Rumer has it, too!

No, dear Reader, I haven’t got the name wrong. She was an Englishwoman, born Margaret Rumer Godden, but she preferred “Rumer” on the cover pages of her more than 60 books. Many were turned into films, especially those which had an Oriental connection. She spent much of her life in Bengal and Kashmir, before retreating to good old Blighty.

One volume of her short-stories is titled “Indian Dust”. She was acutely aware of the worlds within worlds that make up the medley and mayhem of India, for she herself confesses that: “Once you have felt the Indian dust, you will never be free of it.” This is nothing more than a commonplace comment, but it has that sniff of insight. It is in the smallest, the minutest details, that genius resides, and it takes a judicious reader, not just a worldly-wise one, to recognize the astuteness, lap it up, and digest it for what it is, always and everywhere.

But what is this “dust”? For me, it is the very soul of India, the stuff we breathe in and out every day, and, in spite of all this heat and dust, we don’t just survive, we prosper in and with it, we incorporate it completely, and we revel in it as if it is our second nature. We, too, are dust, and most scriptures tell us that we will return to where we came from. So, what the quote is really pointing to, is that India, even her dust, will endure—till the very end of time.

I have hand-picked just one short-story from this collection of hers. It is called “Children of Aloysius”, and it interests me because its main character happens to be AngloIndian, however peculiar she may be in her speech, her deportment, and her conviction. The protagonist’s name is Philomena Francis, and she is a resident at the Calcutta Charitable Working Women’s Guild. She lives a simple life, contributing to the efforts of the Guild—by designing and selling exquisitely delicate needlework items like handkerchiefs. She is happy to be in the company of her blind sister, even as their lives turn out to be unending days of monotony.

And then opportunity comes along—Philomena Francis could become the next star of tinsel town, if she will only accept a role in a Valentine Morley—the world-famous director, now shooting in India—film. Rhea Stormant, the woman in charge of casting for the film, believes that only Philomena will satisfy the very fastidious director. The monetary rewards are potentially plenteous, the glitz, the glamour, the prestige of being in such a film, are also added incentives, but Miss Francis has her doubts. Everyone is surprised when Philomena turns down the offer, but she remains firm—she is used to living quietly. Only Valentine Morley, the director, understands her decision; he says that she is missing “the chance of a lifetime, to spoil a whole life.” Think about it, dear Reader: this poor, orphaned (most probably), unimaginative, unspoiled, unaffected, unworldly, old woman has recognized and discerned the true meaning of life—simplicity, humility and nobility—nothing else matters.

Rumer Godden is not above prejudice herself. In the narrative, when Rhea Stormant goes in search of a character-actor, she has to pass through the streets of Calcutta, where she notices areas specifically populated by “poor whites, Eurasians and Chinese”. In the guild where she finally finds Philomena, she comes across: “every kind of Eurasian”. When Rhea Stormant examines the hankies that are up for sale, she is forced (by the writer, in her role as the omniscient narrator) to think: “of the poor dark fingers that had sewn [them]”.

Well after the Raj disappeared, Kipling’s law still holds good—black is always black, they say, and we may even try to pass it off today by maintaining that we are all just prisoners here, of our own device. I mentioned it earlier too—sometimes we blurt out things not really meant for public consumption. To err is human, to forgive, just mime.

What of Aloysius? He was a Jesuit, canonized in the 16th century, revered for his work amongst the poorest of the poor. There are many schools and colleges named after him, right here in India. What the writer is trying to tell us is, that though we may think it impossible and implausible, there are people like Philomena Francis, who are real examples of the philosophy behind the teachings of St Aloysius. If we are able to recognize such traits, we, too, may well be on our way to becoming “Children of Aloysius”.