by Dilip Kumar
Taj Mohammad Khan had the usual awe-inspiring bearing of a Pathan and he did not ask me any questions. He gave me a sheet of paper and a pen and dictated a letter to the canteen manager requesting him to employ me as his assistant. I took the dictation obediently and corrected the English, which betrayed his not having much familiarity with the language. He was impressed but he did not want to show it to a rank outsider, I surmised.
The manager was indeed in search of an assistant who could take charge of some of the more irksome burdens he was shouldering in the daily management of the canteen. He was extremely happy that I could converse fluently in English. He showed me my room and confirmed my appointment by shaking my hand vigorously. There was no talk of wages but I presumed it would be decent and sufficient to sustain myself.
My immediate need of getting employment was fulfilled and it gave me a great sense of achievement. Here I was in a city, where I was a stranger, and I had not only found a job but decent accommodation as well. The alienation I felt the previous day was lessening already. There was much to look forward to and I thought I could prove to Aghaji that I wasn’t as worthless as he had made me feel with his ranting on the day he lost his temper.
My job entailed several responsibilities bundled together under the head: general management. I had to check the stock of fruits, grocery, vegetables, eggs, milk, cheese and butter every day and get fresh stock from the market, taking care not to buy old stock that shopkeepers tried to palm off as new. I had to ensure that the kitchen and its environment were clean and hygienic. The poolside and the cleanliness of the water in the pool also had to be attended to. The bar that Army Club members frequented in the summer afternoons had to be well stocked with barrels of beer and other alcoholic beverages for the men and fruit punches for the ladies. Finally, I had to maintain registers and account books for cash inflows and outflows. By the time the canteen manager showed me around and listed my responsibilities, I had half a mind to ask him what was left for him to do as manager if I was being entrusted with all the tasks he had enumerated. Better wisdom prevailed and I followed him meekly while he talked in a jumble of English and Urdu, which was exasperating for me as a listener.
I started off with great confidence since I could judge the quality of the fruits, vegetables, cheese, butter, eggs and so on with ease. There was something fishy going on between the vendors and the manager about which I came to know by and by when I rejected some of the stuff that was of lesser quality but was being purchased at a higher price. The beer in the barrels was being mixed with buckets of ice and cold water to augment the quantity and I brought the matter to the manager’s attention dutifully. He advised me to overlook it and, without stopping to explain why, he went about doing whatever he was pretending to do.
It did not take long for me to realize that I should keep my distance from whatever the manager was doing, legitimately or illegitimately. I think he appreciated my feigned ignorance of his doings and, in return, he was extremely nice to me. He did not mind the attention I got from the colonels, brigadiers, majors and captains who frequented the club and ordered snacks during the day and reappeared in the evenings for drinks. A part of the club was open only to the officers and another part in the rear was open to the Tommies (British soldiers who were not officers). The ladies who accompanied the officers sometimes changed to swimwear and plunged into the swimming pool. Initially I did not know what to do – whether I should be around or not when the ladies in their swimsuits splashed around in the pool. I came from a conservative background, from a family where the ladies were virtually covered from head to toe and showed only their beautiful faces and hands. I realized that the ladies did not mind my presence at all and the officers were unaware of my embarrassment. They were all very fond of me and called me Chico – a name my wife Saira still uses when she wants to flirt with me in her own refined manner. I learned that Chico in Spanish meant a youngster or a lad.
There were officers who called me by my name, Yousuf Khan, pronounced with a strong British accent. They were at first very curious to know how I could speak English the way the language should be spoken. They liked the way I dressed immaculately in clean, ironed trousers and full-sleeved shirts. From the time I can remember I had a fetish for wearing well-stitched trousers and full-sleeved shirts of good quality material. The friendliness of the officers gave me solace and a wonderful feeling of belonging.
I mingled freely with the officers and the Tommies. I observed that the Tommies would get drunk and they did not even know that the beer was diluted. There were bathrooms at the club where the Tommies used to bathe and it was such a shock for poor me to see them undress in front of one another without the slightest hesitation. They would often stand stark naked under the shower with the doors open. They would often tell me to come along and join them. One hot summer day, one of the Tommies got sozzled and he dragged me to the bathroom and forced me to take off my clothes and take a shower.
It was a bit of a shock and a huge embarrassment because I was extremely conscious of my hairy body, especially the hair on my hands, which would fall limp on one side when water fell over them and so would all the hair on the rest of my body. Hence, I never liked the idea of exposing my body. It is for this very reason that I have had a preference for long-sleeved shirts.
My hairiness was also the despair of mosquitoes, which got entangled in the thick clusters on my hands and legs. I would see the helpless creatures trying to escape from what could be like an African jungle to them and I always felt sorry for the poor insects and helped them fly out. So in all fairness to the unsuspecting mosquitoes and the aesthetic senses of whoever might set eyes on my ape-like appearance in a swimming pool, I had sensibly decided not to ever descend into one.
There was a lot of camaraderie in the rank and file of the British Army while the officers were reserved and extremely gentlemanly. An idea occurred to me one day when the regular chef was absent and the manager asked me if I could come up with something as a major general was having a few important guests for tea. I told him I could make sandwiches with reasonable success. He asked me to go ahead, but warned me to be careful to use fresh bread and butter and other ingredients. I assured him that I would make sure everything was fresh even as I wondered how I could ensure that with all the conniving going on between him and the vendors.
Fortunately, the sandwiches were a hit. The guests of the major general praised the manager, who received the compliments smiling broadly. That was when the idea occurred to me to request him to get sanction from the contractor and the club’s office bearers to let me set up a sandwich counter at the club in the evenings. Since he was very pleased with me and he knew I had knowledge of what was going on between him and several suppliers, he sent my request to the concerned authorities with his recommendation and permission was granted.
My sandwich business opened very successfully. All the sandwiches were sold out in no time and the latecomers were disappointed when they found out that the sandwiches were very tasty and they had missed the chance to enjoy them. On the second day, I brought out a large table and covered it with white, starched cloth and laid out fresh fruits that I had selected carefully from the market along with sandwiches and chilled lemonade. The second day was a bigger success and, in less than a week’s time, I was counting the rewards with a sense of joy that comes when one’s hard work yields unexpected results.
The officers were now friendlier and they would ask me about my family and it astonished them that Amma could deliver so many children and still be alive. When I began making money from the sandwich business, I found the courage to send a telegram to my brother Ayub Sahab informing him that I was in Poona and he may please tell Amma that ‘I am well and working in the British Army canteen’. My telegram must have given Amma much relief. The following week, Ayub Sahab arrived without prior intimation and he brought dry fruits and sooji (semolina) halwa prepared by Amma for me. He had also brought some money, which Amma had saved from her h
ousehold allowances. I was so happy to see Ayub Sahab, who couldn’t hide the tears glistening in his eyes when he and the attendant who came with him met me at the reception counter of the club.
I told Ayub Sahab that I was comfortable and doing well and I did not need the money Amma had sent through him. He could see for himself how everybody knew me and I was well fed, hale and hearty. If there was anything I did not have, it was the warmth of my family. I was always very comfortable talking to Ayub Miyan. He and I shared a brotherly bond that was strong and deep. I poured out my heart to him, talking to him while sitting on a bench in a park nearby as the sun went down inch by inch on the horizon in a blaze of orange and gold, while the birds flew hurriedly into the branches of trees creating a cacophony of twitters and screeches, perhaps signalling to one another that one more day was done. I recounted to Ayub Sahab how I had set out impulsively and how I felt remorseful about not confiding in him or Amma. I told him how much I wanted to be of support to Aghaji, given the difficult situation he was in. Ayub Sahab understood and, sensitive as he was, he just listened and spoke little.
He returned to Bombay the next morning and I went back to work after seeing him off at the railway station, somewhat less burdened and more relaxed. At the club a surprise was awaiting me. Corporal Marlowe, who was known to me at Deolali, had arrived on duty in Poona. As I set eyes on him in the club, standing at the bar with his drink in hand, looking as severe as he always did, a torrent of gruesome memories flashed before my mind. At Deolali he was known as ‘the dog man’. My school friends and I took to our heels when we ran into him because we imagined he was some kind of an ogre and not a human being. His stocky figure, even in the distance as we returned from school in the late afternoons, frightened us. The reason was that he had the regular habit of aiming his revolver at any stray dog he saw and shooting the poor, unprepared animal dead in one shot. After the dog stopped breathing, he would take a knife out of a bag he kept in the rear of his jeep and tiptoe up to the dead animal, cut its tail and put it into the bag.
I was too young to be convinced about his action when Chacha Ummer explained to me that he was doing so because stray dogs were not allowed to wander in the cantonment premises and in the vicinity and that he was cutting the tails to keep a count of the dogs he had shot and to account for the bullets he had used. It was an eerie memory that I had successfully erased from my mind as I grew up and we moved back to Bombay.
When the bar tender called out to me to introduce the corporal, I felt the same tingle in my spine that I used to whenever I bolted to hide and watch him drive past in his jeep on Deolali’s rugged roads. He greeted me without a smile and walked away.
Initially, the corporal had no intention of being friendly. However, he began to show signs of thawing as the days passed and, before long, we were on very friendly terms as he realized that all the officers liked me and treated me well. His obsession with killing of stray dogs continued in Poona, too, but it was not as regular as it was in Deolali since stray dogs could rarely be sighted near the cantonment. He stayed nearby and I noticed he had a pretty daughter who came with him to the club often. The girl had something going with a junior officer who gave her enough encouragement to be seen with him alone at late hours outside the club. I knew what was going on and kept a discreet distance from them.
My room within the club premises was nice and comfortable, though small. It had a glass window, which provided a clear view of the hall where the officers gathered in the evenings when there was a party hosted by one of the seniors. There would be music and I could see the officers and their wives dancing to it. The officers would be wearing elegant suits with smart Indian silk ties that were bought at exclusive shops. I wondered if I would ever possess one such suit. Little did I know then that one day I would possess the finest suits a man of good taste could buy and own! I sometimes reflect, when I see the array of garments in my wardrobe, perhaps my preference for suits as formal wear has something to do with the longing I had during the Army Club days.
One day, after I closed my sandwich stall, I decided to go to my room for a nap. I walked towards my room lazily and, to my surprise, I found the door of my room half open. A couple of days earlier there had been a burglary, which created a commotion and the police had to be called to investigate. I feared the same burglar had broken into my room perhaps and made away with my hard-earned savings. I quickened my pace and walked to my room. The sight before me was unbelievable. The corporal’s daughter was sprawled on my bed completely naked!
I stood frozen at the door and she saw me from the inviting position she had taken knowingly. I turned and almost ran to the manager’s cabin, my heart almost bursting with anger, disgust and fear. I informed him about what I had seen and he immediately accompanied me to my room, giving vent to his suppressed suspicions about the girl, her clandestine affair and her weird mental state. Fortunately for me, he knew me well by then and was certain that I was telling the truth. By the time we reached my room, the girl was gone. The manager looked at me, his eyebrow raised questioningly. I held him by his elbow and made him turn around and walk back with me. I had this lurking feeling that she had headed for the poolside. We reached the pool and there she was, standing on the raised board above the pool sans her clothes and was swaying as if she was on a dance floor. The wind was blowing her hair over her face and the sight frightened the manager as much as it scared me because she could have fallen headlong into the pool and created a panic situation where the whole club would have unnecessarily come into the spotlight. For a teenager, I think I had quite some maturity as I remained cool and nudged the manager to act fast and get her down from the springboard where she was standing almost on the edge. Brought up strictly by God-fearing Pathan parents and grandparents, the only women I knew were my Dadi, Amma, my sisters (including cousins) and my aunts, who were always covered from head to toe in the typical attire that the Muslim women of the North West Frontier wore virtually throughout the day. Here I was staring at a nude girl in the flush of youth as one could see. It wasn’t as if I was not libidinous as most young chaps are at that age. It was just that the whole episode evoked embarrassment and shock more than all the normal responses of youth and approaching manhood in a robust teenager.
The manager had the presence of mind to send two women staff members (who were in the premises doing the cleaning) to bring her down with a blanket wrapped around her. She was completely unaware of what was happening and submitted herself to be taken away by the cleaning women. I don’t know where they took her and what happened to her after that incident. The manager did not tell me anything and I did not ask him any questions because I thought it best to close the chapter and forget about it.
As mentioned earlier, it was wartime and there used to be discussions among the senior officers about India’s neutral stand in the war. One evening an officer asked me to give my opinion on this topic and as to why we were fighting for independence from British rule so relentlessly while we chose to stay unaligned in the war. I gave him what I thought was a good reply and he asked me if I would make a speech before the club members the next evening when the attendance would be full. I agreed and spent the night preparing my speech. I had studied the British Constitution as a student at Anjuman Islam School and put that knowledge to good use in preparing a speech that outlined our superiority as a nation of hard-working, truthful and non-violent people.
While making my speech in the club, I emphasized that our struggle for freedom was a legitimate one and it was they, the British administrators, who were consciously misrepresenting the civil laws of their Constitution and creating the consequences.
My speech evoked genuine applause and I felt elated but the enjoyment of my success was short-lived. To my surprise, a bunch of police officers arrived on the scene and handcuffed me, saying I had to be arrested for my anti-British views. I was taken away to the Yerawada Jail and locked up in a cell with some very decent-looking men, who I was told, were satyagra
his (followers of Mahatma Gandhi who offered passive resistance). On my arrival, the jailor referred to me as a ‘Gandhiwala’; I could not figure out why he was using this term for me till I heard the policemen refer to all the inmates of the cell as Gandhiwalas. It was their way of herding us together as followers of Gandhiji.
I exchanged pleasantries with my fellow inmates and they told me that Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel (one of the prominent leaders of the freedom movement) was in one of the cells and they were all on a hunger strike along with him. I don’t know why, but I too felt I should fast with them. So I refused the food that was brought for me in an unclean plate. The night was long and pangs of hunger kept me awake till dawn. In the morning, I heard the sound of boots approaching my cell and soon the jailor was standing before me accompanied by an army major. ‘Here is your Gandhiwala,’ he said sarcastically. The major had come to release me and take me back. He was a good chap with whom I had played badminton when I could find time for the sport on an occasional Sunday.
As soon as I reached the club, I asked for food and it amused everybody around me when I told them I had fasted all night. It might have sounded funny to them but for me it meant being a Gandhiwala at least for one night. As I sat alone in my room that night, I kept hearing the jailor’s words in my subconscious and a sense of pride built up within me that I had spent a night in jail with Gandhiji’s followers and, even if it was for a few fleeting moments, I was unafraid of expressing my pride about my country and my compatriots.
7
THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL
He was happy that one of his sons had the acumen to carry on the fruit trade. However, something inside me was giving me the feeling that it was all very well to take over the mantle from Mohammad Sarwar Khan, the successful fruit merchant, and carry on the family trade, but this was not what I was made for.
