by John Masters
‘Isn’t she rather ill?’ Ranjit said doubtfully.
‘You mustn’t disturb her for my sake,’ I said. ‘I can wait till tomorrow. Only I thought the Sirdarni-sahiba would probably be up, and I really would rather like to have them tonight.’
‘Don’t think of waiting for one minute!’ Mr Surabhai cried. He licked the cake crumbs off his fingers. ‘Strike when the iron is hot, that’s it. Eh? Well, perhaps it will be more thoughtful on my part not to upset my good lady at this time. She has been upset already on her bed by the events of the day. I was wounded! See?’ He leaned forward, showing me the plaster cross.
‘I saw it all, Mr Surabhai,’ I said.
‘You did?’ he said. He deflated as he remembered what a disastrous misunderstanding it had really been. As suddenly he cheered up, and said, ‘The police put it up to the Moslems, that’s what. They had their agents provocateurs in the crowd and were just awaiting their chance. A fine chance they had too, my word! It was a jolly disgraceful shame after all the Sirdarni-sahiba’s good efforts.’ He shook his head.
I sat down. Ranjit poured me some lemonade, and I drank thirstily. It was wonderful the way neither of them asked any questions. Because of that I felt at home in spite of the white organdie evening dress. Perhaps Mr Surabhai was talking so continuously, and with such forced animation, in order to give me time to settle down. I must have looked very upset. Now Mr Surabhai was describing the procession in minute detail.
When he came to the end of the history he said, ‘You must cease to be a member of the Women’s Auxiliary Corps (India), Miss Jones. It is your patriotic duty. Oh, I dare not blame you for joining the corps when the war was in full swing. Hitler and Hirohito and many tyrants undoubtedly needed conquering. I will tell you secretly that I myself felt it my duty to join the Army then. Eh, what do you think of that? But they rejected me, like the stone which turned into the head of the corner, eh? I am somewhat colour blind in my left eye—this one.’ He took another cake and ate it quickly between sentences. ‘You must resign from the corps, because now the military are fighting nobody but us. Why, what would you think if you were compelled to shoot me?’
‘WACs don’t usually carry arms, Mr Surabhai,’ I said. ‘And anyway, I wouldn’t shoot you.’
Mr Surabhai’s eyes popped, and he leaned over me, showering cake crumbs into my lap. He said, ‘Ah, but what if I was in the act of exploding a train? Blowing a bridge to fragments? What then, eh?’
I said, ‘You wouldn’t blow up a train, Mr Surabhai, would you?’ Even the thought of it made me serious, and I said, ‘That isn’t going to get rid of the British any quicker. All it will do is kill people like my father and lots of Indian passengers.’
Mr Surabhai said, ‘Ah, but what if it was a troop train full of British soldiers and no one else besides? What then, eh? There will be a driver, two firemen, and a guard, naturally, but you can’t make omelets without breaking the eggs, eh? You saw to-day what they are doing. You know their cunning aims and habits. Divide, divide! Set brother against his brother! Rule, rule! I tell you we are perfectly well justified in blowing up a train—a troop train, that is. To-day I have been only slightly wounded—walking wounded, they would call it in the war, you know—but I am fully willing and able to the for the same cause, so why should not others? Even your father? Though of course I would not think for one second of blowing up Mr Jones. Absolutely not for one fraction of a second! But the principle is just. There is no help for it. It is the truth, so help us God.’
Ranjit said, ‘Victoria, I think if you want a sari tonight you had better come out now. Har Singh usually goes to bed at about this time.’
Mr Surabhai looked at his wrist-watch, shook it, and looked again. ‘My goodness me, do you know it is seven minutes past eleven p.m.?’ he cried.
‘Yes,’ Ranjit said, dropping into Hindi, ‘I know. You would talk till five in the morning if I let you, wouldn’t you? You’d better get on home now or you’ll be in trouble. I can help Miss Jones with the saris.’
‘I am afraid you are quite correct,’ Mr Surabhai answered in English. ‘I must hurry to my home or Mrs Surabhai will give me six bells and all kinds of assorted hades.’ He went out, gesturing with joined palms toward each of us, and we heard his light shoes hop-hopping down the long staircase.
A minute later I followed with Ranjit. This time I felt very conspicuous and was glad the little shop was near. Har Singh lay comfortably stretched out there on several bolts of cloth, fast asleep, but the lamp was still burning above him, and the door was not locked.
I bought two khaki saris for uniform, three white ones for daytime, and two beautiful evening saris, one black and one of patterned pale blue silk. I bought plain borders for the white saris, a gold border for the black sari, and a silver border for the blue one. Har Singh stitched a border on to one of the plain white saris right away. The others I would do the next day, at home.
I put on the sari and waited while Har Singh fastened the rest and my organdie into a big bundle. When we got outs de, Ranjit looked anxiously up and down, and we waited for some time in the street, but no tonga came. It was about midnight.
It was a lovely night, and a little cooler by then. There was a breeze. I asked Ranjit if he would mind walking home with me.
He smiled at me then, really smiled, and said, ‘I was hoping you would suggest that. Are those shoes all right for walking?’
I said, ‘They’re comfortable, but I can’t walk fast. Which way shall we go?’
‘The quickest way is down here,’ he said, pointing. I remembered that street. I had walked along there with him once before, at night, in a sari. I didn’t want to go that way ever again.
I said, ‘Let’s walk down the line from the Loco Sheds.’
He agreed, and we set off. We walked slowly, I because of my shoes, Ranjit because of me. We didn’t say much until we had climbed the low embankment by the Loco Sheds and turned up the main line. It was late by then, but someone in the sheds had a wireless set and must have been squatting in the dark listening to music among the big quiet engines.
‘Patna, I think,’ Ranjit said. ‘That is a Bihar love song. It is quite well known.’
‘Let’s stop and listen a minute,’ I said. ‘We can sit on the fence. I want to rest my feet. I have an awful lot to learn.’
‘About the music?’ he said.
I said, ‘Yes. That, and everything. I am ready to like the music, if you know what I mean, but it doesn’t make sense to me. I have heard it all my life and I’ve never really listened to it or tried to understand it.’
Ranjit lowered my bundle carefully to the ground. He said softly, ‘I cannot explain to you how glad I am about the sari, Victoria.’
I said, ‘You didn’t look very pleased when I came tonight. You looked more frightened.’ I examined him carefully. I could not see his face well, but I thought he was pleased and also nervous. I wondered if he was nervous because he was screwing up his courage to kiss me. What would I do then?
But he wouldn’t, he wasn’t going to, I was absolutely certain of it.
He said, ‘I am so pleased, but I am worried too. You know what happened at the cantonment cinema. I think something else like it must have happened tonight?’
I said, ‘Something happened—but I don’t want to talk about that. Let’s get on.’
Ranjit picked up the parcel. We walked side by side between the rails. He said, ‘You will never regret this. India will open up like a flower when she is free, Victoria. We will all share in ber beauty and happiness. India will sing like a bird out of its cage when she is free.’
I pressed his arm. It was strange to know I could do it and not be misunderstood—never with any other man in my life. I said, ‘I know. It’ll be wonderful for you personally too, won’t it?’
I meant he would feel that the railway was truly India’s, that he would be working at his own job for his own country, without despising himself half the time as a servant of the Brit
ish.
He said, ‘It will be wonderful. I will go into politics. There is need of a new outlook. Congress has been very good in many ways, but it is too much controlled by the Bombay capitalists and the steel millionaires. I want to work on the educational programmes.’
I said, ‘Don’t you want to stay on the railway?’ I was surprised and perhaps a little shocked to bear what he said.
He was becoming less constrained with me. He swung the parcel on its strings as he walked, and waved his other hand in the air to emphasize what he said. ‘The railway is merely a mechanical thing. It takes our bodies from one place to another, that is all. It is material. But the mind, the soul, is what is important to India. There are so many bars here that it is like a prison for many people. India is like a giant chained, and not all the chains are ones that the British have tied on. I say, I am using almost as many metaphors as V. K.—Mr Surabhai.’ He smiled at me, boyish for that moment, and yet not quite carefree.
He said, ‘The future will excuse our metaphors. It will justify them.’
I said, ‘I suppose your mother approves of your plans?’
The parcel stopped swinging in his hand. He held it then carefully in both hands. I could not miss the change in his voice as he said, ‘She approves. Oh yes.’
I didh’t believe him, but I didn’t want to corner him. He was too defenceless. I wanted to pat his hand and say, ‘There, there, it doesn’t matter.’ We were at the signal, and it was off, for Number 599 Down Passenger, nearly an hour late. I stopped there because that was where we would have to say goodnight.
Ranjit’s hand came out slowly, as though someone invisible behind him was forcing his elbow forward. He took my hand and squeezed it. He said, stammering and more nervous than I had ever seen a man with me, ‘Miss Jones—Victoria, I am getting—I admire you more than—I think you are the bravest girl in the world. Please don’t think I’m pushing you.’ He was perspiring freely, and his hand was clammy. He looked the same as he had the night Macaulay was killed.
He burst out, ‘I don’t want to hurry you, Victoria.’
‘Then why do you?’ I said as gently as I could. I held his hand, instead of his holding mine, and said, ‘I like you too, Ranjit, very much. I think you are the nicest man I’ve ever met. I think—I think this may be too valuable to hurry. Don’t forget how strange everything is to me—even the music.’ I finished with a laugh and let his hand go, and stood back from him. Far away I saw the bright little eye of the train as it came on down.
My words seemed to have opened a gate for Ranjit. Still keeping well apart from me, he cried, ‘I am honourably in love with you, Victoria. I didn’t want to say it yet. I wanted you to have time to know me. And I am afraid of you. I am afraid for your sake as well. But——’
I waited, knowing what must be coming.
He said miserably, ‘But you have said you are going to think of yourself as an Indian. My mother——’ I sighed. Here it was. ‘My mother told me to hurry up or you would marry someone else. She told me that if I didn’t make up your mind for you, she would’
I was wearing a sari, and I did understand. Girls who wore saris had their marriages arranged for them. Everything should have been settled for me long ago, before I knew what it was about years before I was twenty-eight. The light of the train was bright in my eyes, and the earth shook under it as it came on.
I said. ‘I don’t want to hurry, even for your mother, Ranjit. I’d rather you asked me.’ I was ready to cry of vexation. Here I was, so proud of my new sari, and this was what happened the first time I wore it. I felt as if I were insisting on wearing a topi on top of it.
He muttered ‘I will not know how to ask you.’
I said, ‘Well, I will ask you—when I want to!’
I had to put out my arm and pull him away from the line as 599 Down Passenger rocked past us behind an ancient 4–6–0, the brakes grinding and the sparks flying from the brake shoes as the driver slowed for his stop at Bhowani Junction.
Dear Ranjit was not really a railwayman at heart, or he would have felt that train in his bones even though he had his back to it—even though I had been promising to marry him.
NINETEEN
I struggled out of sleep, miles down. My sister was knocking on the wall between our rooms. There was another noise—the telephone ringing, standing silent, ringing again. Rose Mary’s muffled sleepy voice called. ‘For God’s sake go and answer it Vicky. It’s always for you.’
I scrambled out of the sheet and the mosquito net and found the light. I stood by the telephone, one hand on the wall and my eyes closed against the light, and lifted the receiver. I thought dazedly it would be something to do with the mutiny. But the mutiny was over at last, and the sailors had gone back peacefully to their duty.
The man said, ‘Duty Officer, First Thirteenth Gurkhas. The C.O. wants you to get into uniform at once. A jeep will come and pick you up in ten minutes. There’s been a crash.’
‘Oh, a crash,’ I said, still dazed. ‘On the road? I haven’t had any nursing training, you know.’
The young man at the other end was excited and exasperated. He said, ‘A rail crash, a troop train derailed near Pathoda, Miss Jones!’
I woke up properly and said, ‘What does he want me for?’
The duty officer said, ‘Good God, I don’t know, but you’d better hurry up. I’ve got a hundred things to do. Good-bye.’ He hung up.
I went back to my room and began to dress. When I was stepping into my skirt I remembered that I had been wearing a sari since yesterday. This was Sunday, I muttered crossly to myself, took off the skirt, and found my uniform sari.
‘What’s happened?’ Rose Mary called.
I told her. She said, ‘Near Pathoda again! I bet I know who’s done that. Your Congress friends!’
‘Oh, shut up!’ I said.
I wrestled with the sari and my hair, and with powder and lipstick and sari brooch. The jeep arrived before I was quite ready. The driver did not toot his horn or come running up the path to knock on the door, so I knew Colonel Savage wasn’t in it. I found my watch, saw it was two o’clock, and hurried out. Birkhe was waiting, and I scrambled in beside him. The sari took some managing. I had always wondered how the Indian girls in the WAC (I) managed to ride bicycles and get in and out of jeeps and do their parade-ground drills so efficiently.
Birkhe smiled shyly at me, his beautiful white teeth gleaming in the faint starlight, but he did not speak then or on the short drive up the Pike. The battalion offices were alive with lights and men and the sound of talking and the throb of engines. Savage called me at once and said, ‘Ranjit’s at the Traffic Office now, and Taylor’s on his way there. Find out at once what they’re doing. Tell them Chaney’s already gone up with our Regimental Aid Post, and that I’m going in fifteen minutes with Howland and B Company. Tell them Lanson wants me to cordon off the roads round the crash, and I’m doing that.’
I picked up my telephone and began to find out what was happening. I knew from the tone of Ranjit’s flat, non-committal voice that Patrick had arrived in the Traffic Office. Then, in the background, I heard Patrick booming on another telephone. Ranjit told me that the Divisional Traffic Superintendent was taking the necessary steps. They wanted all the help Colonel Savage could give at the scene of the accident. Ranjit gave me details of the movements of breakdown trains, of extra engines, of medical rescue parties. I listened, my chest beginning to feel empty as the urgent instructions and messages piled up. I made notes and with the other ear overheard snatches of Savage’s orders next door. I heard him phoning to the D.S.P., and it sounded as if Lanson would be on his way to the accident at once. I heard Savage tell someone to get Kishanpur 6, priority. From the signal office down the passage I heard the duty officer on the R/T: ‘Dogfish Six speaking Hello, Able Zebra Uncle, Able Zebra Uncle calling Christ, I want your Number Nine. Timi ko ho? … Roger, over.’
Savage got his connection and began to speak in his special ‘languid
’ tone. He managed to suppress all the force he’d just been using and somehow blunt the edge of his voice. He must have been bursting with the effort. He drawled, ‘I’m sorry to disturb you at this ungodly hour, Nigel…. Yes, of course. There’s been a derailment near Pathoda…. Yes. It’s a troop train with about half a British battalion on board…. Well, yes—you see, Pathoda’s almost as close to you as it is to here, and I was going to suggest that if you hadn’t made any other plans you might consider sending a few men to help dig in the wreckage. I expect some doctors and ambulances would be well received too…. Oh, yes, I think so, Nigel, really quite serious…. Well, thank you…. Yes, I’ll take care of it if I may have your authority to pass on your suggestion…. It is a beautiful night. Quite wonderful…. It is extraordinary, I agree…. Yes, I can see it from here…. Yes. Beautiful. Good night, Nigel.’
I heard him put down the receiver and lift it up. In a voice with an edge like a saw he said, ‘Kishanpur three-one-one, priority.’ There was a short wait. Then Savage snarled, ‘Say who you are! … I don’t care a purple—if your name’s Reginald or Ramfurley. Are you the staff captain of Kishanpur Sub-Area? … For Christ’s sake, wake up, you chairborne bastatd. This is Savage, C.O. of the First Thirteenth Gurkhas. Take these orders, they are from the brigadier….’ He began giving orders in an emphatic monotone.
When he had finished I went in to him and told him what I had learned. He was dressed in fighting order. He picked up his hat and carbine and shoved me out to the jeep ahead of him as I struggled to put my information into short concise phrases. Birkhe had already moved into the back seat. The radio jeep and the escort jeep were waiting. A line of lorries and six-by-sixes, with lights blazing and engines running, stood along the side of the approach road. Dickson was waiting on the office steps, his brow deeply furrowed and a paper in his hand. Young Chris Glass, the new adjutant replacing Macaulay, was gabbling excitedly with Howland, the commander of B Company.
