Cover

Sojourn

by the same author

fiction

A STRANGE AND SUBLIME ADDRESS

AFTERNOON RAAG

FREEDOM SONG

A NEW WORLD

REAL TIME

THE IMMORTALS

ODYSSEUS ABROAD

FRIEND OF MY YOUTH

non-fiction

CLEARING A SPACE: REFLECTIONS ON INDIA, LITERATURE, AND CULTURE

CALCUTTA: TWO YEARS IN THE CITY

TELLING TALES: SELECTED WRITING 1993–2013

THE ORIGINS OF DISLIKE

FINDING THE RAGA

as editor

THE PICADOR BOOK OF MODERN INDIAN LITERATURE

MEMORY’S GOLD: WRITINGS ON CALCUTTA

LITERARY ACTIVISM: A SYMPOSIUM

poetry

ST CYRIL ROAD AND OTHER POEMS

SWEET SHOP

RAMANUJAN

NEW AND SELECTED POEMS

Title Page

Sojourn

AMIT CHAUDHURI

New York Review Books New York

SOJOURN

It was evening, and I didn’t know the name of the road I was taken to. It was as if I’d woken from a sleep: maybe because I’d arrived two days ago. I wasn’t tired; I was wide awake. But I’d have been lost without my contact. He told me which U-Bahn to take. I got off at Uhlandstrasse and climbed up the stairs. He’d been waiting for me.

•

At my talk, there was a furtive man. I haven’t decided if I mean ‘furtive’ or ‘entertaining’. There’s a kind of person who does dramatic things quietly, who pretends they’re invisible while blocking the view. It’s as if they believe that not being aware of themselves is a guarantee that others can’t see them. He was such a person. He stood out because he was Indian, but more because – as if he’d brought something to a wedding he’d now decided to pass off as a gift – he placed a mike on the table. It was as if only he could see the mike; it wasn’t the one that had been set up for me to speak into. I let it lie. He went and stood at the back. He had the deprecating manner of a man who knows everything is about himself.

•

At the end of the talk, four or five people came to speak with me, and he elbowed his way through with the air of someone who realises his train has arrived, apologetic, cheerful, pleased with himself.

‘Hello!’ he said. I heard a Bengali accent. He continued in Bengali. ‘Ami aar ki . . . That is, I recorded your talk but I want to ask you some questions. Can I see you tomorrow?’ I studied him, dazzled. ‘I am from Deutsche Welle!’ I didn’t know what Deutsche Welle was, but my contact gave it a gravitas-conferring nod. I relented. ‘When and where?’ I didn’t want to sound desperate, but I had few responsibilities. ‘I will call you,’ he said, without explaining how he had come by my number. He bent forward to give me his card. ‘Faqrul – my name,’ he said. On the card was ‘Faqrul Haq’. ‘Deutsche Welle’ was in italics.