Chapter Nine
The confrontation with China came with a swiftness that found the Indian Army ill-prepared and tactically inadequate to meet their challenge. With supreme hubris, the Chinese made their point and left India to lick its wounds. What began in September 1962 was over by November. In December, at his Passing-out Parade, Dusty found himself a commissioned subaltern of the Mysore Lancers. But his last term had been a disaster. Well, almost. His performance during the last two months of his course, was disappointing and that, naturally, astonished his instructors. They had hoped to see him excel his peers, even win the Sword of Honour, or at least the Gold Medal. But after General Sen Gupta and Minnie left for New Delhi, the former on a posting as military adviser to the Indian Ministry of Defence, Dusty found it hard to maintain the high standards of his past achievements. Of course, his phenomenal memory and mastery of the English Language enabled him to win a special award for a “First” in Military History. That apart, his performance in other subjects was far less than what was expected of him. But all regrets, of what might have been, lay between him and his mentors. To the world outside Tejpore, to be ranked among the first twenty-five cadets was no mean achievement; and Dusty was given a warm welcome when he joined the Rathore Lancers, in Batiala, in the Punjab. He, himself, arrived at the Regiment, a stronger, more mature man, fully reconciled to making the best of his Army career. He had feared he would never recover from his disastrous infatuation with Minnie or from the hurt he felt, when she left, Tejpore and him, without a word. Now, all that was in the past. For now he was an object of admiration not only in the Regiment but also, in Batiala, where mothers saw in the eligible bachelor a prospect for their young daughters. Such attention he dodged with a consummate charm he did not believe he was capable of, and by taking advantage of the former, won the full respect of his Regimental Commandant, Colonel Har Prasad.
Har Prasad saw in Dusty the perfect subaltern; smart, well-turned out, intelligent; and was particularly pleased to see how well the men, under Dusty’s command, took to his firm but friendly manner. The two got on so well that when the time came for Dusty go on the Young Officers’ Course at Shivajipore, Har Prasad was sorry to lose him. But he had no choice. The Course was compulsory.
Shivajipore, near Poona, housed the Central Training School for young cavalry officers and the Course lasted for six months. The training timetable for these newly commissioned officers included basic training in driving and maintenance of tanks and military transport, the use of firearms, and practice in wireless communication. Mornings began with an hour at the Equitation School. This, every trainee eagerly anticipated and, though horsemanship did little to aid their career prospects, there was much pleasure and attention to be gained by it. By the end of the second month, Dusty was competent enough to join the Tent-pegging team and to take part in the Annual Summer Pagal Gymkhana. But he eschewed invitations to play Polo, since it meant the expense of owning and maintaining a horse.
A week-long holiday followed the Pagal Gymkana and Dusty, now an inveterate hill climber, walked the twenty-six miles to Pangal with his friend, Rajan. They used the little village as a base from which to explore the Western Ghats and in particular a hill, which, as seen from Shivajipore, had a funnel shaped summit. The approach to the hill was a gentle climb, but the “funnel” itself was thirty feet of sheer, vertical rock. ‘It looks tougher than it really is, Raju,’ Dusty said. ‘But I’m not giving up. I’ll get to the top.’
‘I shan’t join you at the top. Whatever you say it will be hard going and that’s the understatement of the year. Don’t ask me to brave it; not with that sun overhead.’
‘Best time of the day, what?’
Rajan raised his jungle hat, mopped his brow and throwing his haversack under the shade of a Jujube tree, lay down and stretched himself. ‘Well, good luck to you.’ He pulled the jungle hat over his face and folded his arm across his chest. ‘Wake me when you get back.’
‘By the time I’m back, you’ll be chewed up. That tree is full of black ants.’
Rajan sprang up. ‘Oh! Fuck me!’
‘No thanks.’
‘Bastard! Go on. Give me a shout when you get to the top. I’ll have my camera loaded and ready by then.’
When Dusty rejoined him, Rajan was peeing over a cactus bush. ‘Raju, look what I’ve found. At the top, under some stones…once a carefully made cairn, I suppose.’
‘Join me, you must need to go,’ Rajan grinned, ‘there’s no one around.’
‘Yup, but I must have lost most of it, sweating, to get to the top.’
‘Cairn? What’s a…forget it. Is that what you’ve found? A rusty old penknife?’
‘Yeah, but curious. On one side of the handle is carved “sandy”; on the other the words “as here”. Must be “was here”. That makes sense if Sandy’s the name of the owner. It must have been there for some time. Years perhaps.’
‘You’re a great collector of knick-knacks. And you’re a Christian.’
‘What’s that got to do…’
‘We Hindus are more superstitious. I’d never have picked it up.’
‘You’re not serious.’
‘Yes. Certainly if it has writing. It could be cursed. Why was it left there? You can never know. It could bring bad luck.’
‘Did you take a picture?’ Dusty asked, buttoning up his dungarees.
‘Yeah. Good one too. Got you at the top. Posing, as if you were on Everest. Hey, we’re spending the last two nights in Poona. Aren’t we? Then how about…?’ Rajan made a suggestive movement of the hips. ‘I know a place. Clean, recommended.’
‘No. Not interested. Truly. No need for the wink. I’ve already got your drift.’
‘Come on man! Great fun!’ Rajan giggled wickedly. ‘Your first time, I know, so consider it a learning experience. I know the right woman to guide you. Poona’s my home town, so I…You almost, remember, you almost said yes, when we first met at the Army Selection Board…before Tejpore…remember?’
‘As I said, I’m not interested.’
‘Okay, okay! Don’t bite my head off. I get it. You’re not still soft on that bloody woman?’
‘That’s all past and finito. I wish I hadn’t told you about her.’
‘You didn’t say much. Anyway, mum’s the word. You know me.’
‘Yes, and stop pretending to be a man of the world. I bet it would be your first time too. You can’t fool me. Admit it.’
After morning parade, on the very first day of Dusty’s return to the Regiment, the Adjutant informed him that Colonel Har Prasad wanted to see him immediately after breakfast, 10 a.m. ‘You’re in for a roasting. On the mat.’ The Adjutant grinned. ‘No. Just pulling your leg. I suppose you’ll go through life being everybody’s darling.’
At the appointed time Dusty knocked on the Commandant’s door, and on being invited in, checked his black beret and the alignment of his cap-badge, entered, stood smartly to attention and saluted. Har Prasad looked up, acknowledged the salute and smiled. ‘Young man, first let me congratulate you. I’ve had a glowing report on your hard work and dedication, on the course. Now, everyone who completes this course is entitled to a short leave, chutti. But if you are willing to forgo it, I’ve a proposition to make. It’s one to your lasting advantage. How do you feel about that?’
‘Consider my leave taken, sir.’
‘Good lad. You are on probation till you pass the Retention Examination. Well, it can be a mere formality and within my discretion to make it so. Now you can put that behind you. I want you to command Bravo Troop, with immediate effect. There’s a vacancy. You know the men; a tough bunch of Sikhs. Your Squadron Commander, Major Bakshi, will guide you, and since you’ll be Troop Leader, I’ll get permission from Div HQ to let you wear your second pip. It’ll earn you added respect.’
‘Thank you, sir. I won’t let y
ou down.’
‘I know you won’t. I wouldn’t go out of my way, if I had the slightest doubt.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I wanted to hear you say that.’ Har Prasad looked at Dusty steadily. The smile on his face turned into a slight frown. ‘There’s something else, Dustoor. Relax. Do sit down. This is an off-duty matter.’ He opened a desk drawer. Took out an envelope, then he drew a chair and sat down facing Dusty. He took a deep breath and held out his hand. Dusty took it hesitantly. The Colonel gripped his firmly. ‘It’s sad news, I’m afraid. The letter was addressed to me, as you can see, to the Commandant. It’s from someone called Muriel and came five days ago. She didn’t want you to be distracted from important work. I was asked to choose the best time to tell you.’
‘Oh my God! It’s Sam. My Guardian.’
Har Prasad nodded. ‘Her letter to me was short and formal. But there’s also one for you; unopened, as you can see. Did you, or do you know this lady?’
Dusty nodded. ‘Briefly, sir. She taught Geography in my school…but took early retirement.’
The Colonel stood up and went back to the chair behind his desk. ‘And from her surname I assumed she’s your Guardian’s wife.’
‘Yes, sir. Not for long. They married in Scotland, while I was in Tejpore.’ Dusty opened his letter. “Dear Dusty, Sam died, suddenly but peacefully; a happy death, at home, in my arms, after tea, yesterday at 7 p.m. It was heart failure but painless. You will get this news late because I’ve asked your CO to save it till you get back. I saw no reason for you to be told at once, or I would have cabled you.” He looked for the date of the letter. ‘It’ll be twelve days since he died,’ he looked up. The Colonel did not answer. Dusty read on: “I realise that your course and career are of paramount importance and obviously you’ve kept yourself busy. Your last letter to Sam was three months ago!! He never forgot you. In that time he wrote three letters and a card to you. I know, because I pointed it out to him. He told me not to be harsh. That you were single-minded and young and that but for you we would not be together. I did thank you at the time. But right now, I am overcome by my deep loss and feel I’ve every right to be angry; and the better because of that anger. I think your behaviour inconsiderate and callous. This was a hard letter to write. I’m sorry if I’m harsh. But I loved that beautiful man dearly. So, please allow me this space to rage and rant. I know, one day, I’ll find time to write you a happier note. Till then, and with every good wish, Muriel.” Again he looked up, pale and a little shaken.
‘You haven’t turned the sheet,’ the Colonel said. ‘I see some writing on the back.’
Dusty turned the sheet. “PS. In my rage I forgot to say the most important thing. Sam was cremated, as he wished. And the ashes are with me. He did say, sometime ago that the ashes should eventually go back to India and to you. But he never talked about it again, certainly not after we married. I’m at a loss what to do. Write. There’s no hurry. Of one thing I’m certain. He wants no communication with his own family. I haven’t informed them. I’ll leave it to you to decide what to do. M”
Dusty folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. Slowly he rose from his chair. ‘I’ll write to her.’ He was barely audible.
‘Good,’ said Har Prasad. ‘Then she’ll know I’ve passed the news on to you.’
‘I should’ve kept in touch. Do I have your permission to leave, sir?’
‘Yes. And take the leave you’re entitled to. More, if you need, on compassionate grounds. I just wanted to hear you say the right things. I have.’
‘I won’t need leave, sir. Just the afternoon off. Just time to write to Muriel.’
‘Take tomorrow off too…’ He looked at the calendar. “Today’s Thursday. I don’t want to see you on parade before Monday. Accept my condolences.’
Dusty saluted and returned to Mahijit Niwas, which was once the residence of a Maharaja and now the Officers’ Mess. It was a palatial, Jacobean mansion of red and yellow sandstone. Five of its six bedrooms were refurbished to quarter unmarried or single officers but two of its grandest rooms, the dining-room and red drawing-room, retained their original splendour. In the latter, the Rathore Lancers Regimental Silver were proudly displayed on highly polished tables next to glass cabinets filled with exquisite Delft ware china and Venetian glass. Dusty entered the dining-room and called out: ‘Kohee hai? Anyone there?’
There was a sound of shuffling feet and a moment later the rotund figure of Juma, the Wine Waiter waddled in, adjusting as he did, the red, blue and gold striped band that ran diagonally across his immaculate turban. He was proud of the Regimental colours and had every reason to be so, for Juma had dedicated his life to the Rathore Lancers. His father had served the Lancers from shortly after it was founded in 1901 by Major Stephen Jacob of Lucknow, and as a boy ran errands for his hero “Stiffen Sahib” who in his legacy left him a pension for life. He married, after Stephen Jacob died, when he was fifty-two, but for some obscure reason Juma’s date of birth was not recorded, so that his age remains a mystery. However, his earliest memories are of a time with of the Regiment that go back to 1925, when the Lancers moved from Poona to Karnal in the Punjab. Juma, of course was not his name. Some tipsy officer in a moment of light banter referred to him as Man Friday, and as Juma is Urdu for Friday, and as he himself raised no objection, the name stayed.
Juma bowed over an open hand, in a salutation reminiscent of the Mughal Court. “Sahib, hookum?” The man was a consummate actor.
Dusty ordered coffee, went upstairs to his room and sat in front of a writing table. Through the open window he stared, without seeing, at a row of flowering laburnum. He sighed, bent forward and buried his face in his hands. ‘Oh Sam! Sam forgive me! Dear, dear Sam, forgive me. Forgive me for the tears I cannot shed.’ He bit his lips and shook his head. ‘You know I cared. In my own way I cared.’ He stayed bent over his desk, till there was a discreet knock on the door. He sat up. ‘Come in! Oh, it’s you Juma. Yes, coffee, yes, I forgot.’
Juma placed a tray on the writing desk. ‘Cup, hot coffee and biskoots,’ he said. He turned to leave then hesitated. ‘Is sahib well?’
‘Yes’. Dusty shook his head. ‘I mean no, Juma. I’ve had sad news.’
‘I knowing,’ Juma nodded solemnly. ‘I putting a little brandy in coffee.’
Dusty sipped the coffee gratefully. ‘You’re a wonder, Juma. Thank you.’
‘Sahib, rest in bed, Take good sleep.’
Dusty shook his head. ‘No, Juma, sahib must write chitty. Letter, you know.’
‘Then sahib is not in. I not disturbing. I collect teray tomorrow.’
After Juma left the room, Dusty covered his face with his hands and collected his thoughts, then, drawing out a note pad, began his letter to Muriel. Twice he revised it, before honing it down to this. “Dear Muriel, To lose Sam so shortly after marriage is deeply unfair. I understand your hurt and what you saw as heartless behaviour on my part. Let it comfort you to know that Sam would not have seen it that way, as I think you know. He never minded my rather odd and peculiar letter writing habit and off-hand style, nor saw in it ingratitude or unfeeling. Our relationship was unique. In the strange circumstances of the junction of our lives it had to be so. We were never father and son. We knew that could never be. I was a poor village boy, and great as his generosity was, it was motivated by curiosity and tempered by a strong element of caution. At first, the gulf between us was too much even to expect equality, let alone affection. I was simply a low object, a curiosity, an experiment. I was sent to an orphanage and only after I was presentable, mentally and physically, was Sam prepared to draw closer. It took years to bridge the gulf and although, in the last few years, we wanted to be like father and son, I knew, and I think he realised it too, any attempt to make me his legal heir would have caused immense problems with his family—his property was tied by his father’s wil
l to the family, and that was irrevocable. Also by then I wanted to go my own way and I knew I could make my own living. Yet we lived side by side, happily enjoying each other’s company on, largely, a mental plane. Our proximity touched his heart and I will always remember he gave of his own money, over which his family had no sway, generously. But if he had not, that too would not have mattered to me. If it did, would I have pressed him to go to you? His money, less the funds he left in my bank account, is all yours now, as it should be. I don’t envy that or you. Sam knew that though we were close and tied by mutual respect, yes even by a kind of loving, I wanted to be separate and independent, and under obligation to no one. When there arose a chance to discover my parental background, I begged him not to pursue it. Sam and I understood each other. In my own way I mourn and bless his memory. We were alike in many ways. He once said, our armorial motto could be “Look only ahead”. So allow me this. I want not to look back.
In the Shadow of a Dream Page 14
