Agnes turned out to be a vivacious English-educated Chinese, some five or six years older than Ranjan. A telephone call she received when I delivered Ranjan’s parcel convinced me that my friend was not the only man in her life. Out of curiosity, I accepted her invitation to a party in her flat but, in the event, left early as I found it difficult to fit with her guests. Still, before long I met colleagues, mainly from the English literature department, with whom I was able to mix.
By the time Ranjan returned to our base, I had a circle of friends. Ranjan did not mingle with them. This, however, did not lead to an estrangement. Ranjan and I lunched together regularly and occasionally went to the cinema or a theatre – usually in the company of Ranjan’s then girlfriend. But I did not become a party to Ranjan’s dabbling in the local stock exchange or to his semi-professional socialising with the local Bar. Ranjan, in turn, did not accompany me on my excursions to the antiques shops and to the emerging Singaporean art galleries.
The well-defined Oxford-bond kept us together. Each stood up for the other when needed. On one occasion, for instance, an Indian colleague, who had committed an insurance fraud, tried to defend himself by asserting that Ranjan had advised him on the ploy and had encouraged him to go ahead. When the fraud was discovered, Ranjan was away, pursuing a higher degree at Harvard. Seeking to get to the bottom of the matter, our Dean, who had to attend to a few University matters in the United States, decided to confront him. My telephone call, apprising Ranjan of what had taken place and aided him to clear his name. Ranjan, in turn, helped me out of difficult wrangling in Faculty matters and forewarned me whenever he sensed I might be making a wrong turn.
Our friendship stood the test despite Ranjan’s frowning at my friendship with Tay Fung-Shuo and Yuan-Ming. Resenting my ever-growing affinity with my art haven and my increasing spells away from the University, Ranjan used to tease me about my mysterious links with the East. With a sarcastic smile, he ‘wondered’ whether I would eventually appear in the Law School in a Sen Fu – the old fashioned local Chinese silk suit.
One episode that took place during that period gave me an insight into a side of Ranjan I had, until then, been unaware of. One afternoon, Tay Fung-Shou – accompanied by Yuan-Ming – drove over to the University in order to call on our museum’s curator. When they arrived, Yuan-Ming decided to come over to my office. Being unfamiliar with our widely spread campus, she lost her way but, fortunately, was helped by one of my students, who had seen me with her in a coffee shop in Pagoda Street.
Yuan-Ming, who was then in the golden age in which little girls emulate their mothers, made tea for us and told me that my shabby office would look better if I put up a curtain. She was still considering what sort of curtain to make, when the door burst open.
“Have you forgotten our 4 o’clock departmental meeting, Peter?” Ranjan let his displeasure show. “You know I count on you for this Vice Deanship business.”
“You better go to your meeting, Uncle,” volunteered Yuan-Ming, who saw I was taken aback. “I’ll find my way to the museum.”
“No way,” I told her. “I’ll take you back; and Ranjan, you better tell our colleagues I’ll be a few minutes late.”
“I suppose they’ll have to wait,” Ranjan broke into a smile. “And so this is your friend. Peter told me a lot about you, young Lady.”
“Only good things I hope,” she countered readily.
“You better check with him,” grinned Ranjan. “Well, Peter, we’ll see you soon.”
Yuan-Ming kept mum as we walked together to the museum. I sensed she wanted to tell me something but was uncertain whether to go ahead. She came out with it as soon as I prompted.
“I don’t like your friend, Uncle,” she said frankly.
“But why? You saw him for just a few minutes; and he was agitated.”
“Oh, I know that, Uncle; and of course he’s an Indian or Ceylonese. So you can’t expect him to have good manners!”
“Oh,” I muttered, nonplussed. I was, of course, aware of the prevailing anti-Indian prejudices of the local Chinese population but – somehow – had not expected to detect their impact on my young friend. “But then,” I asked, “why do you dislike him; he’s just a Hay!”
“It’s not that” she said, giggling at my use of the derogatory word – meaning black – applied by Singapore’s Chinese to members of the Ceylonese and Indian communities. “It’s not that, Uncle. It’s his smile!”
“But wasn’t he friendly before he left?”
“He was, Uncle; but you know, his eyes didn’t smile. They remained hard!”
The unimportant Faculty business, that had led to Ranjan’s outburst, was settled readily in the way he wanted. To my relief, he did not refer again to my having been late for the meeting. Having sensed the way the land lay, he ceased to tease me about my Chinatown link. He even went over to Tay’s store before his next visit to Colombo and purchased a costly jadeite bracelet for his mother. Both Tay and Yuan-Ming were civil to him. All the same, I sensed that Tay’s assessment of Ranjan coincided with his charming daughter’s.