The Stranger in My Home: Facets of a Life

By No Author

Rare must be the person who knows all about himself. In The Stranger in My Home, former US diplomat Manish Nandy offers a collection of personal stories through an extraordinary travelogue. He looks back at the unusual people he has met over the decades and explores how they have shaped him. The mother he took care of in her old age; the couple he helped adopt a girl in a foreign land by challenging the norms; the women he loved but could not be with; the man who befriended him only to shatter his illusions; the Arab whose integrity was unparalleled; a young Rajiv Gandhi who did not want to join politics; a war veteran whose love story deeply touched him - all of them appear in the book and leave their mark.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harper India
• Release date: Feb 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9789353026943

Book preview

1

SHE IS BEAUTIFUL

ONLY ONE CHANCE

I was working late in the US consulate in Kathmandu one day in the early 1990s when the telephone rang. As the secretary had left, I answered, and when the caller said, ‘Namaskar,’ I responded with the same word. The caller continued in Nepali and explained his problem. I listened and suggested a solution, also in Nepali. He thanked me and said he would call the American officer the next day. I told him that he was indeed talking with an American officer: I was the consul.

Surprised, the caller said, ‘But you are speaking Nepali!’

I laughed and said, ‘You don’t have a law that foreigners cannot speak your language.’ I explained that I had learned the language when I was in Haiti and was the US contact person for the Nepalese contingent in a UN multinational force.

The man then introduced himself and said, ‘I work at the home ministry. Why don’t you drop in some day for a cup of tea? Please let me know if I can be of help any time. My name is Khadka.’

I might have forgotten about the exchange, except for what happened three weeks later. I was scrutinizing visa applications, when my secretary reported that a young couple was waiting in the hall for me and the wife was visibly distraught and in tears. I asked the couple in.

Their story was intriguing. Craig, from an affluent Kansas family, had joined a private voluntary organization in Chicago that sent him to work on a water project in southern Nepal. While he went to work in different locations, his wife, Clara, taught basic English and mathematics to some children in the village. As she did so on the front porch of her home, she would notice a girl, possibly of five or six, skeletal and filthy, clearly a waif, playing on the street.

Passing her one day, Clara gave her a candy. The next day, the girl, possibly trying to get Clara’s attention, was playing right in front of her home. She got another candy.

Then on she got a candy or cookie each day. A week later, Clara was in a local bazaar and bought a girl’s dress. She was about to replace the girl’s tattered frock the next day, when she realized how dirty she was, having lived on the street. She gave her a bath and put the dress on. The girl was pleased and surprised in equal measure, wearing the only new dress she had ever worn. Then on the girl – her name was Maya – imperceptibly became a part of Clara and Craig’s village life.

Two years later, when the project ended and the time came for them to return to the US, they realized to their surprise that they could not leave without Maya. They came to Kathmandu, went to the home ministry and applied for adoption. They expected no glitches since she was an orphan, with no relations to claim her. Then they came up against a legal wall. Craig could not adopt, for under Nepal’s law a person had to be at least thirty to adopt a child, and Craig was nine months short. Clara was even younger. They were despondent and had turned to me as a last recourse.

I had no reassuring answer for them. I could not contend against a well-intentioned law designed to protect children. Then I thought of Khadka, who, I had found out, was the deputy minister. I called and said that I would indeed like to join him for tea. He was gracious and said I could come right away.

I took Craig and Clara with me but left them in the waiting room. Khadka was a sun-tanned, heavy-browed man, squat but nimble. He greeted me warmly, but he knew I had come with a purpose. I chose to be candid.

‘I want to show you a photo,’ I said, and pulled out a picture of Maya.

‘I see it is a very young girl,’ he responded, with a questioning look.

‘You will also notice that it is an ordinary girl. She isn’t pretty at all.’ I added bluntly.

‘Now I want you to take a look at her medical file.’ I pushed a file toward him, ‘You will find she has a large number of health problems: of eyes, ears, skin, stomach and general health.’

I continued, ‘That isn’t surprising. She is an orphan and has lived most of her life on the street, eating scraps and spoiled food neighbours have thrown out. Nobody has cared for her, nobody wanted her.’

Khadka listened intently.

‘Now a miracle has happened. Somebody loves her and wants to adopt her. It is the first and possibly the only break in her miserable life. But the couple who want to take her are less than thirty years of age, and the law stands in the way. I have no way to solve that problem. So, I am asking for your help.

I added, ‘Because the couple is American, I am pleading their case. But, believe me, I am pleading even more for a little girl who has this one chance for a better life. Your and my life will go on as before if the adoption doesn’t go through; even this couple will eventually reconcile to their loss. It is only Maya who would lose her one chance to not be just another waif on the street.’

The secretary had brought the tea, and Khadka asked him for Maya’s adoption file. He signalled me to drink the tea while he studied the file. He quickly reached the last page and started writing.

When he finished, he gave me the file to read. Invoking the appropriate section and subsection of the law, Khadka had written that he was granting a humanitarian exception to the law and the adoption would be allowed to proceed.

I thanked Khadka, saying that Nepalese tea had never tasted better, and left. In the waiting room, when I had explained the outcome, Craig hugged me and Clara wept some more.

I know I had said something wrong to the Nepalese minister. Every Christmas Craig and Clara send me a family photo, and this year I looked carefully at their adolescent daughter. I had told Khadka that Maya was an ordinary girl, not pretty at all. I was wrong. She is beautiful.

2

SCAR

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL MARK

IT WAS MY SEVENTH birthday and we were going to have a party.

In the kitchen, my mother feverishly cooked my favourite food and pastries. I dropped in from time to time to see the progress. Beads of perspiration lined her face on that warm day, but she smiled every time I came in. She wanted it to be a special event for me.

As I came in the fourth time, I tried to look at the just finished corn pudding and, in an awkward gesture, overturned a large jar of brown sugar. It fell with a loud crash near my feet, but I was unhurt. I yelped, more in chagrin than in pain, but my mother misunderstood the cry.

She turned sharply to help me and overturned a pot of hot oil on herself. Her left arm was instantly covered with boiling oil. As blisters started appearing, I rushed to get her some ice and petroleum jelly. Her entire arm was soon red and splotchy. She was clearly in great pain, and I begged her to stop cooking and lie down. She insisted that she had to finish the cooking before the guests came and kept cooking, though I could see from her face how hard it was for her.

The party was a great success. My friends enjoyed themselves; I had a great time and felt proud of my mother’s achievement. However, Mother had to go to the doctor the next day. I heard her telling my father, that the nurse reprimanded her for ignoring such a severe burn for several hours.

There was an unsightly scar on her arm for several months. The ointment the doctor recommended seemed to work very slowly.

Decades have passed since then. I have never been able to forget the accident or to forgive myself for inadvertently causing so much pain to my dear mother. I knew she had deferred going to a doctor because she wanted to make sure that my birthday party was impeccable.

I spoke to her the year she died at ninety-one and told her of my tenacious, troubling souvenir.

Characteristically, she said, ‘You didn’t do anything wrong. I was careless.’ She added, ‘I was so glad your birthday party went well.’

3

THE DOCTOR AND THE OUTLAW

A LAST APPEAL

ANY DYING MAN WOULD be a doctor’s special concern. However, this one was very special for my uncle. He sat close to the gasping man and whispered, ‘I am the one you sent for.’

He had just taken out the two bullets the police had used to take the man down and knew the damage was extensive and irreparable. All that my uncle could do now was to help reduce his pain and find out why the man had specifically asked for him.

My uncle knew the man from before as Ram but almost certainly, that wasn’t his real name. Three years ago some farmers had found Ram at the edge of their field, dying of bullet wounds, and had carried him to my uncle’s country clinic.

Uncle was sixty-five, a country doctor who had become a legend in his lifetime and drew patients from over twenty villages in eastern India. A large man, with silver hair and a walrus moustache, he was the calmest of listeners and gentlest of healers. He treated many of his poor patients free of charge and I marvelled to see his eyes turn moist when women or children spoke of their pain.

Ram had said that he had been robbed and then shot by hoodlums. He teetered on the verge of death for weeks before he recovered. Because he now walked with a limp and could not return to his work as a day labourer, my uncle hired him as a domestic help. The children liked him, and he became a part of the family.

One day he disappeared, about as suddenly as he had originally appeared. My uncle missed him, but when others commented on Ram’s ingratitude in leaving without a word, he said, ‘We don’t know why he left so suddenly. We shouldn’t guess, and we shouldn’t judge until we know.’

A shattering blow came in less than a month.

Ram, it turned out, was no day labourer. He led a notorious gang of outlaws who had been shot not by hoodlums, but by police in the course of a violent encounter.

Worse, when he had left, he had stolen my uncle’s hunting rifle, using his position as a trusted help. Since rejoining his gang, Ram had shot and killed two policemen with the gun. Now my uncle was implicated, because the police presumed that he had allowed the misuse of his gun or at least been negligent in its safekeeping.

After grilling him for three days in the district court, the authorities let my uncle go but cancelled his gun licence. The public humiliation was his worst punishment.

Now, after three years, a police car had fetched him to the bedside of a dying man who did not want any doctor but my uncle.

Ram said, ‘Doctor, you saved my life once. In return, I stole from you.’ He paused, and added, ‘Please forgive me if you can.’

Those were his last words.

4

A TIP I EARNED

YOU AREN’T WHAT I THINK YOU ARE

A LARGE DIPLOMATIC COCKTAIL party in an Asian country. Lots of food, lots of drinks, and lots of guests. The host is the American consul: me.

Though there are secretaries, assistants and other people to help, I prefer to open the door personally to welcome guests to my home. I was doing so for each incoming guest.

An American couple came in. I smiled and greeted them. The husband looked at me but did not respond. At first I wondered if he had heard me. Then I realized that, from my looks, he had inferred I was a domestic help and beneath the level of a polite response.

I extended my hands then to take the coat from his wife. She said, as she divested herself of the fur coat, ‘It is an expensive coat.’ Though I nodded to indicate that I had understood, she stressed, ‘It is a very expensive coat. Take good care.’ She placed a dollar bill in my pocket.

I hung the coat in a closet and went in. The barman was giving drinks to the couple. My assistant said to them, ‘Let me introduce you to our host, the consul.’ The man’s jaw dropped in surprise and the woman started stammering, ‘Oh, I am so sorry. I hope you don’t mind.’

I raised my voice just a little bit, so that all the guests in the hall could hear me, and said, ‘I don’t mind at all, unless you ask back for the tip that I have just earned.’

5

A HALL OF RICOCHET

PLACE UNFORGOTTEN, UNFORGETTABLE

SIR ANDREW HENDERSON LEITH Fraser, lieutenant governor of Bengal, had gone to the Overtoun Hall in Calcutta (now Kolkata) on a warm July evening in 1908 to hear a lecture. He suddenly found a revolver pressed to his ribs.

The nondescript young man that had his finger on the trigger seemed determined to send him to the hereafter, as a coup against the ruthless colonial rule that the governor represented. But the revolver malfunctioned. Before the man could try again, the large American, Keith Barber, who looked after Overtoun Hall, tackled him, and the police arrived.

That wasn’t the only episode of the nationalist drama in the Overtoun Hall, the centerpiece of the large YMCA building at the corner of College Street and Harrison Road. Keshab Chandra Sen had advocated for English education there, and a decade later Gandhi spoke there on nationalism and Rabindranath Tagore offered his ‘interpretation of Indian history.’

In 1950 my father came to take charge of the building, moving from our home in the pleasant YMCA building located on, coincidentally, Keshab Chandra Sen street in the Mechua Bazar area. We lived on the topmost floor, in a spacious bright apartment, with an airy living room, several bedrooms, a modest kitchen and a long, broad, covered terrace. We loved the apartment, but what made it exceptional was the access it gave to a remarkable building: without even stepping out, I could go to a gymnasium, a library and a restaurant. And to the Overtoun Hall.

The hall had been built fifty-two years ago with a bequest from John Campbell White, later Lord Overtoun, a skinflint Scottish chemical manufacturer who docked a shilling from his workers’ meagre wages any time they smoked and five shillings if they drank beer. Overtoun would turn in his grave if he knew how the hall became a symbol of independent thinking, particularly against the British.

Now the British were gone, and the hall had turned into a different kind of symbol: of a new cultural renaissance. In the newly independent, post-colonial India there was a spurt of creativity. Books, hitherto vetted and censored, were coming out in profusion; people were writing poems and songs, unashamedly patriotic; dances were choreographed and plays staged with bold, new ideas. For a pittance one could rent the Overtoun Hall and offer music, dances and theatre to an eager audience. For every show, Father would receive a bunch of free tickets.

Invariably, I was one user of those tickets. Night after night I would fast-track school homework to rush to Overtoun Hall to hear the finest musicians of India, from Ustad Vilayat Khan to Nikhil Banerjee, from the Dagar Brothers to Shamshad Begum, to watch outstanding plays from the historical Chandragupta to provocative Nabanna, and hear lectures from scholars, writers and politicians. The last was the most frequent and luckily so, for these were my favourites. I hung on their lips as I listened to my adored litterateurs like Narayan Gangopadhyay and Pramatha Nath Bisi, and to much-admired political speakers like the communist leaders Soumyendranath Tagore and Hirendranath Mukherjee.

I never cared much for my schools as sources of learning; later I developed the same scepticism of my colleges and universities. But I have no doubt in my mind that my true alma mater, in the sense of a ‘nourishing mother,’ was Overtoun Hall. It fed my growing appetite for new and challenging ideas, opened my eyes to different options for perceiving society and my ears to incredible heights of musical and dramatic power. I never lost my longing for the theatre and my endless obsession with new concepts, and I owe it all to endless evenings in the last row of an overcrowded auditorium.

I can still remember the thick Teutonic accents of Arthur Koestler as he urged his listeners to ‘think and write’ new ideas. I can never forget Utpal Dutt’s – he was still a student – vibrant soliloquies from Shakespeare that made me a lifelong reader of Shakespeare.

Last year I went and took a look at the building at 86 College Street. It is no longer a YMCA building; it had been sold. Worse, it looks abandoned