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続き – Continued
All this that is happening before me somehow put me in mind of (those) the days when I worked for a British steamship company and I was reminded of a man’s sad face, (whose name was David). One day after work we were enjoying a glass of beer together when David confided in me. “Last night, on a train, a Japanese man, your age, give or take (one) a year or two, spat on me.” I was in my early thirties then, full of vigor thanks to good health. “Unprovoked?” I asked. David nodded yes. “So, you hit him or something?” I asked again. “No.” David looked sad, just sad, saying nothing more. I felt anger swelling up in me. “Why (not you didn’t) didn’t you do anything?” I demanded. David sat there wearing the same doleful countenance. In my sympathetic indignation and carried away with the emotion, I further said something that I should never have said. “Nothing, isn’t that kind of reverse discrimination?” I was probably being illogical and irrelevant, you could even throw silly into the bargain as well. It won’t constitute discrimination if you do not spit back when you are spat on. But, I was too late. David stood up and left (the) his place. Seeing him go out the door with his wide shoulders bent forward, I suddenly felt extremely sorry for him.
The train arrived at the last station but one. The Indian guy got out. I got out also though it was not my station. “Sorry, very sorry.” I caught myself saying to the gargantuan. He looked me briefly in the eye and responded. “No, it’s not your fault.” and looked away. “I know it’s not my fault!” I was close to blurting out. “ That’s not the point.” I wanted to say, but words failed me.
I stood away and looked on as he did not seem to leave the station (and) but went on looking into the carriage. I was unable to see his eyes from where I stood. However, no doubt, he must be glaring at the bleeding man. But, what’s the sense? He had a fight with another man and punched him. That’s that and that should be all. What’s the matter with him, that keeps him standing in front of a shut train car? I wondered. Does he (ever) dare to break the glass with his Herculean fist (and) just get into the train to slug the man again? In reality, however, he just kept standing still. What’s the sense in doing so? The question came up again.
The train started, soon gathered speed and sped before him and me. He turned and went down the stairs in search for an exit. For a fraction of a second, he looked in my direction and I seem to have seen in his eyes a glint of frustration that had been pent up inside him living as a man (foreign) totally foreign to this ethnically close-knit nation, who in expressing emotions are so modest often to the point of being cowardly or hypocritical, it is not difficult to imagine that he must have gone through a lot already.

Many moons ago, I met an American woman by chance, who was in love with India. She told me that it was a great country. “How great?” I asked. She answered right away, “People there never say you shouldn’t do this or shouldn’t do that. Unlike, “Unlike what?” She did not make (any) reply and just smiled feebly. I saw (a) the tiny silver ring on her nostril glint as she smiled.