What my friends think of me

Mulk Raj Anand, whose death anniversary is on September 28, wrote this unpublished article on why he preferred strangers and casual acquaintances over friends

BEFORE I can say anything about what my friends think of me, I must ask myself if I have any friends. In the world where graces are fast disappearing, one is not too certain about the real feelings of the people around one. And yet, friendship is a fact. And I have the assurance that I have friends, though only some of them are real friends, while the bulk of them are intimate acquaintances giving of themselves with reservations.

If it is the feelings of one’s real friends that are the subject of these thoughts. Of course, one’s genuine friends are always generous and accept one for what one is. It is the secret reactions of intimate acquaintances and so-called friends rather than one’s real friends, which are not known to one.

Let us see, then, what my friends (I am using the words loosely as though they were within quotation marks) think of me.

The answer is: "A few accept me for what I am. Some with reservations. Others have seldom thought about friendship."

This is not merely a cynical answer to the question I have put to myself. There is much truth in it. Because, first of all, one’s friends are likely to be much more objective about one than one can be about oneself. The inordinate vanity that one wraps round one’s person, like the good sides of oneself. Whereas, one’s friends can smell the onion. And if the occasion arises, they can peel it, layer by layer, even though they may not discover what is at the core.

Now, one of the things that my friends have spotted about me is my vanity. They think I am a conceited man. And, whatever efforts I may make, and I have been making these efforts for many years, to peel off the layers of vanity from my person in my own way, by writing down my follies and foibles and weaknesses, I am afraid my friends still think that I am essentially vain, just showing off even when I write about myself honestly. The way of society is to give a dog a bad name and hang him. My friends have long since made up their mind about me and will not change their opinion. This shows that, to an extent, one’s friends fail to know one. Perhaps it is a waste of time for them to go deeper than the surface. Why should they spend their energy in getting to know another person, especially those inner processes which are going on in a person, changing him or her. And anyhow, first impressions are everlasting.

I am not complaining that I am misunderstood. All I am saying is that my friends haven’t the time to know me in this busy modern world of ours where everyone has his own work to do and numerous responsibilities to cope with. And going out of one’s way to be friends means spending money on petrol. And there is lack of time. So my friends are hardly aware of deeper preoccupations of my nature. Their attitude is mostly, ‘hail and farewell’. Except that some of them, now and then, enquire as to what I am thinking or feeling. And, occasionally, we discuss ‘these things objectively and launch further into theories and speculations about art and literature and compare notes about life, in general. But I have the feeling that if I did not tell my friends of all the things that are obsessing me at a particular time when I am writing my confessions, they would not necessarily ask me or get to know me as I really have been or am. And, of course, very few of them, including my wife and my daughter, have read what I have written about myself. Friendship generally remains the familiar half truth of the moment, when one is greeted with the words ‘how are you.’ And the answer ‘Oh, all right’ ‘`85..’ Or my typical answer later years: ‘Surviving in this bad, sad, mad world!’ And then the talk goes on to exciting and sensational news of one kind or another and the warmth engendered through such conversation assumes the aura of friendship. Or there is an argument and the heat of contradictions sets up temporary antagonisms.

If one parts from one’s friends with the aura of friendship around one, then they are disposed to think of one as a nice enough person, though ‘too clever by half.’ And if the heat of arguments has left a residue or irritation, they then think of one as a difficult person, voluble, cantankerous, argumentative, self-opinionated and domineering in the extreme, who outtalks everyone on the presumption that he knows everything.

Whatever their opinion of me, however, I find that my friends tend to share it not with me but with each other. The gentle art of gossip is the biggest cue for passion in our world. But, combined with the pleasure of being able to laugh at me behind my back, whether mildly or raucously, there is a genuine desire not to hurt me overmuch by telling me what they think of me, because, that may lead to estrangement, which is too big a price to pay if ‘friendship’ has lasted for many years.

People won’t even tell me the flattering things to my face, because they feel it might make me more vain. And, certainly, they dare not tell me the truth about me as they see it, because they feel I might answer back. Or they either ignore harmless eccentricities. Or feel uneasily aware of a possible retort that I might offer in self-defence. While discussing me with other people, however, they are not inhibited in any way. And there is an element of sadism in gossip, which makes people even exaggerate the faults of their friends in order to avenge the victim. Mrs Grundy can be quite vicious at times!

From this point of view, I really prefer casual acquaintances and strangers to intimate acquaintances and friends. For it is quite certain that one of the main props of human existence is the need for approval from other people of the things one does, and of the words one speaks or writes.

If it were not for the fact that all need and get some kind of approval, we would all commit suicide. And this approval is, as I have said, easier to get from people who don’t know one very well, than from one’s intimate acquaintances and friends, who know one only too well. To strangers one is very much a legend. And, specially, if one happens to be a writer, or an artist, one has a very unfair advantage over other people in the aura that surrounds one.

Strangers imagine that I am a wise old man though without a beard and a benign smile on my face. And they often write to me flattering letters about some book of mine that may have pleased them or rally taught them something. And their opinion tends always to be golden on surface. I am compared to a jewel at the very least if not to a star, though no one has as yet suggested that I am a comet. My fan mail, therefore, confirms me in the view that it is really strangers who like one best. When people get to know a little too much about one, then adages apply.