The Indian Sec. stopped the author in his tracks yesterday with an unexpected challenge.
Nothing could have come as more of a surprise. Back home probing of this kind had never occurred, rarely even in intimate friendship.
Being Singapore, guards stood the entrance to the three floors of Reference at the National Library on Victoria Street. In fact they manned every entry & exit point on all sixteen floors. (Interesting locales within remained for exploration: The Pod; something called The Possibility Room and The Imagination Room.)
Security guards were cheaper than tagging each and every volume, presumably. At the same time you could never overdo policing in a well-ordered, smoothly functioning polis.
A warm, sociable sort the Sec. With a little encouragement the dour look soon lightened. Near contemporary—nothing daunting in those moustaches & jowls.
Some background is needed.
As a general rule, the Indians here have been in the country a shorter time than the Hokkien & Cantonese Chinese, or the Malays of course. The history is of transported coolies, "indentured labour”, for the British plantations and infrastructure. According to official statistics, the Indians represented less than ten per cent of the population. For disadvantage and social problems, the numbers ran in the other direction.
As has been the case in a number of instances, the panama provided the opportunity for exchange. (Much benefit beyond the needed against tropical sun and rain.)
It follows you… First-up after a couple of previous encounters.
There was no difficulty developing the play.
Without the cover man passed the test: confident, positive identification, for which congratulation was needed.
Left at table while going for a pee, the man’s task was to secure the exits; &etc.
(Despite the caning in Sing. there were thieves, the newspaper regularly featuring Maid grabs for the household jewellery, bag snatching, shoplifting.)
The relationship at the Arts & Social Sciences desk developed smoothly.
A week ago the Guard had mentioned his favourite author. It had been a new development.
What might a moderately well-read English litterateur guess?...
Hmm… Fave author. Everybody had at least one.
A hint for the present case at this SG Nat. Library Ref. Desk: the author concerned was not exactly contemporary.
Let's say fetches back couple hundred years. (A little tease.)
Three guesses... Even five might be allowed.
Another clue too: not a household name in this instance. Not for the last century and half. Neither Wordsworth, nor Scott; not Tennyson or Austen.
Male. And from the generation before the last.
(One more clue too and the last. Possibly unhelpful; depending. Earlier the man, the Indian Security Guard, had mentioned an author to whom he had returned over the years.
Deepak Chopra.
At the time it had been unfortunate replying that Chopra was an Indian. A case of thinking out loud that had brought embarrassment before.
Answer to the question shortly in the paragraph below.
What in fact stopped this author in his tracks one afternoon during a longer chat at the Sec. desk was the following sharp challenge. Direct and forthright, as if a question between close bookish friends.
The challenge came after an explanation was requested upon the evident surprise at the favourite stated author.
What! No one in Australia knows?… Truly?...
Problematic describing colouring here. A flushed tone certainly passed across the brow of the Indian.
No exaggeration: a sturdy, manly presence the Guard. Direct and forthright. Moustaches, &etc.
Immediately upon this and without further ado, the man’s stabbing question like a knife in a dark alley.
What is literature to you?...
Perhaps the phrasing had been: What is the importance of literature to you?
We hardly knew each other.
Squaring shoulders beneath the uniform, chin raised. Straight as a die without exaggeration.
Average sized guy suddenly giving soldiery pose. (Nat. Service was compulsory in Sing for those without pull.)
Shoulders. Piercing eyes. Truly. No exaggeration.
Lit’s meaning?... A question without notice from an unlikely source. Bang.
More than a few Indians encountered here have been Christians. Somehow this coloured the present encounter; back-lit the scene, kinda. The earnestness involved. Illogically of course, for anyone who knew the Hindus.
The flummoxed answer returned reflected this.
…Well. Ahm…You know...Ahh. Without religion one finds other resources. Look elsewhere…Difficult question my friend to answer standing here like this…
Something of the sort blushingly returned to the son of a long line of Sepoys.
Was that too long a bow? The man had pressed pause again. Impasse of some duration.
Circumstances prevented anything further. There may have been a queue formed.
The name-card was dealt into the game. The first that had ever been owned; one that had been prepared for extended travel. Everyone had a name-card now, certainly in SG.
On the rear the dozen and one half favourite authors had been recorded in a nice font. As chance would have it, the perfect item to meet this kind of man halfway. The Indian’s earnestness had called for nothing less.
...Does the name Oliver — Gold—Smith ring any bells?
Eighteenth century was guessed right. But a poet as well as novelist in fact. Man had appeared in Johnson’s Lives of the Poets.
The particular favourite work which the Sec. had named was set for the fellow's O Levels something like 35-40 years before.
Returned to those startling pages over the years this man; not merely a fond memory. Almost certainly.
The power of literature.
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