By Shevlin Sebastian
Photographs: Nikhil Bhattacharya
It was an incident in a restaurant that really opened one's eyes to the lack of freedom in China.
A Filipino journalist walked in, accompanied by a Chinese girl dressed in a suit.
The restaurant went into a flurry.
A waiter approached her and said in Chinese that she wasn’t allowed inside. The journalist mentioned that she was his guest. The waiter continued to rattle off something in Chinese to the girl. She replied, a defiant look on her face.
The journalist insisted she was with him.
The waiter turned away, but suddenly there was a palpable tension. An elderly head waitress came in, whispered something to the waiter, and withdrew. The girl looked embarrassed now.
But that was not the end of the matter. Within moments, two big, muscular Chinese plainclothesmen with close-cropped hair came in from the kitchen.
They walked past the girl’s table and positioned themselves near the door.
Then a balding head security man, in his mid-60s, joined them. They huddled briefly, then spoke to the waiter. By now, the look of defiance on the girl’s face had turned to fear.
It was a chilling sight: the State asserting its power against the individual.
The individual wilted under the twin forces of fear and helplessness. She ate her meal, but there was no joy in it.
China’s authoritarian control was laid bare in that restaurant in Beijing. Yet, the city had been spruced up for the Asian Games. There were wide avenues, broad sidewalks with flower pots at every corner, flags flying from lamp posts, and, every now and then, someone sweeping the sidewalk with a broom. The roads were wide and smooth, with a separate lane for cycles. It was right-hand drive in China, although most of the cars were of Japanese make.
It would seem a modern city. But what lingered in the air was the unmistakable weight of fear. A glass wall that cuts through daily life.
Crowded, dirty and noisy, the bylanes told a different story. People spat on the streets — an act that would incur fines on the main roads, but was ignored in these alleyways.
The Chinese people, by and large, were wary of foreigners. They had been instructed not to mingle with them. As soon as they saw one, they looked away.
The government added another barrier. Foreigners had to use a separate currency — the Foreign Exchange Certificate (FEC). It differed from the regular Renminbi. Shopping was hard, especially in places not designated for tourists. Some shopkeepers flatly refused to accept the FECs. Even taxi drivers demanded Renminbi.
It was not a free country.
A young Chinese student put it plainly: “China is not a good country to live in. People are scared all the time.”
Cosmetic changes aside, China remained poor. The average monthly income was about 100 yuan (Rs 500). But food was cheap, clothing inexpensive, and rents fixed at just five percent of a person’s salary. Still, mobility was severely restricted.
To travel from one province to another, a special permit was required. Going abroad was nearly impossible.
“How lucky you are,” said a university student wistfully. “We are not allowed to do so.”
The government rarely issued passports. If a businessman wanted to travel abroad, he first had to deposit 10,000 yuan (Rs 50,000) as a guarantee.
And yet, ironically, despite this intense insularity, the Chinese wore unmistakably Western clothes. Men wore shirts and trousers; women wore jeans, skirts, and suits. Only the older generation still clung to traditional attire.
The people in Beijing said that September–October was the best time of the year. The temperature hovered around 20°C, with a beautiful breeze, bright sunlight, and a clear blue sky. There was no need for a pullover and the air was so pure.
Surely Beijing, with its numerous cycles and trolley buses, must be one of the least polluted cities in the world.
But when you went to a restaurant, they muddled your mind.
If you ordered soup with your meals, they would serve it at the end. And if you ordered pudding, they served it at the beginning. And if you asked for a glass of water, they brought boiling water. Amazing!
But they think we want to drink tea all the time, even at 9 p.m.
All this sounds depressing, but there were high points to the trip.
One was the visit to the Great Wall of China. It was 75 km from Beijing. No doubt, it was one of the most incredible sights. A man-made wonder. It was only when one was physically there that one could comprehend its magnificence.
It was a testament to the will and determination of man, to build a wall like this, stretching 6000 km across rugged mountains. It was not a high wall, about 50 ft in height, but very rugged. But the length boggled the mind.
It was built around 700 BC by the Eastern Zhou dynasty to repel invaders. The raw beauty of the place: mountains on all sides, a cool breeze blowing constantly, and the air that came from Siberia. The utter stillness. Just you, the Wall, and the clean air.
What a contrast to Chowringhee in Calcutta at office time.
To walk on the Wall was physically tiring. Up and down it went, and sometimes it was so steep that steps had to be cut into the stone, and handrails inserted, so that we could climb it.
They say that it is the only man-made construction visible from the moon.
The other high point was a 2200-km train journey from Beijing to Canton.
The train was an express and the cost of the hard sleeper ticket was 250 yuan. The railway clerk discouraged this writer from buying a hard sleeper ticket, saying that it was uncomfortable. But it wasn’t. It was equivalent to AC first class in India.
There were three-tier berths filled with upper-class Chinese families. For the average Chinese, 250 yuan meant a fortune. The train was clean and a worker swept the floor every two hours with a wet broom.
Outside, the scenery was exactly as in India: paddy fields, mountains, small huts, towns and trucks on the highway. Although cars seemed non-existent.
And in the midst of it, some drama: a young Bangladeshi had bought a 100 yuan (Rs 500) student’s ticket. At a station, the collector wanted to see his passport to verify whether he was actually a student or not.
In fact, he was a journalist.
By then, a small crowd had collected around him, curious and surprised. But the Bangladeshi was calm in the centre of so much attention. He pretended not to understand, then in sign language said that he was a refugee and brazened his way out. After a while, they left him alone.
Later, he said, with a mocking smile on his face, “Munjia and China have good relations.” (“Munjia,” incidentally, is the Chinese name for Bangladesh.)
When the Bangladeshi was being the centre of attention, one was reminded suddenly of how Ashwini Nachappa became the centre of attention at the Indian Ambassador’s party.
She came in dressed in a black chiffon saree with a halter blouse. She left the Kerala female athletes’ contingent trailing in her wake.
Photographs were snapped of Ashwini, first by photographers, then with photographers, athletes, officials, journalists, and the Indian Ambassador. The poor man’s Flo-Jo had metamorphosed into the Marilyn Monroe of Indian athletics.
The train was one-and-a-half hours late.
We arrived at 9 a.m.
It was with relief that one took another train (and how one bought a ticket in English-ignorant Canton is another story) from Canton and out of China to Hong Kong.
The overwhelming impression is of people stifling under repressive controls, wanting to be free, and yet not confident enough in making that bid for freedom and multiparty democracy. As a student said: “We are waiting for the present leadership to die, before we can hope to make changes.”
Throughout the stay of three weeks, I was so glad to be an Indian. That I could stand at any corner and say anything about Prime Minister V.P. Singh without any fear; that there is a free press at home; that one can travel freely from one part of the country to another without asking permission from anyone, except your wallet.
(Published in The Telegraph Colour Magazine, November 25, 1990)
