When Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru negotiated peace-terms from the warzones, many concerned citizens of India held him responsible for having given away large hunks of India’s northern territory during those negotiations. That national dis-enchantment with the leadership only served to give Raj greater praise for his widening role as a patriot who came home at a time of war to pick up arms.
By mid-November Raj was increasingly well known and with an honorable discharge from the Army, surprisingly he was given a free suite at the Ashoka Hotel known by its many international patrons as the best hotel in New Delhi. Just like the old days in Bombay he held free occupancy in a grand hotel but this time it was with a free suite. And this room had real air conditioning.
“Raj? Is that you?” the man’s voice asked over the phone after the hotel operator connected him to their celebrity guest who was eating his room-serviced breakfast-plate of spiced biryani curry with a side dish of the Indian bread, chapatti, that was somewhat like a cross between a muffin, a pitta, and a tortilla, and by its side was a mound of rice, all of those things on a rolling tray as he sat on the edge of his bed used as a cushioned seat.
“Yes, this is Raj Bhavnani.”
“Good! This is Venu Ramachandra. Do you remember me?”
“Sa’ab! Mr. Ramachandra-ji! Remember you!? I am so honored and glad to hear your voice Sa’ab! Old times! Old times!”
“Raj, I have read so much about you and I join all of India in appreciation for your helping India in its difficult moment of need!”
“No, no. I did what I so much wanted to do and anyone with our heritage would have done that.” Was this the Raj Bhavnani that Venu remembered as an employee? Back in those days humility was not a word that was used by anyone to describe Raj Bhavnani.
Venu continued: “I am on a trip—I’m on a short trip here in Delhi. I would like to see you. Maybe dinner?”
“Yes, yes. Let’s do that. Where are you in Delhi?”
“I’m at the Claridges Hotel. I can meet you wherever you want.”
“No, no. I will have you picked up. Can you come to the Trivedi Club for dinner? I have to go there because they invited me some weeks ago for tonight. They invited me and I said ‘yes’. You ever heard of it?”
“I heard of it, but I don’t know anything about it. I’ve never been there. I believe that it’s an exclusive organization. Distinguished. I don’t know much else about it. Are you the guest of honor? I’m sure you are.”
“Yes, yes. I’ve never heard of it until I was invited for tonight and I was told it was prestigious. So I’m supposed to be there at six o’clock. Can you do it tonight as a guest of mine? Maybe a 5:30 pickup?
“I’ll be in front of the Claridges on Aurangzeb Road right by the traffic circle that’s right off Janpath. I will be there at 5:30.”
“Look for a government car. The driver will know the way to the club. Some good people have been there, you know; I mean to the Trivedi Club. They told me some good people have been there: Thomas Bata has been there—the Shoe Company owner—Bata shoes, you know. And Jawaharial Nehru has been there—He’s Prime Minister, you know. And third, I’m going to be there—and I was a third-rate employee of the first-rate Taj Mahal Hotel in Bombay!”
“Three important people! Sounds good to me. Tell me, do you have a cleaned suit you can wear? Or is it still at the cleaners?” he asked in a now-cherished reminder of their first conversation years back by the Gateway of India.
“Ahhh, yes, yes; still at the cleaners, Sa’ab. Maybe they can have it ready in time.”
“No matter. But I think it would be most appropriate for you to—to call me—simply call me ‘Venu.’ No more ‘Sa’ab’, no more ‘Mr. Ramachandra-ji’. Your station in life; your reputation; what you have done for India reverses our positions from what they might have been when we met. You are now Lieutenant Bhavnani.” He was acting appropriately right with the hope that Raj’s old characteristics of exaggeration had permanently diminished.
Raj received a medal from the Trivedi Club that night and that was only the start of honors. He was praised by a Member of the Lower House of Parliament called the Lok Sabha, then by a member of the Upper House of Parliament called the Rajya Sabha, then a letter of congratulations for him was read aloud written and signed by Prime Minister Nehru Jawaharlal followed by a letter of congratulations and thanks from U.S. Ambassador to India, John Kenneth Galbraith, then one from the Director of the United States Information Agency, Edward R. Murrow, followed by a letter from U.S. Secretary of State, Dean Rusk. Then those attending from the American Embassy were asked to stand up so as to be introduced to the rest of the attendees. There was enthusiastic applause.
That was followed by the guest of Honor, Raj Bhavnani giving a short speech of gratitude in both Hindi and English that was, for him, remarkably unassuming.
“My friends,” he said in slow pace very much like he learned from having heard the recordings of four presidents ago; the late President FDR that had been played for him at the U.S. Library in Delhi. “My friends,’” he said again even slower and more Rooseveltian than Roosevelt, “I embrace the home of my birth and blood: what was the Dominion of India and became the Republic of India; a force of good and brave people.” There was much applause with many standing. “And I also embrace the second of my two homes; the home of strength, security and support to those who come to its shores and that supports us and supports other great nations in their moments of need: The United States of America.” There was much applause, particularly from those representing the U.S. Embassy who did not stand at that as they were diplomatic enough not to make a competition out of this between the two countries.
“It should be known—but it isn’t widely known—many are unaware that right after our border with China was attacked by China, Prime Minister Nehru received from President Kennedy a message in which President Kennedy asked, ‘What can we do to translate our support into terms that are practically most useful to you as soon as possible?’ Unsurprisingly the United States would not support China’s Chairman Mao, but quite dramatically the U.S. did not for a moment claim neutrality between India and Pakistan’s Ayub Khan. The U.S. would support India. And it supported India with American military aid and advisors, and support of the U.S. Air Force and other things including intelligence from America’s Central Intelligence Agency. President Kennedy told his Ambassador John Kenneth Galbraith to let him know whatever India needed, and Ambassador Galbraith made some enormous requests of President Kennedy—and they were all granted. All granted—even as I believe you know, the U.S.’s recognition of the McMahon Line as the boundary between India and China. President Kennedy-ji’s actions for India brought anger from Mao Tse-tung and anger from Ayub Khan but endorsed by those on this side of the borders. It is undisputed that tonight I can say with certainty, as all of you can say with certainty—that half the world away, the Republic of India has a friend!”
The ovation was extraordinary. No one remained seated. Surely some probably had some physical difficulty in standing but somehow overrode anything that would limit their endorsement of Raj Bhavnani.
Other than Ambassador Galbraith, Raj Bhavnani with his unofficial but unique status representing both India and the United States, was fast becoming the symbol of U.S.—India relations.
After being made a lifetime member of the Trivedi Club someone yelled out, “Dance for us, Raj! Dance for us!”
That was not unexpected by many of the guests. It had been published and well-read in the Times of India that Raj Bhavnani was a master dancer as seen one night in a small club in Old Delhi, and somehow it seemed right that Raj Bhavnani would dance this night.
His innate ability to dance in Indian and U.S. concurrent dancing styles was new to this audience and most were thrilled to watch; even those who never cared much about dance. That was because there was something both magical and talented within Raj Bhavnani.
The magic and talent were applauded and cheered and soon the e
vent of honor was done and the guests scattered in small groups of conversation while Raj Bhavnani and Venu Ramachandra were escorted by a club official taking them to the lounge for private conversation.
The two were seated among empty chairs, couches, coffee tables and big ash trays with each one of the ash-trays ornamented on its edges with cemented miniature white statues of elephants that could hold cigarettes between their tusks.
“Lieutenant,” Venu started his conversation with his continued awareness of using a new salutation of honor. “They loved you—they were ready to elect you to take the Congress Party away from Nehru and make you India’s Prime Minister or just venerate you in some spiritual way. Whatever it was in that room—it was something you did—or said—or danced—it was something new to India. Lieutenant, my congratulations and my respect.”
“Sahib, I am Raj. No rank. That’s all I am; Raj Bhavnani. As they say in America ‘I yam what I yam and that’s all I yam. I’m Popeye the Sailor Man!’”
Venu smiled. “Is that what they say?”
“Yes, yes. Popeye. Like an Indian he eats only vegetables; spinach. I eat other things but I eat spinach like Popeye the Sailor Man.”
“Really?”
“No. I just lied. I can’t stand spinach. Who can? It’s grass. It’s nothing.”
“So you still lie?”
“Only to you. Only in fun to you. You were right, Sahib. I should not lie.”
Venu stared at his friend and nodded. “I’m glad. You know, don’t you, that there is expectancy in you now. People look toward you—at you as an example of something—something to cherish you know. You are what parents tell their children to emulate.”
“Emu—what?”
“Emulate. Copy. Act like you. They tell them to do what you do. You do so many things. Do you want to dance as a constant? Those cheers!”
“How do you spell ‘emulate’?”
Venu spelled it out for him, Raj wrote it on a small notebook he grabbed from his pocket, then Venu repeated, “Do you want to dance as a constant? As a career of sorts?”
“No. I want to be a leader.”
“Good. I was hoping that.”
“Dancing is fun for me. It also wears me out. Leading is fun and doesn’t wear me out. When I lead, I want to lead further. No, it doesn’t wear me out like dancing. What is refreshing is that leading doesn’t lead me—because I lead leading.”
“Now, where will you lead those who you accumulate and who will be walking behind you?”
Raj was quiet and looked around the room in what looked like a hopeless endeavor to find the answer to his friend’s question. “I don’t know.”
“Then—then, Lieutenant—then Raj, your pursuit is aimless; used only for your own satisfaction. That is nothing. No; perhaps it is something but nothing worthwhile. To be bigger than your own satisfaction you must lead all your followers to a better place, to a better life; to make all those behind you more content than before they followed you.”
Raj looked deeply at his friend’s face and then Raj nodded. “You are very wise.”
“No. I just want you to be what you are so capable of being.”
“Yes, yes.”
Venu Ramachandra smiled. “One ‘yes’ is enough, Lieutenant.”
Raj smiled back. “Not enough. It takes two yes’s. It’s what I do; what I ‘yam’—Popeye. I’m Popeye the sailor man.”
“I know. Raj—Lieutenant—how do you earn a living here? I know you’ve been given a room at the Ashoka Hotel by our government but it can’t last forever and anyway how do you buy things—food—things—necessities—some savings—how do you do as well as you look like you’re doing? If I may ask, how do you make money? You can’t just get paid for being a celebrity—or can you?”
Raj gave something close to a shrug of his shoulders simultaneously making his head into a pendulum. “All India Radio. I do some opinion pieces they’re called. And I do the same kind of things on Voice of America. Both of them are right here in Delhi and I get paid. Salaries. Payment. Rupees on All India and U.S. dollars on Voice of America.”
“That’s very good. Those are very reliable employers I’m sure. Can you make good salaries by doing that?”
“For India it is very good. Oh, yes, it is very good for India. And All India Radio has started television beaming. In time they say that if they use me on that; on television, then the rupees will be increased. Right now there are too few people who have television reception so radio is a much bigger audience; listeners. The Voice of America pays very well.”
“That all sounds good. That is the kind of thing a leader should do: opinions—giving your opinions for big audiences on radio.”
“Yes, yes.”
Venu was suspicious that Raj was not telling him everything in full. No particular reason for such suspicion but it was there; perhaps just because he knew the eccentricities of Raj Bhavnani. He stared at Raj for a while without saying a word for a while and then he asked, “What else? Do you do anything else to earn money?”
Almost with despondency Raj looked at the wall and as if he was talking to the wall he answered, “The dance.”
“The dance?”
“I dance.”
“I know, but you said it wears you out. Just a minute ago you said you want to lead, not dance. Did I hear wrong?”
“I don’t hate dancing. It’s just that I don’t want it to overtake my leading. Venu—Mister Ramachandra—Venu, I also earn money being in the movies. They are made in Bombay. Your home. The home of the Taj Mahal Hotel. They are made blocks away from the Taj but the first one is scheduled to be premiered here in Delhi in August. You ever see movies? I mean Indian movies?”
Venu looked startled. “Of course. What do you think? Of course.”
“Then you know that India’s movies are all musicals in that no matter if the film is about something historical that takes place in a 1400th Century drama or if it’s a modern 1962 love story or a comedy or an anything—they all have musical numbers with dancing. It is always a musical as well as whatever else they are and the last scene is always a big, long dance of the leading man and the leading woman and there is singing with the dance. And that is how I add to be able to buy things. Not my life work but it is what is there now. Good pay. I will lead—between pictures. That’s what they say in America when actors and actresses are not asked to be in a film for a while: they say ‘I am between pictures.’”
Venu clamped his lips together and nodded with a slight smile. “I have no more advice or questions, Lieutenant. You know what you’re doing. Just don’t forget that whatever you’re temporarily doing, you have great things ahead—if you remember to do them.”
“I cannot forget, my good, good friend.”
“Anything else? Any other surprises?”
“Yes. One more. There is a girl here that I see—often.”
“Well, that is a good thing, my friend! That can give you some balance. You love each other?”
Raj shrugged. “She loves me.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“Then there isn’t balance. You don’t love her?”
“She loves me.”
“That comes as no surprise, Lieutenant. Just make sure she isn’t in love with you as the celebrity you are—because celebrity status is not permanent. Make sure she loves you because you are you—and not because you are stature for her as an escort or that you have a wallet to draw out rupees. That should not be the criterion for her devotion. She should love you if you suddenly tell her that you have become a dhobi pounding the clothes of strangers to make their clothes clean—pounding someone’s underwear on a rock to earn a naya-paisa so you can afford to buy a piece of chapatti because you are hungry.”
“You mean let her believe I am an Untouchable?”
“A permanent Untouchable is better than a temporary fool. Find out why she loves you, Raj—Lieutenant.”
“You sound like Gandhi.”
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nbsp; “I want to. He was worthy of imitation. You know, Raj, that I thought you were special when you lived under the Gateway of India. Mahatma Gandhi probably would have, too. That’s how your girlfriend should look at you. Now tell me about her. Make sure she is worthy of you—and would have seen your charm long before you became the famous guest of the Ashoka Hotel.”
“I don’t love her. I like her. That’s all. British. A British girl. Her father works for B.O.A, C., the airline with the big office on Connaught Circus. It’s there in one of those circles. It’s a big office. What I like is every time we neck she says, ‘Oh, Gawd!’ ‘Oh, Gawd!’ It’s wonderful. It’s British!”
“I don’t care about what she says or where her father works or how big B.O.A.C.’s office is. That’s fine but just be sure that girl of yours is worthy of the man who told tall tales to tourists at Bombay’s Taj Hotel—and they loved him—then she will deserve that unique man who will have continuing tremendous importance to the people of India—and to America and the world—as he now does the best of things.”
“You are just like Gandhi, Sa’ab.”
“You are kind in your compliments, Lieutenant.”
Raj shook his head. “I wish I had your sense of what is right and wrong.”
At this inappropriate time a waiter came by with a large napkin tucked within his uniformed arm-pit. He said something that was neither Hindi nor English and beyond any translation into a known language. Even worse, he almost shouted it: “Hah-Lee-Hah!”
“What?” Venu asked.
“Hah-Lee-Hah!” the waiter answered even louder than before.
Whatever it meant, the strange word stopped the conversation about the girlfriend of Raj. There then came some possibility of making sense of the waiter’s strange attempt at saying something. The waiter added some words. “Cigar? Drink? Bourbon?”
Raising the Baton Page 15