At the Registrar's Office
Around eleven when it is getting hot a Vellakaran[1] with a stylish jacket and shiny black shoes arrives in a cycle riksha and goes in to see the Registrar. One chaparasi brings tea for them, another calls me in. The Registrar says, "The Sir has come from abroad to join the Music College; he is in need of a translator, can you do that, boy?"
"Yes, Sir."
"He will pay you," then he turns again to the Vellakaran, I don't know what to do, I stand and wait there until the Registrar tells me "wait outside, boy!"
"Thank-you, Sir," I bow to hide my confusion.
I sit down on the bench outside his office. My English is no good; I've never spoken to a Vellakaran. Once in the Palghat bus stand an Anglo-Indian wearing a gown lady asked me for the bus to Coimbatore. I was so bewildered I probably put her on the wrong bus. That is all. How can I translate? I know nothing!
The Vellakaran comes out, together with one of the Registrar's chaparasis, "What is your name?"
His voice is rough but pleasant and I can understand his English. "Arun, Sir."
"I'm Ernest."
At least so far, I have survived. Maybe he is the friendly type.
"Can you tell them to take my luggage to the New Guest House? Do you know the way? Is it far?"
I barely manage to answer; the chaparasi tells the riksha driver where to go. I take the Vellakaran's smooth white hand, and I lead him to the New Guest House, which is behind the Music College.
Near the corner of the Music College, we cross a group of lady students; they stare at the Vellakaran and me, if only Mary were among them! They must tell her!
At the New Guest House, we catch up with the riksha. The Vellakaran lifts a black violin case from the riksha and hands it to me, "Can you hold this, please?" He overpays the riksha driver and we go upstairs, ordering the chaparasi and the riksha driver to bring his luggage, two important looking aluminium trunks and a big green oilcloth bag.
In the New Guest House
The room is much nicer than our room in the Music Hostel, the building itself is newer, cleaner, no laundry is hanging from the bars of the windows, every room has its own bathroom. Inside the room, the Vellakaran asks me for something to drink, I ask the chaparasi to get tea, "Make them hurry, it is for the white man!"
The Vellakaran seems only few years older than I, maybe twenty-five. He is strong and tall, but ugly with whitish, blotched skin, a bony body, yellow hair, bland grey eyes, moving and talking in the funny jagged Vellakaran style, like a white character in a film.
He is wearing a waterproof foreign watch. I'd like to look at it; he must be rich. Why has he come here alone? Isn't he suffering to be so far away from home? Does he really know to play the violin? I ask him, "May I see the violin, Sir?"
"Go ahead!"
I've never seen a case like his before, it's made from strong black plastic and looks expensive. He opens the cipher locks for me but I don't dare touch the instrument.
"Do you know how to play? Do you want to try it?"
"Yes, please, Sir!"
I take the violin, tune it, sit down to play our way. The violin is better than my old teacher's, which is the best I ever was allowed to play. The Vellakaran asks me, "Do you always hold it like that?[2]"
"Yes, Sir!" I begin to play my showpiece[3], I am not good, I do my best. Encouraged by the thought that probably he has no idea of Carnatic music, I play daring ornaments and flourishes teachers would censure. I can see that he likes how I play, and get more forward, closing with a loud, nearly Hindustani dissolution, then stopping ashamed of my display, but proud too: It wasn't bad.
"You're playing well."
Tea comes, I pour it for him, there is only one cup. He gives me money to pay for the tea, too much.
"Not necessary to pay now, just a tip for the bearer, Sir," which I give, 50 paise, too generous.
The Vellakaran questions me; soon he knows my predicament.
"The Registrar told me I need somebody to translate. But really I'd rather have a friend…"
"What do I have to do, Sir?"
"Don't people use bed sheets here?"
"Yes, Sir!"
"Where do I get them?"
"Students bring them with them; you can buy them in the market. They are costly, Sir!"
"How much?"
"Nearly thirty rupees per piece. It would be cheaper to purchase them from the weavers, Sir!"
"Thirty rupees?"
"At the co-op store the price will be less, Sir."
"Can you get them today? And don't Sir me; I'm just a student like you." He takes an expensive pen and a small hide-bound pad from his jacket and writes:
Bed sheets
Pillow
Pillowcases
"Can we get a clean mattress too, how much would that cost?"
"Maybe seventy-five rupees?"
Mattress
Towels
Cleaning powder
Cleaning brushes
"Do they sell mosquito nets here? Or what do you do?"
"Some people have mosquito nets, there are also mosquito coils."
Mosquito net and coils
He hands me the paper, "How much money do you need?"
"Sir, please, you must come with me, I don't know what pleases you."
In Chidambaram Bazaar
I show the Vellakaran the paper shop, the hardware store, the canned goods store, explain him what money lenders are, the cycle lenders, the frame and picture store. He says, "We get all we need in one supermarket, we don't have to run from one small store to the other."
I have seen pictures of shops abroad, "But how do you know whether the price is right?"
At the Tamil Weavers Co-op Store, I buy a clean mattress and bed sheets for him and towels. He only cares about how things look, not how much they cost. He has a white cloth belt inside his trousers where he keeps his money, hundreds of rupees. Maybe where he lives, abroad, there are thieves too.
I say, "If we buy a little stove and a tea set I can prepare tea for you, it needs only tea powder and milk."
"Is it expensive?"
I show him the stove in the hardware store; it is Rs. 42/50/- only, "Is that too much? We'll save the expense of paying the caretaker and I can prepare better tea for you, Lipton Red Label, which is best."
He agrees to buy the stove, a tea set, tea and milk powder.
Nearly every item I propose him, he buys. Mysore agarbatti[4], Radha soap, Tata hair oil and shampoo, Ashoka shaving blades, Eversilver[5] tumblers and a jug to drink water in the room, a tea pot and cups and saucers, a big, shiny Eveready torch[6] and a nice Deer Brand umbrella to protect him against sun and rain. I make him buy an orange Orlastic nylon comb for me.
Before we return, I show him the private clinics in South Market Street. He is not impressed.
In the Palace Lodge
When the sun goes down, I ask him, "Are you hungry?"
"Where can we eat?"
"There is a hotel but you'll have to walk one furlong."
I don't dare ask him whether he is a vegetarian for fear that he wants me to take him to a military restaurant. I take his hand and we walk to the Palace Lodge.
We sit down at one of the tables made from artificial granite. A boy comes and pours water on it, and sweeps it with the spine of a banana leaf. Next, he brings two glasses, a finger in each and a jug of water. When the boy pours the water, Ernest says to me, "Please order mineral water for me!"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Don't they sell water in bottles?"
"We can buy a bottle in the market and fill it, what do you want it for?"
"To drink, or do they have boiled water?"
I understand that he is worried about his health, I ask the boy.
"It is filtered which is better."
In the end, I have to order a sweet drink for him, Campa Cola.
He understands not one word of Tamil; he has no idea what to order. He says, "I'm a vegetarian." Probably he has read in a book that all Indians are vegetarians. I'm glad he pretends to be a vegetarian, I wouldn't have liked to go with him to a military hotel, thinking about it makes me vomit.
On the wall, there is a list of the food they sell, idli, dosai, paper dosai, qorma, rassam, pilau rice, tea, special tea, coffee; I read it for him because the only words written in English are
For Credit Come Tomorrow!
When the paper dosais and qorma arrive, he asks, "Don’t you use knives and forks and plates?" A battered aluminium spoon is all I can get for him.
It seems he has never before eaten from a palm leave; rassam is dripping on his trousers. I have to tell him not to use his left hand!
He gives me a bundle of money to pay the meal; does he think the lodge is too expensive? Should I have taken him to a hotel? He didn't object when we entered, and the food is best.
Walking back after the meal, holding his hand, I imagine what the students whom we meet must be thinking, there is only one Vellakaran in Annamalai University and he is with me! If only Mary could see me!
[1] Tamil 'white one'. Though a fair skin colour is the universal ideal of our alliance invited ads, this precludes the ugliness of Westerners or worse, Anglo-Indians, the illegitimate children of colonialism, left behind when the pur sang British returned to their home counties and West End mansions, saddened by Indian ingratitude and mutiny after centuries of brilliant administration resulting in the economic ruin of the richest country of the earth, India, and unrivalled prosperity of a formerly poor foggy island, Great Britain, ruled over by a family of nutty Germans and non compos aristocrats, who believe that fox and grouse shooting is the most noble occupation, while in fact it is the only one they’re fit for. Among them the highest honour is to give one's name to a shoe, like the Duke of Wellington, or to a pattern for less serious businessmen's suits, like the (late, former) Prince of Wales, or to a urethric device which turns a man into Hamlet without the Prince of Denmark, like the late lamented Prince (Consort) Albert.
[2] Carnatic violinists generally play the violin sitting, holding the instrument in their lap, bottom up.
[3] At the time it was a kriti in raga Mohanan, originally learnt from my teacher, improved with radio snippets, enriched with my own masterly improvisations, or properly speaking the kind of medley violin dealer's assistants play to demonstrate their instruments quality and bewail that destiny overlooked their genius.
[4] Hindi, 'incense'.
[5] Non-rusting Indian steel.
[6] True to the Tamil proverb
Money pocket-in lottery;
Hand-in big battery.
i.e., probably no money in the pocket, but an ostentatious torch in the hand.