My knowledge of Ranjan’s youth is based on what he thought fit to tell me and on occasional remarks of his contemporaries. A model primary school pupil, a boy scouts leader and a fine cricket player were on the credit side. A tricky fellow, one ready to snitch when it suited him, and a mercenary to boot, were remarks made by those who disliked him. One of them told me that Ranjan would display enthusiasm when he was the key figure in some sporting event, but often lost interest when it was the turn of others.
The most telling observation came from one of his Tamil classmates. Ranjan had sought to gain popularity by being good. But the mask was thin. Right from primary school Ranjan exhibited vanity and, alas, a dislike for members of Sri Lanka’s substantial minority groups. The only exception – to manifest itself in secondary school – was Ranjan’s penchant for girls of the Burgher community, the descendants of mixed marriages of Dutch men with Sinhalese or Tamil women. Ranjan found these girls appealing and enjoyed their liberal outlook.
I concluded that, in his early years, Ranjan had been neither a saint nor a villain. He had been human; yet an extremely self-centred fellow right from the start. He had also displayed an uncanny ability to get his way at all cost. Crossing him was unwise.
I met Ranjan for the first time at a party in my college in Oxford. By then, he had completed his BA with second class honours. His hope was to improve this sound but inglorious result with a spectacular performance in Oxford’s Bachelor of Civil Law (usually referred to as the BCL).
Noticing my patent awkwardness, Ranjan had aided me to fit into the party. In no time the discussion turned to Israeli folklore and aspirations. This enabled me to take part. Ranjan too talked. He had familiarised himself with the controversial subject and was aware of the manifestoes of both sides. That evening he took the Israeli line; but I wondered what views he would express in a gathering dominated by Arabs. A casual observation by a Rhodes scholar suggested that Ranjan’s enthusiastic references to Israel came to some listeners as a surprise.
For the next few weeks, I kept running into Ranjan in the restaurants and coffee houses near the Bodleian library. Occasionally, we had tea together in Broad Street. Ranjan kept talking about political affairs. After a while it dawned on me that, notwithstanding his legal background, Ranjan aspired for a role in politics. He was active in the Oxford Union, the cradle of many political careers, and, in due course, was elected president for a term. His focus was – I gleaned – the politics of his home country – Sri Lanka, still known as Ceylon in those days.
During his last year at Oxford, the two of us saw a great deal of one another. Ranjan was always ready to help when the need arose. I was at that time fretting over the direction of my project. Ranjan smoothed matters out for me by discussing my problems with some academics of his acquaintance. The frosty atmosphere I had encountered till that time gave way to friendly guidance and assistance. Even the librarians started to smile when I asked for advice.
Ranjan had managed to pull the right strings; and he knew how to detect them when needed. It did not take me long to discover that he had performed comparable acts of kindness for other acquaintances. Some benefited from his patronage in Oxford Union affairs; others appreciated his guiding hand in problems related to the circle of Ceylonese students, and others still had sought his advice in collegiate politics. Ranjan’s reward was the general esteem shown to him by the academic community surrounding him; and his ego kept being bolstered. Effectively, Ranjan’s charisma conferred on him a mantle of distinction.
In the normal course of events, Ranjan and I would have remained mere acquaintances with benevolent feelings for one another. I preferred the backstage to the limelight; and I was a loner. Ranjan’s orientation differed. Our hobbies, too, belonged to separate worlds. His centred on people and on current affairs. He was always up to date. Mine were porcelain and plastic art.
I recall a commercial case which took both of us down to London. In the spare time left, Ranjan went to political rallies and attended meetings of some Ceylonese organisations. I spent my time visiting art galleries. Ranjan, who knew I was too poor to buy good pieces, could not comprehend the pleasure I derived from window shopping and from trotting through museums. I, in turn, felt no empathy with his activities. London was a fascinating city. Why would anyone prefer spending his time on rallies and current events – bound to be forgotten within a short while – to relishing the rich cultural scene?
What drew us together – cementing a friendship which lasted for years – was a mutual ability to see each other’s point of view and to act discreetly when needed. One typical event of this sort took place shortly after that spell in London. We were sitting in our accustomed coffee house in Oxford’s Broad Street, engaged in a discussion of the litigation that had drawn us to the High Court. Other students dropped in, greeted Ranjan warmly but – as was to be expected – bypassed me. Ranjan enjoyed his popularity and relished the attention showered on him. Then, unexpectedly, his smile changed into a frown. He was staring at a group of young men and women, who had just stepped through the door. One of the newcomers – an attractive girl – beamed as soon as she spotted him.
“I didn’t expect to find you here,” she said, as she left her group with a nod and, following the usual introductions, joined our table. Her warm, alluring, voice camouflaged her mid-European accent.
“I didn’t intend to go for tea, Lillo; but Peter needed a rest after his spell in the library.” The smile had now returned to Ranjan’s face; but his eyes remained watchful.
“So this is your new friend,” she retorted readily and, turning to me, added: “Ranjan speaks a lot about you; it’s nice meeting you.”
“Thanks,” I said, dumbfounded.
“So he did not tell you about me?” she grinned.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had such an attractive girl friend?” I asked Ranjan.
“Fear of competition!”
“That would be the day,” I could not help responding, thinking to myself that a vivacious, elegantly dressed and well-groomed girl like Lillo was altogether out of my reach.
“Why are you so unsure of yourself?” Lillo spoke kindly. “Some girls are keen on nice, dependable, men! Ranjan says that’s precisely what you are!”
“Maybe,” I said awkwardly, adding – determined to change the subject: “And how long have you known Ranjan?”
“A few months,” she responded willingly. “But we got engaged only four or five weeks ago. Soon I’ll get my ring.”
Ranjan’s expression tightened as she spoke. I sensed that these two had a lot to say to one another. Ranjan had been startled by her arrival in the company of other men. She was, however, too smart, too worldly, to seek to justify herself.
“I better return to the library,” I told them. “I have to read two new American cases.”
“See you later then,” responded Lillo. Ranjan just nodded.
Ranjan must have appreciated my tact. During the next few days, I met him in the ante-hall of the Bodleian – our regular reading room – and on two occasions we went together for morning coffee. He told me about his home in Colombo, about a term he had spent in Freiburg University in Southern Germany, and about the activities of the Oxford Union. Lillo’s name was not mentioned by either of us.
Then, unexpectedly, I ran into her in the coffee house in Broad Street. She had arrived together with another girl but, as soon as her companion departed, joined my lonely table.
“Do you come here regularly?” she wanted to know.
“Well, yes,” I replied. “The coffee is quite good and I like the food.”
“Good value,” she agreed; then added awkwardly: “have you seen Ranjan today?”
“He’s in the reading room alright; but – you know – when they write a paper, they skip meals.”
“How about yourself?”
“I read for a D.Phil.”
“I know. So you don’t have to present a paper?”
“Only my thesis; when I’m ready to submit. It’ll take some time.”
She digested the information, but her mind was still on Ranjan. She wanted to tell me something but, for some reason, was tongue-tied. I thought it best to let her take her time.
“Don’t you find it difficult to write in English,” she asked at long last. “It’s not your mother tongue, surely?”
“Of course it isn’t,” I told her, startled by the unexpected turn of the conversation. “But, you know, the art of composition – the art of good writing – is one and the same in most languages. The difficulty is more in the use of foreign idioms and in structuring sentences. It takes some time to adjust – but it can be done.”
“I wish I was as confident as you,” she told me. “I am learning Sinhala; and it’s terribly hard.”
“Sinhala?” I asked, appreciating where we were heading but playing for time.
“Well, Sinhalese; Ranjan’s mother tongue,” she explained. “I’ll need to be conversant when he takes me to Colombo.”
“But do you really want to live in Asia, Lillo?” I asked tactlessly. “You are very European.”
“I’ll go to any place Ranjan chooses,” she replied. “And I must be an asset to him when he becomes a judge at home. So I am training myself to wear a sari and to act – you know, to behave – like Ceylonese girls.”
“You think Ranjan wants to be a judge?” I let my surprise show.
“Don’t you think he’s just right for such a job?”
“He may be,” I dodged the question. “But doesn’t he want to enter politics?”
“No, that’s not what he wants. And, you know, a politician in Ceylon ought to have a local wife.”
“It helps in other countries too,” I pointed out, “except that in Israel an American wife is an asset!”
She giggled and was about to say something, but then her eye caught a group of young Europeans of her acquaintance. One of them stepped over and greeted her. Before long she departed in their midst.
“Give my regards to Ranjan,” she said before she left.
When I returned to the library, Ranjan had left the reading room. For a while, I tried to concentrate on some American authorities I had discovered. But it was no good. My mind kept straying back to Ranjan and Lillo. Had he really promised to take her with him to Ceylon? Was I wrong in thinking that his aim was a career in politics? My instincts told me Ranjan was not coveting an appointment to the Bench. The slow pace, severe atmosphere and the secluded life of a judge were incompatible with his energetic, liquid and gregarious personality. But, then, how could his fiancée be so confident that Ranjan had set his heart on a legal career? Did she jump to conclusions just because he was reading for a degree in law?
Something, I sensed, did not add up. If Lillo was as close to Ranjan as she indicated, he would have discussed his future with her. He had dropped hints of his plans for a future in politics to a recent acquaintance like myself. True, his hints fell short of a heart-to-heart discussion of the subject. But why had he kept his guard in his dealings with her?
I raised the subject of Ranjan’s future a few days later, when the two of us went for a curry. To Ranjan’s Sinhalese palate the dishes were too mild – spicy stews without a sting. I kept drinking one glass of water after another, trying hard to stop sweating. I made my move as we dug into a sugary dessert.
“Why did you enrol in the BCL, Ranjan?” I asked after a pause. “Do you want to be a judge?”
Ranjan thought the question over carefully. It was, actually, a reasonable enquiry. The prestigious Bachelor of Civil Law – an Oxford postgraduate degree – was open only to the top graduates of established English and foreign universities. A good result secured a ready entry into any leading law firm or barristers’ chambers in London. A ‘first’ earmarked the bearer for a role at the top of the Bar, with a sound chance of elevation. Needless to say, a sound BCL was just as highly appreciated in Britain’s former colonies. Ceylon was no exception in this regard.
“Do you think it is the right career for me?” asked Ranjan.
“I am not sure,” I prevaricated. “It may be too stultifying, too isolated for you.”
“It might very well be,” confided Ranjan. “My real dream is …”
“ … the government?” I interjected as he hesitated.
“Precisely,” agreed Ranjan. “Do you think I’ll make it?”
“I can’t tell,” I conceded candidly. “I don’t know enough about Ceylonese politics. Don’t you need certain contacts?”
“I have them,” confided Ranjan. “And I know how to make doors open themselves.”
“You don’t mind the … concessions every politician has to make?”
“You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs,” he summed up.
Ranjan had taken off his mask. I knew my reading of his character had been right from the start. At the same time, I felt sympathy for Lillo. Had her passion for the attractive Ceylonese prince hoodwinked her altogether? Didn’t she realise that the intensity of feelings she had alluded to was probably one-sided?
Having opened up to me once, Ranjan soon dropped his guard altogether. He had, undoubtedly, set his target high. His goal was the Presidency. His resolve to get there was not affected by the obstacles he was bound to face. They firmed his resolve.
He was aware that the ride would not be smooth. His father’s early death, coupled with the patriarch’s inaptitude for business, posed financial obstacles in Ranjan’s path. These, though, could be sidelined by his own skill. The family’s background constituted a graver hurdle. The Jeyaratnes were old stock, dating their prominence to days long past. The plebians, who had jumped over their shoulders in recent years – moving into the top notches in the tight-laced community – had little regard and affection for their former peers. To climb high, Ranjan had to overcome the dislike and suspicions of the populist front.
Ranjan was not oblivious of the difficulties bound to confront him. But he trusted his ability. He knew also that he would have to bide his time. This, too, posed a problem. Notwithstanding his sagacity, Ranjan had remained an impatient – perhaps even hungry – youth. His main hope was that Fortuna would come to his aid at the right moment. He trusted his capacity to see a chance and grab it.
“But, Ranjan, wouldn’t a foreign wife add yet another obstacle?”
“She would,” he responded readily.
“Well?”
“Sometime girls read too much into what a man tells them,” he said after a pause. He then added: “And who is the girl waiting for you back home?”
“I had one. We lived together and worked together, but she sent me packing,” I stuttered.
“Is that why you are here?”
“That and the difficulty of climbing up the ladder without her beside me. I don’t have the instincts and the speed of a good courtroom advocate. I didn’t want to remain a backbencher in our legal world.”
“No scope for teaching?”
“Not really.”
“I see,” he observed sympathetically.
This conversation drew us further together. For a few months we kept running into one another. Occasionally, Ranjan invited me to join Lillo and himself when they went to concerts or travelled to London for choice performances at the West End. Such trips gave me an insight into their lives. Lillo was the one deeper in love. Ranjan was smart enough to let her call the shots; but the reins remained in his hand.
When the summer term drew to its end, Ranjan worked like a beaver. All the same, he ended up with but a Class II. Sensing that such a degree provided insufficient ammunition for an immediate move to a promising career at home, he accepted an Assistant Lectureship at the University of Malaya in Singapore. The newly established Law School provided a good springboard and the salary was attractive.
Lillo welcomed the forthcoming move to the westernised Eastern metropolis. She put her studies of Sinhala on hold, discarded her saris and went for a shopping spree for clothes befitting a young academic’s wife. Ranjan was tight-lipped. I suspected that he regarded the move a detour; an unavoidable side trip on the way to Eldorado. All the same, he was determined to do a good job. A prodigal returning to Colombo following a spell overseas would find openings as long as his record was unblemished and projected reliability.
Ranjan’s farewell party was attended by many of his friends and teachers. It was a gala affair, with Lillo hovering all over as befitted a gracious hostess. Her beautiful figure, sparkling attire and perfect make-up gained many an admiring look from both Ranjan’s contemporaries and peers. I was convinced Fortuna was being kind to him. His accomplished wife would now have ample time to prepare herself ‘to go native’ when the time came for his next move. With her by his side, he was bound to reach the top.
Ranjan’s departure left a void in my life. I had got used to talking to him about my problems, to sharing his and, above all, to watching his interplay with others. The coffee house in Broad Street lost its lustre. During tea breaks, I went to a joint at the covered market, where the steaming mugs of cheaply brewed coffee or tea were accompanied by a generous slice of buttered toast. An Austrian delicatessen stall, also within the precinct of the market, turned out to be a source of excellent continental sandwiches and snacks. I preferred them to the meals in the restaurants I used to frequent with Ranjan and Lillo.
Towards the end of term, field research induced me to move for a few weeks to London. The need to economise induced me to stay in a ramshackle old club. One evening, I spotted Ranjan and Lilo as I proceeded to Strand Underground station on my way home after a day at the Middle Temple library. They, I suspected, were on their way to a theatre in Aldwych. Ranjan appeared not to see me. Lillo was too immersed in him to notice anyone else.
Back in Oxford, I had to knock my thesis into shape. At the very same time I started to face financial problems. Notwithstanding my frugal existence, I was running out of money. My father – a generous man – encouraged me to persevere. He was prepared to go on supporting me. But, as he was ageing, I had my qualms. In addition, the wet climate of Oxford was undermining my fragile health.
Eventually, I wrote to seek Ranjan’s counsel. His advice revealed a hitherto unchartered way out. A new position had been established in his university. Notwithstanding the incompletion of my research, Ranjan encouraged me to apply. He knew the pure common law system applicable in Singapore was, as yet, alien to me. Nonetheless, he thought I should be able to master it in my stride and opined that the post would leave me adequate time to complete the thesis. Thus encouraged, I put in my application and, to my surprise, got the job.
On my way to Singapore, I made a stopover in Ceylon. Ranjan had returned home for a short visit in order to take part in some local celebrations. He thought it advisable to brief me before I put in my appearance at the Law School in Singapore.
Ranjan met me in the airport. After the basic exchange of civilities, he lead the conversation directly to the Law School. He seemed content, told me about his successful ventures into Singapore’s emerging stock exchange and had a great deal to say about the local legal world. He had befriended some of the young courtroom stars but spoke with some disdain of their extravagant lifestyles and insular outlooks. To my surprise, Lillo’s name was not mentioned.
She remained out of bounds during my entire stay. Had Ranjan left her back in Singapore for fear of his mother’s reaction to a European wife? Ranjan respected his matronly mother and, I sensed, would go to a considerable length to protect her sensitivities.
To my growing discomfort, Ranjan did not allude to Lillo as we visited Kandy and Nuwara Eliyah – the well-known resorts adjacent to Colombo – and the houses of some of our former associates in Oxford. One such visit made me reflect afresh on the Lillo issue. Shortly after the formal introductions, the middle aged, sari wearing, mistress of the house addressed me in Yiddish.
It turned out she had been ‘Sara Stiglitz’, a typical East European name. She had met her Sinhalese husband in a conference in Spain, fell in love with him and returned with him to his native Ceylon. It took her some two years to master Sinhala and to adapt to her new environment. By the time we met, she had been happily married for over ten years, had given birth to two sons and was considered by all her friends a naturalised native.
“So my Yiddish gave you a turn,” she giggled.
“Well, you even look Sinhalese.”
“My mother’s maiden name was Nissim,” she confided. “So, you see, I look like a girl from Yemen. This made things easier for me. The main problem was to learn to walk properly in a sari. But I was determined.”
“Do they treat you well?” I ventured, adhering to Yiddish.
“Like any other member of the family,” she answered proudly.
It dawned on me that if Lillo coloured her beautiful blonde hair black, she could have the same success. Despite her Swiss background, she had readily fitted into the British milieu. Why then should she find it difficult to adjust to the Ceylonese world?
I kept reflecting on the issue during the remaining days of my short visit. It irked me that despite a number of opportunities, Ranjan refrained from mentioning her name. Still, to save embarrassment, I toed the line.
In the end, Lillo’s name cropped up just before my flight onwards to Singapore. Following a pleasant meal in a Chinese restaurant – with a menu including mildly spiced dishes suitable for a Western palate – Ranjan drove me to the airport. As we left Colombo, Ranjan handed me a parcel and asked me to deliver it to Agnes.
“Agnes?” I let my surprise show.
“She works in the Registrar’s department. Her surname is Lim.”
“But, Ranjan, don’t you want me to take something back for Lillo?”
“Lillo is not in Singapore!”
“Where is she?”
“I’ve no idea! You see, we split – just before I left London.” He said no more; neither did I. For the remaining 40 minutes of our drive to the airport, an awkward silence descended on the car.
“Agnes is a live wire,” confided Ranjan when we entered the departure hall. “She might introduce you to some pleasant girls.”
“That would be nice,” I said.