Contact!

The exchange

Wandering around the purlieus of the High Court in Madras, I took out my tape recorder to remind myself of some of its architectural peculiarities. At once I heard an admonitory clapping of hands, and a policeman with a nightstick beckoned me over.

“What have you got there? What is this machine?” “It’s a tape recorder.” “What are you doing with it here?” “I am reminding myself of some architectural peculiarities.” “How do I know it is not a bomb?” “You can speak into it yourself.” “What shall I say?” “Anything.” “I cannot think of anything to say.” “Sing a song then.” “What kind of song?” “A Tamil song.”

“Very well, I will sing you a very old Tamil song, a tragic song” — and half closing his eyes, and assuming an unmistakably tragic expression, there in the sunshine outside the court in a high wavering voice he sang several verses of a very, very old Tamil song. I played it back to him.

“Very well,” he said, “now you have my voice. What will you give me in return?”

But, bless his heart, I was gone by then.