GVK, your blog B2B with K: Where we were the day Nehru died makes compelling reading.
It was the 27th of May. Unlike you we were not at sea but on a bus travelling at speed from Zahedan to Teheran. It was the day Jawaharlal Nehru died and this seismic event brought an era of hope and great secular dreams to an end.
We had been feeling upbeat and triumphant as our host, the radio journalist in Zahedan, had put us on this bus and obtained an undertaking from the driver that as guests of his country, we would be travelling for free. Half an hour in to the journey, fellow passengers could barely contain their resentment at our freebie status. Some were turning round to fix hostile stares on us, and we noticed that one or two had got up to go to the driver waving their arms pointing an accusing jabbing finger at us. We did not need to understand Farsi to work out what was going on. Soon the driver pulled up and stopped off the well surfaced black ribbon like road and theatrically hoisted himself upright, tweaked his moustache a couple of times, nodded his head and came up to us holding on to the straps hanging from the ceiling like little child swings. He put out his large half open hands as if demanding something. I think his monosyllabic mumble was “paisa, monnaie, paisa”. As far as I knew we had no money left except a few coins and here we were in the middle of a featureless desert. Irshad Panjatan, the famous mime who had done this journey before, and whose example had inspired us would have had no problem with communicating with this hand wringing, hands proffering buffoon. Our suitcases would be slung out any minute now, his gestures seemed to indicate, with resonant single tone approvals from the rest of the passengers who seemed to sigh in unison. Subhash had enough of this. His emollient phrases in English had little effect. Then he pulled a rabbit out of the hat: he had in the depths of his pockets a secret cache of some 100 US Dollars which he had not told me about and waved a ten dollar bill in front of a now openly drooling driver. I had an immense sense of relief running through me as the spectre of being evicted in the middle of the desert disappeared.
Subhash seemed peeved and displeased that he had been called upon to save us both from certain eviction. Tension was beginning to build up between us and I was learning the hard way a valuable lesson in sharing, having to participate in disagreements, asserting one’s own perception of events and win an argument but not lose a friend. This was to occur time and again, and it is just the sheer generosity of Subhash which kept our friendship from harm and alive to this day.
We dozed and dreamt like cats napping in the sun. The driver had the radio at full blast, a mixture of what seemed like a Persian version of yodelling and recitation, interrupted by the DJ with portentous announcements. We heard passengers humming again, almost in unison once more and unbelievably all faces were turned towards us, this time it seemed in some sort of collective sympathy and commiseration, uttering a word I could not recognize: “Nero, Nero Nero”. Soon enough the driver was pulling off the ribbon road , hauling himself up and heading towards us in little swings. He came up to us, wrung his hand, made repeated exaggerated bows and said “ Nero Nero Nero dead, Nero Morde”. He clasped our hand with both of his and kept up his consoling chant. Nehru had just died and he had heard the news on his radio. Intuitively, we understood and felt a deep shock as we shook his outstretched hands.
Jawaharlal’s Discovery of India written initially as a series of letters from prison to his daughter Indira changed and shaped my world view and my core values: these had to do with humanism as against jingoistic nationalism, fierce dislike of fascism in all its benevolent outward appearance, freedom of speech and an overwhelming and enduring respect for the democratic process.. India had shown the world how the largest democracy with a multi religious constituency could survive and progress without cyclical military interventions, civil riots and so on. The true father of the nation was no more. We were in a state of daze as the fellow passengers seemed to hum a dirge to a slow clap, a funereal song perhaps from some historical musical archive of Persia.
Teheran seemed a sumptuous city with the Shah’s palace perched on a hill top overlooking the city. We had left India and her squalor, slums and beggars far behind now. Perhaps, the Shah was after all a benevolent father like figure, a bit stern perhaps, maybe a slightly self deluded monarch who coveted the Peacock Throne. The markets were heaving with Persian treasures, a noisy Indiana Jones tableau, a bit I thought like Chandni Chowk in old Delhi, without the squalor.
As we disembarked and bade goodbyes to our driver and fellow passengers who were now friendly, we were met by two smartly suited Iranian officials from the Ministry of Information, wanting to know which hotel we had booked ourselves in and offering to take us there in a luxurious American limousine. It took all our skills to re-assure our hosts that we were staying with our diplomat friend and would look forward to seeing them in the morning, bright and early for their guided hospitality the following days.
We decided to be a bit reckless and took a taxi to Subhash’s diplomat friend’s apartment in what seemed an exclusive part of Teheran. Our friend was not at home but his housekeeper was overwhelmingly welcoming and soon we were feasting on Persian sweets and savouries and drinking tea in a semi ceremonial elaborateness: displaying our pleasure at each bite of a sweet, pretending to drool recklessly, stopping oneself at the last moment. The apartment seemed spacious and grandly furnished. Soon our host was back and jumped as if he had stepped on a snake, when he saw us. “Subash Ji” – he rasped, “what on earth are you doing here? Who invited you? You cannot be serious.” He gestured at his housekeeper to remove forthwith the tea and sweets with a sweep of his hand. “You cannot stay here. It is not convenient.” We were ordered off the floor to collect our luggage whilst the housekeeper looked utterly crestfallen by the turn of events. Subhash set down a half eaten piece of a delicious pastry and we followed our friend to the door and thence to his car. We had no idea that we would be driven to the local Sikh Gurudawara which had a code of hospitality never to refuse shelter and food to strangers as long as they were prepared to bed down on the floor of the temple and eat whatever was available, which turned out to be home cooked Punjabi food. The remaining 5 days in Teheran, we had to play a painful charade worthy of a Cary Grant or Jack Lemmon movie, preventing our State hosts from discovering our predicament.
We were not to know that we would make wholly new friends of a group of Teheran University students and spend with them some of the sweetest evenings of our stay, whilst spending the days with our State hosts being shown their grand iconic monuments, their dams and hydro-electric projects; interviewing their political leaders in august Majlis building. Each night we asked our hosts in their American limousines to drop us at the corner of the street (too narrow for the limousine as it turned out) so that we could retreat to the Gurudawara to spend another night on the floor..
The days that followed showed us the greatness of accidental friendships which reach across barriers of race, age, and religion. I am pleased to say that after some 40 years Subhash is still touch with our student friends in Iran. Apart from a glow of friendship I still feel for these long lost and absent friends, I do not recall much detail of this sunny friendship apart from photographic vignettes of our Iranian friend’s mother doling out wonderful sweets and tea, treating us as her own sons. We would discuss politics sotto voce in the University cafeteria, or walking around the souks of Teheran (an Arab word not used here). Then there was a surprise of the final grand gesture from our student friends who bought us two rail tickets to the Iranian border with Turkey. This departure reminded me of being sent off at Delhi by some other friends. In spite of setbacks and fears, we had had an easy passage so far.
Moored in its biblical silence, Mount Ararat was waiting for us on the border of Turkey, in an apocalyptic storm, amid driving rain and thunder. It was not in a benevolent mood as it might have been when Noah beached his Ark on its peak. We were thrown out of a bus in the middle of the night in this mountain pass and all we could see in the darkness was the red bleep bleep of the American radars perched on the highest reach of the mountain, being the eyes and ears of American military might..............
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Previous related Blogs of B2B-K-K (Kini-Krishnan)
G.V.Krishnan, my gifted friend and his blogsite
A blog-to-blog chat with my friend Kini
Blogging It Out With My Friend Kini
B2B: Our Fleet St. Days'
Remembering Mr. Chandra in Fleet Street
Blog Magic: How Irfan Reconnected With Kini
B2B: Recover soon, Kini
The Sixties: A New Renaissance
B2B with K : My indebtedness, to Satish, Subash
B2B with K : Of crossover book and a cross-country trip
B2B with K: Kabul in the hippy, happier days
The Journey Begins
B2B with K: My take on the names you dropped...
B2B with K: Leaving London, home-bound
Name Dropping On Friends
B2B with K: Clueless in Germany, a tale of two visits
B2B: Kini hits a speed-breaker
Facing No man’s Land: End of the Journey?
End of an Era for India or A tryst with destiny?
B2B with K: Where we were the day Nehru died
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