In London at Last

I did not feel at all sea-sick. But as the days passed, I became fidgety. I felt shy even speaking to the steward. I was quite unaccustomed to talking English, and except for Sjt. Mazmudar, all the other passengers in the second saloon were English. I could not speak to them. For I could rarely follow their remarks when they came up to speak to me, and even when I understood I could not reply. I had to frame every sentence in my mind, before I could bring it out. I was innocent of the use of knives and forks and had not the boldness to inquire what dishes on the menu were free of meat. I therefore never took my meals at table but always had them in my cabin, and they consisted principally of sweets and fruits which I had brought with me. Sjt. Mazmudar had no difficulty, and he mixed with everybody. He would move about freely on deck, while I hid myself in the cabin the whole day, only venturing up on deck when there were but few people. Sjt. Mazmudar kept pleading with me to associate with the passengers and to talk with them freely. He told me that lawyers should have a long tongue, and related to me his legal experiences. He advised me to take every possible opportunity of talking English, and not to mind making mistakes which were obviously unavoidable with a foreign tongue. But nothing could make me conquer my shyness.

I did not feel seasick at all. But as the days passed, I grew restless. I was shy even about speaking to the steward. I was not used to speaking English. Except for Sjt. Mazmudar, all the other passengers in second class were English. I could not speak to them. When they came up to talk to me, I could rarely understand what they said. Even when I understood, I could not reply. I had to work out every sentence in my mind before I could say it. I did not know how to use a knife and fork. I also lacked the courage to ask which dishes on the menu were meatless. So I never ate at the table. I always ate in my cabin, mostly sweets and fruit I had brought with me. Sjt. Mazmudar had no difficulty and mixed with everyone. He moved freely around the deck, while I hid in my cabin all day. I ventured onto the deck only when few people were there. Sjt. Mazmudar kept urging me to spend time with the passengers and talk freely with them. He told me that lawyers should have a long tongue and shared his experiences as a lawyer. He advised me to take every opportunity to speak English. He also told me not to worry about making mistakes, which were clearly unavoidable in a foreign language. But nothing could make me overcome my shyness.

An English passenger, taking kindly to me, drew me into conversation. He was older than I. He asked me what I ate, what I was, where I was going, why I was shy, and so on. He also advised me to come to table. He laughed at my insistence on abjuring meat, and said in a friendly way when we were in the Red Sea: ‘It is all very well so far but you will have to revise your decision in the Bay of Biscay. And it is so cold in England that one cannot possibly live there without meat.’

An English passenger took a liking to me and started a conversation. He was older than I was. He asked what I ate, what I was, where I was going, why I was shy, and so on. He also advised me to join the others at the table. He laughed at my insistence on giving up meat. When we were in the Red Sea, he said in a friendly way: ‘It is all very well so far, but you will have to change your mind in the Bay of Biscay. It is so cold in England that no one can possibly live there without meat.’

‘But I have heard that people can live there without eating meat,’ I said.

‘But I have heard that people can live there without eating meat,’ I said.

‘Rest assured it is a fib,’ said he. ‘No one, to my knowledge, lives there, without being a meat-eater. Don’t you see that I am not asking you to take liquor, though I do so? But I do think you should eat meat for you cannot live without it.’

‘You can be sure that’s a lie,’ he said. ‘As far as I know, everyone who lives there eats meat. Don’t you see that I’m not asking you to drink alcohol, even though I do? But I do think you should eat meat, because you can’t live without it.’

‘I thank you for your kind advice, but I have solemnly promised to my mother not to touch meat and therefore I cannot think of taking it. If it be found impossible to get on without it, I will far rather go back to India than eat meat in order to remain there.’

‘Thank you for your kind advice, but I made a solemn promise to my mother not to eat meat. So I cannot consider eating it. If I cannot get by without meat, I would much rather return to India than eat meat to stay there.’

We entered the Bay of Biscay, but I did not begin to feel the need either of meat or liquor. I had been advised to collect certificates of my having abstained from meat, and I asked the English friend to give me one. He gladly gave it and I treasured it for some time. But when I saw later that one could get such a certificate in spite of being a meat-eater, it lost all its charm for me. If my word was not to be trusted, where was the use of possessing a certificate in the matter?

We entered the Bay of Biscay, but I still felt no need for meat or alcohol. I had been advised to collect certificates confirming that I had not eaten meat. So I asked my English friend to give me one. He gladly did, and I treasured it for some time. But later I learned that even someone who ate meat could get such a certificate. Then it lost all its appeal for me. If my word could not be trusted, what use was a certificate?

However, we reached Southampton, as far as I remember, on a Saturday. On the boat I had worn a black suit, the white flannel one, which my friends had got me, having been kept especially for wearing when I landed. I had thought that white clothes would suit me better when I stepped ashore, and therefore I did so in white flannels. Those were the last days of September, and I found I was the only person wearing such clothes. I left in charge of an agent of Grindlay and Co. all my kit, including the keys, seeing that many others also had done the same and I must follow suit.

However, as far as I remember, we reached Southampton on a Saturday. On the boat, I had worn a black suit. I had saved the white flannel suit my friends had bought me especially for landing. I thought white clothes would suit me better when I stepped ashore, so I landed in white flannels. It was late September, and I found I was the only person dressed that way. I left all my belongings, including the keys, with an agent of Grindlay and Co. I saw that many others had done the same, and I felt I had to follow their example.

I had four notes of introduction; to Dr. P. J. Mehta, to Sjt. Dalpatram Shukla, to Prince Ranjitsinhji and to Dadabhai Naoroji. Some one on board had advised us to put up at the Victoria Hotel in London. Sjt. Mazmudar and I accordingly went there. The shame of being the only person in white clothes was already too much for me. And when at the Hotel I was told that I should not get my things from Grindlay’s the next day, it being a Sunday, I was exasperated.

I had four letters of introduction: to Dr. P. J. Mehta, Sjt. Dalpatram Shukla, Prince Ranjitsinhji, and Dadabhai Naoroji. Someone on board had advised us to stay at the Victoria Hotel in London. So Sjt. Mazmudar and I went there. I was already deeply ashamed of being the only person dressed in white. At the hotel, I was told I could not get my things from Grindlay’s the next day because it was Sunday. This exasperated me.

Dr. Mehta to whom I had wired from Southampton called at about eight o’clock the same evening. He gave me a hearty greeting. He smiled at my being in flannels. As we were talking, I casually picked up his top-hat, and trying to see how smooth it was, passed my hand over it the wrong way and disturbed the fur. Dr. Mehta looked somewhat angrily at what I was doing and stopped me. But the mischief was done. The incident was a warning for the future. This was my first lesson in European etiquette, into the details of which Dr. Mehta humourously initiated me. ‘Do not touch other people’s things,’ he said. ‘Do not ask questions as we usually do in India on first acquaintance; do not talk loudly; never address people as ‘sir’ whilst speaking to them as we do in India; only servants and subordinates address their master that way.’ And so on and so forth. He also told me that it was very expensive to live in a hotel and recommended that I should live with a private family. We deferred consideration of the matter until Monday.

Dr. Mehta, whom I had telegraphed from Southampton, came to see me at about eight o’clock that evening. He greeted me warmly and smiled at my flannel clothes. As we talked, I casually picked up his top hat. To see how smooth it was, I ran my hand over it the wrong way and disturbed the fur. Dr. Mehta looked somewhat angry and stopped me. But the damage was done. The incident was a warning for the future. This was my first lesson in European etiquette. Dr. Mehta humorously introduced me to its details. ‘Do not touch other people’s things,’ he said. ‘Do not ask the questions we usually ask in India when we first meet someone. Do not talk loudly. Never address people as ‘sir’ when speaking to them, as we do in India. Only servants and subordinates address their master that way.’ And so on. He also told me that staying in a hotel was very expensive. He recommended that I live with a private family. We put off considering the matter until Monday.

Sjt. Mazmudar and I found the hotel to be a trying affair. It was also very expensive. There was, however, a Sindhi fellow-passenger from Malta who had become friends with Sjt. Mazmudar, and as he was not a stranger to London, he offered to find rooms for us. We agreed, and on Monday, as soon as we got our baggage, we paid up our bills and went to the rooms rented for us by the Sindhi friend. I remember my hotel bill came to £3, an amount which shocked me. And I had practically starved in spite of this heavy bill! For I could relish nothing. When I did not like one thing, I asked for another, but had to pay for both just the same. The fact is that all this while I had depended on the provisions which I had brought with me from Bombay.

Sjt. Mazmudar and I found staying at the hotel difficult. It was also very expensive. However, a Sindhi fellow passenger from Malta had become friends with Sjt. Mazmudar. He knew London and offered to find rooms for us. We agreed. On Monday, as soon as we got our baggage, we paid our bills and moved into the rooms our Sindhi friend had rented for us. I remember that my hotel bill came to £3, an amount that shocked me. And I had practically starved despite this heavy bill! I could enjoy nothing. When I did not like one dish, I asked for another, but I still had to pay for both. In fact, all this time I had depended on the provisions I had brought with me from Bombay.

I was very uneasy even in the new rooms. I would continually think of my home and country. My mother’s love always haunted me. At night the tears would stream down my cheeks and home memories of all sorts made sleep out of the question. It was impossible to share my misery with any one. And even if I could have done so, where was the use? I knew of nothing that would soothe me. Everything was strange,—the people, their ways, and even their dwellings. I was a complete novice in the matter of English etiquette, and continually had to be on my guard. There was the additional inconvenience of the vegetarian vow. Even the dishes that I could eat were tasteless and insipid. I thus found myself between Scylla and Charibdis. England I could not bear, but to return to India was not to be thought of. Now that I had come, I must finish the three years, said the inner voice.

I felt very uneasy even in the new rooms. I thought constantly of my home and country. The memory of my mother’s love never left me. At night, tears streamed down my cheeks. Memories of home filled my mind and made sleep impossible. I could not share my misery with anyone. And even if I could have, what good would it have done? I knew of nothing that would comfort me. Everything was strange: the people, their customs, and even their homes. I knew nothing about English etiquette and had to be on my guard all the time. My vegetarian vow added to the difficulty. Even the dishes I could eat were bland and tasteless. I was caught between two impossible choices. I could not bear England, but I could not think of returning to India. Now that I had come, an inner voice told me, I must finish the three years.