We went to the Iranian embassy this morning. It was fortunate that we had met the Englishman in Agra, for I don’t think it had previously occurred to us to worry about getting a visa for Iran, certainly not with any sense of urgency. But we certainly didn’t want to spend time messing about in Pakistan, particularly since that would mean having to go to Islamabad. We discovered from a tourist map that the embassy was quite a way out of the centre, but we found a bus to take us down in that general direction. A luxury bus it was too, designed for Delhi’s middle class, + tho’ it cost us a rupee each, at least we had seats + a good enough view to be able to follow the route, more or less, on the map. From where we got down, it was a short walk, tho’ we had to ask the way once or twice. But when we arrived at what should have been the right place, between the embassies of New Zealand + Finland, we found not the Iranian but the Libyan embassy. (And no, they’re not the same, not when it comes to getting an Iranian visa they’re not.) The guard on the gate was amiable enough, however, + told us that the Iranians had moved to Barakhamba Rd, just around the corner from the hotel. It was annoying, but luckily we had made an early start, so weren’t running out of time – embassies work appallingly short hours – + were able to see the funny side of the situation.
After we’d made our way back again, + were shown into the waiting room – just a small office next to the gate, not a part of the main embassy at all – we were able to relax. I did, however, feel a little uncomfortable on Val’s behalf, for all the other females there had their hair completely covered, + were wearing long skirts, while she, tho’ not dressed immodestly by Western standards, would not have passed muster in the land of the vanguard of Islam. I hadn’t really thought about it before, but in any case she doesn’t yet have a costume which is appropriate. Something will have to be bought before we leave.
For quite a while after we had submitted our names, we weren’t required to do anything, but eventually I was called. Just me, which was good for my peace of mind. I was searched with a metal detector at the doorway (“Those who live by the sword…”) then went across the courtyard + into a side door of the main building. The man there simply asked what I required, told me the visa application would take 3 weeks, + gave me 2 forms with which I returned to the waiting-room – why they couldn’t have been made available out there I have no idea. But we filled them in, + waited once again, whiling away some time by reading Teheran’s English-language daily. But eventually, once more I was called, handed over the forms, was told once again that it would take 3 weeks, + we were done.
We rushed back to the hotel in order to be there for Shamshand. And on the off chance that we would be invited to stay, Val packed up + we checked out. Presumptuous perhaps, but if no invitation were forthcoming we could always check back in again. We sat out on the patio to wait, + became most depressed when one man wandered in looking lost, glanced around, hesitated, ambled out again, without either of us raising the presence of mind to grab him before he went. We felt sure that we’d lost our chance, + that he had been our man, but all our distress was for nothing, for 5 mins later the real Shamshand arrived. As Val had feared, he hadn’t grasped the nature of our relationship with him – Val isn’t at her best over the phone – but that was soon cleared up with the mention of Nema’s name, + we went out for lunch.
He introduced us to another friend of his, called Devraj, an artist like himself. They both have works in a forthcoming exhibition, so we drove first to a couple of places where they had business to transact. Then it was on to an area out of town where most of the art + drama facilities appear to be located. They showed us around briefly, + we looked in on a couple of galleries. Not really my cup of tea, but interesting enough. Shamshand was friendly + interesting to talk to – the conversation was not as stilted as can so often be the case, with vicarious friendships. There was an awkward moment, however, when hearing that I taught Drama, he introduced me to a lady there who was heavily involved in the theatre in India, + at a high level. She asked me where I taught, I mumbled something about secondary schools, + she misheard me, thinking I had said Central School. I thought it was too awkward + embarrassing to correct her, so let the error stand, but it was turned back upon me with a vengeance when she asked who the Principal was now. I wriggled out of that one by saying I had left some years before. Tangled web indeed, but entirely my own weaving.
Fortunately, we escaped then to lunch. We had it in the canteen attached to one of the Arts Centres, very inexpensive, I was happy to see, for altho’ Shamshand was paying, I did not wish to place myself too far in his debt. A pleasant enough, by canteen standards, Indian meal. Shamshand also came up with the suggestion that perhaps we might like, + be able, to stay in the hostel administered by the Indian equivalent of the Arts Council. It would be much cheaper than Ringo’s, + we would merely have to indulge in the mild pretence that we were artists. He took us around to see it, + pleasant enough it was, + so we all went round to see the administrator. Shamshand confided that he had no great respect for the Arts Council in general, + this man in particular, that they had crossed swords in the past. But all was affable now. Rather too much so, for after much shunting from one office to another, we all sat down + had tea, along with 2 other lady artists, friends of Shamshand. One of them very nearly got me in to hot water when she asked me whether I painted or sculpted, + then S repeated that nonsense about Central School, so I was turning very red. Not that I have any scruples about telling lies, but not, for preference, with friends.
After the secretary popped out to attend a meeting, + then came back to give us a private viewing of some of the items from an exhibition of Tibetan art about to open in the city, we were finally able to escape + go to our new lodging – the whole business had taken most of the afternoon. We weren’t to be housed in the hostel itself, but in a small cottage next door, rather better in terms of privacy + security. It was supposed to house the Chairman when he visited from Bombay, but that seemed rather an unlikely story to me, since it was not much more than a shed with attached bathroom. Perfectly adequate for our needs, however.
We then said farewell to S. He is off to Hyderabad tomorrow to help organise the opening of his exhibition there, but asked us to call him again before we left India. This we were happy to agree to, of course.
In the evening, we went to a nearby theatre, where there was a production of 2 short plays devised + presented by a young people’s theatre workshop. Since this was my “field”, if indeed a field I still have, the visit was both a pleasure + a duty. I was, all in all, impressed. The first play was a political satire, + had some funny scenes + clever lines. I loved “The Queen”, played by a man wearing man’s clothes, but with make-up + jewellery including tiara. It was cleverly written, witty + often powerful, but generally I think, it got carried away by its own cleverness, + I wasn’t actually sure what it was trying to say. One caught references to the Bomb, to censorship, to repression of the individual, to Communist subversion, to glorification of the individual. To just about everything, in fact. I was going to say, add cruelty to animals + you’d have the lot, only on reflection cruelty to animals was in there too. So in being a catch-all for the evils of modern society, it rather missed hitting any of them squarely on the nose.
The other play went almost to the other extreme. This was a children’s play with participation, + the usual audience shouting-out, except that absolutely neither of these were central to the actual plot, had both been added in almost as an afterthought, + it showed. But the story was clear + simple enough, + there were some neat touches. It lacked some of the cleverness of the first play, that was all, + had to rely too much on the personality of the principals. They were too precocious for my taste, but my taste is not everyone’s. And certainly the little boy sitting in front of me enjoyed it, which is the real acid test.
Three sections to the day: our encounter with the Iranian embassy, which it appears is going to be a time-consuming relationship; our far more successful encounter with Shamshad, which, apart from my own particuar bit of hot water regarding the Central School, does appear to have the hugely beneficial aspect of free accommodation; and out trip to the theatre. So quite the balanced day, and overall a successful one.
