‘Yes sir, once.’
‘What was that for? Explain.’
‘Back chat. The Senior Under Officer asked if I had shaved…’
‘You said yes and he said “next time get closer to the razor”, I know.’ The Colonel laughed. ‘There’s nothing original in the military. Right, tomorrow, Parade is late, but it’s a big occasion and all of you need to look your best.’
‘Sir.’
‘Tell me, are you leaving soon after lunch? Or by the night train.’
‘Actually, I’m staying the night here. I’ve been given permission by Chi…sorry, by Major Bedi, my Company Commander. I’m not going to Bombay.’
‘You were going to say, Chindi. That’s the nick name you chaps have given Bedi. You can tell me why. I won’t pull you up for it. Now that I’m leaving the Army.’
‘Sir chindi is the piece of lint rag we use, with a pull-through, to clean the barrels of our rifles, sir.’
‘I know that.’
‘Well it’s four by two inches, in size. And Chi- , I mean Major Bedi is a shorty.’
‘That’s cruel. The chap won an MC in Burma. And rose from the ranks.’
‘We know, sir, but boys are cruel,’ Dusty said, with an air of maturity.
‘About nicknames, I gather you have one. Don’t look surprised. I didn’t know till yesterday. Your guardian, or someone from Scotland, slipped up. I wasn’t snooping. The postal clerk wanted to make sure that a letter addressed to “Dusty” Dustoor went to the right person.’
‘I haven’t seen my mail.’
“We’ve a copy of your School Certificate, so no one can accuse you of falsifying the records. But what is your real name?’
‘Bal. No surname, just Bal. But I want to be Sam…in honour of my guardian, sir.’
‘You should change your name. Clearly, you’re not Parsee and on record you’re Christian. I missed that bit earlier.’
‘It’s a long story, sir. I’m not a practising…I mean, a church-going one. But I’m a believing one. I find Christ a very attractive figure.’
‘So did Gandhi. Right. Now join the others.’
Dusty found the cadets on the Parade ground as he was told. But most of them had already retired to the barracks. A group of twenty or so fellow athletes were hanging around the steps, and as he came down, one of them shouted: ‘He’s here! Guard of Honour, form ranks!’ The young men formed two rows facing each other, and removing their side caps from under their shoulder lapels, hastily donned them and saluted.
Dusty stopped short of walking into this avenue of uniformed young men, aware he was in for a bit of “ragging”. ‘What’s this about?’ he asked, arms akimbo. ‘Come on, lay off, chaps. If Under Officer Pritpal Singh’s here, say Colonel Dhanraj wants everyone in barracks, in bed, and fresh for tomorrow’s parade.’
‘You lucky bastard! First take your punishment. Take it like a man.’ said a voice in the darkness. ‘Guard of Honour! Present arms!’
Dusty peered under the tunnel of raised hands. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Who else?’ Asked Pritpal Singh. A tall neatly turbaned head bent forward. ‘Open hands only, fellows, or you’ll have me to answer to. Right, Sam, begin.’
As Dusty walked through the double line of cadets, they thumped his back—some harder than necessary—to the accompaniment of catcalls and whoops—till he got to Pritpal Singh. ‘Lucky devil!’ Pritpal hissed. ‘How close did you get to her?’
‘A polite distance.’ Dusty whispered back, adjusting his jacket.
‘Sly bastard. OK, chaps, line up in twos! You too, Sam. No special privileges for champion athletes or especially not someone who’s danced with the Commandant’s wife. Remember, tomorrow I get my commission and will be wearing a subaltern’s pip. I’ll expect all you chaps to salute when you see me. Right! By the left, quick march!’ Someone started to hum the “Colonel Boogey March”, and the rest joined in, with a raucous
Hitler, he only had one ball,
Goering, he had two but small,
Himmler, was somewhat sim’lar
But poor old Goebbels, had none at all: Ta-ra-ra…
‘Halt!’ screamed Pritpal Singh. ‘Chaps, the war’s over, forgotten. Let’s have the filthy version.’ This was greeted with lewd laughter in the ranks. ‘Keep your voices down. ‘Begin. I’ll cue the intro: “Where was the engine driver when the engine burst its boiler…” Come on, Sam you know the words. Be a sport.’
Sam cleared his throat: “They found his bollocks…” Sorry. Let me off this once. You’ll be an officer tomorrow. Also, I believe Colonel Dhanraj is within earshot.’
‘Okay Sam. Give him a cheer, fellows! He tried. Right, you lousy lot: Dismiss! Straight to your barracks! No fooling around.’
‘Barracks? Do you realise you’ve pulled me away from mine.’ Dusty laughed.
‘No back chat. Or you’ll get a pack parade.’
‘You can’t,’ someone shouted from the departing band, ‘it’s the end of term.’
‘Wrong, Tiwari. You’ll see. When you get back, there’ll be three pack parades in the book for you. Sneak. Open hands I said. You used a fist. We all envy Sam, but no need for that. Sorry, Sam, I saw you duck, but he got you on the mouth.’
Dusty ran his tongue over his upper lip. ‘It’s not too bad. Tiwari’s a weakling.’
‘By the way, who wrote that German version to the “Colonel Bogey”? The chap, must be a chap, deserves a shabash.’
‘It’s been around since the declaration of World War II, and according Sam…my Guardian…he believes it’s by an Irishman, but as he says, who knows?’
As he changed into pyjamas, Dusty looked approvingly at the immaculately pressed uniform his orderly had laid out on the dummy and, next to it, his highly polished army boots. The sight helped to banish that strange unsettling feeling he never had to wrestle with before: love. He inspected his slightly swollen upper lip in the mirror and cursed Tiwari. Yes, she would there, with the VIPs, and not give him a second thought! With a deep sigh he went to bed. ‘Get a grip, Dusty!’ he scolded himself… and was soon asleep.
Chapter Eight
The “Passing Out Parade” was a grand and precise affair; and in his speech General Sen Gupta paid tribute to Sergeant-Major Vallins. He expressed regret that the Prime Minister was unable to take the salute and was extremely grateful to the Maharaja of Nawaraj for agreeing to stand-in at the last moment. “We were in Sandhurst together and now Nawaraj is Colonel-in-Chief of the Camel Corps,’ he added. Then taking a step to the side, he invited the Maharaja to join him on the dais.
Nawaraj looked grand in his high collared achkan of red and gold brocade, white drain-pipe trousers and red turban, with its dazzling aigrette of rubies, pearls, and the large central sapphire. Behind the dais, which formed the saluting base, was the VIPs tent. High above it, from the flag-staff, flew the Indian Tricolour of saffron, white and green. Facing all this, in smartly turned out serried lines, stood four companies of the cadet battalions, patient and still, awaiting Inspection.
The day was bright but cold, as gusts of icy winds swept down from snow-capped mountains. Shawls of colourful Cashmere draped the women’s shoulders; some had even covered their heads. Not Minnie, when Dusty last saw her. The merest glimpse, because he had to stand still and look steadily ahead. That was the drill. And he was unlikely to see her again. By now she would be hidden behind the dais and by those on it; the Maharaja, Sen Gupta and the new Chief Instructor, Colonel Abbas. But he saw her again when the cadets marched past the saluting base. All eyes turned left to salute the flag. She caught his eye and smiled. He was sure she did, but at the buffet luncheon, she ignored him, even though, on at least two occasions, she was within a few feet of him. He shrugged, took his cup of coffee and joined Pritpal Singh for the third time.
‘What’s with you, Sam? Stop moping. Haven’t seen you like this. What’s up?’
‘Nothing…Prit-, I mean, sir. Nothing, sir.’
‘Hey, come on, I was joking. Call me Pritpal, as ever. Now, why the mope?’
‘Just a small worry. Haven’t heard from…from home.’ Dusty lied.
‘Check your pigeon-hole. I thought I saw a letter for you, when I collected my…’
‘Really! Gosh, I’ll do that.’
‘Yeah. Isn’t Minnie looking smashing with those kundun diamond earrings…God look at that bosom. I’d be her bosom pal, any day.’ He laughed.
‘Pritpal? Minnie? What’s her real name?’
‘Menakshi, I think.’
‘No, it’s Meena, or Meena Rajkumari. She’s a princess. Don’t you know?’
Dusty and Pritpal turned round. The speaker was none other than Major Amarjit Singh. ‘Young Dustoor, you must be wondering what happened to me. We last met in the train almost a year ago. Just one of those things. I’ve been in hospital.’
‘Sir. Why? I mean what…gosh, I don’t know what to say. You must think me rude. I passed you a moment ago. Saluted, but didn’t recognise you. Sorry, sir.’
‘Can’t blame you. Next month, back again in hospital. One of those mysterious illnesses that need constant observation. Anyway,’ he offered his hand to Pritpal, ‘this is to welcome you to the regiment.’ They shook hands. Pritpal saluted. Amarjit gave a limp nod, turned and walked away.
‘He’s dying. He’s got a blood disease. Cancer of the blood. Very rare.’
‘You mean, Leukaemia?’
‘Trust you to know the right word, Sam.’
‘And you for gossip and information. Always has been the case.’
‘I listen. I ask. You’re terribly English; stiff-upper lip, all that rot…’ Pritpal broke off. He was looking past Dusty, who frowned and then spun round. ‘What were you ogling at?’ Dusty said.
‘You’ve just missed her.’
‘I don’t believe you!’
‘Honest, just went past you. Turn round. See, it was Minnie. Usually, on such occasions, she chats with the cadets. Today she’s had to entertain the Rajkumari.’
‘Rajkumari? The big woman next to her?’
‘Yes. Nawaraj’s sister. His fat, elder sister…there’s a waiter approaching us, with a book on a silver salver…bet that’s for you.’
‘Yes, I know what it’s about. James Skinner. Sen Gupta doesn’t forget.’
‘No, never. What a guy. With so much on his mind, he still…’
‘D’you think I could slip away? If there’s a letter for me I’d like to…’ Dusty took the book and flipped open the cover. ‘Gosh! It’s brand new. And look!’
Pritpal leant forward and read: ‘ “To Sam. Yours to keep. Jo Sen Gupta”. You know, one can go off a chap.’ He laughed. ‘You can go now, yes, no one’s looking.’
‘Well, all the very best in your future career…which reminds me. Isn’t Amarjit Army Education Corps? And you’re going into the Infantry. The Gurkhas?’
‘He took a transfer. But years ago he was in 4th Gurkhas.’
‘Gosh! That’s John Masters’ Regiment. John Masters? The writer?’
‘Name sounds familiar. Are you saying he’s a serving officer?’
Dusty shook his head. ‘Not any longer. But he was. Thirty-four to forty-eight.’
‘God! What a memory! What are the thirty-nine steps?’
Dusty laughed. ‘I’m not a freak.’
‘Keep in touch.’
‘I’ll try. I’m a terribly lazy correspondent.’
‘If you’re going into a Cavalry Risala, the chances of meeting up again are slim. But care 56 APO will reach me, wherever.’
‘Goodbye, good luck, and thanks.’
‘Thanks for what?’
‘Friendship and guidance; and for giving Tiwari something to think about.’
‘That will cost you a bunch of grapes.’
‘Grapes!’
‘Do me a favour. When you get back here. Visit Major Amarjit, on my behalf.’
The letter, postmarked Ullapool, was addressed to G.C. Dusty Dustoor. Sam had been careless. “Dear Boy, We’re here, just for a night, and on our way back to Bute. Muriel drives a nippy MG and a very good driver she is too. Took your advice and got married last Friday. At Gretna Green, to make it special. I’m on the wagon, been exercising, building my strength. Muriel is more than a tonic. She’s an inspiration. She’s asleep now, while I worry about not having told you about the birds and bees. Muriel says I’ve been irresponsible. Will post a book or two. It’ll be better than anything I can say. Sorry old chap. Yours aye, S. Will write at length when we’re back home.”
Dusty wrote back. “Don’t worry about the ‘the birds and the bees’ or books about it. I knew it all before I was seven. Had I not mentioned Asif? A raw teacher was he, while the animals gave lucid demonstrations. Though, I must admit, watching them could have misled me about style, approach and direction. But the boys here soon straightened that out and were no less raw. ‘You miss out on the tits if you do it from the back.’ There’s Tejpore for you. Hope that didn’t shock, but I wanted to spare you the trouble of posting books on what I already know and me the embarrassment of being seen with them. Incidentally, I secretly read your copy of Stopes Married Love about three years ago in Bombay. Yours aye, Dusty. PS And now that you’ve let the cat out of the bag, Dusty will do from now on. Sams are one too many. I have rather grown to like Dusty, can’t think why. D”
He was up early, showered, shaved and started packing; then stopped and looked out of the window. It gave him an eerie sensation to stare into an empty and silent campus. Nothing seemed to move; even the winds of yesterday had died down to an isolating stillness. He stepped out and stood next to his favourite chenar tree. Not a leaf moved. Hunger gripped him. He must breakfast before he went back to packing. Then he remembered that with the cadets away, the Mess kitchens would have shut. But surely, the cadets’ canteen, just outside the campus, could at least provide coffee and biscuits! He was about to lock his room when he remembered the letter to Sam, and the something more he needed to add to it. He looked at the letter. There was space for what he wanted to say. He sat down and wrote. “PPS. I forgot Sports Day: Incidentally I won a shield, two cups and a medal. And many thanks for arranging a travel itinerary for my Christmas Hols. Yes, the agents have sent me bookings, and names and addresses. It must have cost you a packet! I’m very grateful, dear, dear generous Sam. I’ll look forward to seeing you next year. Don’t worry about Summer. Planned a hol, Kashi Kapoor and I. You remember “Cash” we called him, because he is filthy rich. Small, curly black hair, heavy glasses, a year junior to me in school. His Dad, businessman with the touch of Midas, has a large bungalow near Ajmer. He’s negotiating to buy an even larger, off some Nawab chappie. It’ll be our base, for touring Rajasthan. Love to you both. D” He addressed and sealed the envelope, chose the most colourful postage stamps he could find from his wallet, shut the suit case, drew the curtains, locked his room and took the short cut to the canteen by crossing the green maidan behind the Wellington Barracks.
The Military Canteen was recently established to serve the needs of married staff and their families. But cadets also shopped there. It had four departments: a general store, a haberdashery, a small café and a bicycle shop; all run by a manager and three assistants. ‘D’you by any chance serve a breakfast of sorts?’ Dusty asked.
The Manager, a chubby, affable Madrasi, expressed surprise at seeing Dusty still around. Dusty explained he had to wait a day to catch his train to Bangalore.
‘Bangalore? Then you’ll be going via Madras. You must spend some time there. As you know Madras is my home town. Wery fine place. Cheap. At station itself, there’s Spencers. For eight annas only
you’ll get a plate full of sambar rice, best in all Madras.’ He smiled, rolling his head to and fro. ‘Are you vegetarian? No? Arrey then it is not for the likes of you.’
Dusty repeated his question.
‘Sorry, sorry, please to forgive. But I’m afraid no breakfast of any sort. Not coffee even. You can purchase biskoots. But, it mean, buying whole biskoot packet. Scottish good shortbread. Scottish.’
Dusty was hungry, but after eating two biscuits he realised he wanted a hot drink more than anything else and remembered where he could get one. Stuffing the packet in his jacket, he walked down the gravel path, which circled the maidan and the married quarters and aimed for the Guard House, where, off-duty sentries were constantly brewing tea over a kerosene stove. There on one occasion, cold, wet and sheltering from the rain, they gave him a steaming mug of the brew—a mix of tea, milk, sugar and water, cooked to a broth to produce a strong, milky, very sweet tea, just as he had known it as a village lad in Fatehpur. Right now he would gladly share his biscuits with them in return for that hot drink.
Dusty turned the corner into the straight stretch that led to the main gates. There he saw her; and the vision struck him with a damascene impact. Instinctively, his hand went to his lips. Thank God! The soreness and the swelling had gone. She had a dog on a lead, a springer spaniel, which she was chiding for pulling her. So absorbed was she in the dog’s conduct that he was alongside before she looked up and saw him. Her lips parted and her beautiful eyes widened. ‘Good heavens! What are you doing here? I - I mean, why are you still here?’ The start made her loosen her grip of the lead and the dog escaped. ‘Monty! Bad dog! Come back at once! He’s not quite broken in. Oh, Sam! Monty!’
The dog stopped. Turned to face them, barked and scampered on ahead.
In the Shadow of a Dream Page 12
