To The Coral Strand

by John Masters

  The air marshal made the point I had just been thinking about - building up a reserve. The Nawab said, ‘You do not need a large reserve. It is just a waste of money.’

  I kept my face wooden, though the air marshal caught my eye as he began to defend his expenses. The Nawab grunted and moved on. I wanted to talk to the air marshal about the progress he had made in training supply-dropping teams, but I had to trail along behind the Nawab and only had time to make an appointment with the air marshal. Supply dropping was a vital part of my plans for guerrilla war against the flanks of any Indian advance.

  We drove on, round the outside of the city, towards the main barracks. Here, ‘by chance’, we met Lieutenant-General Gokal Singh, the deputy commander-in-chief, and also commander of the striking force. He turned his car and followed. He wasn’t going to let the Nawab wander about unobserved, especially in company with me. Gokal was a Rajput, thirty-three years of age, a very bright and clever young man, sharp as a knife. With experience he might have been a great soldier. As it was, he thought he was much better than the facts indicated.

  At the barracks Gokal shot out of his car and reached ours in time to open the Nawab’s door with one hand and salute with the other. The Nawab stared at the dozen Sherman tanks rumbling back and forth across the sandy parade ground. After five minutes he said, ‘Why is it flying a yellow flag?’

  Gokal said, ‘That is the troop leader’s pennant, Your Highness. Each troop has a different colour, and--’

  ‘They should all be green,’ the Nawab said, and climbed back into the Rolls. I saluted Gokal punctiliously, and followed. The old bigot wanted all his tanks flying the Muslim green. The majority of his soldiers were Hindus. I wasn’t thinking about that, but about the waste of track mileage. Tanks can go only so far before their tracks and engines need major overhaul or replacement. The tank commanders were wasting mileage because the exercise they were carrying out here should have been done in a classroom. I pulled out my notebook and made a note. Somehow I’d got to persuade Gokal that his tactical brilliance would do him no good if his tanks wouldn’t run.

  The Nawab said, ‘Is he loyal?’

  ‘General Gokal Singh, sir?’ I said, startled.

  The Nawab said, ‘He is a Rajput. No family. I made him what he is, raised him up from nothing, so that I would have a man who owed everything to me. He ought to be loyal. But I can trust no one.’

  I didn’t answer, because doubts about Gokal had entered my own mind. I had rejected them, feeling that I must not allow myself to be tainted by the universal suspiciousness. If we could not trust our chief battlefield commander, then we did not deserve to stand.

  The Nawab dropped me off at Army Headquarters and drove on. I looked at my watch. Another morning wasted. Now I couldn’t set out for Digra until the next day.

  But I could not afford to waste the day. I went up into Headquarters and looked for the chief of intelligence. I wanted to find out how the corps of observers and spies I had organised along the borders was working. The chief of intelligence had gone to lunch. Tried to find the commander-in-chief, to discuss a training programme for senior officers. He had not left his mansion today, and could not be disturbed. Looked for the commander of the city garrison, to check progress on plans for the protection of radio and power stations against sabotage. He had gone north to his son’s wedding. Went disgustedly to my own office, stared at the wall, and wondered how I could make Lieutenant-General Gokal Singh understand that he was not Rommel. Worried about the guerrilla plans for Lapri and Bhilghat ... Sent for the armoured brigade tank history sheets and studied them; situation bad, as I thought; engine replacements due for about 20 per cent already, and the political affairs with India like a keg of dynamite. Wrote all afternoon, went to my house weary and ill at ease.

  And so on ... I only give a typical day during the period when my duties were solely military. Then, about another two months later, when I had been in Chambal five months, Hussein Ali sent for me and told me the time had come to use me in the political manoeuvrings designed to bring Kishanpur and smaller uncommitted states into some sort of alliance with Chambal.

  My waning enthusiasm rekindled. I needed Dip and his sensible, modern outlook here. Whatever the terms Chambal offered to him, they would have to include a measure of power in the affairs of the new country, and Dip had good ideas.

  I do not want to give the impression that life in Chambal was all bad. I was tired, and if there had been nothing but the medieval intrigues of the court and government, I would have given up within a month and crept back to England with my tail between my legs - or perhaps even gone back to Roy. But the thing that I believed in did exist, and you only had to leave the capital to feel it, as real and as wonderful as a dove in the hand. The peasants greeted you outside their hovels, standing upright against a poverty that would have caused many to bow and wail. There were country gentlemen living on their estates, where every man for five miles around behaved and was treated like a member of the aristocrat’s family; and on the squire’s whitewashed wall hung a sword that had been carried at First Panipat against Baber the Mogul in 1526, and at Laswari against Lord Lake, and finally been broken on a Sikh skull at Chilianwala. There were old men with long white beards, who sat under the village tree and talked not of economic exploitation or democracy or colonialism but of honour and right and obligation. There were women with bright shards of mirror glass let into their swinging red skirts, who primly hung the sari over their heads when I passed; but if I went to the well and stood nearby, and talked to Ratanbir about the kind of woman we would like to marry, looking at them as we talked, then they would begin to laugh and giggle and, not looking at us, would throw out tangential comments of wonderful earthiness.

  Every time I escaped from Chambalpur my conviction that all this was worth preserving - not the poverty but the simple dignity - became recharged. At the same time I became more sure that Chambal’s hope lay in diplomacy rather than fighting, so I was delighted when Hussein gave me the orders that would, for a time at least, take me away from the charming old historical monument called the commander-in-chief, the Renaissance condottieri disguised as twentieth-century generals, and all the other animated museum pieces of the Chambal military establishment.

  Dip had long since, in August, invited me to Kishanpur for the Dussehra celebrations, so there was no need to invent a reason for my visit. Then, a few days before I was due to go he wired that the Indian Government had summoned him to Delhi and he had thought it expedient to obey. I arranged to pick him up at Bhowani Junction on his way back, and so, in a beautiful dawn early in October, I set out in the Bentley, Ratanbir beside me and the suitcases and bedding rolls thrown into the back seat.

  Chapter 10

  I was in excellent humour by the time Dip’s train whistled for the station. First, I had escaped from Chambalpur. Second, I would see Sumitra again, and as a new man. I had a feeling that she had slept with me, and later visited me, out of compassion, which galled my pride. Now we could start afresh. Third, I had had time to reflect that Dip, after his visit to Delhi, would probably be in a receptive mood for my proposals. Roy might have frightened him with his threats: the method of getting the states into the Indian Union was quite simple - the iron hand in the iron glove - but it was more likely that Dip would be annoyed at the bullying. Fourth, while buying some matches in the Bhowani bazaar I had run into Tilakbahadur, the subadar major of the 1/13th Gurkhas, my own old battalion. He insisted that I bring Dip to the head cutting, always a very moving ceremony to me. Fifth, and last, the news that I was in Bhowani had then filtered rapidly from Tilakbahadur up to Max, who had invited us to have tea at Flagstaff House before setting out for Kishanpur.

  So I was feeling happy and almost young again as I scanned the windows of the incoming train, looking for Dip. Blue smoke and the smell of hot steel from the brakes filtered up from the grinding wheels. They stopped, and Dip opened a door, opposite where I waited.

  He look
ed cross, and I understood why when another man stepped down after him, and Dip curtly introduced him: ‘Mr Mehta, of the C.I.D. Mr Mehta, this is one of my oldest friends - Colonel Rodney Savage.’ The C.I.D. man’s jaw dropped, and he licked his lips. It was obvious that he had been lecturing Dip all the way down from Delhi; equally obvious that he had specifically warned Dip to be on his guard against the dangerous Chambal agent, Savage.

  He had a large padlocked brief-case in one hand. I leaped forward obligingly. ‘Can I help, Mr Mehta? Allow me to carry that brief-case for you.’

  Mehta clutched the brief-case tightly to his breast, and snapped, ‘No! ... Thank you.’

  ‘Just as you wish,’ I said affably. ‘Come on, Dip. I’ve got the car outside and we’re going straight to the lines. Good-bye, Mr Mehta.’

  We left the station, shuffling slowly out among the mob of travellers, Dip’s servant and two coolies following behind with his suitcases. Dip muttered, ‘Bloody man. What right does he have to tell me what my duty is? . . . The lines, did you say? What lines?’

  I told him about the head cutting, and he said, ‘Really, I ought to get home, Rodney,’ but I saw that he did not mean it, and, being also certain that the change of atmosphere would do him good, I had no difficulty in persuading him.

  We sent the servant straight to Max’s with Dip’s kit and, ourselves, headed for cantonments. Ten minutes later we passed a Gurkha sentry at the roadside, and turned up a gravelled road leading towards a row of long barrack buildings. As the car stopped, a dozen officers in jungle green came forward, followed by Gurkhas loaded with garlands. Dip joined his palms and bent his head. ‘Marigolds,’ he muttered. ‘Marigolds and zinnias. Don’t you wish people would sometimes use flowers with a less cloying- sweet smell?’

  I introduced him round. ‘His Highness of Kishanpur, Colonel Mahadev, in command. Major Harbans Singh, Captain Lai... I don’t know you. What’s your name?’ I stopped in front of a burly young man with second lieutenant’s badges and a fierce moustache. ‘Govind Singh Badhwar, sir. I have your old company, A.’

  ‘Any relation to Hari, of Hodson’s Horse?’

  ‘He is my uncle, sir.’

  ‘Good ... He’s a great man, and a good man. Don’t let him sell you any ponies, though. He may be your uncle, but he’s a damned horsecoper at heart. Have you still got that gad head, the one Rifleman Khagu shot in the middle of a battle in ‘37?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We always keep it in the champion platoon barrack room now. One of the eyes is missing.’

  I smiled and turned to the colonel. ‘Is General Max coming, Jai?’

  ‘No, sir. He’s with the 1/4th this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, are they in the division too? Well, Dip, the colonel now proposes to hand us over to the subadar major ... Tilakbahadur Gurung, Sardar Bahadur, O.B.I., I.O.M., M.C.’

  Tilakbahadur was about forty-five, grizzled and powerful. His grip crushed Dip’s fingers. I spoke aside to Tilakbahadur in Gurkhali, and Dip said, ‘What have you been telling him? To spike my drinks?’

  ‘Just the opposite. I was reminding him that we had a date with the general after this, and then we have to drive forty-seven miles - so would he please see that the drinks are kept at a reasonable size.’

  Dip grinned, the subadar major saluted. We all drifted to the edge of the parade ground, and sat down at tables set out there under awnings. Huge glasses full of orange-tinted sweet rum appeared at our elbows. The subadar major sat on Dip’s right, and an alert young subadar on my left.

  I sighed and settled back. So did Dip. This was the Indian Army. This was a Gurkha battalion celebrating the great Hindu festival of Dussehra. Tomorrow and the next day, in Kishanpur, Dip would preside over more formal celebrations of this same festival. It would be quite different, but it would have something of the same atmosphere as here - a very different atmosphere from the miasma prevailing in New Delhi.

  All the battalion’s arms were massed in hollow square to our right. Flowers stuck out of the rifle muzzles and garlands hung from the machine-gun barrels. This was the festival of the god of war, and good luck with the sacrifices would mean good luck in all the battalion’s endeavours during the coming year. Though there was no shrine or image on the parade ground, the spectre of Kali the Destroyer, the necklace of skulls round her neck and her protruding tongue red with blood, towered over our imaginations. If we did not pay her homage correctly, it was we whom she would destroy.

  Tension mounted as a group of soldiers sang Gurkhali hymns. Others dragged a big male buffalo on to the parade ground and tied its head to a post set in the earth. A squad stood ready to fire a salute, rifles raised. A single man stepped forward, in white shorts and undershirt. He raised the heavy sacrificial kukri. The blade flashed in the sun and the buffalo’s head flew off into the dust. Quickly the Brahmin bent and placed a live coal on the dead forehead. A smell of burning hair, and blood, drifted into our nostrils. Dip looked shocked. I shouted, ‘Well done!’ Everyone cheered and clapped and stomped. The squad fired three volleys.

  The soldier who had done the sacrifice came forward and bowed his head. Colonel Mahadev stood ready, a white cloth in his hand. I whispered to Dip that the colonel would wind the cloth round the man’s head, like a puggaree, as a reward and a mark.

  But Mahadev turned to me, and said, ‘This was your battalion, sir. You made it what it is. We would be honoured if you would tie the puggaree.’

  For a moment I thought I would cry. My eyes hurt, but I managed to look up and take the cloth. ‘For the last time, then,’ I said. ‘Ai-ja, choro.’ The man stepped forward, straightened in salute, then bowed his powerful shoulders. I tied the cloth round his head. As I wound the cloth I said aloud, ‘You have done your duty cleanly and well. Do it so always.’

  More men dragged on more buffaloes. There was more singing, and more blood; more horned heads joined the row in the dust. Small boys strutted out on to the ground, and with their fathers’ heavy swords cut cucumbers in two. The rum was strong, Dip had settled into drowsy relaxation. ‘A barbaric spectacle,’ he said, ‘but in keeping with certain aspects of the religion. Very Indian, somehow. You won’t see any sacrifices in Kishanpur, only processions, with the State elephants parading the streets and me in the Rawan jewels and the big hat - and my soldiers - all fifty of them - in yellow coats and pikes. A waste of money, but great fun, and a great annual event. I wonder how much longer it will go on ... ‘

  Soon it was time to leave. All the officers and Gurkha officers saw us off, and we were hung with more garlands until I wondered how Dip was able to see over the top of them, and I could hardly drive. Just before we started Ratanbir ran up and bundled himself into the back seat. I told him it looked as though the havildars had been generous with their rum. He grinned amiably but said nothing. We drove away through the dusk, among cheering soldiers, and I had a big lump in my throat and a pain in my chest.

  At Flagstaff House the sentry at the gate saluted, examined us, and let us pass. A large table, spread with a white cloth, was set up on the far side of the lawn. Pressure lamps hung from trees nearby and turned the grass into a brilliant, translucent green carpet. Janaki Dadhwal came out on to the veranda, petite and beautiful in a white sari faintly patterned with green. I went slowly up the steps, took her hand and kissed it. Max came out, rubbing his cheek with his hand. ‘Phew!’ he said. ‘Those damned bun-faces of yours are going to wear me out, Rodney. And there’s a nautch later tonight. Two more parties, a parade, and another nautch tomorrow ... Whisky, Dip?’

  Dip held up his hand. ‘Orange juice, please,’ he said, ‘and blotting paper.’ He helped himself to a curried titbit.

  Max said, ‘Rodney, have you got any time to spare for a look at the Caves of Konpara? Janaki and I thought of going over next weekend - to recover from Dussehra. Or have you seen them?’

  I said, ‘They’re worth seeing a hundred times, but sorry, I’m booked up.’

  Conversation flowed gently round the table. I told them a
bout a ruined Rajput fort I’d found in the southern part of Chambal, and the wonders which I thought a proper excavation would reveal. Janaki brought out some paintings she’d bought, done by a Punjabi artist just coming to prominence.

  Someone mentioned Gonds, and Dip said he had a problem with a small tribe of them living in the southern part of his State. They would have to be moved because a new dam and reservoir would flood their land. He didn’t know what to do about them.

  I said, ‘Talk to the D.C. of Bijoli - Ranjit Singh. Sumitra knows him, so does Janaki here. Get him to fetch the Gond chief up from Bhilghat, old Gulu, and send him down to your Gonds. Gulu has enormous influence, and he’s learned to adjust his thinking to the new times better than most. But, whatever he says to do, do it, or you’ll be in worse trouble than ever - and so will the D.C. Gulu doesn’t like to have his advice ignored.’

  Janaki said, ‘Is there anything you don’t know about this country, Rodney? It seems such a … ‘She did not finish, but sat, looking helplessly at me. Such a waste - I finished the sentence for her in my own mind. I felt like that, too. India’s time for freedom had come, and I didn’t want it otherwise, but why did I have to be thrown on the rubbish heap? Was it inherent in the situation, or only in my character?

  A visitor wearing sandals, dhoti, and Gandhi cap came across the lawn, his hands joined in a perfunctory namasti, the sentry trailing anxiously behind him. It was L. P. Roy. Max stood up, a look of alarm on his face.

  ‘Oh, please sit down,’ Roy said. ‘General, I am sorry to upset you at such a time, but there is an important matter … ‘

  He glanced round the group at the table. Janaki, as the hostess, had risen and was making namasti. Dip and I made the same gesture where we sat.

  Roy stared at me. ‘You!’ he said. ‘Colonel Rodney Savage!’