The joy one feels upon returning home after spending several years abroad is truly beyond words. If I were a poet, perhaps I could compose a few clever verses and bring some satisfaction to my heart. But, lacking that talent, I am forced to make do with mere words.

When a mother is out of sight for a long time, the happiness children feel upon finally finding her is immense—but the joy I experienced was a thousand times greater than that. The very moment I caught sight of the distant shores of Hindustan, as the steamer drew near to the Bombay coast, I was so overcome with happiness that I rushed up to the deck, stood there, and let tears of joy stream down my face.

All the while I was away from my homeland, I was convinced that our country was the greatest, the most ideal in the world. I would argue with everyone abroad in the same vein. “There is no country on this earth like ours!” I would declare. When you’re away, you either don’t notice your homeland’s flaws, or you forget them altogether. I believed that all the virtues found in foreign lands were present in my own as well. Whenever I spoke in this manner, the locals would look at me with a mixture of amusement and pity. They would laugh at me as if I were a simpleton.

For some reason, it was my misfortune that whatever I expected would happen, the opposite always occurred; whatever I imagined, reality would turn out to be the exact reverse.

The steamer reached Bombay harbor. It hadn’t come to a complete stop yet. No one had set foot on land. At that moment, it became clear that everything I had assumed was wrong, that my words were false, that what others had told me was the truth, and that all my imaginings were merely fantasies.

Barrister Parvateesam

I learned that this was the only reason. Would you believe it, before the steamer had even come to a complete stop, a hefty Sharab (money changer), with a large turban, sweating profusely, panting, wiping his brow with his shirt, looking around at everyone and grinning foolishly, made his way up onto the deck. Now, if one arrives, is it not proper to sit respectfully on a chair or a sofa? But this fellow squatted right on the floor, in the middle of the walkway where everyone passes. Do you know why he came running as if he might collapse any moment? To give change to those who needed it, of course! After all, everyone on the steamer was coming from foreign lands. They wouldn’t have pounds or shillings, only rupees and annas. But without local currency, nothing could be done here. So, for the convenience of travelers, he had resolved to exchange foreign money for local money. A fine idea in itself, but it’s not as if this Sharab had any particular affection for us—his real intention was to make a quick fifty or hundred rupees in half an hour, without any effort, by offering a poor exchange rate for our rupees or annas. I have traveled to many countries, but never have I seen such a practice anywhere else. If you need money, banks are everywhere, ready to serve you in an instant. That’s all it takes—no fuss, no bother. But here, it’s just exasperating.

Meanwhile, another Sharab appeared, ready for business. Perhaps, out of jealousy that the first one was gobbling up all the profits. Seeing this, all the sahibs from the steamer came out, laughing as they passed by. Despite all this commotion, many people didn’t even bother to exchange their money with these fellows. But just looking at them made me feel as if I had committed some crime—I felt so ashamed, I wanted to hide my head somewhere.

Is it over? I have seen many large harbors and railway stations, haven’t I? Nowhere else is there such chaos. People disembark and board quietly, calmly. Coolies load and unload luggage efficiently. But the kind of commotion, panic, and confusion that exists in Bombay Harbor and later at our railway stations is found nowhere else. I doubt even the great European War could produce such a racket. In fact, I’m certain it couldn’t.

Anyway, somehow I managed to keep an eye on my luggage and disembarked in style. I shouted for four coolies and told them to put everything over there. Just then, one of them approached me, bowing repeatedly, trembling as he came near. Why all these salaams for me? Why was he so frightened at the sight of me? Had I become some sort of...

Governor, is it? After doing all this, do you know what he said? He wanted to inspect my luggage—that was the matter. “Why?” I asked. “It’s the rules, sir. Everyone’s luggage must be checked,” he replied. “Well then, check everyone’s,” I said. “I am checking from one side, sir,” he answered. “So, you’ll only check mine from one side?” I retorted. But I suppose he didn’t quite grasp what I meant.

For a moment, he said nothing. “Have you finished inspecting the sahibs’ luggage?” I asked. “Yes, sir, but they are sahibs, after all. Their luggage doesn’t need to be checked so thoroughly,” he replied. Hearing this, my blood began to boil. But what could I do at that moment? Swallowing my pride and this insult, I silently unloaded my luggage for him to inspect.

What did I have, really? Clothes and books—what else would someone like me possess? He began rifling through all my books. “Why do you need to look at those? What could possibly be in them?” I asked. “I have to check if there are any books forbidden in this country,” he said. “Alright then, go ahead,” I replied. He flipped through every book I had, but what would he understand anyway? He even looked at some forbidden books and couldn’t tell the difference.

But