Bharat Bhushan on the V S Naipaul he knew

Bharat Bhushan writes of his experiences in Sir Vidia’s shadow

The contest was between a sitting MP who was blind and his nephew. Theblinduncle, Mu ku tbih ar iL alBh ar ga va, belonged to the old order, the Congress-O(Organisation). Hisnephewhad thrown in his lot with Ind ira Gandhi’ s Congress-R(Reformist), whichwasriding high on the victory in Bangladesh.

Pr ivy purses had been abolished and banks national is ed. As it is the royalty in Raj as than was up in arms. Then suddenly Ma ha raj aK is hang a rh was murdered by one BhimaJat, the brother of his paramour. The atmosphere in the Aj mer parliamentary constituency, of which K is hang a rh was a part, was electric. The correspondent from the Sunday Times Magazine had quite wise ly chosen to report the mid-term elections of 1971 f rom Aj me rand had found the pictures que Circuit House.

In nearby Mayo College, the students were oblivious of the momentous changes taking place in the Indian polity. Maharaja K is hang ar h’ s murder, of course, hadas the Ma ha raj a’ s two sons were associated with the school—one had just graduated and the other, PrithvirajSingh, was still a student.

The correspondent from London somehow found himself sitting next to the headmaster ofMayo, Shomie Ranjan Das, watching AsYouLikeIt, a co-production with the local girls’ school. When he asked for help in hiring a professional interpreter, Das suggested that he take one of his boys who would do the job. That was how I first met VS Naipaul.

I did not know who Naipaul was nor could I guess from his appearance where he was from. His face with its ropey lines looked like an unfinished model in clay. Heworea floppy hat, enunciated each word clearly and spoke in an accent that I had not heard before. All I knew was that I would get a few days off from school.

The prime campaign er for the blind candidate was the Ma ha ran aofUdaip ur. We followed his car-ca de. Although he attracted fairly large crowds, it was difficult defending a candidate so badly handicapped. That Bharg av a could see better with his inner eye than those with normal eye sight did not convince even mean dI was only 15 years old. Naipaul showed no reaction to the election speeches. He just jotted everything down in hisnotebook.

Once at a railway crossing, hetookouta fl ask and poured himself some black coffee. One of the onlookers re marked that angrez sahibs drank rum whenever they felt like it. Naipaul understood that and told me to tell that irritating fellow that he was drinking blackcoffee, notrum.

At another time we found ourselves at a tea-shopinNasirabad, outsideAjmer, lateat night. Naipaul insisted that the shop keeper wash his cup and saucer with soap. The shop keeper asked his young son—about seven or eight years old—to wash the cup. Naipaul wanted to know why the child was notinbed. Did he not have to goto school the next day? How did he expect him to pay attention in class if he was forced to work till eleven at night? The shop keeper heard out Naipaul with are signed smile.

One night our car ran out of fuel. We found a petrol pump but as there was no electricity, the petrol had to be pumped out by hand. Naipaul pushed the attendant aside and started working the crank himself explaining ,“I need some exercise .” The attendant told him he looked very young. Naipaul replied ,“That is perhaps because I don’ t have any children .” Ihavenot understood that answer till today.

Some ofmy teachers in school were upset that I was helping Naipaul who they said had written nasty things about India. I had not read India, A Wounded Civil is at ion but the next day I told Naipaul whatmy teachers had been saying. “Have you readmy book?” I shookmy head. “Have your teachers read it?” I had no idea. “This is what happens in India. People make up their minds before reading anything.”

Naipaul then said that as an outsider he saw things that we did not .“What would you see in the corner of even a new government building?” heasked.“Dirt?” Iventureda guess .“No. That’ s where people think they canspitoutbetel-nutjuice,” hesaid.

Naipaul went back to England and life returned to normal. The blind candidate lost. Ind ira Gandhi gained a two-thirds majority intheLokSabha. After the Naipaul visit, I was left with the strange revelation that people could earn a living writing about things around them. Thatonedidnot have to write novels and stories but describe things as they unfolded wasanideaIfound strange ly exciting. I began corresponding withNaipaul, careofhis publisher Andre Deutsch.

When Naipaul’s election reports from India were published in two parts, I was sent copies of the

Times Magazine. I frantically looked for my name somewhere, hoping that the famous man (by now I knew who he was) might have mentioned me, that this way some of his greatness might rub off on me. I was sorely disappointed.

Ma ha raj aK is hang ar h’ s son Pri th vi raj, who was in my class, was visibly upset on reading the reports. Naipaul had printed a leaf let against his father’ s sexual escapades, distributed during the election campaign, in full. He blamed me for translating it. I was upset enough to write to Naipaul about Sunday putting such hurtful stuff in print. He wrote back that sometimes truth had this effect on people but it had to be told.

The year was 1982 and I was a student at ImperialCollege, London. Ibumpedinto Naipaul at a bookshop on Gloucester Road in SouthKensington. By now I had read his books. I went up and introduced myself .“Oh yes, you used to write tome asa school boy. You wanted to study English literature ,” he said .“Yes. And you wrote back saying that literature has beens poi lt by people like professors,” Isaid.

I told him that I was studying the impact of technology on the industrial labour process instead. “I suppose now you will now become a personnel manager,” he said. I might teach instead, I ventured. That brought on a tirade about “rejecters” like me. “I have seen your kind. You are the type who would kill people if they disagreed with you. Are these the values your father stood for? What would he say to what you have become today?”

“Patsy,” he shouted out to his wife Patricia. “Meet Bharat. I had met him when he was in school. He has become a Rejecter now.”

“That is his description ,” I mumbled. His wife herded us out of the bookshop. Naipaul cooled down a bit and asked me to write to him about how I felt about life now .“Write to me care of my publisher as you used to ,” he said while walking away .“I’ ll be damned if I do,” Isaidtomyself.

A fort night later while walking down Gloucester Road I saw Naipaul again. His wife was a few steps behind him .“Hello Mr Naipaul,” Isaid.“Oh, hello, hello,” hereplied in an off-hand way and walked past me. His wife stopped me and a po log is ed for his behaviour at the bookshop .“We must have you over for tea. Our apartment has been burgled this weekend so call us next Saturday. Vidia, give him our telephone number,” shetoldNaipaul.

An irritated Naipaul turned back to walk towards us. He looked at me ina manner which was at once con descending and arrogant .“I will give you my telephone number only on the condition that you do not pass it onto any researcher, literary critic, journalist or other such pests,” hesaid.

Something snapped in me and It old him ,“On second thoughts MrNaipaul, forgetaboutit. Idon’t think you have anything to say to mean dI certainly don’ t have anything to say to you .” He threw the pen and paper angrily back at me and walked away.

I still read Naipaul admiringly. I am halfway through HalfaLife andmy wife is re-reading A House for Mr Bis was. When I recountedmy encounter with Naipaul to her after he won the Nobel Prize in Literature and expressed a desire to write about it, she said, “Write it but there will be any number of people crawling out of the woodwork now to say ‘When I was a boy, I knew Naipaul’.”

This article, first published in Business Standard on October 16, 2001, is being republished as a tribute to VS Naipaul

Some of my teachers in school were upset that I was helping Naipaul who they said had written nasty things about India. I had not read India, A Wounded Civilisation but the next day I told Naipaul what was being said. ‘Have you read my book?’ I shook my head. ‘Have your teachers read it?’ I had no idea