At 10:40 this morning Chris phoned his apartment’s phone number to talk to Anna. He only got to the second digit in dialing the seven numerals when a friend from two offices down the hall was standing in Chris’ doorway looking heavily stunned: “Straw! The President was shot—Kennedy! Shot!”
There was noise of others talking in the hallway without their words clearly able to be separated one from another and there were sounds of people running. Chris hung up the receiver from the unfinished dialing of his phone and he said to the guest at the doorway, “Is he okay? How is he? Is he—is he alright?”
“I don’t know. President Kennedy was shot. Dallas. In Dallas. In a motorcade.”
“Howard, how do you know? How do you know he was shot?”
There was no answer other than a nodding of his head and then a very soft, “General Schriever.” That was the confirmation from a voice of authority.
It was then that a woman’s loud shaking voice was heard coming from the hallway. “What happened?” And then she pleaded: “Please! Please! Is Kennedy safe? Please!”
Within minutes the world was dark. That historical horror of November the 22nd of 1963 was one that would influence the lives of Christopher Straw, Savannah Lane, Raj Bhavnani, the United States of America, and the lives of millions of people throughout the world. For a section of time in the life of Earth there was one common thought on the minds of close to three billion people.
President John Fitzgerald Kennedy was murdered.
drums
THEME NINETEEN
INTERMISSION
WITH THE SKY AS THEIR PALLET, the flags of the United States outside U.S. facilities and ships around the world hurt to be lowered to half-staff. Flags of many foreign nations also hurt as they joined the lowering of the U.S. flags in their being half-staff with empathy and to console their half-staffed friend.
Lines of people came to sign books of condolences at U.S. Embassies, U.S. Consulates, U.S. Information Services, U.S. Libraries and other United States Government facilities from Mexico to Argentina to Ireland to Great Britain to Italy to Israel to Egypt to Nigeria to Kenya to Pakistan to India to Thailand to Hong Kong to Japan and to so many more nations between and beyond.
In short time there was a massive crowd in the reception area of space exploration experts at Kearny Mesa, San Diego, and their voices spoke only in whispers if they spoke at all, and there were the frequent sounds of sobs.
“He was the head of our family,” Christopher Straw said to no one in particular but for anyone close enough who heard him. What he said brought nods and whispering of the word, “yes.”
Anna was crying as were so many in the crowd. Although she cried often for so many things, this occasion was filled with genuine grief. She looked at Chris pleadingly. “How could anyone have done such a thing? What kind of monster did that?”
Chris shook his head as he, too, had tears that overtook his normal command of situations. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. I don’t want to know.”
There were people there who believed in President Kennedy and working on his pursuit for space explorations and believed in his quest of sending man to the moon. It was as though they were all his personal appointees. Outer space was the newest frontier and he put it just that way and those who accepted it and wanted it as their life-long careers were left standing and whispering and crying. The only other activity than standing and whispering and crying were the noises of some who brought in both small and large radios and even a few portable television sets.
Anna grabbed and held Chris’ hand and, in view of the dark overpowering current, her celebrity was ignored by the crowd causing no more attention than that caused by strangers. On this occasion she even ignored her own celebrity and, unlike the normal Anna, had no use for it.
When television pictures were received on the monitors of the sets brought in, they were showing the exterior of Parkland Memorial Hospital in Dallas and pictures of crowds outside the hospital; mainly crowds of weeping people and those attending to them who were weeping as well.
Half the world away from Christopher Straw and Anna Lane, at the Ashoka Hotel in New Delhi where it was a little before Midnight, guests were running in the hallways and yelling in Hindi and in English, “Rashtrapati Kennedy Ko Maar Diya!”
“President Kennedy was killed!” Quickly the hallways were crowded with some wearing Indian Sherwanis and Saris and others in Tuxedos and Gowns and some in Bathrobes and Pajamas. Some rushed outside for destinations unknown. In India on New Delhi’s street called Shanti Path and unofficially called “Embassy Row,” among the hundreds in line to enter the U.S. Embassy and record their presence was Raj Bhavnani.
Likely for the first time in his adult life others saw tears in his eyes. His celebrity status made him recognized by many as the Bharata-American. Apparently someone told an official in the Embassy that Raj Bahvnani was waiting in line and the news spread until an Indian exterior guard found him in line and told him he could go ahead of the rest and Raj untypically refused. “I will wait,” he said. “I am nothing special. President Kennedy-ji is special.”
The slow steps advanced in such surrounding quiet that the noise of shoes against the sidewalk were all that could be heard.
Once inside, the U.S. Embassy’s Deputy Chief of Mission told Raj that U.S. Ambassador Chester Bowles expressed his appreciation for his attendance, and with obvious recognition of Raj, some of those entering the Embassy from the line almost automatically shook hands with him as though he was an official American representative of the Embassy on this day. Whether he wanted the role or not, he seemed to have it. And he handled it with humility, respect, and even with his small repeated bow as each person expressed sorrow.
The processions accompanying and guarding the flag-draped coffin went throughout the streets of D.C. intermittently for three days and the rhythmic drum-beats would be heard for three days in those streets, and millions throughout the United States and nations throughout the world would hear them on radio and television, and the sound of the sticks against the skin of the drums would, for so many, remain a life-long awareness of the mind’s ease in crossing the internal border between each person’s own “now” and “memory.”
Paintings and photographs of President Kennedy were displayed, eulogies and epitaphs were written, memorials were built, bridges were renamed, books were published, recordings were pressed, speeches were reprinted, and his name, voice and image were permanent.
THEME TWENTY
LOOKING FOR A BEAUTIFUL MORNING
BY THE END OF 1963 events of normality should have taken hold but they didn‘t. Tempting his mind to be active, Christopher said to himself that it was time to dust his apartment just as usual. That, at least, was something. Not something that would fill him with glowing pride and celebration but at least it was positive. He didn’t want to do it. “It doesn’t have to be done today,” he said in surrender. “Who’s going to see it? No one will see it until Wednesday.” He quickly closed the door to anything like the 30th or 31st because the 30th and 31st were cruelly holding on to 1963. They could have left early if they really wanted to be kind without leaving more fragments around.
Anna had already rented a Silver Spray apartment immediately next door to Chris’ apartment since his apartment was too small for both of them to share and living in his apartment could have caused a scandal. The two apartments were separated by a connecting door that kept everything within the appearance of the straight and narrow for those who sought evidence of “funny stuff” but gave up.
Anna then planned to spend about a week’s time starting with Christmas Day and into the New Year in Los Angeles as she was having appointments with those who had said they would try to help her get an acting role in something—anything. Anna had promised Chris she would be back at the Silver Spray sometime on Wednesday, January the First, giving him the phone number and room number of the Beverly Hills Hotel where she would be staying while away; that contact in
formation meant to prove her far-away loyalty to him particularly while being away on New Year’s Eve.
She minimized the time away from him, exceeding the keeping of her word by not being away on New Year’s Eve but instead being back on Tuesday the 31st and being there, of all things, at 6:15am. Happily he had already showered and was already dressed although he had not dusted his apartment. She opened the connecting door between their two apartments and, in keeping with the season, but prior to when she had left D.C. for her trip to New York, she had made sure that each side of the door had its own Christmas wreath and she had left separate messages on each of the two wreaths. The one facing his apartment had the message, “It is more blessed to give rather than to receive.” The wreath facing her apartment had the message, “It is more blessed to receive rather than to give.”
Now back from New York, as she walked in his apartment through the connecting door at that early hour, she almost yelled, “I’m here! Yippee! I’m here! Yippee! I’m here!” She was wearing what she called her “little white dress” that she knew caught his and every man’s interest.
Before he had a chance to say anything she started singing a Rogers and Hammerstein the Second song from the musical, “Oklahoma!”
“Oh, what a beautiful mornin’!
“Oh what a beautiful day!
“I’ve got a beautiful feelin’!
“Everything’s going my way!”
Then she sang a second verse of the Richard Rodgers melody but this time with lyrics not by Oscar Hammerstein the Second but by Anna Lane the First:
“It’s a three picture deal in the mornin’!
“It’s a three picture deal in the mornin’!
“My stardom is high as an elephant’s eye!
“And it looks like it’s climbin’ clear up to the sky!”
After her new paraphrased words were sung she came very close to him, embraced him, and she gave him a long kiss.
There was certainly no harm in that, but he did not want to ignore her singing voice which she so rarely exhibited to him. “Anna—your voice! You are magnificent!”
“But that’s what I have been doing since the day I was born. I sing. I love music! Music seems to love me or at least I hope so!”
“You sing so beautifully, Anna!” Beyond her ability as a singer he wanted to understand why she had sung that song and then immediately kissed him. “To what do I owe all this?”
“A Three Picture Deal!”
“Please forgive my layman’s lack of understanding. I heard the words but what the devil is a three picture deal?”
“Sit down.”
He did and she quickly sat on his lap. “Did you ever hear of Paramount Pictures?”
“Of course.”
“Did you ever hear of A.C. Lyles?”
“No. Is he an actor?”
“No. A.C. Lyles is a wonderful man who started at Paramount as a worker in the Mail Room and he worked his way up to be one of the most respected of all those in the motion picture industry. He’s produced films, has casted them, did all kinds of things and no one competes with A.C. I think he has a permanent job at Paramount.”
“That’s nice. Good. What about him?”
“He made a few phone calls and the girl sitting on your lap has been offered a three picture deal which means Paramount wants me to be in three pictures—not a star—probably not a star but I will be cast somewhere in three new films.”
“Wonderful! Wonderful, Honey! You did it! When you want a job you get a job!”
“I have friends in high places!”
“I’m jealous—jealous of your A.C.!”
“No you’re not. That’s what’s wrong with you; you’re never jealous.” She kissed him again. “A.C. thinks I’m a song and dance girl and I do love being in musicals so much and all three films are musicals and besides, A.C. loves animals—dogs and cats—and so do I and he knows that. Now, since you didn’t ask I’ll tell you that you have a lot to be jealous about since—listen to this! One of the three films is with Elvis Presley! It’s a film to be called Roustabout. Then there’s one called The Girls on the Beach with the Beach Boys! And the third is called Harlow with Peter Lawford! That’s the story of Jean Harlow and I don’t want you to think I’m going to play the Jean Harlow role because I’m not. I have small roles in all three. They’re roles where I can end up hitting the cutting room floor. It could be that no one will ever see me in them—but I have a three picture deal!”
“You’re being modest, Anna.”
“I’m being honest, Christo-fuh!” (With the accent on the last syllable.)
Chris asked, “Will you still go out with me tonight—on New Year’s Eve?”
“You mean instead of Elvis?”
“Yes. Instead of Elvis.”
“He hasn’t asked me so I should say that If the Beach Boys won’t take me out tonight, then I’ll go with you.”
“That’s fair.”
“There are five Beach Boys, you know. Whopee!”
“No. I didn’t know.”
“Five. That’s what I would call a Happy New Year’s Eve date. Five.”
virtuoso
THEME TWENTY-ONE
A MEETING WITH THE 14TH DALAI LAMA
VENU HAD TOLD RAJ that “Leaders generate toward leaders” so if Raj wanted the mantle of leadership he should “associate with leaders.” By this time Raj had requested a leader’s presence and was accepted not at the leader’s home in the Hill Station of Dharamshala but in the crowded and loudest city of India located just above the Bay of Bengal:
Calcutta was not like the mountains of patriotic battle that Raj Bhavnani as a soldier had seen in Aksai Chin and the Karakoram Mountains and other places that he had never known were in India before he fought there.
Nor was Calcutta like Delhi with its wide avenues and government buildings and Connaught Circus of inner and outer traffic circles of shops, restaurants, and on its inner circle the Delhi headquarters of trademarked merchandise and international airlines and stores born in London.
Nor were Calcutta’s streets anything like New York’s 59th Street or 44th Street or Fifth Avenue.
Calcutta was cluttered somewhat like Bombay but with a heavier dose of everything. There were processions of women carrying baskets of dung on their heads; men spitting out red Beetle-nut juice onto the sidewalk and on the sides of buildings; other residents using the gutter as a bathroom; great quantities of men and women and children with their hands outstretched pleading for anything edible or spendable; children with misshapen limbs bent by those who sent them to the streets to beg; and on a few of the corners a seated snake-charmer guaranteed to catch the eyes of foreign passerby’s while ignoring residents. Between the sidewalks on streets for vehicles were taxicabs turning off the ignition at every stop supposedly saving gasoline, bullock-carts, frequent stray cows, occasional goats and other animals as no surprise even if it would be an elephant.
With all its primitiveness and odors of all kinds, there was inside of Raj, a giant affection; a love not for the terrible begging necessary for so many, but for the familiarity of his home country that many who had never lived there could not understand. It was that on each street was everything; everything; everything. He walked to Old Court House Street and passed one building after another and one beggar after another and one starving and naked person after another. He inhaled deeply and he hated it and loved it. It was a street with all senses of the passerby engaged in life and death. But in the smelling of it was the rich nostalgia of things he knew so well in youth—but never so much of all of it heaped one block after another as it was in Calcutta.
The chief attraction of Old Court House Street was the Great Eastern Hotel where, out of all context with anything in this city, foreign celebrities including Chiefs of State had second floor suites for their visits to Calcutta, and where other visitors often had large high-ceilinged single rooms on other floors. It was alright because where else could the Great Eastern have b
een placed in Calcutta? Was there a better place for it in this city?
At the Great Eastern’s front entrance was one in a fleet of white-uniformed and helmeted doormen who respectfully called every man “Sahib” and every woman “Ma’am Sah’b.” They had the welcome attitude of being able to accept a tip with appreciation and then, not so welcoming, they quickly requested a larger tip with their eyes rather than their voices. That silent talent was generally effective in receiving larger tips from Europeans and always effective in receiving them from Americans. Any American unwilling to obey the doorman’s pathetic look in his eyes, would be a self-confessed scoundrel.
During the morning of Tuesday, December the First of 1964 there was a crowd around the front door of the Great Eastern Hotel waiting in hope to see the Dalai Lama of Tibet. Raj Bhavnani was already inside the hotel, having checked in the night before on the advice of the Dalai Lama’s brother, Gylao (pronounced Jai-lo) Thandup and the courtesy of the hotel’s management. As planned, Raj was staying in one of the tall ceilinged single rooms of the third floor. The plan was for him to do nothing at all during the entire day until he would meet a man named Rinchin at 7:00 P.M. by the lift next to Room 201 on the second floor.
Raj waited there until a man in a long purple gown appeared from the designated room and greeted Raj Bhavnani with a big smile, an extended hand and introduced himself as Rinchin. With a very soft voice he told Raj to “wait for a moment for the His Holiness” and Rinchin went back into the room leaving Raj in the hall for only a moment until Rinchin came out again and ushered Raj in the room where the 29 year old Dalai Lama stood up, smiled broadly, shook hands and he then indicated for Raj to sit down on the right side of what was an empty couch. There were three plush chairs that were arranged opposite the couch. Seated on the one to the left was Rinchin; on the chair to Rinchin’s right was some other man whose name Raj did not understand; and then on the far right the Dalai Lama seated himself. The couch had been reserved for the guest, Raj Bahvnani, who by the position indicated for him would be opposite the Dalai Lama for easy conversation as they faced one another. (This was unlike China where leaders, by custom, would sit side by side with at least one straining himself while in position to see the other.) Rinchin was serving as the official translator but he rarely had to translate anything because the Dalai Lama seemed to understand and respond to Raj’s English or Hindi, and the Dalai Lama always laughed at any bit of Raj’s humor before the translator could even attempt to interpret what was said.
Raising the Baton Page 17