English lover from China

 ENGLISH- LOVER FROM CHINA  

 

The train which ran only twice a week to the small Chinese town of Urumqi from Guangzhou chugged along crossing an enormous number of stations and carrying an equally enormous number of passengers. To be traveling with a compartment full of passengers clamouring for seating accommodation was nothing new to me as an Indian. In an absolutely unfamiliar country, without even a smatter of spoken language, hardly any knowledge of her culture, food habits and honestly a very faint memory of her history from school , I do not have a ready reason to give today; as to why I had chosen to travel in an ordinary hard seat third class compartment. With its teeming

crowds, mixture of strange and at times repelling smells I must admit, the journey was albeit getting on my nerves. I cannot even call it an adventure because every adventurer has a fair idea of what lies ahead before he embarks on his adventure. I did not have any such clue.

Like in any train journey, the rhythmic swaying of the carriage to and fro and sideways had started to have a telling effect on my eyelids. Heavy as they were getting, I started losing track of time and the topography of the passing landscape. I, at times woke up with a start ,past a scatter of meadows accompanied with the roar of my train in the shadows of mountains and across hundreds of bridges in that rarely visited range called Tian Shan.A little later, I caught the unmisttakeable glimpses of Taklimakan Desert-the harsh dunes of which reminded me of the translation-''You may go in, but you’ll never make it out”

Around afternoon as the dunes flattened, there was nothing to see. All of a sudden, the brakes caught hold; there was a screeching halt from beneath the carriage and the train slid to a stop.

I looked outside, saw a tiny but ramshackle station a small platform, like the many we see in India. Parked outside were a camel cart, a pair of bicycles and a curving oily stark black road leading to faraway mysterious lands. The name was Kun-Jai written in Chinese, some local language and English.

I clambered out from my cramped position, to catch some cool fresh air. The guard was the only man on the platform and without any explanation, he volunteered the information in broken English-The train will stop for 30minutes-for no obvious reason. How Indian! Both great Eastern similarities!!Ha!

And then behind me, most expectedly and almost startling me ,I heard a woman’s voice'' Excuse me please! Do you speak English?” Before I could muster an answer ,I had realized that I was carrying “Of Human Bondage” by W. Somerset Maugham in my hand and that ,somewhat explained the origin of the question. I turned around to see an old Chinese woman of the most astonishing beauty and grace smiling at me. She must have been seventy or more, tall with a long mane of stark black hair-so contrasting to her age and, a ramrod straight back. Only features that gave away her age were the wrinkles on her face and the eyes behind her spectacles. She had those typically oriental eyebrows .She looked radiant, dignified and very intelligent, She had a pale yellow skin and a permanent look of amazement and inquisitiveness. She had emerged almost from nowhere on that nondescript platform in an equally non descript town. She wore a thick and very colourful scarf to ward off the bone chilling wind blowing over the desert on a descending sun. Stunned by this unexpected encounter, her beauty and grace, I muttered something like''-err,how--well yes, why of course; naturally, I speak English” belying her small doubts about the correctness of

her guess earlier just based on her sighting theSomerset Maugham book. Her smile broadened for a moment-she looked at the wrist watch, and said” This train stops here for another-lets see-twenty four minutes and I am not in your compartment; so let me ask you right away: Do you know any thing about this author Somerset Mangham?”

''This can't be true”- I said to myself. ''It can’t be.” In Mainland China where I spent the last two weeks, struggling to understand the strange LL ridden clipped accents of so called English speaking Chinese experts, how could this be true? I am at this miserable little halt, on the edge of an unknown territory, praying only to finish the journey safely. And here is the most stunningly gracious and beautiful matron, speaking in English, asking me of all the people about Somerset Maugham, my most favourite author. Looking at my predicament, she pleaded once again” Sorry to ask you again, can you tell me please?” and huh! Again no accent and no mixing up of ”solly” for sorry and “prease” for please. This is when I reassured myself that it was all for real -however bizarre it may be; I might as well keep going. So I replied” Of course I know. He is my favourite author and I am fascinated by his other novels ”The Razor’s Edge”,” The moon and six pence”,” The painted veil”, and many more which I can readily recall”. I went on telling about his inspiration from Paris and the French, his being a doctor of medicine and the realism in his writing- I went on almost uninterrupted. She was fascinated

and was probably absorbing everything I said in rapt attention. I was most impressed by her childlike sense of inquisitiveness. I went on to tell her about his having won the coveted Nobel Prize for literature, his life and times and on and on I went.

The Guard rudely and suddenly pulled me out of my monologue. It was not really a monologue for Yang Yuyuhan –she told was her name- was reciprocating to me thro' her body language, her gestures and warm and kind eyes. The train was about to move. We quickly exchanged our addresses and promised to stay in touch. The last memory I had of her was that of a Chinese matron scrambling on her knees on the steps, getting into the train, probably searching for her seat, and then the train rounding a bend and when it straightened my losing her sight from the door compartment.

The train chugged along on a non descript journey taking me to my destination and soon I returned to India really not believing that Yang would write to me again.

And then a month later after my return to India, I received a letter from her. It started with

“My dear Son,

I do not know how to thank you. It was so touching to see you lost in yourself talking of Somerset Maugham”She had innocently added” I did not know he was such a great author, it was always my desire to hear about the authors from the people who held

them dear to their hearts” A misplaced flattery indeed! She added “To me, as a Chinese and in spite of being Chinese, English has been a passion. In spite of being a non-Englishman –an Indian, I saw that in you too.. My husband too loves this language. We live in a small province and my husband works with the Government. His attempts to know about literature, poetry and the plays are looked upon with suspicion.

We have been married for 35 years. He was in a Senior Cadre in the Communist party. We have named our children Henry and Jacob.

My husband is old now but continues to work to make the ends meet.

As I said, my only love all my life has been English literature.” She went on further to describe her reading of A.J.C ronin, Guy De Maupassant, John Steinbeck, Pearl S Buck and many more.

She added:” And when a couple of years ago when an international train service started which took us up to Russian border, I thought to myself, perhaps someone who speaks English will ride this train. So I began a routine. The station is about 10 kilometers from where I live. Every week I cycle to the station,and board the train twice, get off at the next station and travel back. I tap on the windows asking if anyone speaks English. Sometimes I meet a foreign worker who speaks some English but I never met anyone who could talk to me with such a passion. Not only did you speak, you spoke with such warmth, enthusiasm and care for my question and inquisitiveness. Son! This must have been the happiest day in my life. Will you please keep writing to me, about what you read and more importantly about you, your wife your children. Will you please tell them about me and convey my blessings to them” I found this expression of blessings being mentioned in the letter, again, very oriental indeed.

As it always happens, the frequency of letters, varied; more from my side.

And then in autumn of 1997, a few months after Hong Kong had reverted to the Chinese rule she stopped writing. I knew she had shifted to Hong Kong earlier when the British had ruled.

I wrote to an Indian friend whom I knew to find out why my letters came back without any remarks.

A few days later he called back saying that she had moved out from the address I had given. The police had taken her and her husband away for trying to befriend English-speaking foreigners.

I have not heard from her since then.