To sir, with love

If you have watched any Indian classical music performances, you would have seen that the singers occasionally touch the lobes of their left or right ear, whenever they mention their Gurus. 

This is because the Indian classical music teaching still follows the ancient “mentor-mentee” tradition, according to which the protégés revere their tutors, and taking their name or even mentioning them in passing, is considered extremely inappropriate. So, if the performers talk about them, they hold their ears in the time-honoured sign of apology. Following the same ritual, even before I refer to this great master, let me clasp my ears in a symbol of forgiveness. 

Sir Vidiadhar Surajprasad Naipaul needs no introduction but when I met him for the first time I forgot to tell him my name. I shook his hand, told him how much I admired his writing and then before I could even catch my breath, a big burly butler whisked his wheelchair away. Lady Nadira Naipaul must have noticed my disappointment because she invited me over to their table for dinner later, the same evening.

Seated opposite him I was overcome with shyness. Here was a living legend, a Nobel Prize winning writer who had published more than 30 books, was knighted in 1989 and was the author of “A House for Mr Biswas”, which according to me, was the best English novel to be ever written in my lifetime. It was actually written a few years before I was born, but you know what I mean. Published in 1961, the book contained some of his funniest writing as it depicted the life of its protagonist, Mr Mohun Biswas, in Port of Spain, Trinidad. 

In a situation like this I got down to noting what he ate and discovered that he was a vegetarian who sometimes tried seafood. Soon I mustered the courage to talk to him. The two things that interested him instantly were my Sanskrit name, and the place where I lived, i.e. Jordan. He asked me if I knew anything about Gertrude Bell. I did not. His eyes clouded over and he went back to eating his ice cream. 

Subsequently I bought the book Gertrude Bell: Queen of the Desert, Shaper of Nations by Georgina Howell and read it from cover to cover. I also saw the 2015 American epic biographical drama film based on the life of the British traveller, which starred Nicole Kidman. Then I waited for Sir V, as I got around to calling him, to ask me about her again. He never did.

I knew about his temperamental personality so when he agreed to participate at my book launch last year, I was over the moon. However, if truth be told, till the last minute I did not believe that he would actually arrive. At the designated hour, when his favourite burly butler pushed his wheelchair into the corridor, I realised that sometimes wishes could actually come true. The confidence his presence gave me was tremendous although he must have forgotten about the event immediately afterwards, I was sure. 

But, over tea, the other day, he suddenly turned towards me.

“Nickunj,” he announced my name clearly. 

“Yes,” I answered. 

“After the wonderful launch of your book, how is it doing now? ” he asked. 

“You remembered?” I exclaimed in astonishment. 

He looked at me without blinking. 

“Ahem! Sir V, Jordan good, India better,” I mumbled, fighting the urge to pull my ear.