A Passage to India

by E. M. Forster

  “I shall not forget those affectionate words,” replied Aziz.

  “Add mine to them,” said the engineer.

  “Thank you, Mr. Syed Mohammed, I will.”

  “And mine,” “And, sir, accept mine,” cried the others, stirred each according to his capacity towards goodwill. Little ineffectual unquenchable flames! The company continued to sit on the bed and to chew sugar-cane, which Hassan had run for into the bazaar, and Aziz drank a cup of spiced milk. Presently there was the sound of another carriage. Dr. Panna Lal had arrived, driven by horrid Mr. Ram Chand. The atmosphere of a sick-room was at once reestablished, and the invalid retired under his quilt.

  “Gentlemen, you will excuse, I have come to enquire by Major Callendar’s orders,” said the Hindu, nervous of the den of fanatics into which his curiosity had called him.

  “Here he lies,” said Hamidullah, indicating the prostrate form.

  “Dr. Aziz, Dr. Aziz, I come to enquire.”

  Aziz presented an expressionless face to the thermometer.

  “Your hand also, please.” He took it, gazed at the flies on the ceiling, and finally announced, “Some temperature.”

  “I think not much,” said Ram Chand, desirous of fomenting trouble.

  “Some; he should remain in bed,” repeated Dr. Panna Lal, and shook the thermometer down, so that its altitude remained for ever unknown. He loathed his young colleague since the disasters with Dapple, and he would have liked to do him a bad turn and report to Major Callendar that he was shamming. But he might want a day in bed himself soon,—besides, though Major Callendar always believed the worst of natives, he never believed them when they carried tales about one another. Sympathy seemed the safer course. “How is stomach?” he enquired, “how head?” And catching sight of the empty cup, he recommended a milk diet.

  “This is a great relief to us, it is very good of you to call, Doctor Sahib,” said Hamidullah, buttering him up a bit.

  “It is only my duty.”

  “We know how busy you are.”

  “Yes, that is true.”

  “And how much illness there is in the city.”

  The doctor suspected a trap in this remark; if he admitted that there was or was not illness, either statement might be used against him. “There is always illness,” he replied, “and I am always busy—it is a doctor’s nature.”

  “He has not a minute, he is due double sharp at Government College now,” said Ram Chand.

  “You attend Professor Godbole there perhaps?”

  The doctor looked professional and was silent.

  “We hope his diarrhoea is ceasing.”

  “He progresses, but not from diarrhoea.”

  “We are in some anxiety over him—he and Dr. Aziz are great friends. If you could tell us the name of his complaint we should be grateful to you.”

  After a cautious pause he said, “Haemorrhoids.”

  “And so much, my dear Rafi, for your cholera,” hooted Aziz, unable to restrain himself.

  “Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?” cried the doctor, greatly fussed. “Who spreads such untrue reports about my patients?”

  Hamidullah pointed to the culprit.

  “I hear cholera, I hear bubonic plague, I hear every species of lie. Where will it end, I ask myself sometimes. This city is full of misstatements, and the originators of them ought to be discovered and punished authoritatively.”

  “Rafi, do you hear that? Now why do you stuff us up with all this humbug?”

  The schoolboy murmured that another boy had told him, also that the bad English grammar the Government obliged them to use often gave the wrong meaning for words, and so led scholars into mistakes.

  “That is no reason you should bring a charge against a doctor,” said Ram Chand.

  “Exactly, exactly,” agreed Hamidullah, anxious to avoid an unpleasantness. Quarrels spread so quickly and so far, and Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq looked cross, and ready to fly out. “You must apologize properly, Rafi, I can see your uncle wishes it,” he said. “You have not yet said that you are sorry for the trouble you have caused this gentleman by your carelessness.”

  “It is only a boy,” said Dr. Panna Lal, appeased.

  “Even boys must learn,” said Ram Chand.

  “Your own son failing to pass the lowest standard, I think,” said Syed Mohammed suddenly.

  “Oh, indeed? Oh yes, perhaps. He has not the advantage of a relative in the Prosperity Printing Press.”

  “Nor you the advantage of conducting their cases in the Courts any longer.”

  Their voices rose. They attacked one another with obscure allusions and had a silly quarrel. Hamidullah and the doctor tried to make peace between them. In the midst of the din someone said, “I say! Is he ill or isn’t he ill?” Mr. Fielding had entered unobserved. All rose to their feet, and Hassan, to do an Englishman honour, struck up with a sugar-cane at the coil of flies.

  Aziz said, “Sit down,” coldly. What a room! What a meeting! Squalor and ugly talk, the floor strewn with fragments of cane and nuts, and spotted with ink, the pictures crooked upon the dirty walls, no punkah! He hadn’t meant to live like this or among these third-rate people. And in his confusion he thought only of the insignificant Rafi, whom he had laughed at, and allowed to be teased. The boy must be sent away happy, or hospitality would have failed, along the whole line.

  “It is good of Mr. Fielding to condescend to visit our friend,” said the police inspector. “We are touched by this great kindness.”

  “Don’t talk to him like that, he doesn’t want it, and he doesn’t want three chairs; he’s not three Englishmen,” he flashed. “Rafi, come here. Sit down again. I’m delighted you could come with Mr. Hamidullah, my dear boy; it will help me to recover, seeing you.”

  “Forgive my mistakes,” said Rafi, to consolidate himself.

  “Well, are you ill, Aziz, or aren’t you?” Fielding repeated.

  “No doubt Major Callendar has told you that I am shamming.”

  “Well, are you?” The company laughed, friendly and pleased. “An Englishman at his best,” they thought; “so genial.”

  “Enquire from Dr. Panna Lal.”

  “You’re sure I don’t tire you by stopping?”

  “Why, no! There are six people present in my small room already. Please remain seated, if you will excuse the informality.” He turned away and continued to address Rafi, who was terrified at the arrival of his Principal, remembered that he had tried to spread slander about him, and yearned to get away.

  “He is ill and he is not ill,” said Hamidullah, offering a cigarette. “And I suppose that most of us are in that same case.”

  Fielding agreed; he and the pleasant sensitive barrister got on well. They were fairly intimate and beginning to trust each other.

  “The whole world looks to be dying, still it doesn’t die, so we must assume the existence of a beneficent Providence.”

  “Oh, that is true, how true!” said the policeman, thinking religion had been praised.

  “Does Mr. Fielding think it’s true?”

  “Think which true? The world isn’t dying. I’m certain of that!”

  “No, no—the existence of Providence.”

  “Well, I don’t believe in Providence.”

  “But how then can you believe in God?” asked Syed Mohammed.

  “I don’t believe in God.”

  A tiny movement as of “I told you so!” passed round the company, and Aziz looked up for an instant, scandalized. “Is it correct that most are atheists in England now?” Hamidullah enquired.

  “The educated thoughtful people? I should say so, though they don’t like the name. The truth is that the West doesn’t bother much over belief and disbelief in these days. Fifty years ago, or even when you and I were young, much more fuss was made.”

  “And does not morality also decline?”

  “It depends what you call—yes, yes, I suppose morality does decline.”

  “Excuse t
he question, but if this is the case, how is England justified in holding India?”

  There they were! Politics again. “It’s a question I can’t get my mind on to,” he replied. “I’m out here personally because I needed a job. I cannot tell you why England is here or whether she ought to be here. It’s beyond me.”

  “Well-qualified Indians also need jobs in the educational.”

  “I guess they do; I got in first,” said Fielding, smiling.

  “Then excuse me again—is it fair an Englishman should occupy one when Indians are available? Of course I mean nothing personally. Personally we are delighted you should be here, and we benefit greatly by this frank talk.”

  There is only one answer to a conversation of this type: “England holds India for her good.” Yet Fielding was disinclined to give it. The zeal for honesty had eaten him up. He said, “I’m delighted to be here too—that’s my answer, there’s my only excuse. I can’t tell you anything about fairness. It mayn’t have been fair I should have been born. I take up some other fellow’s air, don’t I, whenever I breathe? Still, I’m glad it’s happened, and I’m glad I’m out here. However big a badmash one is—if one’s happy in consequence, that is some justification.”

  The Indians were bewildered. The line of thought was not alien to them, but the words were too definite and bleak. Unless a sentence paid a few compliments to Justice and Morality in passing, its grammar wounded their ears and paralysed their minds. What they said and what they felt were (except in the case of affection) seldom the same. They had numerous mental conventions and when these were flouted they found it very difficult to function. Hamidullah bore up best. “And those Englishmen who are not delighted to be in India—have they no excuse?” he asked.

  “None. Chuck ‘em out.”

  “It may be difficult to separate them from the rest,” he laughed.

  “Worse than difficult, wrong,” said Mr. Ram Chand. “No Indian gentleman approves chucking out as a proper thing. Here we differ from those other nations. We are so spiritual.”

  “Oh, that is true, how true!” said the police inspector.

  “Is it true, Mr. Haq? I don’t consider us spiritual. We can’t co-ordinate, we can’t co-ordinate, it only comes to that. We can’t keep engagements, we can’t catch trains. What more than this is the so-called spirituality of India? You and I ought to be at the Committee of Notables, we’re not; our friend Dr. Lal ought to be with his patients, he isn’t. So we go on, and so we shall continue to go, I think, until the end of time.”

  “It is not the end of time, it is scarcely ten-thirty, ha, ha!” cried Dr. Panna Lal, who was again in confident mood. “Gentlemen, if I may be allowed to say a few words, what an interesting talk, also thankfulness and gratitude to Mr. Fielding in the first place teaches our sons and gives them all the great benefits of his experience and judgment——”

  “Dr. Lal!”

  “Dr. Aziz?”

  “You sit on my leg.”

  “I beg pardon, but some might say your leg kicks.”

  “Come along, we tire the invalid in either case,” said Fielding, and they filed out—four Mohammedans, two Hindus and the Englishman. They stood on the verandah while their conveyances were summoned out of various patches of shade.

  “Aziz has a high opinion of you, he only did not speak because of his illness.”

  “I quite understand,” said Fielding, who was rather disappointed with his call. The Club comment, “making himself cheap as usual,” passed through his mind. He couldn’t even get his horse brought up. He had liked Aziz so much at their first meeting, and had hoped for developments.

  Chapter 10

  THE heat had leapt forward in the last hour, the street was deserted as if a catastrophe had cleaned off humanity during the inconclusive talk. Opposite Aziz’ bungalow stood a large unfinished house belonging to two brothers, astrologers, and a squirrel hung head-downwards on it, pressing its belly against burning scaffolding and twitching a mangy tail. It seemed the only occupant of the house, and the squeals it gave were in tune with the infinite, no doubt, but not attractive except to other squirrels. More noises came from a dusty tree, where brown birds creaked and floundered about looking for insects; another bird, the invisible coppersmith, had started his “ponk ponk.” It matters so little to the majority of living beings what the minority, that calls itself human, desires or decides. Most of the inhabitants of India do not mind how India is governed. Nor are the lower animals of England concerned about England, but in the tropics the indifference is more prominent, the inarticulate world is closer at hand and readier to resume control as soon as men are tired. When the seven gentlemen who had held such various opinions inside the bungalow came out of it, they were aware of a common burden, a vague threat which they called “the bad weather coming.” They felt that they could not do their work, or would not be paid enough for doing it. The space between them and their carriages, instead of being empty, was clogged with a medium that pressed against their flesh, the carriage cushions scalded their trousers, their eyes pricked, domes of hot water accumulated under their head-gear and poured down their cheeks. Salaaming feebly, they dispersed for the interior of other bungalows, to recover their self-esteem and the qualities that distinguished them from each other.

  All over the city and over much of India the same retreat on the part of humanity was beginning, into cellars, up hills, under trees. April, herald of horrors, is at hand. The sun was returning to his kingdom with power but without beauty—that was the sinister feature. If only there had been beauty! His cruelty would have been tolerable then. Through excess of light, he failed to triumph, he also; in his yellowy-white overflow not only matter, but brightness itself lay drowned. He was not the unattainable friend, either of men or birds or other suns, he was not the eternal promise, the never-withdrawn suggestion that haunts our consciousness; he was merely a creature, like the rest, and so debarred from glory.

  Chapter 11

  ALTHOUGH the Indians had driven off, and Fielding could see his horse standing in a small shed in the corner of the compound, no one troubled to bring it to him. He started to get it himself, but was stopped by a call from the house. Aziz was sitting up in bed, looking dishevelled and sad. “Here’s your home,” he said sardonically. “Here’s the celebrated hospitality of the East. Look at the flies. Look at the chunam coming off the walls. Isn’t it jolly? Now I suppose you want to be off, having seen an Oriental interior.”

  “Anyhow, you want to rest.”

  “I can rest the whole day, thanks to worthy Dr. Lal. Major Callendar’s spy, I suppose you know, but this time it didn’t work. I am allowed to have a slight temperature.”

  “Callendar doesn’t trust anyone, English or Indian that’s his character, and I wish you weren’t under him; but you are, and that’s that.”

  “Before you go, for you are evidently in a great hurry, will you please unlock that drawer? Do you see a piece of brown paper at the top?”

  “Yes.”

  “Open it.”

  “Who is this?”

  “She was my wife. You are the first Englishman she has ever come before. Now put her photograph away.”

  He was astonished, as a traveller who suddenly sees, between the stones of the desert, flowers. The flowers have been there all the time, but suddenly he sees them. He tried to look at the photograph, but in itself it was just a woman in a sari, facing the world. He muttered, “Really, I don’t know why you pay me this great compliment, Aziz, but I do appreciate it.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing, she was not a highly educated woman or even beautiful, but put it away. You would have seen her, so why should you not see her photograph?”

  “You would have allowed me to see her?”

  “Why not? I believe in the purdah, but I should have told her you were my brother, and she would have seen you. Hamidullah saw her, and several others.”

  “Did she think they were your brothers?”

  “Of course not, but t
he word exists and is convenient. All men are my brothers, and as soon as one behaves as such he may see my wife.”

  “And when the whole world behaves as such, there will be no more purdah?”

  “It is because you can say and feel such a remark as that, that I show you the photograph,” said Aziz gravely. “It is beyond the power of most men. It is because you behave well while I behave badly that I show it you. I never expected you to come back just now when I called you. I thought, ‘He has certainly done with me; I have insulted him.’ Mr. Fielding, no one can ever realize how much kindness we Indians need, we do not even realize it ourselves. But we know when it has been given. We do not forget, though we may seem to. Kindness, more kindness, and even after that more kindness. I assure you it is the only hope.” His voice seemed to arise from a dream. Altering it, yet still deep below his normal surface, he said, “We can’t build up India except on what we feel. What is the use of all these reforms, and Conciliation Committees for Mohurram, and shall we cut the tazia short or shall we carry it another route, and Councils of Notables and official parties where the English sneer at our skins?”

  “It’s beginning at the wrong end, isn’t it? I know, but institutions and the governments don’t.” He looked again at the photograph. The lady faced the world at her husband’s wish and her own, but how bewildering she found it, the echoing contradictory world!

  “Put her away, she is of no importance, she is dead,” said Aziz gently. “I showed her to you because I have nothing else to show. You may look round the whole of my bungalow now, and empty everything. I have no other secrets, my three children live away with their grandmamma, and that is all.”