Distorted Mirror

by R K Laxman

  It was a fine drive through thickly wooded forests from Darjeeling to Gangtok. Sikkim seemed more advanced than I had thought. The hoardings welcoming the visitors proclaimed breweries, a copper mining corporation and a fruit-juice bottling factory.

  In Gangtok, I looked at people’s faces trying to imagine them as participants in a mass uprising demanding democratic rights and equal status with India. But I could not: these people seemed cheerfully remote from all that.

  I met one of the cabinet ministers of the new government. He tossed out phrases like ‘vested interests’, ‘innocent masses’, ‘people’s aspirations’, so expertly with matching expressions and vehement gestures that I might have been listening to a politician anywhere in the world. The Kazi sat next to him with his benign, mysterious smile. The qualities of serenity and composure acquired long ago in a Buddhist monastery as a young man still seemed to survive in him. I could not help wondering how such a man could ever feel at home in politics.

  There was a great deal of the old-time atmosphere at the Chogyal’s lunch party: the king-size shamiana on the palace lawns, royal hospitality in respect of food and drink and to crown it all the palace band playing the tunes of forgotten days. In his immaculate robes the Chogyal was flitting from guest to guest, making his courtesy rounds.

  I was taken aback when he came to me and suddenly referred to one of my cartoons showing him in a somewhat awkward situation. His remark was of course friendly. But his smile was rather inscrutable, I felt!

  We visited Kalimpong on our way back. It was totally different from what the familiar Tibetan curio shops all over India had somehow led me to expect; semi-dark with a musty smell, ancient streets strewn with copperware and coloured beads. It was none of that. Kalimpong is a neat little town with its shops selling talcum powder, chocolates and baby food.

  We came back to Darjeeling for a longer stay. Soon my face became familiar in the Mall and in the bazaar. It was not long before I was actually on grinning terms with the Tibetan carpetseller, the pastrymaker, the girls who knitted sweaters for sale and the photographer who took your picture with Kanchenjunga in the background. As days went by it was becoming increasingly difficult to go on my usual long brisk walks without being stopped every now and then by the local citizenry for friendly gossip.

  Going to Tiger Hill is a must when you are in Darjeeling. Here one sees the dawn tint the Himalayan snow ranges pink—an indescribably beautiful view that has made Tiger Hill world-famous. To catch this sight one has to get into a jeep shivering at three in the morning and drive on an unspeakably bad, if not downright dangerous, road to this hill top.

  Hundreds of visitors flock to it in season everyday, to stand in the open in freezing cold, their teeth chattering, and wait in hushed silence expectantly for the sun to rise and spray the abstract shapes of clouds with psychedelic hues and fill the yawning vastness around with endless waves of mountains tinged with celestial pink. A wisp of mist could just come in between all these glorious happenings, however, and send the tourist back home disappointed. But we were lucky.

  HOLIDAY IN THE ISLANDS

  TO START WITH, nobody could tell us how to get there. A few could not even locate the Andaman and Nicobar group of islands on the map. I was even asked why, of all places, I was set on going to these islands. I could not really tell why, but could very well understand the tone of concern in their voice: the old penal settlement in the Andamans perhaps produced an unpleasant association of ideas. So my wife and I were advised to take a trip, instead, to Kashmir or Ooty. But I wanted to visit the islands and approached the government tourist department for guidance. But then I was told that these islands had been grossly neglected by the tourist department and all I would get from them would be their latitude and longitude.

  I did not give up: frustration perversely increased my zeal for undertaking the journey. I pressed on madly, asking all and sundry for details and information. After a long time my efforts yielded a letter from a kindly man in Port Blair. I grabbed the opportunity and kept up the communication through a series of letters, telegrams, trunk calls, applications, official form-filling, until we finally hauled ourselves on board the State of Madras bound for Port Blair.

  I was amazed by the colour of the sea: it was actually a carbon-paper blue. After sailing for four days I saw a small island appear on the horizon faintly, so faint it could have been an illusion, but it caused much excitement all over the ship. Everyone leaned on the railings of the deck to watch it approach ever so slowly and drift by majestically. Other islands of assorted sizes arrived at intervals and departed, all similar with thick mop of vegetation and some with a yellow band of beach skirting them. There are so many islands on the way that the passengers soon lost interest and returned to their paperback horrors and card tables.

  There are 350 odd islands in this area which with fascinating names have a ring of romance and mystery about them, as if the names had been given to them by a popular fiction writer: the Labyrinth, Snake, Theresa, Sir Hugh Ross, Harriet, etc. Mercifully they are still out of the reach of our name-changers over here. But for how long? I wonder.

  As we drifted towards Chatham to dock, we had a panoramic view of Port Blair. We were shown—as if on a picture postcard—the college building, the Tourist Home, the Naval Institute, the notorious Cellular Jail, which is now regarded as a monument to those who suffered separation and pain behind those grim walls for the sake of our freedom.

  Port Blair is a small sleepy town like any on our trunk roads that one drives past without noticing the usual tailoring shop, the hair-cutting saloon, the general stores, the tea shop screaming out music, the bank, the bakery, etc. It even boasts a clock tower and a very clumsily moulded statue of Mahatma Gandhi in a square.

  The people here represent nearly every part of India and each one knows at least three languages apart from Hindi, which everyone speaks. There is a refreshing lack of caste consciousness among the people as they mix freely and marry without inhibitions. This broadmindedness is a matter of natural development and not due to the efforts of any social reformer’s zeal: paradoxically, in fact, it originated from the promiscuous nature of a sordid penal settlement.

  I asked my dhobi how long he had lived in the Andamans. ‘I was born here. My grandfather was a convict,’ he declared cheerfully. ‘He was brought here from Salem. He had chopped off the heads of his sister and her paramour. When released after serving his term, he married a Muslim from Andhra. And my father married a Kerala Christian . . .’ This is roughly the standard pattern of anybody’s genealogy here, whether he is a shopkeeper, gardener, police official, teacher or political leader.

  We took a small boat to the northern islands. The boat chugged on with unhurried grace, sending schools of flying fish rocketing at its approach. One or two sharks made way for us, resentfully brandishing their triangular fins. I was astonished by the colour of the sea. Coral reefs underneath tinted it with fantastic colours ranging from midnight blue to turquoise to the translucent green of emerald in all its purity. However, in a painting, one would have thought this seascape betrayed a poor colour sense on the part of the artist.

  The jungles in the islands are impenetrably thick. The trees, gigantic in height and girth, looked as if they belonged more to the world of geology than botany. But for all the awesome appearance, one could easily push one’s way through dense undergrowth and make safely for the heart of the forest without fear of attack from wild animals.

  We saw no tigers, panthers, jackals or bears in the jungles—in fact no animal other than the deer. But the Jarvas! You are a dead man if they catch you wandering in their territory. They are a tribal people, hostile to anyone who is not a Jarva and they occupy a good part of the western section of the Andamans. Armed with bows and arrows they would attack isolated settlements or road workers on trunk roads. At that time to keep these killers at bay, there was a special police force called the Bush Police deployed throughout the island’s jungles at strategic points
to keep vigil night and day all the year round.

  I was thrilled by the account of the Jarvas and wanted to visit one of the bush police outposts in their region. The police department obliged. We sat precariously balanced in a police canoe and two men padled it through the swamp leading to the interior. One bush policeman sat on the prow with a loaded gun and kept an alert watch on either bank as the boat glided along, gently winding to the left and right to avoid submerged tree stumps, overhanging creepers and mangrove trees. The vegetation got thicker, forming a tunnel, and our course got narrower. Although the sun was shining bright, the thick vegetation gave us a feeling of twilight. Except for the noise of the paddles splashing in the water the silence was absolute. In the narrow, slimy clay bank close by, I suddenly saw a green fat iguana slither into the bushes. It gave me a start: an excusable reaction from a city dweller like me!

  The lookout post of the bush police was made of grass thatch on high stilts and its walls of bamboo mats. We took our positions here, surveyed the vast jungle around and waited for the Jarvas. Never had I been to a forest so still and quiet—a strange lack of any jungle noise of animals, birds or insects. The air was surcharged with suspense.

  After a long wait I asked the inspector, ‘Have you ever seen a Jarva here?’ dropping my voice apparently low in deference to the general atmosphere.

  ‘They attacked this outpost only last month. They came up to the edge of the ladder there. Our men here fired and they took to their heels.’

  ‘Did you kill any?’ I asked.

  He looked at me with horror. ‘Certainly not! We have strict orders not to shoot to kill or hurt, but only to scare them away.’

  Suddenly my attention was diverted and I saw some movement far away. At once we turned our binoculars to the spot and stared till our eyes popped out. It was some time before we discovered that it was only a spotted deer teaching its young one the trick of vaulting over a bush. It was now time for us to return. And we had not sighted a single Jarva.

  As we drifted away in our canoe, I looked back at the receding jungle: the whole atmosphere of the place conveyed to me the Jarvas’ dark presence.

  Off and on, the local authorities sailed with armed guards with the idea of befriending the hostile tribes and luring them to the mainstream with gifts: plastic buckets, fruits and colourful bits of cloth. But these expeditions always beat a hasty retreat under a shower of arrows. However, I was sure one day the mission would succeed in taming these wild men. I even visualized future visitors beholding them in bush-shirts and trousers, perhaps, with a transistor radio pressed close to the ear. That would be a sad day indeed.

  There were a number of tiny islands around Port Blair reachable by boat within a few minutes. Each had an enormous mass of vegetation spread out to the last tip of land, the trees nearly toppling into the sea. Many islands were uninhabited and in some, one saw a forlorn hut or two perched on stilts and dangling a ladder. There were stories, often bloody and dramatic, connected with these islands. Island Harriet, for instance, had a disquieting look and a dilapidated jetty with rusty disintegrating boats moored around it. The Viceroy of India, Lord Mayo, was stabbed to death on this very spot by a convict who had earned freedom for good conduct!

  On Viper Island, there was a steep hillock with a curious tumbledown structure on top. The huge pillars, arches and walls suggested that it was part of an ancient palace. But no! This building once sheltered the gallows! My companion, who knew the Andamans inside out and had lived there for many years, explained, ‘In those days justice was meted out swiftly, you know,’ and proceeded to give a comic sketch of the state of affairs in those days:

  ‘Imagine the British representative on the golf course in far away Port Blair. An officer hurries to the spot to break the news of a murder that has just been committed. His Lordship pauses, listens and asks: “Caught the fellow?”

  ‘“Yes, Sir, we have caught a suspect.”

  ‘“What do you mean ‘suspect’? He committed it, didn’t he? Well, go hang him then.”

  ‘Thus, having pronounced the judgement, he gets on with putting the ball. The suspect would be brought here promptly and, of course, hanged!’

  Of all the islands, Ross was the most romantic. Except for a couple of rather bored naval security chaps who kept a close watch (on what, I do not know) there was nobody here. But the whole island looked like a movie set straight out of the novels of the Bronte sisters. There were roads, with buildings on either side, office buildings, dance hall, church, playground, bakery, butchery and even a swimming pool complete with a diving board—all signs of gaiety. But alas, all in picturesque ruin! The roofs and walls of the buildings had caved in, the ornate cast-iron gate posts crumpled to the earth, elegant paths swallowed up by hungry vegetation. In the palatial dance hall there was an enormous tree in the middle, its branches pushing through the ceiling and wild creepers squeezing the life out of the supporting beams and pillars.

  This island was once the administrative headquarters before the seat of power shifted to Port Blair. In those days the officers, after disposing of the day’s work, foregathered here to live it up in true colonial fashion. Liquor flowed copiously in the dance hall and music was heard across the bay till the early hours of the morning by the people in Port Blair. That was the life Ross Island had seen.

  I saw a graveyard next to the church in the island. Small but eerie, as dark and gloomy gnarled roots of stunted trees levered up the tombstones. I got closer to examine one of the tombstones which was cracked by roots underneath. It had a sad simple floral border with the inscription: ‘John Wood . . . Officer, East India Company Died 1868 Age 23.’ The next one belonged to the year 1867 for a person who died at the age of twenty-five. And another, again 1868! The only one resting there who was comparatively old was a captain of a ship who had apparently drowned near Port Blair in 1860 at the age of thirty-five.

  We left the Andamans and moved on towards the southern group of islands; Little Andaman, Car Nicobar, Katchal, Komorta, Non Cowry, Theresa down to Camble Bay. Car Nicobar had an individuality all its own. Flat as a table, of its 75 square miles, nearly every other square foot had a coconut tree. A poor man’s Hawaii with its blue lagoons and yellow sandy beaches, even the native Nicobary resembles his Hawaiian counterpart in every respect—the physical build, the colour, the ever-present smile down to the flowers around the neck and the colourful sarong.

  These islands offered a vast scope for tourist development. There were innumerable beaches, shallow lagoons, pretty coves tucked away in interesting corners, huge solid rocks stuck in the middle of lagoons: I couldn’t help visualizing neat little hotels on them. The tourist could jump off right from his window and take a swim, or go yachting or surf-riding or fishing during the season. This part of the world was indeed a paradise on earth.

  AUSTRALIA AND I

  MY ASSOCIATION with Australia started very early in life. At about the age of three or four I saw a kangaroo in the local zoo. A little later my friends and I became addicted to cricket. We followed the fortunes of the MCC—Marylebone Cricket Club—thinking it was Melbourne Cricket Club and of Australia even before we could understand what the abbreviation stood for. At least one little boy christened his nomadic cricket team the MCC, the Malgudi Cricket Club, after the small town in the south where he lived. Then we collected photographs of Sir Don Bradman, the star of the ‘Melbourne Cricket Club’, and religiously memorized his score records in various international events and tried out his style and stance with our home-made dealwood cricket bats.

  When we grew older, the Australian continent was still with us; in the captivity of our classroom we had to learn all about the Great Barrier Reef, the Blue Mountains, the boomerang, the emu, the koala bear, the Kalgoorli mines, the duck-billed platypus. Therefore, we’d accumulated a tremendous amount of information about Australia.

  And, yet, the whole continent strangely seemed to be floating in grand isolation, far away from our own world.

&n
bsp; This sense of remoteness continued even after the Air-India Jumbo put me down at Perth one bright sunny day. In the airport, while I waited for my luggage, the people around me seemed to be going about their business as if in a silent movie. I was struck by the silence around me in such a crowded airport. Driving up to my hotel I saw only motorcars gliding past with the passengers grimly strapped to their seats, and no pedestrians in sight anywhere. Coming from Bombay, the quiet and the absence of crowds in the streets seemed rather strange.

  The air in Perth was so pure that I felt my lungs, conditioned to pollution, make quick adjustments with a pleasant tingling sensation. The parks, the bridges, the blue sky, the beaches, the river, the woods—all looked as though they had been put there, based on a blueprint for a picture-postcard.

  My Australian friend sitting beside me in the car was reeling off statistics: per capita income, GNP, number of yachts registered and unregistered, population figures, basic wage, etc. But I was strangely deaf to the statistics under the notion, wrong perhaps, that they rather explained away all the magic and left one disenchanted. So, without listening, I sat gazing at a hill-side, awash with wild flowers, the bay below it dotted with flames of multicoloured sails and the cars like strung beads one behind the other rolling up and down the majestic highways laid out neatly between acres and acres of green fields against the background of distant skyscrapers.

  At this time the city of Perth was celebrating its antiquity with great gusto. Everywhere one looked one saw neckties, balloons, lapel pins, T-shirts, barrage balloons lolling in the sky, sails of yachts in the bay, not to mention paper bags, napkins and bumper-stickers, all carrying in various sizes a stylized design of a black swan logo symbolizing the occasion. But the city at that time was quite young really, just a hundred and fifty years. It made me feel old; suddenly a silver tumbler at home given to me casually by my mother for drinking coffee came to my mind. It was just as many years old! I gave this bit of news to my companion. He looked at me with an expression as if it were some kind of a museum piece he had been sitting next to and talking!