The one and only Nirad Babu

"THERE is nothing more dreadful to an author than neglect, compared with which reproach, hatred and opposition are names of happiness." These words of Dr Johnson were inscribed by Nirad Chaudhuri on my copy of his book A Passage to England. These words hold the key to Nirad’s past life and present personality. They explain the years of neglect of one who must have at all times been a most remarkable man; his attempt to attract attention by cocking-the-snook at people who had neglected him; and the "reproach, hatred and opposition" that he succeeded in arousing as a result of his rudeness.

Nirad had been writing in Bengali for many years. But it was not until the publication of his first book in English The Autobiography of an Unknown Indian that he really aroused the interest of the class to which he belonged and which, because of the years of indifference to him, he had come heartily to loathe — the Anglicised upper-middle class of India. He did this with calculated contempt. He knew that the wogs were more English than Indian but were fond of proclaiming their patriotism at the expense of the British. That having lost their own traditions and not having fully imbibed those of England, they were a breed with pretensions to intellectualism that seldom went beyond reading blurbs and reviews of books.

He, therefore, decided to dedicate the work "To the British Empire..." The wogs took the bait and having only read the dedication sent up a howl of protest. Many people who would not have otherwise read the autobiography, discovered to their surprise that there was nothing anti-Indian in its pages. On the contrary, it was the most beautiful picture of eastern Bengal that anyone had ever painted. And at long last, India had produced a writer who did not cash in on naive Indianisms but could write the English language as it should be written — and as few, if any, living Englishmen could write.

Nobody could afford to ignore Nirad Chaudhuri any more. He and his wife Amiya became the most-sought-after couple in Delhi’s upper class circles. Anecdotes of his vast fund of knowledge were favourite topics at dinner parties.

The first story I heard of the Chaudhuri family was of a cocktail party given by the late Director-General of All India Radio, Colonel Lakshmanan. Nirad had brought his wife and sons (in shorts and full boots) to the function. After the introductions, the host asked what Nirad would like to drink:he had some excellent sherry.

"What kind of sherry?" asked the chief guest. Colonel Lakshmanan had, like most people, heard of only two kinds. "Both kinds," he replied. "Do you like dry or sweet?" This wasn’t good enough for Nirad, so he asked one of his sons to taste it and tell him. The 13-year-old lad took a sip, rolled it about his tongue and after a thoughtful pause replied, "Must be an Oloroso 1947."

Nirad Babu could talk about any subject under the sun. There was not a bird, tree, butterfly or insect whose name he did not know in Latin, Sanskrit, Hindi and Bengali. Long before he left for London, he not only knew where the important monuments and museums were, but also the location of many famous restaurants. I heard him contradict a lady who had lived six years in Rome about the name of a street leading off from the colliseum — and prove his contention. I’ve heard him discuss stars with astronomers, recite lines from an obscure 15th century French poet to a professor of French literature, advise a wine dealer on the best vintages from Burgundy. At a small function in honour of Laxness, the Icelandic winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, I heard Nirad lecture him on Icelandic literature.

Nirad was a small, frail man little over five feet. He led a double life. At home he dressed in dhoti-kurta and sat on the floor to do his reading and writing. When leaving for office, he wore European dress: coat, tie, trousers and a monstrous khaki Sola topee. As soon as he stepped out street urchins would chant "Johnnie Walker, left, right, left, right."

Nirad Babu was not a modest man; he had much to be immodest about. No Indian, living or dead, wrote the English language as well as he. He was also a very angry man. When he was dismissed from service by a singularly half-baked Minister of I & B, Dr B.V. Keskar, he exploded with wrath. Years later, it was the Government of India which wanted him to do a definitive booklet on the plight of the Hindu minority in East Pakistan and offered him a blank cheque for his services. Nirad, who was in dire financial straits, turned it down with contempt. "The Government may have lifted its ban on Nirad Chaudhuri but Nirad Chaudhuri has not lifted his ban on the Government of India," he said to me when I conveyed Finance Minister T.T. Krishnamachari’s proposal to him.

Chaudhari’s second book A Passage to England received the most glorious reviews in the English Press. Three editions were rapidly sold out and it had the distinction of becoming the first book by an Indian author to have become a best-seller in England. The bay windows of London’s famous bookshop, Foyl’s, were decorated with large-sized photographs of Nirad. Some Indian critics were, as in the past, extremely hostile. Nirad’s reaction followed the same pattern. At first he tried not to be bothered by people "who didn’t know better" then burst with invective against the "yapping curs" I asked him how he reconciled himself to these two attitudes. After a pause he replied, "When people say nasty things about my books without really understanding what I have written, I feel like a father who sees a drunkard make an obscene pass at his daughter. I want to chastise him." Then, with a typically Bengali gesture demonstrating the form of chastisement, "I want to give them a shoe-beating with my chappal."

A few years ago Nirad Babu wrote an article for a prestigious London weekly in which he mentioned how hard he was finding life in Oxford, living on his royalties from books. I published extracts from it in my column. K.K. Birla wrote to me to tell Nirad Babu that he would be happy to give him a stipend for life for any amount in any currency he wanted. I forwarded Birla’s letter to Nirad. He wrote back asking me to thank Birla for his generous offer but refused to accept it. It is a pity that he accepted a C.B.E. (Commander of the British Empire) from the British Government. He deserved a peerage because he was in fact a peerless man of intellect and letters.

Important initials

During 1971, I was working as Tehsildar at Kalpa in Kinnaur district of Himachal Pradesh. The District Treasury Officer had to proceed on leave due to certain unavoidable circumstances and I was assigned the additional charge of District Officer by the Deputy Commissioner, Kinnaur district. During this short term of one month or so I came across certain words used in official parlance, and L.P.C. (Last Pay Certificate) was one of them. The last pay certificate is required for drawing the pay of the transferee employee. His pay cannot be drawn without L.P.C. When I was passing the pay bill of an employee, the assistant concerned came to me and told me," Sir jee, he has not attached the L.P.C. with the pay bill."

I was quite surprised and said, "He has not been tranferred, then why is he required to attach the L.P.C.?"

The assistant was stunned by my ignorance. Later on I came to know that L.P.C. also means "Lassi, pani and chai".

(Contributed by Rajgopal Sharma, Mukerian)

A thief was apprehended by a policeman.While he was being taken to the police station, it began to pour. The thief said to the constable, "Sir, you stay here while I fetch an umbrella from my home."

"You take me to be a fool?" roared the constable. "You want to run away. You stay here while I get an umbrella from the police station.

(Contributed by Shivtar Singh Dalla, Ludhiana)