Turpitude

by Young

  I expressed vehemently, “Is Prince P making Paris his home, now that…” I saw Alain give me a subtle glance, and I trailed off, realizing that Narnia was in our midst.

  “Well, lad and lass, let’s get to some serious studies instead of idle speculations about your household patriarchs.” Our conversation came to an end.

  Over Lunch

  Zac and Andy were chatting animatedly when I found them after my tutorial. They were discussing the previous night’s accident when I suggested leaving the hotel for some authentic Indian food. Since Albert was in session with Dubois and the females were off doing their own thing, we ventured to a local eatery, a short walk from the Taj.

  Bombaim’s pungent smell wafted through the humidity as hordes of aimless pedestrians, street vendors, tooting motorcyclists, ladened bicyclists, graffiti tutus, colorful taxis and motorcars whisked by, ignoring all forms of traffic regulation. Not to mention, India’s sacred beasts of burden, the cows, were vying for space on single-lane roads. It was a madhouse on foot and wheels.

  As we wandered in search of an eatery, locals gawked at us as if we had descended from an alien planet. Obviously, the presence of three perfectly symmetrized foreign males walking among them was not a common occurrence. It was of little wonder to us that when Europeans first set foot on this Indian sub-continent, the natives thought them gods descended from heaven.

  An awkward gaucheness washed over the three of us when a group of vagrants gathered around with begging hands. Their pitiful faces and deformed bodies rattled the same emotional queasiness I had felt in the poverty-stricken Malayan fishing village. A feeling of helplessness sluiced through me, but Zac admonished, “Keep walking and don’t look them in the eye. If we dole out money to one, they’ll be upon us like hornets.”

  Andy seconded. “Young, I know we like to help, but Zac is correct. If we give to one, we won’t get out of this alive.” The two ushered me to keep pace with them when we spotted an air-conditioned roadside restaurant. As soon as we entered, the hobos left us alone. They knew the proprietor would boot them out if they entered.

  The moment we stepped in, all heads turned our direction. A young waiter, not much older than I, waved us to a table he had just wiped clean. In broken English, he uttered, “Order food – there.” He pointed to a long counter by the cashier where steaming local dishes sat invitingly for our selection. “What you want drink. Get food, pay, and I bring drink to table,” he said.

  The delectable smell of spicy Indian cooking wafted up my nostrils as we stood in line to select our pre-cooked meal. Everything on display looked mouth-wateringly delicious. I piled my plate to the brim when Andy declared, “Young, once again, your eyes are bigger than your stomach. How can you possibly eat all that?”

  “I can! Watch me devour every scrap,” I responded unapologetically. Both BBs shook their heads in horror.

  When the waiter came back with our beverages, Zac commented, “The restaurant’s owner should give the beggars outside something to eat.”

  “We give left-over food, outside back kitchen,” he chirped.

  “Why do they beg when they are fed by the restaurant?” Zac queried.

  “They want money. Give to ‘master’ of gang,” the waiter replied.

  We looked at the Indian, confused. He continued, “Gang ‘master’ beat them if no money to give him.”

  The three of us were astonished by this piece of information. “Don’t the law enforcement officers do anything about this problem?” Andy queried.

  The Indian gazed incomprehensibly at my chaperone when Andy re-stated. “Doesn’t the police arrest the ‘masters’?”

  The teenager looked around stealthily before muttering, “Police corrupt. Shop owner pay police to keep peace. Otherwise, beggars come in to ask money from customer. Not good business for shop.”

  Over lunch, both big brothers discussed corruption, not just in Bombay but in other major metropolises infested by repressionist governments.

  The Sadhu

  The moment we left the eatery, we were again mobbed by vagabonds. Seemingly out of thin air, a bedraggled holy man appeared in our midst. He commanded the rabble to halt when he came towards the foreigners. With traditional Hindu salutations, he greeted us before extending his bony hand to mine. I did not know what to do. But suddenly, an English speaking college student named Jayru came to offer assistance as our interpreter.

  The Sadhu closed his eyes, held my hand, and recited a Sanskrit incantation. The bystanders watched in anticipation, as if waiting for a street performance. When he finally vociferated in a chain of indecipherable Hindi sentences, I was perplexed by his divination.

  “Young man, I see many successes in your life,” Jayru expounded.

  “But, there is one thing you must be vigilant of: Your future tells me that you will lose the greatest love of your life, and you will regret the choice you made. This crucial decision will affect your career, relationships and health.”

  The sage’s augury rustled my chaperones, especially Andy, who glanced at me, disquieted by this piece of unwelcome information. This wasn’t the first time we had heard this prophecy, and it would not be the last.

  “You will suffer a major illness in your fifties. If you recover from this affliction, the years ahead will be filled with great wealth, good health and international professional recognition. Fame is at your feet, young man,” the ascetic resumed.

  “I am sent to forewarn you that a thundercloud is looming. It is up to you to take heed or spurn my admonition.”

  Without much ado, the sage clasped my hands to his and recited a blessing before disappearing to whence he came.

  Jayru advised Andy, Zac and me, “It is customary to give a donation to the Sadhu as a token of goodwill and appreciation for his words of wisdom.”

  But the holy sage had vanished by the time Andy had fumbled for some rupees from his wallet.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Lakshmi’s Abode

  “I always like to look on the optimistic side of life, but I am realistic enough to know that life’s duality is a complex matter.“

  Walt Disney

  Late 2012

  Andy’s Correspondence

  Young, India has a way of changing a worldview. It was everything I had expected, still unexpected. Although I had seen poverty, I had not witnessed impoverishment such as I saw in India. Much like you, I found it trying, to keep a jaunty demeanor in the company of our hosts, when the majority of India’s denizens suffer from malnourishment and poverty. It was difficult to refrain from extending a helping hand – but, I knew I could not reach out to one, without becoming vulnerable to all.

  I shed many a tear pondering over this universal question, asked by many, “Why is this happening, and how will it end for these destitute souls?” These are unanswerable questions to which only the Creator can reply.

  During times of uncertainty, I was grateful to have your teacher, Dubois, to provide me with his admirable insights. His work (on Zentology) had helped many find equilibrium and solace within their inner and outer worlds. After he received his doctorate, I read several of his books, which helped me during my tumultuous years in New Zealand.

  What transpired after our separation I have mentioned earlier – Tony, my ex-boyfriend, was not an easy person. His concept of love bordered on maniacal possession, not an easing into life’s rhythmic synergies, nor allowing rather than controlling. Maneuvering within his taxing negativity left me drained. Dubois’ books and meditation techniques helped me distance myself from this challenging situation, and after some time, I was left with little choice but to depart for Canada.

  Some years later, during a heart-to-heart chat, a friend of mine remarked that I have the propensity to disappear, when faced with hindrances. He advised me to face problems head-on, instead of avoiding confrontations and running away like a coward, much as I had with my dad, with you, and with Tony. This is a liability I’m learning to confront. And, it isn’t easy.r />
  Thanks to my sister, Aria, I was able to make peace with my father, before he passed. For years, I had resented the way he treated us, during our Christmas vacation at Vaduz. I couldn’t bring myself to forgive the insults he flung at us. Although my mother did her best to assuage the damage, I fled as quickly and as far as I could. I had refused to meet with my dad unless he apologized; he refused to budge.

  During his final days, Aria and Ari begged me to return home, to pay my respects. It was then and there that we made peace. Before he took his final breath, he apologized and asked my forgiveness. When he finally accepted me for who I am, an immense relief flooded me. I came to the realization that our time on earth is short, and if either one of us had been less difficult, our years of estrangement could have been resolved long before.

  Relief followed apprehension, for I knew he had died in peace; for this, I am eternally grateful.

  What about you? How did you get on with your father? When we parted ways, you had unresolved issues with him, as I did with mine. Now that the ball is in your court, send me your chronicles. ☺

  1968

  “Lakshmi’s Abode”

  Miram, in the form of the ‘Queen of Sheba,’ came to bring us to her production facility, some distance outside the city center. This fenced-in compound housed a large factory, plus a series of two-storied lodgings where her eighty or so employees lived with their respective families; each floor had its own communal showers and toilet facilities.

  Crying babies, children, parents and their grandparents lived within close proximity. Near the workers’ quarters was a barn, filled with chickens and other farm animals. Rice fields formed the periphery of the factory’s extensive grounds, which were managed by the workers’ families. In short, “Lakshmi’s Abode,” as the Queen referred to her manufacturing facility, was a self-reliant village.

  Meals were prepared within a large communal kitchen, attended to by the workers’ parents, grandparents and female relatives, within the commune. Workers’ schedules were highly regulated: the factory came alive at eight in the morning, six days a week; communal lunches were served between 1:00 and 2:00 pm daily; the work day finished at six in the evening; and Sunday was their day of rest.

  The machinists were between the ages of twenty and forty. Since food and lodging were part of their work package, their monthly income depended on the number of garments they produced. Each worker was allocated a monthly production quota. If they exceeded it, they were then paid per finished garment. This gave them the incentive to be productive and work faster, thus earning more than their regulated stipend.

  The Throne Room

  The Queen guided our entourage up a flight of stairs, through the main building, into an air-conditioned chamber.

  She announced proudly, “Welcome to my office.” An ornate teak desk, with a high back chair (her throne, I decided), sat opposite the carved doorway. A comfortable settee, located nearby, was where she entertained visiting dignitaries. Photographs of Nesrine, in her aunt’s creations, surrounded us on the walls. Behind the throne, hung a large portrait of Her Serene Highness.

  Partitioned off, in a corner, near an ornately sculpted peacock screen, sat Miram’s secretary and assistant, Anuja. The Queen had recruited her into the workforce when she was fourteen, as an embroidery apprentice. Now, she was twenty years of age. Even though English wasn’t her mother tongue, we could communicate sufficiently to understand each other.

  Our guided tour began, after some brief chitchat, over cups of tea and delicious Indian pastries, served by an elderly maid. The first destination was the embroidery and beading studio, followed by a visit to the print room and sample room. We finished with a factory inspection.

  The Embroidery and Beading Studio

  This compact chamber housed several full and part-time embroiderers and beaders, between the ages of twelve and nineteen. The skilled girls were busy working on intricate paisley-patterned embroidery, while others embellished colorful materials with beaded floral designs. I had never seen such skilled craftsmanship, or in this case, craftswomanship, before. I exclaimed, “This embroidery is exquisite!”

  Miram laughed at my naiveté. “Young man, these girls learned to embroider and bead when they were children, by watching the older girls and practicing assiduously, until they were proficient enough to join the professional team.”

  Mario, also awed by the level of workmanship, chirped, “How old are they when they start their apprenticeships?”

  “Most were taught by their mothers or grandmothers when they were seven or eight.”

  Andy asked, “Are they paid?”

  The ‘Queen’ thought this an inconsequential question.

  “Andy, do you think me a slave mistress?” she rejoined. “Of course they get paid. And I give them the opportunity to learn a skill. If they perform well, they are rewarded nicely. But if they don’t live up to the required standard, I transfer them to work in other sectors of the trade.”

  Coraline inquired, “Is there a cut-off age for such involute craft?”

  Miram hesitated before answering.

  “The prime years for this kind of complicated work are the teenage years,” she said. “When they reach their twenties, I transfer them to the sewing or fabric-printing divisions.”

  “Why?” I blurted out.

  The woman did not reply; instead, she changed the subject, rapidly.

  “See how beautiful their work is?” she cooed, before patting the backs of an embroiderer and a beader, to show her appreciation for their hard work.

  I decided to talk with Anuja, whenever the Queen was suitably preoccupied.

  The Screen-Printing Workshop

  Several large printing tables sat, adjacent to the embroidery studio, in a spacious antechamber. Unlike the previous studio, the artisans here were males, between the ages of fourteen and thirty-five.

  Pairs of workers were busy scraping dyes on large rectangular wooden screens, from one end of the table to the other, before transferring the wooden blocks to a set of wedges, in synchronized motions. The repetitious process began all over again when the pairs reached the end of the table.

  Miram explained, “These men have been working for me since I started this workshop, eight years ago. They are my loyal employees.”

  She pointed to an adolescent boy and an older Indian, who were pouring dyes onto a flattened silk panel.

  “Patta is following in his father’s footsteps; Kallik joined my company when he was Patta’s age – I recruited him from an orphanage and gave him a job. He would’ve ended up a street urchin or a gang member if I hadn’t come to his rescue.”

  The father turned and gave us a toothy grin, as if he knew his employer was discussing his well-being. Miram waved to them, before resuming, “Silk screen printing requires heavy lifting; that’s why men are more suited to this craft than women.”

  I queried, “Who designs the patterns and motifs?”

  “We’ll get to the design studio in a moment,” our hostess declared.

  The Sample Room

  Here, young adults were copying traditional motifs and patterns, from a pile of books and magazines given to them by their employer as “research” materials. Instead of recreating a different design, based on what they observed, they copied the exact motifs, down to the minutest detail. These gifted artisans were, in reality, human duplicators, like today’s Xerox machines. They would have made great art counterfeiters!

  Although our proprietress referred to them as “designers,” our entourage knew better than to catechize Her Serene Highness. Instead, we exchanged conceited smirks.

  Nonetheless, this peremptory artistry was not to be devalued; not many possessed this talent, and some industry requirements did demand such mastery. Yet, Mario, Alain, Andy, Jabril, Zac and I, being creative artists, found this skill set restrictive and forbidding.

  In the next chamber, a couple of sample machinists were pinning, draping and molding yards of exquisitely print
ed fabrics on dress forms for Her Highness’ perusal.

  “This is one of the latest models for my upcoming fashion show,” Miram announced proudly. “What do you think?”

  Before anyone of us could reply, she resumed, “It’s remarkable, isn’t it?”

  The females in our group applauded, while the men smiled and nodded polite acknowledgment. Oblivious to our actual thoughts, our hostess continued, “Will you like to attend my fashion presentation? It will be held at the Mughal Gardens in Delhi.” She was anticipating that the Count would cover her fashion presentation in Vogue Italia.

  “When is the fashion extravaganza?” the Italian inquired.

  “I’m showcasing my new collection, for couture clients and press, three weeks from today. I would be honored by your presence.”

  “I’ve got to check my schedule, but I will get back to you. Can’t make any promises,” the photographer commented.

  Sweatshop or Workshop?

  At last, when Miram was busy chatting with several members of our group, I found a chance to approach Anuja. “Do you like being Miram’s personal assistant?” I inquired. Taken aback by my forwardness, she forced a polite smile, without responding. I pressed, “Do you miss being an embroiderer and beader?”

  A lengthy silence followed, before she released a sigh: “I do miss doing what I enjoy, but my eyesight is not as good as it used to be.”

  Her unexpected response threw me off guard. “What’s wrong with your eyes? You look like a young woman who can see sharply.”

  “When I was an embroiderer, I had perfect sight. That kind of intricate work wears on the eyes. Now, I wear glasses.”

  “Is that the reason the embroidery staff are teenagers? So they can perform these delicate tasks with precision?” I questioned.