A FELLOW-PASSENGER

By RANJEE SHAHANI

WE had been at sea for almost a week, and practically every day between eleven and three the sun blazed like the eye of Cyclops. The blue sea and the blue sky that I had seen again and again in my dreams had a sheen that now almost hurt my eyes. I longed for the soothing greyness of England. Here, at the portal of the East, even in December the air had something heavy and oppressive about it. It was as though the very atmosphere were charged with the unexpressed anguish of the Orient.

I whiled away the time in games, reading, lounging, in assiduously trying to do nothing. No good. Very soon I felt terribly bored. It was then that I began to study my fellow-passengers.

One, a short rotund man, with a red jovial face, at once riveted my attention. He was sitting at a table, shuffling cards and speaking in a loud decisive voice to his companions—a man with a beard white as driven snow, and two women, both elderly. It was pretty plain that he thought himself to be no common mortal ; yet, somehow, there was nothing aggressive or arrogant about his tone. He was obviously accus- tomed to be listened to.

I had a dim feeling that I had met him before. But where ? The large prominent nose, the square jaw, the black veteran pipe, and the check cap stuck at a rakish angle called up a blurred image, but nothing distinct or recognisable. Who was he ?

" MacKarrow," said the gentleman opposite to him, lighting his pipe.

" No, no ; MacKerrow. M, A, C, K, E, R, R, 0, W," said the short man with the red perspiring face, emitting a puff.

Soon after he rose, said good-night to his companions, and abruptly left the lounge, tripping along gaily. A young lady said twice " Uncle," but he was soon out of earshot. She precipitated herself after him like a nurse after a naughty child.

Next morning, as I was mounting the staircase on my way to the sports' deck, I found him standing on the first step and executing some sort of dance. I cast a furtive glance at him, and was immediately conscious of a tune from a music-hall chorus. The voice sounded very familiar, and in a flash I knew who he was. Music, vocal or instrumental, always stirs my memory. How- ever, there was no time to linger. I passed on.

A couple of days later, while I was basking in the sun, two men came and sat next to me. Soon they were deep in conversation. Owing to the fact that the breeze carried away their words in the opposite direction, I could only catch a syllable here and there ; but the voice of one was unmistakable : it was that of the man who danced and sang to himself.

Suddenly I heard very distinctly : " I have been wondering these few days past what I shall do when I am seventy-five. If I can reach ninety-five, I think I shall manage to live up to a hundred and five."

The man, although he had more white hair than dark, had the zest and vitality of a boy of twenty ; and this, to an Asiatic, used to premature old age, seemed strangely fine. I liked him at once ; and more, I admired immensely his will to live.

That very evening, after the dance was over, I encountered him on the upper deck, which, at this hour, was silent and deserted. He was standing by the railing, gazing out over the placid sea, across which the rising moon threw a bridge of silver.

I spoke to him.

" Yes, I like to be recognised," he said. Then, after a reminiscent pause : " I've been to your country and know something of it."

" Like it ? "

" Yes, it is beautiful. The people, on the whole, are honest, loyal, and warm-hearted. No man can work under a blazing sun ; and the sun in India is a tyrant. I do admire the Indians for their courage and perse- verance. They are great stickers. We Europeans, if we lived in such a climate, could not have done more than what you have achieved. The defects of your people ? Well, what they want is a stiffening of the backbone and the desire to hold their chins up. We, the British, always respect manliness and independence of outlook. It is not the colour of a man's skin that matters, but the thoughts he thinks. He is, ultimately, what his intellect can make him. If he can hold his own against me in argument, and his heart is in the right place—well, that is all that really counts. My message to your people is to have courage, perseverance, and the will to act."

Suddenly he asked me : " Why are your people always so sad ? Even the young do not seem to smile. It's as though they were a nation of old men."

I told him that the religions and philosophies of India fancied that this world was finally unreal, and hence not worth really troubling about.

" You can be as daring as you please about the Near," he said ; " we can soon verify that ; but not about the Far : we have no means of finding that out. I don't care what a man's religion is : he may be a Catholic, a Protestant, a Hindu, a Muslim, a Parsee, or anything else you please. The test is : has his religion made him honest, noble, capable of loving his neighbour as himself ? If so, his religion is good; if not, it is of no value. The only test is that of action. Mere words are nothing. . . . Indians are wrong in thinking that this world is ultimately unreal : Eternity can only be found in and through Time. We have only one span of life allotted to us : at least this is all we can be sure of. To use it well, as well as we can, is our only means of approaching Truth or Reality or the Mind that 'lies behind the Universe. No, tell your countrymen that there is no such thing as mere appear- ance. Fate is not something external : we have a hand in its shaping. Therefore each man must work ; each Must do his best ; each must go beyond himself ; and each must be responsible for all. We Europeans are in a sad plight today because our instincts are radically egotistical. " My neighbour is my enemy " is our attitude. Fear, suspicion, jealousy, hatred—these sur- round us and vitiate everything. We preach one thing and practise another. This is our great crime. Europe can only save the world—and I think she can—when she has saved her own soul. As it is she is committing suicide. The future ? Well, the future is with America. if India had something of the alacrity of the West, and America something of the meditativeness of the East, the world might be a far finer place to live in. Perhaps the union of these two disparate peoples will produce a nobler and happier race. . . ."

I was astonished at these words ; for, almost word for word, they were those that " A. E." had 'uttered in my presence again and again.

Somehow the talk turned to Communism in India.

" Communism ? " cried my companion with sovereign contempt ; " Communism is not evolution but revolu- tion—and revolution means destruction. With destruc- tion come crime, poverty, misery, and all the ills that the -flesh of man is heir to. No, the path of Communism is the path of regress. India could be free tomorrow if only she learnt the attitude of give and take. Inde- pendence, I tell you, is not the birthright of anyone ; it is something to be earned and achieved and preserved with great care. . . ."

We stood silent for a while. The moon spat volcanoes of coruscating light over the gently-heaving sea. A gull flew here, flew there, lost.

Good night and good luck to you," he said, grasping me by the hand. He was off as abruptly as I had accosted him.

It was Harry Lauder, the inimitable Harry, the Harry Who has made millions laugh throughout the world.

The great comedians are also the great tragedians. To know, the significance of laughter one has to probe deep into the substance of tears.