[Polite laughter]
Mathur : Drinking is not in our tradition, Mr Schneiderman. Mahatma Gandhi, Father of our nation, considered it a great sin. We are hoping that by the end of the next Five Year Plan, most of India will be dry.
Mr Schneiderman : [Produces a hip-flask and places it next to sign saying ‘Dry Day’] I hope you won’t object to my having some cognac with my coffee. Your Highness, it’s three-star Napolean.
Maharaja : Thank you very much Mr Schneiderman, I don’t drink.
Mr Schneiderman : You, sir, with the double-barrelled name.
Conran-Smith : If you mean me, the answer is no. I do not imbibe liquor. I prefer to smoke pot—guaranteed to produce visions of Valhalla, guaranteed to make you high without producing a hangover. Non-habit forming, much more fun than any three-hundred star brandy. And taken by the greatest people in the world. I am afraid I cannot offer it to anyone, too expensive and forbidden by the law. [Proceeds to light his pipe]
Maharaja : Bravo, Mr Conran-Smith! Freedom to break the law shall hereafter be recognized as a fundamental right of the greatest people in the world. [Conran-Smith bows]
Mr Schneiderman : Mister Mathoor, I take it you won’t jail me for taking a few drops of brandy?
Mathur : Ha! Ha! Just to prove that we are not a narrow-minded people I will join you—but very little, just a tear drop, as the French say.
Maharaja : Shabash Mathur Sahib! You maintain the honoured tradition of the Civil Service which considers itself above the law. Besides, Mahatma Gandhi, Father of our nation, said it’s the spirit and not the letter of the law that matters. And I am sure Mr Schneiderman’s cognac is excellent spirit.
Mathur : [Ignoring Maharaja’s sarcasm] Mrs Schneiderman, you must visit some of our great dams. ‘Temples of New India’, as our late Prime Minister Mr Nehru called them. In the current Five Year Plan . . .
Mrs Schneiderman : Coffee everyone? Do forgive my interruption—please go on with your temples. We saw some very nice old ones at Konarak and Khajuraho. Alfie was quite excited by them, weren’t you, Alfie?
Mr Schneiderman : Jesus! Never seen anything like it in all my sixty years. For making love, give it to the Hindoo. Standing up, sitting down, lying on a bed of nails, from the front, from the rear . . .
Mrs Schneiderman : That’s enough, Alfie! You don’t have to go into the details.
Mr Schneiderman : But really! How many ways of doing a woman does the Hindoo bible on sex mention . . . Sixty-nine?
Conran-Smith : It doesn’t matter how many ways they catalogue. You take it from me, Mr Schneiderman, they don’t know the first thing about love or sex. Where in this benighted country does one find a place without a hundred eyes peering at you? Can you make love in public? I ask you.
Maharaja : You sound like a very frustrated lover, Mr Conran-Smith.
Conran-Smith : Indeed I am. Hence I seek the solitude of a Himalayan jungle.
Mrs Schneiderman : I am not being anti-Indian or anything like that, but I do remember reading in a journal that Indians make lousy lovers. Alfie, you remember the name of the American girl who wrote the article?
Mr Schneiderman : No I don’t, but she must have been quite a girl.
Maharaja : Remarkable achievement! Discovering the sexual potential of 500 million people would take many ages! But for instant research, give it to the Americans. Don’t you agree, Mr Mathur?
Mathur : I am sorry I do not like this kind of sexy talk in the presence of ladies. [Turning to Mrs Schneiderman] I was not talking of those kinds of temples; I meant the wonderful new things coming up in India—like our big steel plants at Durgapur, Rourkela and Bhilai.
Maharaja : One built by the British, one by the Russians, one by the Germans.
Mathur : Foreign aid is useful.
Maharaja : [In response to Mrs Schneiderman holding up coffee and cream jug] Fifty-fifty.
Mathur : Yes, fifty-fifty but no strings attached, mind you . . .
Maharaja : I meant coffee and cream, Mr Mathur, not foreign aid. Do go on.
Mathur : Our economy will soon become self-expanding. You see, Mr Schneiderman, India is not properly understood abroad. Our propaganda is not very effective.
Maharaja : Famines make better stories than Five Year Plans.
Mathur : I do not care what you or anybody else says. I know India’s millions are on the march. India will soon rise and become the leader of the free nations of the world.
Conran-Smith : [Loudly humming the Internationale] Indians of the world arise, you have nothing to lose but your loin cloths.
Maharaja : That will not help our family planning programmes, will it, Mr Mathur?
Mathur : All people like you can do is to make fun of everything. Even our birth control plans are forging ahead. In the next Five Year Plan . . .
Mr Schneiderman : [Turning to Receptionist] Come and join us for coffee. We can’t have you standing there looking at us.
Receptionist : No thank you, sir, I am on duty.
Mrs Schneiderman : Come on, honey!
Conran-Smith : [Getting up and drawing up a chair] Remember the Indian maxim, Guest is God! The gods order you to have coffee with them.
[All men except Mathur stand up]
Mrs Schneiderman : How do you like it, my dear?
Receptionist : Just black, Mrs Schneiderman.
Maharaja : Must be very lonely for you in this jungle.
Mr Schneiderman : ‘Queen of the Himalayan jungle’: What do you think of that as a title for a movie?
Conran-Smith : ‘The lonely lovely Queen of a lonely lovely forest’. Too long to be a title of anything, but very true.
[Laughter. Mr Schneiderman slaps Conran-Smith on his shoulder]
Mathur : This is no laughing matter. I will transfer her to another station. [Turning to Receptionist] Remind me about it when I get back to Delhi; I will pass orders.
Receptionist : I am very happy here, sir.
Mathur : That has nothing to do with it. A jungle is not a suitable station for a lady. Have you made arrangements to take us on a sightseeing tour?
Receptionist : Yes, sir. We have a jeep fitted with searchlights. Sardool Singh will escort you. He knows the jungle well. As soon as you have finished your coffee.
Mr Schneiderman : And our cigars. [Taking tubes out of his pocket] Anyone care for a genuine Havana? Can’t get them back home—thanks to Comrade Fidel Castro. You, sir, Maharaja of whatever-it-is?
Maharaja : No, thank you, Mr Schneiderman. I do not smoke.
Mr Schneiderman : Hey what kind of Maharaja are you? You don’t drink, you don’t smoke. Next you’ll be telling us you don’t have a harem. How many wives do you have anyway?
Maharaja : Only one, Mr Schneiderman. By Maharaja’s standards I am almost a bachelor.
[All laugh]
Mathur : You see, the days of Maharajas with many wives are over. In new India . . .
Maharaja : It’s the days of ministers industrialists and civil servants with many mistresses.
[Louder laughter]
Mr Schneiderman : [To Conran-Smith] You Mr British Empire, cigar?
Conran-Smith : I’ve never smoked a Havana. I am sure it will improve with an injection of good Indian hashish. Thank you.
Mr Schneiderman : Mr Government of India!
Mrs Schneiderman : Don’t mind him, Mr Mathoor, he’s like that on one whisky.
Mathur : Not at all. I’ll try one if I may. Actually we make very good cigars in India. We have launched an export promotion scheme . . .
[Buzz on switchboard. Receptionist hurries to answer. Jungle noises begin to filter in—jackals, later tigers.]
Receptionist : Hotel Wild Life, good evening. Who? Yes . . . Yes . . . police station? Yes. Oh! . . . Oh, I see . . . Actually we were planning to . . . Yes, we have a retired soldier who has also been a shikari . . . Old hand but only an old blunderbuss . . . yes . . . I’ll let you know if anything happens. [Puts back receiver] [Addressing guests] Sir, a woman was l
ifted an hour ago in Badi village only half-a—mile from here.
Mathur : Lifted? Who lifted her?
Receptionist : A tiger. The police officer says it’s the third case this month. He says no one must go out at night; doors and windows must be kept shut. He says it’s a man-eater.
[Sounds of jungle are louder now—jackals howling, then roar of a tiger. Lights fade slowly. Commissionaire draws trellis gate from either side.]
Act One
Scene III
[Scene: Same as in Scenes I and II. Standard oil lamp is now shedding light on the table. Receptionist, in dressing gown is relaxing in armchair, with legs on table; she, is reading. A transistor on the table plays sitar music. Commissionaire is asleep on steps of the entrance, holding gun against his chest. Occasional snore. Jungle noises in the background.
Conran-Smith comes down with tape-recorder slung across shoulder.]
Conran-Smith : [Comes in reciting] ‘At night upon my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth. I sought him, but I found him not. I called him but he gave no answer. I will rise now and go about the city, in the streets and in the byways.’
Receptionist : [Startled] Good god! Don’t tell me you mean to go out in the jungle?
Conran-Smith : I do! To make the world’s first recording of a man-eater eating a woman.
Receptionist : That’s not funny. Besides, you cannot leave the hotel without my permission. I forbid it.
Conran-Smith : O Queen of the Himalayan jungle, your order will be obeyed. O Lovely Empress of Hearts, can’t you also command your slave to hold your beautiful hands?
Receptionist : Stop this tomfoolery. How insensitive can you be! Half-a-mile—perhaps only a few yards—from here a woman is lying dead, her husband and children wailing and the countryside petrified with fear. None of this seems to concern you in the slightest. What kind of man are you?
Conran-Smith : A very ordinary, average kind of man. I too live in fear—some of it real, most of it imaginary. Give in to fear and you’ve had it. Ignore it or pretend it does not exist and carry on the business of life. That’s my motto.
Receptionist : The business of life being smoking pot and making passes at women.
Conran-Smith : Precisely! Now may I take your hand in mine? [Extends hand]
Receptionist : [Slapping it] You may not. You do not realize I am on duty here and holding visitors’ hands is not a part of my duties.
Conran-Smith : Then we must get Mr Mathur to amend your job description. ‘In order to promote tourism during the fifth Five-Year Plan all lady receptionists will hereafter be expected to allow their hands to be held by visitors, and if further pressed, even allow them to be kissed’—signed A.N. Mathur for the Government of India. [Takes receptionist’s hand and kisses it. She does not withdraw hand]
Receptionist : O Jack, I wish you’d stop playing the buffoon sometime.
Conran-Smith : Do you still doubt that I love you? Do you want me to prove it by walking into the jaws of a man-eater?
Receptionist : You don’t know what the word ‘love’ means. Being in love and wanting to make love are not the same thing.
Conran-Smith : Conceded! But wanting to make love to the person you love is the ultimate expression of being in love. That represents the state of mind of Jack Conran-Smith towards Yasmeen Ahmed. Yasmeen, I love you and want to make love to you. Do you object?
Receptionist : I most certainly do. Love can’t be a one-way traffic. I also have to be in love to permit anyone to make love to me. And I am not sure if I am in love with you, Jack. At the moment I am only aware of your desire for me; it boosts my self-esteem; I feel grateful and am at times impelled to make some gesture to express my gratitude. Something tells me there should be more to love than that.
Conran-Smith : My dear young lady, do not despise desire; desire that gives birth to love is more than lusting after a body. It is designed by the gods to fulfil the greatest need of human beings, the need to fill the aching void, the utter loneliness that is within us. Haven’t you at times woken in the stillness of the night and heard a dog baying to the moon? [Imitates dog baying] Or heard a train go by from nowhere to nowhere? [Imitates siren of a locomotive and rhythmic patter of train’s wheels] And haven’t you suddenly felt absolutely alone in the huge, awesome, frightful world—so alone that it hurts? And haven’t you then wanted some one person to share that inner solitude? I call that desire love. It is that kind of love I have for you.
Receptionist : Thank you, Jack. You’ve almost talked me into it—but not quite. In any case how pointless it all is in the face of death. Death is real. That dead woman with her bones being crunched by the tiger is real. The sobbing of her children is real. Being in love or making love to someone you love and who loves you is trivial and unimportant.
Conran-Smith : It is not. It is the only answer to all the ills that beset our daily lives. All you have to do is to let me make love to you and you will see how quickly your fears of the world outside will be dissipated.
Receptionist : Rubbish! Again you equate love with lust. It’s like being drunk or stoned—only for a much shorter time.
Conran-Smith : You are wrong about the time. Love is like samsara of the Hindus. It is born, it dies only to be reborn again. It is reincarnated in different forms. It is the Creator, Preserver and Destroyer all rolled into one. What about that!
Receptionist : That is beyond me. In any case I am not Hindu. We Muslims are more earthy. We do not hold hands for spiritual communion. [Freeing her hand] What would Mr Mathur think if he were to come down now?
Conran-Smith : That’s all that worries you? What will people think. To hell with people who think ill of people in love! Down with everyone and everything! Up with Prophet Messiah Conran-Smith, hashish addict and master fornicator!
Conran-Smith : [Gets up, comes behind Receptionist’s chair, takes her in his arms and kisses her] Yasmeen Ahmed, I love you.
Receptionist : Coming from you love sounds like an obscene four-letter word. I cannot honestly say I mind very much. [Kiss again]
Enough of that. You better get back to your room—please!
Conran-Smith : Okay—let me just record your voice for keeps. If I cannot record a woman-eating tiger, I’ll settle for a man-eating tigress. [Opens tape-recorder]
Receptionist : Fi, Fie, Fo, Fum. I smell the blood of Englishmen. [Growls] I haven’t a very good voice and I have very little to say for myself.
Conran-Smith : The moving tape moves on, recording a pregnant silence.
Receptionist : Oh dear! Let me think. Perhaps a little poem.
‘Tyger, tyger burning bright
In the forest of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Framed thy fearful symmetry?’
Conran-Smith : Symmetraee, to rhyme with ‘eye’.
Receptionist : Symmetraee, ‘And what shoulder.
Conran-Smith : You are skipping a verse. ‘In what distant deeps or skies’.
Receptionist : Ah yes.
‘In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire
What the hand dare seize the fire?’
I don’t remember the rest except something about ‘stars throwing down their spears’ and ‘watering heaven with their tears’ . . . and, ‘twisting the sinews of the heart’.
Conran-Smith : [Switches off. Plays it back]
Receptionist : What an awful cackle!
Conran-Smith : That happens when human beings don’t speak straight . . . sounds like a debate of the United Nations, doesn’t it? Now listen.
[Plays back first verse]
Your voice is as beautiful as your face. I expect under your sari your body is more beautiful than either.
Receptionist : Lecherous bastard! I wonder how the legend of the English being cold-blooded was generated! You are the randiest nation on earth.
Conran-Smith : How true! For further proof of British randiness come to
Room Nine. [Takes her hand]
Please!
Receptionist : Certainly not. Go back to bed and get some sleep. [Frees her hand] I beg of you. Do not embarrass me any more.
Conran-Smith : [Taking her in his arms and kissing her] Yasmeen, I love you. Won’t you let me make love to you?
Receptionist : [Freeing herself and gently patting him on his beard] If I were really persuaded that your desire to make love is born of love I might—some day. Goodnight.
Conran-Smith : [Kisses her again] Goodnight. I’ll leave the recorder here. If you have nothing better to do you can listen to some of the animals’ calls I recorded, specially commend the mating call of the British lion. Goodnight. [Kisses her again]
[Exit. Receptionist resumes seat and fiddles with recorder. Enter Maharaja. Receptionist startled. Puts feet down from the table]
Maharaja : I am sorry to disturb you. Please, please do not get up. I thought I heard that English boy’s voice and came down to see if he was making a nuisance of himself.
Receptionist : [Switches off tape-recorder winding backwards] Not at all, Your Highness. He is a very nice young man—only a little crazy. He wanted to go out to record calls of wild animals. I refused to let him out. Do sit down, Your Highness. Can I make you a cup of coffee?
Maharaja : [Takes chair] No, thank you. No coffee. One can never be too sure of these evil-smelling, long-haired and bearded types who wear flowers and profess to make love all the time. ‘Make love not war’—sounds very nice and all that. If everyone went about making love, the world would be in a worse mess than it is today.
Receptionist : I don’t think they mean the messy kind of love, Your Highness. They say what men of god have been saying all along: Love is stronger than hate. Love makes for a better world.
Maharaja : Love might make for a better world but it is by no means stronger than hate. Hate rouses stronger passions than love; it produces the worst as well as the best in human beings. But all this is academic. As long as the destroyer is at large, someone must destroy him.
Not a Nice Man to Know Page 48