by M G Vassanji
“Yes, yes, yes,” Ramji wrote back. “They have shown me all those things you mention, and more — I have seen the gadgets and the gizmos (how I love that word!). And I’m immersed in television. Gomer Pyle has me in stitches, and I love Lucy and Dick Van Dyke, and Jeannie and McHale — and I could sing you the Gilligan theme song … and much more. I know about baseball now, but this is not the football season, you should know that! But no hippies here. No ‘radicals.’ Once, while watching the ‘tube’ with the family, there appeared a really offensive wild-haired man on it, wearing an Indian kurta and muttering ‘Om, Om.’ And he was all for drugs and free sex! ‘Let me assure you he doesn’t represent even one per cent of America,’ Mr. Morris assured me. Mr. Morris was in the Second World War and he has a letter from President Truman, which he has framed and hung in his study.
“Next week Mr. Morris and I go to Washington. It will be Arlington Cemetery this time. (Yes, sir!)”
He could have said they patronized him, he had prescience enough for that. Yet there was a kindness and generosity, though they could undoubtedly afford what they gave him. There was a little bit of flaunting, too, as when he had accompanied Ginnie on a shopping trip, and a two-inch-thick meat sandwich was put before him and she watched him first gape then have a go at it. “We don’t always eat like this, of course,” she told him with a smile, “and I simply have to watch what I eat, so I’m afraid I can’t help you finish it.”
“You’re so good,” she said, still watching him, “so contented.”
“I would say it’s you who are good,” he said, deeply moved, and thinking, After all, you hardly know me, and here I am sitting with you, your cherished guest.
In the three weeks he stayed with the Morrises, the boys were away visiting friends and relatives. Ramji would come down late in the morning, having stayed up to watch the late show on television, then to read, and he would often find her at the kitchen table sipping coffee, perusing a magazine or the newspaper. She asked him many questions about his life and once she wrote a letter to his grandmother. And so he grew quite fond of her.
One weekend John drove him to Baltimore and Washington. They stopped at Fort McHenry in Baltimore, over which a lawyer named Francis Scott Key had seen the Star-spangled Banner still flying, after bombardment by the British from Chesapeake Bay and the burning of Washington, and was moved to write the famous words that became the national anthem. “It’s not that I fancy my own voice or anything like that,” said John apologetically, singing a few lines for Ramji, “it’s only to show you the tune.”
They were at the parking lot viewing the flag atop the fort. A few people stopped to watch them, and John, after hesitating, was compelled to finish the anthem. The bystanders clapped.
“Well, I haven’t sung for an audience in a long time,” John said, his face cherry red.
“You sang very well,” Ramji said. “And thank you.”
“Tell you what — let’s keep this little episode between ourselves, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
As he prepared to leave Runymede to go to Boston and begin university, he realized that now he had crossed a threshold. He was simmering with excitement and was impatient to start his new life, yet he felt apprehensive about what lay ahead. He did not know what would become of him, what he would turn into. But he had come with a vow of constancy against temptation, a promise to uphold his identity and faith. That was the promise all the young people left with, when they departed for Europe or America: to return intact. John took him to Newark Airport to dispatch him on the Boston shuttle; before that, as Ramji said goodbye to her at the house, Ginnie gave him a peck on the lips and he blushed.
2
Amid the clamorous modernist echoes of Hindemith and Buxtehude and Berg from LPs around us, we sit cross-legged on the floor of the music library singing hymns to the Indian god Vishnu — whose other name is Allah, so our ancestors were taught several hundred years ago. Fearing persecution, they were secret worshippers, “guptis,” who met in private with members of their new sect, the Shamsis. One of them would act as a sentry at the door; they even had a password. Where did they meet? Some shopfront perhaps, with grain and spices and all sorts of smells instead of a library with records and music. There’s no persecution here, but still we feel a sense of oddness, of smallness, of … insignificance? We too are guptis, then; no one except the librarian and janitor knows we are here, every Friday night when the campus is so quiet and deserted that even the most diligent nerd is relaxing somewhere in the Student Center over root beer and a Reuben grill.
We come endowed with a key to that inner truth, the secret answer to all questions and desires. Humbly worshipping our God, following the path of our ancestors, we will obtain salvation, escape the endless cycle of rebirth; so we’ve been taught. Let the others outside hustle and bustle around, wasting their precious births, pursuing illusion, maya.
In front, facing everyone else — ten people on a good day — sits Sona, the mukhi: presider. It’s a family tradition, he says, his grandfather was a mukhi too. There is a mukhi in every town, village, and city in the world where there is a Shamsi; he is an honorary consul, so to speak, an American Express office, traveller’s aid, keeper of the flame.
Within a week of his arrival from Connecticut, at the beginning of the term, Sona had managed to contact community members at two nearby universities, Smith and Brandeis, and in Worcester, Amherst, even Hartford and Nashua: there’s a mosque in New England, come when you can. And they came, lonely souls, grateful someone had taken the initiative. Besides students, there was an engineer and a doctor, and a divorced woman with a child. Sona had obtained permission from the Humanities department to use the music library; and so every Friday in a dense, carpeted area of the library he produced from his royal blue airline bag a white sheet, a bottle of holy water, a port glass, a small bowl, incense sticks, and matches, and conjured up a mosque for his congregation. They called it their “musical mosque.”
Outside in the courtyard the trees swish in the wind that blows up from the Charles River, through the corridor between the Humanities building and Rogers Dining Hall, and creates — say the experts — a Bernoulli effect. A tall black iron sculpture, called “Futile” and looking like a scarecrow in agony, its arms and legs curving off in four directions, supposedly checks the force of that wind, though if you walk by it you couldn’t tell it was doing its job. Bernoulli, eh?
It was a marketplace of ideas they were in, a veritable souk, this city of colleges, Cambridge, Mass., founded by another persecuted people three hundred years before. It was a home for heresies, where the intellect found a place to be and become, find its rhythm from a multitude of beats, sample from dozens of tastes. Flyers everywhere — on public walls, on lampposts, on notice boards, or handed out enthusiastically in the corridors, on sidewalks, at building entrances — shrieked out their messages like hawkers peddling their wares. What have we here? What do you bring with you? Weigh in your truth against ours, try our truth, and see its glory; or, if you happen to be lost, bring us your homeless tortured spirit, let us comfort your loneliness and doubts, choose this path already picked by a thousand others just like you. Everywhere, gurus, pirs, psychologists, zealots of every stripe were fishing for disciples.
And there were those who, Krishna-like, offered you the path of action. The activists, the radicals. Do your duty, look into your conscience, and act: Strike, teach, come out for the Movement, for the People, for Peace; sit in, join a rally, occupy a building; raise your voice and your fist. Bring the war home from Indochina. Bring the wars home from the Third World. Expose the Mammon behind the friendly mask — sponsor of the war in Vietnam and investor in apartheid, supplier to Salazar in Angola and Mozambique and to tyrants and torturers the world over: the Military-Industrial Complex. And its brains: the Dr. Strangeloves in the burrows of this hallowed university that’s given you your treasured scholarship …
And you, Ramji, ask yourself, Where do I come in, d
are I show this little secret I’ve brought with me — shabby and incomplete, like the sculpture I gave Ginnie, unsophisticated — this little truth that does not possess even a proper educated tongue to talk about it? And a little voice inside you says, Fear not, you don’t have to show it yet, but you have the truth, as you have been taught; one day your truth will be known and appreciated.
The truth? God? The greatest achievement of evolution is that matter in the form of mankind begins to understand itself, as we sit here, you and I, discussing. So said the great Peter Bowra in his introductory lecture to freshmen. You have come to this institution with dreams — to demolish the theories of Einstein, Heisenberg, Dirac — and to build new edifices of understanding; but most — all? — of you will settle for more modest goals. What God, then? The equation of the universe, that’s the new God, it explains everything, including you and me as we sit here. The Schrödinger equation of everything there is. There would be many debates those Fridays after the ceremonies at the “musical mosque” on that equation of state: who wrote it, and what was his equation, and so on ad infinitum. But before that, Sona presides: the hymn is sung, the prayers are said; then, gravely, he pours the holy water from the bottle into some tap water in the bowl, and each one present, in turn, takes with both hands the little port glass he hands them, and swallows a shot of the diluted holy water. Sona replenishes his bottle with the remainder from the bowl, and screws on the cap. We have brought the holy Ganges with us.
There must be some truth preserved in this ritual, a deep universal truth contained in its simple form, for didn’t even Einstein say that beauty lay in simplicity, and that simplicity was a prerequisite of truth?
His roommate in Rutherford House was Shawn Hennessy, tireless worker in the radical cause, the first sight of whom had sunk all Ramji’s enthusiasm at moving into a place of his own for the first time in his life. Ramji had just fitted his newly acquired key into the door and swung it open. The song to Mrs. Robinson, on his lips, picked up from somewhere during the day’s registration travails, froze in an instant, for there stood in the middle of the room, somewhat startled, what could only be the co-owner of the room, looking back at Ramji’s curious, anxious stare. What have I got myself into, Ramji thought, is this a student at Tech or a bum? The guy could only be described as slovenly, in dirty, worn-out denim cut-offs, unbuttoned red and black checkered shirt, and old sneakers. He was broad, perhaps an inch or two shorter than the gaunt Ramji, with curly overgrown brown hair and a light, virgin beard on his angular face. He grinned, came forward, and the two shook hands.
“Which do you fancy,” said Shawn, “the window or the phone?”
The room had prominent bunk beds and two desks with chairs against the far wall that looked down from its fifth floor window onto the yard between the two parallel wings of the House. It was small and spare, and the walls were cold brick, but it had one item in it suggestive of pure luxury to Ramji: the black telephone. He was thrilled by it. In Dar, the whole street on which he lived had two or three telephones, and you had to go and beg a shopkeeper, money in hand, to be able to use one. Ramji quickly picked for himself the desk on which the phone stood, not caring that he would lose the window view. He got to take the lower bed, to their mutual satisfaction, and use the two lowest drawers of the dresser as added compensation for the phone on his desk. Thus they rapidly apportioned the room between them.
A red-and-black poster, two feet by three, of the revolutionary Che Guevara in beret and beard was Shawn’s contribution to the decor of their room. Ramji stared at it awhile and nodded yes, he approved. It was somewhat stark but not unattractive, with a suggestion of daring and enigma. After some hesitation he brought out a khanga as his offering: it was a bright printed cotton cloth with a central motif of orange and green pineapples on a white background, surrounded by a green and brown border. A boxed message in black ran across it, saying, “Wayfarer, look back” in Swahili. It covered a good portion of the bare wall facing the beds, where he hung it with Shawn’s help. Shawn looked rather pleased with the effect. “Authentic Third World in Rutherford House,” he said, glowingly satisfied.
Having finished their decoration, they sat down in their armchairs facing each other. Through the open window came the shouts of guys playing ball downstairs, the enticing smell of a barbecue, the heady sounds of rock music playing on a stereo somewhere. Shawn launched into politics.
The War. Vietnam. What was in everybody’s mind here, it was there wherever you turned. David and Goliath. Villages destroyed, children napalmed …
“You can work against it, you know,” Shawn said, gauging him. Ramji was a little dumbfounded by the barrage of words, the articulation, the certainty. “There’s a demonstration tomorrow at noon, why don’t you come? It’s organized by the SDS — Students for a Democratic Society — we have thousands of members across the country, we are in schools and we are going to the factories. The young people of this country are against the war and we’re going to stop it. You should join.”
“But — aren’t they the ones — I mean —” who also demonstrate in the streets and throw stones at the police, Ramji wanted to say. “No — thanks …”
“Why not?”
They are not my idea of America, for one thing, he thought; they are not the Morrises and Runymede … if you don’t count the kids at the shopping centre. Instead of that, he declared, flatly: “I support the Americans in Vietnam.”
“Why?” Shawn leaned forward in his chair now, so Ramji had to pull back nervously. He looked intense, expectant, as though he was about to learn something important.
Ramji explained. If Vietnam goes, then Cambodia follows, and Laos, and slowly Thailand, Malaysia, and so on, until the whole of Asia becomes one massive godless communist block under China. The domino theory.
“Where did you hear that?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? Even Time says so.” Simple as ABC.
Shawn emitted a not convincing laugh, then stopped. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. Do you know what Time is?” he exclaimed, then stopped. He was stumped. “All right, all right — forget it. You going to the mixer?”
Neither was in the mood for the mixer that evening in the social lounge, so they shot some pool in the basement and then went out for a stroll on Mass Ave towards Boston.
It was a pleasant Saturday night, a little past sunset, a cooling breeze gusting along the avenue. Winter will come early, Shawn pronounced, sniffing the air a few times, and Ramji wondered whether to believe him. There were not many people around. Rush week was just over; this was carousing time. Classes began Monday. As they crossed the Harvard Bridge high over the Charles, sounds from a party came to tease them, laughter rippling merrily across the water. They could hear playful, spirited male and female voices; mouth-watering frolicking in a boathouse. They exchanged looks, and Ramji wondered why Shawn was alone with him tonight. Whatever the reason, he was thankful for the company. Straight ahead loomed the tall Prudential Building, a towering glass column glowing in the night. Across the bridge, they stopped for pepper steak subs and milkshakes. The diner was a dingy place, its walls covered entirely with autographed black and white pictures; yes, Shawn said, they most likely had all visited here — actors, politicians, and athletes. Shawn was from the Boston area, and his father owned O’Henry’s Pub in Harvard Square, known for the best hamburgers in town. But the two of them didn’t get along.
“He’s a racist and a reactionary. He’s refused to pay my fees.”
He had a younger sister, and an older brother, who was in Vietnam.
“He’s fighting in the war and you’re against it?”
“Uh-huh. I can’t wait for him to get back. You know there’s already an antiwar movement among the soldiers in Vietnam? But I guess Pat can’t write all that, the letters are censored.”
Shawn spoke earnestly but without raising his voice or losing his cool, undeterred by Ramji’s views. Spring had been just great for the antiwar campaign, he s
aid, too bad Ramji missed it. Why do you think Johnson’s not running for president? …
Ramji said he was against the communists because they were atheists. He explained to Shawn an ancient prophecy he’d heard many times back home: Satan would arise in the east, with a massive army of millions, and proceed to conquer the forces of good in the west. Who had such power in the east except China and Russia? But ultimately, the good would win, the West would triumph …
Shawn nodded.
They had been walking heedlessly ever since leaving the diner, the foreigner in the hands of the local. Suddenly, instinctively, Ramji grew alarmed; his steps faltered, he let his voice peter out into silence. The scene around them had transformed into one of an eerie dinginess. Shawn too had observed this and began to look about nervously. They were in a grim, dilapidated area of town, marked by age, debris, and trash; the street was dimly lighted, almost deserted. The buildings were low, making the sky large and expansive. It was overcast. There was a tavern at the end of the block, with a red neon sign outside over the doorway. Ramji guessed that this was a ghetto. He must have seen scenes like this in movies, he’d read about the poverty of such neighbourhoods.
“Where are we?” he asked. “Feels frightening.”
“Don’t know …,” Shawn said, and they crossed the road, to walk back in the direction they’d come from.
Two black women waiting under a streetlamp blocked their path.
“How about a good time, boys?”
“Uh —” Shawn paused, turned to look at Ramji. “Do you —”
“What?” Ramji asked, and one of the women made a go for his crotch — “You like this?” — and he moved back with a start, and Shawn said, “Let’s go.” They started walking away hastily.
