Sir Vidiadhar Surajprasad Naipaul was of course a wordsmith par excellence,
and by many accounts a difficult man; indeed, he was frequently certified as
impossible by the experts whose business it is to know these things. But he
also had a hidden streak of kindness, something I discovered one winter evening
long ago.
In the early 2000's, I was at a cocktail party celebrating the launch of someone's new book, at a tony hotel in Connaught Place. You know how these things are – the litterati glitterati swooshing in and out, air-kissing the VVIPs and ignoring the rest of us inconsequentials. I was only there as a friend of the author, and had no plans to stay for long.
My friend Tarun came in with the Naipauls, Sir Vidia and Nadira, and very kindly introduced me to them both, mentioning that I worked for the Indian Railways. But of course, no sooner had we said hello than the host for the evening swept them away to meet the more important movers and shakers.
Half an hour later, I'd just gotten a refill from the bar and was standing quietly in a corner of the room, minding my own business and feeling a little out of place among all the writers, editors, journalists, and what-have-yous, when I turned to see Sir Vidia next to me. I can still see him clearly – he was wearing a tweed jacket that didn't match his trousers, a scarf looped around his neck, and his trademark fedora. And a look of disdain.
I don't mind telling you I was terrified; one had heard so many stories of the man's biting tongue. And unlike the many terribly erudite authors and columnists who surrounded us, I was only an humble civil servant – well, mostly civil in those days, if not much of a servant. I was certainly not the best person to have a literary conversation with this giant.
"So you work for the railways, do you?" he sniffed at me. "How very interesting."
"Well yes, I –” I stuttered.
"I've always been fascinated by the trains. In fact, I've always wanted to ask someone about laying railway track."
My heart sank. Second only to literary conversations on my list of things to avoid is dry technical discussion about railway infrastructure.
“Is it very expensive to put down track?” he asked.
“Well yes,” said I. “At current prices, it works out to about ten million rupees per kilometre.”
He waved his hands at me, indicating track coming from two different directions. “So when they start laying track from two separate ends, what do they do if they don’t meet in the middle?” And he cracked up, I kid you not. The great man just slapped his knee and roared with laughter.
That began a wonderful conversation about the challenges of large infrastructure in poor countries, inefficiencies, and corruption, and we chatted for several minutes before he got called away. I realised only much later that he was being extraordinarily kind to someone he’d realised was a little uncomfortable that evening.
Or he was just bored with the rest of that lot. Or he was gathering material for a new book. Or whatever.
Either way, you gave me something to remember, Sir Vidia; I hope wherever you are now, you’ve figured out what they do when the tracks don’t meet in the middle.
Requiescat in pace…
In the early 2000's, I was at a cocktail party celebrating the launch of someone's new book, at a tony hotel in Connaught Place. You know how these things are – the litterati glitterati swooshing in and out, air-kissing the VVIPs and ignoring the rest of us inconsequentials. I was only there as a friend of the author, and had no plans to stay for long.
My friend Tarun came in with the Naipauls, Sir Vidia and Nadira, and very kindly introduced me to them both, mentioning that I worked for the Indian Railways. But of course, no sooner had we said hello than the host for the evening swept them away to meet the more important movers and shakers.
Half an hour later, I'd just gotten a refill from the bar and was standing quietly in a corner of the room, minding my own business and feeling a little out of place among all the writers, editors, journalists, and what-have-yous, when I turned to see Sir Vidia next to me. I can still see him clearly – he was wearing a tweed jacket that didn't match his trousers, a scarf looped around his neck, and his trademark fedora. And a look of disdain.
I don't mind telling you I was terrified; one had heard so many stories of the man's biting tongue. And unlike the many terribly erudite authors and columnists who surrounded us, I was only an humble civil servant – well, mostly civil in those days, if not much of a servant. I was certainly not the best person to have a literary conversation with this giant.
"So you work for the railways, do you?" he sniffed at me. "How very interesting."
"Well yes, I –” I stuttered.
"I've always been fascinated by the trains. In fact, I've always wanted to ask someone about laying railway track."
My heart sank. Second only to literary conversations on my list of things to avoid is dry technical discussion about railway infrastructure.
“Is it very expensive to put down track?” he asked.
“Well yes,” said I. “At current prices, it works out to about ten million rupees per kilometre.”
He waved his hands at me, indicating track coming from two different directions. “So when they start laying track from two separate ends, what do they do if they don’t meet in the middle?” And he cracked up, I kid you not. The great man just slapped his knee and roared with laughter.
That began a wonderful conversation about the challenges of large infrastructure in poor countries, inefficiencies, and corruption, and we chatted for several minutes before he got called away. I realised only much later that he was being extraordinarily kind to someone he’d realised was a little uncomfortable that evening.
Or he was just bored with the rest of that lot. Or he was gathering material for a new book. Or whatever.
Either way, you gave me something to remember, Sir Vidia; I hope wherever you are now, you’ve figured out what they do when the tracks don’t meet in the middle.
Requiescat in pace…
