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APPEARANCES CAN BE DECEPTIVE
I entered a restaurant in Delhi at the in-between hour of four in the afternoon; in-between, because it was an hour too late for lunch and an hour too early for evening tea. The restaurant was deserted, except for three men dressed in dark suits, sitting together at one table, and a white woman, in blue jeans and a white T-shirt, sitting by herself at another. The woman had a backpack that lay on the chair to her right, which led me to conclude that she was a tourist.
Half the restaurant was closed. There was one waiter on duty - a young man in his early twenties, wearing dark trousers and a yellow tunic buttoned to the neck. He was probably the restaurant's newest employee. The rest of the staff was enjoying their siesta.
I sat down at a table, next to the three men, and ordered. While I waited for my food, the tourist paid her bill and started poring over a map of Delhi. She studied it for several minutes. Then, clearly unable to fathom it, she approached the three men at the table adjoining mine and asked them for directions in a Midwestern accent. Having heard the men converse for the past several minutes, I could tell they were not too conversant with English. So I was not surprised to see her inquiry going nowhere. I waited for her to come to me. But she did not. Instead, she stood around, gazing at the door to the kitchen through which the waiter had disappeared a few minutes ago.
Presently the waiter returned. But he couldn't help her any more than the three men. His English wasn't much better than theirs. Finally, I rose and walked over to her and told her exactly how to get to where she was going.
She looked at me from head to toe. I was dressed in a white kurta and pyjama. Over my kurta, I wore a grey Nehru jacket.
"You speak English?" she said.
"Appearances can be deceptive," I told her.
***
DASH ME, CHIEF
My father was the youngest of seven brothers. When I was born, he was over forty and my mother was pushing forty. Consequently, all my cousins are a good deal older than myself. In fact, they are old enough to be my parents.
My cousin sister Saroj is in her mid-sixties. A retired English teacher, she and her husband, a doctor, spent most of the 1970s working in Nigeria. When I met them on this trip to Delhi, they reminisced about their years in Nigeria.
‘There is a lot of graft in Nigeria,’ Saroj said. ‘To get just about anything done you have to pay.’
‘Sounds just like India,’ I said.
‘No, it is different from India.’
‘How come?’
‘Well, one they are open about it. In India there is a lot of hypocrisy. Everyone pretends to be honest, when all the time they can't wait to get their hands in your pockets. But in Nigeria, right away they say, ‘Dash me, chief.’
‘Dash me, chief?’
‘Yes, that means give me some money. And do you know why they are so corrupt? They believe that whatever you have in this life, you will have the same in the next.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
Well, that is different. In India graft very much signifies a desire to live better in this life, rather than the next. According to Hinduism, how you live this life determines where you end up in the next. And since greed is one of the deadliest sins, taking graft is a sure step towards purgatory.
***
A MATTER OF HAIR
In the departure lounge of the international airport in Dubai, I met Mohinder Singh - a Sikh taxi driver from Los Angeles. We were both waiting for our connecting flight to Delhi. Mohinder was going home to attend his sister's wedding. He confessed he was scared about going to India. When I asked him why, he explained it was all a matter of hair.
He said, in the wake of September 11, he had been beaten up three times in Los Angeles. His assailants had mistaken him for a Muslim, due to his turban and beard. Finally, he cut his hair and shaved off his beard. But he didn't tell his family in India. Being devout Sikhs, they would be offended to learn that he had behaved in such a sacrilegious manner.
But now he didn't think he could keep the secret any longer. Although he was wearing a red turban, he had very little hair under it. Stroking the light stubble on his cheeks, he said, ‘In America they beat me up for having hair. In India they will beat me up for not having hair.’
***
TSUNAMI
India saw a rather belated New Year's Eve. The hotels and clubs cancelled their New Year bashes. The parties were decidedly low-key. Even the firecrackers going off at midnight were subdued. Instead, people were riveted to news of the tsunami that hit South Asia early in the morning on December 26.
As one horrifying detail piled on to another, people rallied to the aid of tsunami victims. Donations, both small and large, poured into the Prime Minister's Relief Fund, as well as the donation boxes set up at shops and petrol stations. Governmental and non-governmental organizations rushed out food and medicine. Sports bodies organized charity matches. In the media, there were reports of similar initiatives being undertaken, on behalf of tsunami victims, in places as far away as Sweden, Italy and Alabama.
Every so often, nature humbles us with the ferocity of its fury. It blunts our arrogance, reminding us that we exist on this planet at its pleasure, and acquaints us with our frailty as human beings, with the thunderclap of an epiphany. In the process, it activates a humanity lying dormant inside us.
***
Vikram Kapur is currently working towards a PhD in Creative and Critical Writing at the UEA. He has published two novels, Time is a Fire available via this link to Amazon, and The Wages of Life as well as a number of short stories.
Illustration by Steve Appleton for Sub G
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