Maharaja : [Interrupting] Bubble-gum for their brats.
Mrs Schneiderman : I declare I’ve never heard so much ungrateful talk in all my life.
Mr Schneiderman : That’s okay, honey. Let ’em talk away. That’s all some people can do. When somebody whips them they’ll come running back to ole Uncle Sam. Like the Indians did when the Chinese took their pants off, when was it?
Mathur : 1962. But, Mr Schneiderman, they stabbed us in the back.
Mr Schneiderman : Somebody is always stabbing somebody else in the back. It’s like your man-eating tiger. Crawl up from behind, crouch, then spring to make the kill.
Mathur : You are right. The price of liberty is eternal vigilance.
Maharaja : A very original thought, Mr Mathur. I believe I read it first in an ancient Sanskrit classic. We understand there is some plan to ‘vacate this agression’, as it is usually expressed in bureaucratic jargon, without external assistance!
Mathur : [Angrily] Every inch of the soil of our motherland is sacred to those who love it.
Conran-Smith : [Imitating Gujarati accent] Jai Hind phor that.
[Fade in sounds of drum beating, the clanging of brass cymbals, and people yelling. The group in the foyer listens.]
Mathur : Chowkidar, what is that noise?
[Noise becomes louder]
Commissionaire : Sahib, I think someone has seen the body of the dead woman. The villagers must be going out to recover it.
Maharaja : The moral is, in the event of danger, face it all together.
Conran-Smith : Who is for joining the hunt? [Gets up, picks up tape-recorder] What a wonderful recording it will make! The world in arms against the man-eater.
Maharaja : They are not on a tiger hunt; they only want to reclaim the body of the dead woman.
Mr Schneiderman : Or whatever remains of it. Ugh!
Mrs Schneiderman : How horrible! Wouldn’t it be wiser to forget about it? What’s the sense of having half of someone you love? It will haunt the minds of the family for the rest of their days, won’t it?
Mr Schneiderman : Besides, if that old tiger is robbed of its supper, it will soon be looking for someone else to eat, won’t it?
Maharaja : You are right, Mr Schneiderman. It will have to make another kill soon.
Conran-Smith : Perhaps one of us may have to provide him his tiffin. That’ll be jolly, won’t it?
Mathur : I do not like this at all. Miss Ahmed, do try and get the police inspector on the phone.
Receptionist : I’ll try, sir, but . . .
Maharaja : I am sure he has taken his family to see some film with a highly religious, moral theme. Try the cinemas in the town. Relax everyone. We have been told it is a holiday. Even the tiger respects government orders: he made the kill on a working day. If you disturb him on a holiday, his temper may be worse than that of a government official on a Sunday afternoon.
Mathur : For people like you and Mr Conran-Smith, nothing is right with this country. That is because neither your kind, the princes, nor his, the British, count for a copper naya paisa. Thank god for that.
Conran-Smith : Amen.
Maharaja : Ameen—that’s the same in this part of the world.
Mr Schneiderman : Really, what kind of people are you? Here we are in a booby trap and all you can do is talk, talk and more talk. You Indians must be the biggest gas-bags in the world.
Maharaja : How right you are, Mr Schneiderman. Didn’t you know that humbug is our biggest earner of foreign exchange? And the Americans are our best customers.
Mr Schneiderman : I don’t buy any of your spiritual poppycock nor your yogi’s meditations. You ask foreigners to visit your country so you can get their money. You put them in a goddamn fox-hole in a goddamn jungle and yak, yak, yak.
Mrs Schneiderman : Why, Alfie! What’s the matter with you, honey? Did you clear your stomach this morning? Lemme see your tongue.
Mr Schneiderman : O shut up! You make me sick. I’ll say what I like. I am a free citizen of a free country. Why, if this was in the United States I would simply have to buzz for the police or the fire brigade and they would settle this man-eater’s wagon in a jiffy—bang, bang, bang—and leave me his skin to make a nice rug.
Maharaja : Exactly as they are doing in Vietnam. Bang, bang, and more bang. But no dead man-eater, no tiger skin for a nice rug.
Mr Schneiderman : There you go again! More cunning yak yak. Why don’t you Indians do something about those darned Commies? If they win, you’re next on their list. But all you can do is to criticize those who try to do the job for you.
Conran-Smith : How right you are. Didn’t you know the Indians’ genius to get other people to do their work? [In sing-song]
‘Pick up the white man’s burden. Send forth the best ye breed.’
A bard of the name of Kipling wrote that for his Empire-building compatriots. But now we’ve had our run we pass the baton to you. We hand over the care of ‘the lesser breeds without the law’. Black, brown and yellow, they are all yours. Save them from each other and from other man-eaters. Of course, in the process you may have to eat them up yourself.
Mr Schneiderman : I don’t go with this kind of clever anti-American talk. As Babette said, it’s not nice.
Conran-Smith : As I have already admitted, I am not a nice man.
Maharaja : I am sure most people would agree with your opinion of yourself.
[Sounds of yelling, drums, cymbals. Roar of tiger retreating. Wailing of women.]
Mathur : Chowkidar, what are they wailing about?
Commissionaire : Sahib, it is very bad. They must have found the woman’s corpse.
Mathur : Why is it very bad?
Commissionaire : Well, Sahib, it is simple commonsense. If the tiger is still hungry, it must kill someone else for its food.
Act Three
Scene 1
(Time: Afternoon of second day.
Scene: Same as in Acts I and II.
The trellis gate is drawn. When the curtain rises only the Receptionist is at her desk. Conran-Smith comes into the foyer.)
Conran-Smith : I cannot believe my eyes: a lonely, luscious bait for the ravenously hungry British lion. Not even the hirsute huntsman with his antique bundook on his lowly machan.
Receptionist : Sardool Singh has gone to the village to see if he can get beaters. He thinks they will help flush out the tiger and he may get a pot-shot at the beast.
Conran-Smith : With that Mutiny model blunderbuss! He must be an ass.
Receptionist : You know what these Sikhs are! Once they get a notion in their heads it is impossible to get it out.
Conran-Smith : I bet he’d rather face the man-eater than his brown Burra Sahib.
Receptionist : Give it to him, he is doing his bit, which is more than can be said of the others—not excluding present company.
Conran-Smith : What do you expect us to do? Offer ourselves as sacrifice to the tiger of Goddess Durga? You sound like the Roman pagans amusing themselves watching wild beasts devour Christians. I am not a Christian. I regret I cannot provide you with the same ghoulish pleasure. I have much to live for: amongst other things, you
Receptionist : All of us have someone or something to justify our desire for immortality.
Conran-Smith : What change of heart the mere passage of three watches wrings! Only yesternight when I sought to venture forth into the jaws of the man-eater, the figure of an angel barred my way. ‘This is the angel of life,’ I cried. ‘She bids me live and love.’ The same figure now orders me to my doom. It must be the angel of death. So be it.
Receptionist : Shut up! I do not mean anything of the sort—and you know it. All I ask is, ‘Here we are in this mess. What is anyone doing about it?’ Only an illiterate, retired sepoy has had the nerve to try. Neither Schniederman nor the Maharaja, nor Mathur nor indeed Shri Jack Conran-Smith.
Conran-Smith : What an indictment! Anyhow, where is everyone?
Receptionist : Mathur was sitting here a m
oment ago. When the Schneidermans asked for soda and ice to be sent to their room, he went back to his.
[Taps bell]
Conran-Smith : No Americans, no free Scotch or bourbon for the tired Indian civilian . . . what?
[Bearer appears]
Receptionist : Ice and two bottles of soda in the Burra Sahib’s room. [Bearer nods and goes back] He will have to do with his own Indian whisky. Poor man.
Conran-Smith : Bloody awful stuff. I’d rather drink water from the holy Ganga and get dysentery than drink Indian whisky and get a hangover.
Receptionist : Scratch a Britisher and you’ll find an India—hater. Some of our stuff is as good as any in the world—all it needs is time to mature. I am sure in a few years people won’t be able to tell our whisky from the best produce of Scotland.
Conran-Smith : Jai Hind phor that! Scratch an Indian and you’ll find a patriotic tub-thumper. You almost sound like your boss. [Imitating Mathur’s voice and accent] ‘In the fifth Five Year Plan we propose to put up a distillery to produce instantly matured whisky. Purely for export,-mind you. Drinking is against our national tradition.’
[Bearer passes through with tray bearing ice and soda]
Conran-Smith : Bearer, one moment please. [Conran-Smith puts ‘Dry Day’ sign on the tray] Tell the Burra Sahib this is with the compliments of the ‘Father of the Nation’.
Receptionist : No, no, bearer. Put the notice back in its place. [Bearer obeys] You want to have me sacked? I do not think Mr Mathur suffers from an acute sense of humour.
Conran-Smith : A very British understatement. Bearer, tell the Burra Sahib that the American Sahib and his wife would like him to join them for a drink in their room. [Turning to Receptionist] I hate to see a civil servant go thirsty. That should also keep them out of the way for a while. And, Bearer, take a glass of mango juice for the Maharaja. I’ll sign for it. [Bearer nods and returns to get juice] We can have a few moments to ourselves.
Receptionist : The great messiah of love can’t stand many people, can he?
Conran-Smith : I hate people who hate people like me.
Receptionist : Most people hate those who hate them. You are no different.
Conran-Smith : Hate is too strong a word; I don’t really hate anyone. I simply cannot suffer some kinds: bores like the Schneidermans, smart alecs like the Maharaja, pipsqueaks like Mathur. I do not object in the slightest to the Yasmeen Ahmeds of the world.
Receptionist : [Bowing] How very, very generous of you, Mr Conran-Smith.
Conran-Smith : [Bowing, hi haw-haw accent] Not at all m’deah! Besides, wanting to be alone with someone you love does not mean you hate others. [Pause in dialogue. Conran-Smith lights his pipe]
Receptionist : Jack, that poem you put on tape—you know the one I mean? Something about love waking men once a lifetime each?
Conran-Smith : Oh yeah—I don’t remember who wrote it.
Receptionist : It’s lovely, but not really true, is it?
Conran-Smith : Of course not! Love wakes men many times in their sordid lives. They fall in and out of love all the time.
Receptionist : [Sighing] I thought so. I wonder if the poet had in mind some other kind of love.
Conran-Smith : What do you mean ‘some other kind of love’?
Receptionist : I don’t know, except that he could not have been writing of the love of a man for a woman. Maybe he was thinking of an all-consuming passion. Some other-worldly love which gives life a fresh orientation, without which living on would be living without meaning or purpose.
Conran-Smith : Fiddle-sticks!
Receptionist : I beg your pardon!
Conran-Smith : Fiddle-sticks, tommy-rot and poppy-cock—all signifying the same thing. Something which adds up to nothing.
[Sounds of villagers jabbering. Sardool Singh’s voice asks them to wait and keep quiet]
Conran-Smith : Here comes the hairy re-incarnation of Vishnu, the Preserver. Please enquire of him in a language he understands what steps have been taken to ensure the continuance of our earthly existence against the devilish machinations of the man-eater.
Receptionist : Sardool Singh, did you have any luck with the villagers?
Commissionaire : [Wagging his head] No, Miss Sahibji, they are an ignorant lot. Would you believe that when they went to recover the body of the woman one of them shot an arrow into the tiger. You know what a wounded tiger is like, don’t you! Now they are huddled together in the panchayat ghar. They have lit fires all around and are beating drums and yelling to keep away the tiger. When I finally got the ear of the elders, they abused me and everyone else they could think of. They will not act as beaters for me alone: I am like one of them. You know what they say? They say we have sacrificed one life. It is the turn of the big Sahibs in the hotel. What do you say to that, Miss Sahibji?
[Lights begin to dim to create effect of twilight]
Receptionist : Surely, Sardool Singh, they don’t really mean that! This sacrifice business sounds quite silly to me.
Commissionaire : Of course, Miss Sahib, they exaggerate. What they really mean is that the Sahibs in the hotel must help them. That is why they have come with me.
Conran-Smith : My Hindustani is not very good, but am I correct in understanding that the villagers want one of us to go and kill the wounded man-eater?
Receptionist : That is the general idea. They are willing to do their bit if the big Sahibs can lead them.
Conran-Smith : Preposterous nonsense!
Receptionist : [After a pause] Well, Jack, shall we tell them to go back to their houses and fend for themselves?
Conran-Smith : Why don’t we put it to the little Lok Sabha of Hotel Wild Life?
Receptionist : Sardool Singh, ask the villagers to wait till the Sahibs have had time to discuss the matter.
Commissionaire : Bahut accha, Miss Sahib.
[Fade in sounds of jungle, with bellowing of tiger first at a distance, getting nearer with each roar.]
Act Three
Scene II
(Time: Same night after dinner.
Scene: Same as before. The oil lamps are lit. In one corner near the Commissionaire’s seat, four villagers are huddled up beside him. The Receptionist is at her desk.
Sounds: Jungle noises and sounds of drums, yelling, etc. to be kept in background throughout.
Guests emerge from the dining-room, led by Mathur and Schneiderman, both smoking cigars. Schneiderman has a bottle of cognac in his hand. They pause before coming to the foyer.)
Mathur : Mr Schneiderman, you should read the Gita—I think, everyone should read the Gita. It is the philosophy of Nishkama Karma.
Mr Schneiderman : The philosophy of what?
[Conran-Smith joins them]
Mathur : Nishkama Karma—it implies that a man’s duty is to put in his best effort without seeking the fruits of his labours.
Conran-Smith : Sounds like some kind of birth control device—do all you can without worrying about the results.
Mr Schneiderman : That’s a dumb thing to say when somebody’s talking of his holy book! Don’t you have any respect for any religion?
Conran-Smith : Nope, not one. But I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Mr Mathur. Please tell Mr Schneiderman what the Gita says.
Mathur : Mr Conran-Smith, you mock at everything. You should read the Gita, it may change your views on life.
Conran-Smith : I have no desire to change my views on life. A man has but one. I believe in living that life to the full—and no matter what any prophet, messiah, redeemer or guru or holy book of any religion says to the contrary I will stick to my views.
Mathur : Certainly man lives but one life—also man dies but once. The Gita tells us how we should die in the performance of our duties.
[Others come out of the dining-room]
Mr Schneiderman : I can’t get on with this high falutin’ talk. Let’s have some coffee and cognac. Miss Ahmed, could you ask the bearer to get us brandy glasses when he brings in the co
ffee?
Receptionist : Certainly, sir. [Taps bell]
Mathur : [Seeing the villagers who stand up and salaam] Chowkidar, who are these people? What business have they in the hotel?
Receptionist : [Intervening] Sir, they are from Badi where the woman was killed. They have come for help. They are frightened so I let them sit inside the trellis gate till you had spoken to them.
Mathur : What am I supposed to do? Go and kill the tiger with my bare hands?
Maharaja : I thought I heard somebody say ‘man dies but once’ and how we should die in the performance of our duty, it would seem as if some people’s only role in life was to preach sermons.
Mathur : It would seem as if some person’s only role in life is to be sarcastic about everyone else.
Mrs Schneiderman : Now, now, now. I wish you men would stop sniping at each other.
[Bearer brings in tray of coffee and brandy glasses]
Mrs Schneiderman : Let’s have coffee in peace. Yasmeen dear, you mind serving it? I don’t feel up to it.
Receptionist : Certainly, Madam. I hope you are feeling well.
Mrs Schneiderman : I am all right—really. Just a little tired. Nerves, you know. All this talk about man-eaters and death. And of course I haven’t slept a wink for the last twenty-four hours. I don’t suppose anyone except my Alfie has had any sleep.
Mr Schneiderman : [Holding up bottle of brandy] Cognac anyone?
Mathur : It is very good brandy. You must be a connosheear.
Mr Schneiderman : A what?
Maharaja : Mr Mathur means connoisseur.
Mr Schneiderman : I don’t know what that means, but I do know a good brandy from a bad one. [Pours it for Mathur] Maharaja, won’t you change your mind? It’s good stuff.
Maharaja : I might try a little. Thank you, Mr Schneiderman. [Holds up his glass]
Mr Schneiderman : You, Mr Smith?
Conran-Smith : I could do with a man-size dollop tonight.
Mr Schneiderman : [Pouring it for Conran-Smith] After the rude things you’ve been saying, I hope you get properly pickled. I am forgetting my manners. Pardon me ladies, can I tempt you with the grape? A few drops won’t do you any harm.
Not a Nice Man to Know Page 50