Remembering Mr. Harvey

Fred Harvey paused for a moment to take in the shop’s front. The sober board, with its black background and white letters reading “Bombay Tailoring Company” gave him a quiet satisfaction. The steps leading to it, as always, was spotless. A cycle lounging in the alley beside the shop’s wall told him that Giriappa was already at work.

How strange that I found my footing in this country, so far from England, he mused.

As he stepped inside, the familiar and comforting smells of new fabric greeted him. The rolls of dark materials – pinstriped, faintly dotted, and some just plain – reminded him as always of London; a proud reminder that he kept his countrymen living in Bangalore’s Cantonment in the first state of fashion. After all, no English gentleman should be deprived of his cravats and top hat. The steady clanking’s from the sewing machine assured him that the tailors were diligently at their jobs. But then, he knew they would be – Giriappa was there to keep an eye.

Giriappa looked up from his place at the cash register and spotted him. With a small smile of welcome, he rose in deference and offered his seat at the register to Harvey.

“A very good morning, Harvey Sir. Come, please sit. I have the accounts register ready for you.”

“Thank you Giri. I see that the you have put the new trouser material on display already. Splendid, my fellow! Things are alright I hope?”

“Yes Sir. Ten of our customers from the Cantonment are going back to England, Sir. Many of them came last week to settle accounts and bought a few items for the journey back.”

“Ah well, we had anticipated this Giri, had we not, when Independence was declared? Fools, the lot of them! They were better of here. But not to worry, my man, we will do just fine. More officials will be appointed by the Government, I have heard! And they will wear suits, mind you. Now, show me the register so we can be done with the abominable job.”

The next few minutes went in discussions about the shop’s finances. Listening to Giriappa explain the register, Harvey was more convinced than ever about the decision he had made. The man was deeply loyal, of good hardworking stock. The shop was as much Giriappa’ s as it was Harvey’s.

“Giriappa, why have you kept aside this 30,000 ?”

Looking faintly embarrassed, Giriappa replied in a soft voice, “Sir, I thought you might want to take this with you. These tax rates now are unfair Sir, so I have kept some aside for you. You have worked hard for this shop, and it is unfair that you should pay so much tax. We are paying tax on the rest of our sales.”

To say that Harvey was surprised would be to put it mildly. He knew how deeply rule abiding Giriappa was. That he would break his own Government’s rules, only to ensure that his foreigner of a master be not burdened with massive taxes – it touched Harvey deeply.

“Giri, my man. This is wrong. If we do not pay tax truthfully, how will the Government earn money? And your Government is only just established, your country newly free. It needs its citizens to be honest, to be law abiding. I cannot express how much I appreciate that your first thought was for me, but nothing is greater than one’s country Giriappa. Please pay the tax, we will all of us sleep easily at night.”

Giriappa saw his master’s smiling face. He did not see the strikingly pale, white skin. Or the graying ginger hair not native to India. Green eyes, with wrinkles fanning out its corner, only spoke of the easy laughter and kindness. It was a face, not of a British national, but just the face of Bombay Tailoring Company’s owner. The man Giriappa had wholeheartedly accepted, served and revered as a good man. Bowing his head, Giri took the bundle to keep it in the safe deposit box again. When he looked back, he saw Harvey looking at him with a strange expression.

Clearing his throat, Harvey started “Giri, I have to discuss something to you. As you know, I do not have any family. Very few friends. No wife, or children to leave this place to. And this shop is my soul, the only thing I can proudly tell that belongs to me, made by me. For the past year, I have been worried thinking about what will happen to it once I am gone.”

Giriappa interrupted, “Don’t speak about such inauspicious things, Harvey Sir!”

“Listen to me, Giri! I have come to a decision; I have discussed this with my lawyer at length too. And I am completely satisfied that it is the right thing to do. Bombay Tailoring Company will one day be yours.”

Giriappa was stunned. “No Sir! It cannot be. I am a manager here Sir. This Company is yours, I will not take it, even in my dreams. Please give it to someone from your family.”

Harvey’s smile had turned a little wistful. “I have no family that I want to give it to Giriappa, as you well know. There is no one close. These walls were built with your sweat too. And by bequeathing it to you in my will, I will be at peace knowing that the shop is the most able hands. You know that I will not go back to my England, please do not refuse me this. Do you want to take away my peace of mind now, in my final years?”

Giriappa bowed his head, not knowing what to say.

Nodding with satisfaction, Harvey got up and clapped a hand on Giriappa’ s shoulder. Casting a loving look about the shop, he went out into the pleasant afternoon. As he looked back at the shop’s board, he saw the tricolor flag faintly fluttering.

How strange that this flag seems like my flag nowadays, he mused.

***

You might be wondering who Mr. Fred Harvey was. Well, my mother must have wondered the same thing when she saw his portrait adorning her grandfather’s house when she was a little girl.

Giriappa was her grandfather.

And her mother, my grandmother, still remembers Mr. Fred Harvey very fondly. Giriappa’ s male family members enjoyed spiffy clothes. The tax on that 30 thousand rupees was indeed paid. Fred Harvey did indeed bequeath the Bombay Tailoring Company to my maternal great-grandfather, but not before he convinced Mr. Harvey to let another of Harvey’s close friends be a beneficiary too. Apparently, Giriappa always felt that he did not deserve to be a full owner of the shop. And not long after, the bachelor Mr. Fred Harvey breathed his last. And Giriappa, as per his religion’s way, used to invite two brahmins on Harvey’s death day and serve them lunch in Mr. Harvey’s honor. This little custom was followed till Giriappa also passed away. By then, Bombay Tailoring Company, which was the first shop when one turned to Commercial Street in those times, had been sold by its two owners.

And now, when decades later my grandmother remembers him, it is for the inherent honesty, fair-mindedness and simple goodness in a British man who never had airs of being a superior master. And she always speaks with pride.

And when I hear these stories, it always strikes me that though we can hate entire nations, entire populations, there are always profound little acts of decency, of humanity hidden everywhere.