Indian Magic

by Balraj Khanna

  PRAISE

  Ravi Kumar Mehra comes to England from India for the dreadful winter of 1962 with an MA but has to work in an Indian restaurant. He is a wonderful creation and his adventures are as hilarious as they are fresh, yet always in the shadows. Khanna is holding up a mirror which reflects a declining England, a country on the wane, mired in its own history. The prose is spare and sparkles on the page as one might expect from a man included in the hundred top novelists of the 20th century. There is the energy of the subcontinent and the new India in this book and Khanna delivers all this with the wisdom of a Naipaul, the dexterity of Vikram Seth and the honesty and observation of Zadie Smith.’ Paul Pickering

  ‘The young Mehra’s story reminds one of Tom Jones and Lucky Jim. Brilliant!’

  Reginald Massey

  ‘A thoroughly recommended read.’

  Jim Bidwell

  Indian Magic

  Balraj Khanna

  DEDICATION

  For Francine

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

  ARRIVAL

  LAND OF HOPE AND GLORY

  THE SWAMIS OF PIMLICO

  GURUS AND GOONDAS

  LOVE THY NEIGHBOURS

  ONE-WORD MANTRA

  COME DINE WITH ME

  THE SHAH OF THE TANDOOR

  THE BLACK HOLE OF KILBURN

  HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT

  DEPARTURE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

  The author would like to thank Joan Deitch and Jay Merrill for their invaluable help. Special thanks go to my family for sustaining me throughout the writing process.

  ARRIVAL

  The English Channel lay spread before me in rippling welcome – an endless corrugated sheet of blue-green, green-blue. I had had enough of the sea from Bombay to Genoa. Not that I was ever seasick, I was just sick of the sea - two whole weeks of it.

  But what I beheld was not a sea. It was the English Channel, something special. Like most Indians, I loved all things English. I thought of this stretch of water as an extension of England - liquid England. I had to cross it wide awake. For I wanted see the white cliffs of Dover. A must, I had been told.

  ‘They stand out of the sea like the Taj Mahal.’

  I had taken it for granted that my ferry would be English. I should have been disappointed, had it been French. Boarding the Invicta in the cold breath of a foreign port gave me a warm feeling that in some way this was a homecoming. I overheard murmurs of relief among my co-travellers that the sea was calm. While they inspected the boat’s upper and lower decks, searching for somewhere to settle down for the crossing, I found myself a sofa by a porthole. Dog-tired from sitting up sleepless all night in the cramped train, I succumbed to its voluptuous softness and just passed out. I had to be tapped on the shoulder and woken up while we were docking at Dover on my first day on these fabled shores, the last Saturday of November 1962. I kicked myself - I had missed seeing the famous cliffs.

  Sleep still filled my limbs as I passed through Immigration. With a smile, a kindly gentleman stamped my Employment Voucher issued by the British Consulate in Delhi. I was to present it to an office in London first thing on Monday to get the all-important Work Permit. Then it was the Customs Hall at Dover station and finally, the London train.

  For some reason, people were rushing to the front carriages. Resisting the herd instinct, I stayed behind and got into a small empty compartment. Soon, a smart-looking guard turned up.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, studying me and punching my ticket.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said again and moved away.

  Once the train started, I spread myself out on the long seat and simply gave in to what my body craved - sleep. I awoke at wayside stations Ashford, Maidstone and Bromley, and noticed that hardly anyone got off. We eventually arrived at a station called Victoria. Here there was a mass exodus from the train. I sat up, wide awake now, but stayed put. The train also stayed put. Several minutes later, the same smart guard turned up.

  ‘What are you waiting for, mate?’

  ‘For the train to start.’ What a silly question.

  ‘Where are you going to?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘This is bloody London.’

  My cheeks colouring, I quit the train in the indecent haste of a traveller desperate not to miss his next connection. It was four thirty in the afternoon and beginning to get dark already. I had arrived.

  LAND OF HOPE AND GLORY

  The lights of London went to my head. Its sights and sounds bowled me over.

  ‘I am in London!’ I said to myself.

  ‘Am I really there?’ I asked myself.

  I bit my hand for the answer and walked and walked in the magic avenues of my brave new world. With my suitcase in Left Luggage at Victoria station and a bag slung across my shoulder, I could walk till my legs gave out. And sleep just anywhere. That was exactly what I did when my legs gave out - on a bench at Platform One in Victoria station.

  I slept like a log. Next morning, I sat up with hungry eyes. My God, how clean and noiseless it all was, so unlike Delhi, the only superstation I knew back home. Here, hundreds of people rushed around urgently, criss-crossing each other like ants. Trains glided in gracefully, disgorging multitudes in a great hurry, then slipped out silently once more, whisking away great crowds. Unlike Delhi, no hysterics accompanied either event. No hawkers bawled their lungs out at deaf travellers. Nor did any notices warn the equivalent of: Bombay Express – Delayed 18 hours, or Calcutta Mail – Late 24 Hrs. I had the joy of seeing the face of the most utopian form of capitalism – an unattended newspaper stall doing roaring business for its absent owner. I watched a uniformed African snake-charmer charm an anaconda of fifty little trolleys into loops and bends of astonishing grace and suppleness. I saw a beautiful young woman alight from a Brighton Belle and walk straight into the arms of a beautiful young man, and the two lock together in an embarrassingly passionate embrace - in public.

  For just a penny with the head of King George V, I conducted my morning do’s in the station’s big loo in its basement. There was quite a community of us in the Gents - men shaving and washing in a cocktail of lavatorial smells stirred with that of human sweat. I spruced myself up in the mirror to look my best to present myself to London, and only twenty-four hours to kill before I got my Work Permit.

  ‘We are looking good,’ I heard someone say from behind me and saw in the mirror the smiling face of a kind-looking gentleman in a felt hat. I didn’t know what to say. I returned the smile and looked back. A queue had formed behind me for the sink I had monopolised. I felt nervous and confused – mine was the only brown mug in the crowd. I stepped back and came face to face with the man in the hat.

  ‘Just arrived from India?’

  ‘Yes.’ How did he know? I asked.

  ‘You people have something, what shall I say now? A certain innocence. It’s fresh and appealing.’

  This seemed a good start to my first day on English soil. I thanked him on behalf of all my countrymen and made my way to the stairs leading to the Way Out sign. Last night I had done some market research and discovered that cafés outside the station were cheaper by far than those inside. I went to one where I could eat a small meal for half a crown and a reasonable one for a shilling more. I had left home with five pounds only, all we were allowed to take out of India in hard currency late in the autumn that year. The country had been fighting a losing war with China. It needed every dollar or pound it could lay its hands on to buy guns from the West.

  More than two of my precious pounds had already been blown on the Italian boat from Bombay to Ge
noa. Five shillings, a quarter of another, was consumed by the Genoa-Calais train-ride for the purchase of two, foot-long French sandwiches. Added to that was the cost of last night’s ‘dinner’. I had to be more than careful how I spent what I was left with and make it last till I found a job. On my way to the cafe ́, I bought The Times, Guardian and the Telegraph.

  ‘Wrong papers if you are looking for work.’ The man in the felt hat was standing behind me at the cafés counter. ‘Get the Evening Standard tomorrow morning. It comes out at eleven. Tea’s on me.’

  I said no thank you very much and paid for my cup and two buns. But we sat at the same table. He was forty-something and seemed very knowledgeable. First we talked about the just-over Cuban Crisis and President Kennedy’s bold handling of it. Then we moved on to something much closer to my heart – the Chinese invasion of India and the sudden ceasefire declared by them only a few days ago. It flattered me greatly to know how interested he was, an Englishman, in my country.

  ‘Bullies, that’s what they are, the Chinese. Big bullies. Never liked Mao Tse Tung and Chou En Lai anyway. Your poor Mr Nehru - stabbed in the back for trusting them.’

  We had a second cup together. He insisted on paying for this one.

  ‘Loved Gandy, you know. Great man. I remember crying when he was shot. We were devastated here. But you are too young to remember that.’

  I was seven and a half when Mahatma Gandhi was shot on 30th January 1948. But, like everyone else, I remembered where I was and doing what when the news had come – playing cricket with a tennis ball at Anandale Racecourse in Simla, my hometown in the hills.

  ‘Let me introduce myself,’ said my new friend. ‘I’m Henry Baines. B.A.I.N.E.S.’

  ‘Raavi Kumar Mehra. M.E.H.R.A.’

  ‘Cold?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Must be – it’s almost December. Homesick?’

  ‘No.’ I was too excited to feel anything other than excitement itself at being in the city of my dreams.

  ‘You seem well-educated. Well-brought up too.’

  Mr Baines was very polite. I answered all his questions about myself.

  He summarised, ‘You come from a good family. You are well-mannered, well-educated too. And you’ve come here to work and save up enough to go to an English university. But you have only two pounds and two shillings left.’ Mr Baines said that with a note of friendly concern in his voice. I was touched.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You need a job, my young friend. Don’t you?’

  ‘Badly.’

  ‘Maybe I can help.’

  ‘Oh, really? How?’ What luck!

  ‘Let’s see now. Ever thought of working in films?’ Films? I’d do anything to work in films.

  ‘Frankly, no. But anything will do for the moment. Just anything. But why do you ask?’

  ‘A friend of mine makes films. Maybe …’

  ‘What kind of films? Features? Documentaries?’

  ‘Films of a personal nature. You don’t mind that, do you?’

  ‘Not at all. But I have never acted before.’

  ‘Not to worry. You are - what shall I say now? - a natural. Handsome and strong. You’ll be perfect.’

  Had I heard him right? I knew I was good-looking and lucky. But this - getting a film role on my very first day in England - was something else. I felt the hand of God in it and I saw Introducing Raavi Kumar Mehra flash across the silver screen. The method of recruitment seemed a bit unusual, but I had heard stories galore of directors and producers picking up their stars from heaps of dirt, as it were - from crowded bazaars, temple throngs, railway platforms.

  ‘What role would I have to play?’

  ‘Nothing which you simply wouldn’t love.’

  ‘I suppose your friend would want to audition me.’

  ‘I’ll do the auditioning, if that is all right by you?’

  ‘Perfectly all right.’

  ‘I’ll give you a blow job. You’d like that.’

  ‘What is a blow job, Mr Baines?’

  ‘Henry to you, my young Indian friend. Henry. And you don’t know what a blow job is? Wonderful. It will be my pleasure to train you for the camera. Let’s make a date then. How about this evening?’

  ‘Perfect. But,’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘But I haven’t got my Work Permit yet.’ Mr Baines half laughed. ‘Don’t worry about that. No one need know.’

  ‘And …?’

  ‘Ah, money! What shall I say now? Five pounds for the auditioning? More will follow. A lot more if all goes well. And it will.’

  Five pounds, all that the Reserve Bank of India could afford to give me, just for a few minutes’ work?

  ‘And it will,’ I repeated, giving my hand for a shake. Mr Baines gripped it like Akhil and Sheel, my bum chums back home, and held it in his for a good ten seconds. Then he wrote out his address at the top of The Times’ faceless front page. It was in a place called Soho.

  ‘Seven o’clock sharp.’

  ‘Seven o’clock sharp, Mr Baines.’

  ‘Henry, for God’s sake. Come at seven and shine like the Star of India, all of you. If things work out, we might even have somewhere for you to live, too.’

  I spent the morning writing aerogrammes to my bum chums, proudly announcing that I had landed a job in the British Film Industry - a blow job. I decided to defer writing to my parents about it till I had signed the contract and all. I treated myself to a good lunch in an Italian restaurant (I couldn’t find an Indian one) - I was going to be rich in the evening with a future on the magic silver screen.

  The rest of the day I simply floated up and down the perfumed streets of London, convinced that every beautiful girl who looked me in the eye had fallen in love with me.

  The short-lived English winter afternoon abruptly melted into evening; at five it was almost night and the smudgy yellow streetlights were happily saying – only two hours to go. Only two. It was then that I made another friend. This chap was a young Indian like me, one of the very few Indians I had seen since last night; there were hardly any around those days. He had rushed out of a shop with pictures of horses and dogs in its windows as if he was being chased by hounds. Being in the hurry he was, he slipped on some wet leaves and fell flat on his backside. He picked himself up, dusted himself down and hurried on. In the process, he dropped something - his wallet.

  ‘I say, you’ve dropped something,’ I yelled. But the fellow didn’t hear me, even though he was only ten yards in front. I picked up his wallet and stole a look in it - I couldn’t resist. Money! Shut up, RKM. Put the thing in your pocket and walk in the opposite direction. But RKM could not shut up. ‘I say,’ I bellowed. ‘You’ve dropped your wallet.’ The fool still did not hear me. He was in some hurry. I had to sprint up to him. ‘Sir, be this yours?’

  ‘My dear boy.’ He snatched his wallet from my hand and embraced me Punjabi-style - like a lover. He was a couple of years older than me and good-looking. ‘My dear boy. You are a gem. Or a fool. Obviously you’ve just landed. What’s your good name? Mine is Bishamber Shukla. Call me Bish. Or Shuk.’

  I introduced myself and he hugged me again. Then he thumped me on the shoulder, as if he was angry with me.

  ‘Any other son of a bitch would have kept it. There’s lolly in here. The bookies’ lolly.’ I didn’t know what or who the bookies were. I asked and he thumped me again and said, ‘Obviously you’ve just arrived. Obviously. When?’

  ‘Last evening.’

  ‘I’m buying you a drink. Damn. Not five thirty yet. These bloody laws. So let’s have a coffee instead. I’m meeting this dame Ingrid, my girl, at eight. Boy, is she something!’

  By five thirty over coffee I had my new friend’s biography. Bish had a BA degree from an Indian university which was about as good as the paper it was written on. He lived for cricket, loved cooking and was karate mad. He worked for an insurance company in Victoria Street, earning eighteen pounds clear a week, and was saving up to go to
an English university for ‘a real degree’. And one more thing - women loved him.

  ‘What are you doing this evening? You are eating with us.’ It was an order, not an invitation. ‘Ingi is so …’ Bish used his hands to describe her shape.

  ‘I can’t. I’m being auditioned.’

  ‘On your very first day? What kind of film, what role?’

  ‘I’m being given a blow job.’

  ‘Oh, really? You know what it means?’

  ‘No, but I don’t care. A job is a job.’

  Bish at first smiled. Then he punched me on both my shoulders and laughed like an idiot. ‘Wait till Ingi hears about it. Oh, boy. Oh, boy.’ Arm in arm, we walked out of the cafe ́.

  ‘You are eating with us - understood? I’ll spend the night with Ingi so you can sleep in my room. And tomorrow we’ll find you somewhere to live. But first.’

  He had to see someone in Harrow Road. We took a bus and I saw London unfolding itself, dreamlike. In Harrow Road, Bish brought me to a scruffy-looking building - The Duke of York public house.

  I had made three unbreakable promises with my mother before leaving Simla. One of them was that I would not drink or frequent houses of disrepute, like pubs where alcohol was consumed.

  ‘Bish, I’ll wait outside. You go in and see your friend.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t,’ Bish muttered. Whether he could or not, I was not going in there.

  ‘It’s bitterly cold. Your balls will freeze, Brando boy.’

  ‘That’s okay, Bish. Honest. I’ll wait here.’

  ‘If that’s what you want - two frozen peas. I’ll be in for as long as it takes to kill a pint.’

  As Bish went in the pub, I drifted along the street. I stopped at a cigarette shop to look at local ads. People only wanted charladies or wanted to be charladies. Then I caught sight of something which gave me an electric shock - notices for rooms to let, saying, No Blacks. No Indians. No Irish. Stunned, I came reeling back to stand outside the pub, blowing into my bare hands and shifting my weight from foot to foot. Bish must have decided to kill two or three pints. Feeling that his prediction was on the verge of coming true, I nearly broke my promise to my mother. A policeman passed. He would have walked on had I not stared at him awkwardly, feeling guilty for no reason - maybe because the message of the shop window was still working on me. Staring at the man was a mistake. He stopped and said something which I did not understand, for he spoke some kind of sub-English. But I guessed.