Savage! Who?

John Masters is indeed a very prolific writer—at least 26 books to his name. Not all of them dwell on the Indian theme, but the “Savage” connection comprises at least 7 of them. From “Coromandel” to Bhowani Junction”, these novels explore, through generations of the “Savage” family, important events in the history of British India, almost exclusively from an “outsider’s” point of view. Masters controls the narrative throughout, by manipulating all his raconteurs (if he uses them, in some instances), thereby giving the prose a heavy, lop-sided, I-know-what-I’m saying-is-right, account of the proceedings. Blinkered vision and fuzzy logic don’t make for the best books, I’m afraid.

“Bhowani Junction” is one such book. As I pointed out earlier, the novel employs 3 narrators, but all of them are puppets for the real storyteller, Masters himself. One would think it possible that such a long association with the conquered land would have given the “Savage” men a keener insight into the heart and soul of India. But “muddling through” is what the British in India—with the help of the “Savages” and the other sundry savages of the same breed—did, hardly noticing that they were continually in the process of trying to destroy a civilization that has withstood the ravages of time.

Rodney Savage’s account of the happenings in and around Bhowani is a classic example of the “Ma-Baap” model of governance that the British imposed on India. The white man is master, so the writ went, and his word was absolute—in thought as well as in deed. Even the Collector of Bhowani, a colourful local called Govindaswami, is not “pucca” enough, though he speaks an English more refined than that of the Colonel. Why? Because the low-caste man, educated in England, gathers his information from the indispensable sweepers of the town, among other nefarious ways and means.

As a prim and proper prick [I’m sorry, I meant “gentleman”], Ranjit Singh Kasel is touted as a suitor of Victoria Jones. She confesses that only Ranjit gives her the respect she deserves as a woman, but when he tries to rearrange her sense of belonging and identity, Victoria moves away, straight into the waiting arms of the robust, manly, Rodney Savage. Slaking her passion with the Colonel, she finally comes to understand, (with a lot of help from the intrusive author) that the meaning of “to each his own” actually signifies that she is fated to cohabit with the “all thumbs”—look Ma, no fingers—Patrick Taylor.

No imperialist worth his salt (at least in the eyes of other die-hard imperialists) can afford to not take a shot at the Father of the Nation—Mahatma Gandhi. Masters allows Ranjit’s mother, the Sirdarni Kasel, to do the honours. She screams out: “He’s a tool of the millowners, a cunning, ambitious little lawyer” … That, and much, much worse, was what was written and whispered, about the greatest human being of the 20th century. I have said it before—words have consequences, words are important, words [especially the “Word”] survive. Men may come and men may go, but WORDS go on forever.

George Orwell, another British imperialist, wrote an essay, “Shooting an elephant”, in which the protagonist confesses that he is forced, against his better judgement, to kill the rogue elephant, urged on by grinning natives who, consciously, or unconsciously, or subconsciously, dictate his actions. EM Forster, a much more diluted—if at all—imperialist, has, in his epic, “A Passage to India”, the young Adela Quested flummoxed by the answer she gets in the Marabar Caves; she is so muddled that she accuses the handsome Dr Aziz of perfidy. She is truthful enough to admit before the judge that she had made a mistake, much to the chagrin of the close-knit English community of the town. But what does John Masters do? He simply muddles through!

Accompanied by the ever-ready Victoria Jones, Colonel Savage settles down, at ease and totally relaxed, around a bonfire prepared by the local villagers, away from the prying eyes of the townsfolk of Kishanpur. He and the villagers proceed to get completely inebriated, and so the time is now ripe for him to air his views on India and its future. He blurts out: “If I and my sort had any idea, it was to make Indian wood into better wood, not change it into bakelite. In general, though, our great virtue was not having an idea.” This quote has all the makings of a true confession, dear Readers. For over 300 years, the imperialists muddled through, not knowing what they were doing, intent only on the rape of the land and its people for filthy lucre. Greed, not need, was indeed the sole purpose of the imperial enterprise, and they laid waste and barren a land which, before they arrived, was flowing with milk and honey. All this in the name of the pseudo-civilizing mission of the white man, Colonization spread across the globe like a cancer; whole continents were swallowed up, native, indigenous clans and tribes decimated as the white man’s writ wormed its way into the life=blood of so many nations. It had to end where it all started, in India, with the might and purpose of one frail man, the Mahatma. He led the way to individual freedom and, like all martyrs, he paid the price too.

“I have a dream”, another leader announced, much later. As long as men dare to dream, there is hope for all mankind.