires, purchasing items like silk socks, elaborate playing cards, and train sets upon his request. In contrast, he refrained from asking his mother for such luxuries, knowing she would not spoil him as his father did. His mother, a devout Sikh, made it her priority to instill a strong connection to their faith in her son. She guided him towards a life focused on spirituality and service rather than material possessions. This upbringing in faith would remain steadfast within him even during his extensive travels among different people and cultures. A Sikh holy man gifted him a steel bracelet, known as a 'kara', which he wore throughout his service in World War 1. With government-run schooling in the local area of poor quality, Hardit Singh’s father enrolled him at a kindergarten run by an Anglo-Indian couple, Mr. and Mrs. Morris. Afterwards he received private tuition in English and Maths from two Indian professors of the local Gordon Mission College. His parents also taught their young son the importance of independence as a great virtue and labour of all kinds as an honour (and not disgrace). Indeed, he was made to read the famous book ‘Self-Help’ by Samuel Smiles until he knew it almost by heart. Despite a pampered upbringing, Hardit Singh grew up into more or less a healthy-minded youngster (although he did consider himself to be an insufferable brat!). Hardit Singh’s natural love for sports was encouraged by his father, who arranged coaching in cricket and tennis. Although he didn’t attend school, he was able to organise local boys and create his own teams in cricket, hockey and football against schools and private teams. Over his long and eventful life, he would continue to pursue his sporting interests wherever he went in the world. Another one of Hardit Singh’s favoured pastimes was kite-flying. It was typically played on the rooftops so accidents sometimes occurred (and hence his parents disapproved of him playing). He would get the best kites made of brightly coloured paper stretched across thin cane frames, and coat the cords with powdered glass. This type of cord would cut the cord of rival kites in aerial combats. These dogfights demanded considerable skill to manoeuvre kites into the optimal position to bring down rivals. The thrills experienced by Hardit Singh in these mock battles were a forerunner to his WW1 exploits. The young Hardit Singh had always harboured an ambition to go to England just to be able to say he had been to ‘vilayat’ (or Blighty)! He had to work hard to persuade his parents. While youngsters went abroad for studies after they had graduated from Indian universities, it was almost unheard of for a young boy to go for schooling in England. They initially rejected his suggestion but eventually gave in to the stubborn petitioner (it also helped that he would be staying with his elder brother and cousin who had already set sail for England). In 1908, a 14-year-old named Hardit Singh embarked on a journey from Rawalpindi through British India to Bombay. From there, he traveled solo on a ship to Marseilles in southern France, then took a luxurious express train to Calais. After crossing the Channel to Dover on another boat, he boarded a second train to Charing Cross, where he was greeted by his older brother, Teja Singh. Finally, he raced through the streets of London in a horse-drawn carriage to a boarding house in West Kensington. Following this, Hardit Singh attended Linton House, a preparatory school in Notting Hill. He later enrolled at Eastbourne College, a prestigious school in southern England, where he spent three joyful years playing cricket, cycling, and playfully interacting with the local girls. In 1912 he was admitted to Balliol College, Oxford. Under the able guidance of his tutor, Francis ‘Sligger’ Urquhart, he shifted his focus from Greek and Latin (his favourite subjects at school) to study modern European history. His scholastic achievements were matched by his sports prowess, getting his blues in cricket and golf. In August 1914, Hardit Singh was playing a great deal of cricket. He had completed his second year at Oxford, and had been selected to play for Sussex County. It was on the eve of a match against Kent that news broke that Britain was at war with Germany. On his return to Oxford in October practically all his British colleagues had volunteered to join the fighting services. His efforts to join the British Army as a commissioned officer were twice rejected because of the prevailing attitude towards race (no white man was ever to be commanded by a black man). With the assistance of his college tutor, Francis Urquhart, he decided to volunteer for the French Red Cross. Initially, he operated a motor ambulance provided by Lady Cunard to the French Army. He gained practical driving experience while journeying to Southampton. For a year, Hardit Singh served with the French, transporting patients to various hospitals along the Western Front. Eventually, he sought to enlist in the French military, particularly aiming for the Air Force. Upon his acceptance, he informed his former tutor, Francis Urquhart, who then penned a stern letter to Major-General David Henderson of the Royal Flying Corps (RFC). In the letter, he questioned why, if Hardit Singh was deemed suitable by the French as a British national, he was not considered acceptable by the British Armed Forces. This correspondence had the desired effect, leading to a meeting with General Henderson, after which Hardit Singh was commissioned as Hon. 2/Lt H. S. Malik, RFC, Special Reserve, on 5 April 1917. Not only was he the first Indian in any flying service in the world, he was also the first non-Brit with turban and beard – which was against every British Army regulation of the day – to become a fighter pilot. As a cadet in Aldershot, Hardit Singh wore a specially-designed flying helmet over his turban. This would later earn him the affectionate nickname of ‘Flying Hobgoblin’ from ground crews. Hardit Singh learnt fast – he was selected for fighters and went ‘solo’ in a Caudron after just two-and-a-half hours instruction. He was posted to Filton, near Bristol, flying the Avro 504, the BE 2C, the Sopwith Pup, the Nieuport and finally the Sopwith Camel, the most advanced fighter at this time. At Filton, RFC pilots were taught combat tactics, including the famous Immelmann Turn. Hardit Singh got his wings in under a month. Posted to No.28 Squadron and equipped with the Camel, the formation soon flew out to St. Omer in France, then to an airfield in Flanders near the village of Droglandt. Here, Malik’s flight commander was the legendary Major William Barkar, a Canadian who would later win the Victoria Cross for gallantry. Barkar was considered the greatest all-round pilot of World War One, and he personally initiated Hardit Singh into the art and science of aerial combat, leading him into the first actions, including those against the legendary ‘Red Baron’, Manfred von Richthofen. In one major dogfight, with over a hundred British and German fighters scrapping over the battle lines, Hardit Singh shot down his first German Fokkerand. He went on to notch another eight aerial victories in the weeks ahead, before he himself was wounded in action, but survived in amazing circumstances. On 26 October 1917, Barker took Malik over the lines in an attack on an enemy airfield in poor weather. They were surprised by a large number of German fighters, and although Hardit Singh shot one down, his aircraft was struck by an incredible 450 bullets, two of which pierced his leg. Seriously (but not fatally) wounded, and with his petrol tank hit, he crash-landed in France. He survived, having lost much blood and broken his nose. A stint in hospital followed, then a posting to Northern Italy, where No. 28’s Camels had been sent to bolster the Italian front after the disaster at Caporetto. There was a long train journey to Milan, where the ladies apparently thought the turbanned pilot especially exotic. He was wounded again in a dogfight and was invalided home, this time complicated by an acute allergic reaction to the castor oil used to lubricate the Camel’s rotary engine. Hardit Singh returned to England in February 1918 and rejoined the service, now known as the Royal Air Force, with No. 141 Squadron based at Biggin Hill. This squadron was specifically established to defend London against Zeppelins and Botha bombers. In the summer of 1918, Lieutenant Hardit Singh went back to France and flew Bristol Fighters with No. 11 Squadron until the war ended. Like many others, he began preparing for life after demobilisation. When a senior British officer inquired about his plans post-war, he mentioned that he intended to first take some leave to visit home, and then either continue serving in the RAF in India or join the Indian Civil Service, as he had planned before the war. After the armistice in November 1918, Hardit Singh secured eight months leave and began his journey home after an 11-year absence. It was by a strange coincidence that the ship he boarded at Marseilles was the very same that he had travelled on in 1908 when making his way to England. On-board the P&O vessel he was befriended by an Indian Army officer, Captain Keen of the 28th Punjabis. One evening Keen asked the Sikh what his plans were. Hardit Singh told him that he would join the RAF in India. Keen warned him: ‘You know we don’t want Indians in the RAF. You will find one fine day you will go up and your plane will break up in the air.’ He arrived at Bombay on 10 March 1919, and travelled by train across the dusty plains and up into the hills to his home. He received a hero's welcome in Rawalpindi. In his post-war years, he fell in love, got married, but had to promise to leave flying. He also enjoyed a distinguished career as a civil servant and diplomat. He became Prime Minister of Patiala State and then, Indian High Commissioner to Canada; still later, he was named Ambassador to France. His unique experience saw him involved in the discussions that led to the founding of the Indian Air Force in 1932. After retirement in 1956, he returned to his first love, golf, playing until the age of 88, even with two German bullets still embedded in his leg. In 1983, Hardit Singh was interviewed by historian Charles Allen about his wartime experiences. You can hear this interview on our Spoken Histories page. The ‘Flying Hobgoblin’ died in New Delhi on 31 October 1985, three weeks before his 91st birthday.

In the world of literature, where words wield the power to evoke emotions and transport readers to far-off realms, the dedication page is often an overlooked gem. Traditionally a space for authors to express gratitude or pay homage, it has evolved into a canvas for wit and humour, offering a delightful prelude to the narrative that follows. #funnybookdedications

If the thought of drinking beer that was once inside another person turns your stomach, you might have some sympathy for Corona beer lovers in 1987. By then, Corona Extra had established itself as a sensation in the United States, despite having been introduced to the market only eight years earlier in 1979. Its branding as the ultimate "California surfer" beer — synonymous with carefree, beachside living — quickly made it a national favourite. By the mid-1980s, Corona was the second most popular imported beer in the U.S., trailing only Heineken. The beer’s meteoric rise seemed unstoppable. Produced by Grupo Modelo in Mexico, Corona had found a sweet spot in American tastes and culture. But suddenly, the tide turned. Stores began refusing to stock it, sales nosedived, and public opinion soured seemingly overnight. The culprit? A bizarre and damaging rumour that claimed Corona beer contained urine. According to the rumour, disgruntled Mexican workers had supposedly urinated into beer bottles intended for export to the U.S. This outlandish claim painted the alleged act as a form of revenge against their northern neighbours. The whisper campaign spread through the distribution networks, fuelling paranoia among consumers. Whether driven by xenophobia, competitive sabotage, or sheer absurdity, the rumour threatened to derail one of the most successful beer brands of its time. Sadly, this obvious lie was believed by many beer drinkers. In some towns, sales went down by almost 80 percent, and stores all over the country returned shipments. Though not everyone believed the ridiculous rumour, enough people panicked and spoke out against the company for there to be irreversible consequences on sales and brand name. Panicking, Michael J. Mazzoni of Barton Beers, the company that distributed Corona, decided to investigate into the matter to see in what way the company’s reputation could be salvaged. He somehow managed to trace the rumour back to one of Heineken’s retailers, Luce and Son, Inc., who were eager to chip away at Corona’s growing market share. Corona’s parent company sued for $3 million in damages. A settlement was reached, and, Luce and Son, along with representatives of other beer companies who had been happy to repeat the rumour, agreed to issue public statements denying the veracity of the allegations. The damage to Corona’s reputation had been sustained, though and not just to the beer: the rumour fed upon and amplified racist stereotypes against Hispanic culture. It took the company years to recover, and it has taken them even longer to dispel the falsehood that, perhaps, prevented their becoming the most popular imported beer in the U.S.. Articles dedicated to dispelling myths about beer continue to struggle to debunk the rumour. And even people who are sound enough to realise the rumour is a blatant lie, often have a hard time dispelling the unpalatable image of urine as they see the yellow, foamy beer. So much so, that Urban Dictionary lists “Mexican piss water” as a derogatory name for Corona. Old rumours die hard. #rumours #mexicanpiss #sabotage

In 1887, a young journalist named Nellie Bly made history with a daring undercover assignment that forever changed the landscape of investigative journalism and mental health reform. Those words, describing New York City’s most notorious mental institution, were written by Bly after she got herself committed to Blackwell’s Island. Her shocking exposé, “Ten Days in a Madhouse,” catapulted her to fame and shed light on the horrendous conditions within the asylum, ultimately leading to significant reforms. Enter Nellie Bly In the late 1880s, New York newspapers were rife with harrowing stories of brutality and abuse in the city’s mental institutions. Into this grim narrative stepped Nellie Bly, a plucky 23-year-old with an unyielding determination to make a difference. Born Elizabeth Cochrane, she adopted the pen name Nellie Bly after a popular Stephen Foster song. At a time when female journalists were mostly relegated to society pages, Bly was determined to break into the male-dominated world of hard news. Bly’s editor at The World, intrigued by her tenacity, challenged her to come up with an audacious stunt to prove her mettle as a “detective reporter.” Bly accepted the challenge with gusto, deciding to infiltrate Blackwell’s Island and report on the conditions firsthand. The Crazy-Eye Makeover To prepare for her assignment, Bly underwent a dramatic transformation. She dressed in tattered second-hand clothes, stopped bathing and brushing her teeth, and practiced looking deranged in front of a mirror. “Faraway expressions look crazy,” she noted. Assuming the alias Nellie Moreno, a Cuban immigrant, she checked herself into a temporary boarding house for women and began acting irrationally. Her erratic behavior soon had other residents fearing for their lives. “It was the greatest night of my life,” Bly later wrote. The police were called, and within days, Bly was moved from court to Bellevue Hospital’s psychiatric ward. Her act was so convincing that the chief doctor diagnosed her as “delusional and undoubtedly insane.” Other newspapers took an interest in the “mysterious waif with the wild, hunted look in her eyes,” further solidifying her cover. Soon, Bly found herself aboard the “filthy ferry” to Blackwell’s Island. The Horrors of Blackwell’s Island Opened in 1839, Blackwell’s Island was initially envisioned as a progressive institution focused on humane rehabilitation. However, funding cuts turned it into a nightmare. Staffed partly by inmates from a nearby penitentiary, the asylum was notorious for its brutal treatment of patients. While previous writers, including Charles Dickens in 1842, had reported on the poor conditions, Bly was the first to go undercover. What she found exceeded her worst fears. Doctors were oblivious, and orderlies were “coarse, massive” brutes who “choked, beat, and harassed” patients. Foreign women who couldn’t speak English were often deemed insane and locked away. Patients endured rancid food, dirty linens, insufficient clothing, and ice-cold baths that resembled torture. Bly vividly described one such bath: “My teeth chattered and my limbs were goose-fleshed and blue with cold. Suddenly I got, one after the other, three buckets of water over my head – ice-cold water, too – into my eyes, my ears, my nose and my mouth. I think I experienced the sensation of a drowning person as they dragged me, gasping, shivering and quaking, from the tub. For once I did look insane.” Worst of all was the endless isolation: “What, excepting torture, would produce insanity quicker than this treatment? . . . Take a perfectly sane and healthy woman, shut her up and make her sit from 6 a.m. to 8 p.m. on straight-back benches, do not allow her to talk or move during these hours, give her no reading and let her know nothing of the world or its doings, give her bad food and harsh treatment, and see how long it will take to make her insane. Two months would make her a mental and physical wreck.” Despite dropping her crazy act upon arrival, Bly found that her sane behavior only confirmed the doctors’ diagnosis. “Strange to say, the more sanely I talked and acted, the crazier I was thought to be,” she wrote. Near the end of her stay, Bly’s cover was nearly blown when a fellow reporter who knew her arrived to investigate the mysterious patient. Bly convinced him to keep her secret, and after ten harrowing days, The World sent an attorney to arrange for her release. Going Public and Making History Two days after her release, The World published the first installment of Bly’s exposé, “Behind Asylum Bars.” The psychiatric community was stunned, and the public was outraged. Newspapers across the country lauded Bly’s courageous efforts. Overnight, she became a star journalist. For Bly, the true victory was the impact of her work. “I have one consolation for my work,” she wrote. “On the strength of my story, the committee of appropriation provides $1,000,000 more than was ever before given, for the benefit of the insane.” Although the city had already been considering budget increases for asylums, Bly’s articles undoubtedly hastened the process. A month after her series ran, Bly returned to Blackwell’s with a grand jury panel. Many of the abuses she reported had been corrected: food and sanitary conditions were improved, foreign patients were transferred, and abusive nurses had been removed. Her mission was accomplished. A Legacy of Courage Bly’s career continued to soar with other sensational exploits, including a record-setting 72-day trip around the world in 1889, inspired by Jules Verne’s “Around the World in Eighty Days.” In later years, she founded her own company and designed steel barrels used for milk cans and boilers. Bly passed away in 1922, but her legacy endures. Her life has inspired a Broadway musical, a movie, and a children’s book. Nellie Bly’s bold undercover investigation not only launched her career but also brought about much-needed reforms in mental health care. Her fearless determination to expose the truth continues to inspire journalists and advocates for social justice to this day.

In the late 1970s, the music world was undergoing a seismic shift. Two genres, punk rock and heavy metal, emerged from the underground, seemingly evolving side by side. Both were raw, rebellious, and loud, yet the two movements ran parallel to each other, rarely converging. But there are moments in history when these musical paths cross, creating something magical and unique. One such moment occurred on August 24, 1977, when AC/DC played CBGB in New York City, a venue synonymous with punk rock and new wave. The Australian rockers were on their first American tour, promoting their latest album Let There Be Rock , which had been released in June of that year. The band was fresh off the road, playing a mix of club dates and supporting acts at arenas—including, surprisingly, REO Speedwagon. At this point, AC/DC had yet to fully infiltrate the American mainstream, but they were steadily building a following. Their raw energy, electrifying performances, and bad-boy attitude resonated with the burgeoning punk scene in NYC. CBGB: The Meeting of Punk and Rock CBGB was already legendary by 1977. It was the epicentre of punk in the United States, where bands like The Ramones, Blondie, and Patti Smith honed their craft. Yet, on this summer night, CBGB’s stage hosted a lineup that reflected a rare convergence of musical styles. Sharing the bill with AC/DC were Talking Heads, known for their quirky, intellectual approach to punk, and The Dead Boys, one of the more abrasive and confrontational punk bands of the time. For AC/DC, this wasn’t just another gig—it was a chance to prove their mettle in front of an audience that was famously sceptical of anything outside their insular scene. But if there was any doubt about how the punk crowd would receive a hard-rocking band from Australia, those doubts were quickly erased. A Night to Remember AC/DC’s performance at CBGB was nothing short of explosive. With Bon Scott’s gravelly voice leading the charge, Angus Young’s manic, schoolboy-uniformed presence on guitar, and the band’s relentless energy, they won over the crowd. Punk fans loved AC/DC because they embodied the same rawness and rebellious spirit that defined their movement. They weren’t polished or corporate—they were wild, untamed, and gave everything on stage. In many ways, AC/DC was the perfect band for CBGB. Their sound, while rooted in hard rock, carried the same kind of stripped-back, no-nonsense attitude that punk fans adored. Songs like “Let There Be Rock” and “Whole Lotta Rosie” were fast, loud, and rebellious—qualities that made them natural allies of the punk ethos. The poster for the night confirms the eclectic mix of bands, showcasing how genres that were supposedly at odds with each other could share the same space and thrive together. For a brief moment, punk rockers and heavy metal fans were united by their love of loud, aggressive music. It was a night that showcased how the boundaries between genres can blur, and how music, at its core, is about attitude more than anything else. AC/DC's Time in New York City New York in 1977 was a chaotic and vibrant city, with a thriving music scene that was both gritty and glamorous. While AC/DC was busy performing at iconic venues like CBGB, they were also soaking in the atmosphere of a city that had been the birthplace of so many different musical movements. From the rise of disco in the clubs of Manhattan to the underground punk revolution brewing in places like CBGB and Max’s Kansas City, New York City was alive with creativity and energy. For AC/DC, playing in New York was more than just a tour stop—it was an opportunity to immerse themselves in the raw, electric atmosphere of the city. When they weren’t performing, they could be found roaming the streets of lower Manhattan, visiting iconic landmarks like Times Square and soaking in the grittier side of the city. It was a stark contrast to the band's humble beginnings in Australia, and the energy of New York undoubtedly left a lasting impression on them. AC/DC's stint in the States would continue through the winter of 1977, with the band steadily building their American audience. Their relentless touring schedule, combined with their reputation for electrifying live performances, helped solidify their place in the pantheon of rock gods. Punk’s Love for AC/DC Punk fans’ admiration for AC/DC didn’t end with the CBGB gig. Over the years, AC/DC would maintain a loyal following among punk rock enthusiasts. Bands like The Ramones, who shared a similar dedication to simplicity and power, often cited AC/DC as an influence. The same spirit that drove punk rock—the desire to strip music down to its rawest, most elemental form—was at the heart of what AC/DC did. Both punk and heavy metal grew out of a dissatisfaction with the mainstream music of the early ‘70s, which had become overly commercialised and bloated. AC/DC’s music was a rejection of that, just as much as punk rock was. Their no-frills, straightforward approach to rock resonated with those who wanted music that was honest, unpretentious, and loud. A Night Where the Lines Blurred AC/DC’s gig at CBGB stands as a rare moment when two seemingly divergent genres came together in the same space. On August 24, 1977, punk rockers and hard rockers stood side by side, united by a shared love for music that was raw, energetic, and real. For AC/DC, it was a chance to show the world that they belonged on any stage, in any city, and in front of any crowd. Their time in New York City was brief but impactful, and this legendary gig would go down in history as one of the moments where punk and heavy metal crossed paths, proving that, at the end of the day, rock ‘n’ roll is all about breaking boundaries and bringing people together, regardless of the genre.