3
I do not believe there is a climate in the world more perfect than that of Delhi in the cold weather. Nor, also, a perfection so fleeting. From the first of January to the middle of February we reveled in radiant sunshine and cold, even frost at times, with now and then delicious intervals of gray skies and rain. By the middle of February the garden is at its best, and survives for another six weeks. Most of the English flowers seem to flourish ─ roses, sweet peas, stock, lupine and a hundred others. The hollyhock grows to a height of 12 feet and more, and flaunting alongside is the gorgeous rivalry of hibiscus, oleander, poinsettia, and bougainvillea. Of this last there was a great pergola at Viceregal Lodge, crimson linum grew close by, and behind them the sun used to set. The flood of golden light would catch up the crimson, the purple and the green and make of them a glory indescribable. To complete the picture you have the gardeners, the Punjabi coolie women in their tulip-colored draperies squatting on the grass or dawdling in the sunshine. There is no fashion more graceful than theirs, the immemorial fashion of the peasant of Northern India.
What to make of Delhi? ─ for it yields little by itself: a serene depression, a meaningless expanse of boulevards. One is received by its denizens with flat-faced stares, indifference, or worse, a calculated nastiness. Overhead, the skies of northernness, as though one had entered Berlin, Kiev, a city of the Asiatic steppes. The parallels between Delhi and northern Russia quite striking: in each an emptiness, something missing in both cultures. One must travel endlessly to get anywhere, through traffic sparse at mid-afternoon, on into the more congested parts of the central city ─ a kind of generalized city, circa 1958, finally to arrive at Connaught Place, a great disappointment: colorless, inefficient, full of activity but lacking in style. The North Indian is more businesslike in his bearing, less striking in attire, mien, demeanor.
On to the Red Fort, author’s first experience of a Muslim edifice, but again something deadening and awkward about the ambiance. We enter its large public garden in company of other tourists ─ from Rajput, from Calcutta, from Europe: Muslims in black dress; Swiss, Italians, French in their pastels. In this cosmopolitan capital the natives still gawk at the white man, at his white companion, an artist from Travis City, Michigan, in Delhi for the year, where she has already contracted hepatitis and low-grade malaria.
Thence to the streets of Old Delhi, equally disappointing, a scene visually lifted from the late 1940s: cycle-rickshaw, dilapidated “auto,” billboard in unimaginative color and design. People crowd into the streets to escape the confusion of sidewalk vendors, none of whose wares are in the least enticing. The faces of merchants bland, bored, affectless. They are doing nothing; there is nothing to do.
After several nights of all-expense-paid tourist hotel fare, author, fallen back on his own resources, is introduced to a middle-class family inhabiting a house too large and thus willing to take in boarders. On the terrace for breakfast they inspect the new arrival: old woman, eye-sockets blackened, gives author a Dickensian once-over, as her rather unattractive middle-aged daughter-in-law arrives to administer the old man’s diabetic shot. In undershirt, thick glasses, he explains that he is deaf in one ear, hears badly in the other.
Author takes seat in dining room for continental breakfast: tea, toast, omelet, fresh banana, brought slowly to table, one at a time, by lazy servant, who enters and leaves kitchen through a doorway smudged with innumerable hand prints. On the wall opposite author, an embroidered Mary with infant Jesus, an embroidered rose bush behind them. The windows of the room have gone unwashed for months, the screens for years, their interstices nearly filled with soot. Two fellow-Americans join author at table, the old man seating himself, or being seated. To the questions of old man and woman alike, the young Americans must respond by repeating their answers, are finally reduced to shouting single words. Meanwhile the daughter-in-law moves about the room dusting. The walls have not been painted in fifteen years. The floor is dirty. Sheepishly the son, late 30s-early 40s, enters and takes his place at table. Having lost his job, he is forced to stay at home all day. Everyone sits about Saturday evening doing nothing.
Late Sunday morning, early afternoon, the family congregates in the large master bedroom, its door open to the hallway, television facing outward. After the great success of the Ramayana, all are eager for the first installment of Mahabharata. Servants are allowed to stop their perfunctory tasks to sit in the hallway outside the door. Colorful, authentic, but slow paced and melodramatic, the great epic fails to hold the foreigner’s attention. The family talks, moves in and out of the bedroom, as the narrative progresses. Its first installment is followed by the closing ceremonies of the 1988 Olympiad. A mild, indifferent interest again prevails. India, with a population approaching 800 million, has not won a single medal. No one seems much to care.
Later in the afternoon, with still nothing to do, the slightly dubious son proposes a game of cards with author and the 2 young American women, who have seated themselves on porch as escape from chair-less, dank bedrooms. Justifying the activity as part of Diwali custom ─ we are in the midst of the festival ─ he explains and implements the rules as we go along, proposing that we play for money. The guests politely decline.
What to make of Delhi? ─ for it is neither puzzle nor transparency. So little variety, so little mystery, so little vitality for the nation’s capital.
Author to station, end of alleyway leading to guesthouse, to stand by sign for A-90 Nezammudin East, at a roundabout, where he awaits the perennially late Indian colleague. Ten minutes go by, author peering into back seat of each approaching “auto” to make sure he is not overlooked. Another ten minutes go by. He stops peering. Has he adopted a North Indian resignation? He studies the faces, postures, movements of passing pedestrians. Discerning little of interest there, he simply stares out at the scene before him.
The circus at the center of the roundabout is ankle-deep in luxuriant grass, grazed by a Brahma cow and her calf. The latter at least has found something of interest: a 3-foot-long oil-soaked rag, which the calf proceeds to eat, 6-inch segments at a time. Three dogs approach up the alleyway, past author, dodging the auto-rickshaw traffic to enter the roundabout’s center through a narrow slit in its iron fence. They pause, mangy and hungry, before the cow and calf; consider their chances; tussle with one another; begin to harass mother and child. Over and over they approach; bark; are repulsed; retreat. Meanwhile, behind all 5 animals, the lifeless pedestrians passing, solitary, dignified, unconcerned. Behind them, in a lush foliage of semi-tropical trees, a huge, once magnificent but now scarred and damaged Muslim tomb.
*
And onward to Hyderabad. The by now veteran traveler, up by 4:30 to (pre-arranged) cab by 5:00, arrives at airport by 5:30 for 6:20 departure. Standing in line one notices, scrawled in black crayon: “Flight 439, Hyderabad, EDT 9:45.” Dawn breaks, coffee is served. Another sunrise (author’s second in 2 trips) over Delhi Domestic Terminal.
Finally, at 10:30, the “9:45” flight departs, touches down 2 hours later, after a circular descent that reveals the scope, modernity, imminent industrialization of these, “the twin cities of India” (Hyderabad/Secunderabad). For this is no town of a million, as one had supposed, but rather a robust metropolis of 4 million, huge residential areas on its outskirts, a network of railway traffic, an entire lake within the city limits.
Hyderabad early-morning in-town road-scene. Nearly complete cloud cover, humidity with breeze. A pack of puppies rushing down to greet 2 larger dogs, one of whom crosses the patio in front of a triple shrine, blue boxes surmounted by alternating yellow and red slabs, underneath a spreading tamarind. A group of women down-road: saffron top and patterned sari; puce sari; black top and floral sari, the last with bronze water jug balanced upon her head.
Up-road (up-hill) a vegetable vendor in magenta jacket, blue longhi. Ahead of him, turbaned bicyclist who, staff in hand, dismounts so as more easily to negotiate the incline. Behind the vendor a cyclist in olive green suit, briefcase, pushing onward, followed by mother in brilliant turquoise top, graceful light green sari with her 2 children, his skinny brown legs and outsized feet moving him quickly along.
Indian Airlines flight overhead banking gently in for landing. Cream and red long-distance bus, its luggage rack full, descending hill, a-sway with its own energy. In the farther distance a grove of palms of unequal height. A building under construction. The horn of an as-yet-invisible train approaching. Now into view. Finally stopping. A louder blast of horn, as passengers begin to dismount, mount, the passenger cars black on the bottom, cream, then pale green above. Two sets of horns, as eastbound train, red cow-catcher, passes westbound train. A single crow floating gracefully overhead in the middle distance.
“Hyderabad” (Hamilton). “Escaped Naxalite Surrenders” (The Deccan Chronicle). “The capital of the province, and of the Nizam’s dominions, Hyderabad stands on the south side of the Musah River, which runs very rapidly in the rains, but in the dry season has scarcely two feet of water.” “A most wanted Naxalite owing allegiance to People’s War Group, who escaped from police custody last month, walked into the city police control room here and surrendered himself on Sunday morning.” “It is surrounded by a stone wall.” “The 25-year-old Vijaya Kumar, allegedly involved in three murders and a train robbery, has decided, after ‘self-introspection,’ to quit the extremist organization.” “Within the wall the city is about 4 miles in length and 3 in breadth.” “The organization, he said, was going against its main ideology and indulging in violent activities.” “The streets are narrow, crooked and badly paved.” “The People’s War Group, he added, has set up a guerrilla zone’ in Adilabad, Karimnagar, Nizamabad, Warangal and Khamman districts.” “The most remarkable buildings are the palace and mosques.” “To step up their activities.”
“About 6 miles to the west is the celebrated fortress of Golconda, occupying the summit of a conical hill.” “Vijay Kumar was allegedly involved in the gunning down of an ABVP activist here last year.” “And by the natives deemed impregnable.” “Near Shivam on Osmania Road.” “Secunderabad.” “Earlier this year.” “Where the subsidiary brigade is cantoned.” “He had been involved in the brutal murder.” “Stands about 3 miles north of the city.” “Of another ABVP activist, a student leader of Government Polytechnic College.” “And is now a large and populous village.” “At Secunderabad bus terminal in the broad daylight.” “The country around Hyderabad has a barren, rugged aspect.” “Mr. T.S. Rao, City Police Commissioner, told The Deccan Chronicle, he was happy that a prominent Naxalite leader.” “And the hills have a remarkably irregular and jumbled appearance.” “Had decided to leave violent activities.” “Vegetables and grapes.” “And become a good and law-abiding citizen.” “Grow in this vicinity to considerable perfection.”
“Vijay Kumar said he did not fear reprisals.” “Which is more owing to the temperature of the climate.” “And expressed confidence that he would complete his engineering course.” “Than the goodness of the soil.” “He will join a social organization to serve the society.”
Hyderabad early-evening in-town road-scene (same scene). Horn of black engine emerging into view, rust-red/maroon train itself slowly emerging through haze-filled middle distance. Caboose disappearing among tall palm trees, as horn is re-sounded for 15-second intervals. Trucks on nearby road mounting under strain: red van, a yellow-and-green stake truck, followed by a cream-colored bus. Cyclists also mounting, one with a passenger seated behind cyclist. Pedestrians mounting, looking rather weary. The puttering of a single auto-rickshaw; a scooter; a pedi-cab.
A man stands beside the road, back to author, to take a pee. In the nearer ground the spreading tamarind continues to darken the 3 blue shrines on their grass-in-grown terrace, scooters, 3 cyclists, a racing yellow “auto” descending quickly behind. Overhead, a vast sky, modulated pinks on light blue, subtle grays of cloud banks reaching horizon only to be met by an intervention of rosy haze, an outline of distant hills in the vaguest of grays.
Beneath: the town, its lights coming on, fluorescent bulbs along the nearby road, where horns of 2 trucks, approaching from opposite ends of the scene, are honking simultaneously, oblivious of one another. A mosquito hovers above author’s page, must be batted away to discourage its intent. A dragonfly disappears into the bush at hand. Someone on terrace behind author hawks and spits. Red lights of “autos” now recede downhill, taking the curve and disappearing, as brighter headlights arise.
“Salutations to the presiding deity of Eastern Mountain, where the sun rises, and the Western Mountains, where the sun sets.
Salutations to the Lord of the stellar bodies and also to the Lord of Day.
Salutations to the Lord who abides in the heart of all beings, keeping awake even when they are asleep.
He is both sacrificial fire and fruit, enjoyed by the worshippers thereof.
The above two slokas culled from Aditya Hridam of Valmiki Ramayana are just a few sparks of the divine, by reciting which my children arise from sweet slumber and then, at the end of a busy schedule of harmonious development, retire.”
C.R. Prasad arrives at 7:30 in the evening to pick me up in dilapidated Hyderabadi rickshaw. We struggle through the darkened, smoggy streets to Secunderabad, across railway track, over speed bumps and through gaping potholes, down hilly lanes and up narrow alleys to his residence, a house shared with 3 brothers, a sister, and their families. It is a large 3-story edifice ─ courtyard, outside stairway ─ crowded with scooters, wash basins, people, its open doorways revealing children seated before VCRs, women at work on the evening meal, men, exhausted, asleep on cots. We mount to the third floor and enter a large hall.
Twice as long as it is wide, the room ─ white above, dark green below ─ is filled with religious images: scenes from Ramayana (color prints of Hanuman and his elaborate ventures); popular statues, in ceramic flesh tones, of the major divinities; black and white ancestral photos, framed in gold. On the floor: colorful marks of magical propitiation. On the roof beams, in chalk: Telugu texts, the petals of paper flowers festooning them.
Shown to the end of the room, we are seated on sheet-covered couch and chairs, Mrs. Prasad silently greeting the stranger. Mr. Chary, teacher at the local high school and connoisseur of poetry, has been invited to join us. Talk runs, as usual, to the modern condition of India, to comparative school curricula, to life in America. Then to the classics of Telugu literature, in which the visitor has expressed an interest: Vemanna, Nannaya, Thikkana; Erra Pregada, Srindha, Peddana. Inquiry made about living poets, names are brought forward, but only of poets already deceased.
Prayers precede dinner, the vegetarian fare served in abundance by Mrs. Prasad, silver rings on her toes, sheer white sari scarcely concealing multiple folds of flesh at midriff. The seated diners are joined by a fifth presence, the daughter Vina, a child-like 16, smiling Saraswati-like as she seats herself at a distance. Her passion, it is said, is reading: Shakespeare, Hemingway, the stories of Sherlock Holmes, which her father has bought for her today (the volume displayed, book-mark already past the midpoint).
Dinner finished, father, daughter and guest retire to a room below to view a popular video, which the father fast-forwards to a scene of devotion to Krishna: a beautiful mother singing quietly as her elegant, svelte, divine son dances his fantastic steps.
On behalf of Mr. Samba Siva Rao, General Secretary, All-India Telugu Writers Association, Mr. T.V.R.K. Subba Rao arrives in car with driver to escort me to the annual conference and poetry recitation of the society. As we pull in, press photographers are recording the scene, reporters standing with notebooks open.
The crowd descends the stair, fills an auditorium and the ceremonies commence. I am ushered to the dais, garlanded, introduced, speak a sentence in Tamil and offer in English my words of encouragement to the Telugu poets, who then commence to read and sing their work to an admiring audience of fellow writers and citizens. Inquiring of the General Secretary whether the audience might like to hear a poem in English, I am told yes; inserted in the program I read to an uncomprehending but sympathetic audience. Then off into the night alone, where someone, a lawyer, recognizes me as “the famous American poet,” buys me dinner and puts me into a rickshaw home.
“Hyderabad being one of the few remaining Mogul governments, more of the old forms and ceremonies are retained at the Nizam’s court, than at any other of Hindostan. Some of the higher and wealthier Mahommedans use a few articles of European manufacture in their houses. Within the city the Nizam possesses large magazines, in which are deposited the presents received . . . from the different native and European powers. The rooms are filled from the floor to near the ceiling with bales of woolens, cases of glassware, chinaware, clocks, watches, and other articles of European manufacture” (Walter Hamilton).
A day of museology, beginning with 11:00 am trip to the Nizam’s palace. Two students, both 21, arrive from Osmania University’s Women’s College, poems in hand; my driver is waiting in gray Ambassador; the 3 of us settle into the back seat and we’re off, amidst fragrance of perfume and brilliance of saris (Anita wears lavish silver earrings, worked into the images of deities, 6 or 8 silver bracelets; Lakshmi is more subdued, her rust-red-over-blue highlighted with a diamond nose pin).
Sunday noon attracts a sizeable crowd to the Indian and Western collections, heritage of the long line of Hyderabad emperors. A splendid assortment of “northern” (Persian and Moghul) miniatures; ceramics, silver, mirrors, clocks, carved wooden furniture; photographs and memorabilia of the latest in the line of emperors. Then rooms and rooms of European sculpture (all scandalously nude, from the modern Indian perspective); second-, third-, fourth-rate paintings; Louis XV’s writing desk; and so on. The brilliant red, green, yellow saris worn by working-class/lower-middle-class museum-goers of greater interest than the works of art.
Finally, after dropping off Lakshmi, we visit Anita’s parents, where, in the living room, another museum experience: over coffee and cakes I am honored with a guided tour of the doll and god case: the ten avatars of Vishnu (in ivory); bronze Ganeshas (from her grandmother’s collection); Anita’s childhood dolls, including a Barbie and other blond-wigged pixies (brought back from America by her father); more ivory Krishnas; ancestral figures; all interspersed among model automobiles (one a circus truck with 2 giraffes in the back), miniature soft drink bottles, a red Santa Claus.
Hyderabad Airport, 8:05 pm, lively Sunday evening scene. Husband in white jacket, white longhi, saffron-clad 2-year-old daughter asleep on his shoulder; wife in watered-silk, light-blue sari, diamond earrings; her younger sister in black top, gold-breed short sleeves, brilliant deep yellow sari, gold bracelets on dark brown forearms.
5-year-old, 4-year-old boys, western clad (new white athletic shoes, slacks, checked shirts), tended by older sister in beige pajama suit. Black-clad Muslim beauty, heavily made-up, passes behind them. Blue-clad mommy, gold-thong sandals, leads by hand her 3-year-old daughter in yellow shirt, rose-red cuffs, bright green jumper.
The hall itself in pink walls, bare concrete ceiling, interrupted by banks of wire-enmeshed fluorescent bulbs. Maroon plastic seats for waiting passengers. Gray marble tile slabs on floor. “Post Office,” with name in Telugu too. Souvenir counter: Erich Segal’s The Class; What The Harvard Business School Really Teaches You; half a dozen schlocky novels by Harold Robbins. Romantic Persian drawings; clocks; beads; magazines; toys.
Across from author a thin, mustachioed South Indian, gold wristwatch pulled half way up his forearm, nervously jiggles a foot, whose sandal has been left on the floor, next to an empty cigarette pack, a page from a novel, a used match. He is dressed in wide-legged white ducks and an open-neck brown check shirt. The chairs on either side of him are vacant. Behind him an enormously talkative crowd, mostly of middle-aged, somber-saried women.
Pre-departure, post-security, waiting-room sit. Plane visible a hundred yards away, its black nose cartoon-like, its partially lit cockpit windows adding a slightly comic glower to its expression. Baggage lined upon the apron for loading into vans, airline personnel misleadingly inform the waiting passengers that they may exit the terminal. Half the passengers crowd through the narrow door, as though there were some advantage to boarding 15 seconds before one’s neighbor. Now all are herded back by authoritarian policemen, full of their important duty. With fat bellies and bristly moustaches, they press against the retreating crowd of businessmen, professors, government bureaucrats, who take it all in ironic good humor. These cautious, resigned, but nonetheless excitable men, all talking among themselves, wear the uniformly dull, bland earth colors of officialdom. Among them sits a single woman in beige top and red pants. Suspiciously she eyes scribbling author, brushes her hair back, clasps her hands together over her knee, makes the “resigned” look.
The engineers of Flight 540 begin revving at a much higher pitch. More passengers unnecessarily crowd toward the lounge exit; stand semi-patiently; finally, one by one, deposit their black briefcases on the marble floor beside them. The solitary, still-seated woman, examines from a distance author’s footwear (cowboy boots). She is now joined in her inspection by a woman seated beside him, who leans over to peer into author’s notebook page.
*
Mid-winter Delhi interlude. The skies sunny and bright, the temperature brisk, requiring 2 silk comforters to get through the night (author back at boarding house, Nizammudin East). One arises as late as possible so as not to join the porch-sitters, who huddle under wraps, gulping hot tea, reading the papers so devoid of interest, engaging in loud conversation. From America the family has been joined by the younger son, his wife and the grandson. They live in Fairfield County, where they have assimilated to the fast Connecticut life of entrepreneurial suburbia. They have in fact become American citizens, the grandson, at 9, already setting his sights on Yale.
Occupied for a week with multiple visits to publishers, author exits each day into the slipstream of Delhi traffic, by bus, by “auto,” on foot, traversing the vast distances required, each outing a matter of 3, 4, 5 hours. Official literary Delhi, under the pressure of 6 months’ of cajoling and good will, begins to bend in the stranger’s direction. After a week of inquiry, following dozens of letters, a reprint of Selected Poems is in the offing, plans for SOLUNA: Collected Earlier Poems underway.
*
An Indian in America. A.A. Manavalan, Professor of Tamil at Madras University, author of Milton and Camban, returns from his 4-month tour of the U.S., which has taken him to renowned centers of comparative literature and Indology in Bloomington, Indiana; Chicago; New York; Columbia, South Carolina. It has been his first visit to America.
His impressions? I interview him at the Tamil Department, Madras University, the window of his commodious office overlooking North Beach Road, the sandy expanse and deep blue of the Bay of Bengal visible beyond. He had no difficulties, he reports. Problems, yes, but they were all solved by the helpful Americans. “May I help you,” he observes, is the opening gambit of the American entrepreneur, civil servant, ordinary clerk. He has understood the phrase in a warmly literal way as an offer of help, not to the stranger in particular but rather to the consumer, the “user,” as he calls him. He marvels at American efficiency ─ in the bank, where he enters with a check and leaves with money; at the airport, where, his luggage mishandled, he is assured that he will have it on his doorstep the next day (and does); in the store, where he is encouraged to return or exchange merchandise. His scholarly venture is likewise successful: new ideas at every turn; journals, books, off-prints readily available in libraries designed, again, for the “user.”
He has found America to be a safe, efficient and pleasant place.
American Civil Servants in India. In August, on arriving at Delhi, I make a trip, amidst all other activity, to the USIS, where I advertise my availability for lectures come May, June and July, in Southeast Asia: Bangkok, Singapore, Hong Kong, Taipei. I’m assured that this information will be conveyed to the proper people.
A month passes: no response. I am told in Madras that the person in charge of these things has just arrived in Delhi, that the man I had spoken to was temporary, unable to act on my information because of “this transitional state of affairs.”
Fine. Can you give me the name of the person I should now contact? Yes, that’s easy: an offer of 2 names (instead of the one I requested). Before long I find myself back in Delhi. I contact one of the 2, who refers me to the other. Again I make the trek to the U. S. Information Service, lay out my credentials, request that his office make this information available. “When you get back to Madras, write me a letter and include all this.” O.K. I put away my vita, my list of lecture topics, refrain from offering the simple details regarding the dates of my availability.
Back in Madras I write a careful letter including everything that I’ve been instructed to include. A month goes by, another month; no answer. I inquire at the local USIS to make sure I’ve followed the right procedure. “Oh, yes,” I’m told, “this will probably take some time.” “Time, yes,” I’m tempted to say, “as in the time I’ve spent in preparing and giving the free lectures I’ve offered at the USIS,” but I bite my tongue. “The problem up in Delhi,” says the officer with whom I’d spoken earlier, “is that they’re in a state of transition. The person in that position has just arrived.”
“I understood that he had come in September.”
“Well, they’re still getting adjusted.” I decide to press a little: exactly who was in charge of Southeast Asia? Do you know?” My interlocutor is the head of the USIS in Madras.
“Well, I’ve only just arrived myself. Let’s see. That should be someone in the Delhi office.”
“It used to be,” I reply, “but I understand that authority for Southeast Asia has now been shifted elsewhere. Do you know how I might find out where it resides now?”
“Maybe it’s in Hong Kong” ─ respondent in idle speculation.
“Yes, someone else suggested that, but I’ve been unable to identify the person. Do you have that information?”
“Let me look into that and I’ll get back to you.”
“O.K.”
Another month passes. Another lecture opportunity at USIS presents itself. I offer my services. This time I’m introduced by another officer. Lecture over, he simply evades my question. He doesn’t know if they have shifted that authority. “Maybe it’s in London.”
“Do you have a directory that would list an address there?” Directory looked for, shuffled through.
“Here it is.” An address in Washington. “Now he’s in charge of all this activity in Southeast Asia.”
Five weeks go by. Returning from as many weeks of lectures, including 3 more free of charge for the USIS, I’m greeted by a letter from Washington:
Unfortunately, you seem to have been somewhat misinformed. As Southeast Asia Country Affairs Officer, I do not have responsibility for arranging lectures at our posts in the area. That responsibility ultimately lies with the individual Directors of our posts.
Addresses follow.
In the meantime, I have paid another visit to the office in Delhi (1250 miles away), handed over my vita, lecture topics, once again been assured that all will be taken care of. A telegram arrives in Madras. I am called into the USIS office. “We are planning to send a memo out,” says the message from Delhi, “but need to check some details.” The dates of my availability have been garbled, making nonsense of my proposed schedule. Will I straighten this out for them? I write out the text for a telegram to be sent to Delhi, asking that they forward the information to other posts.
“In the days of Mahmud, the last of the Tughlaqs (1398-1413), the Delhi Kingdom began to fall to pieces.” My response includes all necessary details. “Ruin was completed by the arrival in India of the Turkish conqueror, Taimur the Lame.” Three weeks pass. “Who, though himself a Muhammadan, made no distinction between men of his own and other religions.” I find myself in Delhi again, probably for the last time. “In his campaign in India.” In the center of town on other business. “Crowded into seven months.” I wonder if I shouldn’t just drop by the USIS. “He dealt out death and destruction wherever he went.” And see how things are going with that telegram. (I’m also interested in getting the name of the director of the American Institute in Taiwan, information the USIS in Madras has been unable to supply.)
“Taimur crossed the Indus on September 20, 1398.” I arrive. “After capturing a fort and a town on his way he arrived at Multan, which he took in October.” Am greeted warmly (relations always nothing if not cordial). “In November Bhatner succumbed.” “We’ve sent out those telegrams for you.” I breathe a sigh of relief. “On December 15 the forces of Delhi were defeated in the field.” “But what we’ve go back isn’t promising.” “100,000 prisoners were massacred to free his army from the trouble of guarding them.” Hong Kong, Singapore, Bangkok have all responded by noting that my proposed time of arrival falls during university vacation, making it difficult ─ impossible ─ to raise an audience. “Sultan Mahmud fled.” As for the USIS programs themselves, nothing there either. “And Delhi was occupied.” Reason? “It’s so late in the year that their programs have already been planned.” “Eight days afterward it was given up to pillage and a general massacre.” When, I think to ask, did I first request that these inquiries be made? “After a half of 15 days at Delhi.” But hold my tongue, since a program in Pakistan is still a possibility. “The campaign was resumed by crossing the Jumna.”
“It’s disappointing,” I say.
“Well, we haven’t yet heard from Pakistan” (a prospect which Zia’s demise, later in the year, rules out). “For over a month there was constant fighting in the outer hills, from the Jumna westward as far as Jammu.”
The name of the AIT director? “On March 4, 1399 Jammu surrendered.” Fifteen minutes go by. “But no long halts were allowed.”
“I just don’t seem to have that information.” “On March 11 Taimur recrossed the Indus, made for Bannu, and India knew him no more” (Quotations from The Imperial Gazetteer of India).
*
I travelled back via Corfu, Trieste, Venice and Switzerland, arriving in England towards the end of June. The intense delight of getting ‘home’ after one’s first term of exile can hardly be exaggerated, and certainly cannot be realized, save by those who have gone through exile, and been separated, as I had been for years, from all that made the happiness of my early life. Every English tree and flower one comes across on first landing is a distinct and lively pleasure, while the greenness and freshness are a delicious rest to the eye, wearied with the deadly whitey-brown sameness of dried-up sandy plains, or the all-too-gorgeous coloring of eastern cities and pageants. . . .
There too I found my fate, in the shape of Nora Beers, a young lady living with a married sister not far from my father’s place, who a few months later consented to accompany me on my return to India. . . .
“Delhi. Notwithstanding its antiquity, and the long period of time during which it has ranked as the first city of Hindostan, there is nothing in its locality particularly attractive” (Hamilton).
“I had, of course, taken my wife to the scenes of the fights at Agra, Aligarh, and Balandshahar, but Delhi had the greatest fascination for her. It is certainly an extraordinarily attractive place, apart from the interest of the siege. For hundreds of years it had been the seat of Government under Rulers of various nationalities and religions; few cities have the remains of so much pomp and glory, and few bear the traces of having been besieged so often, or could tell of so much blood spilt in their defense, or of such quantities of treasure looted from them. When Tamerlane captured Delhi in 1398 the city was given over to massacre for five days, ‘some streets being rendered impassible by heaps of dead. . . .’” (Field Marshall Roberts).