The company of friends

“Dr. NM, can I join you?” the question was, as always, courteous and a bit superfluous, considering that he joined me for lunch almost every day. But we lived in a country where people prefaced telephone conversations with ‘Sorry to bother you...”. And one home to the strange phenomenon of people saying “Sorry”, if you ever happened to elbow into them. Or step on their toe. As in “Sorry (for placing my toe in the way of your foot so that you couldn’t help but step on it)”.

M sat down and we resumed the conversational niceties of our host culture. “How are you, Dr. NM?” he queried. Each syllable was deliberately and separately enunciated, as with many born to tongues that follow rules different to English yet keen to make themselves understood.

“Not too bad, and you?” I nodded, venturing a stock British reply that meant little, but kept the courtesy going.

“Very well, thank you. It’s good to know that you are well.” I was aware that M, unlike me, was a devout Buddhist and meant most of what he was saying. Half-Burmese, a quarter Chinese and a quarter Karen, he was also a migrant from one of the most desperate places on the planet. From previous conversations, I was aware that his wife, a lawyer, used to be a political prisoner. Despite my evident curiosity, he has been reluctant to talk about her, not going beyond “She has suffered much... too much”. They met in exile, got married and lived in Romford, where my parents used to live a long time ago. They worked hard, he as a junior doctor, she as a solicitor’s assistant, while they both worked their way through their respective qualifying exams. Their families still lived in Rangoon and had little money. His mother needed her hips replaced, but had no chance of actually getting this done. He had a brother who had been executed by the junta. Another was in prison. M had not seen his family for six years. He had a baby face and rather sad, gentle eyes. He always wore a slightly frayed green jumper. These were all details that made him rather easy to like.

Our boss was away for the fortnight, leaving me in charge of the service. M thought that this must be difficult for me and said so at every opportunity, in a manner that managed to convey sympathy and deference in equal measure. I found this a bit touching, considering that his country had just been hit by the worst natural disaster in its history.

I asked him about the cyclone. He had been in touch with his family. They were safe, at least for the time being. Food was a problem. As was water and electricity. They feared for the son in prison. But they were alive, and this was no small relief. His wife felt that they should attempt a brief return to Burma, to help. He was not sure that this would be wise.

We ate. The cafeteria was doing Indian food. M loved Indian food and told me so. He was obviously enjoying the heavily spiced, greasy pilau rice, which had been given a pink makeover. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the cooking was actually crap.

It wasn’t long before he brought up the cyclone again. “It is very sad,” he said in a low voice. “My friend in the Irrawaddy Delta… he says that in one town, fifty thousand have died…. fifty thousand” He shook his head meditatively, as if marvelling at the figure.

I considered something sympathetic to say, but we were interrupted by a familiar voice. “Hello sir, is it okay if we join you?” Sandeep was about the only person in Britain who called me ‘sir’. A Maharashtrian from Pune, he had been unable to shake off the deference drilled into him by 6 years at the Armed Forces Medical College. Well spoken and possessed with a self-deprecatory sense of humour, he was a bit different from the run-of-the-mill Indian junior doctor. The ‘we’ referred to his companions, a geeky Rajput from Delhi who went by the assimilation friendly nickname of A.J, and a bespectacled stranger, again obviously South Asian, in a bright and very Indian checked shirt.

They settled themselves around us, acknowledging M as they did so. The stranger was introduced as a new doctor on rotation at the hospital. It was evident that he and M hadn’t met. Sandeep collected our cafeteria trays to lean them on the wall in an attempt to create some room on the table. They began to eat. After a few minutes of silence, A.J turned to M and asked sympathetically, “Everything okay at home? I mean, is everybody in your family safe?”

“Yes, they are. Not fine exactly, but they are alive. But thank you for asking. Thank you very much. ” The words were again carefully chosen, spoken slowly and with great courtesy. I caught the stranger casting a quick glance at M, momentarily interested. He said something to his friends in Hindi with a grin, but it was spoken too quickly for me to understand. Both native Hindi speakers, they caught the joke and laughed. Before long, they were conversing cheerfully in Hindi, their speech interspersed with sniggers, backslaps and hoots of laughter.

M looked slightly discomfited. I considered interrupting firmly in English, a language everyone at the table could understand, to steer the conversation into areas that held some resonance with M. However, unlike Sandeep and his friends, we were about to leave and the effort seemed rather pointless.

But their laughter had piqued my curiosity. I listened. The new doctor was speaking loudly, his voice shaking with laughter: “Ajeet Singh ne kaha main bhi usko gaand mara hain, boss, agar rundi ko chowdna hein to usko shaadi karne ka kya zaroorat hain? Ajeet Singh said I’ve slept with her too, boss, if you want to sleep with a whore, why do you need to marry her?” “Arrey, uske baad hi chutiya Abhishek ne chhoda usko! Fataafat! Hey, that bastard Abhishek dumped her after that, pronto!” “Arrey, yeh sab actress log ek jaisi hain, Indian, Gori, Chinky, Burmee…. See, all these actresses are the same whether Indian, White, Chinese or Burmese…” the last almost an afterthought, with a nod at M and a wink at me.

By now, M had finished, as had I. After we had excused ourselves, we walked out of the cafeteria in silence. In the clear Kentish sunshine outside, he appeared unable to resist himself any longer and enquired politely, “They were talking about… maybe something interesting?” And then, smiling, “I recognize Hindi. We like Indian movies in Burma…. Bollywood, it is very popular. Just like curry.”

I was momentarily at a loss. But he had presented me with a tactful exit. “Actually, they were talking about Bollywood.” I said, grateful for the opportunity to avoid being entirely truthful.

M seemed to consider this for a moment. Finally, he said with a smile: “Bollywood? How nice. In my country, we love it so much that we name our cyclones after your actresses. Nargis…. a beautiful name. Very beautiful.”