Saved by a power cut
Rupert Christiansen has a distressing experience at an Indian classical music recital The invitation was peremptory, garru- lous and somewhat pompous, as only Indi- ans know how. 'Miss Saheli Yokibadi has kindly expressed a voluntary desire to give a vocal Indian classical music recital at 9 p.m. tonight on the terrace of the palace. RSVP the Maharajah's secretary.' I couldn't refuse, even though I had endured an enervating day sightseeing in Chhokra- pur and wanted only to recover my equilib- rium by shutting myself up for the evening and prepare for the journey back to Eng- land the next morning. But I was in a sense the Maharajah's guest, since he owned the hotel in which I was staying for free as part of a press trip, so I accepted this unique opportunity to experience some indigenous culture and braced myself for the occasion by nipping into the hotel restaurant. The choice was not extensive, and I ended up bolting down a bowl of spaghetti bolognese the nastiness of which horresco referens. In fact it was so disgusting that I was then reduced to ordering peach melba, in a foolish attempt to counter its nauseating after-taste. Of course, the peach melba was horrible too. I should have know better.
Anyway, the ceremonial guard smilingly ushered me through the palace gates and I duly presented myself on the palace ter- race at 9 p.m. A hundred or so local gentry were gathered, all of them radiating royal party nerves. There was some chit-chat, some tea. A meticulous old lady asked me if I knew her friend Lady Peggy ChidLeigh, `of Addison Avenue, London W11, I believe'. I tried equally polite questions about the local economy and climate, but the small talk soon dwindled to tiny, and I was only saved from facial rictus by the appearance of the Maharajah.
He made a speech of welcome in Hindi and we all applauded. Then we were required to remove our shoes and seat our- selves on a large white cloth to await the magic of Saheli Yokibadi. The Major Domo alarmingly assigned me a place of some honour close to that occupied by the Maharajah, reclining gracefully on some bolsters, lucky so-and-so. It was all stagger- ingly uncomfortable and put one on one's best behaviour. I would have much pre- ferred being right at the back.
Nothing then happened for about an hour. It was a sweet and balmy night, the starlit splendour of the sky was magnifi- cent, but by this stage I was seized with that retrograde western desire for things to start and finish at an appointed hour. The prob- lem was Miss Yokibadi, perched on a small platform looking bad-tempered and acting obstreperous. A sensitive creature, if not a diva, she was also giving the poor old tabla- and sitar-players accompanying her a hell of a time as they tried to tune up. The amplifiers made dreadful weeeow noises and there was a brief spluttering power cut: nobody except me seemed in any sort of hurry. At last, a long period of warming-up — at least that's what I assume it was led imperceptibly into the recital proper. A low wail, a keening chant did Miss Yokibadi utter. Her song evoked within me many visions: Kubla Khan and the Abyssinian maid singing of Mount Abora, Shiva and Vishnu in their infinity, the route taken by the 73 bus and the problems I'd had plumbing-in a new washing-machine. Miss Yokibadi was soulfully intense, spiri- tually ethereal. She was also, I fear, stupe- fyingly boring, and, even after a solid 80 minutes, apparently unstoppable.
In other circumstances, I might have sub- mitted with less philistine resistance to the eternity of the raga, but there was another factor to my impatience, one which made it vital that the end should be nigh. The spaghetti bolognese was quarrelling with the peach melba and, to be blunt, I needed the nearest lavatory.
Terrible griping pains and other embar- rassingly audible symptoms of my digestive contretemps were causing ripples of con- sternation among my fastidious neighbours. After one noxious outburst even the Maharajah turned round accusingly — I immediately assumed an expression of baf- fled innocence, forgetting the prep school saw that he who denied it, supplied it. They all know it's me, I thought not paranoiacal- ly.
On and on Miss Yokibadi wailed and keened, on and on they thrummed and banged. I longed to put my hand up and ask to be excused, as I did of old, because I knew I was on the brink of disaster — until there came a miracle: another power cut, another great weeeow noise. The lights failed, the amplifiers cut out and Miss Yok- ibadi and her crew were abruptly sabotaged into silence.
I seized my moment in the ensuing ker- fuffle and leapt up without apology. There was no time to lose, so I slipped my feet into what in the dark seemed to be my shoes and made for the gate — I must have outsprinted Linford Christie in my two- minute dash across the lawn back to the hotel and the blessed sanctuary of my bath- room. Reader, I made it.
But imagine my horror when, 20 minutes later, the lights flickered on again and I realised that the shoes I had adopted were not my trusty moccasins, but some exquisite embroidered slippers of a remarkably similar size and feel. On their soles they bore not the imprint of Timber- land but what looked to me like a royal crest. They must have belonged to the Maharajah. Tricky.
One of the prime irritants of the day had been the snapping of the strap on one of my sandals. They were thus rendered use- less, so I had thrown them away and the chambermaid had zealously emptied the waste-paper basket. It was now 1 a.m. In five hours time, I was due to fly back to Delhi and thence to London. If I didn't act fast, I would be barefoot the whole way. So I raced back to the palace gate, where my reception was less than welcoming. In my absence, an eerie silence had descended over the palace and I guess the whole event had been called off and everyone had gone home.
I held out the shoes to the sentry and began explaining, in gay and careless tones, how I had been obliged to leave the recital `for personal health reasons' and done 'this silly thing'. Perhaps he didn't understand English; perhaps he was stone-deaf; per- haps he considered me a double-dyed vil- lain, for whom flogging would be too good: whatever, he stared straight past me throughout this feeble performance and I got nowhere.
Then I became somewhat hoity-toity, raising my voice in imitation of the effica- cious manner of the British Raj. 'Now look here, my good fellow, you'll be sorry if you're not a little more co-operative. Kind- ly return these to the Maharajah's secretary at your earliest convenience, with my com- pliments.' I dropped the slippers at his impassive boots and left, The Maharajah now had both his property and my moc- casins, but I had nothing to stand on. Next morning I rose at the crack and made a stately passage to London, via the local air- port and a quick connection to Delhi, shod only in a pair of dirty white socks.
By the time I arrived in Heathrow, I was the better for those bedsock things that air- lines dole out, but it was pouring with rain, so double pneumonia seemed as inevitable as verrucas. I considered that line from King Lear about 'how to go barefoot were to go gorgeous', but decided it was irrele- vant to my case. My taxi-driver took me to Feltham, where I leapt into Woolworth's and bought a pair of flip-flops, enough to see me home. And for the first time in the previous 24 hours, I found myself able to laugh.
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