The Boatman

by John Burbidge

  In the years leading up to the exposition, Sir James became the Institute’s public face to the world and we worked him and his wife to the bone. They were constantly criss-crossing the globe to cement authorization and solicit funding for the exposition. During this time, I had the pleasure of working with him in India, as well as in other parts of Asia. On one occasion, we were on a flight together from Tokyo to Hong Kong. When we left Tokyo, it had been five degrees Celsius. As the plane landed in Hong Kong, the captain announced that it was 28 degrees outside. Anticipating the dramatic climate change, Sir James suddenly stood in the middle of the plane and started to change his clothes.

  ‘Jim, what are you doing?’ asked his wife in disbelief.

  ‘Well, you heard what the captain said, didn’t you? Twenty-eight bloody degrees out there and I’m rugged up like I’m about to climb the Himalayas.’

  ‘Yes, but you can’t change in the middle of a plane.’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ he quipped. ‘They do it on the beach, don’t they?’

  Sensing she was fighting a losing battle, his wife proceeded to exit with the other passengers, while I looked the other way and waited for Sir James to complete his change of costume, seemingly oblivious to the lines of people shuffling down the aisles and gazing in open-mouthed wonder.

  Being exposed to the private Sir James as well as his public persona was a double thrill for me. The former didn’t detract from the latter; it only enhanced it. It was easy to understand why the memory of him lingered long after he had left India, among both the top echelons of society and those much lower on the ladder. This was underscored for me the night I accompanied him to dinner at Bombay’s exclusive Willingdon Club, as guests of the chairman of one of India’s leading food manufacturing companies. Once the enclave of the British imperial establishment, the Willingdon was now firmly in the hands of wealthy Indians. We had barely seated ourselves at the circular table when the chief waiter, adorned in elaborate head gear and a trailing saffron sash, recognized Sir James. He rushed up to him, bowed low, and touched his feet while uttering profuse greetings. I’m certain I noticed Sir James’ eyes moisten as he graciously acknowledged the honor he had been paid. He then turned to his host and said, ‘I feel awful but I can’t remember that gentleman’s name.’

  Sir James’ connections with so many of India’s economic and political leaders were like a golden key that magically opened door after door. While we had assiduously courted government and business leaders in support of our own village projects, doing so for an international event of the magnitude we were planning was a wholly different matter. We were being forced to metamorphose from a little-known NGO to a sophisticated international body that walked with kings and princes. We had to acquire a new level of professional acumen appropriate to our role, while continuing our regular work. We began receiving phone calls from private secretaries of people we would never have had the remotest chance of seeing, had it not been for Sir James. Members of our staff would accompany him on visits and I was fortunate to be chosen to play this role on several occasions.

  One that stands out took place within walking distance of our humble staff quarters in the Calcutta bustee. Sandy and I decided to walk to save a taxi fare and join Sir James and his wife at the appointment. It was a bright, clear Sunday morning and as we strolled along the luscious scent of frangipani overpowered us. I was wearing my newly dry-cleaned safari suit and Sandy had on a white cotton dress with dark blue spots. We had decided to allow plenty of time in case we should have difficulty locating the house. But No. 18 Gurusaday Dutta Road was hard to miss, since it occupied most of a block. Its waist-high concrete fence bordered a huge expanse of lawn and tropical plants behind which sprawled the residence of Mr. and Mrs. B K Birla.

  Basant Kumar Birla was the grandson of Baldeo Das Birla, a Marwari from Rajasthan who had moved to Calcutta in the late 19th century to set up the family business. Today, the Birla empire includes dozens of companies from petrochemicals to textiles, automobiles to information systems. The Birlas are also known for their participation in India’s freedom movement. Mahatma Gandhi was once their house guest in Delhi. Little wonder, then, that it was with a sense of awe and trepidation that Sandy and I approached the guard at the Birla’s front gate. I whipped out my business card, making sure I dropped the name of Sir James as I did so. The guard stared at the card, then at us, and back at the card.

  ‘You wait here,’ he commanded, and raced off down the drive at a rapid pace.

  Sandy and I looked at each other, mystified. The Birlas knew Sir James was coming, so surely they had alerted the gateman. Within minutes, voices emanated from the porch at the entrance to the house. One of them was that of an older woman. The guard sprinted back to his post and beckoned us with his right hand.

  ‘Sorry, very sorry,’ he said as he ushered us in the slowly opening metal gate. ‘Madam is awaiting you.’

  When we reached the house, Mrs. Birla, wearing an exquisite blue and green silk sari, came down the steps to greet us. She apologized profusely for the misunderstanding. Sandy and I brushed it aside, but when she informed us she had been told there were a couple of hippies at the gate, we couldn’t restrain our laughter.

  While we were all still enjoying the joke, Sir James’ car entered the driveway. He and his wife joined us on the steps just as Mr. Birla appeared at the door. As we walked through the entryway into the house, my eyes strained to stay in their sockets. It was as though we had been dropped into a museum and gallery of world cultures, generously endowed with items from the Subcontinent. I would later learn that their collection of ancient Indian sculptures, miniature paintings, bronzes, textiles and terracotta is regarded as a national treasure.

  As the morning wore on and we talked further, it was Mrs. Birla who captured my attention more than her better-known husband. She modestly revealed that she played several classical Indian instruments and spoke a handful of foreign languages, as well as a number of Indian ones. What she didn’t tell me was that in addition to her love of the visual arts, music, dancing and literature, she was a passionate promoter of education for young Indian women, which had led her to establish several private schools for girls. After more than an hour in her presence, I began to feel like a hippy. My efforts and those of our organization paled into insignificance compared to what she had accomplished. Granted she was 60 and I was scarcely half her age; granted she had been born into wealth and trained to use it to good effect. Nevertheless, I stood in awe of her. Living in a society in which women are so often relegated to secondary status, she had used her privilege, affluence and education to fight injustice and had something to show for her efforts. I began questioning what I had done with my life and came up short.

  Two days later, when I stopped by the Birla office to pick up a check for 100,000 rupees for the exposition, I found myself in a state of renewed shock. It was the largest amount of money I had ever held in my hands and was a great boost to our fundraising campaign, practically and symbolically. But I had received riches of a far greater kind. The Birlas had shown me that a sense of compassion and social justice was not limited to indigenous social activists or foreign volunteers.

  If the Birlas are one of India’s two leading family-owned industrial empires, the other indisputably are the Tatas. A Parsi family based in Bombay, the Tatas are equally renowned for their wide-ranging commercial enterprises, comprising close on 100 companies in multiple sectors, from hotels and vehicles to tea and computer software. The Tata Group pioneered in many fields after India’s independence and its contribution to the country’s education, science and technology is widely acknowledged. One of the jewels in the Tata crown is the Tata Iron and Steel Company (TISCO), established in 1907 in Jamshedpur. For many years, its chairman and managing director was another Parsi, Russi Mody.

  The son of a governor of West Bengal, Mody was educated at Oxford and became a legend in his own lifetime for the way he ran TISCO. He was gregarious and outgoing, n
oted for his sharp wit and personal charm, skills he put to good use in negotiating with union leaders and governments alike. He was highly popular in Calcutta, evidenced by the number of people, including many former employees, who would shower him with gifts and garlands each year on his birthday. It was hardly surprising that Sir James and he were known to each other, and in some ways they possessed similar qualities. To have Russi Mody’s support for the exposition would be a sizable feather in our Indian cap. When he agreed to meet Sir James, our Calcutta staff were thrilled. When he invited Sir James and his associates to lunch at his home, we were beside ourselves. When I was asked to accompany Sean and Sir James, I felt I had stepped out of reality into a movie.

  Russi Mody owned three homes—one in London, one in Darjeeling in the foothills of the Himalayas, and a penthouse apartment atop the TISCO building in Calcutta overlooking the spacious maidan.Whereas the Birla residence stretched out, Mody’s went up. As we ascended in the elevator, escaping the squalor and mayhem of street level, I imagined I was shedding part of myself and acquiring a new persona. I felt uneasy and out of place, and glad to have Sean for support. I decided my best strategy was to lie low and let Sir James follow his well-oiled routine.

  When the elevator could go no further, we stepped out into the air-conditioned lobby and Sean rang the bell. Seconds ticked away. I moved my weight from one foot to the other. The door burst open to reveal a squat little man with a protruding waistline.

  ‘Jim, old boy, how wonderful to see you after all these years!’ exclaimed an exuberant Mody, extending his hand to welcome his guest.

  Sir James reciprocated and after a suitable pause, introduced Sean and myself. As the two of them became reacquainted, I cast my eyes around the room. Much like the Birla mansion, the walls were covered with paintings, while art objects adorned the dustless cabinets and polished sideboards. But what captivated me more than anything else was a shining, black grand piano in the corner of the room. I knew Mody had many talents but I didn’t know that piano playing was one of them. During a brief lull in the conversation, I asked him, ‘That’s a very fine Steinway grand you have there Mr. Mody. What kind of music do you play?’

  ‘Quite a variety, actually. Some popular, some classical. You know, when I was a young student at Oxford, I accompanied Einstein on the piano while he played his violin. It was a lot of fun.’

  How do you respond to a statement like that? Oh really, what did you play? Whose idea was it that you play together? How would you rate Einstein’s musical talent? Every thought that flitted through my brain I banished instantly. I decided to sit out the rest of the meeting in silence. Sir James promptly picked up the ball and kept it bouncing, enumerating the names of other chums of his who had trod the hallowed halls of Oxford and who may have been contemporaries of Mody.

  At another such meeting due to Sir James’ influence and involvement, I found myself sitting across the desk and chatting with a future prime minister of India. Dr. Manmohan Singh was a man of humble beginnings, born in what is now Pakistan. He walked to school barefoot and studied under a street lamp because his house had no electricity. He went on to earn impressive degrees at Oxford and Cambridge before returning to India to take up academic posts and become a distinguished civil servant. One of the many prominent positions he held before becoming prime minister was that of Governor of the Reserve Bank of India. During this time, Sir James visited Bombay and while he was there we secured an appointment with his former acquaintance.

  At first glance, the notion of visiting a government banking official didn’t have the glitter and pizzazz that accompanied meetings with leading members of India’s private sector, but it was an assignment I gladly accepted. Ensconced in the back of his chauffeur-driven Ambassador, Sir James and I made our way to the Reserve Bank building that soared high above the city’s financial district. When our car dropped us at the building’s entrance, one of Dr. Singh’s aides met us and whisked us to the Governor’s office on the top floor. Within minutes, we were ushered through teak-paneled doors into the inner sanctum of the nation’s highest financial officer.

  A middle-aged, genteel looking man dressed in a light grey Nehru suit stood up from behind his desk and walked towards us. Wearing a tightly wound blue turban and sporting a whitish beard, he gave the impression of someone who attended to detail with great finesse. But it was his eyes that struck me most. Framed by a pair of large-rimmed glasses, they contained a strange mixture of intelligent perception and calming warmth. I sensed I was in the presence of a man of considerable strength and vision but with a compassionate nature. As we sipped our tea and nibbled on cream biscuits, Sir James described the exposition and the Institute’s role as organizing sponsor. He concluded his presentation with a request to his host to become a member of the exposition’s Global Advisory Board. While this role required little more than allowing one’s name to appear on promotional material, it was critical for gaining endorsement for the exposition. I was elated when Dr. Singh consented.

  * * *

  My encounters with Sir James didn’t end in India. Several years later, we met in Brussels at the Institute’s international headquarters, where I was then posted. Sir James was visiting and had a spare evening, so I asked if he would join me for dinner at a neighborhood restaurant. He welcomed the invitation and told me to come to his room at an agreed time. When I did, I found him in his underwear doing push-ups in the narrow space between bed and wall. He asked me to take a seat while he completed his regime, then proceeded to dress and polish his dark brown shoes with great zeal. When he finished, he turned to me and said, ‘I don’t suppose you could use this, could you?’ Never one to turn down a gift, I gladly accepted his plastic, throw-away shoe polishing kit. I still have it, as a curious memento of many wonderful moments spent with Sir James.

  We walked around the corner into Place St. Josse, where I suggested going to one of my favorite Italian restaurants. As we munched on lasagna and downed a glass of Chianti, we reminisced about India and the Institute. I kept looking for the opportune moment to steer the conversation in the direction I wanted it to go. Something told me that Sir James wouldn’t give a fig about my sexual orientation, but because of my respect and fondness for the man I wished to share this news with him. I had learned from accompanying him in India that he never said no to dessert, so when I tempted him with a tiramisu, he jumped at the offer. I couldn’t put it off any longer. I put my down my fork and cleared my throat.

  ‘Sir James, there’s something I’ve been meaning to mention to you for some time now. About myself, I mean. I don’t know whether you’ve heard via the grapevine or guessed perhaps, but I’m gay. A late bloomer, too. It took India to help me come to terms with this part of myself.’

  He didn’t blink an eyelid but picked up his napkin and wiped some crumbs from his mouth.

  ‘I didn’t know that, but thank you for telling me,’ he said reassuringly. ‘I have a brother in Sydney who is homosexual. He’s in the theater and a damn fine actor too.’

  He pronounced ‘homosexual’ in the traditional British way with the first ‘o’ as in ‘hot.’ I asked him about his brother and he asked me about my experiences in India. I spoke frankly and he listened patiently, only occasionally butting in to ask a question.

  ‘It sounds that you have rather catholic tastes, catholic with a small “c” that is.’

  ‘That’s a pretty accurate description,’ I said, ‘although since India it’s been hard to extend my catholicism farther afield.’

  He acknowledged my comment with a gleam in his eye. It was easy to imagine that his 32 years in India must have cast a similar spell over him, as my six years had on me, even though we were polar opposites in our sexual tastes. I was surprised at how easy it had been to share this part of my life with Sir James. It made me wonder what it would have been like to do the same with my father, had he been alive. Although I always considered my dad as a kind and thoughtful man, I doubt he had had the breadth of expe
rience and exposure to the world that would have allowed him to accept my news with the same equanimity as Sir James. I would never know. But I was certain my mother would have considerably more difficulty coming to terms with it. Breaking the news to her called for careful planning on my part. A major step in this direction involved getting her to visit me in India, a scheme in which Sir James and his wife would play a critical role.

  A TURN OF EVENTS

  In Hindu mythology, the elephant-headed god Ganesh is known for many things, but mostly as the remover of obstacles.

  A benevolent being, he is also worshipped as the harbinger of prosperity, well-being and wisdom. In Western India in particular, he has a strong and loyal following. Bombayites pour their passion into creating idols of their favorite deity, some so tiny they can be held in the palm of your hand, others so massive they have to be carried on the back of a truck. Months before the celebration known as Ganesh Chaturthi, artisans labor long into the night to perfect their creations. After 10 days of performing pujas to the pot-bellied god on family altars, devotees carry their beloved idols down every artery and vein of this labyrinthine city to the Arabian Sea for a farewell immersion. Crowds whip themselves into a frenzy with devotional singing and wild dancing to pulsating drumbeats and rattling tambourines.

  I would usually try to avoid the parade route, but this year I wasn’t so lucky. I had gone to visit a friend and on my way back became caught up in the procession. To add to the celebratory chaos in the streets, a storm had blown in off the Indian Ocean and deluged the city. In other parts of the world, such a torrential downpour may have dampened spirits, but not Bombay. If anything, it only buoyed the crowd into an even giddier mood. In an effort to escape the onslaught, I joined dozens of others who had taken shelter under a bus stand. Overflowing drains spewed foul water into the street, while a nearby billboard was ripped apart by blustering winds. The singers kept singing, the dancers kept dancing, and the parade went on, as if oblivious to the fury of the elements.