Chapter 9 - Fish Knives, Turbans, and Bon Voyage
Aboard the SS Persia
Oh Hello, If you’re just tuning in, you can catch up on the previous chapters here.
Tatyarao kissed his infant son and made faces at him. The baby responded by grabbing his glasses and hair while giggling.
“Ow, ow ow!” Tatyarao screamed in mock pain. The baby grew unexpectedly upset and bawled.
Yamunabai took her baby from her husband and tried to soothe him. He had been a good baby all afternoon, sleeping peacefully in his mother’s, and then aunt’s arms as they went to the dockside in a tonga, laden with Tatya’s trunks. But now, with the sea breeze on his face, and when it was time to say goodbye to his father, he was cranky, as if he knew.
Shyamji Krishna Varma had come through with a Shivaji Fellowship for Tatya. Everyone had been so proud. But reading the fine print, things weren’t so rosy financially. True, the fellowship was an honour, but he had to pay back the amount of the fellowship at a future date, at a 4% interest rate.
Tatya had wondered for a bit about just getting a clerical job and supporting his family. But Babarao and Yashodabai would have none of it.
“It’s just going to be a few years. You’ll come back and be a Diwan, or a highly-paid barrister,” Yashodabai had said lovingly.
But it cost a lot to just live in England. The fellowship only covered his education. They didn’t have that kind of money.
His father-in-law decided, on hearing all this, that it was a worthy investment to pay for his living expenses abroad. Tatya was ill at ease at first, accepting money from his wife’s family. But they had prevailed.
They had subsequently busied themselves preparing for his journey, getting suits and other western wear tailored. He took with him several articles of warm clothing. He would still need to buy a winter coat there. Yamunabai had prepared jars of pickles for her husband to take with him. The food there would be incredibly bland.
Tatyarao gazed lovingly at his wife and baby. Next to them were Babarao, Yashodabai, Bal, and his wife’s parents, who had made the trip from Nasik too. Behind them were those of his family and friends who lived in Bombay or could make the trip to say goodbye. His maternal and paternal aunts, their families, a handful of his friends from Abhinav Bharat, and even his old English teacher who now lived in Bombay with his grandchildren. Nearly everyone who cared about him was right here, wishing him well. He closed his eyes to burn the image into his mind. He would hopefully be able to see them soon.
The years would go in a blink, and before he knew it, he would be back home, looking for a job. His father-in-law, who was a Dewan in Jawhar State, a small princely state in Thane, was partial to him following in his footsteps. But he knew Tilak hadn’t written him a glowing recommendation just so he could come back and make money. Was a career in Congress the next step? He would think about it. For now, he would have to build Abhinav Bharat in London and try staying in the good graces of Shyamji.
A siren sounded. The SS Persia was behind him, waiting to take him an ocean away. He had to leave.
He said goodbye to everyone, taking the blessings of the elders, and hugging close his cousins and friends.
His brother hugged him and gave him money. His sister-in-law blessed him.
He locked eyes with his wife’s teary ones. They would miss each other bitterly.
“Wash your hair with oil every Sunday. Don’t eat outside and ruin your stomach.” She said.
He nodded. “I’ll write every week. You do too.”
Beholding his son, now on his aunt’s hip, trying to pull on her braid, his heart sank, and something important came to mind.
“Make sure he gets vaccinated for smallpox,” he said, addressing his wife and sister-in-law, “I hear it’s becoming a real issue.”
Tatya had tried to stay vegetarian on the ship, but the first three days had proven hard. All he could eat were custards and cream pies, and he could feel a toothache coming on.
There were a surprising number of young Indian men on the ship. A small number were going to London to study, like himself, but most of them were heading to prepare and give the Civil Service examinations. He had become good friends with a very seasick, incredibly homesick Sikh boy, who was heading to the agricultural college in Cirencester.
This afternoon, they were both loading up their plates at the buffet in the dining hall. As Tatya watched Harnam Singh add a generous helping of mutton chops onto his already heavy plate with prawns, mushroom and chicken pies, and egg salad, he looked at his miserable plate with just the salad and carrot cake and decided he needed to eat.
None of those things appealed to him. He decided kippers were the way to go, and picked up the butterfly-split fish and put it onto his plate.
It was a bright sunny day, and they sat down to eat on the deck outside. Everyone was on the deck, some standing at the edge looking into the sea, some sunning themselves on the deck chairs, and several, like them, lunching at the tables. Some of the Indian men were eating some distance away. Harnam and he would join them in conversation later. Children ran about while their mothers watched from a distance, screaming for them to be careful in English, French, German, and even Parsee Gujarati.
The more Tatya looked at it, the more the fish looked unappetizing. He cleaned out the rest of his plate and was still hungry. It was time to eat the fish.
He had a fair idea of how to eat with a knife and fork, and judging by others’ plates, the small pointy one was the fish knife, he decided.
He cut the fish with the fish knife and put it into his mouth with his fork. He got a mouthful of bones. He carefully tried extricating it all, but there was nowhere to put them. He spat them into his napkin.
He tried again, but this time, he mistakenly put his right hand in his mouth instead of the left, and cut his lips with the sharp fish knife.
He let out a loud “Ow!” which caused the others on the deck to turn and look at him. The other table with the Indian men cringed collectively.
He covered his mouth with the napkin, embarrassed, and tried to stanch the bleeding. He felt everyone’s eyes on him, and Harnam’s second-hand embarrassment. He checked to see if the bleeding had stopped. It somehow had. He looked around and smiled at everyone who was still staring as if to say “I’m fine. Show’s over”. Unsettled by this direct eye contact, most people averted their eyes.
But a stylishly dressed Indian gentleman a few tables away couldn’t stop being intrigued. He went to talk to the pale, slight man, and his turbaned shy friend.
“Hello, I’m Herjoat Khosla” he said.
Before the two could respond, a little a plump little girl, no older than five, skipped along, and screamed to her mother in French, “Mamon, why does that man have a wastebasket on his head?”. She pointed at Harnam and laughed, gesticulating his turban.
Harnam acted mock-embarrassed and was smiling at the little girl, hoping to not embarrass her mother too much.
But then, the mothers began laughing with the child, soon followed by the fathers with their gigantic guffaws and thigh-slapping.
Herjoat, Tatya, and Harnam looked askance at the little girl’s mother. The mother gathered her up protectively, looked daggers at the Indian men. and went her way.
As the laughter died down, Harnam was downcast, his gaze focused on the ground. Tatya was downright irritated.
“Why don’t we talk indoors?” Tatya offered, and let the way to the cabins.
Tatya’s cabin was sparse. His trunks were neatly stowed away out of sight, and Tatya’s bed had a thick blanket on it. By his bed was a small brass idol of Goddess Bhavani.
Herjoat and Harnam settled themselves on the two chairs in the room. Tatya sat down on his bed, facing them.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Khosla, this is Harnam, and I am Tatyarao.” Tatya said, “Are you traveling to London as well?”
“Yes. I travel between Bombay and London at least twice a year, usually. This isn’t my first trip. But it clearly seems to be both of yours?” Herjoat said.
Tatya nodded. Harnam, going through a seasick spell just then, grinned sheepishly.
“Yes, we are going to England to study.” Tatya said, “What is it that you do?”
“I manage my family’s business. Mostly textiles. But we’re always looking to expand.” Herjoat said.
He looked to be about thirty, with thick, slicked-back hair. He had a friendly face, which was ruined by a perpetually smug expression. His blue shirt and trousers were exquisitely tailored, and he had an air of abiding ease.
“It must be hard to keep such a business going when your competitors have the patronage of the British government.” Tatya ventured.
“My father says it was worse in his day, and now we’re doing better without the East India Company.”
“And hopefully your son has it even better,” Harnam said.
“I’m sorry you had to experience that today, by the way,” Herjoat said to Harnam.
“Why are you sorry?” Harnam said. “They see us as gulam, it’s nothing to do with us. Water off a buffalo’s back.”
Herjoat looked at Harnam with a mixture of pain and pity.
“This is why,” he said, “This is why I cut my hair and don’t wear a turban. Europeans will not respect us unless we adopt their manners and customs. You ought to do the same.”
Harnam’s face fell.
“I know it’s hard to hear, you two, but better you hear it from me than from some rude European.” Herjoat pressed.
“I don’t agree with that, Herjoat” Tatya said.
Herjoat rolled his eyes like he heard this all the time.
“How will you fit in in London, Tatya? Will you walk down Harley Street with your dhoti and achkan?”
Tatya considered this. “Hmm,” he said, “You are experienced in balancing between Bombay and London. What you are saying is very perceptive. It is true that we must integrate ourselves with our new home. It is a sign of respect for the city we are living in, to learn the language and fit in with their manners and culture.”
“Exactly. My brothers eased out of wearing their turbans after a lot of such skirmishes. It will be easier if you don’t wait for multiple such incidents to change your ways.” I said.
“That’s what I disagree with!” Tatya jumped in, “Someone making fun of us is not a reason for us to change how we do things. People take cues from us on how to react to us. If you are ashamed of your clothes, people will also be uncomfortable with your clothes. If you’re confident, they are more willing to give you the benefit of doubt.”
My father would say things like that as he took meetings with Persian, Belgian, and British businessmen. I had always shrugged my shoulders at the ramblings of an old man reluctant to change anything about himself, but Tatya made me see Baba in a new light.
“Maybe you are right,” Herjoat said huffily, “My father says things like that, and he meets associates in Persia, Belgium, England, America, and Indonesia wearing a Kurta, so maybe there is something to what you’re saying. But even so, he wants me to present myself like an English gentleman. When people are making fun of you, it’s an indication that you have to work harder at fitting in.”
“If we all think like that, the context won’t change, though,” Tatya said.
“So you’re suggesting Harnam just go out there in his turban, maybe even in kurta-pajama? They’ll eat him alive.”
“You raise a great point,” Tatya said, “That’s why it’s better if we all go out on deck wearing turbans.”
“What?” said Herjoat.
“What?” said Harnam.
“But first, I have a request of you, Herjoat” Tatya said.
“Of course,” Herjoat said, cautious.
“Can you teach us how to eat kippers?”
The next day at lunch, Herjoat, Tatya, Harnam, and the other Indian men on the ship strolled about the deck after lunch, all resplendent in their turbans and Indian clothes.
It suddenly felt like being home for Tatya. Harnam too perked up at his surroundings feeling a little less alien. They stood by the edge, talking about the future in England and beyond, looking at the emerald sea beyond, watching small dhows float into the horizon, and dolphins leap in and out in their wake.
An Englishman with astonishingly blue eyes stood next to Tatya. Tatya acknowledged him with a smile.
He looked about to say something. All the other Indian men looked expectantly at him.
“Lots of turbans today,” He said.
“It’s a bright, wonderful day for turbans,” Herjoat said. “Would you like one too?” I said.
A little boy came running up to the Englishman and excitedly pointed to us.
“Perhaps your son would like one as well?” Herjoat added. “You’ll look great in it!” He said to the boy.
“Would you like to wear a turban?” The man said to his son.
The boy smiled and buried his face in his father’s lap.
“He’s very shy.” The Englishman said.
Tatya looked wistfully on as the man egged his son to smile and talk to us.
He missed his son.
excellent, very amusing. i agree with john's comment abut the first person paragraph. and also i'm a bit confused with how tatya thinks it's a very good idea to try to fit in in one graph but two graphs later is dead set against it .
twas a very enjoyable read and i loved loved loved his difficulties with the kippers. ha!
Good stories, the kippers and the turban. Soothingly comic. There is a paragraph in the middle where someone thinks in the first person, which is confusing..."My father would say things like that as he took meetings with Persian, Belgian, and British businessmen. . . " Otherwise great!