Balraj Khanna - Indian Magic

The lights of London went to my head. Its sights and sounds bowled me over.

I am in London! I said to myself.

Am I really there? I asked myself.

I bit my hand for the answer and walked and walked in the magic avenues of my brave new world. With my suitcase in Left Luggage at Victoria station and a bag slung across my shoulder, I could walk till my legs gave out. And sleep just anywhere. That was exactly what I did when my legs gave out - on a bench at Platform One in Victoria station.

I slept like a log. Next morning, I sat up with hungry eyes. My God, how clean and noiseless it all was, so unlike Delhi, the only superstation I knew back home. Here, hundreds of people rushed around urgently, criss-crossing each other like ants. Trains glided in gracefully, disgorging multitudes in a great hurry, then slipped out silently once more, whisking away great crowds. Unlike Delhi, no hysterics accompanied either event. No hawkers bawled their lungs out at deaf travellers. Nor did any notices warn the equivalent of: Bombay Express Delayed 18 hours, or Calcutta Mail Late 24 Hrs. I had the joy of seeing the face of the most utopian form of capitalism an unattended newspaper stall doing roaring business for its absent owner. I watched a uniformed African snake-charmer charm an anaconda of fifty little trolleys into loops and bends of astonishing grace and suppleness. I saw a beautiful young woman alight from a Brighton Belle and walk straight into the arms of a beautiful young man, and the two lock together in an embarrassingly passionate embrace - in public.

For just a penny with the head of King George V, I conducted my morning dos in the stations big loo in its basement. There was quite a community of us in the Gents - men shaving and washing in a cocktail of lavatorial smells stirred with that of human sweat. I spruced myself up in the mirror to look my best to present myself to London, and only twenty-four hours to kill before I got my Work Permit.

We are looking good, I heard someone say from behind me and saw in the mirror the smiling face of a kind-looking gentleman in a felt hat. I didnt know what to say. I returned the smile and looked back. A queue had formed behind me for the sink I had monopolised. I felt nervous and confused mine was the only brown mug in the crowd. I stepped back and came face to face with the man in the hat.

Just arrived from India?

Yes. How did he know? I asked.

You people have something, what shall I say now? A certain innocence. Its fresh and appealing.

This seemed a good start to my first day on English soil. I thanked him on behalf of all my countrymen and made my way to the stairs leading to the Way Out sign. Last night I had done some market research and discovered that cafs outside the station were cheaper by far than those inside. I went to one where I could eat a small meal for half a crown and a reasonable one for a shilling more. I had left home with five pounds only, all we were allowed to take out of India in hard currency late in the autumn that year. The country had been fighting a losing war with China. It needed every dollar or pound it could lay its hands on to buy guns from the West.

More than two of my precious pounds had already been blown on the Italian boat from Bombay to Genoa. Five shillings, a quarter of another, was consumed by the Genoa-Calais train-ride for the purchase of two, foot-long French sandwiches. Added to that was the cost of last nights dinner. I had to be more than careful how I spent what I was left with and make it last till I found a job. On my way to the cafe , I bought The Times,Guardian and the Telegraph.

Wrong papers if you are looking for work. The man in the felt hat was standing behind me at the cafs counter. Get the