Lady or Tramp?

I started telling you about Ms. Victoria Jones, the protagonist of John Masters’ novel “Bhowani Junction”. I promised to tell you more. So here I am, giving you the low-down on one of the most colorful characters that British writers have concocted to spin their tales. Most often, they end up in a bind, as I will try to make you see, dear Readers.

I am sure that most of you will agree that a woman—any woman—has an innate, intrinsic poise and presence that most men—nay, almost all men—cannot match. This come from being just that—a woman, especially in what is still a man’s world. She is subtle and suave, adept and adaptable, gentle and genteel, wise and worldly-wise, depending on the circumstances, the exigencies, the milieu, and the situation. She is the go-to person every time, because she is level-headed, objective, and sobering. She possesses a finesse that most men would die for, and her loyalty and steadfastness are unparalleled.

I know you are wondering if any woman you’ve known or heard about fits the bill. That’s because our eyes are jaundiced, one-dimensional and even prejudiced. How can a woman be better than a man? The idea may seem preposterous, but when we look inward, at our own women, the women who sacrificed their all for someone other than themselves, the ordinary woman defying the odds, we will begin to get the bigger picture—of neglect, of silent endurance, of never giving up when difficulty comes her way.

Does Victoria Jones fit the bill? No, she doesn’t, but at least she stands up for herself, her dignity, and her identity. How many of us are capable of such courage? The world—her world—may take away her self-esteem, may equate her with the lowest of the low, but she displays the conviction the she can only be—come what may—Victoria Jones: a strong woman, coming to terms with her disintegrating world.

That Victoria Jones is a “chee-chee” girl is not something she is proud of, or so we are made to believe. Her mother is Indian, so that makes her less than half-caste, or so we are made to believe, again. She attributes all her negativity to her maternal ancestry, hardly realizing that she actually comes from stock that has a 5000-year, or more, continuous history and culture behind her. When she flares up after finding her sister frantically copulating with Patrick, she is forced to blurt out: “In that moment I had gone back where we came from, which was the Indian loose women of a hundred years ago, and I had taken Rose Mary and Patrick with me. I heard the words pouring out of my mouth, out of my heart – a flood of Hindustani and our cheechee English, thick with language that I have tried all my life to believe I never knew.” Victoria’s views on the cultural and social history of her race are not hers: this is as far as John Masters will go, forsaking the truth and lived, first-hand knowledge, for the cheap, hand-me-down stereotype. Authorial intrusion is acceptable in very rare cases, but, as you can see [if you have eyes to see, dear Reader] that Masters has gone head-over-heels to upstage and downgrade his own creation.

That is not all; Victoria has to confess all to Patrick, again using the words inserted into her mouth by the boorish Masters. She says: “He [Johnny Tallent, another British officer serving in India] thought that because he was a British officer and I was a cheechee girl I’d do anything. And – Patrick, you’re so determined we can’t change, you ought to understand this – that he was right. Slowly, slowly, I did feel I had to do it. Do you understand? Do you?” [ The “Slowly, slowly” dialogue is supposed to parody the supposedly sing-song accent of the average Anglo-Indian.]

Have you ever heard anything so debased, so demeaning, so self-damning? Well, now you have; and to think that Masters was hailed as the great chronicler of the Raj. No woman (to my mind) will ever degrade herself to such an extent. Even a dog has to wait for the right time, but here, Victoria Jones, sweet, decent, agreeable, Victoria Jones, lays it all bare for the lascivious reader. No wonder, then, that the stereotype remains firmly entrenched.

And still, that is not all. In her attempt to integrate, Victoria dons a saree to satisfy Ranjit Singh’s family. However, in the line of duty, with her uniform saree, she is asked, innocently (by a little white girl), but pointedly and maliciously (by the intrusive author): “Auntie Vicky, are you an ayah now?” Knowing only too well the absolute bitchiness of the memsahib, Colonel Savage come to Victoria’s rescue when he says, angrily: “Miss Jones is half Indian…but wholly a lady.”

Need I convince you any further, dear Readers? I haven’t simply been letting off steam; if you read the book, you will come to know the truth. And, as always, the truth shall set you free.