It is time to turn back to my years in Wellington. The geographic remoteness did not distance Ranjan and me from one another. We corresponded periodically but, of course, had less occasion for exchanges of views and of impressions than during our days in Oxford and in Singapore. Each was preoccupied with his own career. I tried hard to settle in the windy capital of New Zealand. My problems were related mainly to my family life and to the occasional hiccups of academia. Ranjan sought to rise in his home country. His new milieu and environment were alien to me.
Our next meeting took place when Pat and I broke our journey in Colombo on our way to London. By then three years had passed since my move to Wellington. I felt the need to cement my contacts in the English banking world and to revisit Oxford. The stopover in Sri Lanka was built in principally to ensure that Ranjan and I did not fall apart. Pat, who had taken a strong dislike to Ranjan right from the start, succumbed ungracefully. The price I had to pay was a stopover in her hometown: Medan (in Sumatra). This involved the spending of time with my in-laws, for whom I had little affection. I breathed with relief when the plane left for Singapore’s Paya Lebar Airport, then still known as ‘the new airport’. From there, we flew onwards to Sri Lanka.
Ranjan did not meet us in Colombo’s modest airport. He was in court but asked one of his pupils to escort us to the hotel he had booked for us. Next morning the same junior gave us a guided tour of ever changing Colombo and then drove us to the seat of justice to watch the proceedings in the crowded, poorly ventilated, courtroom.
When we arrived, Ranjan was attending to the settlement of his case. The leader in the proceedings – a portly and ageing local Queen’s Counsel – nodded his approval when the deal was presented to him and went back to his chambers to prepare his fee note. We proceeded to a sumptuous lunch in one of the restaurants adjacent to our hotel.
“Why haven’t you taken silk, Ranjan? Being a Q.C. manifests success, doesn’t it?” I asked as soon as Pat returned to our hotel for a rest.
“I make good money as a Junior, appearing on my own,” grinned Ranjan. “If I were to take silk, I would get less work because I would have to take juniors when I got a case. Clients may shrink when being made aware of the extra cost. There’s no point in losing money for the sake of a title!”
“But are you making enough?” I wanted to know.
“I do, and I see no need to take silk. I’ll get into politics before long.”
Ranjan’s reply dd not surprise me. I knew he wanted to get into local politics in a big way. His aim was not the back bench or even a junior post in cabinet. Right from the start he had set his target high. His eye was – I felt certain – on the top job.
“But then why not take silk, get elevated to the Bench and proceed from there? Isn’t it a safe route?”
“If one planned a move into a minor seat on cabinet, it might be a good route. But that’s not what I want. A minor position does not confer real influence on the future of the country.”
“I understand,” I told him.
Ranjan had declared himself. A successful career as a junior barrister provided the best route; and it enabled him to retain his freedom of action. Once he took silk – accepted an elevation to the rank of Queen’s Counsel – his freedom of action would be subject to local conventions. He had no wish to chain his muse.
“But, then, why do you need so much money? I’m sure you don’t squander it or even spend much of it.”
“Of course not; I keep it. I’ll need it to reform our failing systems when I am right at the top!”
“But suppose your currency is devalued, the joke would be on you!”
“If I kept the money here,” he agreed. “But don’t you remember? Years ago you introduced me to those nice Swiss bankers. The money is with them – invested in diverse currencies.”
“How do you get the dough out of the country?” I asked naively.
“There are ways and means: you ought to know. And, actually, I may ask our good Bank to send me an evaluation of the portfolio care of your address. I’ll get it when I come over and visit you. Having it sent to Sri Lanka isn’t safe!”
I looked at him with respect. He was laying the foundation for the big leap forward. Sooner or later an opening would present itself. Like myself, he had faith in Fortuna. Until she smiled, he would bide his time. One question, though, remained unanswered. Ranjan was no longer a youngster just out of Oxford. Middle age was just around the corner. Why, then, did he remain on his own? When would he get married and start a family? Quite apart from general trends – especially in Asian societies – he had sound policy reasons for getting settled. An ageing bachelor was looked upon with suspicion in political circles.
“You wonder why I’m still single,” observed Ranjan.
“Well yes; I do – rather. And you, Ranjan, have always been a ladies’ man!”
“You mean ‘a womaniser,’” he grinned. “Why not call a spade a spade.”
“Well?”
“I am in a quandary. Each of the influential clans in Sri Lanka wants me to marry one of their eligible girls. How am I to know which clan will win?”
“But you can’t just stay on your own; you love female company!”
“There are plenty of willing Burgher girls around; emancipated girls.”
Ranjan was having the best of the existing Sri Lankan worlds. The Sinhalese influential clans would continue to send out signals. Fooling with one of their girls would, however, be unwise. Before long he would have to tie the knot and, in the process, get committed to the interests of her family. Tamil girls were best left alone. I recalled that in his Singapore days, Ranjan had been seen with a singularly attractive Tamil air hostess. In Sri Lanka, Tamil girls were out of bounds. The race had its own political agenda and was hated by the Sinhalese majority. Getting attached to one of their women would be tantamount to political suicide. In contrast, the Burgher community – the descendants of mixed marriages of Dutchmen and local girls – did not constitute a factor in politics. Dating their girls had no political significance.
“But how is all this going to affect your respectability,” I persisted. “And how about children – don’t you want to have any?”
“Of course I do; but I am still biding my time. I have a few years to play with.”
“Does your family agree?”
“Grudgingly,” he grinned. “But I have learned to dodge their manoeuvres.”
Ranjan’ eyes reflected his amusement. For a while both of us kept our silence. Ranjan’s thoughts, I sensed, had moved in a different direction. When he formed his words, he said with the directness, acceptable in a friendship: “So that’s my story. What about you, Peter?”
“Professionally, I’ve no complaints. I’m getting there.”
“I understand. The articles you keep sending me are excellent; and published in the right periodicals. But how about your private life?”
His question did not take me by surprise. During lunch, his perceptive eyes had kept shifting from Pat to me and back. I knew he had noticed the lack of warmth between us. Had he worked out that, notwithstanding appearances, both of us were unhappy?
Knowing that he was far more down to earth than I, it seemed best to confide in him. After a while he asked, in plain language, whether I had considered a separation. Would it not be the best solution?
“It might be; but there is the risk of jumping from the frying pan into the fire!”
“But the frying pan, Peter, produces enough heat to suffocate you in due course.”
We said no more about this subject. The discussion had its effect. It convinced me that Ranjan had remained a reliable and caring friend.
We spent the rest of the afternoon talking about Ranjan’s current cases, about my forthcoming book and about world affairs. Ranjan looked at me with surprise when I expressed my misgivings about the future of my home country. I was not certain whether he was taken aback by my reasoning or by my candour. Ranjan, I knew, was used to keeping radical ideas to himself.
At dusk, Pat rejoined us. We had a splendid dinner in a Chinese restaurant but returned to our hotel early. Ranjan had to fine tune his argument for an appearance in court and we had to get ready for our early morning flight.
During my next few years in Wellington, Ranjan and I continued our sporadic correspondence. He remained a junior barrister, commanding high fees. I continued to publish articles and chapters in books on commercial law. What kept our friendship going were our frank exchanges about people and world affairs. I cried on his shoulder when things turned sour at work. He referred, with irony but a touch of bitterness, to the ruling party’s attempts to keep him “in place”.
His bickering came to an end when he was invited by the then President of Sri Lanka, to stand as the party’s candidate in a by-election occasioned by the death of the incumbent. Although the seat had been held by the opposition, Ranjan managed to swing the voters.
“I have opened sesame,” he wrote with gusto.
“Beware of the robbers,” I wrote back. “You never know when they lurk around the corner.”
The next communication was an invitation to Ranjan’s wedding. The bride’s name puzzled me. It was not a Sinhalese surname. For a moment, I wondered whether it could be a Burgher name. A colleague in our Asian Studies department gave me the answer.
“It’s a Parsee name, Peter.”
“I didn’t know Sri Lanka had a Parsee community?”
“It’s a small clan; but wealthy!”
“Where do they stand politically?” I enquired.
“They keep out of politics!”
So Ranjan had married money and, at the same time, avoided a political liaison. With a Parsee wife by his side, he could support either group. The opposition as well as the ruling party would continue to court him. True, he was a Tory MP. But, at this stage, he could still switch sides without being condemned as a turncoat.
Airfares were still expensive in those days. Pat and I did not attend his wedding; but we sent a valuable gift. In reality, both of us were pleased to give the ceremony a miss. Pat had no wish to see Ranjan again; and I feared awkward moments. My tactless tongue, in particular, was a cause for concern.
Ranjan and I continued to exchange letters two or three times a year. To my growing concern there was no news about a family. Had they decided to wait for a while? Ranjan was now middle-aged and his wife was not a lass just out of school. But my discreet questions on the subject of children remained unanswered.
Ranjan shed light on the subject when he came over to Wellington, some four years after our stopover in Colombo. He had remained a good-looking, vibrant man but his temples were now interlaced with grey hair. He looked tired after his long night flight and shivered when engulfed by the cold breeze in the lofty airport. Still, he settled after a cup of hot coffee and a hearty breakfast in our home. Having gone meticulously through the papers sent to him at my address by our Swiss bank, he relaxed.
For a while we talked shop. It pleased me to hear that the corridors of power had opened up. Having turned down a minor sinecure, he had been promised a major place in the cabinet if his party won the next election. Biding his time, he continued to make good money at the Bar. After securing his Ministry, he intended to take silk. It would then be in the nature of an honorary elevation because – in Sri Lanka as in England – a Minister was barred from practice.
“On the professional side, you’ve brought your ship home,” I told him when Pat went out to attend to an errand.
“Well,” he replied with becoming modesty, “I am on the way up, as they say.”
“And how about your ….” I started.
“My family life?” he grinned.
“Well, you haven’t said anything about children.”
“You did ask – not too indirectly – in your last two letters!”
So he had evaded the issue. For just a moment I tried to find a way to change the subject. Ranjan had the right to keep any friend – remote or close – out of his private affairs. Ranjan’s expression, though, told me he wanted to unburden himself. With some hesitation, I persevered:
“Well, don’t you want a family?”
“I do; although I’m not so sure about Puss.”
“Is that the problem?” I ventured.
“In a way, perhaps. But – you see – my marriage has not been consummated!” He did not flinch as he spoke. I, in contrast, averted my eyes.
“That,” I said feebly when I recovered, “that has never occurred to me. What on earth is the matter? Aren’t you … getting on?”
“We get on fine,” he replied with a touch of pomp. “Our petting is beautiful; and she responds; but when I want to get on with it, she won’t let me!”
“How long has this been going on for?”
“Well – as you know – we have been married for about two years.”
I looked at him in amazement. Ranjan was an old campaigner. Quite apart from Lillo and Lydia, he had enjoyed the embraces of many Western and Asian women. What had led to his failure with his own wife? True, Asian girls from good backgrounds valued their ‘purity’. But once they tied the knot, they often worked their husbands hard.
“I can’t understand,” I said after a pause. “Is something wrong with one of you?”
“Oh, I haven’t become impotent,” Ranjan smiled tightly. “And she has no pathological problems. It is something psychological on her part.”
“How does she put it?”
“She doesn’t say ‘no’; she says she has a headache or is tired – and would I mind waiting.”
“Have you discussed this with a doctor?”
“The nerve specialists say there’s nothing they can do; they’ve asked me to be patient. An old school mate – now a gynaecologist – gave me a good old common sense piece of advice.”
“Eh?”
“He said: force her!”
Ranjan was unable to adopt this basic approach. He was, of course, aware that some pressure may have to be used in certain situations. But the use of brute force in an intimate relationship was beyond him. In the event, he adopted the course suggested by the nerve specialists. Still, the wear and tear of the awkward relationship left it marks. Some of his self-assurance and exuberance – his patent lust for life – had peeled off.
“Don’t tell me you lead the life of a celibate,” I muttered.
“Of course not; there are plenty of willing women around – girls who lost their virginity a long time ago. So I’m not … lonely. But I have to be discreet; and I hate this bloody predicament. I’d rather stick to Puss and have children with her. I’m fed up with these stupid affairs; and I’ve come to hate peccadilloes.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked, suspecting he faced an impasse.
“I’ve no idea, Peter. At the moment, politics take up all my time. So I’m trying not to think about this business.”
We spent ten days driving through the South Island. Notwithstanding her general dislike for New Zealand, even Pat enjoyed the scenery. Ranjan and I shared the challenging drive along the magnificent, under populated, West Coast. I was relieved when he offered to take the driver’s seat when the car climbed through the Haast Pass into Central Otago, where we admired Queenstown, the lakes and the untamed mountains. I found the drive up the steep road leading to the Mount Cook resort breathtaking yet not dangerous; but I was overcome by airsickness when we took a helicopter to the proud and desolate Tasman glacier. After three days in the resort, we proceeded to Dunedin, from there onto Christchurch, and then back to Wellington.
Throughout the ten exciting days of the trip, Ranjan did not refer to my personal life. But as I drove him to the airport for his flight back to Colombo, he observed with the usual directness we had maintained over the years: “So you have decided to stay put?”
“Well yes, it isn’t easy. But I’ve got used to it.”
“Why don’t you return to Singapore; the Faculty would love to have you back. And Pat will never settle in New Zealand.”
“Her main grumble is the isolation of the place – she says it’s too cut off. She wants us to move to a big city in Australia!”
“Then perhaps it would be best to give it a try.”