Chronicles of Wasted Time: Part 2: The Infernal Grove by Malcolm Muggeridge

By Malcolm Muggeridge

Half 2 of Malcolm Muggeridge's autobiography

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Sometimes I would stand on the balcony of the flat above the Statesman office, and look down at the street below - Chowringee - envious of passers-by pushing and elbowing their way along the pavement, the road likewise packed with jostling vehicles, trams and cars and rickshaws and The Iron Gates 31 bicycles all mixed up. Below me, the noise of an Indian street, with its jabber and bells and shouts; and I up above there, cut off from it all, isolated in the absurdity of the additional caste the English had created in India, over-topping all the others.

The other three were less fortunate. Tulsi ran through his fortune, and his health collapsed. Once when I happened to be passing through Calcutta, Sudhin took me to see him. We found that he had recently suffered a stroke, which had partially paralysed him, and made it difficult for him to speak. As we sat with him, he was struggling to say something, which turned out to be that he was distressed I should see 30 The Infernal Grove him in so poor a state. I tried to tell him - 1 hope so much that I succeeded - that it was a joy to me to see him always.

Or Stalinism more than Karl Marx? By this time, the editor of the Statesman, Arthur Moore, had returned from leave. He had only lately been appointed to the editorship, after his predecessor, Alfred Watson, had been shot at by a Bengal terrorist for some articles that Moore had written. It was a rather embarrassing basis for inheriting the position, especially as Watson would have been well content to stay on. However, the proprietors considered this would be imprudent, and so Watson returned to London, where he frequented the National Liberal Club and was knighted.

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