Masterji meets Jim

He was remarkably subjective about the novels he read. That had been The Alexandre Dumas Week. The next saw his heart in Dickens’ keeping, to be salvaged only when I lent him a Thomas Hardy. That fortnight saw him very morose and brooding (and the weather had never been worse!)

The next time he was huddled in his “corner”, nearing the end of Crime and Punishment. “Dear God!” mumbled the tortured soul. I launched on a sermon on the need for objectivity while reading books. My futile attempt was interspersed with several “Oh my Gods” from him.

The following evening I went armed with Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn. He had managed to get hold of Cancer Ward and was holding his handkerchief to his nose to ward off the strong stench of antiseptic! “These Russian authors!” he burst out, “What realism! I have almost forgotten Bhookh — that beautiful Hindi novel written in the backdrop of the Bengal famine! Kept me awake three nights!” (He was a Hindi teacher before retiring a few years ago.) I knew what was coming next, “You remember that memorable scene in which the schoolmaster chews on the quinine tablet he discovers in a drawer relishing every little grain of it?” I did, and I still felt he should read Huckleberry Finn!

One week later he brought Huckleberry Finn back and said, “You know Peter Coveney is right in the introduction. Twain’s talent was uneven!” “Who says talent is ever supposed to run even?” I retorted. “And Huckleberry Finn…”, he began. I did not allow him to finish! “You!” I exclaimed, because the situation demanded sternness, “you dasn’t say one word agin my bes’fren in de’hole world Huck Finn!!” “Aha!” his eyes gleamed, “I always did want to know which book was your favourite!’’

Now “Masterji” calls me “Jim”!