Chankya's Chant (17 page)

M
iss Feversham slowly looked her up and down. ‘I’m going to be brutally honest. Your shoulders are rounded, your knees are tight and your tummy’s sticking out.’ It was another excruciating hour of intensive instruction. Chandini instinctively pulled in her tummy and tried lifting her shoulders. The result was even more awkward. Miss Feversham sighed. This was going to be very difficult indeed. Chandini was in Miss Feversham’s finishing school in London—and was utterly finished. ‘You have one shoulder higher than the other and your feet roll outwards. Your slouch is unladylike.’

Chandini was made to stand up and sit down several times, and her movements were observed in excruciating detail. ‘You’re taking up a lot of space. And look at all those angles when you stand up. You also fidget too much with your hands. You look a bit like a mouse. A mouse is a humble thing. When you walk you must lead with the solar plexus, situated somewhere around the bottom of your bra. Hold your head up and keep your neck elongated!’ said Miss Feversham, running a stick between Chandini’s arms and back to keep her shoulders down, and straight.

Over the past month, Miss Feversham had focused on the girl’s English. Chandini’s English skills, acquired in a slum school of Kanpur, were fine for impressing her own parents but were of no help in communicating in England. Miss Feversham’s lessons concentrated on helping Chandini communicate effectively and confidently in everyday, idiomatic English. The wide-ranging syllabus was geared to improving her listening, reading, writing and speaking abilities.

But knowing the language was insufficient. Chandini needed to be taught how to use a fork and knife—
if there are several pieces of cutlery, use forks, knives or spoons on the outside first;
how to order food in a pub—
could you tell me what the soup of the day is, please;
how to attend a party—
take a bottle of wine or some flowers or chocolates to present to the host;
how to pay a restaurant bill—
if the bill says service not included, it’s usual to add about ten per cent by way of a tip;
how to drink tea—
if the teapot contains loose tea, place the tea strainer onto the cup before pouring;
and how to eat scones the proper way—
use a knife to cut the scone into two halves, put jam on each side, there’s no need to add butter first, then spread clotted cream on top carefully. Eat the top and bottom halves separately and please do not try to make them into a sandwich.

‘When you speak, keep your hand movements slow and graceful. And when you are about to sit, stand at right angles to the front of the chair, twist your upper half, lower yourself down and tuck one leg behind the other. It must be done slowly and with no accompanying sound,’ explained Miss Feversham to the girl.

‘When it comes to physical contact, the English are still deeply reserved. The preferred English handshake has no hint of lingering. “How do you do?” signals the end of the greeting and there should not be any deviation from this. Women who know each other well may kiss each other on one or both cheeks. When women do, the “miss kiss” is to be used, the kisser making a kissing gesture with the appropriate sound in the air in the general region of the recipient’s ears. Men may kiss women in greeting, but only on one cheek, not both,’ explained Miss Feversham to the bewildered girl.

The English were crazy.

Oxfordshire was one of England’s most picturesque cities. Chandini was awed by the architectural grandeur and historical import of the university, established eight hundred years ago. The glorious buildings of the Bodleian Library, the Radcliffe Camera, the Sheldonian Theatre and the Ashmolean Museum blended together seamlessly to create a heady mix of history, culture, liberated thought and intellectual freedom. Like all newbies, Chandini walked up to the top of Carfax Tower and then panted her way up the steps of the University Church located on High Street, both of which provided uninterrupted vistas of the breathtaking city.

Among all the colleges that dotted the Oxford University campus, Christ Church College was the largest and most magnificent. In fact, the grand college church doubled as the Oxford Cathedral. Towards the eastern side of Oxford ran the most beautiful street in Europe— the alluring High Street, located close to two of Oxford’s most idyllic parks—Headington Hill and South Park. It wasn’t merely the buildings of Oxford that were impressive. God seemed to have bestowed all of nature’s abundance and splendour on a single city. Acres of undulating meadows, grazing farm animals and sparkling streams of the Thames created a virtual Eden.

Miss Feversham’s finishing school had increased Chandini’s confidence, but the awkwardness of a shy and introverted girl from a Kanpur slum suddenly transplanted into the rarefied atmosphere of Oxford would remain for some more time. Her trip from Paddington to St Hilda’s—the all-women’s college at Oxford—had been terrifying on account of her overwhelming fear that everyone that she encountered in Oxford would be intellectually, financially and socially superior. The friendly family atmosphere of St Hilda’s Junior Common Room, however, put her at ease from the very first moment. She had been allotted a room in Garden Building, Wolfson, a part of St Hilda’s grounds. As she lugged her suitcase up to her room, a tall lanky blonde stepped up to help her with her luggage. ‘Hello. My name’s Josephine Richardson—I’m an art major. I think you’re the Indian girl who has been allotted the room next to mine.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ said Chandini, plucking up her courage from Miss Feversham’s feverish drills, ‘and thanks for helping me with my luggage.’

‘No problem. Shall we head over to the Buttery when you’re done settling in?’ asked Josephine.

‘The Butt—the what?’ asked Chandini.

‘The Buttery is St Hilda’s tuck shop that sells toasties, chips, hot chocolate, and tea. You’ll find most of us girls there. I’ll wait for you. Ah! Here we are. The standard issue room comes with a single bed and blanket, a desk, two chairs, a sink, a wardrobe, and a chest-of-drawers— you’ll need your own bed linen, though. If you want I can show you a nice place to buy some.’ Chandini’s fears and depression began to wear off rather quickly in the presence of juiced-up Josephine.

The world’s most renowned debating society had been established in 1823. It was called the Oxford Union and stayed the focal point of contentious debates unparalleled in their content and influence. The famous 1933 motion, ‘This House will under no circumstances fight for King and Country’ had been passed by 275 votes to 153 in the Oxford Union and had ignited national indignation in the media. Winston Churchill had condemned the ‘ever shameful motion’ as an ‘abject, squalid, shameless avowal’. Many believed that the vote had played a significant role in reinforcing Hitler’s decision to invade Europe. Members of the Oxford Union couldn’t care less what Churchill and the media thought. Divergence and forthrightness remained central to the Union’s founding philosophy.

Josephine and Chandini were attending an event organised by the Union to welcome its latest batch of members. As they were introduced to the president, Chandini complimented him on the work done by the Union in maintaining a free society through open debate. The president smiled at her as he shook her hand and said, ‘A free society is one where it’s safe to be unpopular, but then, freedom of speech also carries with it the freedom not to listen!’

At that moment, Chandini decided that this was going to be her forte, as she along with the rest of the novices began the journey into the fascinating world of political argument.

The chairman for the debate opened the Thursday-night event with a few words on the debate and voting procedures. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. It’s a pleasure for me to chair this debate, because there’s no issue which has been as long running or as divisive across the world.

The motion for today is,
this House believes that women must be legally guaranteed equal pay.
’ He then called on the first speaker, Geoffrey Hemingford, to begin the debate.

It was the duty of the first speaker for the proposition to introduce the other speakers. ‘Mr Chairman, as the first speaker it is my honour to introduce your guests this evening. The first speaker for the opposition, Chandini Gupta is—possibly—Oxford’s next prime ministerial candidate for India. In the past few years she has established an unblemished track record for winning arguments irrespective of whether she actually believes them—an important trait for any politician—and I daresay that her personal views might possibly be at variance with the official line that she takes tonight. I’m delighted to be sparring with her. Supporting me is the second speaker for the proposition, Elizabeth Lytton. Elizabeth’s own job at Lytton, Tryon & Yarborough is already guaranteed and deservedly so, I might add. One of the brightest young minds of Oxford, Elizabeth will argue for the motion. The second speaker for the opposition, Victor Walsingham, shall follow. Victor has spent the last twelve months of his self-imposed sabbatical travelling America and shall bring us refreshing insights from his observations of our cousins across the pond. Mr Chairman, these are your guests and they are most welcome.’ Polite applause from the audience of around five hundred followed.

‘Mr Chairman,’ began Geoffrey, ‘the Representation of the People Act, 1918, granted women the right to vote in Great Britain. But funnily enough, only women who were over the age of thirty and owned houses were deemed intelligent enough to place a mark on ballot slips. Ten years later the law was amended and all women over twenty-one were given the right to vote. Should we have stood back and waited for natural forces to right the wrong?’

Geoffrey noticed several women in the audience nodding their heads in agreement and pushed on. ‘For most women the blessings in the years that followed the end of the war were mixed indeed. Women who had held jobs of metalworkers and ironworkers in aircraft and munitions factories suddenly found that their
man’s job
and
man’s pay
had vanished. Rosie the Riveter reluctantly went back to waiting on tables as Rosie the Waitress. At lower than pre-war levels of pay! Equal pay, in effect, implied seventy-five per cent of the male rate. This fundamental discrimination has carried through into our generation. Should we allow this gross injustice to prevail?’ he demanded.

‘Mr Chairman, it is argued that if parliamentary intervention were needed, the majority of our honourable Members of Parliament would indeed have voted in favour of such a motion by now. The argument offered is that the majority has not. I would like to remind this audience that sometimes a majority only means that all the fools are on the same side. This is the present case,’ said Geoffrey. He smiled acknowledging the loud applause from the women present and sat down.

Chandini arose and surveyed her audience. Men made up more than half, so she knew she had to get them on her side. She began by introducing the first speaker for the proposition, Geoffrey Hemingford, who had just spoken. Geoffrey was extremely popular, having been instrumental in Oxford’s victory over Cambridge in the boat race the previous year. On race day, a quarter of a million spectators had crowded the banks of the Thames from Putney to Mortlake to witness Geoffrey’s team win the race. Chandini knew that she needed to get votes— there was no point in winning an argument and losing the case.

‘Mr Chairman, as the first speaker for the opposition it is my pleasant duty to introduce the first speaker for the proposition, Mr Geoffrey Hemingford, not that he needs any introduction. You all know the old tale about our friends from North Fens Polytechnic,’ she said, using the derogative term used by Oxonians for Cambridge, ‘and their decision to field a rowing team. Even though they’d practise for hours each day, they never managed to beat Oxford. Finally, the team decided to send a spy. Their spy hid in the bushes and carefully watched the Oxford team—led by Geoffrey—at their daily practice. After two weeks the spy returned and announced that he’d discovered their rivals’ secret. “What? Tell us!” his teammates said. “We should have just one guy yelling. The other eight should be rowing!” said the spy.’ There was loud applause and appreciation for Chandini’s compliment to the Oxonian rowing hero. She moved on, having won the affection of most of the men in the audience.