"It is people like you who suck the blood off the poor people," said my guide, as he tore off a large piece of chicken with his teeth and tossed off the bone that was in a bowl nearby.
We were sitting, the two of us, in a swanky Pakistani restaurant in Brussels having our dinner. The time, though already half past eight, it was still bright and sunny outside. But inside the ambience was created by soft, mellow lamps bringing out in relief the elaborate architecture redolent of the Mughal dynasty. We were being served by a soft spoken, obsequious waiter from Lahore, dressed in a black coat and trousers. He was clean shaven and of middle height and seemed to know my guide well.
"So, as I was saying, people like you are the burden which this nation has to support. People like you are the load for which the poor people have to pay with their blood. You are getting a stipend of Rs. 8000 per month for carrying out your research, and what do you do in return? What have you to show in return? What is the research that you have done? This money that you are getting, just think! of how much use it would be to a farmer working under the hot sun!"
I said nothing. Bile was building up inside me. The food was excellent- these Pakistanis sure know how to cook, but it was turning into ashes in my mouth. To our right a couple, an oldish man and a youngish woman, were sitting and chatting gaily. Once in a while they would reach out and kiss each other affectionately over the table.
"Look at me, for instance," he continued. "I'm being paid and I also do my duty in return. I am not a shirker like you. Don't you think so?"
Since he wanted a Yes, I said Yes and listened further:
"Of course, it is true that my research may not have any immediate application to society, but who knows, maybe some years down the line it might be of use in predicting earthquakes."
Only my bile stifled the laugh that came springing to my lips.
"Actually people in India tend to be very selfish. They seldom think of the society or the country. It is very sad that we cannot justify the expectations of our poor people. The poor people work so hard, thinking that this is the role they have in the order of things, and that people holding higher posts are working so that they (poor people) will see a better tomorrow and a justification of their toils, but in return, what do people like you do? You just eat good food and have a good time," he said, taking another helping of the chicken.
Opposite me, behind my guide's back, a group of Punjabi women, presumably from Pakistan, were sitting and chatting in Punjabi. They looked just like the affluent Punjabi women one comes across so often in Delhi; so much so that we might almost have been in a restaurant in Delhi. Of course, we just needed to step out and see that that was not the case, and for obvious reasons I was anxious to finish the meal and step out.
"Look at the Chinese, for instance. Look at the progress they've made. The people there work so hard. The poor people of their country feel so happy when they see some new technology unveiled before them. They feel that they are not toiling in vain."
Bunk! I silently muttered to myself.
"No...tell me B., what is your problem? Why don't you work? Are you interested in research?"
"I am," I answered laconically.
"No..tell me. What do you want to do with your life?"
The way he asked me his question had me really cornered. He had suddenly introduced a solicitous tone to boot, as if he genuinely cared and would be really understanding towards me. Oh well, if I was being forced to answer, I might as well be honest, I thought.
"Well sir, I think I am more interested in the arts. I think I would rather be an artist."
I had meant the word 'artist' in the strictly general sense, with no reference to any of the specific arts. But he immediately construed it as painting.
"Oh! so you want to be an artist!" he sneered, with the air of one who has finally found a victim. "So tell me, what do you know of art? Have you seen any of Van Gogh's paintings?"
"No sir," I replied, with a sense of doom.
"What! You haven't seen Van Gogh's paintings and you want to be an artist? What kind of artist will you become man?" he scoffed merrily.
I hastened to point out that I used the term 'artist' in a general sense, with no relation to painting per se. I felt rather angry that by donning the mask of sympathy he had been able to glean something out of me which I had no wish to share, and which he had further ridiculed, to make matters worse. I felt like I had been fooled.
Anyway, I tried to explain further. But well, I guess it was too idealistic an idea; the sort which so easily leads you into a muddle when you are trying to explain it across the table, that finally I wasn't able to explain. You see it all so clearly in your head, but try to put it in words, and it's the surest way to doom. I started contradicting myself, repeating myself, but got nowhere. In the end it somehow amounted to my saying that I wanted to be a writer.
"Oh! so you want to be a writer!" he viciously pounced on this one as well. "Do you know how much these writers that you read today have suffered! Do you know how much George Orwell has gone through? He was down to the dregs in poverty when he was in Paris and London. He had led such a hard life. Do you know what it takes to be a writer?"
I remained silent.
"Have you read any Manto?"
"Manto?" I enquired. The name was new to me. "No sir, never heard of him."
"What! You haven't read any Manto? What kind of writer will you become man! Go read Manto and then tell me! Fellow wants to be a writer and hasn't read Manto!" he smirked with self satisfaction.
Seeing that he was the undisputed winner in the proceedings, he relented a little. He asked in a placatory tone:
"Ok, so have you written something?"
I said yes, I keep writing on and off. I said that I'd published a story in the institute magazine, perhaps he'd seen it...perhaps I could show it to him if he had not...blah blah blah.
"Yes, I've read that story, and I think it was pretty mediocre. It was quite poor stuff. I was surprised to see such childish stuff coming from you."
He reflected, and then said:
"And you want to become a writer! Get out of it. Don't waste your time on such frivolous dreams. You have something concrete in your hands. Why don't you make use of it? Today's generation is so disoriented, so aimless, so directionless...sucking blood off the poor people...."
