Night In London

FOREWORD

This book can hardly be called a novel or a story. Read it if you wish to see one aspect of the life of Indian students in Europe.

Most of it was written in London and Paris, and on board a ship during my return journey to India. That was more than two years ago. When I read through this manuscript now, I feel reluctant to have it published.

It is one thing to sit down in Paris at the culmination of several years of study in Europe and, under the spell of private emotional conflict, to write a book of a hundred to a hundred-and-fifty pages. But to have spent two-and-a-half years since then taking part in the revolutionary movement of workers and peasants in India, breathing in unison with millions of people and listening to the beating of their hearts, is entirely another matter.

Today I could not write a book of this kind; nor would I consider it necessary to write it.

1

London is cloaked in a swollen, thick fog, yellowish, dense, dark; a blanket of sorts, it is at once damp and cold, covering the entire body, especially the nose and mouth. It is difficult to breathe, and when you do, you feel as though you are inhaling a wet mist. Everything is damp. Tiny droplets of water have collected everywhere. It is not terribly cold, but even this is quite painful. It is afternoon, though it seems that night has set in. No gleam in the street lights. It appears as if a struggle is raging between darkness and light. The occasional clearing of the fog makes the gaslights flare up.

Despite the weather, London does not lack activity. Shops are well lit, and the streets are crammed with cars, lorries and buses. On the pavement, where people walk, those leaving their offices—secretaries, clerks, businessmen, typists, students, and men and women working in factories—scurry past. It is now six o’clock, and London’s students, ‘intellectuals’— the ‘genuine and the fake’—and those who come to visit England from all nations of the world stop over at Bloomsbury. This is where England’s revolutionary thinkers, artists, expatriates, writers, and all such people who are suspended in a mental void gather, creating a peculiar atmosphere.

It is now ten past six. Azam repeatedly glances at the clock in the Russell Square underground station.

It looks as though the wretch will break her promise again and won’t show up. This isn’t the first time. I’m beginning to feel embarrassed at my own condition. I know all too well that she doesn’t have the least bit of affection for me. And it’s I who can’t stop pursuing her. After all, there are lots of other women in London. And I’m not that hideous either. But I’m so weak; I don’t have any control over myself. How many times have I meant to stop seeing her altogether, to stop talking to her. And how many times have I told myself that if I meet her on the street, I’d look the other way? And if she came to meet me on her own, I’d say to her straight out: ‘Leave me alone. If you don’t love me, why did you come to me? Find another lover. You have lots of other admirers. I hate you.’ And a host of equally harsh and fierce declarations, which would surely wound her heart and bring her pain and torment. This way, I’d have my revenge. The anxiety, grief, confusion, indignation, jealousy, malice, anger, sorrow that I feel because of her—I could avenge all of it. But I have never been successful. Once, she had promised to meet me on a Saturday evening, saying that after her office got over at six, she would go home and reach my place by seven, seven-thirty. Seven-thirty to eight o’clock, eight to nine, and nine to ten—I couldn’t even go out and have dinner. And I kept waiting and waiting. At ten o’clock there was a knock on the door. I was so filled with anger that I didn’t even say, ‘Yes, come in.’ The door opened. Who? Not her, but the maid. ‘Mr Azam, someone would like to speak to you on the phone.’ It felt for a moment as though all the blood in my body rushed to my head—warm, warm blood.

I said, ‘Thank you, Mary,’ and went to answer the telephone.

‘Who is it?’ I asked, even though I knew.

‘It’s me, darling. Sweetheart, are you very cross with me? I can tell from your voice. Do forgive me, but it isn’t my fault. Some people came over to meet us. My mother insisted that I look after the guests. I tried very hard to come up with an excuse, but to no avail, and now it’s too late. My darling Azam, forgive me.’

My anger knew no bounds. I hadn’t seen her for a week. Something new would come up every day; and today, when she was finally set to meet me, this was how she dashed my longings and desires. I was inclined to say ‘Go to hell’ and hang up, thereby ending the discussion: a discussion that was taking place using wires; a discussion in which the human voice, detaching itself from the human body, transforms merely into a voice, striking our ears as the epitome of sincerity and, to some extent, taking on the guise of revelation. Revelation, though, is a heavenly ‘reality’. But over the telephone, it’s terribly difficult to distinguish between truth and falsehood: it’s a brilliant tool for lying. Surely, she was telling lies—guests came over! She could have made up some excuse, and her mother would have let her go; she would certainly have let her. She is lying to me; she is making excuses. She must have gone out with someone else who caught her fancy. She must have gone out on a date with him to the cinema, the theatre, or on a car ride. I don’t even own a car; nor am I wealthy. That is why she hasn’t come, and now she’s just making excuses. ‘Azam, darling, my beloved Azam.’ Liar, impostor. All these thoughts swirled around in my head, but I responded, ‘Really? And I’m half-dead waiting for you. You could have at least called up a little earlier. But it’s not that late. The underground and buses run till twelve-thirty. You can spend an hour and a half with me …’

Instead of rising with anger, my voice began to tremble; I could sense it. I felt that I was debasing myself, but a force—in the face of which I became completely powerless and submissive—was dragging me towards further humiliation. In order to retain my self-respect, I began to think of how the torment one withstands in love doesn’t count as torment. I began to recall the complaints and lamentations of the vast majority of Urdu poets who become dogs in the street of their beloved, are kicked around by their rivals, bear the insults of the doorkeeper, and not only endure their beloved’s blandishments and whims, but welcome these as a pleasure to the soul—so much so that mountains of injustice and oppression would crumble before them.

But poetry is one thing, and the reality of degradation quite another. I fancied myself to be tough, but time and time again, the shameful face of rejection appears before my eyes.

She replied, ‘No, Azam darling. It is too late now; I need to get up early in the morning, you already know that …’

‘But tomorrow’s Sunday. You don’t need to go to work.’

‘That’s true, but even then, you know the maid arrives late on Sunday, and I need to help my mother with the chores. Really, I’m telling the truth … It seems you don’t believe what I’m saying … This isn’t an excuse. You know how much I love you! All right; I’ll call you tomorrow around noon and decide on a time to meet you. Please forgive me this time.’

She hasn’t got a moment to speak to me on the telephone now and then has to wake up early tomorrow to help her mother. Lies, lies—she’s surely been going out on dates with someone else. In my heart, I can feel this is the moment I have been waiting for, that I would have no better opportunity and that I should reveal all my doubts to her; but I replied, ‘All right, Jean. I’ll wait for your call at noon tomorrow. Good night.’

The next day, the telephone remained silent. My day was wasted. If Rao hadn’t shown up close to one o’clock, I’d surely have gone crazy. Rao is a lucky man. No one has ever seen him get entangled in the web of love, but he always seems to have an attractive girl around.

How much longer shall I wait here? It’s a quarter past six. It’s cold and there’s still no sign of Jean.

But Jean’s smiling face, her long, slender body, her sparkling eyes that worriedly darted from here to there, the sound of her laughter, her getting anxious and then lying—all of it flashed in Azam’s head like lightning and, for short periods of time, numbed his brain. Every other minute, the door of the underground’s lift would open and people would get out. Twenty, sometimes thirty. More than that on some occasions, less at others. And when the last person got out and he couldn’t find Jean, Azam grew more anxious. He peered at the clock, and looked at the people milling about, waiting for the next train. Large advertisements hung near the newspaper stand: the Times, Daily Mail, Morning Post, Daily Telegraph, and so forth. Azam’s glance fell upon the evening newspapers being sold outside the station.

‘Results of the football match! Final match results!’ the newspaper vendors were shouting. In the meantime, his gaze fell upon a number of headlines that were plastered on signboards.

MEETING OF UNEMPLOYED WORKERS IN HYDE PARK.

10 BRITISH SOLDIERS PREVENT 10,000 INDIAN NATIVES FROM CREATING ISTURBANCE 1 WHITE INJURED,15 NATIVES DEAD.

These advertisements were emblazoned in red letters on large spools of paper two-and-a-half feet long and about a foot wide. Azam’s thoughts shifted for a moment from waiting for his girlfriend to India, his country. The disdain with which these wretched English newspapers call us natives! We’re ‘natives’, and the red-faced monkeys who live in this country, who are they?

Azam’s thoughts would not extend to the unfortunate poor who faced the bullets of the white man and the unemployed English workers in Hyde Park who died hungry.

An Arabic saying goes: ‘Waiting is more painful than death’. Faced with the prospect of death, a person’s senses become confounded. Similarly, the intensity of waiting prevents the brain from working. This is especially true in the case of the anticipation which Azam was experiencing. He had even begun to forget Jean’s expected arrival. Jean’s coming, their meeting, happiness; her not coming and the sadness that would follow: all these thoughts and feelings escaped their material reality and adopted a faint and meaningless aspect, and a dark cloud cast itself upon his mind.

‘Hello, Azam! What are you doing standing here?’ called out Rao, slapping Azam’s shoulder upon emerging from the underground station.

Rao’s sudden appearance put Azam at ease. In the same way that the soul, in moments of grief and torment, is made lighter by crying, Azam’s thoughts, which were stuck on one point and ached like a wound, were diverted. Rao was his friend. At the same time, Azam wasn’t sure what explanation he should offer. It was, after all, not a matter of great pride that Mr Azam was braving the cold, waiting for Jean at the Russell Square station, with no sign of the beloved. But Azam thought that there was no point hiding the facts from Rao. He was sure to see through the situation.

And so he answered while attempting a grin: ‘I was supposed to meet Jean. She promised to meet me here at six. She hasn’t come yet. It’s now twenty minutes past six. There’s a party at Naim’s place tonight; he has invited both of us. I don’t know what to do.’

Rao’s thoughts did not venture in the direction of Azam’s inner turmoil. Was it really something to get worried about if someone did not arrive as planned? Especially a girl? The poor thing must have had a problem getting dressed. She was probably not satisfied with the shade of her lipstick and was trying to find the right one. Or, perhaps she got delayed while adjusting the angle of her hat. There could be hundreds of reasons for being late. It was hardly the sort of thing to get all angry and restless over.

But Rao, after all, was not Jean’s lover. It was Azam who was smitten with her.

Rao exclaimed, ‘What! You’ve been invited to Naim’s place as well? He has invited me too. Let’s go together. Jean knows Naim’s address. She’ll reach there straight. Why stay out here in the cold and freeze? Come, let’s go.’

Azam hesitated for a moment. Should I wait or not? Maybe she’ll get here in five minutes. If I leave now, waiting all this while would have been pointless. And maybe she won’t show up at all—who knows, he thought.

Rao saw the conflict raging within Azam. In his Madrasi drawl, he quickly repeated, ‘Do come now, Azam. What’s the point in sticking around? It’s not as though she’ll go back home if she doesn’t find you here. If she wants to come, she can certainly come right to Naim’s place.’

Azam decided that it was better to go with Rao. The thought that he had lost his self-respect in pursuit of that woman swept over him once again and the heavy load of degradation began settling on his heart. His feet began moving, but slowly, and he walked out of the station with Rao.

Rao glanced at his friend’s face, which was as lifeless as a wounded animal’s: pain and helplessness, dread and frailty stamped on it. Rao suddenly understood his companion’s predicament. He felt embarrassed at not being able to put his finger on Azam’s real condition until now. He was filled with sympathy for Azam. Then came pity, and with it laughter. That girl has rendered a perfectly normal, agreeable person crazy. For half an hour, this poor fellow’s been waiting and there’s not even a hint that she will show up. Today is not the first time. Now Azam’s studies, too, have begun to be affected by her. If the situation remains as it is now, it will become difficult for him to clear his exams. Were there some way to get her away from Azam, it would be all for the better, he thought.

‘Oh, enough, Bhai Azam. Don’t be so depressed. Jean will surely show up soon enough. Something must have delayed her. The fog’s so intense today, and so is the cold. One dreads leaving home. Come on, let’s go to the pub. We’ll drink a glass of beer and then head to Naim’s place.’

Azam’s will power had vanished by now. ‘Yes, certainly,’ he replied softly. ‘Why not drink a peg of whisky or brandy in this cold?’ Rao and Azam continued walking slowly. The fog cleared for a few minutes, causing the gas lights to glow. Rao had a dark face and large, egg-shaped eyes like those of Rajput princes in old portraits. He was of medium stature and, like most Hindu gods, of delicate body. He had soft, silky black hair which fell on his forehead. His face glowed with intelligence but it appeared as though he possessed a certain weakness of character. Whenever his face came into view under the light, it was plain to see that he was grieving over Azam’s condition.

Azam fixed his gaze on Rao’s countenance. He realized immediately that Rao was expressing sympathy for him, not through words but with his demeanour and his silence. Azam was somewhat relieved. There were a