Up Close and Personal
Archbishop Tutu, recipient of an honorary degree at the summer graduation ceremonies in July 2007, at Queen’s University Belfast, was the chief guest at a dinner that evening. To be invited to such a glittering function, to be seated in the Great Hall (albeit at a far remove) in the company of the great man, was honour enough. At the pre-dinner drinks, served in the marquee set up in the main quadrangle, Archbishop Tutu was the man most sought after by the distinguished guests. As just one of the people thronging the marquee a lowly invitee such as myself, could not, and did not, expect to get close to the great man, never mind exchange a few words with him. Standing round with a small group known to me, we sipped our drinks and exchanged small talk while we waited to be summoned to dinner.
We were thus extremely surprised when, breaking free of the throng, taking exaggeratedly long steps and with his shoulders a little hunched in embarrassment, the Archbishop came towards us. He had spied a white plastic garden chair, placed by the canvas side of the tent, near where we stood. He made a beeline across the crowded marquee towards this object.
- You must excuse me but I am an old man and I need to sit down, he said. He lowered himself into the chair with a sigh of relief. (The Archbishop was then 76 and, I learnt later, recently recovered from surgery.)
He chatted easily and pleasantly with the group of complete strangers he found himself amongst. His characteristic speech mannerism, the voice rising to a high pitch then suddenly falling, was much in evidence. He was, unsurprisingly, very well travelled. A pushy woman in the group (she was there because she had persuaded her cousin that she should take the place of his partner at dinner that evening) was from New Zealand, a country he was able to speak about from personal experience. India too he had visited on several occasions. He was well informed about many aspects of the country.
- The first Indian ambassador to South Africa after apartheid was a man called Lakshmi Jain, he said. Now Lakshmi is in fact a woman’s name. A sister of the ambassador had died in infancy and, when he was born afterwards, his parents gave him this name. It was to propitiate the goddess Lakshmi and with the hope she would protect and guard him.
Films might seem too trivial a subject for a man of his standing to take an interest in but that turned out not to be the case. When he heard that Shawn Slovo, the daughter of the late South African activist Joe Slovo (and a friend of the Archbishop), had visited Belfast some years earlier for the screening of her film, A World Apart (1988), he said he had seen it.
- There is a more recent film on South Africa, Red Dust (2004), about the work of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. It is excellent, you should see it. (I had). He did not mention that he had helped set up and had played a major role in the Commission which had sought to heal the wounds of the brutalities of apartheid.
It was however mention of his house in Soweto, a member of our party had had it pointed out during a tour on a visit to South Africa, that brought forth a personal anecdote. It was both revealing of the character of the man and of the widespread respect and affection with which he is held, particularly in his native country. There had been a burglary at his house less than a month before, on 10 June, which that had been widely reported.
Police have found the Nobel Peace Prize medal awarded to South Africa’s Archbishop Desmond Tutu, after it was stolen from his Soweto home on Sunday. The archbishop – who was overseas when the robbery took place – won the international award for his work against apartheid. Five suspects have been arrested and other stolen items recovered. (BBC website).
We got a first hand account of this incident from the victim himself.
-There was a burrglarree at our house recently, he told us, rolling his r’s and elongating the vowels in the manner familiar to all who have heard him speak in person, or on radio and TV. – The thieves took many things. They took a TV set, DVD player, also some jewellery belonging to my wife. They even took the gold medal I got for my Nobel Peace prize. Then after the robbery, the thieves went to a shebeen and started drinking. There they began boasting about all the things they had stolen from my house, including my gold medal. Now, when the other people in the shebeen heard this, they got somewhat…. they got a little narked. So one of the persons there went and telephoned the police and informed them. The result was that the thieves were caught in record time. You see, he continued smiling broadly - my wife was always hiding the medal somewhere to keep it safe. Then she would forget where she had put it. So I told her, the infectious laugh that is never far away broke out at this point – look, the thieves have done us a favour, they have found the medal for us.
A woman in a bright red dress emerged from the crowd and came up to the Archbishop.
– No, no please don’t get up, she urged, though, ever courteous, he did stand. - I just wanted to shake your hand. It is such an honour.
15 March 2012
Queen's University Belfast
18 March 2008
A Tory Grandee
Sir Patrick Mayhew, Secretary of State for Northern Ireland from 1992-97, was the chief guest at a small dinner party thrown at the Belfast residence of a wealthy businessman of Indian origin. The guests included top local politicians, senior civil servants, successful businessmen, and their wives. After pre-dinner drinks we moved to the dining room where I found myself seated in the place of honour, on Sir Patrick’s right. It was a place which should have been occupied by the host’s wife. She, perhaps lacking in confidence and unsure of her ability to converse in English, had demurred and the place had been assigned to me. The lady on Sir Patrick’s other side was the wife of a suitably local eminent person. As we took our places, the wives of the assembled good and great looked daggers at me, then a young woman in my forties, one of little consequence, and unknown in the social circles in which they moved. If looks could kill I would not have survived the evening.
Sir Patrick was a large man, over six feet tall, with a square fleshy face, his thinning grey hair parted and slicked back over his head. He spoke with a plummy accent, the teeth clenched together in the manner affected by the English upper classes. It would be hard to say which one of us, Sir Patrick or myself, was more surprised by the seating arrangement at dinner. He was nonplussed as to what he should converse about, as good manners dictated he should, with the nobody seated on his right.
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- This is such fun, isn’t it? he made a brave stab at it, looking at the half coconuts in which our first course was served.
Seeing my husband whom he had met over drinks, seated further down the table, he had another go.
– What has the professor (a handy title which obviated the need to remember names) been doing these days? Has he been keeping busy?
I mentioned we had been to Australia recently.
- I went with a parliamentary delegation to the capital, Canberra. Strange place isn’t it, a city purpose built in the middle of nowhere to serve as a capital.
I hadn’t been to Canberra so the topic petered out.
He was at a loss after that so it was time to step in with some help. Forearmed with the knowledge that Sir Patrick had served with the Irish Guards (The Royal Dragoon Guards, an Irish regiment), I mentioned my father had been an officer in the Brigade of Guards in the Indian army. Sir Patrick brightened visibly. We discussed the formation, after Indian independence, of the Brigade of Guards, modelled on the British Army. He said two of his (four) sons had joined the army. He recounted with relish an occasion when one of them found himself in a situation where he had to salute his father.
– You never saw a more reluctant salute, he said with delight
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After a suitable interval when we each talked to the others seated beside us, I played my second card. Sir Patrick was ex-Oxford man where Balliol had been his college. I told him my son had also been to Balliol. Sir Patrick’s bonhomie towards me went up several degrees. He talked at some length of his student days at Oxford and of the special rivalry between Balliol and the adjoining college. Conversation between us flowed.
While Sir Patrick had at first been at a loss to find a woman of no importance seated beside him, he found conversation with her surprisingly easy, enjoyable even. Two subjects close to his heart were his old army regiment and his Oxford college and he had been able to talk to her about both.
- Well, well, who would have thought we would have so much in common, you and I? he commented as the meal drew to a close.
My dinner companion was a Tory grandee descended from a family related to Lord Chelmsford, one of the Viceroy’s of India. My antecedents were of more humble origin surviving in conditions of genteel poverty. No, Sir Patrick and I had little in common.
1 October 2016
Ellen from the Royal
Incarcerated in the Royal Victoria Hospital, Belfast – the Royal to locals– as a result of injuries sustained in a road traffic accident, I spent nearly two months in the hospital’s fracture ward. The women's section of the ward had six beds. Most of the patients were old, had fractured leg or hip in a fall - tripped down the stairs, across threshold, over cat - and spent just a few days in hospital. Among the few who stayed longer was a colourful character, named Ellen.
Ellen’s bed was between mine and that of another long stay patient, J, also injured in a road accident. She was in deep distress, not because of her own numerous injuries, but because her youngest daughter, just two years old, lay unconscious in neurosurgery ward a floor below. J had a large family and never lacked for flowers or visitors. Between the two of us was sad and lonely Ellen who received no visitors, cards or flowers. Her husband lived many miles away in the west, near Enniskillen, had no car and made no effort to contact her. Originally from Scotland, Ellen spoke with a broad Glaswegian accent that everyone struggled to understand.
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Though broken in body her attitude was combative and she expressed her views in a forthright manner. She made no attempt to be polite. Confined to bed, like the other patients, and at the mercy of the staff, she would summon one of them peremptorily – Nurse! Come heer or I will break your neck. She made outlandish demands, asking for salt every morning at breakfast to put on her porridge. She called all the male nurses, and most other men too, Joe. I was not spared the rough edge of her tongue. She heard me tell a nurse that the box with little squares on my locker were not soaps, but chocolates from Brussels brought by a friend. Ellen growled sarcastically from the next bed: That's what comes from being famous! She would often say - I hate the bloody Irish, adding disingenuously – You’ll no be wanting me to tell lies. Ellen kept the ward in good humour and brightened our dreary days.
One evening, the night staff had come on duty and one of the older, experienced nurses, was chatting with Ellen, making a special effort for this lonely old woman, when to everyone's surprise, she persuaded her to sing. Ellen sang well, a song about 'take me hame' which she called simply 'Scotland'. There was applause when she had finished and requests for more. From that day, after the last visitors had left and the night staff had come on, there were regular singing sessions in which everyone joined in with enthusiasm. Scottish songs such as 'Donald where's your trewsers' and ‘Marie’s wedding’ were followed by Irish ones.
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The best moment occurred towards the end of Ellen’s stay. One morning she was informed by her consultant she had recovered sufficiently to be sent to a hospital in Enniskillen nearer her home. When some ambulance men came to the ward later she assumed, wrongly, that they had come to take her. 'Where are you from?' one of them inquired. 'Letterbreen' she replied in her broad Glaswegian accent. Seeing him look puzzled she asked with undisguised contempt: 'Yourre Irrish and ye no ken Letterrbrreen?' The ambulance man thought for a moment then replied seriously: 'No, I don't know Ken Letterbreen.' An Irishman and a Scotswoman divided by a common language!
When she left, everyone made a special effort to bid her goodbye and she carried away the good wishes of staff and patients. One hopes the kindness she received in hospital did not mellow her fierce spirit and she continued to say: I hate the bloody Irish.
16 May 2024
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Public man private passions
Ismail Merchant
It was something of a coup for Queen’s Film Theatre to get Ismail Merchant to come as a guest of the theatre in late 2003. It is difficult to attract internationally well known persons from the film world to Belfast even after ‘the Troubles’, the period of terrorist disruption that plagued the province for many years, were in the past. Belfast is on the fringes of the UK, geographically as well as culturally, and big name stars prefer to go to London, or to Glasgow or Manchester.
The plan to get him to attend was carefully laid. In 2003, it became evident that IM was going round the UK personally promoting a first film by a young American director. While IM was better known as the producer half of the Merchant-Ivory partnership, he had also directed a small number of films. QFT arranged to screen Merci Dr Rey (2002), director Andrew Litvak (the bait), and programmed a season of films directed by IM during the annual Belfast Festival in late 2003.
IM arrived, accompanied by his protégé, looking distinctly put out as the airline had managed to leave his luggage behind. He was well wrapped up against the cold in overcoat and scarf and wore a baseball cap. We helped him complete the paperwork for the missing luggage and drove the two visitors to their hotel. By the evening IM had been re-united with his bags and had regained his good humour.
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The first evening’s programme was a screening of Merci Dr Rey followed by a Q&A session with the director. IM, who treated his companion as a slightly errant schoolboy, told AL earlier at the hotel to shave and smarten himself up for the evening. When they arrived at the theatre, IM declared he did not want to sit through the screening. Nor, surprisingly, did the director, who showed little interest in the reactions of the audience to the film. After the film had started, a small group of us repaired for dinner to a nearby Indian restaurant which, as is often the case, was run by a Bangladeshi.
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IM, a well known foodie and an accomplished cook, immediately took charge of the ordering.
- Do you serve any typically Bengali dishes, like mustard fish? he asked the proprietor.
- No, was the expected answer - but I recommend this prawn dish. It is a speciality of the house.
-We’ll have that. IM scrutinised the menu and reeled off a list of dishes – lamb, chicken, dal, some vegetables, with practised ease.
- The special dish the owner recommended was terrible, IM commented as we walked back to the cinema, - but the rest of the food was not bad.
AL performed dreadfully at the post film Q&A session. His appearance, despite IM’s earlier strictures, was dishevelled, his manner sloppy, he slid around in his chair and gave vacuous answers to questions from the audience.
- When someone holds up 2 dresses and asks which one, you say that one, he replied when asked about the role of a director.
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The following day there was a tour of Belfast organised for the visitors guided by an academic who was an expert on the city’s murals. IM told AL he should come along as well. After all the arrangements had been made, IM announced a friend of his would be coming from London and would join us on the tour. This required the hasty organisation of a bigger car. The following morning IM rang to say his friend had overslept and missed his flight and would come later that afternoon. We drove round the Shankill and West Belfast, saw the ‘peace line’ and took in the murals. IM was largely silent while AL – Oh I know all about Ireland, I’ve read Joyce and Synge - kept up a stream of questions which only served to expose his ignorance.
In Custody (1994) was scheduled to be screened that evening to be followed by a Q&A session with the director. IM turned up at the cinema a little late with AL in tow and accompanied by the friend who had finally arrived from London. He turned out to be a short, thick-set, plain looking, unsophisticated Asian man in his twenties.
- This is Suraj, IM introduced him, - he is my masseur. - I want him to watch the film with me. He seated the young man next to him during the screening.
The film, IM’s best directorial effort, was appreciated by the packed audience. IM was articulate in his responses to questions from the interviewer and the audience. When asked about some recent trouble in India between Hindus and Muslims, IM, a devout Muslim, shook with anger. He blamed politicians for fomenting trouble between the two communities for their own ends. Regarding his future plans, he said, - My next film is going to be The Goddess. It will star Tina Turner. (The film was never made. IM died just over a year later in May 2005)
Dinner afterwards was in a nearby Chinese restaurant where the owner undertook to organise the menu keeping in mind that IM, as a Muslim, did not eat pork. IM again kept his young friend beside himself.
– He is a vegetarian. He will have some hot and sour soup followed by noodles with vegetables, IM told the proprietor.
IM ate with relish and pronounced the food excellent. He urged his young friend to eat his soup. The young man for his part looked a bit bemused and took no part in the conversation around him.
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The next day, both the younger men left and IM was on his own. Lunch was at a bar where he asked for fish and chips. – Make sure the chips are nice and crisp, he told the waiter. When the food appeared he pronounced the chips good and cleared up his plate. With the afternoon free he took himself off to the cinema to see the new Coen Bros film Intolerable Cruelty (2003). His last engagement was to introduce a screening of his film The Mystic Masseur (2001) in the evening.
To the airport the next morning. When he took out his passport it was an Indian one, bulky with several add-ons. Was it not inconvenient given his international jet-setting (IM owned houses in London, Paris, New York and Bombay) and the stringent visa requirements for Indian citizens?
- I prefer to keep my Indian identity, he said. – I have long-term visas for countries I visit regularly.
A bear hug and he went through departures.
During the course of his short visit IM’s various interests had been revealed – his passion for films and for food, his adherence to Islam, a patriotic attachment to India and, finally, there was the not–so-mystic masseur.
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November 2003
The Churning
Shyam Benegal
The plan, to screen a selection of films by the noted Indian director, Shyam Benegal, at Queen’s Film Theatre, Belfast, and invite the director to attend and discuss his works, was thrown into disarray by an Icelandic volcano with an unpronounceable long name. A churning of the magma beneath the earth's crust caused the volcano, Eyjafjallajökull, to erupt spewing out vast quantities of volcanic ash that disrupted air travel over much of Western and Northern Europe during the first half of 2010. The films, included in the program, were screened as planned, without the presence of the director. After the volcanic dust cloud had settled and airline schedules returned to normal, Shyam Benegal came over in November that year to give a lecture. The event was held, not in the main buildings of Queen’s University Belfast, but in the cinema. His visit was sponsored by a wealthy local businessman of Indian origin, a generous donor to the university and the Vice Chancellor was on hand to attend the event. The businessman had recently married a much younger woman, a very pushy individual who, it was to be expected, would dominate the proceedings. I was thus surprised to be informed that I was to chair the Q&A. The schedule was that the Vice Chancellor would introduce the guest, I would chair the Q&A and thanks given by the young wife. As a gesture of goodwill towards the businessman, an old friend, I offered to do the Q&A with said wife.
Met Shyam Benegal before the proceedings got under way.
- I lived briefly in Trimulgerry ( the place where he was born) I said, – and attended a girls’ school, St Anne’s Convent, in the city of Secunderabad.
- I went to the same school, was his surprising response. – I had sisters who attended the school and, in those days, very young boys used to be admitted to the junior most classes. – That would have been well before your time, he added kindly.
The director, who clearly had not been briefed about the audience for his talk, read a prepared speech. It was an analysis of popular Indian cinema, replete with references, as befitting a lecture to academics and not really suitable for regular film theatre attendees. He was listened to in respectful silence and politely applauded at the end. The Vice Chancellor then introduced me and we took our seats facing the audience.
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Without a film to discuss, the questions were necessarily of a more general nature. We talked first about the treatment of women - strong, independent - in his films. Then asked what was the next film he planned.
- It will be an Indian version of Carmen, he replied, – with the title ‘Chamki, Chamki’ (roughly translates as ‘Sparkle, Sparkle’). It will be set on the Pakistan/India border in the desert area of Sindh, where a lot of smuggling goes on between the two countries. Carmen is a very popular opera, he added, – it is possible to find a performance of it every single day of the year, somewhere or other in the world.
Politely handed over to my co-interviewee who, hopelessly unprepared, invited questions from the audience. The director’s answer to one that the films he made depended on finance he could raise allowed me to step in again.
- For your film ‘Manthan’ (The Churning) 1976, on the milk co-operative established at Anand, in Gujarat state, you found a novel way to fund the film.
- Yes, all the members of the co-operative, half a million of them, contributed Rs 2 each, a total of Rs 1 million, which gave me the funds to make the film.
- That was a most unusual, perhaps unique method of financing a film?
- Oh no, there are at least two other instances I know of. In France, Renoir, to make a film about the Popular Front, collected money at public places in Paris such as entrances to the Metro. There was another case of a film made in the US with money raised from trade union members. As for ‘Manthan’, the film was a hit. Each member of the co-operative got Rs 2000 for their initial investment of Rs 2, a handsome profit. Dairy production shot up in the country and in a few years India became the number one milk producer in the world.
There was prolonged applause from the audience when he finished speaking. This was more to QFT audiences liking rather than a dry academic speech.
Dinner had been arranged, by the wife, afterwards for a selection of guests at an Indian restaurant, the Spice Club, owned by her wealthy businessman husband. It was a shambolic affair with no seating arrangement and no planned meal. Instead everyone was asked to choose from the restaurant’s menu.
- We could share some dishes, Shyam Benegal suggested to me. When the food eventually came, the director was unimpressed.
– It is really not possible to get good Indian food outside India, he grumbled, oblivious to the fact that he was the guest of one of the richest men in the country.
- I was pleased to hear you say your next film is to be an Indian version of Carmen, the Vice Chancellor seated on his other side said. – I am a bit of an opera buff. I look forward to seeing the film one day.
The Indian version of Carmen, ‘Chamki, Chamki’ was never made. As Shyam Benegal had pointed out he could only make films for which he could raise the finances. The smugglers on the Indo-Pak border were unlikely to have been as forthcoming as the members of the dairy co-operative in Anand.
July 2022
Staying on - Mark Tully
Mark Tully, long-term correspondent of the BBC in India, where he chose to stay on after retirement, was the recipient of an honorary degree at Queen's University, Belfast, at the summer graduation ceremonies in July 2011. The ceremony was followed by lunch in the Council chamber for a select few, including members of Senate, from among those attending the morning and afternoon ceremonies. Lunch, a buffet laid out in the Canada room next door was a lavish affair, no economies on such an occasion. Over coffee there was a speech by the Vice Chancellor, then a few words, which he had been scribbling on a scrap of paper during the meal, from chair of Senate. Business concluded there was a general exodus with many leaving to prepare for the afternoon ceremony.
Mark Tully greeted me cordially when I went to say hello. I had made his acquaintance when he had come to give a lecture in 2008, an occasion on which I had chaired his talk and the following Q&A session.
- I am leaving today for London, he said, - a car is going to take me to the airport, at 3.45. First I need to find my honorary degree certificate which someone helpfully offered to look after during lunch. I am not sure where it is now. I hope my bag will also be in the car.
He seemed a little anxious about these matters and, being the only person left, I undertook to help. We went down the broad staircase, Mark Tully hobbling and clearly in some discomfort. In the Welcome Centre a young woman made some enquiries. After she had assured him that everything would be waiting for him in the car, we went out into the main quadrangle. The lawns were laid out with tables and chairs for afternoon tea served to students graduating on the day, along with their families and guests.
Mark Tully seemed happy to sit around. In India, where he is a national institution (a recent article referred to him as ‘legendary’) it would have been difficult to approach him. Here he sat and chatted easily, his genial nature, apparent at our last meeting much in evidence.
- I don't know the north of Ireland, I usually go to the south. My daughter lives in Waterville, on the Ring of Kerry, where we had a family gathering recently. Yes, I have some problems walking nowadays because of my knees. I also have this rare ailment connected to my inner ears, called Ménière’s disease. It causes me to stagger sometimes which, unfortunately, can give the impression that I am a bit inebriated.
A few guests were drifting onto the lawns. An elderly gentleman in a suit came up. He said he was a member of a group called Initiatives of Change, earlier known as the MRA (Moral Rearmament Army).
- I wanted to ask you about a quote in your speech. It was by a famous Indian, about education.
- It was a quote from Tagore, Mark Tully said pulling out of his jacket pocket some crumpled sheets of paper. He looked through his speech, handwritten in blue ink. – ‘Only through education can we know freedom’, he told the gentleman who thanked him.
We resumed our conversation. Corruption, rampant in India, had been much in the news.
- Well yes, there is a great deal of corruption. However, there are several high-ranking, powerful individuals who are currently in jail. That would not have happened before. The reason for such extraordinary levels of corruption? I think it is all to do with the family. Family ties are very strong in India and so everything is justified in the name of the family.
The catering manager of Queen’s spotted the distinguished guest sitting on the lawn and came up to ask if he could get him anything. Mark Tully politely refused.
Learning that Shyam Benegal had been a recent visitor, he turned happily to the subject of Indian films.
- Shyam Benegal is such a simple, unassuming man, there are none of the airs of the great director about him. He stated this simply, the fact that he was behaving in much the same way clearly did not cross his mind. – Which films of his did you show during his visit? Zubeidaa (2001)? That is a very good film. I like the more popular Indian films, like Lage Raho Munnabhai (2006), Iqbal (2005), 3 Idiots (2009). Have you seen A Wednesday (2008)? Nasiruddin Shah is superb, as always. I got to know him and also Aamir Khan. They both liked a film I had made on BKS Iyengar (the well known yoga guru).
He turned to the subject of food and revealed something of the unorthodox arrangements in his household.
- The best food in India is, of course, to be found in people’s homes. That means there has to be someone to do the cooking. Well, I am very lucky. I had a man who came to work for me as a sweeper, who turned out to be a very good cook so he moved to work in the kitchen. Then when he grew too old, his son and wife took over.
More guests were coming on to the lawns. A group of musicians took up positions in the porch and started to play jazz. It was time for him to leave for the airport. We went to the side of the main building, outside the Old Common Room, where a car was waiting with his degree certificate and his bag. He put the cardboard tube with the certificate in his bag and took out his passport. His mind went back to Indian films.
- Zubeidaa has one of my favourite lines. When Amrish Puri comes into the film studio and finds his daughter dancing on a film set, he is outraged. He takes out a pistol, fires it into the air and shouts ‘Yeh bakwas band karo!’ (Stop this nonsense at once!) He spoke with the wistful longing of someone who would have liked to have used the phrase himself on several occasions.
With that he folded his hands together in the traditional Indian gesture of namaaste, got into the car and was driven away.
October 2016
An Illegal Immigrant
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In Barcelona for a short break, we enquired at the hotel where we could get an evening meal. The receptionist pointed us to a restaurant a short step away. Having checked in and had a rest we duly went there to get some dinner.
The restaurant was deserted – the Spanish dine very late – and we were the only customers. There was a printed menu and also a large buffet to choose from. While my other half sat at one of the tables and scrutinised the wine list, I went to investigate the buffet. As I walked round trying to figure out what the unfamiliar dishes were, I was closely watched by a young, 20ish, good-looking waiter, smartly dressed in the jacket and tie of the restaurant. After a few moments he approached, not to ask if I needed any help, but to ask a question.
- Are you from Pakistan? he inquired in English. No great powers of deduction were necessary to guess that was the country he hailed from.
- No, I replied, speaking not in English but in Hindi. - I am originally from India and I live in the UK now. The languages of the two countries, Urdu and Hindi, are sufficiently close to make the speech of one comprehensible to the other.
These words brought a disproportionately joyous reaction from the young man. His handsome face lit up and broke into a wide smile.
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After that he came over to the table, met my husband and chatted with us. His pleasure at meeting persons who were from the same part of the world as himself and whom he could speak to in his native language was abundantly evident. He chatted freely with us throughout the meal. He rushed to fetch something if he thought we needed it, a special fork, a clean napkin, more water, his solicitousness was boundless. A cousin who worked in the kitchen was brought out and introduced. Skewers of meat, a speciality of the house – included in the price – were fetched and pressed on us.
- If you need any help while you are here, just ask me, he said. – Visiting, doing shopping, I can help you. Come here and I will take you around. The words were sincere and genuine.
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During the course of the meal his story emerged. He had come to Spain around 10 years earlier, entering by clandestine means and had worked in the shadow economy for a while. For some years recently he had been a washer up in the restaurant, working behind the scenes. Without papers he could not travel and he had not been able to go to Pakistan to see his family.
- I have got my papers now, he said proudly. – Now I can work in the front of the restaurant with the customers. I am also planning to go home soon to see my mother.
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- What has it been like for your mother? I asked, thinking of this woman seeing her young teenage son leaving home for a distant land, not knowing what fate had in store for him. – She must have been very worried, not seeing you for so many years.
- I speak to her every week, he replied. – Next time I call I will tell her about you. She will be very happy I have met you.
Since 1947 when the subcontinent was partitioned, amid horrific bloodshed, into two independent nations, India and Pakistan, the countries have existed in a state of mutual hostility and have fought several wars. All this was of little consequence to the young man who saw only what united us – origins in the same part of the world and a language in which we could speak together.
Nelson Mandela wrote ‘If you talk to a man in a language he understands, that goes to his head. If you talk to him in his language, that goes to his heart.’
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June 2022