On the surface, my friendship with Ranjan remained intact. Inwardly, though, I had misgivings. Jilting a girl was one thing; holding onto money given by the girl in anticipation of a union, put a different connotation on the episode. I knew for certain that, in similar circumstances, I should have restored the money to her family. Keeping it was both inappropriate and improper.
On this score, Ranjan showed no remorse. Risking both his own savings as well as Lillo’s bequest, he continued to dabble in the local stock exchange. Bank statements he showed me in confidence indicated that he was making steady gains.
Lillo’s tragedy had a subtle effect on Ranjan’s relations with local girls. In each of his affairs, he made it clear from the start that the liaison was fleeting. If a girl still went ahead in the hope of hooking him, she had only herself to blame.
Tay Fung-Shuo, to whom I told the story when I went to visit him, displayed no emotion. After I finished, he reminded me that all was fair in love and war.
“But how about money, Mr. Tay?”
“But – Mr. Mid-Yeast Tourist,” he retorted, resorting to our dialect, “man come from grand but now poor family. What you expect?”
“But man is from Oxford; man he reads a lot,” I told him.
“Perhaps his need stronger than morals,” he pointed out. “I think is best you say this not your affair. You see – my friend – to you money is tool for get what you want; you want safety and art. Is easy. But your friend Ranjan he want more; much more. Has great design. So, you not judge him; your – as you say – perspective not same.”
“I thought you didn’t like him?” I let my surprise show.
“I don’t,” he followed my lead into plain English. “But I won’t allow an antipathy to cloud my judgment!”
“But Mr Tay,” I insisted, reverting to our vernacular, “you yourself – you never keep such money. I know: have no doubt!”
“Is correct,” he conceded. “But if is me, I never take money from her!”
“Even if you had intended to go ahead and marry her,” I asked, unable to express the sentiment in our jargon.
“Especially not if is so. Love: you cannot buy and never – never – sell!”
Ranjan did not revert to the subject . True, we lunched together less frequently than before. But in all Faculty and University matters we continued to back one another consistently. In the outside world, though, we became increasingly polarised: each had his own circle of friends and interests.
Then, one day, Ranjan asked for my support in a personal matter. For quite a while he had been dating an attractive Sinhalese woman, whom I knew well from my involvement in Chinese ceramics. Lydia Fernando was second in rank to our museum’s curator – an eccentric fellow – and went out with him regularly. She turned to other, less unconventional, men when she needed a refuge. Ranjan was one of them.
For a while, the conventional gossip was that Ranjan had become the principal man in Lydia’s life. Many thought they were going to tie the knot. Ranjan made no attempt to diffuse the rumours. Lydia, whom I used to accompany on her purchasing sprees of ceramics for our museum, did not drop any hint. As she had often complained to me about our curator’s carryings on, I was perplexed by her rigid silence on her friendship with Ranjan. On the few occasions I referred to him, she changed the subject abruptly, usually by turning to my haven in Chinatown. She was well aware that I loved to talk about my visits to Tay Antiques.
The full picture emerged during one lunch with Ranjan. When both of us were enjoying the dessert, Ranjan asked whether I was aware he had reached an impasse in his friendship with Lydia.
“But Lydia and I talk mainly about ceramics; she told me nothing about the two of you!”
“Not a word or hint?”
“Not really, except that she mentioned she was seeing you quite often.”
“Well,” Ranjan fidgeted as he spoke, “I asked her to marry me; and she turned me down!”
“Why?” I let my surprise show.
“She said she wasn’t ready to get married.”
“Well; she is a career woman,” I sought to get things clear. “Financially she is secure – as secure as most of us!”
“Come off it, Peter,” growled Ranjan. “Many nurses, dentists and businesswomen do marry!”
“But most of them want to have a family, Ranjan. Lydia told me – some time ago – she had decided not to have children. I was surprised: the first Asian woman to say such a thing openly.”
“But how many girls talk to you about such matters?” jibed Ranjan. “And surely men and women get married because they fall in love; or need a companion or just don’t want to be left out.”
“True,” I conceded; “but – you know – if a woman says ‘no’; that’s that.”
Ranjan’s expression manifested his disagreement. I knew that he had a way of seducing women. He knew how to cajole, overcome resistance based on scruples and, where needed, to capitalise on his charm. He had, I suspected, not reflected on the difference between casual affairs and lasting unions. In his eyes, the male had to lead the way. The woman was supposed to follow in his steps.
In many situations, his cynicism was more realistic and worldly than my ultra conservative and indecisive approach to human relationships in general. My need to withdraw the moment I sensed the risk of a snub was alien to his dominant outlook, which militated against conceding defeat. His decision to turn to me in what must have appeared to him a crisis was, thus, puzzling. What had induced him to reveal his setback and how did he expect me to help him? As often before, Ranjan read my thoughts accurately.
“You are a real friend; I trust you,” he explained.
“But what can I do?” I asked, still mystified.
“I want you to talk to Lydia!”
“But, Ranjan, this is a strictly personal matter. Don’t you think she’ll tell me to mind my own business? My friendship with her is restricted to our interest in porcelain. She is bound to resent my stepping out of line.”
“She has a great deal of respect for you. She admires your understanding of ceramics and the progress you have been making.”
“But what can I say to her?”
“Find out why she doesn’t want to marry me; and try to persuade her to change her mind.”
I was at that time living as a fellow in a residential hall – King Edward VII Hall – near the General Hospital. Lydia arrived sharp on time for our lunch and, as always, looked neat and well-groomed. I looked at her with admiration. She had turned me down when I tried to date her shortly after my arrival in Singapore. But she had done so gracefully and, ever since, ensured that we remained on friendly terms. My having asked her to have lunch was, thus, not unexpected.
“So Ranjan asked you to talk to me!” she let her displeasure show when I referred to Ranjan’s quest. “And what did he expect you to do?”
“He wants me to find out why you turned him down.”
“That’s simple, Peter: I’m not in love with him!”
“I thought you went out with him regularly?”
“I did; but dating and marriage are worlds apart!”
“I’m not sure I understand,” I stammered.
“Look here, Peter. Men think it’s alright to go out with a girl, or with a few girls, just for fun. Well, I am a modern woman; if I like a chap I go out with him. But that doesn’t mean I’m after a lifelong relationship! A chap can be fun but poor husband material!”
“What’s wrong with Ranjan?” I steered us back to the point.
“He is a self-centred man and takes things for granted.”
“He won’t expect his wife to stay in the kitchen and raise a family!”
“True; but her career will always be subordinate to his. And he’d expect her to be a good hostess and help him build up his political career. His role is to keep his devoted wife ‘happy’. I don’t blame him for his outlook. But I have my own interests!”
Lydia’s financial independence backed her declaration of rights. I found her manifesto unobjectionable. She was also right about Ranjan. His patrician lineage ordained that his dictates were paramount. A wife – and later on his children – would do well to take his agenda into account.
Ranjan took the news with apparent calm. A few weeks later, though, he announced his acceptance of a scholarship extended by the American university at which he had spent part of his previous sabbatical. Our Dean shrugged his shoulders and granted him six months of no-pay leave.
Those months, during which we corresponded sporadically, witnessed a change in my life: I met a pleasant Chinese girl of an Indonesian background. Notwithstanding Ranjan’s letter, in which he pointed out that I was far more Jewish than I realised and advised me strongly against marrying a woman from an alien culture, I continued to go steady with her. Shortly after Ranjan’s return, we celebrated our wedding.
Ranjan remained in Singapore for some six months following his second period of advanced studies. Shortly after his return, Lydia migrated to England. Three months later, Ranjan returned to Ceylon, by then known as Sri Lanka. His idea was to practise at the Bar and step into politics as soon as Fortuna smiled. He feared that if he were to stay put in Singapore for too long, he might miss his chance.
Despite my firm roots in Singapore, I too planned to leave. The local staff’s ever increasing animosity towards expatriates made my existence awkward. A further factor dictating the move concerned my wife. She had remained closer to her family than to me. I hoped that our ruffled edges would be smoothed out by a change of scenery. The offer of a newly created Chair of Law in Wellington provided a suitable opening.