When the topic was first introduced to me, my mind jumped – automatically, given some of my previous work – to the words of Rudyard Kipling, “oh east is east and west is west and ne'er the twain shall meet/till earth and sky stand presently at god's great judgement seat”. Don't worry though, I have no intention of following Kipling, he wrote good stories but was no seer and certainly isn't an inspiration now that Empire is happily past, unlamented – at least by those with any real knowledge of it. But they do provide me with a springboard, the idea posed, implied in the topic is today still interesting, although it wasn't obvious what to do with it. I puzzled over it, as did many of my fellow writers-in-residence. Until I, for one, had my confusion tempered by the assurance that the frame reference was literature. My relief was, however, temporary as I realised I had to make sense for myself whether there is a recognisable East and a West? Aren't there, after all, many more Easts and Wests than there are East and West? I myself hail from a different East than this East.
'My' East is not the East of here, it does not share many references of this East, of Confucius and Tao, for instance. At the same time, though, it does share heritage, Hieun Tsang crossed the Himalayas to leave what is perhaps the most significant account of an India that might otherwise have faded in memory. At the same time – or earlier, rather, Buddhism crossed the Himalayas in the other direction. I am no expert on philosophy but I glimpse shared ideas across these Easts as much as I see shared concepts and language groups across from my East and what is my West. So, in a last reference to Kipling, he was wrong East and West meeting, no God nor judgement seat is needed. I read of, though didn't get to witness, Chinese productions of Shakespeare and Swan Lake at the Edinburgh Festival, the West received in this East and returning, transformed. So it is and should be, experience and ideas flowing both ways. Not a river, which traverses landscape from commanding heights to vast oceans but a bowl of different hues slowly dissipating across boundaries but not blending into a uniform brown (my experience as a child, perhaps it was the colours on my palette) or grey but new vivid hues appearing, ready to flow again. More perhaps a chemical interaction than a painter's bowl. An interaction evident in so many spheres. For many years I taught at a university in the Netherlands, in a town called Delft. Best known, at least in the West, for its production of tiles, blue and white. The technology and the design acquired from the East, adapted, modified, transformed into something original, the very definition of the town that had acquired it.
And near where I lived before, in Scotland, is the town of Paisley. Its name synonymous, in the West at least, again, with a pattern. Borrowed, adapted transformed from one from the India sub-continent. Borrowing and adaptation work the other way too, from West to East, the language I use right now, English. Considered by many “international”, it is also native now to many countries, not least India. Stories too have flowed back and forth over time, with travellers, sometimes more legend and hearsay – like with Marco Polo – but, importantly, travelling. Forms have too, today the novel is one of the best know genres of writing. Yet it did not exist until not so long ago and the form that it has today is the result of experiment and development in England and Russia. And France, and lots of other places. Mainly in the West but that does not make the novel of today that comes out of China or India or Malaysia any less Chinese or Indian or Malaysian. The East has taken a form from the West and made it its own. A form that would be pointless without the invention of paper – in the East – and the printing press, also in the East. So it is, words and language and stories may have developed almost individually (although that too can be debated and discussed, that is not the point I am here to consider), paper and printing developed in one hemisphere, expanded in another, gave rise to a new form that crossed back – printed on paper – and took root. So it is and so will it always be.
We are where we are now, at a new crossroad. Another one, different conditions it seems. Where, after at least a century or more, the East is, arguably, rising. Again. Economically. That is what the world sees, in the West and in the East. And voices prophesy, promise, some even warn of the changes under way and those still to come. The East and West, many say, now jostle for dominance. Economic dominance. That is how many see it, the contact between any two parts of the world is, for them, necessarily competitive. Whether it is or is not, doesn't really matter though, in the context of writing, or, more broadly, of culture. What does matter is that there is jostling, elbowing and interaction accompanying economic connections. Because jostling involves encounter, and encounter brings awareness, exchange, synthesis, novelty. Novelty in the best sense of the word, in the sense of the new. We can see it today, occurring on the margins of technology already, new forms of writing are appearing, fiction tailored to – rather than limited by – text messaging. Who would have thought that? Messaging was never intended to change the way we write but it is doing precisely that. In one space at least. Is it permanent? Perhaps, perhaps not. But even if these new, limited forms do not survive for long – as well they might not, as length constraints to messages are overcome – they will have marked culture as surely as anything else, and will be artefacts. Which, being artefacts, may have influence, minor or major.
And as it is with technology, as it seeps, leaps, across boundaries, affecting forms, ideas, philosophies, cultural elements travel, emigrate even, affecting both their places of origin and where they arrive. Giving rise to original forms, new forms. What intrigues me is what these might be. I imagine it on several levels. First, language and vocabulary. At present the seepage is arguable East to West, English encroaching spaces unimaginable. But that is likely to change, Chinese in its dominant and, possibly, multiple forms, is soon to be the statistically at least dominant language on the Internet. It is also spreading with economic activity and, as it does, words are likely to find their way out, across the porous borders of language, into first the everyday speech of the marketplace, then into other conversation and communication. And then, as they become commonplace, they'll appear on the printed page. Much as words already have. Perhaps faster now, as exchange is catalysed by electronic communication. I chose the word catalysed rather than facilitated both because it reflects the concepts of chemistry I used earlier and also because the electronics do not intend to facilitate cultural exchange, they are indifferent to it yet, at same time vectors. Unwitting, uncaring, neutral - yet powerful. Just as the printed word spread ideas rapidly, innocently sometimes, so do the new media. And as they do, culture, rarely static in any case, is agitated, ideas flow, re-incarnate, return.
It is here, at the margin of the cultures that we stand. Not marginalised in any sense, but watching - in wonder, I hope, as ideas mingle, mutate, are renewed, rejuvenated, grow ever more interesting. The East and West, however we define them or choose to define them, have been meeting for centuries. In my lifetime, I hope to see a new flowering as they encounter under these changing circumstances. And, as both a writer and a reader of writing, I wait to see what happens. The plot is unfolding, it will never end. And that is the pleasure of it. For in the years to come, artists and writers , those involved in the creation and dissemination of what we all consider 'culture' are, like us today, going to be in each other's spaces, sharing, commenting, puzzling over even, the common and disparate elements that characterise 'our' cultures. If it seems hard to imagine what this will bring, try to imagine what the world would be like if there had been no contact. Or, as some imagine, the contact had been minimal, limited or seriously sporadic. We already share much, the concepts of art and literature, of painting, sculpture, prose and poetry. There are, to be sure, differences, some more obvious than others - given the structure of our writing, here in China there is greater visual pleasure taken in the forms of words, in calligraphy but something similar does occur in alphabetic writing, most obviously perhaps in the calligraphy of Arabic, a similar response to a different impetus, there the concept of an aniconic - representation free - art. Could these two forms coincide, reflect, refract? I have no doubt they do, in spaces where Arabic and Chinese overlap, as have rhythms and lettering in the music and writing of the Indian subcontinent. China and 'the West' have distinct yet parallel conceptions of metre and verse in poetry, what may come of their interaction? There are already those experimenting with these and while the results may not appeal to all - what art is universal? - they are vital, the sign that while our individual cultures may have histories, they are not, and probably never were, static. Art and literature in particular are about communication and communication is most necessary when there are differences. Travelogues are often the beginning, as people of open - or even closed - minds explore places beyond their ken but are, in the end, only the beginnings. Due to history those of us outside the West often know more of the West than they of us yet the most interesting application of this knowledge is, for me, at least, its deployment when consulting and communicating with other 'non-Western' peoples. I speak to you in English, my own Eastern-absorbed Western influence. Which makes me who I am but also re-defines concepts of East and West. As English has been absorbed into India, so do Chinese and other languages of the East exist on the periphery of the West. For now. The pockets of speakers of other languages, of cultures other than the previously settled, the dominant, are indicators of what is to come. Or might. Amongst them, the languages and cultures are already blending. Not merging, the consequence is a hybridity that is wholly of the host culture yet distinct, original. Sometimes it is marginal or marginalised, at others it takes on a life of its own as it is indigenised. Consider the Francophone writings of Africa and west Asia, the writing, for instance, of Amin Maalouf. Or, closer home for me, again, the writings of Indians in English. It isn't a one way traffic, many Europeans wrote in Indian languages in the past and, I suspect, as the world changes, some will begin to write again. Cultural crossing ebbs and flows, that is in the nature of all things human and the coming together of East and West is no different.
As I think of this topic, my mind finally begins to wander. And images of hybrid opera spring first to mind. Not that I know much of opera, I have listened to a fair amount of Western and attended part of a Chinese but I am acutely aware of the difference between them. And cannot but notice the commonalities too, the grand love and tragedy that both prefer and the suspension of reality that is asked of the audience. And of the immense pleasure that those who do as asked derive. There is, clearly, common ground between the two forms, the references, the sense of the epic, the acceptance of norms and stylistic forms – the expectation of such. Might the two forms of opera meet then? Quite possibly. As I said, I am no expert, but I am sure there are overlaps, perhaps the more in the East than in the West but the West hasn't been insensible to Eastern forms. Think of the versions of One Thousand and One Nights that enthralled audiences in the West for centuries (and still do, Alibaba and Aladdin are staples of storytelling in the West). Yes, the versions that were and are told deviate dramatically from the original Arabic but the fact remains that quite a lot was absorbed, form, vocabulary (however modified), characters and plots. So it is with cultural contact, whole forms are sometimes absorbed, more often they encounter a prism which refracts them into a new form. And all are the richer for it.
Part II: East meets West, the Past, the Present, the Future.
Having thought about what might come to be, my thoughts are drawn, inexorably, to what I know has been done. Not just the broad exemplars that I have mentioned so far but some closer to my own knowledge. From my reading and my own writing. Because the encounter between differences provides writers with a rich seam of experience. I was travelling at the time of writing this lecture and had little access to books but I had my own fund of read material, in my head and in my notes. I delved into them and found, first, the words of a chronicler from two hundred years ago. A jaundiced view of 'another place', for that is what the East was to many Europeans, suggesting almost determined resistance to anything 'foreign' or alien. Here he is, Robert Orme, chronicler of the East India Company, writing in 1745 about belief systems in India as he saw them:
“The History of these gods is a heap of the greatest absurdities. It is Eswara twisting off the neck of Brama; it is the Sun, who gets his teeth knocked out, and the Moon, who has her face beat black and blue at a feast, at which the gods quarrel and fight with the spirit of a mob. They say that the Sun and Mooon carry in their faces to this day the marks of this broil. Here and there a moral or metaphysical allegory, and sometimes a trace of the history of a first legislator, is descernible in these stories; but in general they are so very extravagant and incoherent, that we should be left to wonder how a people so reasonable in other respects should have adopted such a code of nonsense as a creed of religion, did we not find the same credulity in the histories of nations much more enlightened.”
The distaste in this almost angry diatribe was, however, not all there was to his vision of the East. He was impressed too, by certain aspects. Listen to his - admittedly grudging - admiration for Eastern, in this case, Indian, commercial sense:
'Nothing seems to have been wanting to the happiness of this nation, but that others should have looked on them with the same indifference with which they regard the rest of the world. But not content with the presents which nature has showered on their climate, they have made improvements when they felt no necessities. They have cultivated the various productions of their soil, not to the measure of their own, but to that of the wants of all nations; they have carried their manufactures of linnen to a perfection which surpasses the most exquisite productions of Europe, and have encouraged with avidity the annual tributes of gold and silver which the rest of the world contest for the privilege of sending to them. They have from time immemorial been as addicted to commerce, as they are averse to war. They have therefore always been immensely rich, and have always remained incapable of defending their wealth.”
Re-reading the passage, I couldn't help but be reminded of some of the articles and commentary that are published today, the long treatises on how the history and traditions of the disparate Easts and Wests are, on the one hand, exclusive and, on the other, inextricably linked and likely to draw closer. Things haven't changed that much then, if anything they have come in a circle!
Writers can be fickle, presumptuous even. Although the existence of 'other' places and cultures is fodder for them, not all – unfortunately, perhaps fortunately? - see a need for first hand experience. Walter Scott,for instance, famed for his Ivanhoe and historical romances. “Romances” being the key word, he wrote fiction and was unashamed about it. As when he wrote of a fabled East, populated with adventurers and diabolical Eastern tyrants (do we have Western tyrants in Eastern writing, I wonder?). His storyteller in The Surgeon's Daughter, searching for a 'place' to write about, is advised:
“"Send her to India, to be sure. That is the true place for a Scot to thrive in; and if you carry your story fifty years back, as there is nothing to hinder you, you will find as much shooting and stabbing there as ever was in the wild Highlands. If you want rogues, as they are so much in fashion with you, you have that gallant caste of adventurers, who laid down their consciences at the Cape of Good Hope as they went out to India, and forgot to take them up again when they returned. Then, for great exploits, you have in the old history of India, before Europeans were numerous there, the most wonderful deeds, done by the least possible means, that perhaps the annals of the world can afford."
"I know it," said I, kindling at the ideas his speech inspired. "I remember in the delightful pages of Orme, the interest which mingles in his narratives, from the very small number of English which are engaged. Each officer of a regiment becomes known to you by name, nay, the non-commissioned officers and privates acquire an individual share of interest. They are distinguished among the natives like the Spaniards among the Mexicans. What do I say? They are like Homer's demigods among the warring mortals. Men, like Clive and Caillaud, influenced great events, like Jove himself. Inferior officers are like Mars or Neptune; and the sergeants and corporals might well pass for demigods. Then the various religious costumes, habits, and manners of the people of Hindustan,--the patient Hindhu, the warlike Rajahpoot, the haughty Moslemah, the savage and vindictive Malay--Glorious and unbounded subjects! The only objection is, that I have never been there, and know nothing at all about them."
Scott liked novelty, the licence that distance allowed him – and also the fact of difference. It allowed him to comment on a world in flux.
“His merits were thought the higher, when it was understood he had served the Honourable East India Company--that wonderful company of merchants, who may indeed, with the strictest propriety, be termed princes. It was about the middle of the eighteenth century, and the directors in Leadenhall Street were silently laying the foundation of that immense empire, which afterwards rose like an exhalation, and now astonishes Europe, as well as Asia, with its formidable extent, and stupendous strength. Britain had now begun to lend a wondering ear to the account of battles fought, and cities won, in the East; and was surprised by the return of individuals who had left their native country as adventurers, but now reappeared there surrounded by Oriental wealth and Oriental luxury, which dimmed even the splendour of the most wealthy of the British nobility.”
Such amazement at the 'other side of the world' continues to this day. We see it in recent writing,– for me, at least, in, for instance, the story of Canadian writer Yann Martell, Life of Pi, which is, in many parts about the encounter between East and West. And the East is presented to the West explicitly:
““I am a Hindu because of sculptured cones of red kumkum powder and baskets of yellow turmeric nuggets, because of garlands of flowers and pieces of broken coconut, because of the clanging of bells to announce one's arrival to God, because of the whine of the reedy nadaswaram and the beating of drums, because of the patter of bare feet against stone floors down dark corridors pierced by shafts of sunlight, because of the fragrance of incense, because of flames of arati lamps circling in the darkness, because of bhajans being sweetly sung, because of elephants standing around to bless, because of colourful murals telling colourful stories, because of foreheads carrying, variously signified, the same word - faith. I became loyal to these sense impressions even before I knew what they meant or what they were for. It is my heart that commands me so. I feel at home in a Hindu temple. I am aware of Presence, not personal the way we usually feel presence but something larger. My heart still skips a beat when I catch sight of the murti, of God Residing, in the inner sanctum of a temple. Truly I am in a sacred womb, a place where everything is born, and it is my sweet luck to behold its living core. My hands naturally come together in reverent worship. I hunger for prasad, that sugary offering to God that comes back to us as a sanctified treat. My palms need to feel the heat of a hallowed flame whose blessing I bring to my eyes and forehead.”
Encounter is, of course, a staple of writing. And the product, in a sense of the encounter of several cultures, Joseph Conrad too drew on it to. As in Heart of Darkness, where Africa, the Congo specifically is the 'other place':
“I left in a French steamer, and she called in every blamed port they have out there, for, as far as I could see, the sole purpose of landing soldiers and custom-house officers. I watched the coast. Watching a coast as it slips by the ship is like thinking about an enigma. There it is before you-- smiling, frowning, inviting, grand, mean, insipid, or savage, and always mute with an air of whispering, Come and find out. This one was almost featureless, as if still in the making, with an aspect of monotonous grimness. The edge of a colossal jungle, so dark-green as to be almost black, fringed with white surf, ran straight, like a ruled line, far, far away along a blue sea whose glitter was blurred by a creeping mist. The sun was fierce, the land seemed to glisten and drip with steam. Here and there grayish-whitish specks showed up clustered inside the white surf, with a flag flying above them perhaps. Settlements some centuries old, and still no bigger than pinheads on the untouched expanse of their background”
My humble self, as someone who exists on that cusp of East and West, has explored the encounter too. From different perspectives. Here, for instance, in this passage from my novel, I consider the East from, primarily, the point of view of a Westerner:
(from Across the Lakes, Amal Chatterjee, 1998)
“John was wakened by the plaintive bleeping of his alarm. Monday morning. Sleepy-eyed, he splashed water over his face, ignoring his already rusting razor. He rubbed his hand over the rough stubble, wondered briefly whether to keep the beard when it grew. A car horn sounded outside and, minutes later, the manager knocked on the door. His taxi was waiting. John shouldered his rucksack, stuffing the last of his belongings into the side pocket. Under his T-shirt, his money-belt pressed reassuringly against his stomach. A quick glance around the room revealed no forgotten items. He was ready.
In the mayhem of the station he found the Departures Board. But no mention of his train. He panicked briefly, then it flickered and new trains and times appeared. There it was. Platform 6. He plunged into the mass of humanity and was borne along its tide, first one way then the other. Inch by inch he fought his way to the platform but once there found the train’s doors locked . A man in uniform appeared, slapping lists of names and unlocking doors. John followed him from carriage to carriage, from list to list, until he found the one that bore his name.
Entering the carriage wasn’t easy. His rucksack, usually so convenient, took on a life of its own, restraining him at every step. Eventually he made it to the seat that matched the number against his name, only to find it was occupied by no fewer than three people. He waved his ticket at them and they laughed and got up - then, to his surprise, helped him stow his bag overhead. In spite of their friendliness he was relieved to see them disembark when the whistle sounded.
The train had left ‘just half an hour late!’ exclaimed one of the other occupants of the carriage. In English. John eyed him surreptitiously. A young man, no doubt, trying to impress the other passengers. His companions, maybe? Another man and two women of similar age. The comments in English continued, not addressed directly to John, but the choice of language, and quick glances he cast, gave him away as surely as if he had said ‘excuse me, can I talk to you?’. John smiled quietly to himself, watching the countryside roll past the iron-bars of the window. Finally the English speaker plucked up courage to tap him on the shoulder.
‘Where you go?’
‘To Sonapukur.’
‘You like our country?’
‘Very much. It is very interesting.’
‘But it is hot for you, no?’
‘Er, I suppose so …’
‘Food also?’
‘Hot, you mean? Yes, but I like it that way.’
His interrogator translated this to the other passengers who nodded vigorously. One of them whispered in the English-speaker’s ear.
‘Why are you going to Sonapukur? To the Mission?’
‘Mission? No, no, family reasons. My grandfather used to live there.’
The translation was greeted with exclamations and some laughter.
‘How will you get to Sonapukur?’ demanded the English-speaker.
‘Hire a jeep. The tourist office told me I could.’
His companion shook his head. ‘Very difficult, cost much money!’
‘I’ll have to see’
‘I am going to Sonapukur, too. I can arrange one for you. You want me to help?’
‘Maybe,’ John said warily
‘Very good price. Only two hundred rupees.’
‘No thanks!’
‘Why?’
‘It should cost around a hundred,’ John said firmly even though he had no real idea.
The translation caused much mirth among the group.
‘You are my friend, no? I can get you jeep for one hundred and seventy-five.’
‘Forget it!!’
They bargained cheerfully, John haggling as best he could. Finally they settled for one hundred and fifty. John wasn’t sure it was the best deal but he felt he could afford it - unless he had to hire jeeps every day. The entire compartment began a game of translating and learning new words. John enjoyed it, they were pleasant company.
They arrived in the late afternoon, two hours late on a three hour journey Just before they stopped John gave his new friend a fifty rupee advance to secure the Jeep - and then, as soon as they were out of the carriage he lost sight of him. Slightly dazed by the crush he was pushed and carried along to the exit. Offers of rickshaws came from all sides. John brushed them away and clung to the gate to maintain his position in the flood. He scanned the crowd desperately. But there was no sign of his new friend. Annoyed, he found the station-master’s office. The station-master, a fat, sour-looking, middle-aged man with a pencil moustache and red paan-stained teeth listened to his tale and shrugged his shoulders.
‘What you want from me? ‘
‘Just help to find this man,’ John said testily. What did he think?
The station-master snorted and returned to his paper. His clerk, aping his superior, snorted too. John persisted and eventually the junior official got up and led him outside.
‘You see your man here?’
‘No, that’s the whole point …’
‘You see many men here, no?’
‘Yes?’
‘But not your man. Your man has gone, just like that!’ The clerk looked triumphant. John groaned. What a fool he had been! He shouldered his rucksack and hurried away from the grinning clerk.
Outside the station the road was a mad flow of gaily decorated vehicles, vans, jeeps, cars, trucks, all heading one way. And every one full of people, young men. The only attempt at order was the loud but ineffective attempts of groups of youths who swaggered around, shouting and pushing all who were in their way. Not wanting to fight his way through them, John stopped. Something tugged at his sleeve. He shook it off.
‘Sahib!’ Sure it would be another tout, he did not even look round.
‘Sahib!!’ The voice was insistent. John turned.
‘You?’ His companion from the train!
‘Yes, it is me - you were expecting someone else? Come, Sahib, I have found you a jeep!’
‘But I thought you had …’ John stopped. It would be churlish to tell him that he had, until a minute before, written him off as a thief.
‘Sahib, I could find no jeep. Not for that price today, not for any money. It is very busy, very busy - but I gave you my word, so I looked for one and - see!’ He waved proudly in the direction of a battered … what was it? Never in his life had John seen anything like it. It vaguely resembled a jeep - but what on earth had they done to it? Surely he couldn’t be serious? His new friend was dragging him towards it. This was their transport!
‘Sahib, why did you leave the station?’ the procurer chattered on. ‘I was coming for you. But because of this rally every jeep is going the other way, and no one wants to go to anywhere else unless you pay lots, lots of rupees. But I promised you, so I came outside to look and then I found this man. He is not from here, he is from Calcutta. He is here on work - he does not tell me what - and he is taking us to Sonapukur. For just one hundred fifty. So I was coming back for you. But you were leaving! Why?’
‘I didn’t think you …’ John mumbled.
‘Sahib!’ his companion stared at him, ‘You thought I took your money and ran away! You think I am a thief! Sahib, I may be many things, I may be good-for-nothing but I am not a thief!’ John flushed, he had not intended offence. Suddenlyhis companion began to laugh, a chuckle that grew into a full throated roar.
‘Sahib, sahib, now I understand! I went away with your money so you thought I was a thief. Oh sahib, I work at the Mission, I am not a thief. But now I see why you thought I am a thief. Perhaps I am a fool - I should have told you where I am going. Or maybe I should not have come back,’ he spluttered. Relieved, John smiled too.
When their merriment had passed, his guide made the introductions. The driver was Choto, from Calcutta. He was Francis, compounder at the Mission hospital on the Sonapukur Road. Would John mind him giving him a lift? Of course not. Perhaps he could stop at the Mission on his way back? Yes, of course, he would be welcome, and he, Francis would be most honoured if he did stop by.
As they bounced along the road Francis pointed out sights that he thought would interest John: a herd of buffalo wallowing in a pond, a heron, a bullock cart. John tried to respond but found it difficult, he was too busy concentrating on trying to stay on board. Francis did not notice, he continued his patter. There was a village and there a big house. His friend lived there, that was the house of a doctor. John grunted agreement, hanging on for dear life while the huge people-carriers bore down on them, swerving away only at the last minute. One thing he did notice, however, was that all of the vehicles were decked out in banners. Some showed a trident with the words ‘Hindu Sangh’ and others advertised ‘Ganguly Electronics’. The passengers rent the air with loud shouts. John asked Francis for an explanation. Francis dismissed them as ‘hooligans’.
‘Come on, Francis, what are they saying?’ John pressed him.
‘It is all politics, sahib. I do not understand politics,’ he tried to change the subject, ‘Look, a kingfisher!’
‘But even if it is politics, you must understand,’ John insisted.
Francis gave in, ‘Sahib, they are shouting praises of their heathen gods and politicians… ‘
‘And the banners?’ John was pleased he was getting some information, ‘What’s the trident?’
‘Trident? No, no, they call it a trishul,’ Francis replied.
‘Trishul? What is it?’
‘Oh, it is a symbol of one of their gods?’
‘Which one?’ John persisted.
‘Shiva.’ Francis would not look at him.
‘And what is he the god of?’
‘Destroyer of the world … look!’ A shout of relief almost. ‘The Mission! My home! Stop, driver, stop!’”
There are, of course two sides to any encounter. The East can also look at the West with presumption and prejudice. As I found when I turned to another character in a subsequent scene:
“Choto didn’t like conversations with strangers, especially with a couple as odd as this. A weedy Christian and a grubby looking foreigner. The Christian hadn’t said anything about his companion being a foreigner. If he had, Choto would have insisted on a higher fee. After all, these foreigners could afford it - especially one who looked so disparagingly at his vehicle. So what if it was a decrepit pile of junk? The foreigner didn’t have choice, did he? thought Choto angrily. His brief stay in the town had convinced him that his was the only vehicle was to be had -.... Reassured by the thought, Choto straightened his back and drove more confidently. Even if his was the most battered car on the road he wasn’t going to let anyone think he couldn’t handle it. They jolted along, occasionally even able to challenge some of the other users of the road, the bicycles, the stupid mopeds, the damn bullock carts.
The Christian called to him to stop so he pulled over and let him out in front of a big gate. Mission Hospital or something, he couldn’t read too well. With just one passenger on board, there was no point hanging around, Choto decided. Might as well get it over with. He kicked the accelerator and stole a backwards glance. The foreigner was clutching the frame. Good, he smiled to himself. The white man was scared. “
Encounters aren't always dramatic though, sometimes my characters have a less violent reaction to the novelty of another culture. Here, in a recent short story, I imagine a character brought up with knowledge of the West, encountering it in substance for the first time.
“Alone, as often, exploring a new city, ignoring the funicular, climbing the hill. It was harder work than I imagined, the sun was hotter than I had bargained for – the Mediterranean couldn't really be as hot as Calcutta surely? It could, apparently, and I couldn't remember how I was supposed to deal with it. Urgently thirsty, I felt in my pocket for coins. I had a few pesetas still, over and above what I needed for the funicular fare down. This was in the day before cash machines had sprouted everywhere, I carried currency as cheques to be cashed (at, I forget how many promised locations) so my finances were limited. There had to be somewhere with bottled water, I reckoned, as I toiled up the sleek black road. On Montjuic, the bay of Barcelona spread out behind me
Round a last corner, it came into view. Sparkling white, its facade adorned with the kind of clever-fonted minimalist banners I'd come to associate with European places of culture, the Miro museum. I wiped my face and arms with my handkerchief and mounted the stairs. An unsmiling but not-unfriendly man at the desk checked my all-day pass and waved me in.
In my year and a half in Europe, I'd formed an image of museums, carefully coralled spaces with unmistakeable security, little boxes with flashing red indicators, bored custodians with radios strapped to their belts. What struck me here though, was not those details but an abundance of light. Not direct sunlight but managed brightness through slits in the wall and angled skylights. Natural light complementing a brilliance of red and yellow from the art itself.
I breathed it in, a building and colours after my own heart, blue stars and red suns illuminating that which I knew from pages but hadn't imagined so real.
On the way out, I quenched my thirst at the water fountain and spent the coins I saved on a postcard, which I wrote at a bar table later that evening, raw red wine filling my belly till the late Catalan dinner time.
Another seven years on
Glasgow had the a modern art centre, other spaces with sprinklings, the odd room with modern art but the new Gallery, I'd been assured, was different. I had once entered the building in its previous incarnation but my main association with the place was hurrying past the Duke and his steed with an orange traffic cones perched jauntily on their heads. I'd personally never tried to scale their pedestal but, during late night sessions at Bennet's (then the only watering hole after hours not demanding dancing), I'd heard probably embellished accounts of headgear replenishment.
The counter offered information, cloak room services but no tickets. One of those British idiosyncrasies that I find refreshing, no tickets, no fees, culture for all, for free. For now, at least. A notice board was the first thing I noticed. Festooned with small scraps of paper, it invited me to add my note of appreciation or commentary. I scanned it curiously, finding Italian, German, Spanish among the English, and a couple of notes in Cyrillic and Greek. I wondered at these last, they could as well be 'I'm just round the corner, Alexia' messages to delayed lunch companions as jovially complimentary reviews 'FANTASTIC! Jack, from Cairo, Massachusetts'. Or somesuch place.
Soft bright Scottish sunlight streamed in through the vast windows. I wandered among the exhibits, pausing every so often. I no longer travelled on the paths mandated by guides. A tall mechanical sculpture, wheels, chains and colourful blades detained me for few minutes, passing children for longer, a series of sombre landscapes held me nearly as long as them.
Now on the first floor, almost alone, I descended curved stairs and re-entered the first space. A painting I hadn't noticed before beckoned me, a giant canvas of a man almost a caricature being dragged across a field by massive-jawed bull-terriers. I paused, both in admiration at the skill and the sheer familiar awfulness of it, the larger than life aggressors that haunt public spaces.”
For me and for others, the encounter between East and West is rich in possibility. Some is obvious, as in the passages I have just read, others are less so, as in the forms that I use, prose fiction, the novel, the construction of character and passages. But whatever it is, it is the coming together of differences that is exciting and provides the writer and the artist with the tools and content of their work. Long may that continue.