In 1700, Mirza Abu Talib Istahani of Calcutta discovered the library and valuables of Murshidabad’s Nawab Sher Jung in the house of an English judge in London. In the 1930s Cyril Ashley could not possibly know who the real owners of the Mughal curios he saw in his own house, were. He thought that only a fool would deny that all life was absurd. Therefore when he entered his Manor as a stranger he experienced a curious sense of satisfaction. This must be Nirvana, he chuckled to himself.
Cyril Ashley was a modern man, prey to all the disillusions and betrayals and emotional and spiritual doubts of the age. Living in mid-century Britain he, too, revelled in Sartre, and even read the local thinker, Colin Wilson. Michael and Denis were his only friends at the University. (Michael was Jewish and a Zionist. Denis, like Michael, was middle class, and wrote abstract poetry.) Apart from these two there were lots of others, black boys and brown boys.
And girls.
Cyril was never greatly attracted to the women of his own race, they were all so irritatingly alike. The post-war period was a great and golden era in which humanity was entering a new age of International Understanding, Goodwill and Cultural Amity. All manner of females came from all over the globe to study in England’s cloistered universities. Yellow, black, brown. Among his friends, June Carter was his compatriot. She fitted the Angus Wilsonian description of a British university woman. She wore horn-rimmed glasses, had fuzzy hair and studied Slavonic languages. Then there was his dear Rose— he had married her and discovered that she was good-hearted, but a dreadful bore. She spoke in a monotone which was nerve-racking. Slowly Rose and Cyril drifted apart.
In the University Union he heard the fiery speeches of two new speakers: Kamal Reza and Nirmala Srivastava who had recently arrived from faraway Lucknow. That name rang a bell. His ancestor, Nabob Cyril, had lived in Lucknow and made a fortune there. In his research Cyril had not yet reached Oudh, he was still at the Battle of Plassey.
As a socialist, Cyril tried his best to hide the fact that he was the son of a peer. He avoided meeting the newly-arrived brownies for some time. At the University he knew only one Black Girl in Search of God, with whom he talked at length about Indian philosophy when he met her. She turned out to be a Pakistani. Her name was Roshan Kazmi, a quiet person with a disturbingly intellectual face.
During a weekend visit to London, he accompanied the Indophiles, Denis and Michael, to an exhibition of Tagore’s pen-and-ink drawings at India House. A long-haired Bengali acquaintance asked them to come along to Exeter Street for a cultural programme celebrating Tagore Week in London.
The cosy little hall of the Indian Students’ Centre was already packed to capacity when they reached. Everybody squatted on the floor like yogis. Cyril and his friends found a place near the low dais but Cyril was worried about the crease of his trousers. Joss sticks burned in front of a portrait of Tagore who somehow looked like God the Father. A harmonium was placed on a table. The compere ascended the dais and made her announcements in nasal English.
She was stunning. Eyes enlarged with kohl, a big coil of hair adorned with flowers, flaming red sari of Murshidabad silk with a contrasting bright green blouse. This was the New Ajanta Look adopted by post-Independence Indian women who had come out West. The young lady had a golden brown complexion and a fantastic figure.
“Wow,” whispered Denis.
“Yes, wow,” agreed Michael wholeheartedly. Cyril tried to contemplate Nothingness instead of gaping at her. Then he reflected on the greatness of the Great Sage. The trouble was that these days he was a bit turned off by the East. His ship was sailing towards Byzantium—he had become a believer in the supremacy of Western European Christian Civilization.
“Shrimati Shunila Mukerji—the great exponent of Rabindra Sangeet,” the seductive M.C. announced.
Everything Indian is great—why are they so fond of hyperbole? Cyril wondered. A middle-aged lady with puffy cheeks and lustrous eyes ascended the stage and smiled dreamily. She began playing the harmonium and sang lilting Bengali songs while the compere read out the translations in florid English. Then she announced: “Shrimati Surekha Devi, the great exponent of Bharatanatyam.”
Sarong-clad south Indian drummers trooped in, followed by the dancer who arrived like a shaft of lightning. She also had elongated eyes and arched eyebrows. The little darkies in white sarongs began a majestic chant in Telugu and played the mridangam. The music seemed to be emanating from some other sphere of the cosmos, and the dance was other-worldly, too. Cyril Ashley was mesmerised.
The programme came to an end, the flamboyant compere disappeared, and the crowd dispersed. Mrs. Shunila Mukerji was talking to William Craig, the publisher, near the exit.
“You ought to meet Shunila Debi,” the long-haired Bengali who had brought them here gushed importantly. “She is a Theosophist, a fast-vanishing breed. She has helped many a migratory Indian Lame Duck—a species to be found increasingly on this island. And she is the high-priestess of expatriate intellectuals. She has lived through the blitz which killed her eminent barrister husband, and she is taking us home for drinks, fish curry and TV. Come along.”
Cyril Ashley suppressed a smile. These people were so funny.
“That sexy wench will turn up there, hopefully,” Denis whispered.
“Let’s go.” They marched down with the others to the tube station.
In no time Cyril found himself in a luxury flat in Chelsea. The arty drawing-room was filled with cigarette smoke and loud conversation. The hostess lighted candles in front of an antique Nepalese Buddha and intoned a short prayer in Pali. The soulful effect was marred by the appearance of Patricia Kirkwood on the tiny black-and-white screen of the television set. Drinks were served by a Polish refugee maid.
Surekha Devi had come from Lahore to Delhi as a refugee in 1947. Her husband was studying at the London School of Economics, and her real name was Avinash. She was an unassuming Punjabi girl, surprisingly bereft of the airs and mannerisms of a celebrated dancer. Mrs. Mukerji introduced her with a flourish as India’s Anna Pavlova.
“There is more to that statement than meets the eye,” the Long-haired One informed the three friends from Cambridge. They were sitting on an ottoman in a far corner. “Surekha Devi’s husband is an orthodox man, yet he has allowed her to be the partner of this famous male dancer because he is—well— like Nijinsky . . .”
“Who is like Nijinsky—the husband or the male dancer?” asked Denis with a poker face.
“The latter, of course. That,” the Long-haired One pointed towards two portraits, “is the late Mr. Mukherjee K.C., and this is his son, Ashutosh, an artist living in Paris.”
The hostess sat down under a Tibetan thangka and re-counted anecdotes of her friends—Thambimuttoo, Editor, Poetry London, Dr. Mulk Raj Anand, Krishna Menon, and fellow Bengali, Mrs. Ella Reid.
“And what do you do at Cambridge, young man?” Mrs. Mukerji turned towards Cyril.
“East India Company’s administration, Ma’am,” he answered briefly. Somehow he was feeling cheated. The sultry siren hadn’t come after all.
“Oh!” Shunila Debi cried, “in that case you must see the documents I have—land deeds, etc., that John Company gave to my husband’s family in Rajshahi district, in East Bengal. They might be of some interest to you.”
Well, one could ignore the Pali prayer bit, the lady was transparently sincere. She may even tell him the whereabouts of the enchantress in red.
The next time Cyril came to London he realised he had lost Mrs. Mukerji’s phone number, but he decided to take a chance and call on her.
“The lady has gone to Paris to meet her son,” said Mr. Jenkins, the janitor and jovial one-armed ex-soldier. “She will also go to the Low Countries to see the Little Mustess—whoever they are!” And then it happened. The Ajanta painting (which now also looked somewhat like a Matisse), materialised then and there. Stepped out of the lift—as simple as that.
“Ah! Here comes the Maharani!” Mr. Jenkins exclaimed. Those were
the days when every well-dressed, sari-clad woman was taken to be an Indian princess. She beamed at Cyril in recognition, for she had seen him sitting uncomfortably on the floor at the Students’ Centre. They introduced themselves to each other informally, as students do.
“I came to see my friend, Kamala, of the Indian Foreign Service. She also lives in this building,” she informed him.
“You didn’t accompany us here that memorable evening.”
“I was in a hurry to go back to Paris—I’m studying at the Sorbonne,” she lied, compulsively.
Cyril detected a note of indifference in her voice, probably because she had noticed the plain gold ring on his finger.
“None of the Indian girls drank at Mrs. Mukerji’s place. Still very conservative, aren’t you, so I can’t ask you to have a drink with me before you leave.”
“I wouldn’t mind, but I’m afraid I’m in a hurry again. Some other time!” she answered politely. They walked to the Underground, she said goodbye and disappeared into the crowd.
A self-assured, modern young woman, and she wouldn’t mind a drink or two with friends. Must be Paris that does it. She’ll have to be chased, and she might even ignore the plain gold ring on his finger.
He went to Paris but couldn’t locate her at the Sorbonne. Ashutosh Mukherjee was of little help, but Cyril did find her eventually in Mrs. Shunila Mukerji’s salon in Chelsea one evening, and met her several times again over the year at Surekha Devi’s flat in St. John’s Wood.
He got to know Kamal Reza and the U.S. based Hari Shankar. Gautam Nilambar, the third of the trinity, had recently been transferred to Britain from Moscow, but Cyril had not met him yet. In his letter to Kingsley Martin this character had blamed the Muslim League entirely for Partition. Cyril Ashley did not agree.
He continued loitering under the international clock feeling rather foolish, and wondered idly if he had fallen in love with the exotic Champa of the Tropics.
47. Young Indians in Mid-century England
Nirmala was on her way to Fitzwilliam Library when she caught sight of Gautam.
“Nirmala! I have been looking for you everywhere . . . how are you?” he exclaimed, rushing down the road towards her. “I met a most formidable female professor in your college who was thoroughly unhelpful in tracking you down. How are you, Nirmal?”
She closed her eyes for an instant. This was Gautam who stood before her, talking to her excitedly.
“How do you happen to be here?” she asked.
“I’ve come from London to see you.”
“I believe you are in regular foreign service now.”
“That’s right.”
“Enjoying life?”
“Hmm . . .”
The conversation came to an abrupt end. Gautam noted that Nirmala was no longer a chatterbox—she had become serious, sober, quiet. “Come along, Kamal told me he would meet us at the Koh-i-Noor,” he said.
Students in flapping black gowns were passing by. She gestured towards them, saying “That’s Denis . . . That one is Cyril, the good-looking blond fellow, he’s the son of a lord and Champa Baji’s new boyfriend. She often comes here from London to meet him. They’re referred to as Nabob Cyril and his Bibi after the famous painting of his ancestor and his Indian common-law wife.”
Gautam looked shocked. After a pause he asked, “So has she found love and happiness at last?”
Nirmala gave a short laugh. “I remember there was an English or American movie called It’s Love I’m After—we went to see it at the Plaza in Hazrat Ganj. Boys at the University used to give new year titles to the girls, and that year Champa Baji was given the title: ‘It’s Love I’m After’! Once she even became a sort of jogan. She let her hair fall over her shoulders and wore an ochre sari—that phase lasted a couple of months.” Gautam remained silent.
“I have a feeling,” Nirmala was saying, “that Champa Baji will eventually become like Mrs. Shunila Mukerji. Do you know Mrs.Mukerji?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Time cheats us outright and goes on cheating us,” said Nirmala. “Shunila Debi must have been an unusually attractive woman twenty years ago. Men used to consider it a privilege if she spoke a few words to them; now she’s a lonely old lady who rounds up young men and takes them home for fish curry. Time betrayed her.”
A drop of rain fell on her eyes. She wiped her face with her handkerchief and continued: “For Champa Baji, this is the era of the Hon’ble Cyril Ashley, son of Lord Barnfield. Just as you were the son of Sir Deep Narain, and Amir of Sir Zaki Reza.”
“Nirmal, you’re being very unfair to Champa,” Gautam said quietly.
“No, Gautam, this is a fact. Champa Baji has been disappointed and she has disappointed us, too. The other day Kamal was saying, how is it that Champa has slowly lost her magic? And Talat said rightly, Champa Baji is the same, we have grown up.”
Gautam looked at her ruefully. Nirmal continued, “She was in Paris and left whatever she was doing to come here. Now she’s trying to get into Girton. She can’t seem to decide anything about herself. I think she’s one of those people who need some kind of emotional support.”
The sound of a trumpet rose from Jesus Lane. Gautam stopped walking.
“I don’t know who it is,” said Nirmala, “he often plays very sad tunes.” A shower of rain had made her hair wet. “Amir is also in London, has come here as a Pakistani diplomat. Nowadays he’s busy showing his water colours to Roshan Ara.” They had reached Koh-i-Noor. “Gautam,” Nirmal asked thoughtfully, “why are people so second rate?” He kept quiet. A group of undergrads passed by.
“Nirmal,” Gautam stopped again.
“Yes?”
“Will you marry me?”
“No.”
“Why? Nirmal—” The words choked in his throat.
“Because,” she said in a very clear and deep voice, “you are second rate, too. Come, let’s go inside.”
Nirmal had really grown up. They entered the restaurant.
Roshan Ara Kazmi met Commander Amir Reza on a bright and sunny Id day on the lawns of Woking Mosque. The place was swarming with the small Muslim community that lived in and around London, mostly from India and Pakistan. A few English girls who had married Muslim students were dressed self-consciously in bright saris or shalwar-kameez. There was that special happiness in the air which Muslims experience in abundance on no other festival as they do on Id-ul-Fitr. Roshan had come from Cambridge with her friends and was introduced to Amir Reza by a common acquaintance. Amir was elegantly dressed in a grey suit and black lambskin qaraquli called a Jinnah cap. Jawaharlal Nehru, who was a product of U.P.’s Indo-Muslim feudal culture, had made the black sherwani and white churidar pajama (basically the formal upper-class Muslim dress) the Indian diplomats’ attire. The Pakistanis had to be different—therefore they continued to wear western dress.
Roshan had acquired a string of Commonwealth scholarships and was tipped to become a formidable professor in the future. However, she was instantly captivated by Amir Reza, and then her intellect was of no help. While she was talking to him Talat came along, her Lukhnawi gharara rustling on the English grass.
“Adab, Bhaiya Saheb, Id mubarak,” she said zestfully. Kamal followed her. Both of them had met Roshan in Cambridge. There was an exchange of pleasantries and small talk.
“Oh, Sir Feroze Khan Noon and Lady Afternoon are here! Must go and say Id mubarak to them. Excuse me,” Amir Reza walked away hurriedly.
“And pray who is Lady Afternoon?” asked Aley Hasan of the BBC Hindi Section, who had joined them.
“Sir Feroze’s second wife, Austrian lady,” Talat informed him. “Sir Feroze Khan Noon said in a speech the other day in London, that we Muslims produced such great men as Chengiz Khan and Halaku Khan. The poor fellow doesn’t know that they were not Muslim!”
Kamal and Aley Hasan laughed.
Roshan didn’t like the leader of her country and his wife being ridiculed by Indians. She kept quiet. But she was puzz
led by the abrupt departure of the fabulous Commander.
“Why did he leave in such a hurry?” she asked Talat.
Talat grinned. “See, we are Bharatis, and he belongs to Pakistan’s armed forces, therefore he avoids us if he can.”
“Why should he do that? You wouldn’t try to steal defence secrets from him, would you?”
“Roshan—do you have a divided family? I mean, close relatives who are divided between India and Pakistan?”
“No, I am a native of Lahore.”
“So you won’t understand this dilemma, and anyway we belong to Nehru’s India. We give a sort of complex to people like Cousin Amir,” Talat added loftily.
“Oof, this is the kind of holier-than-thou attitude of you Indians that we resent,” Roshan Kazmi said, frowning. She ambled away, crossed the lawn and joined the little group which had surrounded Sir Feroze and Lady Noon. Amir led her gallantly towards the tea stalls.
Talat laughed. “Kamman, do you see what I see?”
“Yeah.”
“I think she will do. He is getting on and he needs a doting wife. She was absolutely goggle-eyed.”
“Don’t start match-making, for god’s sake.”
“Nothing could be more auspicious than today for this,” Talat replied cheerily.
Champa was sharing a broken-down flat with Comrades June Carter and Neil Brigg, both of whom had been introduced to her by Cyril. June was teaching some obscure Slavonic language at the University, Neil was an engineer. Both were members of the Communist Party of Great Britain. On weekends the comrades got together at Feroze’s or Surekha’s place and talked till the early hours of the morning. Champa didn’t meet Gautam anywhere—she heard that he had become an important person and was always extremely busy. Kamal was at Cambridge, Hari Shankar was posted to New York.
On the first day of her job as reader in a small publishing house, she woke up at six in the morning and quickly got ready. The ever-helpful Mrs. Shunila Mukerji had found her this job.
After gulping down a cup of tea she dashed out and boarded a bus for Maida Vale. She had met Bill Craig several times but had never seen Shanta. Mrs. Nilambar, too, had surfaced in London—she had left her husband, come to Britain to get her novel published and was living with Bill because divorce was not yet allowed by Hindu law.
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