by The Stranger in My Home- Facets of a Life (retail) (epub)
I spoke to her the year she died at ninety-one and told her of my tenacious, troubling souvenir.
Characteristically, she said, ‘You didn’t do anything wrong. I was careless.’ She added, ‘I was so glad your birthday party went well.’
3
THE DOCTOR AND THE OUTLAW
A LAST APPEAL
ANY DYING MAN WOULD be a doctor’s special concern. However, this one was very special for my uncle. He sat close to the gasping man and whispered, ‘I am the one you sent for.’
He had just taken out the two bullets the police had used to take the man down and knew the damage was extensive and irreparable. All that my uncle could do now was to help reduce his pain and find out why the man had specifically asked for him.
My uncle knew the man from before as Ram but almost certainly, that wasn’t his real name. Three years ago some farmers had found Ram at the edge of their field, dying of bullet wounds, and had carried him to my uncle’s country clinic.
Uncle was sixty-five, a country doctor who had become a legend in his lifetime and drew patients from over twenty villages in eastern India. A large man, with silver hair and a walrus moustache, he was the calmest of listeners and gentlest of healers. He treated many of his poor patients free of charge and I marvelled to see his eyes turn moist when women or children spoke of their pain.
Ram had said that he had been robbed and then shot by hoodlums. He teetered on the verge of death for weeks before he recovered. Because he now walked with a limp and could not return to his work as a day labourer, my uncle hired him as a domestic help. The children liked him, and he became a part of the family.
One day he disappeared, about as suddenly as he had originally appeared. My uncle missed him, but when others commented on Ram’s ingratitude in leaving without a word, he said, ‘We don’t know why he left so suddenly. We shouldn’t guess, and we shouldn’t judge until we know.’
A shattering blow came in less than a month.
Ram, it turned out, was no day labourer. He led a notorious gang of outlaws who had been shot not by hoodlums, but by police in the course of a violent encounter.
Worse, when he had left, he had stolen my uncle’s hunting rifle, using his position as a trusted help. Since rejoining his gang, Ram had shot and killed two policemen with the gun. Now my uncle was implicated, because the police presumed that he had allowed the misuse of his gun or at least been negligent in its safekeeping.
After grilling him for three days in the district court, the authorities let my uncle go but cancelled his gun licence. The public humiliation was his worst punishment.
Now, after three years, a police car had fetched him to the bedside of a dying man who did not want any doctor but my uncle.
Ram said, ‘Doctor, you saved my life once. In return, I stole from you.’ He paused, and added, ‘Please forgive me if you can.’
Those were his last words.
4
A TIP I EARNED
YOU AREN’T WHAT I THINK YOU ARE
A LARGE DIPLOMATIC COCKTAIL party in an Asian country. Lots of food, lots of drinks, and lots of guests. The host is the American consul: me.
Though there are secretaries, assistants and other people to help, I prefer to open the door personally to welcome guests to my home. I was doing so for each incoming guest.
An American couple came in. I smiled and greeted them. The husband looked at me but did not respond. At first I wondered if he had heard me. Then I realized that, from my looks, he had inferred I was a domestic help and beneath the level of a polite response.
I extended my hands then to take the coat from his wife. She said, as she divested herself of the fur coat, ‘It is an expensive coat.’ Though I nodded to indicate that I had understood, she stressed, ‘It is a very expensive coat. Take good care.’ She placed a dollar bill in my pocket.
I hung the coat in a closet and went in. The barman was giving drinks to the couple. My assistant said to them, ‘Let me introduce you to our host, the consul.’ The man’s jaw dropped in surprise and the woman started stammering, ‘Oh, I am so sorry. I hope you don’t mind.’
I raised my voice just a little bit, so that all the guests in the hall could hear me, and said, ‘I don’t mind at all, unless you ask back for the tip that I have just earned.’
5
A HALL OF RICOCHET
PLACE UNFORGOTTEN, UNFORGETTABLE
SIR ANDREW HENDERSON LEITH Fraser, lieutenant governor of Bengal, had gone to the Overtoun Hall in Calcutta (now Kolkata) on a warm July evening in 1908 to hear a lecture. He suddenly found a revolver pressed to his ribs.
The nondescript young man that had his finger on the trigger seemed determined to send him to the hereafter, as a coup against the ruthless colonial rule that the governor represented. But the revolver malfunctioned. Before the man could try again, the large American, Keith Barber, who looked after Overtoun Hall, tackled him, and the police arrived.
That wasn’t the only episode of the nationalist drama in the Overtoun Hall, the centerpiece of the large YMCA building at the corner of College Street and Harrison Road. Keshab Chandra Sen had advocated for English education there, and a decade later Gandhi spoke there on nationalism and Rabindranath Tagore offered his ‘interpretation of Indian history.’
In 1950 my father came to take charge of the building, moving from our home in the pleasant YMCA building located on, coincidentally, Keshab Chandra Sen street in the Mechua Bazar area. We lived on the topmost floor, in a spacious bright apartment, with an airy living room, several bedrooms, a modest kitchen and a long, broad, covered terrace. We loved the apartment, but what made it exceptional was the access it gave to a remarkable building: without even stepping out, I could go to a gymnasium, a library and a restaurant. And to the Overtoun Hall.
The hall had been built fifty-two years ago with a bequest from John Campbell White, later Lord Overtoun, a skinflint Scottish chemical manufacturer who docked a shilling from his workers’ meagre wages any time they smoked and five shillings if they drank beer. Overtoun would turn in his grave if he knew how the hall became a symbol of independent thinking, particularly against the British.
Now the British were gone, and the hall had turned into a different kind of symbol: of a new cultural renaissance. In the newly independent, post-colonial India there was a spurt of creativity. Books, hitherto vetted and censored, were coming out in profusion; people were writing poems and songs, unashamedly patriotic; dances were choreographed and plays staged with bold, new ideas. For a pittance one could rent the Overtoun Hall and offer music, dances and theatre to an eager audience. For every show, Father would receive a bunch of free tickets.
Invariably, I was one user of those tickets. Night after night I would fast-track school homework to rush to Overtoun Hall to hear the finest musicians of India, from Ustad Vilayat Khan to Nikhil Banerjee, from the Dagar Brothers to Shamshad Begum, to watch outstanding plays from the historical Chandragupta to provocative Nabanna, and hear lectures from scholars, writers and politicians. The last was the most frequent and luckily so, for these were my favourites. I hung on their lips as I listened to my adored litterateurs like Narayan Gangopadhyay and Pramatha Nath Bisi, and to much-admired political speakers like the communist leaders Soumyendranath Tagore and Hirendranath Mukherjee.
I never cared much for my schools as sources of learning; later I developed the same scepticism of my colleges and universities. But I have no doubt in my mind that my true alma mater, in the sense of a ‘nourishing mother,’ was Overtoun Hall. It fed my growing appetite for new and challenging ideas, opened my eyes to different options for perceiving society and my ears to incredible heights of musical and dramatic power. I never lost my longing for the theatre and my endless obsession with new concepts, and I owe it all to endless evenings in the last row of an overcrowded auditorium.
I can still remember the thick Teutonic accents of Arthur Koestler as he urged his listeners to ‘think and write’ new ideas. I can never for
get Utpal Dutt’s – he was still a student – vibrant soliloquies from Shakespeare that made me a lifelong reader of Shakespeare.
Last year I went and took a look at the building at 86 College Street. It is no longer a YMCA building; it had been sold. Worse, it looks abandoned and unkempt. Overtoun Hall now probably hears the footfall of ghosts.
The young intruder in Overtoun Hall who held a revolver to the governor failed to put a bullet through his heart and possibly spent his life in a miserable British jail. But Overtoun Hall certainly put a different kind of bullet through my heart that has ricocheted through my whole life.
6
A REMARKABLE GRIFTER
CONMAN LEAVES SOME DETRITUS
SERGE CAME TO SEE my father with a recommendation from Father’s old college mate in another town. He had found a job with a tea company and needed to quickly locate an affordable place to stay in.
We lived in a large third-floor apartment of an old but well-preserved building. An additional room on one side served as a guest room, used by our occasional overseas guests. Evidently Father took a shine to Serge, for he brought him along to meet the family.
Father was considering letting him use the guest room because he could not think readily of an alternative and nobody was going to use the room for several months yet anyway. Since a stranger would be living so close to us, Father thought Mother and I should get to see him first.
Serge was a lean, handsome man, with a dark shock of hair, neatly brushed back, and a light, well-trimmed moustache. He had a soft, well-modulated voice and a winning smile. Mother was usually circumspect and took time to make up her mind about a person, but she broke the rule for Serge. She started asking him what she could do to make his stay comfortable. Serge graciously replied that the accommodation itself was a great favour and he could not think of anything else to ask for.
Instead, he said, he would like to be useful to the family in any way Mother could think of.
Serge moved in the next day and within a week became a seamless part of our family. Father simply took him like a person who had always been there, and Mother, uncharacteristically, would ask him to do an odd thing or two for her. The biggest change was in my life. It was a quantum difference to have an older, friendly person right next to me, who could answer all questions, seemingly solve all problems and was ever present to help me or to give me company. He became my ally and model, my admired mentor.
Then, I don’t know how, he also became my friend. There was little I couldn’t tell him. There was nothing I didn’t.
In summer our family went for our annual vacation in another town for a month. It was a time for relaxation and outings. This year, however, it was cut short after just three weeks by an urgent call from the police. We returned to a house that not only had a cop outside and a detective inside but was topsy-turvy in every room. Someone had systematically searched every nook and cranny for anything of value. Everything valuable was gone. The small box in which mother kept her jewellery was on the floor, broken and empty.
Then Dubey, the wiry, tight-lipped detective, took my parents aside for a detailed discussion. I could overhear his repeated questions about who could be suspected and who could have accessed the key. I heard Father say that he had no suspect among the neighbours and, though he had left a duplicate key with Serge, he was above suspicion as a virtual member of the family.
It was a dismal time for us all, and Serge turned very gloomy and taciturn. I did not know whether it was in sympathy for us or a result of the hour-long interview Dubey had with him. I was sad that he hardly talked with me or with anybody else for that matter.
The climax came on the fourth day. The evening before, Serge had gone out shortly after dinner, saying he was going for a walk, and had not returned. Dubey arrived midday with his inspector and two other cops. Bluntly, he told Father and Mother that they were fools to trust Serge, whom they had now come to arrest.
Dubey had had the broken house lock checked by a specialist who had concluded that it wasn’t broken at all; it had been opened normally with a key and then deliberately mutilated to give the impression that a burglar had broken it. Dubey had checked all the references given by Serge, and found them false; he had never worked for a tea company. Dubey’s men had tracked down two of Serge’s past employers who had both sacked him, one for defalcation of funds. Serge was, Dubey said, just a grifter, a con artist who preyed on gullible people like my parents.
But Serge was nowhere to be found. He was never caught, arrested or prosecuted. Probably he pursued his artistry in another town under a different name.
The detective’s attribution of gullibility rang in my ears for many days, if only because it was so misdirected. Surely the most gullible was a young boy who had loved and trusted Serge and put his heart in a friendship that was just a mirage.
7
PLEASE GO TO HELL
A MAN REBORN
WHEN I JOINED A large company as its newest personnel chief, the first thing I noticed was the strict class differentiation. Executives thought themselves vastly superior to the clerical staff, entitled not only to their many privileges but also to treat the junior staff cavalierly. They spoke disrespectfully even to older clerks, who had served the company devotedly for many years, and did so in public.
I had told the chairman, who had handpicked me, that I could be effective and produce results only if I had a free hand and was allowed to reshape staff matters. My first order of the day was to change the way we treated our 500 junior employees. In the first meeting with my six section heads, we reached an agreement to operate in a new way with subordinate staff. First, we would inform them of all major decisions, to make them knowledgeable and gain their support for our action. Second, we would consult them before taking such decisions, both to use their large pool of experience and to give them a sense of participation. We would do these with utmost respect.
Other senior executives I spoke with, over coffee and lunch, began to see the wisdom of such changes and fell in with my plan. With a sole exception. Verghese, the publicity manager, believed in a more feudal style and insisted that he needed to ‘keep the clerks in their place.’ I had already heard of his habit of talking rudely to his underlings, and some in my department took offence at his impertinent behaviour when he spoke to them.
Brojo Babu, a tall elderly clerk who had worked in our department for many years, was a meek bespectacled man, in charge of scheduling. He always spoke softly and humbly, and did his job with care and caution. One afternoon he sought an interview and, after considerable hesitation, told me that Verghese had brought him nearly to tears by talking rudely to him in front of his young colleagues on two occasions. I told him that I could talk to Verghese, but it would be more effective if he himself told Verghese that impolite behaviour was not acceptable.
Brojo Babu pondered, and told me that he was not sure he could do it. I then said that I was no longer advising him, but ordering him to tell Verghese, or anybody else for that matter, that he would not accept rudeness. Brojo Babu contemplated some more, but could not tell me that he could carry out that order. Flustered, I then asked him to open his notebook and write down a brief four-word message. I instructed him to memorize the message and deliver it to anyone who dared speak discourteously to him.
A week later, Verghese came down to our department in a tearing hurry and wanted us to attend to some problem immediately. He chose to accost Brojo Babu, no doubt because he had found from past experience the modest clerk an easy person to bully. When he was told that he had to wait, he shouted obstreperously that the clerk was worthless. Brojo Babu meekly said, ‘Excuse me,’ and made a signal for Verghese to wait. Then he opened his notebook and haltingly read out the dictated message, ‘Please go to hell.’
The message was delivered in a large hall, in front of forty employees. Verghese could not believe his ears. He stood shell-shocked for several seconds, and then retreated wordlessly to his office.
That
afternoon I met with Verghese and the chairman in the latter’s office at his request.
He asked me, ‘Did you intend to humiliate Verghese publicly?’
‘Rather,’ I said, ‘I wanted him to stop humiliating my staff members publicly. They had been insulted too many times for me not to seek some remedy.’
The discussion ended amicably.
I was pleased that Verghese was never again rude to Brojo Babu or anybody else in our department. Rumour had it that he had started talking differently to clerks in his own department, where the story had spread.
Spread it must have, for I noticed that when executives came to my department they behaved with an extra dose of courtesy.
I was even more pleased that Brojo Babu became a new person overnight. No longer the meek, mealy-mouthed clerk, he walked with a new confidence, his head held high and a new spring to his step. He came to tell me privately that he did not disclose to his colleagues that I had dictated the message to him. They considered him a hero.
He added, ‘Never have I done anything like this in my entire life. I am a different man, sir.’
8
GET HIM BACK
WHAT ONE CAN’T LET GO
AUNT TARA WAS A widow of modest means who lived in a small town far from the big city in India where we lived. When she wrote to my dad, asking him to look for an inexpensive place for her youngest son to stay and attend college, we offered him a place in our spacious downtown apartment. Biju, quiet and shy, was a pleasant person. I gladly shared my room with him and we quickly became friends.
Something bizarre happened five months later. Biju went out one afternoon, saying he would meet a friend near the railway station. He did not return. We called his friends and acquaintances; then we checked with the local hospitals. When nothing turned up, we called the police. Since I knew him best, I took the lead in the fruitless search, and it fell to me to inform his mother. Aunt Tara listened to me gravely, without a single interruption, then softly pleaded, ‘Please get Biju back to me.’
