The Indo-British encounter was abortive; it ended in a double fantasy. Their new self-awareness makes it impossible for Indians to go back; their cherishing of Indianness makes it difficult for them to go ahead. It is possible to find the India that appears not to have changed since Mogul times but has, profoundly; it is possible to find the India whose mimicry of the West is convincing until, sometimes with dismay, sometimes with impatience, one realizes that complete communication is not possible, that a gift of vision cannot be shared, that there still survive inaccessible areas of Indian retreat. Both the negative and the positive principles have been diluted; one balances the other. The penetration was not complete; the attempt at conversion was abandoned. India’s strength, her ability to endure, came from the negative principle, her unexamined sense of continuity. It is a principle which, once diluted, loses its virtue. In the concept of Indianness the sense of continuity was bound to be lost. The creative urge failed. Instead of continuity we have the static. It is there in the ‘ancient culture’ architecture; it is there in the much bewailed loss of drive, which is psychological more than political and economic. It is there in the political gossip of Bunty. It is there in the dead horses and immobile chariot of the Kurukshetra temple. Shiva has ceased to dance.
*If I had read Camus’s The Rebel before writing this chapter, I might have used his terminology. Where Camus might have said ‘capable of rebellion’ I have said ‘positive’ and ‘capable of self-assessment’; and it is interesting that Camus gives, as examples of people incapable of rebellion, the Hindus and the Incas. ‘The problem of rebellion … has no meaning except within our Western society.… Thanks to the theory of political freedom, there is, in the very heart of our society, an increasing awareness in man of the idea of man and, thanks to the application of this theory of freedom, a corresponding dissatisfaction.… What is at stake is humanity’s gradually increasing self-awareness as it pursues its course. In fact, for the Inca and the [Hindu] pariah the problem never arises, because for them it had been solved by a tradition, even before they had had time to raise it – the answer being that tradition is sacred. If in a world where things are held sacred the problem of rebellion does not arise, it is because no real problems are to be found in such a world, all the answers having been given simultaneously. Metaphysic is replaced by myth. There are no more questions, only eternal answers and commentaries, which may be metaphysical.’ (Translated by Anthony Bower.)
*‘It is possible to separate the literature of consent, which coincides, by and large, with ancient history and the classical period, from the literature of rebellion, which begins in modern times. We note the scarcity of fiction in the former. When it exists, with very few exceptions, it is not concerned with a story but with fantasy.… These are fairy tales, not novels. In the latter period, on the contrary, the novel form is really developed – a form that has not ceased to thrive and extend its field of activity up to the present day.… The novel is born at the same time as the spirit of rebellion and expresses, on the aestheticplane, the same ambition.’ Camus: The Rebel.
9. The Garland on my Pillow
‘I AM SURE you will never guess what my duties are.’
He was middle-aged, thin, sharp-featured, with spectacles. His eyes were running and there was a drop of moisture on the tip of his nose. It was a winter’s morning and our second-class railway compartment was unheated.
‘I will give you a little assistance. I work for the Railways. This is my pass. Have you ever seen one?’
‘You are a ticket inspector!’
A smile revealed his missing teeth. ‘No, no, my dear sir. They wear a uniform.’
‘You are from the Police.’
His smile cracked into a wet laugh. ‘I see that you will never guess. Well, I will tell you. I am an Inspector of Forms and Stationery, Northern Railway.’
‘Forms and Stationery!’
‘Indeed. I travel about, night and day, winter and summer, from railway station to railway station, inspecting forms and stationery.’
‘But how did this begin, Mr Inspector?’
‘Why do you ask, sir? My life has been a failure.’
‘Please don’t say that, Mr Inspector.’
‘I might have done so much better, sir. You have no doubt observed my English. My teacher was Mr Harding. I was a Bachelor of Arts, you know. When I joined the Service I expected to go far. I was put in Stores. In those days I would take down bundles of forms and stationery from the shelves and hand them to the porter. This was, of course, after the indents had been approved.’
‘Of course.’
‘From Stores to the office: it was a slow business. Steady. But slow. Somehow I managed. I have remained in Forms and Stationery all my life. I have kept my family. I have given the boys an education. I have married my daughter. One son is in the army and the other is in the air force, an officer.’
‘But, Mr Inspector, this is a success story.’
‘O sir, do not mock me. It has been a wasted life.’
‘Tell me more about your job, Mr Inspector.’
‘Secrets, you are after my secrets. Well, I will explain. Let me show you, first of all, an indent.’
‘It’s like a little book, Mr Inspector. Sixteen pages.’
‘It goes to the head of a stationmaster sometimes. Once a year these indents are sent out to our stationmasters. They prepare their indents and submit three copies. What you see now, by the way, is an elementary type of indent. There are others.’
‘And when the indents are submitted—’
‘Then they come to me, you see. And I pay my little visits. I get off at the station like any other passenger. It sometimes happens that I am insulted by the very stationmaster whose indents I have come to prune. Then I declare myself.’
‘You are a wicked man, Mr Inspector.’
‘Do you think so, sir? An Inspector of Forms and Stationery gets to know his stationmasters. They show themselves in their indents. You get to recognize them. This might interest you. It was yesterday’s work.’
The indent, filled in in black, was heavily annotated in red.
‘Turn to page twelve. Do you see? A hundred notepads were what he required.’
‘Goodness! You’ve only given him two.’
‘He has six children, all of school age. Ninety-eight of those pads were for those six children. An Inspector of Forms and Stationery gets to know these things. Well, here we are. I shall get off here. I believe I am going to enjoy myself today. I wish I had the time to show you what he has indented for.’
*
‘I met one of your Inspectors of Forms and Stationery the other day.’
‘You met what?’
‘One of your Inspectors of Forms and Stationery.’
‘There are no such people.’
‘I didn’t dream this man up. He had his indents and everything.’
It was a good word to use.
‘It just goes to show. You can work for the Railways for years and not know a thing about it. Me, I’m exhausted by presidential tours. Our former president didn’t like travelling by air. Do you know what a presidential tour means for the railway administrator? Altering time-tables. Re-routing. Going over the track inch by inch. For twenty-four hours before having men walking up and down within hailing distance of each other. And then going yourself on a decoy run a quarter of an hour ahead of the president’s train. So that you get blown up first.’
*
‘But where in this terrible town of yours can we have coffee?’
‘The railway station is the centre of civilization in these parts. And the coffee isn’t bad.’
‘We’ll go there.’
‘Sir?’
‘Two coffees.’
‘No coffee.’
‘Oh. Well, bring a pot of tea for two. And bring the Complaints Book.’
‘Sir?’
‘Complaints Book.’
‘Let me talk to the manager, sir.’
‘No
, no. You just bring a pot of tea and the Book.’
‘I am sorry about this. But we don’t do the catering here. That’s in the hand of a local contractor. We give him coffee and tea of a certain quality. He just sells it to somebody else. We can’t do anything about it. Our contractor knows a minister. It’s the Indian story. But look. Our friend is coming back.’
‘Is he bringing the Complaints Book?’
‘No. He’s bringing two cups of coffee.’
*
Indian Railways! They are part of the memory of every traveller, in the north, east, west or south. Yet few have written of the romance of this stupendous organization which makes the Indian distances shrink and which, out of an immense assurance, proclaims in a faded notice in every railway station: Trains running late are likely to make up lost time. And the trains usually do. But does the romance exist? A service so complex and fine deserves a richer country, with shining cities organized for adventure. But it is only distance, or the knowledge of distance, that gives romance to the place-names on the yellow boards of Indian coaches. The locomotive will consume distance and will seem to convert it into waste. And it will do so with a speed that will presently appear as pointless as the poor, repetitive vastness of the pigmy land which, supine below a high sky, will abruptly at railway stations burst into shrill life, as though all energy had been spared for this spot and this moment: the shouts of stunted, sweating porters, over-eager in red turbans and tunics, the cries of tea-vendors with their urns and clay cups (the cups to be broken after use), the cries of pan-vendors and the vendors of fried or curried messes (the leaf-plates, pinned together by thin dried twigs, to be thrown afterwards on to the platform or on the tracks, where the pariah dogs, fierce only with their fellows, will fight over them – and one defeated dog will howl and howl), the whole scene – yet animated only in the foreground, for these stations are havens as well as social centres, and the smooth, cool concrete platforms are places where the futile can sleep – the whole scene ceilinged by low fans which spin in empty frenzy. The sun will rise and set, and the racing train, caught in the golden light of dawn or dusk, will throw a perfect elongated shadow from the tops of the coaches to the very rails; and distance will still not have been consumed. The land has become distance. Will the metal not ignite? Will there be no release into a land which is fruitful, where the men grow straight? There is only another station, more shouting, the magenta coaches coated with hot dust, more prostrate bodies, more dogs, the fraudulent comfort of a shower in the first-class waiting-room and a meal poisoned by one’s own distress and cautiousness. And indeed people are less important to Indian Railways than freight; and less revenue comes from the first-class than from the third, the sub-standard for whom there is never enough room, even in their rudimentary coaches. The railway administrator, who knows this, can be forgiven if he fails to see the romance of his service or its brilliance. The Indian railways serve India. They operate punctually and ceaselessly because they must. They reveal more than that ‘real’ India which Indians believe can only be found in third-class carriages. They reveal India as futility and limitless pain, India as an idea. Their romance is an abstraction.
*
It was a third-class carriage, but not of the real India. It was air-conditioned and fitted out like an aeroplane, with rows of separate seats with high adjustable backs. Curtains were draped over the double windows; the aisle was carpeted. We were on one of the ‘prestige’ services of Indian Railways. These air-conditioned coaches run between the three major cities and New Delhi; for four pounds you can travel a thousand miles in comfort, at an average speed of thirty-five miles an hour.
We were travelling south, and among the South Indians, small, fine-featured, subdued at the beginning of the long journey, the Sikh was at once noticeable. He was very big; his gestures were large; he required much room. His beard was unusually thin, and his black turban, tight and low, looked like a beret: I had taken him at first for a European artist. In defiance of the many printed notices he swung his suitcase up on to the rack and wedged it into place. The action showed up his tight weightlifter’s body. Turning slightly, he took in the other occupants of the carriage, from a great height, and appeared to dismiss us; his loose lower lip curled downward. He was four or five rows ahead of me and all I could see when he sat down was the top of his turban. But he had made his effect. My eyes returned to that turban again and again, and before we had travelled an hour I felt his presence as an irritant. I feared – as so often on confined journeys I have feared – that my interest was inviting his own and making inevitable a contact I wished to avoid.
The Sikhs puzzled and attracted me. They were among the few whole men in India, and of all Indians they seemed closest in many ways to the Indians of Trinidad. They had a similar energy and restlessness, which caused a similar resentment. They were proud of their agricultural and mechanical skills, and they had the same passion for driving taxis and lorries. They too were accused of clannishness, while their internal politics were just as cantankerous. But the Sikhs were of India; beyond these similarities they were unreadable. The Sikh’s individuality appeared to be muffled by his beard and turban; his eyes were robbed of expression. His reputation in India did not make him easier to understand. There was his military tradition; his ferocity as soldier and policeman was known. Equally established, in spite of his adventurousness and obvious success, was his simpleness. The foolish Sikh is a figure of legend. The turban had something to do with it; it heated the Sikh’s uncut hair and softened his brain. That was what the stories said; and Sikh politics – consisting of temple plots, holy men, miraculous fasts, Wild West rivalries punctuated with gunshot on the Delhi-Chandigarh road – certainly seemed both comic and fierce. There was energy, no doubt. But perhaps it was too much for India: against the Indian background the Sikhs were always a little alarming.
There had been an accident to our train the week before, and we were attached to a substitute dining-car. There was no through way from our carriage. We came to a station and I got out to transfer to the dining-car. I was aware of the Sikh getting out after me and dawdling at a bookstall. In the dining-car I sat with my back to the entrance. South Indian languages, excessively vowelled, rattled about me. The South Indians were beginning to unwind; they were lapping up their liquidized foods. Food was a pleasure to their hands. Chewing, sighing with pleasure, they squelched curds and rice between their fingers. They squelched and squelched; then, in one swift circular action, as though they wished to take their food by surprise, they gathered some of the mixture into a ball, brought their dripping palms close to their mouths and – flick! – rice and curds were shot inside; and the squelching, chattering and sighing began again.
‘You don’t mind if I sit with you?’
It was the Sikh. He was carrying the Illustrated Weekly of India. His tight black turban, slightly askew, his tight shirt and tight belted trousers gave him the appearance of a pirate of children’s books. His English was fluent; it indicated a residence abroad. His mouth now seemed humorous; it curled, with amusement, I thought, as, squeezing himself between table and chair, he regarded the squelchers.
‘What do you think of the food?’ He gave a low, chest-heaving chuckle. ‘You come from London, don’t you?’
‘In a way.’
‘I can spot the accent. I heard you talking to the guard. You know Hampstead? You know Finchley Road? You know Fitzjohn’s Avenue?’
‘I know them. But I don’t know them very well.’
‘You know the Bambi Coffee House?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘But if you know Finchley Road you must know the Bambi. You remember that little fellow with tight trousers, turtle-neck sweater and a little beard?’ The chuckle came again.
‘I don’t remember him.’
‘You must remember him if you remember the Bambi. Little fellow. Whenever you went to the Bambi – whenever you went to any coffee-house in Finchley Road – he was always ther
e, jumping about.’
‘Did he operate the coffee machine?’
‘No, no. Nothing like that. I don’t think he used to do anything. He was just there. Little beard. Funny little fellow.’
‘You miss London?’
His eyes ranged over the squelchers. ‘Well, you just look.’
A woman in a sari, with blue tinted spectacles, and a baby on her knee, was lapping up sambar. She splayed out her fingers, pressed her palm flat on her plate, drew her fingers together, lifted her palm to her mouth and licked it dry.
The Sikh gave his deep mm-mm chuckle.
‘At last,’ he said, as the train moved off. ‘I didn’t want any other Sikhs to come in. Have a fag.’
‘But Sikhs don’t smoke.’
‘This one does.’
The woman looked up from her sambar. The squelchers paused, looked at us and looked away quickly as if in horror.
‘Punks,’ the Sikh said. His expression changed. ‘You see how these monkeys stare at you?’ He leaned forward. ‘You know my trouble?’
‘Tell me.’
‘I’m colour-prejudiced.’
‘But how awkward for you.’
‘I know. It’s just one of those things.’
Enough had already occurred to warn me, but I was misled by my Trinidad training. ‘I’m colour-prejudiced.’ The abrupt statement was Trinidadian, and of a special sophistication: it was an invitation to semi-serious banter. I had responded, and he appeared to have taken me up neatly. I forgot that English was only his second language; that few Indians dealt in irony; and that, for all his longing for Finchley Road and Fitzjohn’s Avenue, he was an Indian to whom the taboos of caste and sect were fundamental. His smoking was a flamboyant defiance, but it was guarded: he did not smoke in the presence of Sikhs. He wore the turban, beard and bracelet which his religion required; and I am sure he also wore the knife and the drawers. So the moment for declaration, and perhaps withdrawal, passed.