Chapter 6-

The Eternal Silence of These Infinite Crowds...

WHEN VISITING in England, I was almost always accompanied by an English friend, and, if not, I was furnished with introduc- tions. Therefore the question of worming my way through the notorious English reserve' did not arise in my case. I was not wholly reassured, however, by the easy clearing of the first hurdle, and feared that difficulties might crop up at a later stage, for among us in India the coldness comes after and not before the introduction. It is practised in the interest of a salutary peck order in the upper strata of our society. But in England I came across no chilliness or formality, and was never put in my place even by important people. I shall speak about this later. Here I am con- cerned only with the public behaviour of the English people.

Among us gregarious life is not just contented and speechless adjacence as among cattle and the English people, it is a demon- strative exhibition of kindliness as well as bad temper, accom- panied by a good deal ot sound. In India heartiness is found more in the public intercourse of men than in private social relations. Moreover, for us noise is as essential a condition of cheerfulness as is the warmth of the sun.

For this reason I was not surprised to read a very angry letter published in one of our newspapers shortly after my return from abroad, in which the writer, a countryman of mine, complained about the silent habits of the Eglish people. He wrote with burning hatred of their behaviour in the Underground trains where they could think of nothing better to do than to bury their faces in their newspapers. A sailor perishing in the Arctic Ocean could not have felt more strongly about the icebergs.

I had heard about this habit before I went to England, but to meet the silence at first hand was a wholly novel experience. To me it seemed that not even their forums and agoras could be associated with characteristic sounds. Life in London, even in the most crowded streets, seemed like a film of pre-talkie days. I had an uncanny sensation when I saw unending streams of people going along Oxford Street, and heard no sound. As they moved into the Underground stations they looked like long lines of ants going into their holes. When after living in the bazaars of India for years I saw a sight like that, it was only natural that I should paraphrase Pascal and cry out, "The eternal silence of these infinite crowds frightens me!"

I met the same silence when, from the streets, I went into the pubs or restaurants. Both can be crowded at lunch time. But I heard no conversation. In India, on the contrary, such places would be buzzing or even booming with talk. Speaking of the clubs, though regarded as centres of social life, they are perhaps the most silent places of all. One evening, when dining at a club, I tried in my innocence to open a conversation across the table, and I admired the skill with which the intrusion was fended off with- out the slightest suggestion of discourtesy.

But Englishmen have heard so much about their habits of silence from foreigners that they will see nothing new in my experience. They have heard the comment mostly from French- men and other Europeans, and so can have no conception of the contrast they present to our ways in India. It is this contrast rather than the general fact of the silence which I wish to bring home, and as it happens I am particularly qualified to do so, because never having had a car I have always travelled by bus or tram, than which there are no better places to observe the public behaviour of a nation. The transport system of Delhi, which is owned by the Government and in which I have gone about for more than fifteen years, is very illuminating in this respect.

In the buses of Delhi all of us make use of one another for bodily comfort. In northern India people have very great difficulty in keeping steady in moving vehicles, and therefore they lean against one another or put their arms round a fellow-passenger. Nobody is so ill-natured as to mind being used as a cushion, and if anyone with a wholly alien notion of private ownership in respect of his body objects, he is asked in offended tones, 'What harm is there In it, you are not a woman?' Again, if anyone wants to know the time and has not got a watch he simply takes up the left hand of another passenger and looks at his wrist-watch. I wear mine on the under side, and therefore I have my wrist twisted..

The buses are also full of conversation not only on public topics but also on embarrassingly private ones, and not only between acquaintances but also between people who have never met before. Among the former the jokes are loud and hearty, and they are also permissible between total strangers. One day a fellow- passenger looked at my large sola topee and remarked that it was heavier than my whole body, and when I replied that it was no bigger than his turban he said that he hoped I was not offended at his joke.

Another day I even had an anxious inquiry about my health. In the hot season I sometimes get an irritation at the back of my neck, especially because I wear a collar and tie even then, and this makes me jerk my head and even perk it like a bird. Last summer I had an attack of this and when travelling in the bus, I suddenly heard the gentleman sitting next to me asking me in English, 'Is it habit or is it disease?' As I was somewhat surprised by the question and could not at first understand what it was about, be repeated the query. I asked in my turn, 'What is habit or disease?' Then the gentleman mimicked me exactly and said, "This." I was bound in common politeness to reply, 'I suppose it is habit.' 'I thought so too, he rejoined, "You have done this too many times, and it has now become a habit, and habit as you know is second nature.' 'So it is, so it is,' I said in an embarrassed manner.

The passengers also help one another about the best way to get to a destination, because not infrequently the conductor has no clear idea of the topography of Delhi, and they often give contradictory directions, each maintaining that his is the right one. So far as newspaper reading is concerned, the fellow-passengers never snatch away anybody's paper, but they take the pages he is not reading, in the most polite manner, and distribute them among themselves. These are, however, scrupulously returned. Books are often tugged at. One day a fellow-passenger pulled hard at an edition of the Gita I was holding in my hand, and when I did not let go, but objected, he said angrily, 'You have got a holy book in your hand and you are behaving like this! I don't want your book.' And he did make a pariah of me.

I have the habit of leaving my seat and waiting at the door of the bus so as to be able to get down as soon as it comes to the stop, instead of keeping it waiting as most of us do. But when the others see me doing this, they cry out in their anxiety, 'Please have patience.' Some even catch hold of my coat-tails or grip the arm to prevent me from moving. They also help in more exceptional circumstances. One day I found that I had only one bad rupee with me, and the conductor would not take it. In such a situation it is the custom with us to appeal to the 'general will' of the passengers. As I did not do that a fellow-passenger snatched the coin from my hand, looked at it, and said, 'It is bad, but don't worry, I am going to exchange it for a good one.' And he took out a one-rupee note, gave it to me, and put my bad rupee in his pocket. I was so amazed that I could not prevent him.

All sorts of other incidents happen, which make the bus in Delhi a microcosm of our national life. On one occasion I saw a hysterical young woman trying to commit suicide by jumping out of a window, and being pulled back by her husband. There are quarrels, sometimes verbal, sometimes involving the limbs, not only between a passenger and another passenger, or a pas- senger and the conductor, but also between the conductor and the driver. One day the two quarrelled and came to blows, and then the driver got down in a huff and went off into Edward Park, to lie down on the grass. He did not come back until the whole body of passengers had shouted their entreaties to him for some time.

What takes place at the stops is even more out of the ordinary by Western standards, and I shall relate only one of my experi- ences. It should be remembered that in the capital of India the buses on certain routes come at intervals of twenty minutes or more, and that they are also irregular. I was waiting for my bus on one of these routes, and there came along an elderly gentleman with his family. He asked me if he could go to Red Fort from that stop, and when I said that he could, he thanked me profusely, and gave the information that he was a visitor to the town. He pointed to a young girl in the party, and said, "That is my daughter, she is in her B.A. class, and I am thinking now of her marriage.' Then he introduced his son to me too. After that he went on to say that they were coming from the house of Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, where they had his Darshan, that is to say, were present at his ceremonial appearance before visitors. Continuing in this com- municative vein, he informed me that the last time he had come to Delhi was two years ago, and that, he added with a shy smile, was over a lawsuit with his father.

I could hardly remain indifferent to the raising of such a topic. Seeing that I was interested he went to the trouble of explaining the whole affair. Of course, he spoke throughout in English, and I shall give his exact words so far as I can remember them.

'You see,' he began, 'my mother died some years ago, and my father, who was old at the time, took a concubine. My brothers and I did not mind this at all, but after some time he brought this lady into the house, which we could not pass over. So my brothers and I went up to him and said, "kevered Father, you cannot do that. You may, of course, associate with the lady, but you cannot bring her into our ancestral house where we, your sons, live with our children." Upon this my father got very angry and shouted, "Nothing doing! I shall disinherit the whole lot of you." 

We replied that he could not do that either. So it went to the courts. But the judge advised me to settle the matter out of court."

At this point the bus came into view, and I prepared to move. The gentleman surprised me, however, by asking for my name and address. Upon my inquiring the reason, he replied that he wanted to send me some mangoes from his own orchard and that they were very good: I replied, "Thank you very much. But there is really no occasion for it."

'No, sir,' he rejoined with great warmth of feeling, it is no trouble whatever. You have given me the pleasure of your com- pany and conversation, and I want to show my gratitude for it." But the bus had come along and I had to jump into it, without being able to bring the matter to a more graceful conclusion.

It is this comédie humaine, this large-hearted wiping out of the distinction between public and private affairs, this craving for sympathy in widest commonalty spread, that make us recoil from the dreariness of the public behaviour of the English people. 

I SHALL now pass on to the private behaviour of the English people. On this score my initial nervousness was somewhat relieved by a good augury, the courteous behaviour of the English cats. I was struck by this the very first morning. I observed that the stray cats which were going to their day-shelters did not slink down into the areas or take cover under the motor-cars, as they do in our country when they see a man, but walked on with inson- ciance, with a glance of mild curiosity at me. Soon they began to make direct overtures. At Canterbury, when I was walking among the ruins of St Augustine's Abbey, a cat came up and rolled on the path before me, in order to be picked up and tickled under the chin. When I did so it purred until I was ready to cry, thinking of the cordial state of Indo-British friendship in which I had never believed. At Penshurst Place another cat saw me from a door, and came walking right across the terrace to join me near the steps. When I scratched its neck, it followed me all around the formal garden. Then it met another very hig cat and went off to gambol with this friend.

I was surprised by all this, because in Delhi I try to make friends with cats but receive no encouragement except from my own. When I mentioned this tameness to my English friends they said in their characteristic way, 'We are rather given to spoiling our cats. Cats are, however, very good judges of the human character, and all nations get the cats they deserve. In England I found that even politicians were not undeserving of the compliment which the English cats pay by their behaviour to Englishmen in general. 

Politicians are an early love but late bête noire in my life, while cats are an early bête noire and late love. In England I found myself ready to love both at the same time.

I do not miss much in our politicians because I do not expect much, but ir. England I came to see that through this habit I might do serious injustice to the politicians of other countries. One incident made me tak? special note of this. I was at a big reception given by a diplomat in London. (Not ours, dear me! They are serious people, engaged in putting the world straight, who could not waste their time and attention on me. It was in the house of a European diplomat.) The rooms, hung with Gobelins tapestry, were beautiful, and they overlooked a fine park. They were full of very smart people, and as I sipped my champagne, I admired the decorations and the guests, particularly the ladies in their hats, which I had never before seen worn indoors.

Secing me alone, a middle-aged Englishman came up with his wife and introduced himself, 'My name is L, and this is Lady L. After a few words he asked me if I was a diplomat.

'Oh, no,' I replied, 'only a writer.'

'Why only?'

'I suppose in the company of so many diplomats a writer should have the modesty to say that he was only a writer.'"

No,' rejoined my acquaintance, 'it is I who have the right to the only. I am only a politician. I represent Pin Parliament."

Empty and insincere words? Yes, of course, who does not know that? But how much more pleasant than the heavy-footed sincerity and truthfulness to which I was used.

This leads me to think of the negative aspect of English behaviour, of which alone I shall speak here. In the universality of the parental habit of saying, 'Don't do this, that, or the other thing, India exactly resembles England. If anything, Indian par- ents, with the exception of a minority who spoil their children thoroughly, are more addicted to saying No to everything proposed by the young people than any set of parents anywhere. 

But as regards the effect of the negative discipline no two societies could be more dissimilar. As soon as they are out of sight of their elders, our young people snap their fingers at them, and the guardians are too shy to notice the disobedience. In England, on the contrary, the latter succeed in making the negation stick, so that even the most rebellious young men acquire a formidable range of inhibitions from their elders. They become permanently incapable of doing many things which are done naturally by others for instance, speaking French with a good accent when they have learnt to do so, working hard at school or university, discussing cultural or philosophical topics in company, and so on and so forth. My son, who is at an English university and lives among English people, began to acquire this negative attitude very early, and in reply to various suggestions made by us often wrote back, 'It's not done here.' He put such an intensity in these simple words that I could almost see the ink blushing. Thus we were not at all surprised at what he wrote when I informed him that at a party in Delhi his mother had been heard talking about Chartres and St Peter's with a very eminent English art critic. He was very much interested but commented, 'Normally, in England, I would not do so as a topic of conversation."

I shall give a few examples of this negative attitude from niy own experience. On one occasion, talking with a distinguished English politician, I said that I was seeing England for the first time. 'Do you like it?" he asked, and when I replied, "Yes, it is very. lovely,' he observed, 'You are secing it at a very favourable time.' Another Englishman, a writer, told me that I had been excep- tionally fortunate in regard to the weather, and that had a great deal to do with my enthusiasm ove. in English scene. If I did not know how proud they were of the appearance of their country I should have thought that they were interested only in finding fault with it.

Another habit of theirs perplexes us, and at times causes social  awkwardness. They do not disclose their position in the world. I have met distinguished people, but unless I knew who they were I should never have been able to guess that they had achieved anything at all. If they are authors they do not refer to their books, if they are thinkers they do not hold forth, if they are statesmen they, do not disclose programmes for reforming the world, a man who is not well up in a subject might not be able to discover that an Englishman is an expert on it. This makes it difficult for us to decide how much civility to mete out to them. I might refer in this connection to my experience with a very great English intellectual, whose name is known all over the world. He surprised me first by bringing in the tea himself and making it, then by not opening a discourse. He simply listened to what I was saying, putting in a word or two, and smoking a pipe all the time. I was not speaking on anything connected with his own interests in fact, most of the time I was speaking about India but his observations showed an amazing alertness of mind. He struck me most, however, by his reply to a remark of mine about a set of his own works, which I saw on the shelves. Going up to them, I observed, 'How beautifully they are bound!' He seemed to be rather embarrassed, and only said, "They were presented to me by the Swedish Academy.' It was as if he wanted to apologise for his own works being on display and so well bound.

I shall now give another illustration of the same kind, but -illustrating the attitude from the reverse side. When I was at the Adult Education Centre at Urchfont Manor in Wiltshire, the Warden told me that Mr Patrick Heron, an English painter, had come to lecture on art there. I asked him if he was the same Patrick Heron who had held an exhibition in London the previous May. 'You know about the exhibition, do you?' he said, 'You must be very clever.' I suppose the remark was intended to be a compliment, but I felt so confused that I replied that I had only read about it in The Times, meaning that I had only picked up the information accidentally and not collected it with the object of being an informed person.

Usually they keep their work and their social life separate. The only occasion in England when I found a man bringing his personal life and work together was at the house of a social worker in Bristol, with whom I spent a whole afternoon. He talked about his work, showed me his maps, explained his charts and statistics, and even read his ease reports. But he was something of a crusader, and had been a pedlar in the streets at one time. His wife was of the normal type. She sat by us, knitting quietly, nevertheless her remarks, when she made any, showed that she was not only familiar with her husband's work and problems, but also interested in them.

Altogether, they live personally in the minor mode of music, and as it happens my son is acquiring this habit as well. Let me quote him again. He had met and talked with some compatriots after a long time, and he sent the following report to us:

'I was there for three hours, and came back terrified. For the first time I realized how far I had drifted away from my country- men. They too felt it, and asked me many questions, trying to puzzle it out. In the first place, all of them talked in a way which seemed to me intolerable showing off by English standards. And then I saw that none of them were even aware of the qualities which I admire most in the English neople. I said to myself, "Good Lord! If I, who after all am an Ir fian, can feel so remote from typical Indians, how distant must the Europeans feel." I am more. convinced than ever that there can be no understanding between Indians and Europeans."

I want my son to behave in Rome as the Romans do. As a matter of fact, before he left I impressed the necessity of this on him. But now I feel like telling the denationalized young man that when he comes back to us he must leave his new ideas west of Suez, if he is not to starve in India. Once I actually wrote to him in another connection that after teaching him to be a non-conformist in India I did not want him to become an English conformist, and I warned him most emphatically against Oxford and Cambridge. To push every advantage to the utmost comes naturally to us. We speak about them not only to those who might reward us for them, but also to those who have not got the same advantages. Thus among us, if a guinea-pig talks with a squirrel, whether the'squirrel should or should not raise the topic of a tail is no question of social etiquette at all, it would be raised as a matter of course.

Nothing illestrates this attitude of ours better than our con- ventions of introducing a person. We usually pronounce a eulogium, and in any case emphasize the official position. In our society a man is always what his designation makes him, therefore we are very punctilious in giving it. At parties in Delhi I see people adding it themselves when the introducers omit to an- nounce it. One day, at the house of a foreign diplomat in Delhi, a young man was introduced to me without his official position being mentioned. He immediately bowed and added, 'Of the X-Ministry, and what Department are you from?' When I replied that I belong- ed to none, he seemed to be as much surprised by the fact that I had been invited there at all as by my not having a designation.

On another occasion I heard a lady asking my wife, who had said that I was a writer, what I was before I was a writer. That rather reminded me of a cartoon I had seen in Punch of an East European with a pronounced Semitic nose, who had come to his "solicitor to have his name changed. 'But you have already changed it once from Goldstein to Robinson?' said the lawyer. 'Yes, but nevertheless I want to change it again.' 'But why?" "They ask me, "What were you before you became Robinson?"." The inquiry about me was in the inverse sense, groping from the unaccept- able towards the acceptable.

I do not say all this in criticism of my people. Self-advertisement is forced on us by the urge for survival. The traditions of our society are such that a man is not credited with anything unless he can display it with effect. People who are endowed with the power to provide employment and recognition in India áre incapable of seeing any merit in a man without having it dinned into their ears. These men cannot detect ability or talent. In fact, not to speak of human beings, they cannot recognize the signs of intelligence even in a fox-terrier. Most probably this statement will sound odd if I do not explain that even before I was thirty I had come to hold very decided views about the 'human face divine' as compared with the canine, and embodied the idea in an aphorism: 'In nine cases out of ten the movements and the looks of a dog betray intelligence, in nine cases out of ten a man's do not. Control over the facial muscles has made man look more stupid than he really is.'

However that may be, it is indisputable that our great men do not perceive talent, and therefore like regiments we have to carry our drums, and tambourinage is as essential a thing to the march of our careers as it is to the march of soldiers in the West. If anyone feels inclined to blame us for this I would ask him to consider whether he finds fault with the tiger for his roar, the peacock for spreading out its tail, and even with the caterwauling of domestic cats, unimpressive and unpleasant as it is compared with the other kinds of animal display.

I shall now consider some of the extensions and applications of this negative behaviour. I had gone down to Chislehurst to spend a day with an English couple, whose son I had known in India. The gentleman had heard that I was interested in birds, and so he. said that he would take me out to do some bird-watching. We motored down to a gravel pit, which had become a lake. Taking me down to its edge, my friend only said, "There.' I saw some ducks swimming, and on a small is a female swan sitting. The cob was swimming about, and keeping guard. All of a sudden one of the ducks approached him, and he chased it away. The duck dived but appeared again quite close to him. He charged once more, and this went on for some time. 

'You see,' said my friend, 'the mallard is very naughty, and it is teasing the swan.' He did not explain what a mallard was, and made no attempt to rub in the interest of the scene.

On our way back we were passing through the common. I looked at the bushes, on which I could see yellow flowers. 'These arc...' I began.

'Gorse,' my friend replied without explaining what gorse was, and then went on to say, 'Let us see if there is any bracken.' He looked about him for some time, and said that there was not any, for it had not come out yet. He said nothing to explain bracken.

A little later he pointed to a monument and said, "That is of interest today (it was April 16), for it is the monument to the man who introduced summer time.' After a while another monument came into view. "That was erected to the Prince Imperial,' said my friend. No explanations here either.

The same sort of experience befell me at Cambridge. An elderly Fellow of King's College asked me, 'Have you seen the tapestry after Rubens in the hall?' I said that I had seen the hall but not the tapestry. He immediately took me there, climbed to the gallery in which it was hanging, and switched on the lights. Then he took me to the opposite gallery, from where I could obtain the best view of it. He left me entirely to myself. Incidentally, the tapestry depicted the Battle of Ponte Milvio, in which Constantine defeated Maxentius.

A similar thing had already occurred. The friend who was showing me Cambridge had taken me to the Combination Room of St John's College, and never told me what it was meant for, and though I used the phrase with a knowing air it remained like a thorn in my brain. Sp after returning to India I consulted my dictionaries, and came upon the following entry:

'Combination room=Common room. Univ. of Cambridge."

I felt relieved.

I shall give two more examples of the same kind. At Cambridge again, another friend inquired if I had seen the Gate of Honour at Caius, and learning that I had not he took me down to it. He also left me to contemplate it by myself. Another time, in Wiltshire, the friend who was taking me round suddenly turned the car away from the main road. When I looked at him with surprise he explained that he wanted me to see something. Presently we came to a pretty village, and pointing to a section of the street, he said, "That bit is quite unspoilt.' Nothing more, not a word to explain what unspoilt meant in that context, though the notion of an unspoilt place was so very English. The fact is, that when an Englishman is friendly he imputes himself and considers all explanations as rudeness. Certainly, Englishmen are not unaware of their habit of tacitness, which they call understatement. They are even proud of it, as if it was one of their titles to superiority over other nations, and overdo it at times. These other nations, however, take them at their word, and make no allowance for the understatement. At all events we Hindus as a rule do not see much in an Englishman. Not that we underrate his printed word. On the contrary, if we can learn about our country and ourselves from books written by Englishmen, we do not think it necessary to see the one and analyse the other. Even in regard to Hinduism most Hindus prefer to go to an English book. Only, we do not connect the book written by the Englishman with the English man. We do not believe in the biblical saying that every tree is known by its fruit, but gather what we take as grapes from what we despise as bramble. Our forte being talking we do not readily, perceive that the silence of the English people reserves their energies for work, and that to judge their real power of self-expression we have to see what they do and not siniply hear what they say. Every nation has its peculiar manner of self-project, and since the climate limits our capacity for work anyway, we would be foolish to forgo the advantage of talk. But we ought to be more willing to recognize an alternative way of self-expression and give the Englishman his due. In this he is now behaving more handsomely by us than we are doing by him. The gift of the gab, which the English people have always distrusted, seems now to exercise a spell on them when they meet it in us. They are fascinated by it and show them- selves ready to credit us with as much genius as our talk seems to indicate in us. We show no appreciation of their negative traits.

We also fail to see how these all their Isn't Dones - add up to a positive type of character, which in its physiognomy is like a subdued drawing in silver point, quite attractive to those who have a taste for such things. But the Englishman can also lay pastels, watercolour, and even oils on this sketch. Let me try to see how he does it.