The Imaginary Bus: Khalo Who Foresaw His Own Death in a Dream — Volume One
— Our problem, Lena said, — is that we usually get to know people at the end of their stories.
— What do you mean? asked the newcomer.
— We meet someone today and call them a monarchist, a leftist, a believer, a liberal, a revolutionary or a counter-revolutionary. Then we imagine that one word explains their whole life. To understand a person, we have to go back a little and ask: Where did they come from? What sort of family did they grow up in? What did they have, and what did they lack? What frightened them? What have they lost? And, most importantly, where did they stand in society?
The monarchist said nothing.
Lena did not look directly at him either.
This conversation was no longer about one person.
— History isn’t merely a collection of kings, governments, revolutions and wars. It passes through people’s homes as well: their dinner tables, their schools and workplaces, the relations between women and men, their hopes for the future and even the fear they fall asleep with at night.
— So you’re saying a person’s character has a history too? asked the woman in red.
— Yes. We aren’t made outside our own time.
From behind the wheel I said:
— So if I’d been born a hundred years earlier, I’d be driving a cart instead of this bus?
— From what I’ve learnt about you, said Lena, — you would probably have stopped the cart halfway through the journey to argue politics with the passengers.
The woman in red laughed.
— And the donkey wouldn’t have had to worry about finding work.
A bray came from the back.
— Yes, comrade. You’re the only one who lost out when transport changed.
Laughter spread through the bus.
But Lena continued:
— When we talk about class position, some people immediately think we’re dividing everyone into good and bad. That isn’t the point at all.
— What is it, then? asked the newcomer.
— Your place in society affects what you see.
Lena pointed to the buildings on either side of the street.
— Imagine three people looking at this building. One owns it. Another works there every day. The third sleeps outside its door at night. It’s the same building, but it means something different to each of them.
— The first calculates its value, I said. — The second counts the hours left in the working day, and the third checks whether the awning will keep the rain off.
— Exactly.
— But people don’t always act in their own class interests, said the woman in red.
— Of course they don’t, Lena answered at once. — If they did, understanding society would be easy. All we’d need to know was someone’s job and income, and we could guess their opinions. People are more complicated than that. In class struggle, many turn their backs on the class they came from, or sometimes return to it. Some rise from the lower classes and then turn against them. But history also offers many examples of people from the upper classes defending workers and others who labour, in effect turning their backs on their own class. It has to do with the degree of class consciousness a person develops.
At last the monarchist spoke:
— So you admit you can’t work out someone’s politics from their class?
— Yes. Just as you can’t ignore the part class plays.
He went quiet again.
— A person is shaped somewhere between the circumstances they didn’t choose and the choices they make within them, Lena went on.
— I like that, said the newcomer.
But something still seemed to be troubling the woman in red.
— I don’t think it’s only about external conditions. People can be full of contradictions themselves. What about the unconscious part inside us, the part that gives energy to our behaviour?
— We certainly have to consider that too, said Lena.
The woman in red laid her book on her knees.
— Imagine someone who speaks about freedom but cannot tolerate the freedom of the person closest to him in his private life.
Nobody spoke.
She continued:
— Or someone who calls himself a supporter of equality, but when it comes to the relationship between a woman and a man, suddenly pulls a different set of rules out of his pocket.
The newcomer smiled.
— You’ve put that well.
— Or someone who is calm, reasonable and kind in company, but shows another face in a close relationship.
— I wouldn’t call it ‘a split personality’, though, said Lena.
— Why not?
— Because that can be misunderstood, as though we’re talking about a mental disorder. I’d rather say that people have many layers and contradictions.
The woman in red nodded.
— That’s what I meant too.
— We don’t have one personality for work, one for politics and one for love. We’re the same person, but different situations reveal different parts of us.
— Like our donkey, I said. — He has one personality when he wants food, and another when it’s time to get off the bus.
The donkey brayed.
— Objection recorded.
The newcomer laughed, then said:
— I think a close relationship reveals more about a person than almost anything else.
Her sister turned towards her.
— Why?
— Because the distance between people closes.
Lena watched with interest.
— Outside a relationship, you have time to compose yourself. You can choose what to say, how to behave and what picture of yourself to show. But when someone enters your everyday life, you can’t keep performing all the time.
— So closeness pulls off the mask? asked the woman in red.
— Sometimes.
She paused.
— And I find this particularly interesting in men.
— Here we go. Men again, I said.
— We’ve only just reached them.
— Let me declare in advance that I’m only the driver and take no responsibility for the historical behaviour of the male sex.
The woman in red laughed.
— Drivers always think they’re only drivers, the newcomer said. — But they’re the ones holding the wheel.
I fell silent for a moment.
— That sounds like trouble.
Lena laughed.
— I’d rather sit this one out, said the monarchist.
— Why? the newcomer asked immediately.
— Experience tells me that when several women begin a discussion about men, silence is the best foreign policy.
Everyone laughed.
— At last, a foreign policy without casualties.
— Sometimes men’s silence is part of the problem too, said the newcomer. — I think I know men rather well; I’ve had plenty of dealings with them.
The man looked astonished.
— So it’s a problem if we speak, and a problem if we’re silent?
— It depends why you’re silent.
He raised his hands.
— I surrender.
— The trial hasn’t even started yet, said the woman in red.
— I’m not trying to put anyone on trial. This isn’t about good men and bad men.
— What is it about? Lena asked.
The newcomer looked outside for a few moments.
— The contradiction in a man who may sincerely think he supports women’s freedom, but finds it difficult to bear when that freedom enters his own relationship.
— That isn’t only an individual matter, Lena said softly.
— What do you mean?
— Part of it can come from the old structure of relations between women and men. A person’s ideas may have moved forwards while they still carry habits and expectations much older than those ideas.
— So his mind is in the twenty-first century while his behaviour sometimes comes straight out of the nineteenth? asked the woman in red.
— That’s optimistic. Some people go right back to the caves when they get angry.
The newcomer laughed.
— Now I must object, said the monarchist. — The cave-dwellers have no right of reply.
Even Lena laughed.
The mood on the bus had changed.
A discussion that began with history and class had gradually moved somewhere none of us could speak only about other people.
Because human relationships are strange mirrors.
When you speak about a government, you can point into the distance.
When you speak about class, you can find examples in society.
When you speak about history, you can point to the past.
But when the conversation turns to the relationship between two people, the distance suddenly closes.
The mirror is held up in front of you.
— So I have a question, said the newcomer.
— Another question?
— Yes.
— For whom?
She glanced at Lena, then at the woman in red, then at the monarchist.
Finally our eyes met in the mirror.
— Everyone.
I eased my foot off the accelerator a little.
— Go on, then.
— Why do some men admire a woman’s independence while she is at a distance, only to find that same independence a problem when she grows close to them?
Nobody laughed this time.
Even the donkey stayed quiet.
I looked in the mirror.
The woman in red was staring at her sister.
Lena had lowered her head a little.
The monarchist looked outside.
And me?
I was just driving.
Some questions should not be answered at once.
You have to let them sit beside you for a few stops.
To be continued.
Naser Kamali
London, at the Royal Festival Hall, to the sound of an Indian woman’s piano playing.
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