He went on to explain that when India claimed independence from Great Britain, so many of Great Britain’s colonial territories chose and received independence from Great Britain. “They chose it and they got it! Great Britain gave it to them! So there!”
By coincidence, while Mr. Pratt was introducing India to his B-11 class, this was also the time when a little boy who lived in India was creating his importance-to-come and who, in time, would make an indelible effect on many people in the world, for sure including Christopher Straw and unknown by Savannah Lane who was yet unknown by Christopher Straw.
And the little boy in India was not like any other.
THEME SEVEN
“THE FAR AWAY BIRTH AND THE GROWING UP OF RAJ BHAVNANI”
RAJBHAVNANI was probably born in Sholapur, India, or in some Indian village close to Sholapur, and probably he was born sometime in the mid-1930s. The imprecision of such important data was due to Raj Bhavnani never having been told anything about his parents; not even their names, or the date of his birth, nor precisely where his birth took place. He retained the name of Raj Bhavnani because as he grew older he remembered that others called him that and best of all he thought his name had a rhythm to it and people seemed to like saying it in its entirety as though it was one word. Without a home he wandered between village to village and when in cities, from squatter settlement to squatter settlement usually between the cities of Sholapur and Hyderabad. He had been told by a few Sadhus who admittedly were not present at his birth and they had no evidence when and where he was born, said he was born in the period of time in which Mahatma Gandhi was trying to end the jurisdiction of Great Britain over India, calling for Great Britain to “Quit India” and with or without Great Britain, calling for the end of the struggles and the killings between Hindus and Moslems. That covered a lot of time and Raj Bhavnani proclaimed his birthday as August the 15th of 1947 because that was India’s Independence Day and, in that way, he could be part of the national celebrations throughout his life regardless of the outrageous attempt to erase some obvious years from his age.
That fictitious birthday was, of course, when the British officially left India as its dependency and there was established the partition of India into two countries; India and the new country of Pakistan with more than one million estimated to have been killed in that struggle of separation and in the lines drawn in the making of West and East Pakistan with one thousand miles of Northern India between them.
From that history, Raj Bhavnani was able to either know or, more likely, develop a story about the mystery of his identity. He would tell others that he was “caught in the war. My parents were Hindus and they were killed in the war by Muslims. They left their baby—me—in the vacant place in which they had lived.”
Maybe. But he told the story for its drama and not for the sake of documented accuracy. When some looked at him suspiciously and asked if he was sure those who told him the date of his birth were accurate he would simply answer, “Ah-Chah. Yes, yes” and go on about his business with little interest displayed in what he was asked.
In early 1957 he hitched a ride on a Bullock Cart as villagers offered him a trip to Bombay with their major cargo of cow-dung for delivery along the way to villages where the dung would be used to make walls of shelters and also to be used as fuel in the more urban places through which they passed for either payment of funds or food or shelter or for nothing at all.
Once he arrived in Bombay he went straight to the place he had always wanted to see since he had first heard of it: the water’s edge where Bombay touched the Arabian Sea.
What he saw in that great body of water that had no visible ending was surely spectacular enough, but by its edge on the continent was a rival spectacle: a mammoth architectural wonder called the Gateway of India. It was a concrete archway close to 100 feet tall and even wider in width; its main archway bordered by smaller archways with the entire building standing on a small peninsula jutting out into the sea and providing the welcome to India for those who entered in a kind of similarity to the way that the Statue of Liberty provided entrance to the United States. Across the road was even more rivalry to the spectacles of the scene and this one was the Taj Mahal Hotel (not anywhere near the Taj Mahal in Agra, India) whose massive façade looked like it was trying to over-match not only the close sites of Bombay but the exterior of far-away Buckingham Palace in London.
Raj found home with dozens and dozens of street-people under the main archway of the Gateway of India and like them, at night he slept on the cold stone under the protection of that arch. And he stayed there not just for a short while, but for three years. And like so many others under the archway, it became not only his place for shelter but his place for all things including his place of work and its corners for things otherwise done in a bathroom. And there were some hundreds of thousands more street people living close to the Gateway and on the streets of Bombay using those streets as their homes for all of those purposes.
Raj Bhavnani’s occupation was the primitive profession of holding his hand outright while saying to strangers, “Baksheesh?” He became an expert in begging, targeting British and Americans and other foreign tourists who stayed across the road at the Taj Mahal Hotel and who came to the Gateway to take pictures with their Kodak Brownies loaded with rolls of 127 film taken from yellow-boxed small cardboard cartons left all over the place.
Raj Bhavnani soon realized that his begging abilities were proportionate to his skill in speaking English which was already quite good while he coaxed British and American tourists to repeat and define every English word he could not understand. Soon his “Baksheesh” fees increased with his English skills that were giving him the confidence to offer to take guests who came from the hotel on a tour around the Gateway, telling them all what he described as the Gateway’s history, most of which had no basis in fact but came from his imagination. He came to speak English as well as the United Kingdom’s Prime Minister Harold Macmillan spoke English and he felt he lied as well as (what he assumed with absolutely no confirmation) Pakistan’s President Iskander Mirza. He was, however, even-handed since he did not hesitate to criticize his own nation’s Prime Minister, Jawaharlal Nehru, who he also accused of lying and added to Raj Bhavnani’s accusation that he didn’t like Nehru’s wardrobe. He would say, “Nehru’s buttoned up tight necked closed-collared jacket is almost as bad as his hat.”
He ended his three years of enterprise in the Gateway of India because near the end of 1959 a young man (but not as young as Raj) named Venu Ramachandra, who worked as an office manager for the Taj Mahal Hotel, walked across the road at noon to the Gateway to see for himself the boy who had captivated so many of his guests at the hotel; some calling him a genius, some calling him an historian, some saying he was unnaturally mature for his age, and some saying he was a treasure who made them love India.
Venu Ramachandra found him easy to spot from the descriptions given him by the hotel’s guests: the tall, thin, heavy-haired Indian boy who always wore a white kurta which was the Indian shirt that went all the way down to his knees, and sheer white dhoti trousers. Venu Ramachandra introduced himself to Raj and told him about the compliments of hotel guests that he received about Raj.
“Thank you, Sahib” Raj said with forced but appreciated humility.
“Do you live here?”
“Yes, Sahib.”
“You beg for a living?”
“No, Sahib. Begging is for the poor. I was poor when I came to Bombay from Sholapur, but that’s when I was very young and so I begged then. But I didn’t like it. And so I became a great historian. I know everything there is to know about this Archway and about the Arabian Sea and when I tell the history to the tourists from your hotel who come here, they give me what I have earned. Your guests are very kind and grateful to me.”
“How much do you normally make in a day?”
“A great deal. May I take you out to lunch, Sahib?”
Venu Ramachandra laughed.
“Oh no. I appreciate that invitation and I would ask you to have lunch with me at the Taj dining room but I ate already. Tell me, Raj—your clothes. Do you have any other clothes?”
“Of course. They are presently at the cleaners.”
Venu Ramachandra smiled. “I see. At the cleaners.”
“Yes, Sahib.”
“Do you mean your clothes are presently with the Dhobis?” He was referring to those called Untouchables who make a living by beating clothes on rocks in the sea and rivers and creeks to remove any dirt from the clothes.
“No, Sahib. I bring them to western style cleaners. Big machines.”
Venu Ramachandra tried his best to hide his smile. “What else do you tell the tourists?”
“If they are British I thank them for all they have done for India and that we all appreciate the railroads and bridges and tunnels they built for us when we were a colony of theirs. My name, Raj, is in honor of the British Monarchy since Raj was the term for their rule—their fine rule. If they are Italian I tell them I lived with an Italian family in Hyderabad and although I don’t remember the names of all the pasta the woman of the family used to make I do remember that she turned half of the neighborhood into lovers of Italian food including me. If they are French I tell them that all of India knows that it was their Underground that won the war. Now we are finally getting some Americans in India and I tell them how much I love Eisenhower. There are also even more people now coming down to India from the Soviet Union; some Uzbekistanis and Kazakhs and Russians, and I tell them I always carry a picture of Khrushchev with me.”
“Do you really?”
“Do I really what?”
“Do you really carry a picture of Khrushchev?”
“Of course.”
“May I see it?”
“No, Sahib. It is sacred to me. I do not carry it to impress others; only to look at myself when I am alone. It is sacred to me.”
Venu Ramachandra laughed as he simply couldn’t control himself although Raj retained a serious face. “Raj, let me ask you something.”
“Yes, Sahib.”
“I have an idea for you. Just an experiment. And I have to check it out with others. But you do have a talent! What would you think of an offer for two weeks of work at the Taj for you to greet tourists and carry their bags and help with their itinerary and things like that?”
“For two weeks?”
“Just to see if you like the job, and for us to see if we like having you with us.”
“It would take three weeks for me to tell if I like the job, Sahib.”
Venu Ramachandra was somewhat unprepared for that answer but he nodded with an unhidden smile. “I’ll ask. I’ll find out.”
“How many rupees?”
“Well, I haven’t thought of that. How many rupees do you need?”
“I haven’t thought of that either, Sahib. These people who beg here are my friends and they are very poor and they know that I have great wealth and it gives them hope. So I am important to them. I am not sure I want to leave them even for three weeks. You must make me an offer, Sahib.”
Venu Ramachandra tried not to laugh and not even to smile. He was almost successful. “I need to talk to my superiors at the Taj to find out what they’re willing to pay and—and I will probably be here tomorrow at around noon again to tell you what we can offer—if anything. Will you be here then?”
“No, Sahib. At noon tomorrow I have to pick up my clothes at the cleaners. I like to be prompt when I give my word. Can you make it an hour earlier, closer to 11 o’clock so I can be at the cleaners at noon?”
Venu Ramachandra nodded. “Good. Then tomorrow I will be here at around 11 o’clock with what I hope will be an offer.”
Venu Ramachandra was there ten minutes before the designated time and Raj Bhavnani was waiting for him—and by 11:03 in the morning the deal was done.
Raj Bhavnani would make 150 rupees each of the three weeks, which was about $31.50 a week at the exchange rate of the time (with a rupee worth U.S. 21 cents) and his major duty was to be himself in helping and dealing with hotel guests—but with the difficult provision that he “tells no lies.” In addition he would be living in a small room at the far end of a magnificent hallway in the hotel atrium with his room having a revolving fan in the ceiling. There would be a closet that would hold two hotel uniforms on hangers, a pair of black shoes on the floor, and even five pairs of black socks and underwear on a shelf. The bathroom would be down the hall and he would be allowed three meals a day to be eaten in the kitchen down the hall from the dining room.
On the first night of Raj Bhavnani’s occupancy, the fan in the ceiling turned at low speed through eight revolutions before it stopped, never being able to start again. Raj didn’t care and was so glad about his new riches that he would not complain about anything; certainly not a malfunctioning fan.
Before the second of his three weeks was done he realized that he had attained a tremendous success already by, without being directed to do it, he memorized the history of the hotel and he already knew practically every building within blocks including every shop. During these weeks he shared all his knowledge with guests of the hotel.
He received one compliment after another from his employer; Venu Ramachandra. By the end of the third week he was offered and he accepted a full-time job.
All of this gave Raj a dream that he knew he could achieve: A place where dreams come true: Get to America.
With self-imposed silence he waited before presenting some schedule for his plan to Venu Ramachandra. He was wise in waiting because a scheme presented itself without effort as he was told by a guest from the United States that he ought to go to Cornell University’s School of Hotel Administration near Rochester, New York. That meant Raj’s research was done. His announced destination would be Cornell University. He would ask for a paid vacation from the hotel so he could learn more in his chosen ambition of hotel administration here at the Taj. That would likely not be true but by his calculation, ‘only one lie in all this time is pretty good’ and probably a new record for him. He would stress that his American education would then be of “priceless value to the Taj Mahal Hotel in Bombay. Therefore I would need a coach-fare round-trip ticket to New York. Coach is all I need.”
Venu Ramachandra nodded, expecting something like that from Raj Bhavnani. “Your vacation will likely be granted but it won’t be paid. You haven’t been here that long. And the fare to America is your business, not ours.”
“Yes, Sa’ab,” Raj said with a magnified tone of sadness.
“Now just keep working as you have been, and make enough rupees to earn your trip to America. And then unless I tell you otherwise we will discuss such a schedule depending on its length. Do you know how long the course at Cornell lasts?” And before receiving an answer he added, “The most important item you told me about such a trip is its value to this hotel. I’m quite sure that we can let you go and maybe we can work out some payment or courtesies but no airline fare and we will expect you back here at the Taj with your new knowledge as soon as the course is done. Now, how long is the course?”
“Three and one-half months,” he said with arbitrary but exact-sounding length, ‘One more lie but not immense,’ Raj thought. ‘Surely still permissible by any competent judge.’
“Do you have a passport?”
Raj looked confused and didn’t answer.
“A passport, Raj! A passport from the Republic of India!”
“No, Sa’ab. I do not have anything,” he said in his most pathetic-sounding voice.
“You’ll need one.”
“Yes, Sa’ab.”
“That’s through our government. That’s for the government of India to give you. That should be easy enough. Then you’ll need a visa to the United States. You have to do that at the American Consulate. We know people there so we can be of help. I can write a letter of introduction for you to a friend there who has been very good to the hotel.”
“Yes
, Sa’ab” he said with the continued weepiness in his voice.
“You tell me when you are in a position to make the trip. There isn’t any rush on the paper work and all the formalities because it will be some time for you to have enough earnings saved for the funds it will take. Alright?”
Raj nodded.
It took him little more than one year to accumulate near seven thousand rupees by spending very little of his salary, (mostly for western clothes with the help of the tailor at the hotel) with seven thousand rupees giving him enough money for a British Overseas Airline Corporation one-way flight to Heathrow Airport in London and from there a transfer to a Pan American Airlines flight to New York City with $720 in U.S. currency to have in his pocket when travel would have then have been accomplished and New York would begin. Not Rochester but that could come later from New York City—if he really wanted it.
He was too young for years to go too fast and like most years when young, this one went too slow, but it was finally time to tell Venu Ramachandra that the required period had passed and the money was saved and his trip could be imminent and America could soon be streets and buildings instead of wideawake dreams if Venu Ramachandra could now let him go from the Taj Mahal Hotel.
There was now some sadness in the voice of Venu Ramachandra with his words spoken slowly: “Congratulations, Raj. You have done what is unlikely and difficult. You have adhered to schedule when so many people do not adhere to schedules. You have saved the money needed. And your enthusiasm has not waned. Congratulations. All of us will miss you here. Now, do you have the necessary documents?”
Raj no longer used his pathetic tone. “No. I know you told me but I don’t remember what documents are needed.”
“You know, at this moment I don’t remember everything you’ll need. The expert on this is Arthur Mansfield at the U.S. Consulate. He knows both ends; ours and what you’ll need in America. He’s an expert. He’s been here since Truman was the U.S. President. I think I told you he would be important to see. I’ll line up an appointment. Now, it is important to answer every question of his honestly. Tell the truth. I know that will be very difficult for you—but do it. The truth will come out one way or another anyway.”
Raising the Baton Page 6