by R K Laxman
Our minds were passive and we took in the scene in a half-sleepy state, lulled by the rhythmic jolting of the train. We had left behind Marseilles, Cannes, Antibes, Nice, Monaco and were fast approaching Italian territory.
Here I would like to leave the main story and depart a bit to describe certain small events that followed. They were a set of coincidences that occurred in rapid succession, making us believe that we were made to share, suddenly, some strange psychic experience. If this story had been a piece of mere fiction then what follows would have thrown doubts on the capability of the fiction writer to create a convincing situation. Only reality can afford to be clumsy in construction and incredible in content. This, as I said, is a true story.
A young fellow who had all along been sitting opposite us, quietly reading a magazine, occasionally peeling an orange and eating it, or munching a sandwich, or broodingly looking out of the window and contemplating the landscape, suddenly bestirred himself, leaned forward and informed us that soon we would be reaching Genoa. Then he said, pointing to the sea, that the cargo ship, London Valour, had sunk somewhere out there. We were taken aback. That was precisely what we had on our minds. The young man added that he was one of the survivors of the disaster. He was a Greek and like Ramaswami had enrolled himself as a sailor on the London Valour. Finally he took out the magazine he was reading so intently. It was Paris Match and ran a feature story about the London Valour. He showed us pictures of the broken ship, of dead bodies lined up wrapped in white shrouds, of divers looking for more, of shocked survivors huddled together and so on. It was hard to believe that what was happening was just an ordinary everyday coincidence. Why, after such a long time, was the whole tragedy of Ramaswami being recreated for us in these vivid pictures, and why this first-hand account of the tragedy from this Greek sailor? Why did he not find a seat somewhere away from us—there were so many down the aisle. And, above all, why should all this have happened just a few minutes before our arriving at Genoa? Everything seemed to acquire a deadly meaning and a purpose.
We were so overwhelmed by now that we jumped off the train when it halted at Genoa. We told ourselves that we owed it to Ramaswami to visit the place where he had died. It was the least we could do for a boy who was almost a son of the family.
It was quite late when we alighted at Genoa. It would be difficult to get a hotel room, the reservation clerk said as he dialled a number. Finally he found one and gave us the address. The taxi driver said it was quite far away and drove mostly in the dark; Genoa had gone to bed. The driver said it was a good hotel where we were booked and it was close to the sea. Then he said, ‘You can see the sunk ship from the hotel.’
And sure enough that was the first thing we saw through the window in the morning. The London Valour was buried in the sea vertically, its prow sticking up against the red glow of the dawn. We were very moved by the whole scene, though we were also happy in a way that we were right on the spot where poor Ramaswami had lost his life, to pay our homage to his memory and give comfort to his departed soul. Later, we went nearer the sea for a better view of the sunk ship. There I nicked up a black pebble as a token of our sentimental journey to Genoa and as a miniature monument to Ramaswami.
Finally, we returned to Bombay from Rome at an unearthly hour. We were travel-worn, fatigued and jet-lagged. There was a hint of red on the eastern horizon. But by the time we were through the formalities of Immigration and Customs the glare of the sun was hurting our sleepless eyes.
Reaching home I found the bed irresistible. I changed quickly and went off to sleep. When I woke up it was dark outside. I had slumbered through the entire day.
After a bath I felt extremely fresh and relaxed. I gathered all the mail and magazines accumulated over the months and made myself comfortable in the living room under a mellow lamp with a drink of premium brand, magnum size, duty-free Scotch and soda. My wife was pottering around in another room rearranging the neglected home, making pleasant household noises. The air was charged with the smell of spices which we had missed for so long. On the whole there was peace on earth; I was wrapped in the most soothing tranquillity.
Suddenly the doorbell rang. I heard one of the servants attend to it. A few moments later I heard footsteps entering and suddenly I saw in the twilight of the hall a dark tall figure with a familiar grin standing with arms folded in salutation. I was shocked and screamed out for my wife and at the same time asked, ‘Ramaswami! Aren’t you dead?’ He just stood there flashing his smile. ‘But it was in all the papers … Ramaswami,’ I shouted, almost accusing him of contradicting the news item!
‘I was offloaded in Calcutta at the last minute,’ Ramaswami said, smiling. ‘The sandwich I ate in the mess was bad and I took ill. So were a few others who were to have gone by air to join the London Valour. The chap who died was another S. Ramaswami,’ he explained.
When we had calmed down we explained to him all that had happened since we read the news of the disaster and told him of our subsequent visit to Genoa thinking he was dead. Ramaswami was immensely moved by our concern and the trouble we had taken over him. He said, his voice thick with emotion: ‘I am fortunate in having people like you who care for me so much. God has been truly kind to me in giving me an opportunity to know how much affection you people have for me—even if you think I’m dead!’
Dharmaraj wound up. There could be no better end, Ganesh thought, to his ‘Servants of India’ chronicle.
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First published in Viking by Penguin Books India 2000
Published in Penguin Books 2002
Copyright © R.K. Laxman 2000
Cover and inside illustration by R. K. Laxman
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ISBN: 978-01-4100-421-1
This digital edition published in 2013.
e-ISBN: 978-93-5118-108-8
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