Muggeridge, Ancient & Modern

Simla 1934 Reading through the memoirs of Malcolm Muggeridge, the most striking image one is left with, surprisingly enough, is one of tenderness and poignancy. Not in any measure due to the gadfly-esque nature of Muggeridge's long involvement in public life as a man of (often controversial) ideas, but to a single, almost incidental, reference to a liaison in faraway India. For a man who has lived for so long in the public eye as Mr. Muggeridge, a refreshing lack of pomposity is reflected in his assertion that "No one but a few power maniacs and fools, allows public affairs to take precedence over private ones." Looking back at his memories of Simla, which visit coincided with George V's Jubilee, Muggeridge notes rather gleefully that he accords but one passing nod to the grand occasion. His preoccupation lay elsewhere - "pages and pages" were devoted to his blossoming acquaintance with Amrita Shergil. He does not however, go into such length in this narrative. A single sentence, however, is enough to capture the wealth of detail that he leaves out. "She's dead and I'm old, and our brief but intense intimacy mattered to no one". The elegiac quality of this single sentence haunts you long after you put down the book. Personally, I found it impossible to bring my sights back to Muggeridge, the man of letters, Muggeridge the man of faith or Muggeridge the television host. The mind's eye keeps coming back to a young man - he should have been just on the wrong side of thirty - meeting a vivacious, intelligent and extremely young woman. He makes a reference to their "rather affected[ly]" habit of speaking French to each other, leaving a sense not so much of two dandies united in their affectation, but of two lovers speaking in code to each other. There is a photograph, of a Jinnahesque figure in a double-breasted suit - morning dress, perhaps? - at one end of a cane sofa, left arm around the back of the chair leaning back with one leg over the other. There is a young woman at the other end of the sofa, in a sari, with an obviously contented cat in her lap. She has an air of quiet amusement about her, while the man has gone so far as to keep his fedora on for the photograph. The caption, again would border on the banal, if it were not for what it does not reveal; the nature and depth of the passion that seems to have obviously sparked between the two. "She was gay, alive, beautiful - a combination of qualities not unduly plentiful in Simla, or for that matter anywhere." In an age when we have ersatz passion oozing towards us in every form and shape, it is like a rare breath of air to encounter an understated yet extremely touching account of what must have been a passionate romance in spit of its obvious brevity. The wistful quality of the entire affair is heightened by the fact that Shergil would die shortly, having heard no great praise of her talents as a painter. After their farewell at Simla station, Muggeridge would never meet he