Narayan Hemchandra
Just about this time Narayan Hemchandra came to England. I had heard of him as a writer. We met at the house of Miss Manning of the National Indian Association. Miss Manning knew that I could not make myself sociable. When I went to her place I used to sit tongue-tied, never speaking except when spoken to. She introduced me to Narayan Hemchandra. He did not know English. His dress was queer—a clumsy pair of trousers, a wrinkled, dirty, brown coat after the Parsi fashion, no necktie or collar, and a tasselled woollen cap. He grew a long beard.
He was lightly built and short of stature. His round face was scarred with smallpox, and had a nose which was neither pointed nor blunt. With his hand he was constantly turning over his beard.
Such a queer-looking and queerly dressed person was bound to be singled out in fashionable society.
“I have heard a good deal about you,” I said to him. “I have also read some of your writings. I should be very pleased if you were kind enough to come to my place.”
Narayan Hemchandra had a rather hoarse voice. With a smile on his face he replied:
“Yes, where do you stay?”
“In Store Street.”
“Then we are neighbours. I want to learn English. Will you teach me?”
“I shall be happy to teach you anything I can, and will try my best. If you like, I will go to your place.”