Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

I recall it was around mid-August last year, when the British Empire's attitude toward our nation began to take on a peculiar hostility, triggered by the incident involving Ambassador Hugessen's injury.

One evening, on some business, I went to visit an Indian trading firm called Varoda Trading Company. The office facing Tram Street remained as cramped as ever, with various instruments and machinery packed into every available space, while three or so Japanese merchants waited with order-hungry expressions, poised to make their sales. And George Yoda, the Nisei boy who served as chief clerk, along with other Indians whose faces I didn't even recognize, stood or sat around Mr. Kapadia—the central figure—making the shop as crowded as ever,

“HALLO! “HALLO!” Pushing through the crowd, Mr. Kapadia grasped my hand with nostalgic warmth. While offering me a chair beside his desk, he introduced me to the Indians present with, “Mr. Tachibana! Manager of K-Mitadaya Store and famous writer!” I was taken aback by being called a famous writer, but there exists a certain type of foreigner who tends to thus exaggeratedly elevate their acquaintances, implicitly boasting about their connections within Japan. After all, they were Indians who didn’t understand Japanese, and it wasn’t as though I’d entered society from birth intending to become a writer of true stories—so why not occasionally play the part of a famous writer? In any case, picture me maintaining a face like thunderous fame as I settled into my seat. The dark-skinned men who bowed slightly while handing me business cards—all bearing those peculiarly Indian names like Shashikant, Mahendra, Vasanta, and Nanavati—proceeded to ask what I was currently writing and what sorts of stories interested me. Their blissful ignorance led them to treat me as a grand author, so I saw no reason to disabuse them; stroking my chin, I basked in their admiration. Then appeared this Javeri fellow—who had read some formidable works—and,

“I read Mr. Tanizaki’s ‘A Portrait of Shunkin’ in English translation,” he said. “I didn’t find the themes particularly outstanding, but I found the characters’ personalities quite intriguing.” When he asked, “What kind of standing does Mr. Tanizaki hold as a writer?” I dismissed it with affected nonchalance: “He was famous, but he’s already a figure of the past. He doesn’t write much these days,” adopting an air that suggested we had now entered the era of Mr. Tachibana. Of course Javeri had no detailed knowledge of Japan’s literary scene, so he must have taken this at face value. He appeared thoroughly satisfied, wearing an expression that seemed eager to hear more of Mr. Tachibana’s literary opinions, while throughout these exchanges Mr. Kapadia continued negotiating prices with Japanese merchants using his halting, fragmentary Japanese.

“You haven’t shown your face in a while—were you ill or something? I was just thinking of coming to visit you myself one of these days,” he said, heaping flattery about how he’d finish his business shortly and urging me to stay relaxed. Yet even while conversing with Nanavati and Shashikant’s lot, my eyes remained fixed on a most extraordinary figure. It was that of a lovely youth around eighteen or nineteen years old seated just behind George Yoda as he hammered at his typewriter—sometimes gazing out at the main street, sometimes turning this way a dimpled face that seemed half-attentive. Alone among them, this boy wore a rare turban studded with jewels emitting a fearsome radiance. His immaculate white linen suit—the sort that would easily cost over a hundred yen in Japan—fitted him luxuriously well, paired with a diagonally striped crimson necktie. More than his crisp charm, I found myself utterly captivated by the youth’s striking beauty. What a noble yet endearing face! That such an exceptional youth could exist among Indians struck me as life’s first true astonishment—a visage resembling some Western prince stepped straight from a painting. Eyes like wide-open obsidian orbs—so exquisite one might wish them on a woman—peered through nearsighted spectacles. A sharply chiseled nose characteristic of Aryan lineage crowned his round face, though his complexion differed utterly from the dark-skinned people surrounding him. Of course he wasn’t white—undoubtedly Indian—yet his skin appeared lightly brushed with amber tones before receiving faint bluish-white overlays, if such descriptions could suffice.

While dismissing Mr. Tanizaki and engaging with Vasanta and Mahendra, I found myself utterly captivated, devouring the boy's beauty with my eyes. The longer I gazed, the more overwhelmed I became by emotion. Compared to this beauty, the skin of Western women—merely pale yet coarse with body hair—felt like lifeless shards of porcelain devoid of flavor or warmth. For the first time, I sensed that true beauty resided not in white people but in polished, eugenically superior Orientals. Though the boy would occasionally turn his smiling face toward me before resuming his observation of the street below, his extraordinary dignity seemed to cleanse the very air around us.

“Mr. Kapadia, there’s a wonderful child here! Who is that boy?” I jabbed Mr. K’s elbow with a force that was almost a growl. A look of bewilderment flashed across Mr. K’s face as if startled, but “He is my brother. He has come to Japan this time.” “Brother?” I exclaimed in surprise, looking at Mr. K, but his coarsely made pitch-black face laughing told me immediately it was a joke. Even if one didn’t make a show of it, no one who wasn’t blind would ever believe this blackened Mr. K and that child could be brothers.

“He has come from India this time—the child of our benefactor,” Mr. K immediately resumed a serious expression and introduced. And perhaps treating him with great care, he rose respectfully and addressed the child in Kachchi, his mother tongue. Eventually, the child nodded graciously and stood up, “It is an honor to meet you for the first time. Mr. Tachibana!” he greeted with a cordial nod. When I asked, “Your name?”, he replied, “Sheutan!” The way he pursed his lips slightly with childlike innocence as he pronounced it looked indescribably adorable. However, to me, that pronunciation sounded like “Sultan.”

“Sultan?” “NO! Sheutan!” The child pursed his lips once again. Even as I maintained a perplexed expression, he quietly rose and took a seat beside me, then picked up the pencil I had been fidd with during my conversation with Mr. Kapadia to write out “Sheutan.” He exchanged with me the usual sort of conversation one has with a foreigner upon first meeting—when had he come to Japan? Did he like Japan?—though naturally I felt no particular interest in such formulaic responses as I listened. Such answers from foreigners always came stamped with uniform phrases—“Exceedingly beautiful” or “Yes! Astonishing!”—all such stereotypical replies. What struck me as strange was how when this boy had stood earlier, every Indian present rose from their chairs and deferentially cleared a path—I had assumed due merely to the crowded room—yet now, as I conversed so casually with him, they all watched me with palpable anxiety. Though unaware how greatly indebted they were to their benefactor’s child, I found their fretfulness amusing; nevertheless, my keen interest in the boy’s turban—the first I had ever seen—led me to ask him to demonstrate its wrapping method. The boy obligingly reached up, removed several gem-studded pins, and began unwinding the headpiece. The watching Indians again rushed to assist, but when he admonished them in their native tongue, they withdrew abashedly and stared fixedly.

“It may have a similar shape, but this is not called a turban.” “This is called a turban—something only people of very high status use,” Mr.Kapadia interjected from beside us. What are they cowering for now? Damn these Indians—exactly as I said! Because I was in such a state of mind, I hadn’t paid much attention to Mr.Kapadia’s words. When the turban came undone, locks of hair parted left to right and a stylish coiffure emerged; the boy showed me the unwound cloth before beginning to rewrap it. But the sheer effort required to wrap it! It must have taken a good five or six minutes. Even I had made him do something so thoughtless that I felt genuinely sorry. Truth be told, until now I had always thought of turbans as nothing more than a type of hat made from wrapped cloth, but I was astounded by the laborious process of actually winding it around one’s head while maintaining its shape. And if I had been astonished by that, I was even more astonished by how beautiful the turban was; but more than the turban’s beauty, it was the magnificence of the large gemstones embedded within its folds and pinned atop it that truly made my head spin. While fiddling with one of the gold-mounted gemstones placed on the table,

“What kind of gemstone is this?” “Is this a diamond?”

When I asked, “It’s just a trifling thing, like mere glass.” The boy smiled and watched me intently, as if studying my face. I thought he would take the gemstone from me and insert it into his turban, but instead, he silently reached out and inserted it into my necktie. My slightly worn-out two-yen-fifty-sen necktie, thanks to the dazzling light of what was supposedly mere glass, instantly soared in value to about five yen.

“What do you think, Mr. Kapadia! With this, does my necktie look like a British-made article worth about fifteen yen?” When I asked,

“OH, YES! YES! Far more than fifteen yen! He looks just like the Crown Prince of my country!” Mr. Kapadia said, flustered, then exchanged glances with those around him and laughed. The boy was saying something in his native language, a dimple forming on one cheek as he looked amused. His voice was cool. I sensed they must be talking about me, but that vowel-laden language of course wasn't something the likes of me could understand a single word of. I found myself gazing at that delicate profile—the boy laughing boisterously while revealing only half his face—with a beauty like that of a woman. No, not merely a woman, but the beauty of a master sculpture painstakingly chiseled by a skilled artist, each strike of the tool imbued with devoted care. Generally speaking, that day I had thought that if I finished my errands early, I would go to Ginza for the first time in ages to watch a movie and have a meal, but even though I didn’t have the money or courage to take along this entire black Indian crowd, at least this boy alone was clearly a lovely child... As my business with Mr. K had concluded unexpectedly quickly, I found myself feeling a fleeting impulse and shifted my gaze to the boy’s face.

When I asked, “Can you navigate Tokyo alone yet?” the boy shrugged helplessly, showing it was impossible. “Then since I’ll pass this way returning anyway—I’ll escort you home—but why not visit somewhere amusing together?” I proposed. The surrounding Indians watched our exchange with peculiar unease, “Where to?” inquired the boy with a smile.

“To a place where just fifty sen can blow away your troubles and give you fun without alcohol!” “Where does such a place exist?” “Take a guess!” I laughed. “Movies.” “Don’t overanalyze! If you’re coming, let’s go! In return, I’ll treat you to something tasty later.”

“Thank you,” said the boy, staring upward pensively before adding brightly: “Alright! Please take me!” He stood up cheerfully. What surprised me again was that when the boy and I tried to go outside, Mr. Kapadia and the other Indians came trooping after us to stand at the exit, pressing their right hands to their chests in rigidly upright postures as they performed their first formal salute. Startled, I momentarily felt mocked and widened my eyes in disbelief, but recalling Mr. Kapadia’s words about him being their benefactor’s child, I grew exasperated—why must these people from a destroyed nation insist on such absurdly antiquated etiquette, even for their benefactor’s child? As I thought this while gazing at the boy’s retreating back—he was giving instructions to one who had followed us—I found myself reflecting on my own heart, which had harbored no interest whatsoever in this land called India where such a beautiful child lived, and stood there transfixed.

II

As I mentioned earlier, until then I had neither interest in a country like India nor any particular desire to know about it; yet after entering Varoda Trading Company and repeatedly conversing with Mr. Kapadia and others, I found myself unconsciously infused with knowledge about India, so that by then I had come to understand various matters to a reasonable extent. For instance, despite being diligent ever since childhood I detested thunder—even now at a respectable age when summer brings flashes and rumbles— But when it came to thunder I would pale and pace restlessly about the room to my wife's amusement—yet how incomparably more violent was that same thunder in India, particularly in the Traudeya Mountain Range demarcating the southeastern border of Mr. Kapadia's Virupur Kingdom, roaring with such fury it might shatter the very axis of the earth! The seasonal winds that blow across the Deccan Plateau at the onset of the late May monsoon bring rains of such ferocity—torrential downpours beyond anything one in Japan could imagine—that in moments they create rivers a foot deep over asphalt-paved roads. Or how in India today the caste system remains profoundly entrenched—how Indians lament British tyranny yet simultaneously inflict cruel treatment upon thirty million of their own untouchables; how Indian women burdened by purdah's social shackles are strictly forbidden from interacting with men and lead secluded lives within their households. Moreover consider how 'Indian' encompasses such multitudes—over twenty distinct language families—how Virupur Kingdom employs both Gujarati and Kachchi from Aryan tongues while crossing one mountain range brings Malayalam from Dravidian roots—so that uneducated classes knowing neither English nor common Indian speech find fellow countrymen utterly incomprehensible. And exploiting these linguistic chasms—how severely does Britain oppress Indians?

Within what was then called British India still existed over three hundred seventy kingdoms—each maintaining independent prime ministers and cabinet organizations with ministers of interior and finance—of which Virupur Kingdom was one; yet these kings were not permitted to form alliances with neighboring states due to the British Government's divide-and-rule policy, while the Resident Officials, Deputy Commissioners, and other authorities dispatched by the Viceroy of India maintained luxurious official residences at each royal seat, kept honor guards to project majesty, meddled in the kings' domestic governance, and enforced tax collection with utmost severity. The British Government imposed harsh taxes on all Indians to drastically lower their standard of living; prohibited Indians from carrying any weapons except small knives; and immediately meted out severe punishment under defamation laws to any Indian populace that dared slander British officials even slightly—thus imprisoning India in a state between life and death, confined as a mere consumer of raw materials and products, its wealth systematically transplanted to Britain. Moreover—the sheer number of British spies now infiltrating every town and village across India, striving to root out Indians who criticized His Majesty’s Government; all these minute details about India that I had neither wished to visit nor ever desired to know—I had come to fully grasp them all. Under the blazing tropical sun, the image of the Indian masses living without hope beneath British tyranny, drifting through existence in a drunken stupor of survival, had recently become as vivid to me as if I were witnessing it firsthand. Admittedly, intellectually speaking, such matters as described above might not have required waiting for Mr. Kapadia’s explanations. Opening any travelogue or geography book about India would likely have made all these concepts immediately clear in abstract terms. But hearing them directly from the dark-skinned Mr. Kapadia’s own lips, there seemed to press in something vivid and heartrending—entirely different from the impressions gleaned from books—that tethered my heart to that unknown distant tropical land.

What truly took my breath away was how—despite having dismissed Virupur Kingdom’s palace as merely some British-style native prince’s residence that couldn’t possibly amount to much—the photographs Mr. Kapadia showed me astonished me by revealing its magnificent splendor. Beyond emerald-green lawns stretching into the distance, dense bodhi trees framed the vivid azure sky; through their dappled shadows across a broad pond, there soared a five-storied white marble palace—its towers piercing the clouds—surrounded by rows of cypress trees. And the majestic view overlooking the bustling city at the foot of a distant, gently sloping hill to the left completely betrayed my foolish assumptions, making me involuntarily widen my eyes in astonishment.

Mr. Kapadia pointed here and there across the photograph, explaining that in this area was the Sericulture Research Station established by His Highness the Crown Prince, over there the Free Library created by His Highness, and that at the bacteriological research institute at the foot of the hill, the two machines I had previously supplied were likely now assembled, belts fastened and humming away. Fundamentally, this Mr. Kapadia revered his own royal family to such an extent that he would ultimately use terms like "His Majesty the King" and "His Highness the Crown Prince," treating these local princes as if they were heads of sovereign states. To me, this had always seemed utterly comical—whenever "His Majesty" or "His Highness" emerged from Mr. Kapadia's lips, I couldn't help but associate them with barefoot Ethiopian soldiers shouldering rifles, an image conjured by the dark-skinned gentleman sitting before me. But now, as I gazed at these magnificent photographs and listened intently to Mr. Kapadia’s explanations, I found my perceptions beginning to shift somewhat. It was no longer entirely possible to imagine the king as merely a barefoot figure in formal attire; indeed, the royal family now appeared worthy of being perceived as an institution possessing both considerable authority and dignity. But be that as it may, there was one thing there that I simply could not bring myself to agree with. According to his account, even Europeans would salivate over India's true beauties, with no shortage of those whose fingers would twitch in desire; but that alone was something I simply could not bring myself to accept.

To be sure, I had thought that the Aryan lineage's features—with their straight noses, distinguished brows, and majestic bone structure—made them racially superior in physical terms, to the extent that Japanese people couldn't hold a candle to them; yet how could such beauty possibly exist within this soot-black complexion? My imagination utterly failed to conceive it. According to Mr. Kapadia's claims, women from Northern Kashmir and the Virupur region were fair-skinned and counted many world-renowned classic beauties among them—but while such specimens might indeed be worthy of admiration through the eyes of dark-skinned Indians like himself, from our perspective it remained unthinkable that this land could produce anything surpassing the Japanese beauties we were accustomed to, or the American actresses frequently seen in Hollywood films.

“This is the Bombay film actress.” “Don’t you think she’s a beauty?” Since I was smirking with an incredulous look, Mr. Kapadia, losing patience, produced a bromide of an Indian actress with thick, painted eyebrows. Her facial features were undeniably beautiful. Those dreamy eyes and intensely passionate features possessed an ethereal beauty that would not have been out of place among Hollywood actresses—though of course the photograph revealed nothing of her skin tone—and moreover, that cloying tropical sensuality struck me as something liable to drain a man’s vitality at a mere glance—hardly something to admire.

“Very well! Beauty depends on individual preferences, so it cannot be stated categorically,” he said. “However, there is no doubt that Europeans visiting India hold them in the highest admiration. Unfortunately, as I don’t have the photograph with me now, I cannot show it to you—a great pity.” Mr. Kapadia prefaced with genuine regret before beginning his account—a boastful story about how truly beautiful Princess Kamureshi, elder sister of His Highness the Crown Prince Narin of Virupur Kingdom, was.

"I believe it was when Colonel Bogilard of France first visited my country." "The Colonel was granted an audience with His Majesty the King; however, as His Highness the Crown Prince was traveling at the time, Princess Kamureshi received him instead—and the Colonel praised Her Highness's beauty in the most extravagant terms." "'I have never seen such a beautiful woman anywhere in the world.'" "'What words could possibly suffice?'" "'He struggled to find language worthy of her beauty.'" "'If one were to name the most beautiful and noble woman among all those created by the Maker,' Colonel Bogilard declared, 'it would be India's Princess Kamureshi.'" "Later, a correspondent from Britain's Manchester Guardian published an account of an audience with Her Highness in their newspaper. While regretting they couldn't show photographs—as Princess Kamureshi dislikes having her picture taken before Europeans—they wrote that should Her Highness ever visit Paris or London, Europe's foremost beauties would surely pale before her radiant complexion, noble bearing, and countenance of unearthly grandeur." "'They described how her eyes brimmed with melancholy contemplation,'" he continued, "'and how the lustrous depth of her skin—pale wheat mingled with alabaster—defied all attempts at description through our pens.'"

I struggled to suppress the laughter welling up inside me. Had my companion not been a foreigner, I might have tapped his shoulder with a “Don’t be absurd!” and doubled over laughing—but faced with Mr. Kapadia’s deadly earnest expression, I found myself unable to do so. Since there was no help for it, I too pretended a serious expression and played along. While everyone boasts about their country to some extent, when it goes this far, one can’t even carelessly nod along—I was utterly dumbfounded. While gazing at Mr. Kapadia’s jet-black face with its shaggy, bear-like beard and hearing such tales, how many people—even someone other than myself—could have believed them straight-faced? If it were merely about noble bearing or well-proportioned features, that would be one matter—but when confronted with talk of a peerless beauty who could astonish even Europe’s foremost beauties, the very act of nodding along became absurd, until finally I simply remained silent listening. My silent figure, seen through Mr. Kapadia’s agitated eyes, must have appeared to him as though I were expressing sympathy; he had been observing me with closed mouth, but now suddenly took on an air of indignant grief. “And that beautiful Princess—what do you think, Mr. Tachibana—those tyrannical British officials shamelessly attempted to disgrace her.” “They are creatures beyond even being called beasts—the epitome of insolence.” “In their eyes, even our revered Her Highness the Princess could only appear as some native girl!” he spat out bitterly. “I was working at the palace library at the time—”

Summarizing what Mr. Kapadia had told me: Her Highness the Princess had left the inner palace on some errand—a rare occurrence—and had come to Crown Prince Narin’s chambers in the outer palace, but unfortunately His Highness was not present. At that very moment, Sir Robert Jardine, the British Resident Official stationed in Virupur—having concluded his audience with the king and preparing to depart—happened to catch a glimpse of the princess’s resplendent figure through a fully opened doorway.

The unmarried Resident Official, whose heart burned with desire for the Princess’s beauty—reassured by the inopportune absence of maidservants or attendants—strode brusquely into the room. He pressed his long-held desires upon her, but under British sovereignty’s tragic weight, the Princess found herself unable to outright reject this brazen official’s impertinent advances—he who wielded absolute power within the palace—and could only bend like a willow before the wind while maintaining her composure. Yet when she sought to physically extricate herself from the Resident Official’s inhuman persistence—emboldened by British suzerainty—the embroidery needle in her hand accidentally grazed his body. It tore through his cheek, drawing blood; upon seeing crimson stain his fingers, he roared in fury. The Princess twisted away and fled down the palace corridor toward the inner chambers… At that precise moment, His Highness the Crown Prince ascended the stairs to return—witnessing the Resident Official’s insolence toward his sister, he suddenly brandished his riding crop and brought it crashing down upon the official’s head. Driven mad by being discovered in this shameful circumstance by His Highness, the Resident Official flew into a berserk rage and lunged demonically at him without restraint. Though His Highness was once struck down in this onslaught, when the Resident Official lunged forward a second time—in that instant—the pistol wrested from His Highness’s grasp fired a single shot that killed him where he stood.

“I had just graduated from Bombay University at that time and was organizing notes at the Crown Prince’s Library when I heard the commotion. By the time I rushed to the palace square, the Resident Official’s corpse was just being covered with a white cloth and carried out.” “I had been standing before the square, concerned whether any harm had come to Their Highnesses the Crown Prince and Princess—but upon hearing of the emergency, citizens sharing the same concern came streaming into the square one after another.” “They began shouting ‘Long live His Highness Crown Prince Narin!’ in unison, but soon His Highness appeared on the balcony and graciously acknowledged us with a bow.” “Though His Highness appeared to have a bandage on his right hand, when we citizens saw him smiling serenely without any change from his usual demeanor, we were so moved that tears of joy streamed down our faces.” “And just as we citizens were feeling relieved and about to head home—what should appear but British soldiers—the British always established garrison districts in each kingdom, stationing what they called Imperial Tribute Troops composed of mixed British and Indian soldiers—they had those garrison troops march out and surround the palace.” “Moreover, as if to demonstrate the might of their homeland, the blood-maddened British officer abruptly raised his command sword from horseback and ordered his men to open indiscriminate rifle fire upon this vast crowd.” “The citizens—innocent souls not even carrying a single dagger—were instantly engulfed in clouds of blood, resulting in hundreds of casualties there.” “Into the very heart of this hellish pandemonium, cavalrymen came charging forward with war cries, kicking up clouds of dust.” “They were determined to trample and scatter the crowd beneath their horses’ hooves.” “At that moment, every Indian present glared with fury in their eyes, every single one of them swearing vengeance against Britain someday.” “We Indians, stripped of all capacity to resist, could only raise our eyes to gaze upon His Highness the Crown Prince standing motionless on the palace balcony, fixedly watching us—retreating while glancing back again and again—yet His Highness at that moment raised his right hand and continued observing our dispersing crowd.” “Had we raised our voices, the British soldiers would have instantly shot us down as rioters—so we returned in silence, tears clinging to our eyes—yet never before had the hearts of our entire populace and His Highness the Crown Prince become so united in swearing vengeance against Britain.” “The anguish of a people whose entire nation has been reduced to ruin—this lies utterly beyond the comprehension of a Japanese man such as yourself. Yet we Indians today stand before Britain as infants bound hand and foot.” “Even were we to shed tears of blood, alas, we remain in a state where not a single thing can be avenged.” “We merely rushed to the palace out of concern for the safety of Her Highness the Princess and His Highness the Crown Prince.” “We had not harbored any ill intentions toward Britain.” “And even we who offer no resistance—the mere fact of gathering like this becomes pretext enough for British soldiers to trample us beneath their horses’ hooves without reason or justice.”

“This is Britain—crying out about humanity while professing itself as gentlemen—and its standard methods employed in India.” “To the British, could there be anything cheaper than an Indian’s life?”

“However, if a British Resident Official were killed, even if it were the Crown Prince, wouldn’t that lead to a major problem?” “So no blame was placed on the Crown Prince?” I inquired.

“Of course it became an issue.” “However, the British side must have realized that if any harm were to come to His Highness Crown Prince Narin this time, a major uprising would erupt throughout Virupur even without weapons.” “Since Sir Jardine himself was originally at fault, military police came, the Chief Justice of the High Court came—for a time things grew dangerously tense—but in the end, this incident was quietly buried without resolution.” “While the exact details remain unclear, it became widely rumored that His Majesty the King had specially visited the Viceroy of India at the capital over this matter, having expended a considerable amount of state funds on condolences for Sir Jardine's bereaved family and other related affairs.” “Though young in years, our Crown Prince had long held an unquestioned reputation as the most wise and capable among all India’s princely rulers—but what struck me most was His Highness’s bearing during such critical moments.” “Even amidst swirling rumors that His Highness’s safety was at risk—that danger loomed imminently—he would listen to researchers’ reports in the palace’s various institutes without the slightest change from his usual demeanor, appearing thoroughly engrossed.” “He would occasionally visit the Crown Prince’s Library where I worked, always with such serene composure that he would even nod graciously to us staff—yet in those moments, with a tenderness so profound one might mistake him for a woman, it was impossible to believe this was the same man who had disciplined that arrogant British official and upheld the royal dignity.” “When I gazed upon his figure, my heart swelled with the desire to revere such a wise and resolute leader as our kingdom’s true guide—not merely as a figurehead occupying an empty throne, had circumstances allowed.” “Whether in joy or sorrow, there is nothing as unreliable and lonely as the hearts of the people of a destroyed nation,” concluded Mr. Kapadia, bringing this long tale to its end.

I too had been leaning my cheek on my hand at the desk, utterly absorbed in Mr. Kapadia’s tale—but at this moment, even my own heart listening was permeated by the sorrow of a destroyed nation’s people, and I found myself unable to bear looking directly at Mr. Kapadia’s face. Of course, Mr. Kapadia too must not have intended to begin with such an impassioned tale from the start. What had begun with trivial boasts about some Indian beauty had somehow led to this, but evidently the swell of nostalgic longing for his homeland had become too much—for a while he simply lowered his dark face in silence. Eventually, as if awakening from a dream, he shook his head and said, “Let us forget it, let us forget it—no amount of thinking will change matters now.” “I have spoken of such trivial matters and ended up causing you such unpleasantness.” “Shall we go somewhere and have some tea?”

“Let’s do that. Let’s go somewhere and refresh our mood,” I said, starting to rise from my seat—but just then— “Ah, yes…” Mr. Kapadia suddenly brightened, as if he had forgotten to mention something crucial. “I became so engrossed in our conversation that I missed the opportunity to mention this earlier—but His Highness Crown Prince Narin, the very one I just spoke of, is coming to Japan this time.” “Two or three days ago, I too received notice.”

“The Crown Prince?” I exclaimed in surprise. “Could it be that after such an incident, he could no longer remain in his own country?” “There’s no such thing,” Mr. Kapadia replied with a bitter smile. “That matter was settled three years ago. But we’ve only just received sudden notice of His Highness’s visit to Japan two or three days back—as for his purpose in coming, we haven’t the slightest idea.” He paused, looking puzzled. “Or perhaps His Highness is merely stopping by on his way to Europe—that’s what I’ve been thinking.” “If His Highness comes,” he added, “shall I arrange for you to meet him once? He’s such a pleasant, down-to-earth person.” “Yes, please do!” Though I hadn’t particularly wanted to meet him either, I inquired, “Regardless of his reasons for coming, it must be delightful to have the chance to meet His Highness the Crown Prince?”

“Absolutely!” said Mr. Kapadia, unable to contain his joy as his previously darkened face broke into a beaming smile. “Coming to your distant country like this and being able to welcome my own nation’s Crown Prince here brings me extraordinary joy.” “Even within India, quite a number come to Japan from Bengal State, but from Virupur—including myself—there are only about ten of us.” “Once the notice had reached all six of them, there was already great excitement—whenever they meet, they can talk of nothing else,” he said with a smile. “If Mr. Pratarappu comes while I’m out, tell him I’ll return immediately so he should wait!” he instructed the maid, then turned to me: “Apologies for the wait.” “Now, let us depart,” he urged me.

It was late June... I remember it being before such a war had even begun. Had that Crown Prince from the story actually come to Japan, or had his visit been canceled amidst all this war commotion! It had been something barely occupying my thoughts—so carelessly had I forgotten it until today—but now, seeing this beautiful boy, Mr. Kapadia's story from that time came flooding back to me one memory after another.

Recalling with amusement how Mr. Kapadia had so vehemently insisted to me on the princess's beauty back then—"With such a magnificent boy existing, that princess must be quite the beauty indeed!"—I had been walking shoulder-to-shoulder with the youth along the dazzlingly lit streetcar-lined avenue from Varoda Trading Company at Surugadai toward Ogawamachi since earlier.

III

That evening when I walked out with the youth was truly refreshing—a night where the blowing wind felt as cool as water. The sweltering day had passed, leaving a beautiful moon shining in the clear evening sky—perhaps owing to this relaxed state of mind after some time—but rather than speeding off in a car, it felt like an evening where one might wish to leisurely savor the beautiful night. I thought of taking the national railway rather than a car, but when I asked if walking would be acceptable, came the reply: “Yes, please do!”

As I watched the boy follow behind in his gleaming, delicate white shoes—so much like women’s—click-clacking against the pavement, I found myself inexplicably compelled to ask such questions. The boy, evidently walking through Tokyo’s streets at night for the first time, followed along with visible delight. Before long, we stood on Manshaibashi Station’s platform, but when preparing to board the train, a flicker of perplexity flitted across the boy’s cheek for the first time.

“Are there any first or second-class cars attached?” “Though I’ve never ridden a third-class car before.”

It was common for foreigners in Japan to avoid the packed third-class cars and opt for second-class, yet I saw that same look of perplexity on this young Indian boy’s cheeks. I forced him into the third-class car with a wry smile, telling him not to be so fussy, but the moment we boarded, I found myself flustered instead. The countless jewels adorning his turban reflected the electric lights—though the youth had called them glass beads, they now emitted a radiance far beyond mere glass. Moreover, the beautiful youth’s face drew the attention of the packed passengers, and as if by prior agreement, they all fixed their gazes solely on his figure. Exasperated, and wondering if people would think I was proudly parading such a youth around, I kept as much distance as possible from him until the train reached Yūrakuchō. After exiting the station, we headed toward Nihon Gekijō without incident, but out front, a massive crowd had formed a long line waiting for tickets. Since that seemed disagreeable to the youth, we headed toward Hibiya Theater, but here too it was packed with people—no matter if we went upstairs or tried opening any door downstairs, the audience overflowed. We had gone to the trouble of entering, only to find ourselves perplexed. As I leaned against the wall in the hushed projection room during the screening, shoulder-to-shoulder with the youth, he suddenly lifted his cool eyes and began to speak.

“Are all the tickets about fifty sen?” "Why do you ask such a thing?"

“I am grateful for your kindness. I have not yet had the chance to stroll leisurely through Tokyo like this, so I am finding it most delightful. However, why doesn’t this theater divide tickets into three categories—the highest-priced, middle-priced, and cheapest? That way, I believe everyone could leisurely enjoy the films. Having all tickets at fifty sen may appear egalitarian, but doesn’t that actually cause inconvenience? I believe people should enjoy themselves according to their station, but what do you think?”

I stared in astonishment at the innocent boy’s lips.

“Excuse me! I noticed that detail and have become deeply interested in it just now—but might you find such talk tedious?” “Not at all—continue!” I urged, astonished.

“In cities like Bombay and Karachi there are many, but in my country we have not yet built any movie theaters.” “That is why I resolved to construct one cinema hall shortly before coming to Japan.” “Because I recognized how powerfully film’s educational and propagandistic force could reach even unlettered people.” “Having only drawn up plans before departing, it won’t be completed until around November this year—initially I intended to charge no admission fees whatsoever.” “Those surrounding me approved this scheme.” “Yet recently I’ve understood my error.” “By making it free, we’d wound people’s self-respect—I realized affluent classes wouldn’t deign to visit.” “The poor alone might abandon their labors to attend nightly—but constant attendance proves undesirable, while total absence poses equal difficulty,” the youth said, his fair eyes smiling.

“My intention was to create an educational space,” he said, “but those who come will likely consider it a place of entertainment provided to them. And allowing them to think so must be a good thing. Therefore, I ordered that admission fees be differentiated—ones appropriate to their social standing, ones that do not wound their self-respect. First class at four rupees, second class at two rupees, third class at half a rupee, and fourth class free—we haven’t firmly settled on those amounts yet, but that was roughly my thinking. And by coming here tonight, I realized my approach wasn’t mistaken. I intend to send word about this matter to my country without delay.”

I was utterly astonished and gazed fixedly at the youth’s face.

“Mr. Sheutan! Tell me your age again! How old did you say you were?” “Nineteen… Have you forgotten?” the youth asked, tilting his head with a laugh.

I was utterly lost in thought. You must all sense this as well—Hibiya Theater likely swallows and disgorges thousands upon hundreds of people each day. But how many of those Japanese boys crowding the corridor to watch movies had strolled through those halls harboring such thoughts? It was embarrassing, but I too had never once considered such matters. But what surprised me more was that despite his adorable face, the youth’s tone somehow exuded a dignified air—one imbued with the discernment of an entire household. "Moreover, I ordered the construction of one movie theater," the youth remarked as casually as if assembling a toy doll. Could something like a movie theater really be built so easily with just the pocket money of some eighteen- or nineteen-year-old child? No matter how small the movie theater, wasn’t this something that couldn’t be done without at least tens of thousands of yen? He had a splendid appearance and spoke as if he understood everything, but I couldn’t help feeling there was something slightly lacking in his grasp of the crucial points.

“How much does the movie theater you’re building cost?” Though I thought it absurd, I tried nodding along as if I’d become a child myself. “According to my calculations, the budget is sixty-five thousand rupees.”

I should note that at the current exchange rate, one rupee was valued at approximately 1 yen and 24 sen in Japanese currency. At 65,000 rupees, it roughly amounted to about 80,600 yen.

“Who will build it? Your father…?”

"No, I will build it." "And my sister is also expected to contribute a portion." "Therefore, once this is completed, I intend to bestow my sister's name upon the theater." "Are you that wealthy?"

“I’m not particularly wealthy,” the youth smiled. “But I do have that amount of money,” he continued. And astonishingly, this youth with eighty thousand six hundred yen in pocket money calmly looked up at the framed cabinet-sized portraits of Takarazuka actresses displayed nearby. “So, Mr. Sheutan! You came to Japan for that theater or some research, then.”

By now, it was something like moving only my mouth out of sheer inertia. I too glared up at the photo of Sayo Fukuko.

“No,” said the youth with eighty thousand six hundred yen, his expression unperturbed. “I came to attend school. To Kiryu University. Kiryu University’s renown in textiles and dyeing has reached even my country. It resonates more profoundly than the university in Frankfurt am Main, Germany. Since I don’t know German, I came to Japan thinking that if I must learn a new language from the beginning anyway— My country now desperately needs that technology. If I acquire this knowledge and return, I can expand the sphere of livelihood for the impoverished by that measure.”

While still gazing up at Ashihara Kuniko’s framed portrait, the youth effortlessly stated and dismissed the matter. “You must be aware of one of those people who was speaking with you earlier—that Javeri who was asking you about novels came with the intention of entering Kiryu University alongside me.” “As for the other Shaa, I brought him with the intention of enrolling him from high school into Imperial University to study electrical engineering.” “But above all, we must first learn enough Japanese within about a year or a year and a half to attend lectures without issue, though Mr. Kapadia has agreed to handle all arrangements on that front.”

According to the boy’s account, he had brought those two Indian youths and was currently staying at Manpei Hotel in Hirakawacho, but planned to soon rent a house somewhere, hire a tutor to study Japanese, and then enter Kiryu University or their respective schools. When he spoke of “Kiryu University,” he must have meant Kiryu Higher Technical School—yet as I listened, there were no particular inconsistencies in his explanation, though something vaguely expansive about it all remained, like a child’s story that somehow eluded concrete understanding. Now, can you all recall the term “eccentric” at this moment? When you consult an English-Japanese dictionary, you find overly complicated translations like “deviating from the center” or “being eccentric,” but to put it plainly, it simply means “offbeat.” Never before had I felt this term fit a circumstance so perfectly, without a single iota of discrepancy. It wasn’t that this youth’s mind was particularly eccentric—if anything, while marveling at how his scale might be somewhat misaligned yet containing flashes of genius-like intuition that made him extraordinary, I couldn’t help but find this entire situation utterly eccentric: here I was in a desolate lounge grappling with such dreamlike conversation while gazing at Ashihara Kuniko’s framed portrait, even as wartime sentiment intensified outside with streets filled with thousand-stitch belts, donation boxes, and the clanging bells of extra edition sellers. Even I felt my already dull mind growing increasingly absurd from being stirred up by this youth. Moreover, even as we relished this eccentricity, some amusing scene must have been playing inside—a fierce round of applause erupted, laughter surging through the crowd. Yet the boy showed no particular interest in viewing photographs; he seemed to find enjoyment solely in conversing with me this way. To compound matters, his unusual turbaned appearance attracted considerable attention here too—people who had come to smoke and female shop vendors had unwittingly formed a loose circle around us.

Any notion of enjoying the movie had completely vanished from my mind. Since there was nothing else to do, I thought I'd have a meal somewhere inconspicuous and then take this boy, who kept spouting nothing but trivial talk, back to Mr. Kapadia. But in Tokyo, the only place where escorting a youth dressed in such peculiar attire wouldn't draw attention would be the Imperial Hotel.

Though thoroughly exasperated, I resigned myself to the misfortune of having invited him out and slipped into the hotel bar along the arcade with a face like I’d bitten into a bitter bug.

While amicably dividing our eccentricities half-and-half between us, we now sat wordlessly—I gulping down beer after beer, the youth mixing cherry brandy with soda water—each raising our cups of wordless resignation. A clamorous crowd of drunken foreigners, seemingly fresh from a banquet, came barging in still clad in formal attire. Among them was a Yokohama-based American exporter named Paisley whom I had known before. When he caught a glimpse of my face, he raised one hand in a gesture of familiarity while staggering unsteadily. The instant his eyes fell upon the youth seated across from me, he froze like a man struck by lightning, still clutching his Western-style glass. He soon appeared to be engaged in boisterous conversation with his drunken companions while raising his Western-style glass, yet whether imagined or not, one couldn’t help but feel that Paisley’s gaze remained intensely fixed upon the youth. As I was thinking how strange things could be, the waiter soon arrived with a drink refill and, at the same time, presented Paisley’s business card. Understanding the situation, I stood up and went over as Paisley too extricated himself from his companions. When our eyes met at a corner of the counter, Paisley first ordered me a highball.

“What’s up? Haven’t seen you in a while,” he said, then leaned on someone’s elbow and glanced toward the youth sitting upright. “You’ve brought along quite the important person, haven’t you? How’d you get acquainted?” he asked with wide eyes.

“He’s from a country called Virupur. Near Kashmir.” “Virupur? The prince of Virupur?” “Prince?” This time, it was I who widened my eyes.

“What do you mean, 'Prince'?!” “Who’s the prince?!”

“Oh, you were drinking without knowing?” “Unbelievable,” said Paisley, his astonishment deepening. “A prince?!” “A proper prince! Did you truly not know?” he demanded suspiciously, peering into my face again. But seeing genuine shock in my eyes—no pretense—he suddenly pressed his liquor-scented lips to my ear. “I didn’t know about Virupur, but that’s unmistakably the face of India’s famed prince.” “I’ve seen it in photographs.” “First—look at that turban!” “That turban!” “No Indian wears such headgear save royalty.” “And those jewels!” he exclaimed as we turned together. Spotting the youth’s gaze upon us—unaware we spoke of him—he panicked and mashed his face against the counter.

“No mistake! He’s definitely the prince! I’d bet on it!” he groaned. “Look! He’s wearing magnificent jewels! The price alone is tremendous. That’s the hallmark of Indian royalty!”

The moment I realized this, I pulled out the tie pin I’d been fiddling with and set it down there.

“Look! “Glass or not glass?” “A diamond?!” Paisley took out his pince-nez and held it up to the light, then with unsteady drunken hands polished it perilously and examined it again between his knees before letting out an inscrutable “Hah!” through a smirk. “Fine! “If you don’t want it, I’ll take it off your hands for a fair price.”

“Wait, it’s not mine!” I hurriedly snatched up the diamond. “So he is the Crown Prince after all—without a doubt, the Crown Prince!” I murmured as if in a dream. “Could you introduce me?” Paisley whispered, but in my dreamlike state I forgot to respond and slid down from the high stool. The Indians’ deference toward the boy and the contradictory exchanges from earlier swirled through my mind like a whirlwind in an instant—and suddenly clicked into place.

“A friend?” The boy smiled at me as I returned to my seat, but I was in no state to respond. I stood there dazedly, still holding the tie pin in my hand. Could this person... Could this delicate, beautiful youth before me truly be the sagacious Prince Narin I had so often heard about from Mr. Kapadia? This beautiful boy? With my thoroughly confused mind, I stared at the beautiful boy's face before me—the face that was looking up at me in puzzlement—as if to bore holes through it. “What’s the matter? What could you be pondering so deeply?” The boy smiled, but in a quick-witted moment, I called out, “Mr. Sheutan!” “You mentioned earlier that when the movie theater is built, you intend to name it after your sister, didn’t you? What name will you give it?” I asked.

“I will name it Kamureshi Theater,” was the reply. So he was the Prince after all! I felt completely sobered up.

“You are Prince Narin, aren’t you?” “You are Prince Narin, aren’t you?” I repeated like a fool, stuck on that single point. “Unaware of this truth until now and having shown repeated discourtesies—I most humbly beg Your Highness’s forgiveness!” In a Japanese period drama, this would be the moment to declaim with dramatic flair—but such acting was beyond me.

"I hadn't realized," I said. "Even when seeing you and your turban, I still couldn't recognize who you were. But I had heard about you many times from Mr. Kapadia—about Princess Kamureshi and various other matters in detail." "But here I am not particularly His Highness—I am Mr. Sheutan," replied the Prince with a troubled frown. "Mr. Tachibana! Please call me Mr. Sheutan. That suffices. Virupur holds no relation to Japan. Shouldn't the Crown Prince of a British vassal state be nothing more than Mr. Sheutan to you? Oh, do sit down," he added, taking my dazed hand to make me sit. "I too have heard about you from Kapadia," he continued. "I knew of your goodwill toward my work and had been grateful for it." The Prince extended his beautiful hand. "I am also glad you became friends with me tonight." I desperately clutched that hand like a hawk seizing prey.

"I intend to do even more—as much as I possibly can." "I am your friend." "Even if you are the Crown Prince or not, I am already your friend." "Anyway, this is already delightful!" "Let’s drink more!" "Prince!" "You have another drink too!" "I’ll have another drink too!" I exclaimed, growing recklessly elated at having made friends with royalty. Partly, the intoxication from the beer I had guzzled down during that eccentric era was beginning to take effect. "And how is Princess Kamureshi?" I asked, carried away by my giddy excitement into posing such a foolish question. "Shall I show you my sister?" said the Crown Prince as he took out a small case from his left inner pocket. It was an extremely small golden case, but one that appeared to be inlaid with some kind of gemstones, shining brilliantly. "On the right is my father."

Indeed, that must be the Crown Prince's father—the current king. The old king with a long beard and turban revealed eyes and mouth that closely resembled those of the Crown Prince. And the moment I shifted my gaze to the left side, Mr. Kapadia's words from that day suddenly resurfaced in my mind. Those words—that even if one were to call her Europe's foremost beauty, none could surpass Her Highness Princess Kamureshi. At that moment, I had inwardly ridiculed Mr. Kapadia's words. Yet now, as I beheld the prince's countenance like crystalline jade before my eyes and confronted Princess Kamureshi's smiling figure within this case, who could possibly doubt Mr. Kapadia's words! An oval face, almond-shaped eyes that were enchantment incarnate, a gently curving mouth—graceful yet exuding sensuality! How late I had been in coming to know India! No matter what anyone said, India was my friend. I screamed inwardly that India was Japan's ally!

“Prince! No matter what anyone says, I am your friend! And please give my regards to Princess Kamureshi.” “I’ll do everything I can!” I grasped the Prince’s hand once more. “What will you do with that?” While somewhat troubled by my drunken state, the Prince took the pin I had been clutching in my hand trying to return, and reinserted it into my tie.

“I don’t particularly mind, but if it can be of service to you, then that would be sufficient.”

“No, I will return this!” “I thought it was a glass pin!” “If it’s that expensive, I don’t need it.” “I don’t want it at all!” I shouted.

“Mr. Tachibana.” “If we stay out too late, everyone will worry.” “Shall we return now if this meets your approval?”

With that, the Prince stood up.

“If you have time tomorrow, would you care to come to my hotel? There’s nothing special prepared, but shall we have a meal together and talk?”

“I’ll go! Of course I’ll go!” “I may be busy, but I’ll absolutely go!” I bellowed boisterously.

Ever since realizing the boy was Prince Narin, my enunciation had grown quite slurred, yet still I felt I hadn't drunk nearly enough. And if this boy was Prince Narin, I felt there were mountains of things—things I couldn't quite grasp myself—that I wanted to talk about with him even more and more.

IV

Of course, the very next day I resolved to visit the Crown Prince first thing, setting aside all other matters as promised. If I say this people might think me depraved—but ever since parting from the Crown Prince in that taxi last night, his beauty had clung stubbornly behind my eyelids, impossible to forget. Back in middle school there was this pimpled fool in our baseball crew who kept flunking grades yet chased after younger 'Yoka boys' like mad. Then there was that idiot who failed so much he ended up classmates with his own Chigo-san junior—having to get math lessons from him! But me? I'd already learned women's ways through that sweetshop waitress's guidance back then. How could any self-respecting guy chase after other guys? Filthy business—I wanted none of it, never understanding that whole scene.

Now that those baseball team members from back then had settled into respectable middle-aged men who wouldn’t even breathe a word about their Chigo antics, here I was alone suddenly awakening to the allure of Chigo. From the moment I woke up that morning, the Crown Prince’s beauty—so captivating it could rival a woman’s—kept lingering obstinately before my eyes since yesterday, and there was nothing I could do about it. I thought this feeling must be what they call male love, but to have come to understand the heart of a Chigo at my age—and of all people, for the object of such feelings to be an Indian man, no less than the Crown Prince of a nation—I couldn’t help but force a bitter smile at what an audacious fellow I was. However, since I hadn’t made any specific time arrangement anyway, once breakfast was finished, I decided to visit immediately.

But when I visited Manpei Hotel—truly, I was astonished— Far from being homosexual tendencies—far from being Chigo boy affairs—it was nothing of the sort. Despite Prince Narin having come incognito as Mr. Sheutan, it appeared British Embassy officials had already been alerted—though not a single line about him had appeared in Japanese newspapers—as an imposing Cadillac bearing embassy insignia sat parked before the hotel, its driver yawning grandly while awaiting his master. I sensed these might be visitors for the Crown Prince, but when I had the gold-buttoned attendant announce my card through his chin-strapped uniform collar, precisely as anticipated came the curt reply—“Guests from the embassy are currently present; kindly wait awhile”—before being coolly escorted to the downstairs reception room. My pederastic fancies vanished with a whoosh, but since I hadn’t come to vie with those embassy brutes anyway, I arrived wearing my everyday suit with threadbare knees and mud-caked shoes squelching across the floor—though such hotels naturally catered to guests far grander than I. The attendants treated this peculiar visitor with extreme parsimony, as if I were some disoriented diplomat’s aide, so my pent-up fury erupted—and finding myself alone—I thoroughly wiped my muddy shoes on the reception room’s splendid carpet. And though we’d grown so intimate yesterday, I now regretted befriending one so far above my station—resolving that if even His Highness grew dazzled by these illustrious callers and made me wait endlessly, damn it all—I’d sever ties myself and leave posthaste. The meeting must have been gravely important indeed—the discussions dragged on interminably with no one coming to fetch me. Having scraped off shoe mud and straightened trouser creases by hand to no avail—Should I leave? Go now?—my irritation mounted, yet one thing anchored me: last night’s beautiful impression of Mr. Sheutan’s innocent speech as we conversed so cordially. That alone kept me lingering—irritation notwithstanding—blunting my resolve to depart.

Thus, when Halvadan Javeri—the attendant with whom I had discussed The Story of Shunkin at Varoda Trading Company just yesterday afternoon—came hurrying to fetch me, I was already thoroughly sulking. Petulantly thinking “After all, I suppose I wasn’t such an important friend,” I didn’t even deign to respond to him. “We never intended to keep you waiting this long, but some troublesome matters arose, and His Highness the Crown Prince feels terribly sorry about it.” “Please, come in!” “If you were to leave now, there’s no telling how disappointed His Highness would be later,” said Javeri, who revered me as a literary master surpassing Jun'ichirō Tanizaki, doing his utmost to placate my anger. “Please, come in!” “Please,” and nearly having my hand seized by this dark-suited attendant, I stepped out with delicate, lotus-like steps. However, all four east-facing rooms on the third floor appeared to have been reserved entirely for the Crown Prince’s entourage. Just as Javeri now tried to open the door at the farthest end, brushing past us from within emerged who must have been the British Embassy’s Second Secretary they had been discussing—a towering gentleman in a white linen suit, holding a helmet in his right hand, so tall one had to crane one’s neck to see him, seemingly having brought his wife along. He paid me no mind whatsoever; as we passed each other, he cast a haughty sidelong glance that might as well have sneered, “What’s this Japanese diplomat doing here?” before exiting. For his part, Mr. Tachibana had no particular desire to curry favor with the British Embassy either, so he threw back his shoulders and strode inside in his polished shoes with deliberate swagger. But as soon as I stepped inside and looked around—I repeat—there was no such thing as male love or Chigo boys. I couldn’t help but feel perplexed, even now, at having become friends with such a truly remarkable person. That is to say, this was most likely the royal attire—albeit unofficial—meant for being received by British Embassy officials. At the deepest part of the room beyond the approximately eight-tatami waiting area—which stretched straight through—the figure of the Crown Prince, who had now risen from his chair and was beaming a smile toward me, wore a pale yellow silk upper garment that draped to his knees, just as I had seen in photographs, striking in its brilliance, and had donned trousers fastened below the knees. And he wore shoes of pure Indian style called Mojadi, while upon the front of last night’s turban shone the Korongi—the royal emblem I had previously seen in photographs, studded with five-colored jewels blazing in splendor and adorned with bird feathers. From the collar of the Crown Prince’s garment down to every button, all were gemstones akin to sacred Buddhist ornaments. In that room veiled in dimness yet aglow with radiance, I beheld there a prince from the ancient Arabian Nights, dazzlingly resplendent enough to blind the eyes with his brilliance.

The jewel-like Prince, shimmering with light, was now quietly making his way toward me. Moreover, the Crown Prince’s smiling cheeks retained their bluish-gray hue, yet now reflected the yellow of his garments with a faint red tinge, forming a beautiful agate color that seemed to shimmer. Should I call it majestic dignity or graceful elegance? Ethereal beauty or dreamlike illusion! Toward India—this nation with six thousand years of tradition that we had mocked as both a ruined country and foolish ancient civilization, never deeming it worthy of consideration—I felt for this moment alone an irrepressible urge to bow my head in wordless reverence. Other than "ecstasy" and "mystery," I possessed no vocabulary. Moreover, the Crown Prince carried not the slightest air of self-importance.

“How about it, Mr. Tachibana?” came the voice as my hand was grasped over the chairback, followed by “Please come this way!” uttered in that same gentle, childlike tone unchanged from yesterday. “Thanks to you last night, I truly had an enjoyable evening. “It was most enjoyable, but are you feeling unwell this morning?” he asked, tilting his lovely face and smiling as he offered me a cigarette.

“Since I have no pressing matters, please feel free to stay and enjoy yourself at leisure.” “With nothing to occupy me, I find myself bored to distress every day.” From beside him emerged Rajik Shaa—another attendant studying electrical engineering, a taciturn youth whose face perpetually wore a scowl—who added stiffly: “As our luggage remains undelivered, His Highness lacks reading material and endures daily tedium.” “His Highness expressed great delight at last night’s enjoyment,” he concluded with formal rigidity.

I found myself strangely unsettled by the Crown Prince's dazzlingly feminine attire—though I had heard this was his everyday wear at the palace, my body kept stiffening involuntarily during our conversation. Yet His Highness himself showed no concern whatsoever, his graceful garments fluttering like butterfly wings as if we were childhood friends—though of course he wasn't consciously making them flutter; to me, it could only be described as a butterfly's dance—before taking a seat at my right side. Returning to his initial position, he engaged in casual banter with unreserved ease in response to my questions.

Initially, the conversation stemmed from machinery I had shipped to India through Varoda Trading Company—comparisons of performance and relative merits between British and German products—a subject that appeared to greatly fascinate His Highness himself. However, I harbored no interest whatsoever in matters like industrial development or production expansion, particularly since the machinery sent to India represented nothing more than administrative busywork dangling from the fringes of daily life. Having already forgotten what exactly I'd dispatched, our discussion remained fundamentally misaligned no matter how long it continued. When the Crown Prince saw me scratching my head in consternation, he likely perceived my disinterest in this direction. He shifted course to inquire why I didn't write novels about India. His Highness cited titles from books he'd read, but as these were all classical works toward which I similarly couldn't muster enthusiasm, this conversation too failed to gain momentum.

Eventually, the conversation shifted abruptly to the issue of national spirit. The Crown Prince's expression became indescribably lonely as he remarked with a sigh that if only the spirit of India's people were comparable to that of the Japanese, then no matter how severe the afflictions of caste or linguistic diversity might be, India would never have fallen into such pitiful fragmentation under Britain's cruel oppression. "The current Indian royalty ruin themselves with opium; the lower classes destroy themselves through ignorance and lack of education. Among today's minor kings and major kings, how many do you suppose have been completely saved from opium?" he said sorrowfully. This young Crown Prince—likely constrained by his position—appeared forbidden from indulging in limited hobbies like literature or music, his entire focus devoted to strengthening national power and liberating his homeland from British bonds. I thought this must constitute what they call the kingly way of governance, but found it inexpressibly poignant—this princeling denied even youthful diversions, wholly consumed by labors for national prosperity.

When I asked, “Does Your Highness’s country have novels?” the Crown Prince blushed in embarrassment and replied, “The Kacchi language is truly uncivilized—we can speak it, but it has no written form.” “However, in Gujarati there are four or five writers.” “As for all of India, there are probably three or four hundred writers composing in Indian languages.” “However,” he said with a lonely blink, “since freedom of expression is being severely suppressed, Indian writers can only rush into vulgar romances or else escape into philosophical or poetic meditations—they cannot write anything else.”

At any rate, as I sat deeply reclined in a chair in a quiet, secluded hotel room facing the painting-like Crown Prince while listening to tales of foreign lands, I felt my very mood dissolving into this exotic atmosphere—though the strongly spiced tea had already been refreshed several times by Shaa since earlier. And yet, rather than conversing with the Crown Prince in such attire here, I found myself unable to forget yesterday's Mr. Sheutan in familiar European clothes, whose presence felt far more approachable. When I brought it up with a grin, the Crown Prince promptly agreed.

“Seeing you so lively while drinking beer brings me pleasure too,” he said with a smile unchanged from yesterday’s gentle tone as he grasped my hand over the chairback. “Since I meant to dine with you regardless, let us go see Kabuki now.” He then added something in his native tongue to Shaa—whose imposing figure stood nearby—while suggesting, “And today we shall take Shaa along too.” Instantly, delight bloomed across Shaa’s cheeks. “Pray excuse me while I change—Shaa will attend you,” said the Prince as he withdrew to another chamber. No sooner had his figure vanished beyond the door than Shaa practically draped himself over my chair, leaning so close his face nearly crushed mine as he hushed his voice.

“Given considerations toward the British Embassy, would you be so kind as to keep His Highness the Crown Prince’s identity strictly confidential for the time being—entrusting it solely to your heart and revealing it to no one?” “There’s something I must urgently request… You are aware of it, yes?” “Just now as well, Second Secretary Graves came to visit…” I nodded while staring fixedly into Shaa’s eyes. “Even when coming to your country, we cannot know where or what kind of eyes might be watching.” “We are making every effort to ensure that even our fellow countrymen residing in your country do not meet His Highness the Crown Prince.” “Regarding His Highness the Crown Prince’s stay in Japan, the embassy side does not hold favorable impressions—and since we are well aware of this, I must earnestly request your continued discretion.”

“……” I nodded again. And then I asked, “Mr. Kapadia too?” “No! No!” Shaa broke into a smile. “That person, like us, is someone who graduated from school through His Highness the Crown Prince’s scholarship.” “We’ve even entrusted matters like finding a house and hiring maidservants to that person, so there’s absolutely no need for concern regarding that person.” And Shaa, perhaps reassured by my nod, took a seat beside me and began speaking somewhat more loudly than before.

Britain was applying intense pressure on Japanese goods—particularly by forcefully restricting the importation of inexpensive Japanese textiles essential to the Indian masses—and endeavoring to compel them to purchase expensive British textiles. For the Indian populace lacking purchasing power, this meant living in misery, and even within Virupur Kingdom, the poor could scarcely obtain proper clothing—such was the current state of affairs. Unable to turn a blind eye to this situation and secondly as an employment initiative for the poor, His Highness had previously established three small-scale textile factories at locations within Virupur Kingdom; however, he explained that in order to develop these into a larger domestic industry, His Highness himself had taken the lead in coming to Japan to study sericulture. Despite vehement opposition from British Resident Officials—with the British administration disapproving of study in Japan and desperately persisting in recommending enrollment at Manchester University instead—the Crown Prince had overruled them to come here; moreover, it was said that while His Highness now abhorred empty discussions of Indian revolution and independence like venomous snakes and scorpions, forbidding all such political conspiracies among Virupur people and exclusively encouraging national strength cultivation, he himself had apparently harbored independence designs deep in his heart since his days at Ajmer’s aristocratic academy. For this reason, defying his father the king and the British administration’s expectations that he should eventually join the Imperial Cadet Corps like other royalty, he resolutely withdrew into seclusion within Virupur proper. However, from the perspective of close attendants like Shaa and Javeri—who earnestly prayed for His Highness the Crown Prince to take slightly more personal leisure for the sake of his health, rather than remaining absorbed in such perilous political concerns—they began speaking with heartfelt sincerity: should Mr. Tachibana kindly become His Highness's companion in such matters during this fortunate opportunity, nothing could bring them greater happiness. And Shaa himself, his face radiating devotion and loyalty, had been pounding his chest while vividly showing he would never fear death for His Highness’s sake at any time—but the moment the Crown Prince threw open the door and appeared, Shaa instantly fell silent and stood there again like a stone. I had earlier exhaustively described the beauty of His Highness the Crown Prince clad in Indian royal attire, but now seeing his small-statured figure in a light gray serge suit that seemed airy, paired with a deep gray helmet befitting it, and wearing stylish gray suede shoes that even a woman might use—this too was an indescribable loveliness.

“I apologize for keeping you waiting.” “Let us depart!” “Shaa, you come too!” Following this young Crown Prince who had taken the lead, we too stepped out of the elevator—and there, for an instant, I witnessed a truly bizarre spectacle. It was precisely as we passed before the wide-open reception room adjacent to the front desk that I observed Javeri—seated near the entrance—engaged in animated conversation with a lavishly dressed young Western woman. Yet the moment she glanced upward, this noblewoman appeared struck by some invisible force, abruptly abandoning Javeri to rise stiffly upright. And then, shouting something—a cry or two—she tried to rush toward the Crown Prince. Javeri seemed to be standing there in a daze, but before one could even process the thought, the enormous Shaa had interposed himself before the Crown Prince. With his mountain-like frame beginning to shift, he seemed to press the woman inexorably back into the reception room.

Just as the car drew up alongside us, His Highness stepped onto the running board without so much as twitching an eyebrow, and I followed him inside, leaving me no way to know what transpired afterward. When Shaa eventually slid into the front passenger seat, he remained silent as stone. Since His Highness too maintained his composure without uttering a word, I alone could not rudely break the silence, and thus I eventually buried this memory in my heart as a fleeting incident that had crossed my mind; yet for some time afterward, comparing the opulent attire of the noblewoman I had just seen with His Highness's excessively composed demeanor, I could not help but feel a sense of profound strangeness. Of course I could not imagine any unsavory shadow connecting this pure young Crown Prince with that noblewoman, nor could I conceive of some political scheme between them; thus even within the moving automobile, I remained gripped by bewilderment for some time.

Five

Now then, had His Highness the Crown Prince been staying at the hotel for perhaps a little over a month? I continued visiting whenever free time permitted, as he suggested, though it seemed His Highness wished to abandon this unsettled hotel life at the earliest opportunity to devote himself fully to Japanese studies. However, since the desired residence differed entirely from cheap lodgings commonly found about—being of such grand scale that ordinary people could scarcely afford it—they struggled terribly to find any dwelling meeting these specifications. The house search appeared primarily handled by Mr. Kapadia, Shaa, and Javeri working separately, but before they could find suitable quarters, the lingering summer heat gradually faded until autumn's chill finally began drifting through the capital gates. Around that time, their arduous house hunting seemed to have finally borne fruit when I heard they'd found precisely what they wanted near Akasaka's Reinanzaka slope. Coinciding with this development, His Highness's luggage and automobile arrived via the next available ship, while his personal chef from the palace and two or three other servants had just reached Japan. I recall Varoda Trading Company in Surugadai being thrown into daily chaos by these belongings and attendants during that period. According to Mr. Kapadia—who visited the shop beaming with joy for the first time in ages—this rental property was a lavish Japanese-Western hybrid mansion built by a certain pro-Japanese American magnate, boasting over twenty rooms and extensive gardens that apparently delighted His Highness immensely. We settled on a one-year contract with rent set at 380 yen—I nearly asked whether that was monthly or yearly—but really, whichever it might be amounted to trifling sums anyway. Truly a trivial matter! Merely 380 yen! The security deposit covered six months' rent, with Mitsui Trust managing the property since its pro-Japanese owner's death. As all lease documents were drafted in Japanese, they requested some respectable Japanese national serve as formal guarantor—hence their plea: "Might you endure this inconvenience?" Since my connection with His Highness remained strictly personal and Varoda Trading Company's business dealings hadn't yet reached such commitments, I resolved to become guarantor myself and sent Mr. Kapadia off radiating relief like a man boarding salvation's vessel. Yet seeing his unburdened excitement after so long made me feel this affair had become inescapably my own.

Whether acting purely personally or borrowing the shop's name, for someone as insignificant as myself—hardly a man of consequence no matter how you looked at it—to audaciously become a guarantor for monthly installments of 380 yen each was already an extraordinary presumption. One might think even society's estimation of me could be gauged with minimal reflection, yet my failure to grasp this revealed the faint haze clouding my judgment. In the midst of spouting nonsense to Javeri and others, I began half-believing my own fabrications—after all, I'd written extensively for Bungeishunju, so perhaps the world now respected me at least as much as "Professor Tachibana." This delusion proved the root of my monumental blunder. Professor Tachibana? Not even close! It was an utterly heartless tale—and so when two or three days had passed and all relocation preparations were complete for exchanging contracts, the Crown Prince being free at the time accompanied us partly for leisure; I naturally intended to serve as crucial guarantor and stamp the seal, thus hung the preposterously large ancestral seal around my neck; then with Shaa and Javeri and Mr. Kapadia! I had led this grand entourage and marched in with spirited bravery and gallantry—but damn! What fame? What career advancement? Not a shred of either! Such was the case. To make matters worse, had I known this would happen, I should have gone quietly on my own; yet precisely because I went with such a grand entourage, I ended up making an utter fool of myself—so much so that even if I were to forget this humiliation, I resolved never again to put on such literary airs, having learned my lesson through and through. Moreover, it wasn't just me who had been put through the wringer. Even the Crown Prince of India, who had come all the way to Japan with boundless goodwill, when faced with a first-rate Japanese corporation—nay, a corporation so esteemed in Japan that it stood shoulder to shoulder with giants like Mitsui or Mitsuya—could scarcely receive humane treatment from its employees.

Now then, I shall proceed to describe that scene in some detail. There on Marunouchi Nakadori Street stood the magnificent reception room of the renowned Mitsui Trust Company. Due to some shift in circumstances, however, the discussion had diverged considerably from what we had previously heard from Mr. Kapadia. "You may say that," said the employee, "but given our considerable difficulties with Indian clients until now, we unfortunately find ourselves unable to extend immediate trust." "The other day we carelessly mentioned that possibility through our usual mumbled procedures," he continued with affected nonchalance, "but we've made no firm decision about leasing yet. While it depends somewhat on your Japanese guarantor, our company has had quite enough experience with Indian parties." This greeting came delivered in mumbled English. The speaker was a seemingly frivolous thirty-two- or thirty-three-year-old employee - likely returned from overseas assignment. Of course his English was perfectly fluent.

While I understood his polished English, you might wonder what this "mumbled English" meant—it came from this bastard’s excessive imitation of Westerners, a Japanese man straining to produce what he imagined as authentic American-accented English through his nose, which to my ears inevitably sounded like nasally broken snuffling. The wretch meant to declare: Japan’s top-tier companies in this age of progress don’t deign to count Indian colored races among civilized people! He likely intended to demonstrate this very point, but I found it excruciatingly difficult to suppress laughter at his mumbled English. Of course, the Crown Prince himself faced no direct brunt of this. He remained seated in silence, merely observing the employee’s face, but the more proudly and self-assuredly the man spoke English, the more acutely I felt my shame as a fellow Japanese—unable to lift my head before the young Crown Prince.

“Could I meet with the manager?” Shaa said, sounding as though he could no longer hold back. “As I’ve just explained,” this Fugafuga retorted curtly, “the Fugafuga manager is too busy to meet with you.” “So which Japanese person intends to become the guarantor? “Is it you?” he asked, switching to Japanese as he turned toward me. “Yes,” I said, pushing my chair forward slightly.

“Excuse me, but may I have your name?” I too awkwardly produced my business card, but unfortunately my card contained no address. Except for my business cards, I did not include my address. This was not solely due to the audacity of assuming that if one were truly Professor Tachibana, an address would be unnecessary, but also because I had grown weary of wasting business cards with each frequent relocation, leading me to omit addresses from the start—as if patenting a novel idea.

“There’s no address listed here at all.” “The address is Suginami Ward… I’ll write it in properly.”

“Please write it down!” I began writing with the fountain pen Shaa had offered. What a shady character, without even an address printed on it! With a face that practically screamed as much, the Fugafuga guy stared intently at my hands.

"I hope you don't mind my asking, but how do you know these people?" "We’re friends!" "So does that mean you’ve been to India before?" "I’ve never been to India, but being involved in trade is how I came to know Mr. Kapadia here." "Through that introduction, we became friends." "Excuse me, but may I ask your business’s name?" "I don’t believe that’s necessary." "It’s not my shop providing the guarantee." "And besides, I haven’t been visiting the shop much lately."

“If I may ask, do you have some other occupation?”

“I do some writing on the side.” “I’ll serve as guarantor in that capacity.” It’s personal! Personal, damn it! Here, imagine me recoiling slightly.

“So you’re in the writing profession, I take it?” “Well, that’s how it is.” “Understood. Please wait a moment.” “Please wait a minute,” this bastard spat out. He couldn’t arrange a meeting with his superiors—a pitiful wretch who couldn’t make decisions even on his own authority. Before long, he reappeared. “I’m afraid we really must inquire about the name of the shop you’re associated with.” “As for your writing profession—mumble mumble mumble!”

This bastard hedged. “Then may I inquire about the exact name of your establishment?” “Fine then,” “Mitsuya Shokai,” I replied wretchedly. “And Mitsuya Shokai-san’s address?” “Such-and-such location,” I answered. “Please wait a moment.”

“Could you let me meet the manager?” he said, likely feeling uneasy now that his companion clearly wasn’t any literary luminary. Shaa repeated the request. What was he doing repeating the same thing twice! With a sidelong glare that might as well have voiced this criticism aloud, the clerk disappeared through the door. When he reappeared this time, he entered with an air of finality—leisurely, unhurried—as if declaring all matters settled.

“Thank you for waiting.” “Mr. Tachibana is not the president of Mitsuya Shokai!” He must have checked even the credit report. Though no one had claimed I was president, he first shot me a sharp glare. “As we find your response somewhat unsatisfactory at present, we must ask you to wait four or five more days before giving our final answer...”

“However, we were told that if you came today, the contract could be exchanged—that’s why we were instructed to bring one Japanese person with us!” “Under such unsatisfactory conditions on our end, I’m afraid any promises made would be rather meaningless,” sneered this detestable little clerk.

“If we don’t conduct our own thorough investigation...” “We trusted your promise and have already packed everything—we’re ready to move in at any moment.” “We want a clear answer—yes or no.” “Are you saying you can’t approve this because we’re Indians?” Shaa pressed.

“You mustn’t misunderstand us,” Mr. Kapadia interjected. “If we had any dissatisfaction with you people, we would have clearly refused you from your very first visit,” he fumbled, his words trailing into mumbled English. “When you put it that way,” I finally snapped, unable to contain myself any longer, “it rings rather hollow indeed.” “Are you suggesting there’s no issue with our Indian friends who wish to rent,” I pressed forward, my pride now fully engaged, “but you take issue with their Japanese guarantor?” My stubbornness wouldn’t permit retreat at this juncture. I met this insolent foreign-educated clerk’s polished English head-on with the self-taught phrases I’d cobbled together in my bed years ago. Behold! The scene unfolded thus: Even now, the cunning British Empire deployed every underhanded scheme at its disposal to display open hostility toward our nation. The Japanese people’s indignation toward England had reached its zenith. Was this not precisely when our nation should unite as one? When we ought to extend every sympathy and fellowship to our fellow people of color in India through warm friendship? Such were the noble sentiments of Mr. Tachibana—that self-styled literary master—and so grammar be damned! Irregularities be damned! Pronunciation be damned! I felt driven to confront this wretch in English—to convey my righteous fury to the Crown Prince and my Indian companions, to repay this personal insult through linguistic combat. They say couples grow alike, and indeed my wife might have been narrowing her eyes in satisfaction these days—her husband finally showing buds of promise beyond his shopkeeper’s salary, his writings beginning to sell, perhaps even verging on becoming a proper “sensei.” But no! Not yet, woman! Not yet! At this very moment, I screamed internally that I still hadn’t become a true “sensei”!

“We cannot wait four or five days.” “We can’t wait four or five days without valid reason.” “These individuals have all come to Japan under pressure to study in Britain instead—they only want to enter Japanese schools.” “They don’t have a single acquaintance among Japanese people yet.” “I am the manager of Mitsuya Shokai that you investigated.” “As manager, there’s no need to drag the shop’s name into every personal matter—that’s why I’ve kept repeating I came here as a friend.” “In this situation, I came because as a Japanese person I feel compelled to assist them.” “As a Japanese person, I came because I share every sentiment you might feel.” “Even if the name means nothing, shouldn’t my actual income suffice?” “Even so—am I still unqualified as guarantor?” After delivering this challenge in English to Mr. Fuga, he was dismissed outright. History records that Mr. Tachibana’s crude bedside English proved so laborious he broke into profuse sweat.

Six When I write about such things in Japanese, no matter how much I protest that it wasn't like that, the tone comes off remarkably polished—so much so that it almost looks as if I'd majestically cowed Mr. Fuga into submission—though the truth was entirely different. To make matters worse, my frenzied opponent happened to be a master of that mumbled English, leaving me in dire straits—sweat dripping, brow-wiping, a whirlwind of exertion. Let it be understood that what follows was a string of peculiar English exchanges between Japanese men.

And so the Q&A resumed. "I quite understand your point, but... f-f-fu-ga-fu-ga—even if you insist on such logic—" Fuga leaked a bitter smirk, whether disgusted by my self-taught English or wearied by this profitless discussion. That unfeeling smirk startled me. "This isn't about logic at all. Don't you understand what I'm saying? If you're dissatisfied with the guarantor, I'm not forcing you to accept me. But since my personal obligation compels me to help these people regardless, I intend to find a guarantor who meets your standards. This isn't for your company's sake. It's for their sake. I'll do it today if needed—so tell me clearly whether this sudden four or five-day investigation delay stems from issues with me or with these Indian people."

“Since we consider these people to be of considerable standing among Indians,” Mr. Fuga stammered, “we were thinking—perhaps they could visit the British Consulate or similar institutions to have a suitable Japanese guarantor arranged.” “It is absolutely impossible.” “These people refuse to bow their heads like beggars before the British.” “Though problematic to explain in detail, they hold far higher status in India.” “Then why in blazes did you demand we bring a Japanese person in the first place?!”

“In other words, while we don’t personally suspect you, our company requires that we first investigate the background of anyone serving as guarantor.”

“Are you saying I’m some kind of fraud?” “I’m afraid I don’t understand the definition of ‘fraud’,” he retorted, though he had no trouble inserting that very Japanese term into his speech. “To put it plainly—st-stammering—we would prefer a Japanese guarantor with somewhat greater social standing,” the bastard finally snapped, clearly seething.

“Understood.” “I’ll find someone of social standing to help these people.” “For example,” Mr. Fuga interjected with affected nonchalance, “someone who owns a shop along the tram line and runs a f-f-fu-ga proper business or such.”

“Understood.” “I will search the main street.” So I thought about roaring even louder, but if I kept roaring and venting my frustration only for him to say, “I’m sorry, but we cannot rent you the house,” then all would be lost. So I decided to suppress my seething frustration here and now.

“Shaa!” called the Crown Prince for the first time. His voice remained as composed as ever, showing no trace of agitation. Then he rapidly issued an instruction to Shaa in Kacchi. “To fulfill the one-year contract,” Shaa relayed, “we have already pledged to deposit six months’ security fee according to your regulations.” “However,” he continued, “my master now clarifies: we shall maintain the original one-year contract while depositing the full year’s security fee.” “Furthermore, we will pay the rent monthly in advance.” “This should eliminate the need for a guarantor. Therefore, we would like to formally request Mr. Tachibana—the most trustworthy associate on our side—to serve as witness instead.”

All at once, something hot surged up in my chest. As a Japanese person, I found myself moved not by my compatriots but by the Indian people. It was these very Indians whom this Japanese clerk so thoroughly despised that stirred me. And even as that same Japanese man was in the midst of utterly humiliating me, it was the Indians who splendidly rescued my standing. Had there been no witnesses, I might have seized the Crown Prince's hand and pressed it to my brow in gratitude.

“How does that sound?” Shaa continued. “If our discussions still fail to reach an agreement under these terms,” said Mr. Fuga with bureaucratic detachment, “we have no desire to press you further and will instead seek alternatives elsewhere.” “You may do as you please,” stammered Fuga, now obstinately avoiding me, “but even if you were to pay the full security deposit, our company would still require a guarantor.” “Because if—st-stammering—after a year when the contract expires, some dispute arises where you refuse to vacate,” he continued with mechanical indifference, “we’ll still need a Japanese person to assume guarantor responsibility.” “However, since the discussion has taken an unexpected turn,” he added, already half-rising from his chair, “please wait while I consult the manager!” “St-stammering—”

“If you require a guarantor for such pettifogger-like dealings, then even someone like me could fulfill the role admirably!” I shouted, unable to contain myself.

“But there’s no need for further discussion! In accordance with the method I just mentioned, I will have another Japanese guarantor provided. Then, just to confirm—what exactly defines a person as having social status? For instance, would the mayors of the six major cities qualify?” “When you say ‘the mayors of the six major cities’...?” Fuga’s fool, oblivious to being mocked, posed his inquiry directly. “For example, something like the Tokyo Mayor or Osaka Mayor?”

"I don't know about the mayors of Tokyo or Osaka, but would the mayor of Yokohama qualify as a guarantor?" "That's acceptable!" "If it's the mayor of Yokohama, then of course that's acceptable—st-stammering." "—st-stammering." All Japan's dear mayors should rejoice! Mitsui Trust Company had declared that mayoral office carried social status.

“Then we will proceed accordingly. However, since this was my behind-the-scenes effort and I now have no further relation with your company, return the business card I gave you earlier!” In the end, I too had resorted to making demands. “Wait a moment!” I snatched back my business card and bolted outside without waiting for a response. The Crown Prince and all the Indians rose from their seats in unison. Leading the group, I strode briskly through the door. I fancied myself akin to Mussolini commanding Ethiopia, but the real problem lay ahead—Fuga had acquiesced too easily, and now with unstoppable momentum, I had to negotiate with my bald-pated landlord, that former Yokohama Mayor from a decade past. It struck me now with bitter clarity—those lacking social standing remain utterly worthless regardless of sincerity—but dwelling on this truth served no purpose at this late hour.

“Mr. Tachibana,” came the address as we stepped into the entrance—and suddenly the Crown Prince took my hand. “I truly appreciate your kindness, but I do not wish to cause you any more trouble, so I think I will go to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs now.” “Since I have some acquaintances at the Asia Bureau, I think I’ll have the Ministry of Foreign Affairs arrange something, but…”

“It’s no good,” I snapped, my agitation boiling over. “This matter is no longer your quarrel.” “This is now a dispute between me and that company.”

I had suffered a grave insult. Even if you all say it's acceptable now that we've come this far, I wouldn't feel resolved unless I saw this through to the end. You dragged me into this. Now I'll drag you out. If my efforts ultimately prove insufficient, you may go to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs or wherever else you please afterward. "That's beyond my concern now," I said. "Just follow my lead without another word." Brusquely, I hailed an approaching automobile.

He must have been contemplating something, but the Crown Prince voiced none of it. When he saw me leap into the car without ceremony, he silently followed suit. The two automobiles bearing my half-frenzied self went racing toward my suburban home—though should you imagine some grand mansion befitting a Yokohama Mayor’s tenant, dear readers, spare yourselves such needless worry. Even a mayor’s rental needn’t be anything but modest. In one such dwelling I’d nested, paying rent every other month to this baffled ex-mayor—though having governed proved no marvel. Before mayoral days, he’d been some prefectural governor, yet appeared merely a tedious codger who labored year-round over morning glories and chrysanthemums. His own mansion stood but a block from mine, whence he’d often shuffle through my back door in filthy work clothes, bearing plant pots like cherished daughters. “What say you! This one’s prime—display it awhile!” he’d insist. “Grow bored and I’ll swap it out!” An infernal nuisance—those eyesores couldn’t be left to wither reverently on the veranda nor risked to meddlesome children’s hands. My wife had mastered buttering up “Landlord Uncle” with endless chrysanthemum talk to wheedle rent reductions—schemes now culminating in this frantic assault upon his dignity. When we burst in, our human candle-flicker sat oblivious in his study—rarely used for research—clad in some Genroku-era priestly robe Takarai Kikaku might have worn mid-December 1701.

“Oh ho! Mr. Tachibana! Come in, come in!” He had cheerfully appeared with his wife, but even he was utterly flabbergasted by the spectacle before him—automobiles clattering down like a scene straight out of Yokohama’s bustling open port. Of course, the old mayor had never once heard any rumors about these people, and conversely, these people had never been told about the old mayor by me either, so there was no connection or prior relationship between them whatsoever. Still, I believed that at least this “Landlord Uncle”—who had held such a position—would understand the current situation and show sympathy toward the Indian people. However, contrary to my expectations, when first confronted with these unfamiliar faces, the old mayor looked around in apparent bewilderment as he listened. Yet as soon as I finished making my request, he responded with utmost nonchalance—

"If someone puts down a year’s deposit to rent a house for a year, they shouldn’t need any guarantor or such nonsense! Since a place like Mitsui Mitsuya has money, they shouldn’t need to put folks through all that extra trouble! What a bothersome thing," he said, making a thoroughly weary face at the world’s incessant nuisances. "Oh-ho! Absolutely fine by me! If you'll allow this old man to be of service. If that’s all it takes to secure everyone’s convenience, then it’s an easy task!" he readily agreed. It was a reply even more effortless than fertilizing chrysanthemum pots. Since heading out now would mean the company was already closed, it was decided we’d go together tomorrow.

“Oh, no good! No good! Writers are no good for you, Mr. Tachibana!” the old mayor declared, shaking his bald pate. “Landlords are such timid creatures—if they hear you’re a writer or journalist or lawyer, they’ll refuse you outright. Why haven’t you presented your business card from your workplace? You've been hiding your writing from me all this time!” roared the chrysanthemum-obsessed former mayor with booming laughter. When I finished interpreting, the Crown Prince and the three others renewed their grateful gazes upon this oddly-dressed giant of an old man who bore no resemblance to a former governor or mayor. To eyes accustomed to the pompous British governors and mayors lording it over India, his priestly robe must have seemed truly bizarre, I thought. Yet through my own eyes—those of a man acquainted with governors and mayors—I couldn't help feeling somewhat dissatisfied that they didn't show a bit more astonishment or reverence.

In any case, as the old mayor seemed preoccupied with some research, we decided to express our gratitude once more and take our leave; though I had pressing work to attend to, and since my house stood just a stone's throw away, I tried to bid them farewell—yet none would release their hold on me. Even Shaa, who always maintained a sullen demeanor, stopped me with eyes widened nearly to glaring. They insisted that today of all days, no matter what obligations might arise, I must set everything aside and accompany them.

In surveying today's battle with Fuga—whether my dignity had completely collapsed or somehow succeeded through the retired mayor's assistance—even I found myself adrift in a haze of chaotic uncertainty. Hesitating to press my advantage when nothing was settled, I could only say these people were in such profound gratitude that words failed them. When I hailed a passing automobile and first noticed myself boarding the lead car with the Crown Prince and Shaa, they now showered me with such torrents of handshakes and thanks that I stood completely overwhelmed.

“I cannot find any way to convey this gratitude and emotion,” Shaa declared, his imposing features twisting with suppressed feeling. “Today I feel I’ve finally touched the true warmth dwelling in Japanese hearts. Your kindness moves me deeply. Nor shall we ever forget that elderly mayor’s benevolence.” His calloused hand gestured emphatically as the car rounded a corner. “You’ve devoted yourselves to our Crown Prince as if his cause were your own. Mr. Tachibana—” Here his voice thickened unexpectedly, “—I too count myself your friend now. Look!” He pointed through the window where Javeri waved vigorously from the following vehicle. “See how they rejoice!”

Shaa twisted his imposing features as if on the verge of tears and, upon reaching a certain corner, pointed to the car following behind them carrying Mr. Kapadia, Javeri, and the others. From that window, Javeri was waving toward me. Their demeanor had transformed completely into one of familiarity compared to just yesterday. “Until today, His Highness the Crown Prince has been keeping company with you,” said Shaa. “However today I, Mr. Kapadia, and Javeri would invite His Highness and our Japanese friends we’ve made. Now, name any place you like! We’ll have the car take you wherever you please,” he added with a beaming smile. Silently, the Crown Prince smiled cheerfully, his dimples showing.

“Shaa is a man of truly peculiar disposition,” I said. “He doesn’t believe in anything and won’t heed anyone’s words. Yet whatever he sets his mind to, he accomplishes without fail. He’s like a man forged from iron. Becoming friends with such a person proves exceedingly difficult.” Shaa listened in silence, merely smiling. Through the window, autumn streets blurred under a faint evening haze as dusk approached—the indistinct townscape seeping into my chest with an inexplicable loneliness amidst its bustle. Yet when I considered how these Indian hearts grew utterly enraptured over even my trivial kindnesses, this desolate twilight scenery seemed to share some kinship with their nature—something I couldn’t help but find inexpressibly pitiful.

7

The extremely troublesome contract ordeal had been settled, and the move had concluded without incident—seven or eight days had passed.

Autumn had deepened into its final days, the crisp sunlight now filled with darting red dragonflies, but that day too I had closed the shop early at noon and, urged on by my two children, was in the midst of digging a wintering pond for our goldfish—father and children all getting thoroughly covered in mud.

Suddenly there was a noisy commotion outside, and then clattering in came the group led by Mr. Kapadia of Varoda Trading Company—Shaa, Javeri, and the rest. The children, covered in mud and delighted, took one glance and without a word furtively crawled away. They—shocked by these black faces they were seeing for the first time in their lives—had been clinging to their mother’s waist; but it appeared some grave incident had occurred, for all three men now wore bloodless complexions with eyes completely bloodshot. They sat down restlessly, and for a while their eyes alone gleamed with sparse words; but I—unaware of the circumstances—grew annoyed and began to suspect that some new trouble with Mitsui Trust had arisen, or else that a quarrel had broken out among these people themselves. Each of them seemed to be trembling uncontrollably, their hands shaking as they struggled to contain the overwhelming turmoil within their hearts.

“Mr. Tachibana, a grave matter has arisen!” Shaa exclaimed in dismay. “The Crown Prince has been confined at the British Embassy.” “Though ‘confinement’ might be an overstatement,” Javeri interjected cautiously from the side, his temperament milder than Shaa’s, “His Highness is being compelled to remain at the embassy.” “The British Embassy has finally bared its fangs,” Shaa continued vehemently. “Britain never welcomed His Highness’s stay in Japan. They’ve ultimately resorted to their usual treacherous methods to detain him!” The words came in a torrent from Shaa, whose normally brusque manner of speech made even his pronunciation indistinct in this agitated state. This abrupt revelation left me utterly unable to comprehend why the Crown Prince was being detained. They must have noticed my bewildered expression as I stared at the half-dug goldfish pond. Mr. Kapadia began explaining the sequence of events in a calming manner. According to his account, about four days prior—when everything had seemed settled with the new residence fully furnished and a Japanese language instructor from the women’s university arranged through Mr. Kapadia’s connections beginning regular visits—Second Secretary Graves from the embassy, whom I’d once met at the hotel, had called again while Shaa was away shopping in Yokohama. After keeping others at bay for nearly two hours of private discussion with the Crown Prince, Graves eventually emerged to take his leave. His Highness had changed into outdoor attire by then, his face deathly pale as if wrestling with some grave matter. Without offering any explanation beyond sparse instructions to send a car in about an hour after meeting with the Ambassador, he departed alongside Graves. When Javeri went to fetch him as directed an hour later, the embassy grounds lay quiet—the main building’s offices closed for the day—with only piano music and conversation drifting from staff residences through the trees. At the ambassador’s residence, they claimed His Highness had already left. Javeri insisted this was impossible—the Crown Prince had expressly ordered the car sent—but was told the Ambassador had left for a dinner party at the Imperial Hotel hosted by the French Ambassador and advised to try Graves’ official residence instead. There, after telephoning inquiries, they received word that His Highness had supposedly returned twenty minutes prior. Deeming this absurd yet considering he might have chosen to walk home after concluding business early, they raced back only to find no sign of him. When Shaa returned from Yokohama and impatiently sped to the embassy himself without hearing Javeri’s full account, he met identical refusals at every inquiry point—persistent claims that His Highness had already departed. Only after Shaa’s relentless demands did Graves finally appear—his greeting now stiffly dismissive.

It was a blunt response stating that His Highness would be residing there for the time being due to circumstances and that they should return home without concern. “In that case,” Shaa pressed urgently while bowing slightly at the waist, “we must make preparations for His Highness’s stay! Please let us meet him at least once!” Second Secretary Graves sneered through his thin mustache before barking: “We have all necessary provisions here! The Crown Prince stays as an embassy guest! Cease this meddling and go home!” He punctuated this by slamming his leather portfolio against a side table.

“In any case, I cannot return home with only such a response unless I meet His Highness at least once,” Shaa pressed back, to which the secretary retorted with a dismissive “Then wait there as long as you please!” before disappearing into the inner quarters. When the secretary reappeared before Shaa—who sat in the entranceway pounding the door with such force it might splinter—he did so in a state of raging fury, suddenly roaring, “You madman!” “Do you have any idea where you are to be pulling such stunts?!” “If you keep up these absurd antics on embassy grounds, it won’t end well for you!” he snarled, his demeanor threatening as if about to kick Shaa.

“If only this weren’t embassy grounds—we might have beaten one or two of those secretaries bloody to break through,” said Shaa, stroking his iron-like arm as his body trembled with frustration. “But alas, given our status as Indians deemed no better than maggots by the British, there was nothing we could do.” And so for three days up until just yesterday, Shaa and Javeri had waited with bated breath, wondering if the Crown Prince would return at any moment or if word would come from the embassy—but even now, there had been no news whatsoever. Of course, both Shaa and Javeri had grasped why the British Embassy was detaining the Crown Prince. It was surmised this aimed not to harm him directly, but rather that the British—who had relentlessly pressured him since India—must be trying every tactic to overturn his resolve to study in Japan. Yet given His Highness’s temperament that would harshly rebuff such efforts, both men feared further pressures might be brought to bear upon him. And then, just last night. Unusually, Miss Catherine Jardine came to visit.

“Catherine Jardine? Who is Catherine Jardine?” The name struck a faint chord in my memory, but I couldn’t place it.

“I heard you met her once before—at the hotel! That lady—the one who had only just arrived from India this summer...” Mr. Kapadia proceeded with his explanation, likely assuming I now remembered. Miss Catherine too had been astonished by the Crown Prince’s unexpected detention, but she earnestly requested that they join forces to immediately negotiate with the embassy—devising some method by which she, as a British national, could vouch for His Highness’s status—so they might secure permission for His Highness’s desired study in Japan at this critical juncture.

“I just can’t wrap my head around this!” I was utterly perplexed. “Who exactly is this Catherine person? What kind of relationship does this lady have with the Crown Prince?” “Oh!” Mr. Kapadia exclaimed in surprise.

“Heavens! Did you not know Miss Catherine?” exclaimed Mr. Kapadia, even more astonished than I was. “Tut! Tut! Tut!” I clicked my tongue in rapid succession. “I thought you were fully aware!” With another deep, bitter smile, he explained once more about the woman whose circumstances remained utterly baffling to me—but upon hearing it from Mr. Kapadia, I was so astonished that I couldn’t help but widen my eyes. Now, dear readers—if you recall back to the beginning of this story—do you remember how I felt suspicious upon encountering a certain beautifully dressed noblewoman who seemed to share some profound connection with His Highness when I first visited Crown Prince Narin at the Manpei Hotel?

Miss Catherine was none other than that elegantly dressed noblewoman who had been speaking with Javeri in the reception room at that time. And no wonder I had thought her name sounded familiar! This Miss Catherine Jardine was indeed the sole sister of Sir Robert Jardine—that insolent British military attaché stationed in Virupur who had been shot dead within the palace walls three years prior by Crown Prince Narin, then a sixteen-year-old youth. And what a cursed bond united both siblings! Despite the Crown Prince’s profound aversion, Miss Catherine Jardine found that the image of the youthful, beautiful prince who had slain her brother would not fade even in her dreams—she who had only just followed him from Bombay to Japan this summer. The time I met her at the Manpei Hotel had been Miss Catherine’s first visit to His Highness after arriving in Japan. Now I finally understood why the Crown Prince had remained so composed without so much as a twitch of his brow that day—though indeed, that old saying about reality surpassing fiction in strangeness had existed since ancient times in both Japan and the West. Yet even I found myself utterly speechless when confronted with this unimaginably bizarre truth. And it was said the young lady now lodged at the Imperial Hotel.

“This is the first I’ve heard of it! The first time I’m hearing this story now!” Still unable to accept this as reality, I found myself murmuring as if in a dream, wandering through the pages of some renowned Western novel. "...Still, why would a woman bound by such fate be so fixated on the Crown Prince?" “Given her position as practically his enemy, isn’t it?” I ventured, recalling that scene from summer as I gave voice to my thoughts.

“Isn’t that what they mean by ‘love is blind’!” Mr. Kapadia said with a flash of white teeth, though his expression immediately transformed into one of indescribable solemnity. “Truly, Miss Catherine’s heart must now be entirely consumed by thoughts of His Highness,” I thought aloud. “She’s too gentle to voice it, but she must think of His Highness day and night,” Mr. Kapadia added with a somber expression. “It’s all the workings of inexorable fate,” he began. “As you rightly observe, His Highness did indeed execute Sir Jardine—meaning Miss Catherine should by rights resent him. Yet her blindness to this truth stems from inexorable fate, just as His Highness being hounded by such a woman can only be explained through that same inexorable fate,” said Mr. Kapadia with a profound sigh. “Unlike her late brother the Resident, Miss Catherine isn’t ill-natured in the slightest.” “Were His Highness amenable, marrying her might prove advantageous both for Anglo-Indian relations and his personal circumstances—but given how he shudders with loathing at the mere notion, it becomes impossible.” “All can only be called inexorable fate.”

Through my own unnecessary prying curiosity, our discussion had branched off into various tangents, leaving Shaa and Javeri—who for some time now had been idly shifting their gaze to examine the alcove ornaments—with little to contribute. In any case, Miss Catherine herself was requesting to assist in this matter, and given her connections, it seemed unlikely even the embassy would coldly refuse her intervention. Yet the sole problem lay in this: should His Highness—who harbored such profound aversion toward Miss Catherine—ever discover this arrangement, one could not begin to fathom how deeply displeased he might afterward become. That being said, there being no one else who could assist in this situation—though I recognized this as an exceedingly burdensome request—their plea to me was this: would I go to the embassy tomorrow or thereabouts to visit His Highness the Crown Prince, and through my own words attempt to ascertain how we might best proceed by discreetly sounding out His Highness’s true intentions? This was their added explanation: that an embassy which deemed Indians no better than maggots would remain unmoved even if we all protested in unison, but should you—a Japanese person—go to visit, they could hardly dare conceal the facts and refuse a meeting. And if you would further be so kind as to inquire whether His Highness might require anything, and additionally ascertain what Shaa and Javeri ought to do while awaiting His Highness’s return to the residence, there could be no greater joy than this—such was the nature of their request. It was essentially these matters—having exhausted all their deliberations—that had driven these people to come seeking my assistance, but—

“If His Highness were to express his own feelings regarding Miss Catherine in that case, we intend to have Miss Catherine act on our behalf immediately!” “Though it’s troublesome, would you be so kind as to make such arrangements?” Mr. Kapadia—likely following Hindu etiquette—assumed a posture resembling the Japanese gassho gesture. To put it politely, it might have looked proper—but how disagreeable! Here I was being worshipped like Buddha. Following suit, Shaa and Javeri bowed their heads. Of course, even without such profuse worship, this matter was far simpler for me than acting as a rental guarantor—hence I accepted without debate—but what perplexed me was this: while the task itself was simple enough, would those haughty British embassy officials deign to let someone like me—a man bearing neither titles nor social standing (and though Mitsui Trust might come up again here, I’d truly had my fill of that)—nonchalantly visit and actually permit me to meet His Highness? Had I been a Japanese with credentials like Privy Councillor or Deputy Director of the Foreign Ministry’s Intelligence Bureau, that would be one thing—but as it stood? Even if they refused the meeting, it wasn’t as though my reputation would suffer—but watching these anxiously concerned people, even someone as insignificant as me grew thoroughly weary of being saddled with futile errands time after time. Having taken on the task, I thought I should at least accomplish something worthy of being entrusted with it once.

Moreover, depending on how I considered it—given that the British Embassy was already detaining their Crown Prince while disregarding Indian protests, clearly scheming something—my slipping in to visit would not only prove useless but might conversely worsen matters and provoke further disturbances. I had long known how international affairs could veer wildly off course from a single delicate friction—why, the “Tachibana Sotao Incident” might spark a Japan-Britain war! When things reached that point, it would become utterly unbearable. This time—unlike my visit to Mitsui Trust—I resolved to proceed with extreme caution, lest things spiral into disaster. My figure—having readily agreed only to fall deep into thought—must have appeared utterly baffling through their eyes.

“As for subsequent matters, we shall employ any means without troubling you further—would you simply consent to go and meet His Highness the Crown Prince?” Shaa inquired anxiously this time. “Mr. Tachibana, in your nation’s eyes, we are nominally British subjects. “However bitterly we suffer, this is no matter we can properly bring before Japan’s Foreign Ministry. Even if we did petition them, it’s plainer than fire that Japan’s Foreign Ministry would never extend such efforts as to meddle in Britain’s domestic affairs. “Therefore we would still beseech you—our friend—to make this attempt. Should fortune allow you to discern His Highness’s true intentions, no greater joy could exist for us; and even should misfortune prevent success, we shall never forget your kindness. “If meeting him proves impossible, we would then devise a second strategy—perhaps disclosing the truth to allied journalists or united journalists to seek their aid. What say you? “Might we by all means entreat your assistance in this manner?” At that instant, my resolve crystallized. These pitiful Indian friends—possessing wisdom, learning, and wealth in abundance, yet reduced to a vanquished people—could do naught as the master they so fervently loved was wrested away. Their despondent hearts once more drove my spirit like a draft horse. Moreover, envisioning how dreary each day must prove for that young Crown Prince who had placed his trust in me made my heart—like a wounded boar—once again resolve to charge recklessly beyond my station. When the Indians who had taken their leave vanished beyond the hedge, the children concealed behind sliding doors crept into the parlor with relief, quietly layering themselves upon my knees. Stroking the heads of these two imps while lost in contemplation, never before had I so keenly savored the blessed fortune of my own children—born into this Japan of splendid national polity—a gratitude that had never before surfaced in ordinary days.

Eight

But after they withdrew from my house, the consultation must have changed again due to some circumstances. The very next morning, while still in bed, an express letter signed by Mr. Kapadia was delivered to my residence. The letter’s intent was exceedingly straightforward: after departing your residence earlier, Miss Catherine visited us again, and upon further deliberation, we concluded that rather than risk later reprimand, we should first retrieve His Highness from detention to discuss how best to proceed hereafter. In any case, having accepted Miss Catherine’s proposal, we have decided to have her meet with the embassy authorities first. We deeply apologize for the inconvenience, but would you kindly suspend the matter you were asked to handle yesterday until we send further notice? Following that, it was added that Miss Catherine is expected to visit the embassy first thing tomorrow, and that as soon as His Highness’s movements are ascertained by tomorrow evening, they intend to notify me immediately. Having gone to the trouble of getting up early and being just about to head out in high spirits—what the hell was this?! After getting me all worked up, they just backed out. Of course there could be no question that Miss Catherine—being both his countrywoman and Sir Jardine’s sister—would prove infinitely more effective than if someone like me were to sneak over only to be brushed off by the guards and come slinking back; naturally I couldn’t possibly raise any objections, yet having initially hesitated when asked to undertake the task, now that this cancellation notice arrived rendering my involvement unnecessary, I found myself inexplicably feeling like discarded waste—an odd sensation akin to having something stubbornly lodged between my back teeth. I spent the entire day at my desk in that peculiar state of mind, but as evening approached and I realized that by now that woman Catherine must have returned and learned of the Crown Prince’s circumstances, I found myself so inexplicably preoccupied that I couldn’t settle into my writing. I assumed Mr. Kapadia would send some notice again once night fell, but finding myself unable to wait until then, I resolved to finish dinner and go check on the situation under the guise of an evening stroll.

It was a beautiful moonlit night when every object on the ground appeared pale and picturesque. Despite wartime tensions, the streets were filled with people enjoying refreshing autumn night strolls under the moonlight. As I drove through the crowd, I felt a tense urgency as though bearing India's very sovereignty upon my shoulders - the sorrow and pity of a vanquished nation now surging into my chest with startling clarity.

And seeing those weak-willed wretches deliberately choosing shadowy corners to entwine themselves as they passed, my nerves frayed to the point where I wanted to slap even one of them clean across the face,

This was no time to be indulging in romantic nonsense! If one didn't want to see their homeland destroyed, now was the moment to consider what must be done first! Damn! Damn! I felt a surge of righteous indignation intense enough to want to hurl those curses at them.

When the automobile finally stopped before an imposing Western-style mansion—recognizable by its front garden thick with pagoda trees—I found myself gazing up and down at the residence, compelled to stand there as if struck by belated realization. No matter how much I might exert myself, it was only natural Mitsui Trust would refuse loans based on the guarantee of someone as asset-poor as myself. Indeed, the monthly rent of 380 yen—barely a hair more annually than what my own house commanded—marked a vast disparity. A low iron-gated entrance stood before me, its right side dominated by a half-built garage whose gaping roof resembled a monster’s maw, sheltering within it a splendid Hispano-Suiza whose gray body basked in moonlight. To the left, a gravel path curved past three or four flower beds before crossing the lawn to the grand entrance. That fool Tachibana—swaggering enough to presume himself fit as guarantor for such an estate—had truly been an imbecile oblivious to his station. Yet when I considered how this Indian Crown Prince and his retinue, despite having access to countless influential Japanese across wealth and status divides, had deliberately chosen such a pauper as their confidant for matters great and small, I saw with crystalline clarity these people’s hearts—starved for warm friendship.

“Who? Who? Who is there?” they must have called out, having rushed out at the sound of my automobile. Since earlier, a group of two or three figures had been clustered darkly at the entrance, calling out to my approaching form in tentative Japanese. When I answered “Tachibana,” they suddenly scrambled over each other to burst onto the gravel with cries of “Hallo Hallo! Drop in!” “You’ve come at the perfect moment! I was just about to send you a telegram!” Shaa exclaimed, grasping my hand before anyone else. “Come! Please come in. Miss Catherine has been here since earlier as well,” Mr. Kapadia added.

"Has His Highness returned?" “NO!” they all shook their heads in unison. "We have mountains of matters we must discuss." “Come now, please!” they urged, nearly seizing my hand as they ushered our entire group into the spacious reception room immediately to the right. A chandelier blazed brilliantly from the ceiling alongside several large ornate lamps, illuminating opulent furnishings—luxurious settees, zabuton cushions, and tables—that displayed decorations worthy of a prince’s reception chamber. Yet this ownerless room felt permeated by an indistinct chill of emptiness. On the central wall hung large oil paintings I recognized—the king and his sister Princess Kamureshi—beneath which sat two Indians, likely compatriots, whose faces I had often seen. The absence of Miss Catherine—the very person we needed—left me faintly dissatisfied, but accepting their invitation regardless, I promptly joined the circle where the group had likely been conferring with heads pressed together until now.

“In truth, though it would trouble you, we were just about to send a telegram asking you to come tomorrow morning.” “You’ve arrived at precisely the right moment,” Javeri said. As if they had been waiting for this cue, both Mr. Kapadia and Shaa began speaking simultaneously, recounting the following developments. “Today Miss Catherine immediately went to consult with the British Ambassador, councillors, and that Second Secretary Graves. But according to the embassy’s official stance—based on directives from India’s Viceroy—they cannot possibly allow Prince Narin’s continued residence in Japan.” “The embassy authorities find it difficult to accept that Japan must be the sole location for research focused solely on textiles and dyeing.” “This point has been particularly emphasized in communications from India’s Viceroy.” “While we—as embassy representatives—would foremost recommend Britain itself to His Highness the Crown Prince, being a British subject pending his own reflection, we shall refrain from pressing this recommendation further given His Highness’s personal circumstances.” “Therefore we urgently request selection of an alternative location between these two nations: France or the United States.” “Should you decline both options and persist in remaining here, we must regrettably demand passport surrender—a matter we had discussed until today without His Highness altering his stance.” “Since His Highness maintains that denying Japan means abandoning study abroad entirely to return directly to Virupur, we were compelled—while consulting India’s Viceroy and Virupur’s King and Prime Minister—to arrange temporary residence at our embassy compound as a courtesy measure. Though Indian staffers clamor about detention, no coercive implication exists whatsoever.” “That His Highness has been residing as an honored guest at our embassy residence with full consent will soon be confirmed through his own testimony.”

That’s what they apparently declared. And indeed, from what Miss Catherine observed at the embassy too, full courtesies had been extended to His Highness the Crown Prince—when she visited his room herself, His Highness had been facing away engrossed in reading and hadn’t uttered a single word—yet both the room’s arrangement and furnishings undeniably accorded with the etiquette befitting an honored guest. "But no matter how many diplomatic maneuvers they employ," Shaa writhed in frustration, "doesn’t the fact of his detention remain utterly unchanged!" Mr. Kapadia tried to interject, but at that moment the rustle of silk accompanied by clicking heels announced Miss Catherine’s entrance, abruptly suspending our discussion. She wore an elegant maroon visiting kimono, her beautiful gentle eyes wide in a daze with faint weariness—exactly as when we’d met at the hotel days prior, radiating opulence as her foremost impression. My unexpected arrival as a new guest seemed to have kept her discreetly withdrawn elsewhere until now. Since this marked our first proper meeting, we exchanged introductory greetings through Mr. Kapadia’s mediation, though

“I have often heard your name from these people as well,” she said with a cheerful nod, her maroon visiting kimono rustling faintly. “They tell me you’ve been assisting His Highness the Crown Prince in various ways—they rely on your support tremendously.” Settling into her seat, she crossed her ankles beneath the silk folds and smiled toward me. “Now then! Please do continue your discussion!” With this gentle urging to Mr. Kapadia and Shaa, she leaned forward in a posture of attentive listening that seemed incongruously regal for one who appeared no older than twenty-two or three—perhaps twenty-four or five—her bearing vaguely reminiscent of the Crown Prince’s elder sister. Though she maintained the prideful decorum befitting British nobility when interacting with the Indians present, there was nothing ostentatious in her manner. Toward me—a stranger—she exhibited nothing but refined courtesy and cultivated grace, her demeanor so diametrically opposed to her brother the Resident Official’s rumored brutishness that she might have sprung from different stock entirely. Yet truthfully, in my present state of mind, I found myself incapable of sparing more than cursory attention for this Miss Catherine—the earlier conversation still wholly commanded my thoughts. Mr. Kapadia resumed his account.

Therefore today Miss Catherine went to the embassy. The embassy authorities stated that had this occurred even just two or three days earlier—and had His Highness the Crown Prince himself pledged through his own words to commit to marriage or cohabitation with Miss Catherine—they would have gladly permitted his continued stay in Japan under Miss Catherine’s guarantee. However，the timing was two or three days too late. By then，all negotiations with New Delhi’s Viceroy of India had already been concluded，and moreover，as of that morning，His Highness himself had finally expressed his intention to study in America. Since matters had now been entirely settled，though your request was much appreciated，we found it regrettably difficult to accommodate……

“This is the news Miss Catherine brought us this afternoon—though there were various circumstances involved that remain beyond our understanding—but as I have just explained, His Highness reportedly granted his consent this morning to study in America.” “Therefore we too must make arrangements accordingly at once, but in fact, according to a notice from the embassy, His Highness has apparently expressed a desire to meet with you urgently.” “What do you think?” “Could you go to the embassy to meet him?” Mr. Kapadia interjected haltingly.

"Of course I'd be happy to!" I nodded, then asked, "Right now?" “NO! NO!” Mr. Kapadia, Shaa, and Javeri all shook their heads in unison. “It’s already too late to begin now—the hour is late, and His Highness is likely asleep. Tomorrow will suffice.”

"Since I am also scheduled to visit the embassy tomorrow to check on His Highness’s preparations, if you could kindly suggest a convenient time, let us go together," Shaa proposed. Of course there were no objections, so we firmly agreed to meet at nine-thirty sharp the next morning. She must have concluded that our discussion had reached its resolution.

“Well, I must be going now. Could you have the car called?” Miss Catherine said as if suddenly remembering, turning to Javeri. “Though you’ve taken such pains, it’s truly regrettable,” she added with a graceful smile directed at me. “I too had hoped to somehow fulfill these people’s wishes and grant His Highness the Crown Prince’s desires, but given what you’ve just heard, matters have gone entirely askew—it’s most unfortunate.”

“Then if His Highness the Crown Prince is going to America, will you too be coming to America?” Though I feared it impertinent to ask, when I did so, Miss Catherine did not refuse but instead smiled bashfully and said, “Yes.” Her attitude showed not a trace of shame, her face overflowing with visible determination to remain utterly faithful to her own love—I could only feel an indescribable pity. Mr. Kapadia had deemed this love a karmic burden, but as for this woman’s love—following after the foreign prince who had killed her brother without knowing when he might return her affections—I too could not help but feel it was entirely a karmic burden. And overwhelmed by such pathos—though unaware of what circumstances might exist—I could not help but feel profoundly lonely wondering why the Crown Prince would turn away from such an elegant, refined beauty’s pure love.

When at last the car arrived and Miss Catherine departed with "I shall see you again," I too took my leave after arranging to meet tomorrow morning. The houses in the tree-filled Reinanzaka area appeared to have all fallen into deep slumber, leaving only the blazing electric lights leaking through the groves from what seemed to be the Prime Minister's Official Residence and Chief Cabinet Secretary's Residence on the distant heights. Breaking the hushed stillness of the night—perhaps victory bulletin sellers were running through Tamarikei or Toranomon again—between the creaking noises of a tram negotiating bends came distant bell tones that seemed to leap through the air. As I climbed Nagatacho slope under stark white moonlight along a completely deserted road while listening to those bells with thoughts of hailing a taxi, all traces of the Crown Prince and the enigmatic Miss Catherine who had just departed vanished from my mind, replaced by solemn contemplation of Britain's suspicions and covert maneuvers steadily preparing for days to come beneath this war's shadow. In this late hour when our citizens slept soundly, heartened by victory, maintaining impassive faces amidst surface-level silence of all things, the image of the British Embassy—likely manipulating secret tentacles spread across the world with telegraph sparks flying—rose unbidden in my imagination, sending an involuntary shudder through me.

Nine

On that following day, when I arrived by car at the British Embassy with Shaa, the Crown Prince had likely already risen from his bed. And perhaps because the Crown Prince had yielded to the embassy’s coercion—changing his study destination from Japan to America—the embassy authorities felt reassured enough to permit my meeting with him without incident. Contrary to the unpleasant impressions we had heard about, we were ushered with utmost courtesy into the reception room of the embassy’s main building rather than being subjected to any such treatment. Though it was the very birthplace of scheming diplomacy and origin of crafty statecraft, even this deep reception room stood in profound silence without a single cough audible; no bustling signs of movement—like corridor footsteps or hurried comings-and-goings typical of Japanese government offices—stirred in the slightest. From the entrance onward, across carpets blanketing long corridors, through sturdy oak furnishings and heavy drapes to the view of meticulously groomed lawns and trees in the garden beyond—everywhere seemed to exude the smoldering austerity and composure of the aged British Empire. Yet incongruous with that composure—whether by trick of perception—I felt as though hushed eyes glinted everywhere within this room, watching from all sides.

And indeed, this sensation was not solely my imagination, for

“It may seem quiet, but there’s no telling where listening ears might be hidden. Let’s be cautious,” Shaa whispered into my ear.

At that very moment, click-clack footsteps sounded in the corridor, and the door was quietly opened. In an instant, Shaa left his chair, sprang to his feet, and stood at attention there. His Highness the Crown Prince entered.

He briskly approached before me who had stood up, yet remained as composed as ever, his face suffused with a wistful smile. "You have kindly come to meet me, Mr. Tachibana," he said gently, extending his hand. "I had been wanting to meet with you at least once," he said—shifting his gaze to Shaa standing rigidly at his side—then spoke to him gently in Kacchi and drew the chair before him closer. Yet Shaa, who looked as if he could crush a demon, stood frozen in that moment, body trembling and eyes brimming with tears. Whether from the joy of seeing his master safe after so long or from being addressed in his native tongue now, this fiercely loyal young man had stiffened completely to where he could scarcely speak.

“I am at a loss as to where to begin,” the Crown Prince said quietly, folding his hands on the desk and gazing intently at me. Perhaps due to residing at the embassy, he wore a light brown suit with a necktie bearing a clover pattern, his beautiful cheeks graced by a gentle half-smile; yet whether trick of the mind or not, around his mouth and brows lingered traces of anguish—or so it seemed. “Though I am not permitted to speak in detail, you must have heard from Shaa or Kapadia by now.” “Due to various unforeseen circumstances arising, I have become unable to act as I wish.” “I have reluctantly had to change my study destination to America this time; however, having been deeply indebted to you for your many kindnesses, I had prayed that our friendship would grow ever closer...” The Crown Prince paused mid-sentence and gazed fixedly at my face. “I had wanted to express my heartfelt gratitude before departing when I heard yesterday that Miss Catherine had come, so I communicated this wish to the embassy in hopes it might be granted—and fortunately, my hope has been realized, making this an occasion of utmost joy,” the Crown Prince spoke haltingly before his voice trailed off once more. He seemed unable to continue speaking properly due to the intense emotions churning within him. I too, sensing the Crown Prince’s inner turmoil, held my breath and fixedly watched his face.

"But Mr. Tachibana," the Crown Prince resumed after a slight pause. "There are those who leave no memories despite long acquaintance, and those who become unforgettable presences in one's heart though our time together was brief." "Even should I depart your country—though I doubt I shall ever return—I believe I could never forget our visits to the cinema together, nor our meals at the Imperial Hotel where you drank with such cheerfulness. But might you... might you remember me?"

“Of course.” “Crown Prince Your Highness,” I said—the words involuntarily coming from my mouth for the first time. “I myself could never forget those memories—but Your Highness!” I pressed on. “Though I do not fully grasp the circumstances, according to what I heard from Mr. Kapadia last night, if Miss Catherine were to take responsibility—and if you were to change your study plans from America and express a desire to remain longer in Japan—is it not said that the embassy would grant conditional permission?” “Even if you dislike Miss Catherine, could you not endure this situation here as a temporary measure and stay a little longer?” Though knowing it was futile, I gazed intently at His Highness’s face.

“Who said that?”

"Mr. Kapadia said that. He said he heard it from Miss Catherine!" "Is the embassy claiming such intentions?" "Yes," I nodded. "No, that is not correct. You know nothing at all," said the Crown Prince quietly, shaking his head with a resigned smile tinged by loneliness. "Miss Catherine probably thinks that... but it's because the embassy is making her think so. But matters have already reached a point where my personal will can no longer affect them. The ship I am to board has also been decided as the SS Ikitos the day after tomorrow," said the Crown Prince with a sorrowful look as he blinked.

“As you say, this is neither the kind of matter that could be altered by whether that person accepts or declines... nor does it concern whether I like or dislike them,” the Crown Prince flushed. “It is not that kind of issue.” “I have never once said of my own accord that I would go to America.” “However, since this has been decided between four parties—the Prime Minister of my country, my father the King, the Indian Government, and the embassy here—there is nothing more I myself can do now.”

“Then Your Highness…” For the first time in that moment, I felt as though I dimly grasped the full scope of the measures the embassy was taking—and now, belatedly, as though the entirety of Britain’s ever-shifting, insidious India policy was thrust before my eyes.

"Since discussing it further would serve no purpose, let us not touch upon such matters," said the Crown Prince as he quietly placed both his hands over mine that lay on the table. "I have already relinquished all hope." "The only thing I ask is that you forever remember the friendship between myself and my country... That alone I—" "I will never forget." The Crown Prince's enigmatic tears filled me with such breath-stealing emotion that I desperately clasped his hand in return. I hurriedly added, "But if you go to America, you could freely send me letters... And even without going to America, someday I will surely come to India—to your nation." "Then we might both meet Your Highness again at that time, might we not?"

However, strangely enough, the Crown Prince did not respond to my words at all. He simply remained there with a contented smile from the heart, dimples surfacing on cheeks that showed some weariness. And silently taking out a small gold pocket watch from his vest's hidden pocket, he gazed at it. "When I was small, I received this from my father the king." "It has been my cherished possession ever since," he said, placing it in my palm. Then he laid both hands over mine that held it. "I have been granted this meeting with you under terms allowing but five or six minutes." "Though our parting feels premature, let us bid farewell here," he said, looking up at Shaa who stood rigid as a statue and adding a few more words. Instantly Shaa's cheeks flushed with irrepressible joy as he bowed with an expression taut enough to verge on tears.

“Well then, you have come.” “Mr. Tachibana, please take good care of yourself!” “Your Highness! I will see you off to the ship once more before your departure.”

“I... When I think of Japan, I will surely remember you,” said the Crown Prince as he turned back once more and firmly grasped my hand. And with that, he strode briskly toward the door at a quick pace, neither turning back toward me nor pausing as he pushed through the threshold.

“…………” Dumbfounded, when I hurriedly pushed open the door, I felt I had grasped in that glance why the Crown Prince had been able to move with such urgency. Whether they were secretaries or interpreters—I could not tell, for their faces were not visible—two large British men, their backs turned to me, were following behind the Crown Prince as he departed toward the rear. At the British Embassy, they would likely justify having assigned guards as a gesture of respect for His Highness the Crown Prince’s esteemed status. However much sophistry the embassy authorities might employ, what I had witnessed in that moment made me clearly realize with my own eyes that the British Embassy was treating Crown Prince Narin with the utmost courtesy of a "prisoner".

And as I rode in the automobile with lonely thoughts, Shaa—short-tempered yet innocent, sullen yet childishly simple and frank—exclaimed, “Mr. Tachibana, please rejoice! Please rejoice! His Highness the Crown Prince has now declared—it has been decided that I alone shall be his companion! As long as I remain by his side, rest assured! No matter what may happen or where we go, I shall not permit even a single finger to touch His Highness’s person!” He nearly leapt up in the automobile seat as his face radiated joy.

“And what about Javeri?” I asked absently, almost without meaning to. “There’s no point in him staying in Japan anymore, so he’ll probably just return home,” he answered angrily.

After two days had passed—days I spent thinking only of the Crown Prince, my chest gripped by sorrow and longing—on the day the SS Ikitos carrying His Highness was to depart Yokohama, I went to the pier to see him off no matter what. With only two days remaining until departure, there was no time left to do anything—so I scraped together what little remained in my wallet to prepare a Hakata doll modeled after a Bunraku puppeteer, hoping it might comfort His Highness during his journey, and a pair of cloisonné cufflinks each for the Crown Prince and Shaa, meant as mementos once they reached America. And intending to hand these over onboard, I raced up the gangway—but astonishingly, the security aboard this British ship was so stringent that at the entrance to B Deck’s Crown Prince’s cabin stood two British men, likely embassy staff I had seen before, standing guard and absolutely refusing to let any well-wishers approach. And not just the Crown Prince’s cabin! Even the passage leading to that cabin had ship’s officers marked with a single diamond insignia stationed at both entrances—one on each side—resolutely refusing to allow anyone to approach by any means. The pier already swelled with shouts from SS Ikitos’s well-wishers—a seething black mass—while blue-eyed sailors busied themselves with departure preparations. And the gong signaling visitors to disembark had been sounding incessantly since earlier. It was not only I who had come bearing gifts for the Crown Prince and Shaa. We were beside ourselves with anxiety. Moreover, the officers absolutely refused to let us through. Midway along the passage we were gazing down, near what appeared to be the Crown Prince’s cabin, stood two large, ruddy-faced British men whose very appearance exuded loathsomeness, their civilian-clad arms crossed as they conversed arrogantly while staring in our direction. The fury of Mr. Kapadia, Javeri, and the rest of the Indian group had reached its peak.

“Our Crown Prince is not a prisoner!”

“Why do the British so restrict the freedom of Indian royalty?!” “We will report this to the newspaper reporters. “We will report this outrageous conduct by the British Embassy to the newspaper reporters.” “Let us through to the captain!”

The Indians shouted in unison and surged forward. Yet the officers merely wore cold smiles at their lips and made no attempt to respond. The well-wishers streamed off the ship one after another as the gong's toll resounded ever nearer. Finally, an officer in uniform who appeared to be the purser emerged, whereupon a ship steward under his direction gathered all our gifts into his arms and carried them temporarily to the captain's cabin. With this promise that they would later convey everything to the Crown Prince, our group of Indians and I screamed banzai at the top of our voices. Did our cries reach the ears of the Crown Prince and Shaa, secluded deep within their cabin? Nevertheless, we waved our hats four or five times as if to pierce the heavens, leapt up, and screamed banzai. Though not Indian myself, in that moment alone I stood united in heart with these Indian friends who lacked their own equivalent of "banzai," screaming "Prince Narin" at the top of my voice.

Being coaxed and placated into disembarking, we watched as the final gangplank was hauled away the moment we left the ship. The ship's whistle echoed mournfully across the water as through the flower-like storm of torn tape and handkerchiefs, there suddenly appeared on the boat deck near the bow the figures of the Crown Prince and Shaa. Shaa followed in silent obedience while His Highness stood motionless, fixing us with his parting gaze. Amidst sea-shaking cheers and banzai cries from beyond the bridge tower, the SS Ikitos—British flag snapping high on its mast—began shuddering its colossal bulk away from the pier, yet the Crown Prince remained statue-like in his vigil. Never had I witnessed anything more solemnly tragic than this farewell moment between my Indian friends and their prince. Behold! All their earlier fury and jostling had vanished—not a hand waved nor banzai cry remained. Mr. Kapadia, Javeri, Shukariya the cook, servants who'd accompanied him from India, and two or three other Virupur people stood rigidly erect, endlessly wiping tears from dark cheeks as they strained reddened eyes toward their prince's lonely departure. Amidst tape scraps fluttering like cherry blossoms and cheers loud enough to burst eardrums, only this group stood weeping without cease. White wake foamed at the stern as prince and retainer dwindled to merge with the ship's silhouette—the twenty-one thousand ton SS Ikitos plowed onward through waves, exhaling smoke into the distance.

And finally came the day that marked an end both in reality and within this narrative. Our fears—those anxieties we had dismissed as groundless—materialized into dreadful truth when, merely ten days later as the ship approached American waters two days out from Hawaii, news of the Crown Prince and Shaa’s deaths arrived without warning. Rushing to Varoda Trading Company upon Mr. Kapadia’s urgent summons, I found every Virupur national in Tokyo assembled in its second-floor hall. Miss Catherine had already departed for San Francisco aboard the next available vessel, the Bergenland, following in the prince’s wake; the cooks and servants from India had likewise returned home early. Only Javeri and Mr. Kapadia remained—they who had finished closing up the residence and were preparing to return home themselves—along with three other Indians, comprising now the entirety of Virupur’s presence in Tokyo.

On the front wall hung a portrait of the late Crown Prince in his endearing Indian royal attire draped with a black ribbon as if freshly laid, a small wreath hanging at its right shoulder; the group that had likely been there in silent grief, swallowing tears as they prayed, raised their tear-streaked faces and nodded in greeting the moment I entered through the door—and from among them, Mr. Kapadia and Javeri hastily stood up and simultaneously grasped my hands from both sides. Their bodies quivered uncontrollably, tears welling up as their voices strained with grief.

“Mr. Tachibana! “Our Crown Prince... His Highness... has perished.” “Everything is finished now!” “Come now!” “Please offer prayers for His Highness’s peaceful rest.” “You were His Highness’s dearest friend.”

And with bloodshot eyes glaring fiercely, they wordlessly thrust the official telegrams from the Embassy at me from both sides. “……Do you think we could possibly believe this? “It’s undoubtedly ××. “Both His Highness and Shaa! “Look! “This telegram the Embassy sent to deceive us!” With trembling voices, the three crumpled telegrams that had been clutched in the grief-stricken hands of Mr. Kapadia and Javeri were read as follows.

Since Crown Prince Narin’s departure from Yokohama, His Highness had been in poor health and was diagnosed by the ship’s doctor with epidemic cerebrospinal meningitis. While receiving treatment aboard the vessel, His Highness’s condition took a critical turn: a fever of 39.5°C, episodes of delirium, multiple instances of vomiting, and a state of lethargy were reported in a telegram received from the captain of the SS Ikitos. The Embassy promptly telegraphed further detailed instructions to the Captain and simultaneously received a response from said Captain stating that every possible measure would be taken through the attached condition report and the efforts of two shipboard physicians. Regarding the matter of immediate hospitalization at Queen Elizabeth Hospital upon arrival in San Francisco, we had just received notification that the British Embassy in Washington had telegraphed instructions to the British Consul-General in San Francisco. By the order of His Excellency the Ambassador mentioned above, we hereby notify.

One telegram read: Crown Prince Narin’s condition has taken an unfavorable turn. Despite administering optimal medical care aboard the vessel, His Highness Crown Prince Narin ultimately passed away today at 7:27 PM on open waters at 133°4' West longitude and 32°6' North latitude, 803 nautical miles off San Francisco. His Highness’s remains have been placed in the captain’s cabin and will be transferred to the SS Mendarius bound for Bombay via Panama upon the SS Ikitos’s arrival in San Francisco for repatriation.

A telegram was received at 9:20 stating that the SS Ikitos was currently sailing with its flag at half-mast. Profound condolences were promptly conveyed regarding His Highness the Crown Prince to both Virupur Royal Palace and Government Office; furthermore, to ensure no oversights concerning his remains' transfer and related matters, notification was received that instructions had been telegraphed from His Majesty’s Embassy in America to Her Britannic Majesty’s Consul-General at San Francisco.

And the remaining final telegram read: Though notification of Crown Prince Narin's demise follows the aforementioned official communication, we have received a telegram from the Captain of the SS Ikitos stating that particular care must be taken in transferring his remains. Additionally, for confirmation, we have just received a telegram from the Captain of the SS Ikitos reporting that Rajik Shaa—an attendant who contracted infection while nursing His Highness—succumbed today at 1:30 PM and was given burial at sea.

“Can you believe this?!” “This is the British government’s standard procedure.” “Every detail was prearranged!” “Cowardly!” “What utterly despicable methods!” Javeri and Mr. Kapadia wept bitterly, tears cascading down their faces. “On a ship... Aboard a British vessel, they can make the ship’s doctor perform any charade.” “If the cerebrospinal meningitis was virulent enough to infect Shaa, why didn’t it touch the two embassy staffers traveling with them?!” “With this, His Highness cannot find peace even in death!” “No—even if His Highness could endure it, we Indians will endure no more!”

Instantly, stifled sobs escaped from among the gathered Indians. And then, someone—

“Mr. Tachibana, please come here,” they said, having prepared a seat for me. Standing there and gazing up at the wall where the Crown Prince’s portrait hung adorned with a black ribbon—his eyes as vivid as living days, lips curved in that same smile—he appeared exactly as he had that day at the British Embassy when bidding farewell: “Mr. Tachibana, will you remember me?” Had not that astute Crown Prince already fully grasped the trajectory of his fate by then? Something scalding—seething—welled up behind my upturned eyes.

“Your Highness, I too will never forget you as long as I live,” I repeated inwardly, standing rooted there gazing up at the portrait for what felt like eternity.

Unforgettable—it was October 29th of last year, when the insidious and cunning facts of the British Empire’s schemes against China came to light one after another, and on that very day, at Akasaka Sankaidō Hall during the third anti-British rally, the blood of our Japanese citizens reached its boiling point.