by Karan Thapar
‘Cummon, mate,’ someone shouted at me. The train doors had opened and people were rushing in. But I was grappling with my boxes. When I grabbed both I had no arms left for my hand luggage. And if I tried to tuck the smaller pieces under them I could no longer lift the boxes.
‘You could certainly do with a hand,’ the voice continued. ‘Maybe even two or three!’
It belonged to a man I presumed to be in his fifties. He had on a cloth cap, looked unshaven and his clothes were unkempt. Perhaps he also smelt. Ordinarily I would not have spoken to him. In fact, in later years, I would deliberately move away from others who resembled his type. I thought of them as tramps and would observe them from a distance out of the corner of my eye. My distaste would have been obvious.
But on this June morning things were different. I was young, in need of help and not yet a snob. More importantly, the man had grabbed my boxes – and some of my hand luggage too – and hauled them onto the tube. As the doors shut behind us, he turned and smiled. His teeth were stained and several were missing.
‘Did it!’ he exclaimed.
I wasn’t sure what to say, so I smiled weakly.
‘But it was a close thing.’
I was gauche and still scared of strangers. He was unused to making small talk. So we travelled in silence. But after the second stop he looked at me and asked, ‘Where to, mate?’
He heard my answer with a nod before turning to look out of the window. All you can see from a tube are the black walls of the tunnel but he stared at them with mesmeric fascination.
I was dreading the end of the journey. How would I get my luggage off? But when the train approached Bond Street I found the man had picked up the boxes before I could.
‘You take the smaller stuff,’ he chortled. ‘More your size!’
He escorted me to the end of the platform. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Good luck.’
Then he doubled back to wait for the next tube heading in the same direction. We never met again and I don’t think I thanked him properly. But for me he has become an example of the sort of happy encounter one can expect on the underground. Unknown people who perform unexpected kindnesses and then disappear from your life. Of course, the opposite can also happen but I choose to remember the first sort.
As the metro goes underground in Delhi, I’m sure you will soon have similar stories of your own. They prove that people are never what they seem. And, yes, that our first impressions can be very wrong.
23 December 2004
Words of Advice for the Silly Season
It’s the silly season again. That’s a British term for the time of year when politicians take off on holiday and television devotes itself to old movies and re-runs. The Indian equivalent is determined more by the absence of MPs than by the content of telly. But if you make political programmes – or watch them – it cannot have escaped your attention that most ministers have migrated to cooler climes. Well, good luck to them. I write not to criticize but to advise.
As London is their favourite port of call, how will they be perceived in the British capital? As visiting Indians, as wogs or as undesirable aliens? I lived there for over two decades and the answer depends on who is observing you as much as on what you are saying, doing or wearing whilst being observed. It’s very much a two-way process.
Let me explain by example. The first is from as far back as 1973. I was seventeen, still in school, uncertain, unsure and innocent. I was part of a school party that had gone to Stratford to see Coriolanus. However, Shakespeare wasn’t the attraction so much as the chance to escape from Stowe.
During the interval there was – as there always is – an enormous rush at the bar. Everyone was queueing for a drink. Not having the guts to imbibe in public, I was in line for an ice-cream. As we slowly shuffled forward I started talking to the man in front of me. We were near the end when he suddenly asked:
‘How long have you been in this country?’
‘Just under a year.’ In those days I still kept track of such things. The first anniversary of my arrival in England was an event I was eagerly awaiting.
‘Hmmm,’ he continued. ‘You speak remarkably good English. How come?’
‘Because it’s the only language I know!’
‘Oh,’ he replied. ‘A bit of a brown saheb, eh?’
He meant no insult but he had unwittingly put his finger on the truth of my situation. The Jamaican community in Britain has a more colourful phrase for such people. They call them coconuts – brown outside but white within. I am not sure how many of our ministers would qualify as coconuts but I daresay many of them would be happy to be mistaken for one.
When I first arrived in England, the popular idea of India was determined by Peter Sellers, the corner-shop Paki grocer and the smell of curry and rice. Within a decade, however, this characterization underwent a dramatic change. By the time of Operation Blue Star, things were starkly different. Spielberg’s Indiana Jones was the hit film of the year and Private Eye borrowed from its posters to respond to the storming of the Golden Temple. Its cover had Indira Gandhi, whip in hand, riding a chariot, galloping towards Harmandir Sahib. The caption read: ‘Indira Gandhi and the Temple of Doom.’ Quite how thoroughly Indira Gandhi had captured the British imagination became apparent soon after.
It happened three weeks later when I was sheltering in a taxi because a ceaseless downpour had made walking home from the tube station impossible. In fact I was lucky to find an empty cruising cab and get to it before anyone else. There was relief written all over my face but not that of the cabbie. Taxi drivers hate short hops, particularly at rush hour, and this was only a journey down to the end of the road.
‘Awful weather,’ I said, trying to be charming.
‘Too bloody true,’ came the terse reply.
‘Been like this all day,’ I gamely continued. ‘I can’t stand the rain.’
The cabbie kept silent. I was only twenty-six and unused to such situations. I carried on trying to make conversation but it was all in vain. I babbled on and on but his silence only grew louder. Finally, when we pulled up outside my front door the driver turned around and asked:
‘And where you from then?’
‘India,’ I replied. It always amazes me when people ask because I can’t imagine where else I could come from.
‘The land of Indira Gandhi,’ the taxi driver replied, smiling as he took her name. ‘Good woman. I approve of what she’s done to the Sikhs. Feel like doing it myself too.’
To be honest, in all my years in England I did not experience much overt racism. In fact, I don’t think the British are racist. But they are xenophobes. They don’t like foreigners and when they jest that wogs start at Calais they very definitely mean it.
The British have pejorative nicknames for almost every nationality. The French are frogs, the Spanish wops, the Italians are dagos, the Germans huns or krauts, the Americans yankees and the Arabs, who are thought of as the most distasteful of all, are pronounced eyrabs. But lest you get the wrong impression, let me add that the English do not spare their own. The Welsh are boyos, the Irish paddys or micks and the Scots … well, the Scots don’t count at all. Indians used to be wogs. Increasingly, however, they are now called Pakis.
Yet at the end of the day the British only care about two things: your accent and whether you know which knife and fork to reach for when you sit down to dinner. Sadly, I can’t advise our holidaying ministers on their accents. It’s too late for that and their pronunciation is anyway incorrigible. But when it comes to knives and forks there is a simple rule to follow. Start from the outside and work your way in. So if there are three forks and three knives, the set on the extreme left and right is for your aperitif, the next pair is for the main course and the third for a savoury, if there is one. Dessert spoons and forks are usually at the head of the table setting, butter knives on your side plate and the big spoon – the one that looks like a little karchi – is for the soup.
Two other thing
s: burping is not a welcome response to a good meal and it’s polite to listen attentively to other people rather than talk endlessly yourself.
19 June 2000
My Cambridge
The door was ajar. Was that an invitation to walk in or simply carelessness? Unsure, I knocked. A loud but distant voice responded. ‘Come in.’
I entered a square room lined with bookshelves rising to the ceiling. The curtains were drawn and the lights were not bright. The rich smell of cigar smoke hung in the air. It was a comfortable, well-used room but it was empty.
‘I’m in the bath.’ It was the same voice. ‘Sit down and amuse yourself. I’ll join you shortly.’
That was how Michael Posner, the man who would become my tutor, introduced himself. I would learn more of his eccentric ways in the years to come but at this first encounter I was flummoxed. I had come to Pembroke for an interview. Although anxious, eager and excited, I was ready for almost anything – but not this.
At eighteen I wasn’t sure what to do. I wanted to behave like an adult but the question I could not answer was what would that amount to? I reached for a book and stood by an upright old brass lamp glancing at its pages. I can’t remember its name but it had something to do with the Indian economy.
‘Ah, there you are.’
I turned to find Michael Posner bearing down on me. He was a large man but his smile was equally generous. He thumped my shoulder and more or less simultaneously pushed me into a large armchair. Then he sat down in another in front of me.
‘What’s that?’
Posner reached for the book I had just put down. He seemed to know it.
‘Well, young man, you want to come up to Pembroke, do you?’
‘Yes, Mr Posner.’ What else could I have said? The answer should have been obvious.
‘In that case, what can you tell me about the Indian economy?’
It was a trick. And I had created the opportunity by choosing that particular book. I wished I had instead picked up a magazine or a newspaper. Now I had to talk about a subject of which I was completely ignorant. Inwardly I panicked but outwardly I started to gabble. It was the only way of covering up. I must have spoken for three minutes or more.
‘Hmmm.’ The sound was enough to stop my flow. But Posner was staring at the documents in his hand. I guess they must have been part of my application form.
‘Not knowing the subject doesn’t seem to be a handicap for you!’
Ouch! But there was a hint of a smile and his eyes were gleaming. That was the first time I saw Posner embarrass and applaud with the same sentence. It was his trademark style.
Eight months later, my A-levels completed, I arrived at Pembroke. It was a dark sultry October evening and the heavy clouds threatened rain. Having installed myself in my room and unpacked, I headed for the common room. It turned out to be in the same building as Michael Posner’s rooms. As I opened the door to enter I noticed a large figure at the top of the stairs heading down.
‘Is that the expert on the Indian economy or have I got it wrong?’
I blushed. I had hoped Posner would have forgotten the gibberish I spouted at the interview. But not just his size, his memory was also elephantine.
‘Whatever else you do, you should join the Union.’
And with that he walked through the door I had just entered, leaving in his wake the warm feeling of a pleasant greeting but also a small niggling doubt that I had been put in my place. What was the Union?
The very next morning I made a determined effort to find out. An hour later I was a member. And for the next three years my university career centred around its large red brick building hidden behind the old Round Church. Posner had done me a second favour. I can only assume he sensed my ability to talk outstripped my talent for analysis and nudged me in this direction.
I was elected to the standing committee at the end of my first term and became president of the Union in the penultimate one. I wore kurta pyjamas, achkans, bundgalas and Daddy’s old Edwardian double-breasted dinner jacket. Its broad watered-silk lapels were much admired. It was fun but it wasn’t always frivolous. It made me realize that politics could also be a grind. Yet I can honestly add I don’t think I’ve enjoyed anything more.
Three months later I graduated with a 2:1, which is good but by no means distinguished. Michael Posner must have guessed this would happen when he heard me spouting on the Indian economy. I bet that’s why he pushed me towards the Union. Today I’d say he gave me the right advice.
12 May 2005
Anyone for Tennis?
‘What’s so special about Wimbledon?’ Aru had just walked into my office and caught me watching a repeat of last night’s match. I thought his question was a dig but his curiosity was genuine.
However, when I started to explain I realized how difficult it is to describe Wimbledon. No doubt tennis is international and television has made it truly global. And, of course, more people watch this game than any other sport on the box. But Wimbledon is far more than the All England Lawn Tennis Championship.
Wimbledon is summer and sunshine – though, ironically, it often rains and the games are washed out – it’s champagne and pimms, strawberries and cream, privilege and passion. It’s also – as only the British can manage – both patrician and populist. The Duke of Kent is as much a fixture as the ball boys. Venerable tradition sits comfortably beside McEnroe-style tantrums. Curtseys are as common as Anna Kournikova’s short skirts. Wimbledon, after all, is a slice of Britain – eccentricity, exaggerated propriety, snobbery, yobbishness and an unabashed delight in the good things of life.
But how was I to explain all of this to Aru? As I tried his eyes started to glaze over. At first he seemed intrigued. Then perplexed. Finally, simply bored. Though we in India are crazy about cricket, we haven’t developed similar traditions or conventions. For us the game itself is all-important. In Britain tennis is a metaphor for a style of life. Wimbledon is its apogee.
So I gave up and chose instead to tell Aru about my first visit to the grass courts of SW17. Nisha, my banker wife, had clients at Coca Cola who had arranged a marquee just off Centre Court. We were one of thirty guests invited on opening day. I decided to look sporty. I wore a rather natty double-breast blazer with a paisely cravat and a pair of linen slacks. I thought I looked fetching.
Now it didn’t take long to discover that unless you really care for the game, it’s far more fun quaffing strawberries and cream and downing champagne than sitting in the royal box straining to see the other side which, believe me, is pretty far away. So whilst the others watched I guzzled. And if you deign to see the lesser players then you can wander through the higher number courts carrying your champagne with you. By the way, Court One is for the big names but as the number increases the quality of player declines.
I ended up at Court 15, slightly woozy but intent on watching an Ecuadorian beauty demolish a Kraut vixen. A handful of supporters made it seem like a battle of the continents. The German would grunt, groan and smash the ball. The Latin American was all touch, drop-shot and delicacy.
Suddenly a man resembling a retired colonel – puce, bow-tied, tweed-suited – walked up and oyed me. Confident I wasn’t the object of his attention I ignored him. But he continued. With each attempt his voice took on an edge and his manner seemed less charming. Finally he could no longer contain himself and burst out.
‘Waiter,’ he bellowed. I turned around wondering who he was addressing, only to discover it was me.
‘Yes, you’, the ‘colonel’ confirmed. ‘What happened to the champagne and strawberries we ordered? It’s been over half an hour.’
‘Sorry,’ I said needlessly. ‘I’m not the waiter.’
‘Aren’t you?’ the ‘colonel’ responded, by no means apologetically. ‘The other bloke was dressed just like you. I thought it was the company uniform.’
On the tube home I repeated the story to Nisha. I expected sympathy but she threw her head back and hooted with laughte
r.
‘Do you know why he said that?’ she asked as if she knew.
‘Why?’ I replied, perplexed she should but also off ended she was explaining away my little incident.
‘Because you’re overdressed. Only waiters care so much for their appearance. Real gentlemen wouldn’t give a fig. Remember that the next time you go to Wimbledon.’
I was dumbfounded. Fortunately Aru seemed to miss the point as well. In his view the better dressed a man, the better the man is likely to be. Clothes, he believes, make a difference.
‘Ah,’ he clucked. ‘So Wimbledon’s a shabby sort of place.’
‘No, not quite.’
‘Then the British haven’t got good taste.’
‘No, not that either’.
‘In that case,’ he concluded, the penny finally dropping, ‘there was something wrong with your clothes!’
Now tell me, could I have disagreed?
24 June 2005
Chapter 5
The View from My Window
‘Arrey ji problem nahin, Pradhan Mantri hai!’
The Cost of a Wedding
There are times when I lose respect for my countrymen altogether. One such is weddings – particularly the grotesque, garish sort that occur at rented farmhouses in Chattarpur and Vasant Kunj, and especially when they take place together on the same night. It’s a sure-fire recipe for man-made hell.
Last week there were several nights when the stars ordained that the middle classes could wed without fear of mishap. And they did. Except the mishap befell the rest of us.
Driving down the Vasant Kunj road at 10.20 one night, I suddenly found myself caught in a traffic jam. It began innocently, as if the lights had changed to red and the traffic had tailed back. But then it grew. After ten minutes it stretched further than I could see. A quarter of an hour later the road on the other side was blocked as well.
