Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

I recall that around mid-August last year, around the time when the British Empire’s attitude toward our nation had begun to take on a strange and increasingly hostile character following the incident of Ambassador Hugessen’s injury.

One evening, on some business, I went to visit an Indian trading company called Valoda Trading Company. The office facing Tram Street was, as always, crammed to the brim with various instruments and machinery, while about three Japanese merchants waited with faces eager to place orders, holding back their sales pitches. And George Yoda, a second-generation youth who served as the head clerk, along with other Indians whose faces I didn’t recognize, were standing or sitting around Mr. Kapadia, the protagonist, making the shop as crowded as ever—

“HALLO! HALLO!” With a booming voice, Mr. Kapadia parted through the crowd and grasped my hand warmly. While guiding me to a chair beside his desk, he announced to the surrounding Indians, “Mr. Tachibana! Manager of K. Mitaya Store and a celebrated author!” I started at being called a celebrated author—there exists a type of foreigner who inflates their acquaintances’ statuses this way, covertly flaunting their Japanese connections. Well, these were Indians who couldn’t read Japanese anyway, and it wasn’t like I’d been born aspiring to write dry biographies. Why not indulge in playing literary luminary for once? Picture me then settling into my seat with all the gravitas of a thunderous celebrity. The dark-suited gentlemen bowing slightly as they offered business cards bore wonderfully peculiar Indian names—Shashikant, Mahendra, Vasant, Nanavati—and since they kept asking with blissful ignorance, “What are you currently writing?” or “Which genres captivate you?”, treating me like some titan of letters, I saw no harm in stroking my chin with affected solemnity. Then emerged Javeri—a man of formidable erudition—

“I read Mr. Tanizaki’s *The Story of Shunkin* in English translation.” “I didn’t think the themes were particularly outstanding, but I found the characters’ personalities quite fascinating.” “What standing does this writer Tanizaki have?” he asked. “He was famous, but he’s now a figure of the past.” “He doesn’t write much these days,” I casually dismissed, affecting an air that it was now entirely Mr. Tachibana’s era. Since Javeri naturally knew little about Japan’s literary scene, he must have believed every word. Having thoroughly savored this exchange, he looked eager to hear more of Mr. Tachibana’s literary opinions—but throughout our conversation, Mr. Kapadia kept negotiating prices with Japanese merchants in broken, fragmentary Japanese.

“You haven’t shown your face for a while—were you ill or something?” “I was just thinking of coming to see you myself,” he said, piling on the flattery with “my business here will wrap up shortly, so do stay and relax.” But even as I conversed with Nanavati and Shashikant’s lot, my eyes had remained fixed upon a most peculiar individual all this time. It was the figure of a lovely boy about eighteen or nineteen—seated directly behind George Yoda as he clacked at the typewriter—who alternated between glancing toward the main street and turning a dimpled face toward us without truly listening. This boy alone wore an unusual turban adorned with a decorative jewel that emitted an intense light. He sported an extravagant pure white linen suit that would likely cost over a hundred yen in Japan—perfectly tailored—and had tied a crimson necktie with diagonal stripes. More than his crisp charm, I found myself utterly captivated by the boy’s extraordinary beauty. What a noble yet endearing face he had! That such an exceptional youth could exist among Indians struck me as nothing less than life’s first true astonishment. His was the visage of a Western prince stepped forth from a painting. Eyes so striking even a woman might covet them—wide-open and obsidian-like—yet he wore nearsighted glasses. A crisply defined nose characteristic of the Aryan race; a round face; only his skin color differed entirely from the dark-complexioned people around him. Of course, he wasn’t white. Undoubtedly Indian—one might describe his complexion as bearing a faint wash of russet overlaid with a pale bluish-white tint.

While dismissing Mr. Tanizaki and conversing with Vasant and Mahendra, I found myself utterly captivated, devouring the boy’s beauty with my gaze. The longer I looked, the more completely overwhelmed I became by this emotion. Compared to such beauty, the skin of Western women—merely pale, coarse, and hairy—felt like lifeless shards of porcelain devoid of any charm. For the first time, I felt that true beauty resided not in white people but in polished, eugenically superior Orientals. The boy occasionally turned his smiling face toward me before resuming his gaze out the window at the passersby, his exceptional dignity seeming to command the very air around us.

“Mr. Kapadia, you have a remarkable child here. Who is that boy?!” I jabbed Mr. Kapadia’s elbow with a force that bordered on growling. For an instant, a look of bewilderment flashed across Mr. Kapadia’s face as if startled— “He is my brother. He just came to Japan.”

“Brothers?” I exclaimed in surprise, turning to look at Mr. Kapadia, but his coarsely featured pitch-black face laughing told me immediately this was a jest. Even without such posturing, no one with sight would ever believe this charcoal-dark Mr. Kapadia and that fair child shared blood. “He has newly arrived from India—the son of our benefactor,” Mr. Kapadia resumed with solemnity. Then, treating him with ceremonial deference, he rose and addressed the boy in Kachchi. The youth nodded with regal composure and stood,

"It’s a pleasure to meet you," he said with a cheerful nod. "Mr. Tachibana!" "What’s your name?" I asked. "Shutan!" he replied. The way he pursed his lips slightly in that childish manner as he pronounced it looked utterly adorable beyond words. But to my ears, that pronunciation had sounded like Sultan.

“Sultan?” “NO! Shutan!” The child pursed his lips again. When I continued to look perplexed, he rose quietly and took a seat beside me, then picked up the pencil I had been fiddling with while talking to Mr. Kapadia and spelled out “Shutan.” For a while, he exchanged with me the usual sort of conversation one has with a foreigner one has just met—when did you come to Japan? Do you like it here?—but of course, even as I listened to his responses to such questions, I felt no particular interest in them. Such replies from all foreigners were stereotypical responses as if stamped from the same mold—“Exceedingly beautiful” or “Yes! Astounding!” What struck me as odd was that when this boy had risen earlier, every single Indian present had stood from their chairs and cleared the path with deferential gestures—I had assumed this was due to the room’s crowdedness—but now, as I conversed so casually with the boy, the Indians were watching me with what seemed like bated breath. I didn’t know how profoundly they were indebted to this benefactor’s child, but finding it amusing that they fretted over such trifles, I—now intensely curious about the turban worn by this boy I was seeing for the first time—asked him to show me how it was wrapped. The boy obligingly reached up to his head, removed several pins studded with jewels, and began unwrapping his turban. The Indians who had been watching rushed over again to offer assistance, but when the boy admonished them in their native language, they shrank back and stared fixedly.

“Though similar in shape, this isn’t what we call a turban. A true turban is reserved for those of exalted status,” Mr. Kapadia interjected from beside us.

"Just as I said earlier—what are you cowering for, you Indians!" Being in such a state of mind, I paid little heed to Mr. Kapadia’s words. As the turban unwound, locks parted left-to-right and well-styled hair emerged; having shown me the unwound cloth, the boy began rewrapping it. But the sheer effort it required! It must have taken a full five or six minutes. Even I felt remorse for making him undertake such a thoughtless task—I nearly pitied him. Truth be told, until that moment I had always assumed a turban was merely a cloth-wrapped hat, but witnessing the laborious process of actually shaping and winding it around one’s head left me utterly dumbfounded. Yet more astonishing than that effort was the turban’s beauty itself—and surpassing even that splendor, the magnificence of the large jewels embedded within its folds and pinned atop it left me completely dazzled. While fiddling with one of the desk-laid jewels bearing golden settings,

“What kind of jewel is this? Is this a diamond?” When I asked, “It’s merely a trifling thing, like glass.” The boy smiled and watched intently, as if studying my face. I thought he would take the jewel from me and insert it into his turban, but instead, he silently reached out and fastened it onto my tie. My slightly worn-out two-yen-fifty-sen tie, thanks to the radiant light of what was supposedly glass, instantly soared in value to around five yen.

“What do you think，Mr．Kapadia！” “Does my tie now look like a British-made article worth about fifteen yen？”

“OH, YES! YES! Far more than fifteen yen! He looks just like His Highness the Crown Prince of my country,” Mr. Kapadia flusteredly replied, exchanging glances with those around him and laughing. The boy was saying something in his mother tongue, an amused dimple forming on one cheek—a voice cool as mountain springwater. I sensed they must be talking about me, but that vowel-heavy language was of course something someone like me couldn’t understand a single word of. I simply gazed at that delicate profile—the boy laughing heartily with only half his face visible—while thinking how his beauty resembled a woman’s, though not just any woman’s: it was the beauty of a famed sculpture, one a master sculptor had chiseled with painstaking devotion, stroke by deliberate stroke. That day, I had vaguely thought that if I finished my business early, I might head to Ginza for the first time in ages—watch a movie, grab a meal. Though I lacked both the funds and courage to take this large group of dark-skinned Indians along, at least this boy alone was undeniably an adorable child... Since my business with Mr. Kapadia had concluded unexpectedly quickly, I found myself feeling an inexplicably lighthearted mood and shifted my gaze to the boy’s face.

“Can you get around Tokyo on your own now?” I asked. The boy shrugged his shoulders in consternation, indicating it was impossible. “In that case, since I’ll be passing by here on my way back anyway, I can take you with me—so why don’t we go somewhere interesting together?” I suggested. The surrounding Indians watched our exchange with strangely uneasy expressions, but

“Where to?” the boy asked with a smile. “To a place where you can blow away all your worries for just fifty sen and enjoy yourself without alcohol!” “Where could such an interesting place be?” “Take a guess!” I laughed.

“Movie.” “Don’t overthink it! If you’re coming along then come on—let’s go! In return I’ll treat you to something delicious later.”

“Thank you,” the boy said, staring intently with an upward glance as he pondered, then—“All right! Please take me there!” he declared cheerfully as he stood up. What astonished me once more was that when the boy and I tried to go outside, Mr. Kapadia and the other Indians trooped after us, standing at the exit while pressing their right hands to their chests in rigidly upright postures to perform their first formal salute. Startled, I momentarily felt mocked and widened my eyes—but recalling Mr. Kapadia’s words about this being a benefactor’s child, I wondered: Even if he were their patron’s son, why must these people from a ruined country treat him with such absurdly outdated reverence? Their exaggerated courtesy left me utterly exasperated. And as I thought this while watching the boy’s retreating figure—issuing instructions to one of those who had followed us—I found myself reflecting on my own heart, which had held no interest whatsoever in this land called India where such a beautiful child lived, and I stood there fixedly.

II

As I mentioned earlier, until then I had held no interest whatsoever in a country like India nor any particular desire to learn about it. Yet after beginning to frequent Valoda Trading Company and conversing repeatedly with Mr. Kapadia and others, I found myself—unbeknownst to my own awareness—having knowledge of India instilled within me, until by this point I had come to grasp various matters with reasonable comprehension. For instance, despite my energetic nature, I’ve detested thunder since childhood—even now at my age, when summer brings a flash-boom! At this, I would turn pale and pace restlessly around the room, much to my wife’s amusement—yet how incomparably more violent were those very thunderstorms in India—particularly in the Traudeiya Mountain region bordering the southeastern frontier of Mr. Kapadia’s Virpur Kingdom—where they raged with such ferocity that they seemed capable of shattering the earth’s axis. How ferocious a deluge the monsoon winds bring as they blow through the Deccan Plateau at the onset of the rainy season in late May—and how this rain falls in such torrential downpours unimaginable in Japan, forming rivers a foot deep atop asphalt-paved roads within moments. Or how in India, caste consciousness remained profoundly entrenched even now—how Indians, while weeping under Britain’s tyrannical rule, simultaneously subjected thirty million of their own untouchable class to such cruel treatment; how Indian women, shackled by the purdah system’s societal constraints, were strictly forbidden from any interaction with the opposite sex and led lives turned entirely away from worldly affairs, secluded within their homes—all these things. Moreover, even when speaking generally of Indians, how could one grasp that India encompasses such diverse races and over twenty entirely distinct language families? Take the Virpur Kingdom: it employs both Gujarati and Kachchi—languages of the Aryan family—in equal measure. Yet cross just one mountain range into a neighboring nation, and they use Malayalam, rooted in the wholly separate Dravidian language family. Thus, among the uneducated classes who know neither English nor a common Indian tongue, fellow Indians share no means to communicate—this too! And taking advantage of these complex fissures between languages and races, how mercilessly has the British government oppressed and abused Indians?

Within what is now called British India still existed over three hundred seventy kingdoms—each maintaining independent prime ministers and cabinet structures with ministers of home affairs, finance, and others—among which Virpur Kingdom counted itself. Yet these monarchs were forbidden by Britain's divide-and-rule policies from forming alliances with neighboring states. Meanwhile, residents, deputy governors, and other officials dispatched by India's Viceroy established opulent residences within royal strongholds, maintained ceremonial guards to project authority, meddled in each kingdom's domestic affairs, and enforced tax collection with utmost severity. In other words, the British government imposed cruelly heavy taxes on all Indians to drastically lower their standard of living; prohibited Indians from carrying any weapons except small knives—swords, hunting rifles, pistols, etc.—and immediately punished any Indian populace who slandered British officials even slightly with severe penalties under slander laws; imprisoned India within a jail where it was neither killed nor allowed to live, serving solely to transplant its wealth to Britain itself as a consumer ground for raw materials and manufactured goods. Moreover, how countless were the British spies now infiltrating every village across India’s remotest corners, laboring to root out Indians who criticized Her Majesty’s government—all these minute details about India that I had never wished to visit nor cared to know had become fully comprehensible to me. Under the blazing tropical skies, I had come to perceive with vivid clarity the masses of Indians living without hope beneath British tyranny, their existence reduced to a drunken oblivion between life and death. To be fair, intellectually speaking, none of these matters required waiting for Mr. Kapadia’s explanations. Had I opened any Indian travelogue or geography book, I likely could have grasped them all conceptually in an instant. Yet hearing them directly from the dark-skinned Mr. Kapadia’s own lips brought something different—a vivid immediacy that struck my heart in ways no book ever could, tethering my mind to that unfamiliar tropical land far beyond my ken. What truly dumbfounded me was this: though I had dismissively assumed the Virpur Kingdom’s palace—being what the British would call a mere local princeling’s residence—couldn’t possibly amount to much, Mr. Kapadia’s photographs astonished me by revealing it to possess magnificent splendor beyond measure. Verdant linden trees stood thickly across the distant emerald lawns, sharply delineating the ultramarine sky. Beyond their dappled shadows, across a broad fountain basin, a five-story palace of gleaming white marble—its towers piercing the clouds—soared high, encircled by rows of cypress trees. And the majestic view of the bustling city spread out at the foot of a gently sloping hill in the far left—utterly defying my foolish expectations from their very foundation—made me involuntarily widen my eyes in astonishment.

Mr. Kapadia pointed to various parts of the photograph, explaining that in this area stood the sericulture testing center established by His Highness the Crown Prince, over here lay the free library he had created, and that at the bacteriological research institute near the hill's base, the two machines I had previously supplied were likely now assembled—belts attached and humming away. The crux was that this Mr. Kapadia revered his own royal family so excessively—even going so far as to use terms like "His Majesty the King" and "His Highness the Crown Prince," treating local princes as if they were sovereign heads of state—but to me, this had always seemed absurd. Until now, whenever phrases like "His Majesty" or "His Highness" emerged from Mr. Kapadia's lips, I couldn't help associating them—through the filter of his dark-complexioned face sitting before me—with barefoot Ethiopian soldiers shouldering rifles. However, as I now gazed at these magnificent photographs while intently listening to Mr. Kapadia’s explanations, I found my own perceptions beginning to shift somewhat. I could no longer simply imagine the king as barefoot in formal attire; after all, I began to perceive the royal family as one that indeed commanded considerable authority and dignity. However, putting that aside, there was one thing here I simply could not bring myself to nod in agreement with. According to his account, even Europeans were said to salivate with desire over India’s true beauties—of whom there were supposedly no small number—but this alone I found utterly impossible to accept.

To be sure, I had thought the Aryan physiognomy—with its straight noses, distinguished brows, and imposing bone structure—made them physically superior as a race, leaving us Japanese far behind. Yet how could such beauties exist amidst this soot-black complexion? My imagination utterly failed to grasp it. According to Mr. Kapadia’s assertions, women from northern Kashmir and the Virpur region were fair-skinned and reputed worldwide as classic beauties—but such admiration might hold merit only through the eyes of dark-skinned Indians like himself. To our eyes, however, the very notion that this land of black-skinned people could yield women surpassing the Japanese beauties we knew or the Hollywood starlets we regularly saw on screen remained utterly inconceivable.

“This is a Bombay movie actress. Don’t you think she’s beautiful?” Seeing me grinning skeptically with disbelief plastered across my face, Mr. Kapadia—exasperated—produced a glossy photo of an Indian actress with dramatically drawn eyebrows. Indeed, I couldn’t deny that her features were beautiful. Her countenance—with dreamlike eyes and intensely passionate features—possessed an ethereal beauty that would never shame even a Hollywood actress if claimed as one; yet in the photograph her skin tone remained indiscernible, and above all, that tropical, cloying sensuality seemed enough to drain one’s vitality at a mere glance—something I simply couldn’t admire.

“Fine! “Whether someone is beautiful depends on individual preferences, so it can’t be stated categorically.” “However, there’s no doubt that Europeans who come to India have tremendous admiration.” “Unfortunately, I don’t have the photograph with me now, so I’m afraid I can’t show it to you,” Mr. Kapadia prefaced with evident regret before continuing. It was a boastful account of how beautiful Her Highness Princess Kamuresshi—elder sister of His Highness Crown Prince Narin of the Virpur Kingdom—truly was.

“I believe it was when Colonel Bogilard of France first visited our country.” “The colonel was granted an audience with His Majesty the King, but as His Highness the Crown Prince was traveling abroad at that time, Her Highness Princess Kamuresshi received him instead. The colonel exhausted every superlative in praising Her Highness’s beauty.” “‘Never in all the world have I seen such a woman.’” “‘What words could suffice?’” “‘Language itself falters before such splendor.’” “‘If one were to name the fairest and noblest among all creatures fashioned by the Creator,’ declared the colonel with utmost fervor, ‘it would be India’s Princess Kamuresshi.’” “Later, a special correspondent from Britain’s Manchester Guardian published an account of an audience with Her Highness—though regrettably could not provide photographs for readers, as the princess disdains having her likeness taken before Europeans. Yet he wrote that should Her Highness ever grace Paris or London, Europe’s foremost beauties would surely blanch before her radiant complexion, noble bearing, and loveliness that transcends mortal measure.” “‘Her eyes,’ they wrote, ‘pooled with melancholy contemplation—her skin’s luster blending pale wheat and alabaster depths—defied capture by our pens.’”

I struggled mightily to suppress the laughter welling up inside me. Had he not been a foreigner, I would have tapped his shoulder and laughed uproariously with a "Stop your joking!"—but seeing Mr. Kapadia’s deadly serious expression rendered even that impossible. Having no choice, I too put on a serious face and played along. While anyone might boast of their country, this had crossed into territory where one couldn’t even muster a polite nod—I was utterly flabbergasted. As I gazed at Mr. Kapadia’s pitch-black face with its bushy, bear-like fur and listened to such tales, how many people—myself included—could have believed them straight-faced? If it had been mere claims of noble bearing or well-proportioned features, that would have been one thing—but when it came to a peerless beauty said to astonish even Europe’s foremost beauties, even nodding along began to feel absurd, until finally I simply fell silent and listened. My silent figure—which to Mr. Kapadia’s flushed and agitated eyes must have appeared as if I were expressing sympathy—caused him to close his mouth while scrutinizing me, but soon his countenance became tinged with grief and indignation. “Can you believe it, Mr. Tachibana? Those tyrannical British officials attempted to shame Her Highness the Princess without a shred of decency.” “They’re utterly insolent wretches—beasts or any other term fails to describe them.” “In their eyes, even our revered Her Highness the Princess must appear as nothing more than a savage’s daughter!” he spat through clenched teeth. “I was working at the palace library during that time...”

Summarizing what Mr. Kapadia had told me: Her Highness the Princess had left the harem on some rare errand and come to visit Crown Prince Narin’s chambers in the outer palace, but unfortunately the Prince was not in his room. At that very moment, Sir Robertson Jardine—the British Resident stationed in Virpur—who had attended an audience with the King and was about to depart the palace, happened to catch a glimpse of Her Highness’s resplendent figure through an open doorway.

The unmarried Resident, burning with desire for the Princess’s beauty and emboldened by the inopportune absence of maidservants or attendants, strode brashly into the room. He pressed his suit with shameless persistence, but under Britain’s oppressive sovereignty, even this brazen official—who wielded absolute power within the palace—could not have his advances summarily rebuffed by the Princess. Though flustered, she parried his overtures like willow branches bending before the wind. Yet when confronted by the Resident’s inhuman effrontery—bolstered by British suzerainty—the princess tried to physically withdraw, only for her embroidery needle to accidentally brush against him. The needle sliced his cheek open, drawing blood. As he bellowed in rage at the crimson flow, she twisted free and fled down the palace corridor toward the inner chambers… At that precise moment, the Crown Prince returned via the staircase. Witnessing this outrage against his sister, he snapped into action—brandishing his riding crop to strike the Resident across the face. Maddened at being caught in such disgraceful circumstances, the Resident lost all restraint and lurched at him like a demon unleashed. Though initially felled by the assault, when the Resident charged again in blind fury, he met his end through a single bullet fired from the pistol wrested from the Crown Prince’s grasp—slain instantly where he stood.

“I had just graduated from Bombay University around that time and was organizing notes at the Prince’s Library when I heard the commotion. By the time I rushed to the palace square, the Resident’s corpse was being covered with a white cloth and about to be carried away.” “I stood before the square, anxious to know whether any harm had come to Their Highnesses the Crown Prince and Princess, but as word of the emergency spread, citizens sharing the same concern came gathering to the square one after another.” “They all began chanting ‘Long live His Highness Crown Prince Narin!’ in unison, and before long, His Highness appeared on the balcony and graciously acknowledged us.” “Though His Highness appeared to have a bandage on his right hand, when we citizens saw him smiling with no change from his usual composure—so serene and unperturbed—tears of joy spilled forth from sheer emotion.” “Just as we citizens were beginning to leave with relief—what should happen but British soldiers—for Britain had established garrison districts in every kingdom where they stationed these imperial tribute troops composed of mixed British and Indian soldiers—they deployed those very garrisoned troops to completely surround the palace.” “Moreover, the frenzied British officer—perhaps to demonstrate his homeland’s might—suddenly raised his saber from horseback and ordered a rifle barrage aimed at this massive crowd.” “The citizens—innocent souls not even carrying a single dagger—were instantly engulfed in a bloody mist, resulting in hundreds of casualties there.” “Amidst that hellish uproar, mounted soldiers kicked up clouds of dust as they charged forward with war cries.” “It was to trample and scatter the crowd under their horses’ hooves.” “At that moment, every Indian’s eyes blazed wide, and not a single one among them failed to swear revenge 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, his form fixedly staring in our direction—glancing back again and again as we retreated. Yet His Highness, raising his right hand all the while, kept his eyes upon us, the dispersing crowd.” “If we raised our voices, we would immediately be shot as rioters by the British soldiers, so we returned in silence with tears clinging to our faces—yet never before had our entire populace and His Highness the Crown Prince been so united in heart as we swore revenge against Britain.” “Though you as a Japanese could never comprehend the hearts of a people whose entire nation has been reduced to a vanquished country, we Indians today are like infants with hands and feet bound before Britain.” “Even if tears of blood were to fall, we are in a position where we cannot repay a single thing.” “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 no intention of plotting any treacherous designs against Britain.” “Moreover, even we who are defenseless—if we merely gather like this—are trampled under their horses’ hooves by British soldiers without reason or justification, branded as rioters in advance.”

“This is the standard practice employed in India by Britain—the nation that cries out for humanity and prides itself on being gentlemen.” “To the British, there is nothing cheaper than an Indian’s life.”

“But if a Resident dispatched by Britain were shot dead, wouldn’t that cause major trouble even for the Crown Prince? So His Highness faced no repercussions at all?” I inquired.

“Of course it became an issue. However, the British side must have realized that if they were to inflict any harm upon Crown Prince Narin this time, a massive riot would erupt across all of Virpur—even without weapons. Since Sir Jardine, the Resident, was fundamentally at fault, military police came for a time and the High Court Chief Justice arrived—creating a perilous state—but ultimately this incident was buried in ambiguity. While the exact details remain unclear, it was widely rumored that His Majesty the King had specially visited the Governor-General of India in the capital over this matter, expending considerable funds from the state treasury for condolences to Sir Jardine’s family and other affairs.” “Though young in years, our Crown Prince had long been openly renowned as the most sagacious ruler among all Indian kingdoms—yet what struck me most was witnessing His Highness’s bearing during such critical moments. Amidst rumors that his safety was imperiled—that danger might strike any day—he showed not the slightest change from his usual demeanor, appearing in various palace research institutes where he listened with evident delight to his researchers’ reports.” “His Highness would occasionally visit the Prince’s Library where I worked, always composed and even graciously acknowledging us staff members—so tender was his demeanor that one could scarcely believe this was the same man who had disciplined that insolent British official and upheld royal dignity, a gentleness so profound it verged on feminine delicacy.” “As I beheld His Highness’s noble bearing in those moments, my heart swelled with the desire that—had circumstances allowed—we might revere such a wise and resolute soul as our kingdom’s true leader rather than one merely occupying an empty throne.” “Whether in joy or sorrow,” concluded Mr. Kapadia, “there is nothing as lonely and uncertain as the hearts of a vanquished people.”

I too sat spellbound by Mr. Kapadia’s tale, propping my cheek on the desk, but at this moment even my listening heart became permeated with the pathos of a vanquished nation’s people—I found it unbearable to keep gazing directly at Mr. Kapadia’s face. Of course, Mr. Kapadia himself had likely never meant to begin with such a tale of righteous fury. What had started as trivial boasts about some Indian beauty had somehow led here—now visibly overcome by what must have been a surge of homesickness and longing, he simply bowed his dark face downward and remained wordless for some time.

At length, he shook his head as if awakening from a dream and said, “Let us forget it, let us forget it—no amount of thinking will change things now.” “I’ve spoken such nonsense and made even you feel unpleasant.” “Shall we go somewhere for tea?” “Let’s do that. Let’s go somewhere to lift our spirits,” I said, beginning to rise when suddenly— “Ah, right…” Mr. Kapadia’s face brightened abruptly, as if recalling something vital. “I became so absorbed in our talk that I missed mentioning earlier—the very Crown Prince Narin I spoke of will be visiting Japan this time.” “The notification reached me two or three days ago.”

“The Crown Prince?!” I exclaimed in surprise. “Did such things happen that he could no longer remain in his own country?”

“There is no such thing. “That matter was settled three years ago,” said Mr.Kapadia with a wry smile,“but we’ve only just received sudden notice two or three days back about His Highness’s visit—the purpose of his coming remains entirely unclear. Or perhaps I believe His Highness may be stopping by on his way to Europe…” Mr.Kapadia also made a puzzled look. “When His Highness arrives，shall I arrange for you to meet him once? He’s quite down-to-earth and pleasant，you see，” he added.”

“Yes, please do!” I said—though I hadn’t particularly been eager to meet him—and asked, “Whatever the circumstances of his visit might be, you must be delighted at the prospect of meeting the Crown Prince?” “Absolutely!” Mr. Kapadia’s face—which had just been darkened—now broke into a beaming smile, unable to contain his joy. “To have come all this way to your distant country and now be able to welcome my own nation’s Crown Prince—this brings me a truly special joy.” “While quite a number come to Japan from Bengal Province in India, from Virpur there are only about ten people, including myself.” “Once notices had reached all six of them, it turned into a wild celebration—every time they met or gathered, that’s all they could talk about,” he said with a beaming smile. “If Mr. Platarapp comes by while I’m out, tell him I’ll return right away and have him wait!” I instructed the maid, then added, “Sorry to keep you waiting.” “Well then, let’s be off,” I urged.

It must have been late June… I remember it was still before this war had broken out. Had that Crown Prince from the stories actually come to Japan, or had his visit been canceled amidst all this wartime turmoil? It wasn’t something I’d particularly kept in mind—carelessly I’d forgotten all about it until today—but now, seeing such a beautiful boy, those tales Mr. Kapadia had told me back then began flooding back one after another.

While amusingly recalling how Mr. Kapadia had vehemently insisted to me back then on the princess’s beauty—“Well now, if there exists such a splendid boy, that princess must indeed be quite a beauty!”—I had been walking shoulder-to-shoulder with the youth along the dazzlingly lit tramway from Valoda Trading Company below Surugadai toward Ogawamachi since earlier.

III

Now, that evening when I walked out with the boy was truly refreshing—a night where the blowing wind felt cool as water. The sweltering day had passed, and a beautiful moon shone in the clear evening sky beyond; perhaps owing to this long-awaited sense of relaxation, it became an evening that made one feel like savoring the fine night slowly rather than rushing off in a car all at once. I thought I’d prefer taking the government railway over a car, but when I asked if walking was acceptable, the response was, “Yes, please!”

As I watched the boy follow behind in his polished, delicate white shoes—so refined they could be mistaken for women’s—clacking against the pavement, I found myself inexplicably compelled to ask such a question. The boy, appearing to be walking through Tokyo’s streets on such a night for the first time, followed along with evident delight.

Before long, we found ourselves standing on the platform at Manseibashi Station, but it was only when we were about to board the train that a look of bewilderment flickered across the boy’s cheek for the first time. “Is there not a first-class or second-class car available?” “I’ve never ridden in a third-class car before.” It was common for foreigners in Japan to avoid those packed third-class cars and choose second-class instead, but I saw that same bewilderment on this small Indian boy’s cheeks. I smiled wryly and forced him into the third-class car, telling him not to be extravagant, but the moment we boarded, it was now I who felt self-conscious. The countless jewels adorning his turban reflected the electric lights; though he had called them glass beads, they now emitted a radiance far surpassing mere glass. Moreover, that beautiful boy’s face drew the attention of every packed passenger, who all seemed to conspire in staring unblinkingly at his figure. At my wit’s end—and fearing people might think I paraded such a youth about with pride—I kept as much distance from him as possible until we reached Yurakucho. After leaving the station, we naturally headed toward Japan Theater, where an immense crowd had formed a long queue outside, waiting their turn for tickets. When this seemed to displease the boy, I redirected us toward Hibiya Theater, but there too every floor overflowed with spectators—no matter which door we tried upstairs or down. Having gone through all that trouble only to feel perplexed again, I found myself leaning shoulder-to-shoulder with him in the hushed lounge where films played—when suddenly he lifted those cool eyes of his and spoke.

“Are all the tickets about fifty sen each?” “Why do you ask that?” “I am grateful for your kindness. Because I’ve never strolled leisurely through Tokyo like this before, I find it most delightful. But why doesn’t this theater divide tickets into three tiers—the most expensive, moderately priced, and cheapest? I believe that way everyone could enjoy the movie at their leisure. Charging a flat rate of fifty sen may seem egalitarian, but doesn’t it actually cause inconvenience instead? I believe people should enjoy things according to their social standing, but what are your thoughts on the matter?”

I stared in astonishment at the boy’s innocent lips. “Excuse me! I noticed that and became quite interested in it now, but might this talk be uninteresting to you?”

“It’s quite all right—please continue!” I urged him on, still astonished. “In cities like Bombay and Karachi there are many, but my country has yet to establish any movie theaters.” “That’s why I resolved to build one just before coming to Japan.” “I had realized how powerfully film’s educational and propagandistic force could reach even the ignorant masses.” “Since I came here having merely drafted the plan, it won’t be completed until around November this year—though initially when conceiving this scheme, I intended to charge no admission fees whatsoever.” “Those around me approved of it.” “But recently I came to understand my error.” “I realized that making it free would injure people’s self-respect and keep the wealthy classes from attending.” “The impoverished classes alone would cast aside their work to come nightly,” the boy smiled with his beautiful eyes, “but having them come every night would be undesirable, while their not coming at all would pose equal difficulties.”

“I meant to create a place of education, but those who come to watch will likely perceive it as a place of entertainment provided to them.” “And making them think that way must be a good thing.” “Therefore, I ordered that admission fees be differentiated to suit each person’s circumstances and avoid injuring their self-respect.” “First class at four rupees, second class at two rupees, third class at half a rupee, and fourth class free—though I hadn’t firmly decided it that way, I generally conceived of it along those lines.” “And by coming here tonight, I realized that my thinking had not been mistaken.” “I intend to promptly send word of this back to my country.”

I was utterly dumbfounded and stared fixedly at the boy’s face. “Mr. Shutan! I want you to tell me your age once again! How old did you say you were?” “Nineteen… Have you forgotten?” the boy asked, tilting his head with a laugh.

Utterly, I was lost in thought.

You all must surely sense this as well—Hibiya Theater undoubtedly draws in and releases thousands upon hundreds of people daily. But how many of those Japanese boys swarming in that corridor to watch movies had ever wandered those corridors while entertaining such thoughts? Mortifying though it was, I myself had never once considered such matters. What astonished me more was how this boy’s tone—despite his cherubic features—somehow carried the insight of an educated family and radiated an innate dignity. Moreover, he declared “I had ordered a movie theater built” as lightly as one might mention assembling a toy doll. Could such an undertaking truly be accomplished with the pocket money of some eighteen- or nineteen-year-old youth? However modest the theater, wouldn’t it require tens of thousands of yen at minimum? With his striking looks, he spoke with such authority—yet I couldn’t help suspecting some vital piece might be missing from his understanding.

“How much does the movie theater you’re building cost?”

Though I thought it utterly ridiculous, I tried humoring him as if I’d become a child myself. “According to my calculations, the budget is sixty-five thousand rupees.”

For the record, at the current exchange rate, one rupee was valued at approximately 1 yen and 24 sen in Japanese currency. At sixty-five thousand rupees, it amounted to roughly eighty thousand six hundred yen.

“Who will build it? Your father…?” “No, I will be the one to build it.” “And my sister is also expected to contribute a portion.” “Therefore, once this is completed, I intend to name the theater after my sister.”

“Are you that wealthy?”

“I’m not particularly wealthy,” the boy smiled. “But I do have that much money,” he continued.

And astonishingly enough, this boy with his eighty thousand six hundred yen in pocket money remained perfectly composed while gazing up at the framed quarter-size photo prints of Takarazuka actresses displayed around them. “Well then, Mr. Shutan! So you came to Japan for that theater or some research, I take it?” By now, it was as if he was moving only his mouth out of sheer inertia. Not to be outdone, I too glared up at Sawako Yoshioka’s photograph.

“No,” the boy replied with a cool expression. “I came to attend school.” “To Kiryu University.” “Kiryu University is renowned even in my country for its textile and dyeing.” “It’s renowned even more than the university in Frankfurt am Main, Germany.” “Since I don’t know German, I came to Japan thinking that if I had to start from learning a new language anyway.” “My country is now in great need of that technology.” “If I learn that and return, I can expand the scope of life for the impoverished by that much.”

The boy continued gazing up at Kuniko Ashihara’s portrait and dismissed the matter effortlessly.

“You’re aware, of course—that person who was speaking with you earlier—Javeri, who was asking you about novels, came with me intending to enter Kiryu University.” “As for the other one, Shaa, I brought him with the intention of having him enter from high school into Imperial University to study electrical engineering.” “But before anything else, they must learn enough Japanese within about a year or a year and a half to attend lectures without issue—but Mr. Kapadia has agreed to handle all of that.”

According to the boy’s account, he had brought those two Indian youths and was currently staying at Manpei Hotel in Hirakawa-cho, but they planned to soon rent a house somewhere, hire a tutor to study Japanese, and thereafter enter Kiryu University or their respective schools. When he spoke of Kiryu University, he must of course have meant Kiryu Higher Technical School. As I listened, there was nothing particularly inconsistent about his explanation, yet somehow it remained vague and elusive—like a child’s tale that defies clear comprehension. In any case, can you gentlemen now recall the word 'eccentric'? If you consult an English-Japanese dictionary, you’ll 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 a situation where this term fit so perfectly, without a fraction of discrepancy. It’s not that this boy’s mind was eccentric. Though his scale was somewhat miscalibrated, I found myself marveling at this remarkable fellow who nonetheless possessed flashes of genius-level intuition. Yet here I sat—while society buzzed with war’s urgency, streets alive with the clatter of donation boxes and thousand-stitch cloth peddlers ringing their bells for extra editions to fuel wartime fervor—in a deserted theater lounge, having entered to watch a film but never actually seeing it, instead wrestling with these dreamlike conversations as I stared at Kuniko Ashihara’s portrait. Truly, I couldn’t help but deem this entire situation utterly eccentric. Even I could feel my head—never particularly sharp to begin with—growing increasingly addled as this boy jostled me about. Moreover, even as we were savoring this eccentricity, some amusing scene must have been playing inside. Intense applause erupted, and laughter rippled through. However, the boy didn’t seem particularly interested in looking at the photographs; rather, he appeared to find enjoyment simply in conversing with me like this. Moreover, the boy’s unusual appearance with his turban seemed to attract considerable attention even here, and before we knew it, the people who had come to smoke and the women at the shop counters had formed a loose circle around us.

Any thought of enjoying the movie completely vanished from my mind. Since there was no help for it, I thought I’d have a meal somewhere out of public view and then take this child, who was spouting nothing but aimless talk, back to Mr. Kapadia’s place. But in Tokyo, if there was any place where taking such a peculiarly dressed boy wouldn’t attract attention, it had to be nowhere other than the Imperial Hotel.

Though thoroughly disgusted yet resigned to the misfortune of having invited him out, I made a face as if I’d bitten into a bitter bug and slipped into the hotel bar through the arcade.

Now, having amicably split our share of eccentricity down the middle, we sat in silent communion beyond words—I guzzled beer after beer while the boy sipped cherry brandy cut with soda—each raising our cups in resigned silence. Clamorously, a drunken group of foreigners—apparently spillovers from a banquet—entered still wearing their formal attire. Among them was Pursley, an American export merchant from Yokohama whom I’d known before. When he glimpsed my face, he staggered over and raised a hand in recognition. But the instant he noticed the boy sitting across from me, he froze mid-step as if struck by lightning, still clutching his glass. He soon appeared to be bantering loudly with his drunken companions while hoisting his glass, yet whether real or imagined, I distinctly felt only Pursley’s gaze remained fixed upon the boy. Just as I was pondering this oddity, the waiter arrived with a drink refill and—sure enough—presented Pursley’s calling card. Understanding the cue, I stood to approach. Pursley too disentangled himself from his group. When we met at a corner of the counter, he first ordered me a highball.

“What’s up? Long time no see,” he said, then leaned on someone’s elbow and glanced meaningfully at the boy sitting primly nearby. His eyes widened as he asked, “You’ve brought along quite the important person, haven’t you? How did you come to know him?”

“He’s from a country called Virpur. Near Kashmir.” “Virpur? The prince of Virpur?” “Prince?” This time, it was I who widened my eyes. “What do you mean, ‘prince’?! Who’s a prince?” “Oh! You’ve been drinking with him without knowing?” “Unbelievable,” Pursley said, even more astonished. “He’s a prince! A splendid prince! You really didn’t know?” he asked suspiciously, peering into my face once more. But upon seeing from my expression that I was genuinely shocked rather than lying, he suddenly pressed his liquor-tinged lips close to my ear. “I didn’t realize it was Virpur, but that’s unmistakably the face of India’s famous prince. I’ve seen him in some photograph. First, look at that turban! That turban! For an Indian to be wearing a turban of that grandeur, there should be none outside the royal family. And those jewels!” As he turned with me, unaware that we were talking about him, he panicked upon seeing the boy’s eyes directed our way and buried his face in the counter.

“No doubt about it! He’s a prince for sure! I’d stake my reputation on it!” he groaned through clenched teeth. “Take a look at those jewels he’s sporting! Their value alone must be astronomical. That’s how you spot Indian royalty.” Jolted into action, I yanked out the tie pin I’d been nervously twisting and slammed it on the counter. “Tell me—is this glass or not? Glass or genuine?” “A diamond?!” Pursley produced his pince-nez, held it up to the light, clumsily polished the lenses with unsteady hands, then squinted at the stone between his knees. His lips twisted into a smirk as he emitted an ambiguous “Hah!” of recognition.

“Very well! If you don’t want it, I’ll take it off your hands for a reasonable price.” “Wait—this isn’t mine!” I hastily seized back the diamond.

"He is the Crown Prince—without a doubt, the Crown Prince!" I murmured as if in a dream.

“Could you introduce me to him?” Pursley whispered, but in my dreamlike state I forgot even to reply as I slid down from the high stool. The Indians’ deference toward the boy and our earlier contradictory exchanges swirled through my mind like a sudden whirlwind—and fell 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 dumbfounded, still clutching the tie pin. Could this person... could this delicate youth be the wise Crown Prince Narin I had so often heard about from Mr. Kapadia? This beautiful boy? With my thoroughly confused mind, I stared holes into the face of the beautiful youth before me—who gazed up at me again with a look of puzzlement. “What’s the matter? What are you thinking so deeply about?” "What are you thinking so deeply about?" the boy asked with a smile, but I blurted out “Mr. Shutan!” in a moment of quick thinking. “Earlier you said that when the movie theater is built, you intend to name it after your sister?” “What will you call it?” I asked.

“I will call it the Kamuresshi Theater,” came the reply.

He really was the Crown Prince after all! I felt utterly sober.

“You are Crown Prince Narin, aren’t you? You are Crown Prince Narin, aren’t you?” I repeated like a fool. “Having been unaware of your true identity, I’ve grown increasingly rude—please forgive me for all this!” Had this been a Japanese period drama, this would have been the moment to declaim my lines theatrically—but I possessed no such acting prowess. “I hadn’t realized it. Even after meeting you and seeing your turban with my own eyes, I still failed to recognize you. But I’d heard much about you from Mr. Kapadia—about Princess Kamuresshi too, and many other matters in thorough detail.”

“But I am not particularly the Crown Prince here—I am Mr. Shutan,” replied the Crown Prince, furrowing his brows in bewilderment. “Mr. Tachibana! Please do call me Mr. Shutan. That would be perfectly sufficient. Virpur has no connection to Japan whatsoever. To you, the Crown Prince of a British vassal state amounts to nothing more than Mr. Shutan, does he not? Oh, do sit down,” he urged, taking my dumbfounded self by the hand and guiding me to a seat. “I too have heard about you from Kapadia. I knew you held goodwill toward my endeavors and was grateful for it. And tonight,” he continued, extending his exquisite hand, “I am most pleased that you have chosen to become my friend.” I frantically seized that hand.

“I intend to do much more—everything within my power,” I declared feverishly. “I’m your friend!” “Whether you’re truly His Highness or just Mr. Shutan matters not—you’re my friend regardless!” “This calls for celebration!” “Another round!” “Your Highness!” “You must drink too!” “And I’ll join you!” I shouted absurdly elated at having befriended royalty. The beer I’d guzzled during our earlier eccentric revelries likely fueled this intoxication. “How fares Princess Kamuresshi?” I blurted recklessly in my giddiness. “Would you care to see my sister?” The Crown Prince produced a small box from his inner pocket. Though diminutive, its gold surface blazed with inset jewels. “The rightmost figure is my father.”

Indeed, that must be the Crown Prince’s father—the old king. The long-bearded monarch in his turban revealed eyes and a mouth strikingly similar to the Crown Prince’s. The moment I shifted my gaze leftward, Mr. Kapadia’s words from days past suddenly resurged in my mind—his claim that even Europe’s greatest beauty could not rival Her Highness Princess Kamuresshi’s splendor. I had laughed those words to scorn at the time. But now, confronted by the Crown Prince’s jade-like countenance and the princess’s smiling image in this box—who could doubt Mr. Kapadia’s assertion! That oval face! Those almond eyes brimming with enchantment! That gently curving mouth—was this elegance? Or sensuality incarnate! How late I came to know India! No matter what anyone says, India is my friend. In my heart, I screamed that India was Japan’s ally!

“Your Highness! No matter what anyone says, I am your friend! And please give my regards to Princess Kamuresshi. I’ll do everything in my power!” I grasped the Crown Prince’s hand once more. “What would you have me do with that?” said the Crown Prince, somewhat at a loss over my drunken state as he plucked the pin I’d been trying to return from my hand and inserted it back into my tie.

“It’s not that I’m particularly inclined to, but if it can be of service, that would suffice.” “No! I’m giving this back! I had 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 it grows too late, everyone will worry, I imagine. Should it please you, shall we prepare to depart?”

said the Crown Prince as he stood up. "If you have time, would you care to come to my hotel tomorrow? “There’s nothing special prepared, but I would be honored if you would join me for a meal and conversation.” “I’ll go for sure! “I’m busy, but I’ll go for sure!” I shouted with great vigor. Ever since I realized the boy was Crown Prince Narin, my enunciation had grown quite slurred, yet I still felt I hadn’t drunk enough. And if this boy was Crown Prince Narin, I felt as though there were mountains of things I wanted to talk about—things I couldn’t quite grasp myself.

IV

Of course, the very next day, I resolved to visit the Crown Prince first and foremost, just as promised. If I were to say this, people might think me a pervert, but ever since parting from the Crown Prince in the taxi last night, his beauty had lingered annoyingly before my eyes, impossible to shake off. Back in middle school, there was this pimply bastard in my baseball club who kept flunking and would pointlessly chase after underclassmen we called the "Yoka twerps." There was this idiot who kept failing so much he ended up in the same class as his own twerps and had to learn math from them. But even back then, having already been introduced to women by a waitress at the sweets shop, I found it utterly ridiculous—disgusting even—that a guy would chase after other guys, and I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. In the end, that particular experience remained beyond my comprehension.

By now, those baseball club members from back then had settled into solemn old men who wouldn’t so much as breathe a word about their twerp antics—yet here I was, alone, abruptly awakened to the appeal of those very twerps. No matter how I tried, ever since waking this morning, the Crown Prince’s beauty—so exquisite it could rival any woman’s—had lingered annoyingly before my eyes, impossible to shake off.

I considered that this feeling might be what they call homosexual desire, but when I—at my age—came to understand a twerp's state of mind, of all possible scenarios, with the object being an Indian man and no less than a Crown Prince of a nation, I couldn't help but wryly smile at what an audacious bastard I was. But in any case, since we hadn’t made any specific time arrangement, I decided to visit immediately after finishing breakfast.

But when I visited Manpei Hotel—what surprised me, truly surprised me was— Far from being about homosexual inclinations—or even those twerp infatuations—this was something else entirely. Despite the Crown Prince having come incognito as Mr. Shutan, it appeared the British Embassy had already been quick to take notice, for though not a single line had appeared in Japanese newspapers, a splendid Cadillac bearing the British Embassy’s insignia was already parked in front of the hotel, its driver—that bastard—yawning mightily as he waited for his master. I had a premonition that someone might be visiting the Crown Prince, but when I had the waiter with the chin-cord and gold buttons announce my arrival, it indeed turned out as I’d suspected—with a perfunctory reply of “There is currently a guest from the embassy present, so kindly wait for a while,” after which I was coolly ushered to the reception room downstairs. My homosexual fancies had whooshed away in an instant, but since I hadn’t come here to compete with those embassy bastards anyway, I arrived in my everyday suit with worn-out knees and muddy boots squelch-squelching across the floor—though hotels like this would surely soon be filled with proper guests strutting about self-importantly. The waiters’ treatment of an odd guest like me was so stingily efficient—handled as if some diplomat had stumbled in bewildered—that I, with anger erupting inside me, waited until no one was looking and thoroughly wiped my muddy shoes on the reception room’s splendid carpet. And despite having become such close friends just yesterday, if even the Crown Prince—dazzled by these distinguished visitors—were to look down on me and make me wait endlessly, I thought I might as well cut ties myself and leave posthaste. Now of all times, I regretted making a friend so far above my station. It must have been some extremely important meeting, for the talks seemed to drag on interminably, and no one came to fetch me. I wiped the mud from my shoes, grabbed my trousers by hand to straighten the creases, and yet still no one came—Ah, screw it! Should I leave now? Right this instant?—but the only thing anchoring me was that beautiful impression of the Crown Prince from last night when we’d spoken so amicably as Mr. Shutan, his boyish manner of speech still fresh in my mind. That alone kept me rooted there, growing more irritated yet unable to decide.

So by the time Harvadan Javeri—the attendant who had discussed *The Story of Shunkin* with me yesterday afternoon at Valoda Trading Company—came hurrying to fetch me, I had already grown thoroughly sulky. With an attitude of “Well I’m not such an important friend after all,” I sulked and wouldn’t even speak to him at first. “We never intended to keep you waiting this long,” said Javeri with earnest deference, “but a rather troublesome matter has arisen, and His Highness the Crown Prince feels most apologetic about it.” “Right this way!” “If you were to leave now, there’s no telling how terribly disappointed His Highness would be afterward,” said Javeri—who revered me as a literary master surpassing even Jun’ichirō Tanizaki—doing his utmost to placate my seething heart. “Right this way! “Right this way!” With this dark-skinned attendant practically grabbing my hand, I delicately took lotus-like steps forward—though all four east-facing rooms on the third floor appeared reserved entirely for the Crown Prince’s party—and just as Javeri tried to open the farthest door at the end, brushing past us from within emerged who must have been that British Embassy second secretary they’d been discussing: a towering gentleman in white linen Western clothes, helmet cradled in his right hand, so tall one had to crane one’s neck to meet his gaze. The diplomat clearly held someone like me in no regard whatsoever—as we passed each other, he cast a haughty sidelong glare that might as well have said, “Has some Japanese clerk wandered in here?” before exiting. For his part, Mr. Tachibana, the Japanese man, having no particular desire to curry future favor with the British Embassy either, swaggered in with his polished shoes clacking imperiously against the carpet. But the moment I stepped inside and took in the sight, I must reiterate—there was no trace of homosexuality or youthful infatuations to speak of. I couldn’t help but feel perplexed now that I’d become friends with such a formidable person. For this was most likely the royal attire—albeit unofficial—worn to receive British Embassy officials. At the deepest part of the room beyond the eight-tatami-mat antechamber we had passed through, there stood the Crown Prince—now risen from his chair and smiling warmly in my direction—clad exactly as I had seen in photographs: wearing a dazzlingly pale yellow silk upper garment that draped to his knees, with hakama trousers fastened below them. And there he stood—wearing pure Indian-style Mojadi shoes, while upon the front of his turban from last night shone the Korongi royal crest I had previously seen in photographs, resplendent with five-colored jewels set among bird feathers. From his collar down to every button on his garments, nothing but gemstones akin to Buddhist rosary beads adorned him. In that dimly curtained room blazing with radiance, I beheld a prince from the ancient Arabian Nights, his splendor near-blinding to behold.

The prince, shimmering like a jewel amid flickering light, was now quietly making his way toward me. Moreover, the Crown Prince’s smiling cheeks—still bluish-gray—now reflected the yellow of his garments and were tinged with red, quivering into a beautiful agate hue. Should this be called solemn grandeur or ethereal grace? Deemed exquisite beauty or simply a dreamlike illusion! Toward India—this nation with six-thousand-year traditions that they had mocked as a ruined country and foolish ancient civilization, never deeming it worthy of consideration—I felt for the first and only time an irrepressible urge to bow my head in nameless reverence. I had no words beyond ecstasy and mystery. Moreover, the Crown Prince carried not the slightest air of pretension.

“How about it, Mr. Tachibana?” came a voice as my hand was grasped over the back of a chair—then followed by “This way please!” uttered in that same gentle, childlike tone from yesterday. “Thanks to you, I had a truly enjoyable evening last night.” “It was most enjoyable, but are you feeling unwell this morning?” he asked, offering me a cigarette as he tilted his adorable head with a smile. “Since I have no pressing matters myself, please feel free to stay and relax as long as you like.” “Since there’s nothing to do yet, we’re bored stiff every day.” From beside him, Rajik Shaa—the other attendant studying electrical engineering, a quiet young man who always wore a scowling expression—also added, “Since our luggage still hasn’t arrived, there are no books to read, so we’re bored stiff every day.” “His Highness was delighted that last night was so enjoyable,” he said stiffly.

Though I remained unsettled by His Highness’s attire—so eye-openingly feminine it might rouse one from slumber—and though I had been told this was his ordinary palace wear, I found myself stiffening unconsciously as we spoke. Yet the Crown Prince himself showed not the slightest self-consciousness, fluttering his graceful garments like a butterfly (though he surely did not intend this—to me, no description fit better than a dancing butterfly) as he took the seat to my right. Returning to his original spot, he engaged in effortless small talk in response to my questions.

At first, our conversation turned to the machinery I had sent to India through Valoda Trading Company—discussions about performance comparisons and relative merits against British or German products. This seemed a topic of great interest to His Highness himself, but I had no enthusiasm whatsoever for such matters as industrial development or economic expansion. Especially when it came to the machinery sent to India, I regarded it merely as a bureaucratic formality tied to daily operations—so much so that I’d already forgotten what I’d even shipped. No matter how long we talked, our focus could never align. Seeing me scratching my head at a loss for how to respond, His Highness must have sensed my disinterest in this subject. He then shifted topics and asked why I didn’t write novels about India. The Crown Prince listed titles of books he had read—all classical works—but since I myself had little interest in that field either, this conversation too failed to gain momentum.

Eventually, the conversation turned to the issue of national spirit. The Crown Prince wore an indescribably lonely expression as he sighed, lamenting that if only the Indian people’s spirit had matched the Japanese in vigor, India would never have suffered such fragmentation under Britain’s cruel oppression—no matter how severe the afflictions of caste or linguistic and racial divisions might have been. “India’s royalty are ruining themselves with opium,” he said sorrowfully, “while the lower classes destroy themselves through ignorance and lack of education. How many among today’s minor and major kings do you suppose have been completely freed from opium’s grip?” This young Crown Prince—constrained by his position, it seemed—could not indulge in such limited pursuits as literature or music. Every ounce of his concern appeared devoted to strengthening national power and liberating his homeland from British shackles. I supposed this must be what they called royal studies, but found it inexpressibly painful that this prince—denied even personal interests in his youth—should devote his entire being solely to his nation’s prosperity.

To my question of “Does Your Highness’s country have novels?”, he responded, “The Kachchi language is truly an uncivilized tongue—we can speak it, but it has no written form,” his face flushing with embarrassment. “However, in Gujarati there are four or five writers.” “For all of India, there are probably three or four hundred authors writing in Indian languages.” “But with speech being so severely suppressed,” he continued, blinking with lonely resignation, “Indian writers can only chase vulgar romances or escape into philosophical musings and poetic meditations—they’ve nothing else left to write.”

In any case, as I sat facing the Crown Prince who looked like a painting come to life—leaning deeply into my chair in that secluded hotel room while listening to his tales of foreign lands—I felt my very mood dissolving into this exotic atmosphere. Yet even the richly spiced tea had already been replaced several times by Shaa’s hands since earlier. And yet, rather than conversing with the Crown Prince in such attire here, I found myself unable to forget yesterday’s figure of Mr. Shutan in familiar European-style clothing—it felt far more approachable and lingered stubbornly in my mind.

When I brought it up with a grin, the Crown Prince promptly agreed. “Seeing you happily drinking beer brings me joy as well.” “Since I had already intended for us to have dinner together, let us now go see a Kabuki play together.” “And today, let’s take Shaa along as well,” he said with a smile, then added something in their native language to the imposing figure of Shaa standing nearby. Joy immediately flooded Shaa’s cheeks. “I shall excuse myself briefly to change clothes—Shaa will keep you company in the meantime,” said the Crown Prince as he withdrew to another room. The moment His Highness disappeared beyond the door, Shaa leaned his massive frame over my chair until his face nearly crushed mine, lowering his voice to a whisper.

“Due to considerations regarding the embassy, could you please keep His Highness the Crown Prince’s identity solely within your heart and maintain absolute secrecy from everyone else for the time being?” “There’s something I must earnestly request of you… You understand, don’t you?” “Just now, Second Secretary Graves came to visit again…”

I nodded while staring fixedly into Shaa’s eyes. “Even if we were to return to our country, we cannot know where or what kind of eyes might be watching.” “We are doing our utmost to ensure that even our compatriots residing there do not meet His Highness the Crown Prince.” “They do not hold favorable impressions of His Highness’s stay in Japan from the embassy side—since we are well aware of this, we earnestly beg your utmost discretion in this matter.”

“…………”

I nodded again. "And Mr. Kapadia too?" I ventured. "No! No!" Shaa’s face broke into a smile. "That person graduated through His Highness the Crown Prince’s scholarship program, same as us." "We’ve even entrusted him with finding residences and hiring maidservants—you needn’t harbor any concerns about that person whatsoever." Perhaps reassured by my nod, Shaa settled into the seat beside me and began speaking in a slightly louder tone than before.

Britain was applying intense pressure on Japanese goods—particularly by forcing restrictions on India’s importation of inexpensive Japanese textiles essential to its masses—while striving to compel them to purchase costly British-made fabrics instead. For India’s people without purchasing power, this meant unbearable suffering, with Virpur’s poor scarcely able to obtain proper clothing in their current state. Unable to endure watching this plight, and secondarily as an employment initiative for the impoverished, His Highness had previously established small textile factories at three locations in Virpur—though he explained he had come to Japan himself to study spinning techniques to expand these into a major domestic industry. Despite fierce opposition from British officials—who disdained Japanese education and desperately urged enrollment at Manchester University instead—the Crown Prince had pushed through to come here. Moreover, though he now detested empty talk of Indian revolution or independence like venomous creatures, forbidding all political conspiracies among Virpurians while focusing solely on national development, it seemed he himself had harbored independence aspirations deep within since his days at Ajmer’s aristocratic school. For this reason, he had resolutely secluded himself in Virpur, defying both his father’s expectations to join the Imperial Cadet Corps like other royals and the British authorities’ wishes. Yet from aides like Shaa and Javeri—who prayed fervently for His Highness’s health, wishing he would indulge in personal pleasures rather than perilous politics—Shaa now spoke with heartfelt sincerity: if Mr. Tachibana could accompany him in such diversions during this opportunity, it would be an immeasurable blessing. Shaa himself had been pounding his chest, face ablaze with devotion as he vowed readiness to die anytime for His Highness—but when the Crown Prince suddenly threw open the door and appeared, he fell silent at once, standing rigid as stone. I had earlier exhaustively described the Crown Prince’s beauty in royal Indian garb, but now his petite figure—clad in light ash-gray serge suit, matching deep gray dress helmet, and elegant mouse-gray suede shoes fit for a lady—possessed an entirely different, indescribable charm.

“I kept you waiting. Let us be on our way! Shaa, you come too!” Following this young prince who had taken the lead, we too stepped off the elevator—and there, for an instant, I witnessed a truly bizarre scene. It happened just as we were passing before the wide-open reception room beside the front desk—Javeri, who had taken a seat near the entrance, appeared to be engaged in urgent conversation with a lavishly dressed young Western woman. But the moment she glanced up, this noblewoman stood bolt upright as if struck by shock, abandoning Javeri where he sat. And with a cry or two, she attempted to rush toward His Highness the Crown Prince. Javeri seemed to stand frozen in bewilderment, but before one could even gasp, the colossal Shaa had planted himself before His Highness the Crown Prince. With his hulking frame—like a landslide set into motion—he appeared to steadily press the woman back into the reception room through sheer physical presence.

Just as the car pulled up, His Highness the Crown Prince stepped onto the running board without so much as a twitch of his brow, and I followed suit and got in—leaving me no way of knowing what became of the aftermath—but soon enough Shaa, who had climbed into the front passenger seat, remained silent as stone, as impassive as ever. Since His Highness the Crown Prince also remained utterly composed without uttering a word, I alone could not rudely interject either. Thus, I too eventually buried the memory deep within my mind as nothing more than a momentary incident that had flashed through it. Yet for some time afterward, I could not help being struck by an uncanny sensation as I compared the noblewoman’s opulent attire I had just witnessed with His Highness’s excessively composed demeanor. Of course, I could not imagine any sordid shadowy connection existing between this pure young Crown Prince and that noblewoman, nor could I conceive of it being some sort of political maneuver—and so even inside the moving car, I remained plagued by bewilderment for some time.

V

His Highness the Crown Prince had likely stayed at the hotel for a little over a month. I continued visiting whenever I found spare time at his suggestion—though his true wish seemed to be abandoning this unsettled hotel life at once to devote himself fully to Japanese studies. However, his desired residence differed entirely from cheap lodgings scattered about; being a grand establishment far beyond ordinary means, they faced considerable difficulty finding suitable housing. The search had primarily been handled by Mr. Kapadia, Shaa and Javeri, but before any suitable house could be found, the lingering summer heat gradually faded until autumn’s chill began whispering through the capital. Around that time, their arduous house hunt finally bore fruit when I heard they’d found an ideal residence near Akasaka’s Reinan-zaka. Coinciding with this, the prince’s luggage and automobiles arrived on the next ship, while his personal palace chef and several servants had just reached Japan—I recall Valoda Trading Company in Surugadai being thrown into daily chaos by these arrivals. According to Mr. Kapadia—visiting the store beaming for the first time in ages—the rented mansion was an extravagant Japanese-Western hybrid built by a pro-Japanese American tycoon, featuring twenty-odd rooms and sprawling gardens that had greatly pleased His Highness. We provisionally signed a one-year contract with rent at 380 yen—I nearly asked whether that was monthly or yearly—but truly, either way it proved insignificant. What trifling sums! Merely 380 yen. The six-month security deposit was managed by Mitsui Trust since the tycoon’s death—they requested a respectable Japanese guarantor for their all-Japanese lease documents, leading them to ask if I might trouble myself accordingly. Of course, my connection with His Highness remained personal, and our business ties with Valoda Trading Company didn’t yet warrant corporate involvement—so I resolved to become guarantor privately, sending Mr. Kapadia off looking as though he’d boarded salvation itself. Seeing his animated relief after shedding such burdens made even me feel strangely invested.

Whether acting purely personally or borrowing the store's name, for someone like me—no great man by any measure—to audaciously attempt becoming a guarantor for 380 yen monthly payments was already quite the presumption. One might think it obvious whether society would value me so highly, yet my failure to grasp this revealed the slight blindness clouding my vision. As I spouted nonsense to Javeri and others, even I began mistaking some of that nonsense for truth—since I'd written quite a bit for Bungeishunju, I fancied society might respect me at least as much as "Mr. Tachibana." This delusion became the root cause of my grand miscalculation. Mr. Tachibana? Not even close! What a downright pitiful affair—indeed, when two or three days had passed and all preparations for relocation were complete for exchanging contracts, His Highness the Crown Prince happened to be free and thus accompanied us partly for leisure. As for myself, naturally intending to serve as the crucial guarantor stamping the seal, I hung an absurdly large ancestral seal around my neck, along with Shaa, Javeri, and Mr. Kapadia! With this grand entourage in tow, I had marched in courageously and gallantly—but damn it all! As if my name carried any renown or I'd achieved any standing! And that was that. To make matters worse, had I known how it would turn out, I should have sneaked off quietly by myself. But precisely because I went with that grand entourage, I suffered even greater humiliation—so much so that even were I to forget this experience, I've been thoroughly chastened into never putting on literary airs ever again.

Moreover, it wasn’t merely I who was humiliated. Even the Indian Crown Prince who had come to Japan bearing immeasurable goodwill—when facing Japan’s first-class corporations (and truly first-class they were, those top-tier companies ranked alongside Mitsui or Mitsubishi)—could scarcely receive humane treatment from their employees. Now then, a brief depiction of that scene: This was Naka-dori in Marunouchi—the grandiose reception room of the renowned Mitsui Trust Company. Yet whether through some shift in circumstances or change of heart, the situation now appeared markedly different from what Mr. Kapadia had described to us earlier. “While you may put it that way,” came the response, “given our considerable difficulties with Indian clients thus far, I’m afraid we cannot extend immediate trust.” “Though I did carelessly mention such matters previously—hemming and hawing—we’ve made no definitive decision to lease. While it does depend on the Japanese guarantor, our company has had quite enough experience with Indians up to now.” Such was his hemming-and-hawing reply. The words came from a seemingly frivolous clerk of thirty-two or thirty-three—likely returned from overseas assignment. Naturally, it was delivered in flawless English.

I understood the impeccable English well enough, but you might wonder—what exactly was this "snuffling"? The truth was, this bastard—Japanese yet straining to ape Westerners—was trying so desperately to produce that nasal "authentic" American English that to my ears, it couldn't help sounding like broken-nosed gibberish through his congested passages. The bastard meant to show that employees of Japan's "progressive" top-tier companies didn't give a damn about India's colored races! He likely intended this demonstration, but I found his snuffling so absurd that suppressing my laughter became Herculean. Of course, His Highness the Crown Prince wasn't directly facing this onslaught. He simply leaned back in his chair, silently observing the clerk's face—but the more triumphantly this employee spouted his English, the more acutely I felt my shame as a fellow Japanese unable to lift my head before our youthful prince.

“Could you let me meet the manager?” Shaa blurted out, unable to bear it any longer. “As I’ve already stated—hemming and hawing—the manager is simply too busy to meet with you,” the clerk dismissed flatly, his tone devoid of courtesy. “So which Japanese individual intends to act as guarantor? You?” he now demanded in Japanese, turning sharply to face me. “Yes,” I replied, pushing my chair forward.

"Excuse me, but your name?" I reluctantly presented my business card too, but unfortunately mine didn't include an address. I never put addresses on any cards except my business ones. This wasn't just due to the audacity of thinking people would recognize me without an address if I were some esteemed "Mr. Tachibana," but also because I'd been wasting cards with every frequent move—lately adopting what I considered an innovative approach by omitting addresses from the start.

"There’s neither an address nor anything else listed here."

“Address is Suginami Ward... I’ll write it down, then.” “Write it down!” I began filling in the address with the fountain pen Shaa had offered. You shady bastard—not even printing your address on this thing! With a look that might as well have shouted “You shady bastard—not even printing your address!”, that sniveling clerk stared intently at my hands. “If I may intrude—how exactly do you know these people?” “They’re my friends!” “So does that mean you’ve visited India before?”

“I haven’t been to India, but since I’m involved in trade, that’s how I came to know Mr. Kapadia here.” “Through that introduction, I became friends with them.” “Excuse me, but the name of your store?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.” “Because my store isn’t the one acting as guarantor.” “Besides, I haven’t been going to the store much lately.” “If that’s the case, do you have some other business?” “I do some writing.” “I will act as guarantor in that capacity.” It’s personal! It’s personal! So here I leaned back slightly—or so I’d have you imagine.

"So you're in the writing business, I take it?" "Well... That’s how it is." “Understood.” “Please wait a moment.” “Preezuweitaminiutto” – presumably “Please wait a minute” – the bastard spat out.

He couldn't arrange a meeting with his superiors, yet even on his own authority remained incapable of reaching a decision—what a pitiful bastard he was. Before long, he reappeared. "I really must inquire about the name of the store with which you are affiliated." "As for your writing career—mumble-mumble-mumble!" The bastard hemmed and hawed. "And what might be the name of your establishment?" "Well, since there's no helping it," "Mitsutaniya Trading Company," I admitted miserably. "And the address of Mitsutaniya Trading Company?" "I answered with 'such-and-such.'"

“Please wait a moment.”

“Could you let me meet the manager?” I asked, mustering my resolve—though apparently my companion wasn’t exactly a literary giant either, which left me feeling rather insecure. Shaa repeated once more. What’s the point of making us repeat the same thing twice?! With a sidelong glare that practically screamed those words, the employee vanished through the door.

When he reappeared this time, he entered with a composure that seemed to proclaim all matters settled, leisurely and without haste.

“Thank you for waiting.” “Mr. Tachibana here isn’t the proprietor of this Mitsutaniya Trading Company!” He must have checked some credit registry. Even though no one had said I was the proprietor, he first fixed me with a sharp glare. “Given that we find ourselves somewhat dissatisfied with this response on our part, we would ask that you wait another four or five days so that we may provide a proper reply…” “However, we were told that if we came today, the contract could be exchanged as long as we brought along a Japanese person!” snapped Mr. Kapadia.

“If we remain unsatisfied with the current state, I’m afraid there’s simply nothing we can promise,” retorted that insufferable clerk with his smug face. “Unless we conduct our own thorough investigation as well—” “Trusting your promise, we’ve already packed our belongings and stand ready to move in.” “We want you to clearly state whether it’s yes or no.” “Are you saying you can’t rent to us because we’re Indian?” Shaa pressed.

“It would be troublesome if you were to misunderstand.” “If you had any dissatisfaction with us, we should have been clearly informed of your refusal from the very first time we came here,” he sputtered. “When you say that, it sounds utterly preposterous,” I could no longer contain myself this time. “Are you saying there’s no problem with the Indian tenants, but you’re dissatisfied with the Japanese guarantor?” I pressed. Moreover, now that things had come to this, my pride wouldn’t allow it. I fired back at this insufferably arrogant, foreign-educated fluent English with the shamelessly self-taught English I’d cobbled together long ago in my bed. Behold! And so it was. Now the Old Cunning British Empire was demonstrating overt hostility toward our nation by employing every conceivable sinister scheme at its disposal. And the entire Japanese nation's indignation toward Britain had reached its peak. For was it not precisely in such times that the nation should unite its heart, demonstrating warm friendship through every sympathy and fellowship toward our fellow colored race in India? This being Tachibana the literary master’s conviction, now that matters had come to this pass, grammar be damned, irregular forms be damned, pronunciation be damned—there was no room left for any of it. I felt compelled to convey my righteous indignation and sympathy to His Highness the Crown Prince and my Indian friends—indeed, to repay the insult directed at me, I needed to confront this bastard in English. Given that there’s a saying about couples resembling each other, my wife too might have been narrowing her eyes in hopeful anticipation—what with her husband finally sprouting buds these days, his writings beyond the store’s monthly salary starting to sell a bit, just maybe nearing becoming someone of status—but no good! Wife, not yet, not yet! At this moment, I screamed in my heart that I still hadn’t become someone of status.

“We cannot wait four or five days.” “We cannot wait four or five days without reason.” “These people all came to Japan under pressure to study in Britain instead of being allowed into Japanese schools.” “They don’t have a single Japanese acquaintance yet.” “I’m the manager of Mitsutaniya Trading Company that you investigated.” “Since a manager needn’t drag his store’s name into every personal matter, I’ve been repeating that I came here as a friend.” “In this situation, I came because as a Japanese person, I feel compelled to assist these people.” “As a Japanese person, I came because I share every sentiment you must feel as a Japanese.” “Even if my name means nothing, shouldn’t my actual income suffice?” “Even so, am I unfit to be guarantor?” I delivered this entire speech in English to Japanese Mr. Fuga, only to be rebuffed. As might be expected, wielding such crude bedroom English proved so strenuous that Mr. Tachibana broke into profuse sweat—or so history records.

VI

When writing such absurdities in Japanese, no matter how vehemently I protested that this wasn’t the case, the tone acquired an unnervingly polished quality—almost creating the illusion that I had magnificently subdued Fuga—but in truth, reality stood poles apart. To compound matters, my reckless opponent turned out to be Fuga, a veritable master of English, plunging me into desperate straits—sweat dripping, brow mopping, locked in a wheel-spinning struggle. Let it hereby be recorded that all subsequent exchanges between Japanese parties unfolded as a series of preposterous debates conducted in English. And thus the verbal jousting persisted.

“I understand your point, but… *sputter*… even if you insist on such logic—” Fuga let out a wry smirk—whether disgusted by my self-taught bedroom English or wearied by this profitless conversation. That emotionless smirk of Fuga’s jolted me. “This isn’t about logic! “Can’t you understand? If you dislike the guarantor, I never asked you to force me into the role! “But through my personal connections, I absolutely must help these people—so I’ll find a guarantor who meets your standards. “This isn’t for your company. “It’s for their sake. “Since I’ll do it today itself, tell me clearly—did this sudden need for four or five days’ investigation come because of me or these Indian people?”

“In other words, *sputter,*—since we consider these individuals to be of considerable standing among Indian people, we think it might be best if *they* were to visit, say, the British Consulate-General and have a suitable Japanese guarantor arranged for them.” “It is absolutely impossible. These people do not wish to bow their heads like beggars before the British. It would be problematic to explain, but in India they hold a much higher status. Then first of all, why did you demand that we bring a Japanese person?!”

“In other words—from our perspective—not that we suspect you, mind you—but we must first investigate the background of whoever would serve as guarantor before proceeding.” “Are you saying I’m a fraud?” “I’m at a loss because I don’t understand the definition of ‘fraud,’” this bastard retorted, having deigned to use the Japanese word itself. “To put it plainly—*sputter*—we would prefer a Japanese guarantor of higher social standing,” this bastard finally snapped, losing his temper.

“Understood. I will find someone of social standing and help these people.” “For instance, someone operating a proper business on the tram thoroughfare—a Fuga-class establishment or such.”

“Understood.” “I’ll search along the streetcar line.” I nearly unleashed another torrent of protests but held back—knowing full well that if I kept shouting only to hear “How regrettable, but we cannot rent you the house” once my anger subsided, all would be lost. For now, I forced down the bile churning in my gut. “Shaa!” Crown Prince Narin called out for the first time—his voice as composed as ever, betraying no agitation whatsoever. Then he rapidly issued instructions to Shaa in Kacchi.

“We have deposited six months’ security as per your regulations for the one-year contract,” Shaa relayed. “However, my master now proposes maintaining the original one-year contract while providing a full year’s security deposit upfront.” “Furthermore, the monthly rent shall be paid in advance.” “This should eliminate the need for a guarantor. Therefore, we respectfully request that our most trusted associate Mr. Tachibana serve again as witness.”

Suddenly, heat surged up through my chest. As a Japanese man, I found myself moved not by my countrymen but by the Indian people. I was moved by these very Indians whom the Japanese clerk so utterly despised. And there, in the midst of those same Japanese men thoroughly insulting me, the Indians had splendidly salvaged my standing. Had there been no witnesses, I might have seized Prince Narin’s hand and pressed it to my brow.

“How does that sound?” Shaa continued. “If our negotiations remain unsettled at this stage, we have no desire to press our request further—we will simply look elsewhere.” “That is entirely your prerogative,” Fuga declared, now stubbornly avoiding me, “but *sputter*—as Mitsui Trust Company, we would still require a guarantor even with full deposit payment.” “Should any dispute arise after the contract expires—*sputter*—we must have at least one Japanese person assuming guarantor responsibility,” he added with unchanged indifference. “However, since the discussion parameters seem to have shifted, please wait—I must consult what the manager will say!” “*sputter*”

“If you need a guarantor for such pettifogging lawyer tactics, then even someone like me could do a splendid job, couldn’t I?” I blurted out, unable to contain myself. “However, there’s no longer any need for further consultation! I will arrange for another Japanese guarantor using the method I just mentioned. So, just to confirm—what exactly defines a person as having social status? For example, would the mayors of the six major cities have social status?”

“When you speak of the mayors of six major cities…?” Fuga posed his inquiry head-on like a fool completely unaware he was being mocked. “Do you mean something like Tokyo Mayor or Osaka Mayor?” “I can’t speak for Tokyo or Osaka mayors,” I countered, “but would someone like Yokohama’s mayor meet your *esteemed criteria* for a guarantor?”

“That will do splendidly!” “*sputter*—If it’s the mayor of Yokohama, then of course that will do splendidly.” “*sputter*”

Mayors of Japan, rejoice! Mitsui Trust Company declared that the position of mayor carries social status.

“Very well, we shall proceed. However, since this arrangement was achieved through my behind-the-scenes efforts and I now have no further connection with your company, give me back the business card I handed over earlier!”

“Give it back!”—and in the end, I went and did it too.

“Please wait a moment!” I snatched back my business card and bolted outside without awaiting a response. Crown Prince Narin and all the Indians rose from their seats in succession. Leading the entire group, I swept briskly through the doorway. I fancied myself akin to Mussolini marshaling Ethiopia—but then arose the predicament: Fuga had airily conceded “That will suffice,” leaving me saddled with the inexorable momentum to negotiate with my bald-pated landlord—a man who’d served as Yokohama’s mayor some decade prior. The truth pierced me now—a man devoid of social standing remains worthless however sincere—and I bitterly lamented my existence. Yet stewing over this futility would avail me nothing.

“Mr. Tachibana,”—as we stepped out to the entrance, Crown Prince Narin suddenly took my hand.

“I sincerely appreciate your kindness, but as I do not wish to trouble you any further from this point onward, I believe I shall now go to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.” “Since I have some acquaintances in the Asia Bureau, I believe we can have the Ministry of Foreign Affairs arrange something…”

“No good,” I barked curtly, my nerves frayed raw. “This dispute is no longer yours.” “It’s between me and that company now.” I’d suffered a grave insult. Now that matters had come this far, even should you all consent otherwise, I had to see it through to the end for my own peace. You dragged me into this. Now I’ll drag you out. If my efforts still prove wanting regardless, then afterward—whether you go to the Foreign Ministry or perdition itself—do as you will. “Since that’s beyond my concern now, just follow without another word,” I declared, brusquely hailing a taxi that had pulled up nearby.

Though he must have been contemplating something inwardly, Crown Prince Narin said nothing more aloud. When they saw me jump into the car without ceremony, they silently followed suit. The two vehicles carrying my half-frantic self went racing toward the suburban area where my house stood—but should anyone wonder how a landlord with the social standing of having served as Yokohama’s mayor could be mine, dear readers might imagine me inhabiting a palatial estate and have their eyes pop out. But spare yourselves such needless worry! Even a former mayor’s rental property might well be a modest little house. In one such dwelling I’d taken up residence, occasionally paying rent every two months—a habit that left this elderly ex-mayor thoroughly perplexed—though there’s nothing particularly remarkable about someone having held municipal office. Before becoming mayor, he’d apparently served as a prefectural governor somewhere, but now appeared thoroughly unremarkable—a harmless old codger who spent his entire year laboring over morning glories and chrysanthemums. His own house stood just a block from mine—an undeniably grand residence—from which he’d occasionally emerge declaring, “What do you think? This one turned out rather well—why not display it for a spell? “If you tire of it, I’ll swap it out again!” he’d say, shuffling through our back door in grimy work clothes bearing potted plants like a man lending out his cherished daughter. For us, this proved an immense nuisance—we couldn’t let these unsightly pots ceremoniously displayed on our veranda wither away, nor risk careless children breaking them. A truly vexing predicament. My wife had by now mastered the art—with fierce determination to reduce our rent—of buttering up “Landlord” through endless chrysanthemum talk. She’d been cooing “Landlord” this and “Landlord” that, but his past mayoral service became his undoing—now transformed into a candle flickering before the storm, blindly targeted by my half-mad self. Just as we burst in, this flickering candle—engaged in rare scholarly pursuits within his study—remained oblivious to my designs, draped in an absurd juttoku robe reminiscent of what Takarai Kikaku might have worn on the fourteenth day of mid-December in Genroku 14 (1701),

“Oh ho! Mr. Tachibana! Come on in!”

The old mayor and his wife had emerged in high spirits, but even they couldn’t help being overwhelmed by the scene that greeted them—cars clattering down like some chaotic spectacle from Yokohama’s open port. Of course, the old mayor had never once heard rumors about these people, nor had these people been told about him by me, so there was no prior connection or entanglement between them. However, I believed that at least this "Landlord," who held such a position, would understand the current situation and show sympathy toward the Indian people. As expected, though at first he looked around at the unfamiliar faces with a puzzled expression and listened suspiciously, once my request concluded, he responded with utmost nonchalance.

“If you put down a year’s deposit to rent a house for a year, you shouldn’t need any guarantor or such!” “A place like Mitsui Mitsuya’s got money to spare—they shouldn’t be makin’ folks jump through all these extra hoops for nothin’!” “What a hassle!” he said with a thoroughly weary expression, as though completely fed up with the world’s endless bothers. “Oh, sure thing!” “If this old man’s good enough for ya, I’ll be happy to lend a hand.” “If that’s all it takes to secure everyone’s convenience, then it’s no trouble at all!” he responded without hesitation. It was an even simpler reply than fertilizing chrysanthemum pots. Since heading out now would mean the company had already closed for the day, it was decided we would go together tomorrow.

“Ah, can’t do! Can’t do! A writer ain’t no good for you, Mr. Tachibana!” the old mayor declared, shaking his bald head. “Landlords aren’t ones for grand gestures—if they hear you’re a writer, journalist, or lawyer, they’ll turn you down flat. Why ain’t you presentin’ your company business card? You’d been hidin’ that you write stuff from this old man all this time!” roared this chrysanthemum-obsessed mayor with booming laughter. When I finished translating, Crown Prince Narin and the three others fixed renewed gazes of gratitude upon this giant monk-like figure in his peculiar attire—one who bore no resemblance to former governors or mayors. Indeed, I thought, to eyes accustomed to the pompous British governors and mayors strutting about India, this juttoku robe-clad figure must appear utterly bizarre. Yet through my gubernatorial-grade friend’s eyes, it felt somewhat lacking—I’d expected them all to show a bit more astonishment and reverence.

At any rate, since the Old Mayor seemed preoccupied with some research, we decided to express our gratitude once more and take our leave—but I had urgent work awaiting me, and with my house being just a stone’s throw away from there, I attempted to part ways and return home. Yet none of them would let me go. Even Shaa—who usually remained sullenly silent as if perpetually angry—stopped me with eyes wide enough to burst. They insisted that no matter what business I had, I must set aside all obligations for today and accompany them.

To survey today’s battle with Fuga—whether my pride had been utterly crushed or miraculously salvaged through the retired mayor’s aid—left even me in chaotic disorientation, grasping at nothing substantial. Yet to impose where no foothold existed gave me pause, though to put it somewhat hyperbolically, these people stood in such profound gratitude that words failed them entirely. When we hailed a passing taxi and I boarded the lead car with Crown Prince Narin and Shaa, it suddenly struck me—now came cascading handshakes and thanks showered upon me with bewildering intensity.

“I cannot convey this gratitude and deep emotion no matter what I do. I feel as though today, for the first time, I have touched the true warmth of the Japanese people’s hearts. Your kindness brings me joy too. The kindness of that elderly mayor is also unforgettable. You have devoted yourselves to our Crown Prince as if it were your own cause. Mr. Tachibana, I am also your friend. Look! Those fellows are overjoyed exactly as you see!”

Shaa contorted his imposing features as if fighting back tears, and when we reached a certain corner, he pointed to the car trailing behind us that carried Mr. Kapadia and Javeri. From its window, Javeri waved vigorously in my direction. His demeanor now radiated familiarity, utterly transformed from what it had been until just yesterday. "Until today, His Highness has been keeping company with you," Shaa declared. "But now Mr. Kapadia, Javeri and I wish to invite both His Highness and our Japanese friends we've made." "Name any place!" "We'll direct the car wherever you desire," Shaa announced, his face brimming with smiles. The Crown Prince said nothing but smiled warmly, dimples appearing in his cheeks.

“Shaa is truly a man of peculiar character,” came the voice from beside me. “He believes in nothing and heeds no one’s words. Yet whatever he sets his mind to, he accomplishes without fail—like iron forged into human form. Becoming friends with such a man proves exceedingly difficult.” Shaa listened in silence, smiling faintly. Beyond the window, streets blurred beneath a veil of evening mist—the hazy autumn twilight seeping into my chest with peculiar loneliness amidst the bustle. Watching these Indian souls grow so elated over my meager kindnesses, I couldn’t help seeing in this desolate duskscape some kinship with their emotional core—an inexpressibly pitiful resemblance that weighed heavy on my heart.

Seven

The exceedingly troublesome contract dispute had been settled, the move completed without a hitch, and seven or eight days had passed. Autumn had deepened into its final days, bringing crisp sunlight where red dragonflies darted and glided, but that day too found me leaving work at noon. At my children’s insistence, we were in the midst of digging a winter pond for our goldfish, the three of us covered in mud.

Suddenly there came noisy voices from outside, and soon clattering in came the group led by Mr. Kapadia of Valoda Trading Company, followed by Shaa and Javeri. The children, who had been delightedly mud-covered, took one glance and wordlessly scurried away. Startled by the dark-skinned faces they were seeing for the first time in their lives, they clung to their mother’s waist—but all three men appeared pale-faced with bloodshot eyes, as if some grave incident had occurred. They sat down restlessly, sparing few words and only letting their eyes glint intensely for some time, but I—unaware of the circumstances—grew exasperated, suspecting that perhaps another dispute with Mitsui Trust had arisen, or else that some quarrel had broken out among these people themselves. To such an extent did they all seem to be containing overwhelming emotional turmoil, their hands trembling violently.

“Mr. Tachibana, a grave matter has arisen!” Shaa exclaimed in utter dismay, his voice cracking with desperation. “His Highness the Crown Prince has been confined at the British Embassy!” “Though ‘confinement’ may sound too severe,” Javeri interjected cautiously from the side—his temperament being less fiery than Shaa’s—“His Highness is being compelled to remain at the embassy.” He spoke in hushed tones, as though fearing eavesdroppers.

“The British Embassy has finally bared its fangs,” Shaa declared. “Britain never welcomed His Highness’s stay in Japan to begin with. They’ve resorted to their usual underhanded tactics and detained him!” he erupted in a torrent of indignation. Even normally, Shaa spoke with a perpetually brusque tone that made him sound angry, but in this agitated state, I couldn’t even discern his pronunciation clearly. Moreover, this abrupt revelation left me utterly unable to grasp why they would detain His Highness. They must have sensed my bewildered expression as I stared at the half-dug goldfish pond. Mr. Kapadia began explaining the situation from the beginning in terms I could understand, gently placating Shaa as he spoke. According to his account, about four days prior—when they’d fully arranged the furniture in their new residence and secured regular visits from a Japanese language instructor named K through Mr. Kapadia’s connections—they’d grown confident their lives were settling into smooth stability. On that very day while Shaa was away shopping in Yokohama, Second Secretary Graves from the embassy—whom I’d once met at the hotel—had come calling again. After keeping others at bay for nearly two hours of private discussion with His Highness, when the secretary finally emerged to take his leave, the Crown Prince had already changed from lounging clothes into outdoor attire. Though his face had gone deathly pale as if wrestling with grave matters, he offered no explanation beyond sparse instructions to send a car for him in about an hour once his meeting with the Ambassador concluded—then departed alongside Secretary Graves. When Javeri went to fetch him precisely an hour later, the vast compound lay quiet after official hours, only piano melodies and laughter drifting through the trees from staff residences. Yet at the ambassador’s residence, they claimed His Highness had already returned. Insisting this was impossible—that His Highness had explicitly ordered him to come—Javeri pressed further but was told the Ambassador himself was away attending a dinner at the Imperial Hotel hosted by the French Ambassador, and to try Secretary Graves’ quarters instead. There, they received word that Graves was at the councillor’s residence and would telephone inquiries—only to be informed His Highness had supposedly returned twenty minutes prior. Though suspecting absurdity, they considered he might have concluded business early and strolled back on foot after so long indoors—but racing back revealed no sign of him. Shaa returned from Yokohama then—impatient as ever—and without properly hearing Javeri’s account, immediately commandeered a car to storm the embassy himself. Yet whether inquiring at the main building or councillor’s quarters, officials stubbornly insisted His Highness had already returned home. Only after Shaa’s relentless badgering did Secretary Graves finally appear—his greeting as brusque as if carved from wood. “His Highness will be residing here indefinitely due to circumstances,” came the curt dismissal. “Return home without concern.”

“If that’s the case, we must prepare for His Highness’s stay—let us see him just once!” they pleaded, whereupon the secretary snapped as if swatting a fly: “We have everything here! His Highness stays as our honored guest—stop meddling and go home!” “We won’t leave without seeing His Highness!” they insisted, only for the secretary to vanish deeper inside with a dismissive: “Wait there till dawn if you like!” When Graves reappeared before Shaa—who sat pounding the doorframe hard enough to splinter wood—the secretary’s face twisted in rage. “Madman!” he roared. “You dare act this way on embassy grounds?!” “Keep this up,” he sneered, boot raised threateningly, “and you’ll regret it!”

“If this weren’t embassy grounds—I would’ve beaten down one or two of those secretaries to break through! But as Indians treated like maggots by the British, there was nothing we could do,” Shaa said bitterly, stroking his iron-like arm while trembling with frustration. For three days until just yesterday, Shaa and Javeri had waited on tenterhooks—anticipating either His Highness the Crown Prince’s return or some word from the embassy—but by today, there had still been no news whatsoever. Of course, both Shaa and Javeri had grasped why the embassy was detaining His Highness. They surmised this wasn’t meant to harm him outright, but rather represented Britain’s relentless campaign—ongoing since his departure from India—to overturn his resolve to study in Japan through endless persuasion tactics. Yet given His Highness’s temperament, they feared he would harshly rebuff such coercion, leaving both men gravely worried greater pressures might soon be applied. And it had been just last night.

Unusually, Miss Catherine Jardin had come to visit.

“Catherine Jardin? Who is Catherine Jardin?” The name Catherine Jardin felt vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember where I’d heard it.

“You met her once before—at the hotel! That lady, the one who just arrived from India this summer...” Mr. Kapadia must have assumed this would finally jog my memory, for he continued without pause. Miss Catherine Jardin had been equally stunned by the Crown Prince’s unforeseen detention, but she now earnestly wished to collaborate—proposing that she, as a British citizen, could formally guarantee His Highness’s status through embassy negotiations, thereby securing permission for his desired study in Japan during this critical juncture.

“I simply can’t comprehend this!” I said, thoroughly bewildered. “Just who is this Catherine... woman? What relation does this lady have to His Highness the Crown Prince?”

“Oh!” Mr. Kapadia exclaimed in surprise.

“Heavens! You didn’t know Miss Catherine?!” exclaimed Mr. Kapadia, appearing more astonished than I. “Tut! Tut! Tut!” he clicked his tongue in rapid succession. “I thought you knew all along!” With another bitter smile, Mr. Kapadia began re-explaining this woman’s circumstances—still utterly incomprehensible to me—but upon hearing his account, I found myself so astonished that I couldn’t help but widen my eyes. In other words, dear readers—do you recall how I had harbored bewilderment toward that resplendently attired noblewoman who seemed deeply connected to His Highness when I first visited Crown Prince Narin at the Manpei Hotel?

Miss Catherine was none other than that resplendently attired noblewoman who had been speaking with Javeri in the parlor at that time. Moreover, it was only natural I’d thought her name sounded familiar! This Miss Catherine Jardin was none other than the sole sister of Sir Robertson Jardin—the insolent British military attaché stationed in Virpur who had been shot dead within the palace three years prior by Crown Prince Narin, then a sixteen-year-old boy. What cursed fate bound both siblings! Despite His Highness’s profound aversion, the image of that beautiful young prince who had executed her brother never faded from Miss Catherine Jardin’s heart, not even in her dreams—an obsession that had driven her to follow him all the way from Bombay to Japan earlier that summer. My encounter with her at Manpei Hotel had marked Miss Catherine’s first visit to His Highness since arriving in Japan. Now I finally understood why His Highness had remained so composed without so much as twitching a brow that day—though the adage that truth unwittingly outdoes fiction in strangeness had long existed in both Japan and the West. Yet even I found myself utterly speechless before this unimaginably bizarre reality. And it was said the young lady now lodged at the Imperial Hotel.

“This is my first time hearing it! The first time I’ve heard this story!”

I still couldn’t bring myself to accept this as a real, factual account; feeling as though I were wandering through the pages of some celebrated Western novel, I murmured as if in a dream. "...Even so, why would a woman so entangled by fate be so fixated on His Highness the Crown Prince?" "Isn’t she in a position akin to being his sworn enemy?" I tried voicing this thought while recalling that scene from earlier in the summer.

“Isn’t that what they mean by ‘love is blind’!” Mr. Kapadia bared his white teeth, but his expression immediately transformed into something indescribably solemn.

“Truly, Miss Catherine’s heart must now be entirely consumed by thoughts of His Highness,” I said. “As she’s a gentle soul, she doesn’t voice it—but likely thinks of His Highness every waking moment,” Mr. Kapadia replied, his expression darkening. “It’s all karma.” “By all rights,” Mr. Kapadia sighed profoundly, “as you’ve noted, His Highness executed Sir Jardin—making her position one that should despise him. Yet her blinding devotion is karma, just as His Highness being pursued by such a woman... there’s no way to explain it except through karma.” “Unlike her late brother, Miss Catherine isn’t ill-intentioned.” “Were His Highness inclined, marrying her might benefit both Anglo-Indian relations and his personal standing—but since he shudders with loathing at the mere idea, it’s impossible.” “Everything can only be called karma.”

Through my own unwarranted curiosity and persistent probing, the conversation had veered from one tangent to another, leaving Shaa and Javeri—who for some time now had been idly shifting their gaze between alcove ornaments—thoroughly disengaged. At any rate, Miss Catherine herself had requested to be of assistance in this matter, and given her connections, it seemed unlikely the embassy would coldly refuse her intervention. Yet the sole problem lay here: should this arrangement come to light, I could scarcely fathom how profoundly His Highness the Crown Prince—who harbored such visceral aversion toward Miss Catherine—might later take offense. That said, there was no one else who could assist in this situation, and so—though I knew it to be a terribly troublesome request—this became their earnest plea to me: would I be so kind as to visit His Highness the Crown Prince at the embassy once, even as soon as tomorrow, and through my own words inquire about how we might proceed while discreetly ascertaining His Highness’s true intentions? At the embassy—which regarded Indians as no better than maggots—even if we all banded together and raised a commotion, they would feel no compunction whatsoever. But if I, a Japanese man, were to visit, surely they wouldn’t go so far as to conceal the facts and refuse me a meeting—or so went their added explanation. And should I be so kind as to inquire further—whether His Highness the Crown Prince lacked any necessities, or what Shaa and Javeri ought to do while awaiting His Highness’s return to the residence—they earnestly requested there would be no greater joy than having these matters ascertained through my visit. In essence, it was matters such as these that had driven these people—at their wits’ end—to come to me with their request—

“If in that case His Highness the Crown Prince himself were to express any intention regarding Miss Catherine, we would immediately have Miss Catherine act on it!” "It may be troublesome, but would you be so kind as to make such arrangements?" Mr. Kapadia then adopted what was likely a Hindu gesture of respect—a posture resembling Japanese prayer hands—though to put it politely, how disagreeable! Here I was being venerated like a Buddhist statue. Following suit, Shaa and Javeri bowed their heads. Of course, even without such profuse veneration, this matter remained far simpler for me than becoming a rental guarantor had been, so I accepted without hesitation. Yet my bewilderment stemmed from this: while the task itself seemed straightforward enough—unless I were some Japanese dignitary bearing titles like Privy Councillor or Deputy Director of the Foreign Ministry's Intelligence Bureau—given my complete lack of rank or social standing (and though Mitsui Trust might reappear, I’d truly had my fill of that)—would those haughty British embassy officials really permit someone like me to casually saunter over and meet the Crown Prince? Even denied an audience, my pride wouldn’t suffer—but observing these anxiety-ridden people, even someone as inconsequential as myself found it thoroughly irksome to keep bungling their requests time and again. Having accepted, I resolved to accomplish at least one task worthy of their trust.

Moreover, considering that the embassy was already detaining their Crown Prince with some scheme in mind—utterly disregarding the Indians’ uproar—my meekly visiting them would not only prove futile but might even risk exacerbating matters and provoking further turmoil. I had long heard how international affairs could veer off in unforeseen directions from the slightest friction—so if the Tachibana Tomio Incident were to erupt into a Japan-Britain war! If it came to something like that, I’d be at my wit’s end, you know. This time, unlike with Mitsui Trust Company, I’d have to be extremely careful—or we’d land ourselves in real trouble—I resolved. The sight of me—having readily agreed only to fall into deep contemplation—must have appeared utterly perplexing to their eyes.

“From there onward, we’ll handle everything by any means necessary without causing you any trouble—so would you at least be so kind as to go and meet His Highness the Crown Prince?” Shaa asked anxiously this time. “Mr. Tachibana, in the eyes of your nation, we are—on the surface—subjects of Britain.” “No matter how much we suffer, this is not a matter we can rightfully request of Japan’s Foreign Ministry—and even if we were to bring it to them, that Japan’s Foreign Ministry would go to such lengths as intervening in Britain’s domestic affairs is clearer than seeing fire.” “Rather than that, we would still prefer that you, our friend, make the attempt. If by good fortune you could ascertain His Highness’s true intentions, there could be no greater happiness for us. And even should misfortune prevent success, we would never forget your kindness.” “If you are unable to meet him, we would then reconsider our approach—perhaps by revealing this truth to united journalists or a joint press corps and seeking their aid. That is what we have in mind—what do you think?” “Might we humbly request your assistance in that very spirit?” At that moment, my resolve was set. These pitiable Indian friends of mine—endowed with ample wisdom, knowledge, and wealth yet reduced to people of a vanquished nation—whose darkened hearts grieved at being robbed of their beloved master while remaining powerless to act, once again whipped my feelings into motion like a draft horse. And another was the thought that the young prince who placed his trust in me must surely be enduring dreary days—this notion drove my heart like a wounded boar, compelling me once more to take flight with reckless abandon. When the figures of the Indians who had bid their farewells disappeared beyond the hedge, the children who had been hiding behind the sliding doors tiptoed into the tatami room with apparent relief, quietly settling one after another onto my lap. As I stroked the heads of these two mischievous youngsters while pondering intently, never before had I felt such profound gratitude welling up in my chest for the happiness of my own children—born into this splendid nation of Japan, a thought that had never once crossed my mind until this moment.

VIII

However, after they had left my house, some new circumstances must have arisen that altered their plans. The very next morning, while I was still in bed, an express letter signed by Mr. Kapadia was delivered to my residence. The letter’s message was exceedingly simple: that shortly after departing your residence, Miss Catherine had visited them again, and after further discussions among all present, they concluded that rather than face reproach later, they should first retrieve His Highness from detention to discuss how to proceed hereafter. Therefore, they had decided to accept Miss Catherine’s proposal and have her meet with embassy authorities for the time being. The letter apologized profusely for the inconvenience and requested that I temporarily suspend yesterday’s requested matter until they provided further notice. It was further added that since Miss Catherine was scheduled to visit the embassy first thing tomorrow, they intended to notify me immediately tomorrow evening as soon as His Highness’s situation was confirmed. Just when I had finally roused myself with full determination to head out immediately—what the hell! After making such a fuss and getting everyone worked up, they just backed out—what a letdown. Of course, there could be no denying that Miss Catherine—being both their compatriot and Sir Jardin's sister—would prove infinitely more effective than someone like me meekly trotting off only to be casually brushed aside by embassy guards. Naturally, I had no grounds for objection. Yet having initially hesitated when they made the request, now that this cancellation notice arrived releasing me from obligation, I couldn't help feeling like discarded scrap—left with a nagging sense of grit in my molars. I spent the entire day at my desk in that peculiar state of mind, but as evening approached and I realized Miss Catherine must have returned by now having ascertained His Highness’s situation, I found myself so unsettled that I couldn’t focus on my writing. I thought Mr. Kapadia would eventually send some news once night fell, but finding myself ultimately unwilling to wait that long, I finished dinner and resolved to go check on things under the guise of taking a walk. It was a fine moonlit night when every object on the ground appeared pale and picturesque. Despite wartime tensions, the streets were filled with people enjoying a refreshing autumn night stroll under moonlight. As I drove through the crowd, parting human tides with my speeding automobile, I felt tense urgency as though bearing India’s very foundations upon my shoulders—the sorrow and pity of a vanquished nation now pressing upon my chest with startling clarity.

And when I saw those weaklings deliberately choosing shadowy places to entwine themselves together, my nerves frayed so badly I wanted to slap at least one of them across the face,

"This is no time to be indulging in love affairs! If we don’t want our homeland to fall into ruin, now is the time to consider what must be done first! Shit! Shit!" I felt a surge of righteous fury—so intense I wanted to hurl those very words at them—welling up within me.

When the car finally stopped before an imposing Western-style mansion with a front garden thickly planted with pagoda trees—the very one I had in mind—I found myself gazing up and down the structure, compelled to stand there as if seeing it anew. However much I might strain myself, it was only natural Mitsui Trust would refuse to lend to someone of my station—a man without assets for collateral.

Indeed, while the monthly rent here stood at 380 yen—a paltry sum compared to what I paid annually for my own residence with a mere trifle more added—the disparity between them was vast. A low iron-fenced gate stood there, and immediately to its right—likely halted mid-construction due to the recent commotion—a garage with only its roof completed gaped like the maw of some monstrous creature. Within this skeletal structure, a magnificent Hispano-Suiza sat with its gray chassis bathed in moonlight. To its left ran a gravel path that wound around three or four flowerbeds before crossing the lawn to lead toward the grand entrance. That fool Tachibana—swaggering about as if he could become guarantor for such a magnificent mansion—truly proved himself an utter imbecile unaware of his station. Yet when I considered how this Indian Crown Prince and his retinue, despite all disparities of wealth and status, had deliberately chosen to befriend such a pauper as myself and consult him on matters great and small, I could almost see before my eyes these people's hearts starving for warm friendship.

“Tare? Tare? Tare desh ka?” they called out—likely having rushed outside upon hearing my automobile’s approach. For some time now, a cluster of two or three dark figures had been calling out to me in halting Japanese as I approached the entrance, but when I answered, “It’s Tachibana,” they suddenly burst forth with cries of “Hello! Hello! Drop in!” scrambling over each other to rush out onto the gravel. “You’ve come at the perfect moment! I was just about to send you a telegram!” Shaa exclaimed, grabbing my hand before anyone else could. “Come on! Please come in.” “Miss Catherine has also been here since earlier,” Mr. Kapadia added.

"Has His Highness the Crown Prince returned?" “NO!” they all shook their heads in unison. “There are mountains of things we need to discuss.” “Come now, this way, this way!” they urged, all but seizing my hand as they ushered our entire group into a spacious reception room immediately to the right. In addition to the chandelier blazing brilliantly from the ceiling, several large, beautiful lamps illuminated the space, showcasing luxurious furnishings—sofas, zabuton cushions, and tables—arranged in a manner befitting a prince’s reception room; yet within this ownerless room lingered a chillingly desolate emptiness that seemed to permeate every corner. And on the central wall hung large oil paintings of his father the king and his elder sister Princess Kamuresshi that I recognized, beneath which sat two Indians—likely their compatriots—whose faces I had often seen. Though the absence of Miss Catherine, whose presence was most crucial, left me feeling somewhat unfulfilled, I nevertheless accepted their invitation and promptly joined the group—who had likely been huddled in discussion until now—taking my place among them.

“In truth, we were just about to send a telegram to your residence requesting your presence tomorrow morning despite the inconvenience.” “You’ve come at the perfect moment,” Javeri began. And as if they had been waiting impatiently for that cue, both Mr. Kapadia and Shaa began speaking at once—what they recounted was roughly the following sequence of events. “Today, Miss Catherine promptly went and held various discussions with the British Ambassador, Counselor, and that Second Secretary Graves from the embassy. However, according to the embassy’s position—due to a directive from the Indian Viceroy—they could not possibly permit His Highness Prince Narin’s continued stay in Japan.” "The embassy authorities found it difficult to acknowledge any compelling reason why His Highness must necessarily study in Japan for research limited to textiles and dyeing." "The directive from the Indian Viceroy had particularly emphasized that point as well." "As for study destinations, while we as embassy authorities would first and foremost recommend Britain itself—awaiting His Highness the Crown Prince’s own reflection as a British subject—we refrained from reiterating this recommendation, as it appeared His Highness had various personal circumstances to consider." "Therefore, as alternative candidate destinations, we urgently requested that an appropriate location be selected from between France or the United States." “If Your Highness does not grant approval for these two aforementioned nations and persists in remaining in Japan, the embassy authorities have until today been consulting on the unavoidable necessity of requesting the return of your passport—yet His Highness remains resolutely unwilling to reconsider.” “Since His Highness asserted that if study in Japan were not permitted, he would not acknowledge any need to pursue education in other countries and insisted he would return directly to Virpur instead, the embassy had no choice but to request his temporary stay at the official residence as a matter of convenience while soliciting opinions from the Indian Viceroy, the King of Virpur, and the Prime Minister of that nation. Though the Indian servants were clamoring about his detention, there should absolutely be no implication of coercion in this arrangement.” “The fact that His Highness the Crown Prince had been residing as an honored guest at the embassy official residence under his own dignified consent will soon be confirmed by His Highness himself.”

he reportedly declared. And indeed, from what Miss Catherine herself witnessed at the embassy, while every courtesy had been extended to His Highness the Crown Prince—when she visited his chambers, he remained facing away absorbed in reading and did not utter a single word—the room’s arrangement and furnishings undeniably accorded with the etiquette due to an honored guest. "But no matter how they dress it up with diplomatic niceties, doesn’t this detention remain fundamentally unchanged!" Shaa writhed in anguish, his body contorting with frustration. Mr. Kapadia moved to interject, but at that precise moment came the rustle of silk and crisp footsteps—Miss Catherine herself entered, bringing our discussion to an abrupt halt. Clad in an elegant maroon visiting kimono, her lovely eyes—gentle yet widened in a dazed expression tinged with weariness—created an immediate impression best described by one word: regal splendor, just as when we’d met previously at the hotel. My unexpected arrival seemed to have caused her to linger hesitantly elsewhere for some time. As this marked our first formal meeting, we exchanged introductory pleasantries through Mr. Kapadia’s mediation—

“I have often heard your name from these gentlemen.” “I hear you have been taking such good care of His Highness the Crown Prince, and these gentlemen are relying greatly on your assistance.” Catherine Jardin smiled warmly and bowed. And as she settled into her seat there—sending a smile my way while urging Mr. Kapadia and Shaa with “Now! Please continue your discussion!”—she crossed her outstretched ankles and assumed a posture of rapt attention, poised to listen intently to the conversation. Though beautiful, she appeared to be twenty-two or twenty-three, perhaps twenty-four or twenty-five—her overall bearing showed an air reminiscent of the Crown Prince’s elder sister or someone of that ilk. And though she indeed maintained interactions with the Indians here with the pride and dignity befitting a British aristocrat, there was nothing particularly affected about it—her attitude toward me, a first-time acquaintance, remained graceful and courteous despite whatever lay beneath the surface. She demonstrated both high cultivation and a refined social elegance that left a most favorable impression, utterly unlike the bearing of her brother the military attaché I had heard rumors about. Yet in my present state of mind, truth be told, I had no leisure to direct detailed attention toward this Miss Catherine. I had been completely absorbed in the ongoing discussion. Mr. Kapadia’s account resumed.

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 either marry Miss Catherine or enter into a cohabitation arrangement with her in the future—they would have gladly permitted his continued stay in Japan under Miss Catherine’s sponsorship. However, the timing was two or three days too late. At present, all negotiations with the Indian Viceroy in New Delhi had already been thoroughly concluded; moreover, this very morning His Highness the Crown Prince himself had finally expressed his intention to study in America. As matters have now been entirely settled, though we deeply appreciate your kind request, we find ourselves regrettably unable to accommodate it...

“This is the news Miss Catherine kindly brought us this afternoon,” he said, “though there are likely various circumstances involved that we don’t understand. But in any case, as I’ve just explained, it seems His Highness gave his consent this morning to study in America.” “Therefore, we too must promptly proceed accordingly—but in fact, according to a message from the embassy, His Highness has expressed an urgent desire to meet with you.” “What do you say?” “Could you go to the embassy and see him?” concluded Mr. Kapadia.

“Of course I’d be delighted!” I nodded, but then asked, “Right now?” “NO! NO!” they all said in unison, Mr. Kapadia, Shaa, and Javeri shaking their heads. “It’s already too late to go now—His Highness has likely retired for the night—so tomorrow will suffice.” “Since I’m scheduled to visit the embassy tomorrow regarding His Highness’s preparations,” Shaa proposed, “if you would kindly specify a convenient time, we could go together.” Naturally, there were no objections, so we settled on precisely 9:30 the following morning. They must have concluded our discussion had reached its end.

“Well, I must be going now. Could you call a car?” Miss Catherine said as if suddenly remembering, turning to Javeri. “It’s truly regrettable that you went to such trouble,” she said to me with a graceful smile. “I too had hoped by some means to fulfill these people’s hopes and grant His Highness the Crown Prince’s wishes, but under the circumstances you’ve just heard, matters have gone entirely awry—which I deeply regret.”

“Then, if His Highness the Crown Prince is going to America, will you also be going to America?” Though I feared it might be impertinent, when I ventured to ask, Miss Catherine did not refuse but instead smiled bashfully and replied, “Yes.” Her demeanor—showing neither awkwardness nor hesitation, but rather an expression overflowing with resolute fidelity to her love—left me with an indescribably pitiful feeling. Mr. Kapadia had described this love as karmic burden, but observing this woman—who in her solitary state kept adding endless nomadic journeys to follow a foreign prince who had slain her brother without knowing when he might return her affection—I too could not help but feel it was indeed karmic burden. And in my overwhelming pity—though I knew not what circumstances might exist—I could not help but feel profoundly lonesome at how His Highness the Crown Prince could turn his face away from such pure love offered by this elegant and resplendent beauty.

When at length the car arrived and Miss Catherine departed with “We shall meet again,” I too took my leave after promising to return tomorrow morning. The houses around tree-lined Reinanzaka appeared to have already sunk into deep slumber, with only the blazing electric lamps 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. The hushed stillness of the night was broken—perhaps by some victory newsboy running through Tameike or Toranomon—as from between the creaking echoes of trams rounding bends came the distant, leaping chime of a bell. As I climbed the moonlit slope of Nagatacho—where not a soul passed through, the pale lunar light alone shining clear—intending to hail a taxi while listening to that bell’s chime, all traces of the Prince’s lingering presence and the figure of Miss Catherine from whom I’d just parted vanished from my mind, replaced by profound 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, buoyed by military victory, while maintaining an outward facade of utter stillness, the image of the British Embassy—likely setting their covert networks ablaze with telegraphic sparks across the globe—involuntarily rose before me with a shudder.

IX

When Shaa and I finally pulled up to the British Embassy in a car the very next day, His Highness the Crown Prince must have already risen from bed. And I wondered if it was because His Highness had yielded to the embassy’s coercion—changing his study destination from Japan to America—that the authorities felt reassured enough to permit my meeting with him without incident. Contrary to the unpleasant impressions I had heard described, I found myself ushered into the main building’s reception room with utmost courtesy. Though this was the birthplace of diplomatic stratagems and stronghold of seasoned statecraft, even so this secluded parlor near the embassy’s heart maintained such profound silence that not a cough could be heard—no footsteps echoed through outer corridors, nor lingered any trace of bustling human traffic like that common in Japanese government offices. From the entrance stretched a long corridor carpeted wall-to-wall in woolen pile; solid oak furnishings, heavy drapes, and beyond them a vista of immaculate lawns and groves—everywhere seemed steeped in the smoldering austerity and composed dignity of Britain’s aged empire. Yet despite that veneer of calm—whether imagined or not—within this room alone I felt scrutinized by eyes glinting silently from every shadow, watching through veiled stillness.

And it appeared that this feeling was not necessarily mine alone, “It may seem tranquil, but there’s no telling where ears might be lurking,” Shaa whispered in my ear. At that very moment, click-clack footsteps echoed through the corridor as the door opened quietly. Instantly Shaa left his chair and sprang upright into formal posture. His Highness the Crown Prince had entered. He strode briskly toward where I stood—still composed as ever—his face suffused with a wistful smile,

“It was kind of you to come meet me, Mr. Tachibana,” he said gently, extending his hand. When Prince Narin shifted his gaze to Shaa standing rigidly beside him and addressed him gently in Kacchi—expressing that he had long wished to meet him—before pulling the chair before him closer, Shaa, whose imposing presence could subdue even a demon, stood frozen in that instant, trembling so stiffly he seemed on the verge of tears spilling from both eyes. Whether from the joy of seeing his master safe and sound after so long or from the overwhelming emotion brought by those words now spoken in his native tongue, this single-mindedly loyal youth stiffened to such a degree that he could scarcely utter a word.

“I’m not certain where to begin,” said His Highness the Crown Prince, quietly folding his hands on the desk as he gazed intently at my face. Likely 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 lips and brows lingered traces of anguish. "I am not permitted to speak of the details, but I imagine you have already heard from Shaa or Mr. Kapadia." "Various unforeseen circumstances have arisen, and I can no longer act as I wish." “I have been compelled to change my study destination to America this time, but you have shown me such profound kindness, and I had been praying for our friendship to grow ever closer…” His Highness the Crown Prince trailed off, fixing his gaze intently upon my face. “Just when I was thinking of expressing my heartfelt gratitude before departing,” His Highness the Crown Prince spoke haltingly, pausing between phrases, “I heard yesterday that Miss Catherine had come. So I conveyed to the embassy that if this wish could be granted… and fortunately, my hope has been realized—there could be no greater joy.” Here his voice trailed off once more. He appeared unable to continue his words as he wished due to the intense emotions surging within his heart. I too, perceiving the Crown Prince's inner turmoil, held my breath intently and fixed my gaze upon His Highness's face.

"However, Mr. Tachibana," His Highness the Crown Prince continued after a slight pause. "There are those with whom long acquaintance leaves no lasting memories, and those who become unforgettable impressions lingering eternally in one's heart despite brief encounters." "Even were I to leave your country—though I believe I shall never return—I do not think I could ever forget our visits to the cinema together, nor our meals at the Imperial Hotel where you so kindly became merrily drunk. But might you still remember me?"

“Of course.” “Your Highness,” I heard myself say—the first time those words ever left my lips. “I could never forget those memories myself—but Your Highness!” I pressed on earnestly. “While I don’t fully grasp the circumstances, according to what I heard last night from Mr. Kapadia—if Miss Catherine would only agree to take responsibility—and if you yourself were to declare your wish to remain longer in Japan rather than proceed with studying in America—isn’t it said that the embassy would permit this under certain conditions?” “Even if you dislike Miss Catherine—could you not endure this as a temporary measure and stay a little longer?” I asked, knowing full well the futility yet fixing my gaze intently on His Highness’s face with all my might.

“Who said that?” “Mr. Kapadia said that! Say you heard it from Miss Catherine!” “Is it that the Embassy holds such an intention?”

“Yes,” I nodded.

“No, that is not so.” His Highness the Crown Prince shook his head quietly, his lonely smile brimming with resignation. “You remain unaware of everything.” “Miss Catherine may believe that… but that is because the embassy compels her to think so.” “Yet matters have now advanced beyond where my personal will might effect any change.” “The vessel I am to board has likewise been decided—the SS Iquitos departs the day after tomorrow.” He blinked mournfully as he spoke.

"As you say, this matter is not one that can be altered by whether that person accepts or declines... nor is it about whether I like or dislike her," His Highness the Crown Prince said, his face reddening. "It is not a matter of that nature." "I have never once said of my own accord that I would go to America." “However, since this has been decided between my country’s Prime Minister, my father the King, the Indian Political Agency, and this Embassy—the four parties involved—there is nothing more I myself can do about it now.”

“Then Your Highness, you…” For the first time at that moment, I felt I had vaguely grasped the full scope of measures being taken by the embassy—and now belatedly, it was as if Britain’s endlessly shifting, insidious policies toward India had been thrust bodily before my eyes.

“Since it’s something that can no longer be changed by speaking of it, let us not dwell on such matters,” said His Highness the Crown Prince as he quietly placed both hands over mine that lay on the desk. “I have already given up on everything. “The only thing I wish to ask of you is that you always remember the friendship between me and my country… That is what I…”

“I will never forget! As long as I live, I shall remember!” The prince’s mysterious tears stirred such suffocating emotion within me that I desperately clasped his hand in return. Then I hastily added: “But if you go to America, you’ll be free to write me… And even if you don’t go there, someday I will surely come to India—to your country India. When that time comes, won’t we meet again, Your Highness!”

Yet strangely enough, His Highness the Crown Prince offered no response to my words. He simply sat there with an expression of heartfelt satisfaction and joy, his slightly haggard cheeks dimpling. And then, in silence, he took out a small gold watch from his vest’s hidden pocket and gazed at it. "When I was small, I received this from my father the King." “I have cherished it ever since,” he said, placing it in my palm. And then, after placing it in my grasp, he laid both hands over mine. “Under the agreement of just five or six minutes, I have been permitted this meeting with you.” "Though our parting brings endless regret, let us bid farewell here," he said, then looked up at Shaa standing statue-like and added a few more words. In an instant, Shaa’s cheeks flooded with a joy that seemed ready to burst forth, and he bowed with an expression so tightly controlled it looked as though he might weep.

“Well then, you have come most kindly. Mr. Tachibana, please take good care of yourself as well!”

“Your Highness! I will see you off to the ship once more before Your Highness departs.” “I… whenever I think of Japan, I will surely remember you,” said His Highness the Crown Prince as he stepped back once more and firmly grasped my hand. And with that, he strode briskly toward the door and pushed it open without so much as a backward glance in my direction. “……” As I, still dumbfounded, hurriedly thrust open the door, in that single glance I felt I understood why His Highness had moved with such urgency. Whether they were secretaries or interpreters remained unclear—their faces hidden from view—but two hulking British men stood with their backs to me, following behind His Highness as he retreated deeper into the building. The British Embassy would likely explain this guard detail as honoring his royal status through protective courtesy. Yet no matter what diplomatic pretexts they might devise, what I witnessed in that moment left no doubt: through my own eyes I had clearly perceived that Crown Prince Narin was being treated with all the meticulous decorum accorded a “prisoner.”

And as I rode in the car with a lonely heart, Shaa—quick-tempered yet innocent, sullen yet childishly simple and straightforward—exclaimed, “Mr. Tachibana, rejoice! Rejoice! His Highness the Crown Prince has now declared—it’s been decided that I alone will accompany him! As long as I remain by His Highness’s side, please rest assured! No matter what may occur or where, not a single finger shall touch His Highness the Crown Prince’s person!” He nearly leapt up in the car as his face radiated triumphant joy.

“And what about Javeri?” I asked absently, almost without meaning to, “Since there’s no point in staying in Japan any longer, he’ll likely return home,” he answered angrily.

After two days had passed—two days during which I thought only of His Highness, my heart constricted by melancholy and yearning—the day arrived when the SS Iquitos carrying the prince would depart Yokohama. Setting aside all else, I went to the pier to see him off. With barely two days remaining until departure, there was no longer time to do anything meaningful—so hoping to at least comfort His Highness during his journey, I scraped together every last coin from my wallet to prepare a Hakata doll modeled after a Bunraku puppeteer and a pair of cloisonné cufflinks for His Highness and Shaa as mementos of their arrival in America. Thinking to deliver these onboard, I rushed up the gangway—but astonishingly, security on this British ship proved so stringent that at B Deck before His Highness's cabin (likely those embassy staffers I'd seen earlier), two Britons stood guard, absolutely refusing to let any visitors approach. And not just His Highness's cabin! Even the passageway leading there had ship's officers marked with diamond insignias stationed at both entrances, resolutely refusing to permit anyone near regardless of circumstance.

At the pier, shouts from SS Iquitos' well-wishers already swelled like a black mountain as blue-eyed sailors busily worked on departure preparations. All the while, the gong signaling visitors to disembark had been clanging incessantly. I wasn't alone in having brought gifts for His Highness the Crown Prince and Shaa. We were frantic with anxiety. Moreover, the officers stubbornly refused passage. In the middle of the passageway we stared down—where His Highness' cabin presumably lay—stood two detestably ruddy-faced British giants in civilian clothes, arms crossed as they gazed our way and conversed with arrogant composure. Mr. Kapadia and Javeri's Indian contingent reached peak fury.

“Our His Highness the Crown Prince is not a prisoner!”

“Why must the British so relentlessly shackle the freedom of Indian royalty?!” “We’ll take this to the newspaper reporters. We will report this outrage by the British Embassy to the newspaper reporters. Get us through to the captain!” The Indians cried out in unison and surged forward. Yet the officers merely wore cold smiles at their lips and made no attempt to respond. The well-wishers continued disembarking one after another, and the gong’s tolling resounded ever closer. Finally, a senior officer in uniform who appeared to be the Chief Officer appeared, and under his direction, the ship’s steward gathered all the gifts we had brought into his arms and carried them off to the captain’s quarters for the time being. With the officers’ assurance that they would pass them on to His Highness later, I and the group of Indians here let out banzai cheers at the top of our voices. Did that reach even the ears of His Highness the Crown Prince and Shaa, who were secluded deep within their cabin? However, we waved our hats four or five times as if to reach the heavens, leaping up and shouting banzai at the top of our lungs. I was not Indian myself, but in that moment alone, I joined hearts with these Indian friends who lacked their own equivalent of “banzai” and shouted “His Highness Narin!” at the top of my voice.

As we were placated and coaxed off the ship, the last remaining gangplank was hauled away. The ship’s whistle resounded listlessly over the water—and beyond the rain-like flurry of streamers and handkerchiefs now cascading down, there suddenly appeared upon the boat deck, slightly toward the bow on this side, the figures of His Highness and Shaa. Shaa silently followed His Highness the Crown Prince, who himself stood motionless in silence, his parting gaze fixed upon us. Amidst cheers and banzai shouts that overwhelmed the sea, beyond the bridge tower rose the SS Iquitos—its mast flying the British flag high—as the colossal vessel finally began shaking its hull to depart the pier. Yet His Highness remained standing like a statue, his gaze fixed unwaveringly upon us. Moreover, at this very moment, I had never before witnessed a scene as profoundly solemn and tragic in all the world as my Indian friends’ farewell to their Crown Prince. Behold! All that seething anger and jostling agitation had dissipated; not a soul waved their hands or shouted banzai anymore. Mr. Kapadia, Javeri, the cook called Shukarya, the servants who had come from India with Shukarya, and two or three other Virpur people stood solemnly with straightened collars, ceaselessly wiping tears from their black cheeks as they lifted their tear-filled eyes to gaze fixedly into the distance at their prince’s lonely departure. Amidst streamers snapping and scattering like blossoms, amidst a deafening surge of cheers that threatened to split eardrums, this group alone stood rigid—tears streaming ceaselessly down their faces. White waves churned at the stern as His Highness and Shaa’s figures grew smaller and smaller, until at last their forms dissolved into a single silhouette of the ship—the 21,000-ton SS Iquitos sailed beyond the waves, trailing smoke in its wake.

And so at last arrived the day that marked the end—both in reality and in this tale. Our groundless fears that we had dismissed as improbable finally materialized into reality when, merely ten days later as the ship approached American territorial waters—two days after departing Hawaii—the tragic news of His Highness the Crown Prince and Shaa's passing was suddenly delivered. When I rushed to Valoda Trading Company upon receiving an urgent report from Mr. Kapadia, all the Virpur people in Tokyo had already gathered in the second-floor hall of Valoda Trading Company. Already, Miss Catherine had followed His Highness’s path and departed for San Francisco aboard the next available ship, the SS Bergenland. The cooks and servants who had come from India had also returned home ahead of time, leaving only Javeri and Mr. Kapadia—scheduled to return home after finishing tidying up the residence—along with about three other Indians. These now constituted all the Virpur people remaining in Tokyo.

On the front wall hung a portrait of the late prince in his endearing Indian royal attire, draped with a black ribbon as if enshrined, a small wreath hanging at its right shoulder. The group that had been holding back tears in silent prayer there lifted their tear-streaked faces in silent nod as I entered through the door—and from among them, Mr. Kapadia and Javeri sprang up simultaneously to seize my hands from both sides. Their bodies trembled as tears surged forth, voices choked with grief.

“Mr. Tachibana! “Our… His Highness the Crown Prince… His Highness has met his end.” “It’s all over now!” “Here, please!” “Please pray for the repose of His Highness’s soul.” “You were His Highness’s closest friend.”

With their fiercely bloodshot eyes glaring intensely from both sides，they wordlessly thrust official embassy telegrams at me． “...Do you think we could possibly believe this? There’s no doubt—it was [them]! Even His Highness and Shaa! Look! These telegrams—the Embassy sent them to deceive us!” The three crumpled telegrams，clutched in Mr．Kapadia and Javeri’s hands trembling with grief-stricken fury，were read as follows．

A wireless telegram was received from the Captain of SS Iquitos stating that His Highness Crown Prince Narin had been diagnosed with epidemic cerebrospinal meningitis by the ship’s doctor following his departure from Yokohama, and that during onboard treatment his condition had critically worsened with a fever of 39.5°C, observed delirium, multiple episodes of vomiting, and a lethargic state. The Embassy promptly sent another telegram to the Captain requesting further details and simultaneously received a reply from said Captain stating that they would exert their utmost efforts through a separately attached condition report and two ship’s doctors. We had just received notification that the British Embassy in Washington sent a telegraphic order to the British Consul-General in San Francisco regarding His Highness’s immediate admission to Queen Elizabeth Hospital upon arrival in San Francisco. This was communicated in accordance with the orders of the aforementioned Ambassador.

One of them read:

His Highness Crown Prince Narin's condition had taken a turn for the worse. Despite providing care with the utmost facilities onboard, His Highness Crown Prince Narin ultimately passed away today at 7:27 PM on the ocean 803 nautical miles off the coast of San Francisco at longitude 133°4'W and latitude 32°6'N. His remains were placed in the captain’s quarters and are scheduled to be transferred to the SS Mendarias bound for Bombay via Panama upon the SS Iquitos’ arrival in San Francisco. At 9:20 PM, a wireless telegram was received stating that the SS Iquitos was currently sailing under a half-mast flag. A message of profound condolence was immediately delivered to the Virpur Royal Palace and government office on behalf of His Highness the Crown Prince. Furthermore, it had just been notified that to ensure no procedural oversight occurred during the transfer of His Highness’s remains and related matters, the British Embassy in the USA had issued telegraphic orders to the Consul-General in San Francisco.

And the remaining final telegram was: While the notification of His Highness Prince Narin's demise was as stated in the previous communiqué, we have received a wireless telegram from the Captain of SS Iquitos emphasizing that utmost caution must be exercised in transferring the remains. Furthermore, as a precautionary note, we have just received a wireless telegram from the Captain of SS Iquitos stating that the attendant Rajic Shaa, having become infected while attending to His Highness, passed away today at 1:30 PM and was buried at sea.

“Can you believe this?!” “This is the British government’s standard tactic.” “Every detail was prearranged!” “Cowardly!” “What an utterly despicable method!” Javeri and Mr. Kapadia cried, tears cascading down their faces. “On a ship… On a British ship, if they order the doctor, they can stage anything!” “If the cerebrospinal meningitis was severe enough to infect Shaa, why didn’t it spread to the two embassy staff members?!” “With this, His Highness cannot even die with dignity!” “No! Even if His Highness endures it, we Indians will endure no more!”

The moment they did, stifled sobs escaped from among all the Indians lined up there. And then, someone—

“Mr. Tachibana, please come here,” someone said as they made a seat for me. Standing in that spot and gazing up at His Highness the Crown Prince on the wall adorned with a black ribbon, I saw him exactly as he had been in his living days—eyes radiant, lips curved in a smile—precisely as he had appeared at that British Embassy farewell when he smiled and asked, “Mr. Tachibana, will you keep remembering me?” Had not that wise prince already fully understood his fate’s course by then? In my upturned eyes too, something scalding hot welled up.

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

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