Читать книгу Shakespeare on a Train - B. NAIR - Страница 2

The man in a white sarong and a collarless shirt continued to abuse me. His vocabulary in his vernacular, far exceeded the terms found in any dictionary of that language. It was my language as well, but I did not have the faintest idea about many of the words he was hurling at me. I noticed some of the passengers listening to his charade cringing by some of those epithets. The women turned their faces away and some covered their ears with their hands.

I was frustrated and angry. I also felt sorry that I was partly to blame for the discomfort of those fellow passengers. I wanted to hit back at the man who continued to insult me. I could not even make one sentence in the vernacular to match my adversary’s choice of words.

I was on a train from Trivandrum to Cochin in the southern part of India. It was a festival season. The whole population in the southern city seemed to be moving to the north. Every compartment was full. More people were standing than sitting. I had captured a seat on one of the benches which would typically seat three passengers, but I was among the seven people sitting on that bench. All of us were so tightly squeezed that each one of us, except the ones at the two ends, was kept in place by the two sitting on either side. People were standing between the benches and in any available opening. Many of them were hunched over the people who were sitting.

The train moved at a sedate speed. Most passengers, including those standing, were dozing as there was nothing else to do. The rhythm of the movement of the train aided the drowsiness. The people who were standing, kept shifting their feet to gain a better foothold, to the discomfiture of others. When someone placed his heavy shoe on my foot, it hurt me so badly, that a groan escaped from my throat. I could feel the metal studs on the bottom of his shoe piercing my skin. The pain was excruciating. I tried to wrench my foot from the pressure of the unknown foot. This movement further injured my foot and gored my flesh. I was in agony. Without knowing to whom the foot belonged, I lifted it with both my hands. As I moved forward while lifting that unknown foot, I almost lost my seat as the other six closed the gap by the natural pressure. I was now bending forward and almost out of the bench and my head was buried among several legs. In the fraction of a second that I could cast my eye on my injured foot, I saw blood flowing. My view was again blocked by the movement of several legs around me.

As I lifted the unknown foot, its owner lost his balance. He was now hanging among those standing, knocking down another person. The second victim smashed his nose on the iron railing of the overhead luggage holder. Everyone who was standing started blaming each other. The man who hit his nose on the railing shouted at the person who was still hanging off-balance among the crowd. He partly regained his balance with one foot on the ground and looked around to find the perpetrator of his fall.

“Who lifted my leg?” asked the man, still standing on one foot.

“Who pushed me?” demanded the man who hit the railing.

Everyone looked at someone else inquiringly. The last thought on my mind was to volunteer myself to admit my act. I was already suffering from severe pain in my foot and I did not want to add another pain in my mind. My eyes were stinging with tears of pain.

“’The guy who lifted my leg was sitting there between those two guys,” said the man still partly suspended by the crowd but trying to stand straight. I was not visible to him as I was bending forward with my head buried among the legs.

The train stopped at the next station and a few people alighted. This gave space to the rest of the people to straighten up and find their feet. In a few seconds, more people would get into the train from that platform, making the situation in the compartment worse. At that precise moment, the man looked at me. I lowered my eyes.

“his is the guy who lifted my leg”, he shouted. I was so embarrassed that I could not think of a way to defend myself. The man was so angry and charged up that he started abusing me. His argument was twofold. First, what if the crowd had not been there to support him from falling? Second, I must have had some motive in lifting his leg. I could no longer keep quiet. He had identified me. I told him in a feeble voice that I had no choice but to lift his foot as my own foot was crushed under his shoe.

“Aha, he has admitted that he deliberately lifted my foot. He wanted to kill me.” He told the other passengers. The man moved his accusation to a different level. “He is not a decent man. He had other motives.”

I protested. This infuriated the man further. He expanded his wild accusations to the level of vulgarity. I told him that he should be careful in making such accusations and this seemed to be his limit. He started displaying his proficiency in his vernacular with words not found in the dictionaries. Even though such scenes were common in the third-class compartments and were forgotten as soon as the people alighted from the train, I was badly shaken. I imagined that I had become a laughing stock among the passengers. To retrieve lost honor and to reduce my mental anguish I decided to hit back.

I looked at the man who was still ranting. I sat straight. I looked around and searched the faces of everyone in the crowd to see any trace of sympathy towards me. I found none. I searched my memory for an appropriate counter to my tormentor's tirade. I knew that I would score negative marks if I used the same vernacular. The only other language I knew was English. A third-class train compartment in rural India was not the ideal place to make a speech in English. Still, after weighing the pros and cons quickly, I decided that it was the only weapon I could use on the ranting man. It could backfire. But right then, it seemed the only option in front of me.

I had, in the past, occasionally stood in for the prompter in an amateur drama troupe, solely because the troupe was owned by a friend. He was returning some favor by allowing me to prompt the actors in the play ‘Merchant of Venice’ whenever the substantive prompter was absent. The prompting work necessitated to memorize the passages from the play. From among the many passages I remembered, I particularly liked Shylock’s speech for its force and punch. It had silenced his adversaries. I decided to hit back with this dialogue, even though I knew that my adversary would not understand a word. But I had to retaliate and that is what I did. I delivered Shylock’s monologue, word perfect, infusing as much punch as I could add:

“He hath disgraced me and hindered me half a million, laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies—and what’s his reason? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge. The villainy you teach me I will execute—and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.”

The man stopped his tirade after my first line. A deathly hush descended on the crowd. No one spoke a word. No one moved. My tormentor seemed to withdraw himself, but there was no space for him to hide. He remained with his eyes downcast. I knew that the Shakespearean quote had the desired impact. I thanked Shakespeare silently.

The train slowed down and stopped at the next station. A few people got down. My adversary found some space. He moved to the exit door and got out of the train. Whether that station was his destination or he wanted to make a disappearing act is something I still meditate on, occasionally. On those occasions, an impish smile irradiates my face.