‘My dear departed father, God rest his soul, was a pillar of the church. And I in my turn have had the good fortune to follow in his footsteps. Are you a Christian?’
I toyed with the idea of telling him that I was an Arsenal supporter instead, but decided that it would be more tactful to lie.
‘Yes.’
‘C of E?’
I couldn’t quite remember what C of E stood for, but it was obvious that he wanted me to say yes, so I nodded.
‘Marvellous. What a happy coincidence. Allow me to introduce myself- Charles A. Tripathi, junior.’
He shook my hand.
‘I’m Dave. David.’
‘Delighted to meet you. Do you take tea?’
‘Um… I suppose so.’
‘Come to my house. It isn’t pleasant to be alone.’ I didn’t know whether this referred to me or to him, but I obeyed and followed him down the street. He turned off down a side-road, marching a few steps ahead of me and making no effort to converse.
Just as I was beginning to feel that I couldn’t go much further, we arrived at a tiny concrete house. He stood at the door and ushered me in.
As I entered, it occurred to me that this was the first home I had seen since arriving in India. I was surprised by how much it looked like an English one: TV set in the corner, a few chairs, a rug, pictures on the wall. Everything seemed pretty recognizable, really.
‘Sit, please,’ he said, indicating a chair. ‘Feel free to examine some of our literature.’ He pointed at a pile of leaflets on a coffee-table, then left the room.
I could hear him shouting things in Hindi, so I picked up a leaflet and started reading. The colours and typeface made it look like it had been printed in the seventies. On the front it said
I was in the process of retrieving my jaw from the coffee-table when Charles returned with a child dressed in rags. He shouted something at the kid, who started sweeping the floor under my feet with a long bundle of twigs. On another command, the kid ran out of the room.
‘Tea and cakes will be arriving presently,’ said Charles.
He remained standing and hovered around me nervously, while I sat in the chair riddling with the leaflet, trying to think of something to say.
After a while, seven or so smartly dressed children bundled into the room, pushing and shoving at each other to get a good view of me without getting too close.
‘These are my grandchildren. And if you don’t mind, they would like your autograph.’
‘My autograph?’
‘Exactly. A sample of your handwriting will be most educative.’
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that my handwriting had been bad at the age of ten, and in steady decline ever since. He passed me a pen and said something to them in Hindi. One by one, they came up to me and gave me a scrap of paper. I wrote my name and a little message for each of them, as neatly as I could, and gave each child a pat on the head.
The children then trooped out of the room and ran into the street, laughing.
‘You are a very kind man,’ said Charles. ‘I can tell already. Above and beyond the call of duty – this is your motto.’
‘Um… I suppose it is.’
‘And modest, too, of course. English schooling is still the best in the world, I am pleased to see.’
‘I’m not sure about that, you know.’
‘Come, come. You have made your point already. Grammar school or public school, I don’t even want to know which one. You have the mark of a gentleman stamped all over you.’
‘Thank you very much. And may I be permitted to say the same of you.’
Christ! I was beginning to talk like him.
‘I try my best. I try my best.’
At this point an old woman entered, carrying a tray of tea and some cakes so lurid it made my teeth ache just to look at them. She placed the tray in front of me, and retreated to the doorway.
‘My wife,’ said Charles.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said, with a little wave.
‘
I nodded and smiled back at her, then she left.
After this, Charles and I slowly ran out of conversation. I tried to ask about his family and his work, but I didn’t really get very much out of him. He kept giving short, awkward answers, as if my questions were either rude or boring. I knew this was my big chance to find out what it’s actually like to be an Indian, but I somehow never got very far.
When my attempt at conversation had run aground, he took over, and inflicted the usual job/marriage/home Tquestions on me. After that he bombarded me with endless inane crap about his position in the church and the success of the South India Mission. It was impossible to leave, and only when I was climbing the walls with boredom did I finally get out of his house.
Although we hadn’t really managed much of a conversation, and I’d been mostly bored out of my skull, I felt that the visit marked a significant and positive watershed. I had actually gone inside an Indian house. Gone inside, sat down and talked to a real Indian person.
Throughout my entire two-month stay, I’d been tantalized by occasional glimpses into people’s houses and had always wondered what it really looked like inside. Previously, I’d never been able to get beyond the odd glance through a window or door, but now I’d actually broken through. I had seen the real India. I had discovered how people lived.
Suddenly, everything else I had done in India seemed totally superficial. I’d just sat around in hotels and talked to other travellers. I’d been wasting my time. Igor was right -1 hadn’t actually seen
That evening I ate my first proper meal since the dog-burger. A couple of months ago I would have been unlikely to describe squidgy lentils dribbled over a lump of coagulated rice as a proper meal, but in the context, this was the most challenging thing my guts had attempted for quite some time.
After a few grumbles of objection, I felt my stomach reluctantly accept the extra workload. My food no longer seemed to float inside me, ready to hurl itself out of my mouth at a moment’s notice, but actually settled down and gave the impression that it was willing to be digested. If I could just get the passing-through time to more than ten minutes, I felt I might be able to derive enough benefit from my food to begin to get some strength back.
After having eaten as much as I could force down, I scanned the hotel dining room for someone to talk to. People came and went, but I couldn’t help feeling that everyone was ignoring me. I sat there for at least an hour,
