London Returned - By Saira Banu

With my pocket-money, I sent out annual subscriptions for "Filmfare" every year without fail and, on the day it was due, my brother and I would both wait at the door for the postman, tapping our fingers restlessly. When it did arrive, it was a fight to the death between us, as to who should have a look at it first!

Soon after my arrival, when we moved to Hampstead, I was sent to one of the best private day-schools in the suburbs, where I studied along with the daughters of millionaires, and as they rolled up in their Rolls-Royces and Cadillacs, I trudged the odd two miles to school every day, come hail or shine.

I was a mere foreigner, crippled by lack of foreign exchange, who in India had been used to the recognition usual to a star's daughter, big cars and a houseful of servants, but in London humbly washed her own clothes. In a way I am indeed grateful for this, because it has given me a down-to-earth attitude towards life and humanity, and I no longer tread on clouds or rose-petals alone!

The girls at school were wonderful to me and, in spite of their incessant, repetitive queries, I never tired of them, because they were gay and inexplicably understanding.

My long hair was a wonderful passport to friendship, for, from little toddlers of five to the senior prefects, they would all come to me and ask all sorts of questions—did I comb it myself, who washed it for me, how many times a week I shampooed it and just how did I manage it. Their favourite question was a priceless one: did I need a pillow at night or did I open my hair and merely roll it up?

Often they begged me to undo my plaits and give them a demonstration in the difficult art of combing hair a yard long, to the accompaniment of their oh's and ah's, and very much to my amusement!

Now my dearest and closest friends are still in London and I, thousands of miles away; but we continually keep in touch. When I am sometimes a little late in replying, owing to my hectic schedule, they often send me funny little reminder cards which make me roll with laughter and also cry a little.

At school we had a great big garden with tennis-courts and lawns and those prim little typically English winding paths, shaded with giant chestnut trees. During summer we would gather in their shade, a cosmopolitan group of girls—English, American, African, Canadian, French, Greek, Japanese, Chinese and many other nationalities. In break and siesta, tired or tranquil, we always found initiative and energy enough to discuss and debate on our respective countries, our religions, ways of life and, often, boldly contrasting views!

Although I had studied at an English school in Bombay for a couple of years, at first I was intolerably nervous about the English language, as spoken in England. My English teacher, a brilliantly intelligent and capable Welsh lady, noticed this hesitation in me and my written work. Trying to be helpful, she told my parents that I should develop self-confidence and read a lot, because my "powers of expression" were weak in essays.

Young and sensitive as I was, I was stricken and hurt, and I well remember crying for a week and not being able to eat my food without getting hysterics!

However, soon came the realisation that this frame of mind was not going to help me in any way and, after deep and, I admit, painful self-analysis, I threw myself into a campaign called English with a vengeance. I read, I wrote, re-wrote, listened to people talk, took lessons in speech-training and virtually craved for knowledge like some starved being.

I did not rest until, finally, my essays were read out to the class, the school, and printed in the school magazine. I was showered with praise, but my only satisfaction was that I had fulfilled my promise, and whatever hard work and energy it had cost me could not equal the contentment I experienced.

I was the studious type, not out of duress, but out of love for studying! In addition to the nine subjects I had taken for my General Certificate of Education, I also studied ice-skating, ballet and ballroom dancing. Much as I loved dancing, my first love was my studies and I thought of my extra subjects as the only means of relaxation in my busy young existence.

After a strenuous day at school, I forgot everything, every care and worry, as I worked at my bar exercises, but as soon as I got home, I rushed through a huge meal and a pint of milk, and studied again.

All the subjects were favourites with me, except geometry which turned me grey with boredom. I considered it a waste of time and stamina, and I am still of the same opinion; but Latin, French, English literature and grammar, science, history and algebra never failed to send me into ecstasy!

By now, acting was a constant and prominent problem in my mind. I had always wanted to become an actress, but I could not anticipate my mother's reaction when I would make my secret a secret no more and tell everybody of my decision about a career. Luckily, my mother believes in advising and guiding, but never in compelling me towards what I do not want.

At the end of seven long years in England, I came home to stay and I looked forward to my home-coming as does a prisoner to his day of freedom. As the sleek, shimmering Super-Constellation screeched to a halt, it marked simultaneously the end of an episode for me, and the beginning of what I hoped would be another exciting and successful one.

I have never been much of a socialite, and I do meekly confess to being rather a home-bird, for I love to spend quiet evenings at home, playing my collection of records, reading or chatting with close friends or going to see a film. Those stiff formal parties shrivel me to the core and I detest them, because they are not just formal parties, but they are formally staged parties (and I mean staged), where all the women have come merely to show off their latest acquirements.

Here, they demonstrate their dramatic abilities as they shriek to one another "Oh! d-a-r-1-i-n-g! How wonderful to see you!" and, of course, they mean "Drop dead, won't you?"

Being the simpleton that I am and cherishing a love for the ordinary, it is not surprising that when I arrived here, I looked forward to days of peace without end, but oh no! I was a "London Returned," and an "L.R." has to be very much in the social whirl. 

So when acquaintances invited me to go on various sprees, I politely declined and confessed that I preferred something more sober. I really did prefer to go for a walk instead. At a party which I could not manage to get out of, I could have sworn that the guests were positively disillusioned when I refused a cigarette.

Yes, an "L.R."—that is what I was. Not much, but something of a novelty in people's minds, because the mere fact that I had studied abroad already qualified me to be superior to others! What utter nonsense! Why should I try to be English when I am an Indian and why should I not prefer my own form of dress to jeans and tight skirts? Some of the "L.R.s" I have come across made me sick at their behaviour—they do everything they can to be in the limelight and in the process forget that they are Indians and should behave as such. I wish I could be proud to be in the "L.R." group, but most "L.R.s" make a mess of themselves in London—and when they return to India.

So please give me those modest, quiet Indian girls for friends, the sort I remember in the image of my old friends in Santa Cruz, who prefer to listen, rather than always indulge in a monologue.

This article was published in 'Filmfare' magazine's 21 October 1960 edition.
The images and captions are from the orginal article.