In the Shadow of a Dream

by Sharad Keskar

  “About the ashes. Here I can prove how well I knew Sam. He was an Anglophile. He loved England and he loved you. So his ashes are in the best possible place, and where he wanted to be. With regards, Dusty.”

  Muriel replied sooner than he expected. On a double folded notepaper, she wrote: “Dear Dusty, I thank you for your letter and apologise for my earlier rather peevish one. Your letter was well written, very mature, and politely showed me up. But may I pick up one point where I think you do Sam an injustice. (Having married Sam, I feel, I have some right to do so). To look ahead is to view from a platform. That platform is the past. The past gives experience and experience is something from which to learn and build on. Don’t let this trouble you. In this world there’s room for all kinds of thinking. Right or wrong, somehow we manage to live our lives with a measure of contentment, and it is not for any of us to claim the truth. Plato asked: how do we know what we think is true. There’s no answer to that. The important thing is to think. Live the questions, as Rilke the poet suggests. It matters to know where we are. I couldn’t be an amateur archaeologist or even a site-seer without admitting that. History is not bunk—as Henry Ford is reputed to have said, and I don’t believe he meant it—history matters. Truly it does.

  “Thank you for letting me keep the ashes. They will go with me to my grave. Yes, I like the idea of burial, of becoming part of this world. Sam and I, our time together, short as it was, was full of love and deeply happy. Keep in touch. With love, M.”

  Dusty put the letter down. It did unsettle him, not for long, because he refused to let it. There was nothing more he wanted to say or do and resolved to move on into the present. In the fortnight since he wrote to Muriel, he had fully immersed himself in the routine of Regimental life. The new responsibility of commanding B Troop kept him preoccupied. If the past mattered, it mattered emotionally and, therefore, not for him. History was for politicians and politics was not for him. It was different with Military History? Lessons learnt were for tactics, military tactics to be used and adapted by leaders in battle. Yes, he concluded, he was an existentialist. Life is like fiction, unfolding a story as one lives it. What’s past is best forgotten. No use, he constantly told himself, since he first learned what it meant, to cry over spilt milk. He went to the window and stared down at the palace lawn. On a cane chair Captain Kishan Lamba sat sipping his cup of tea. He looked up and they waved to each other. Kishan mumbled something.

  ‘What did you say, Kish? I couldn’t hear?’

  ‘I said’, Kishan shouted back, ‘why don’t you join me?’

  ‘I’ve had tea. Will join you later, in the Mess, for a drink.’ Dusty turned away. He walked back to the desk. The envelope, in which Muriel’s letter had arrived, lay on the floor. He picked it up and discovered he had missed an enclosed card on which she had written: “Sam’s money does not matter to me either. He had arranged for an amount to go into your bank account. You’ll get that when I’ve sorted things here. Before coming here he settled property matters, re his father’s will, with Dinshaw. Thank heavens I’m spared that and from having to travel to Bombay. They are so different. Sam very English, Dinshaw so like a Yank, his Aunt—I forget her name—a very traditional Parsee!! Keep in touch only when you wish to. M”

  Dusty sighed with relief. She had thrown him a lifeline. He did wonder how to acknowledge Muriel’s letter without encouraging a to and fro correspondence. But the card was not without its sting. She knew more about him than he realised. It was astutely chosen. For the picture on the card was Stalker’s Castle! And as he looked memories came flooding in; and hard as he tried he could not dismiss them. A jig-saw puzzle of Stalker’s Castle was Sam’s first birthday present to him. Sam would have told her. Of course, no one knew Dusty’s actual date of birth. In 1948 St Peter’s Orphanage opted for New Year’s Day 1940, and made out a School Certificate accordingly. Three years later, New Year 1951, Sam came to collect him and to say: ‘You’re going to live with me from now on. Not just for a Saturday and Sunday as before, but for every day, and I’ve got you a birthday present.’ That day, all the way to Sam’s home there were questions he was dying to ask but said nothing. If he was watchful and patient, he would quickly find the answers for himself. He recalled looking up to see Sam smiling down at him and prompted by a feeling of well-being, he had put his hand into Sam’s. It was not a memory he wanted to cherish because something of that moment left him with a sense of vulnerability, and he resented it. There and then he resolved to be independent and in control, but from that moment on, kindness had a face. It was Sam’s, as he remembered it, smiling down at him.

  He shut his eyes and bit hard on his lower lip to block the memory. But refusing to be shut out, other memories came flooding in: Sam with him in the bedroom that was to be his and showing him how to tune the small Bakelite radio on the window sill. The sound of Sam’s deep, clear voice, which he strove hard to emulate and had now made his. The opening of his present, the jigsaw puzzle, and on its box cover, Stalker’s Castle. The pristine joy of that moment returned, and broke him! His body shook violently. ‘No, no, no,’ he cried inwardly. ‘I won’t dwell on the past! There’s nothing to gain from it.’ He sprang up and determined to stem all emotion decided to go out for a run. Briskly changing into PE kit and feigning not to have heard Kishan calling to him, he went out through the gates and into Roshanara Park.

  The Park was empty. He glanced at his watch. Five minutes to six and it was getting dark. Worse, it threatened rain. Already he could feel a light drizzle. Flashes of lightning were soon followed by a low rumble. He dashed for the shelter of the band stand and almost ran into a figure deep in its shadows. Dusty recognised the new Head Clerk. ‘That you Lal Singh?’

  The uniformed figure saluted. ‘Sir, you may take my umbrella. I collecting it tomorrow from the Mess office.’

  ‘I’ll wait till the rain stops. I see you’re wearing your new Daffadar stripes.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you sir.’

  ‘You deserved promotion. Good man. Have you settled in your new quarters?’

  ‘Yes, sir. My family arriving…wife, child, arriving yesterday…from Rotak.’

  ‘Then you’re waiting to meet someone?’

  ‘Pritpal. Retiring Head Clerk. He’s partaking meal with us. Showing me ropes…is that right…ropes, procedures. My English not so good speaking. No practice I have. My family all speaking Punjabi.’

  ‘You write well, type well, and your spelling is good.’

  ‘Thank you. You’re most kind, sir.’

  ‘But you can speak to me in Punjabi or Hindustani.’

  ‘Sir, may I ask question. I see a warrant for Colonel sahib’s signature. For railway ticket. To Bangalore.’

  ‘That’s at least three weeks old. Cancel it. I’m going on annual camp exercises with the Regiment. You’ll have five days to settle in, before you join us.’

  ‘You like mother and father. Ma bap, as my father used to say of Britishers. But if I may say, sir. Holidays are important. For family sake.’

  ‘I have no family. No home to go to. All I have, Lal Singh, is the Regiment.’

  Lal Singh’s eyes looked troubled as he shook his head tentatively.

  ‘There, it’s stopped. The rain, I mean.’

  ‘Still some drops. You will get wet, sahibji.’

  Dusty put his hand out, squinted his eyes at the skies, and ran towards the Mess.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Keep the receiver close to your lips. You won’t be heard unless you do. Press this when you want to instruct your driver or gunner, and switch to that when you want to give orders to B Troop—i.e. your other two tanks. This third channel is the one you must always get back to, because it’s your link with the CO. Got it, Dusty?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ve got it.’

  ‘And you, Captain Bhandari?’

  ‘Sir. This is
my fourth camp exercise with the Regiment.’

  ‘I know you consider yourself a veteran, Bhandari, and in a way that also applies to Lieutenant Dustoor. It’s his second year. But this year the Armoured Division is involved in exercises and Harry, Colonel Prasad to you youngsters, wants everything to go like clockwork. It’s always worth checking on the drill, when we are in Camp and before mock battle exercises. So, I repeat: at all times, back to this channel. I knew a blithering idiot, who stayed on his troop channel. He got left behind because he missed his CO’s order to advance.’

  ‘Sir,’ piped in Captain Bhandari. ‘I know of a worse case.’

  Major Himmat Singh, Second-in-command of Rathore Lancers, gave a tired sigh. ‘And what is that, Bandy? Not another one of your tall yarns?’

  ‘Honest, sir,’ Bhandari, grinned. ‘This troop leader was on the CO’s channel, but thought he was on his tank channel, and he ordered his tank driver to “Halt!” Result, the whole Regiment came to a halt. Right in middle of an exercise.’

  ‘Pull the other one, Bhandari. It’s got bells on.’

  ‘And when the Regiment came to a stop, the CO bellowed: “Who’s that bloody fool?” The chap never let on. His wireless operator knew, but he also did not let on.’

  ‘And you still don’t admit it,’ Himmat Singh said snidely.

  Bhandari laughed. ‘It wasn’t me. I heard the story from Brigade Commander.’

  Himmat Singh shrugged his shoulders, raised his field-glasses and looked long and steadily into the distance. They were standing on the broad deck of the tank, behind its turret. Lowering the binoculars, he glanced at his watch. ‘Gentlemen, it’s time for lunch. Back here in two hours. It’s a fine clear day for target practice.’

  Dusty sprang off the tank and landed like a panther on his feet. The two older men watched with envy. Himmat Singh patted his slight paunch. ‘By Jove! What wouldn’t I give to have a waist like that!’ he mumbled to Bhandari.

  ‘Dusty is showing off, sir.’

  ‘Showing us off, you mean.’

  ‘Dustoor needn’t be so…Do it my way, Sir.’ Bhandari climbed down, using the steel brackets on the side of the tank, planted a foot on a boogie wheel and jumped off with a backward leap. ‘That’s how we were trained to do it. No antics.’

  ‘Still,’ Himmat Singh said as he clambered down, ‘I’ve decided to join him on his early morning runs. Where the hell is he now?’

  ‘Off on his bike, sir. To find some time to read before lunch. He got the Technical Adjutant’s convoy to bring his bike and books. Did that last year, too.’

  As they walked towards the tents, the tall lanky figure of Captain Kishan Lamba approached them. Himmat laughed. ‘Talk of the devil…I see you didn’t realise that Kishan is our new TA.’

  ‘I was looking for Dusty,’ Lamba said.

  ‘And how is our Technical Adjutant getting on with his new job?’

  ‘Fine. Except I hate having to collect the post from HQ. There’s a letter for him.’

  ‘There’s a turn up for the books. Dusty seldom gets mail. Unlike Bandy, here.’

  Lamba grinned at Bhandari. ‘Bandy gets far too many letters. Curse of the newly-weds, sir. Can’t see how he keeps his mind on his work.’

  ‘Lay off, Shorty. You’re due. Soon you’ll know what it’s like to have a woman in your life. Hey, we’ve got nothing on Dustoor, in that line. Is his in a woman’s hand?’

  ‘Yes, Bandy, but that means nothing. It’s from Scotland. And I’ve seen that hand before. More than a year ago. Too long a gap. Can’t be a love letter. And it actually says “from Mrs Sam Dustoor, on the back.’

  ‘And Dusty’s not married,’ Himmat Singh said, like one thinking aloud.

  ‘Can’t understand him not getting letters from girls, ‘Bhandari remarked. ‘A good looking chap like him. Or is he one of those?’

  ‘Never,’ Himmat Singh growled, ‘and watch how you talk, Bandy. I happen to know. Har Prasad showed me the report on Dusty from the Commandant of Tejpore Military Academy.’ He paused. ‘But that’s confidential,’ he added, recalling General Sen Gupta’s comment, “this young man could he a lothario, if he wasn’t also a fine gentleman of firm principles.”

  ‘I know he’s not,’ Lamba said. ‘He not interested in men or women, if you ask me. Bit of a loner.’

  Muriel’s letter explained that her reason for writing was to enclose Minoo’s letter, which Dinshaw had redirected to her. “Do you remember Minoo? Boman’s son? Or is that another friendship you’ve left by the wayside? I say that only to agree that you and Sam have much in common. Boman was a close friend of Sam, yet he knew nothing of Sam’s decision to live in Britain, and neither Boman nor Minoo know anything about you, since you left school. I suppose men pay less attention to…oh, I give up…

  “My fondness for Minoo grew slowly in the years I was at St Thomas’s. He was always last to leave the classroom, ever eager to do jobs for me. His letter to Sam was posted to the only address Boman knew, and crusty old Dinshaw redirected it with some reluctance. He wrote ‘Mrs Sam Dustoor’ with a distinctly hesitant hand. I have written to Boman and told him the news about Sam. With love, Muriel.”

  Minoo’s letter was formal and to the point. He began by saying that although he was aware that neither Sam nor Dusty cared for his friendship, he was writing on his father’s behalf, because “Dad finds it difficult to express himself on paper”, and that if either Sam or Dusty wished to know, their address was now 9 Bauhinia Terrace, in Singapore, where they had settled. Minoo elaborated: “Dad was approached by a big Parsee business firm, who made him a generous offer for the Light of Asia restaurant and the flat above. Also, in part exchange they have provided equal accommodation in Singapore, where they said “Dad’s expertise would pay dividends, far more than what he was getting in Bombay. Dad’s been in Singapore these past eight months.”

  Dusty put the letter in the inner pocket of his dungaree, and for a moment paused to reflect how Boman would take the news about Sam. He knew of their strong respect for each other. Maybe, he thought, taking on a new project in a far country will lessen the impact. He inhaled deeply and picking up the book he was reading, once again sank into its bold narrative, but not for long. Juma’s respectful whisper over his shoulder reminded him that lunch was served.

  At the table, Colonel Har Prasad drew a chair and sat next to him. ‘You were very absorbed in that book. What’s the title?’

  ‘The Conquest of Peru, by Prescott.’

  ‘I thought it might be a book of poems?’

  ‘No sir. I’ve left poetry behind, and now, even fiction, however good.’

  ‘My father was a Lecturer in Punjab University. He did recommend Prescott to me and suggested I begin with The Conquest of Mexico.’

  ‘I’ve read that, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure you did. But I must admit I’ve read neither. When I was eleven, father made me help in cataloguing his large library, in the hope I’d get hooked. It made no impact. After his death, in my teens, I was determined to read every book that was ever published. But one can’t. I know you’re a voracious reader, but you know, one can’t know everything, however clever one is. Remember that.’

  Dusty stared at his CO for a thoughtful moment. ‘You disapprove of my reading?’

  Har Prasad shook his head. ‘How could I? I would if it adversely affected your work. It doesn’t. But, what you do now and how you act, that, more than anything else, is going to leave its footprint in the sands of time.’ He smiled.

  ‘But sir, action needs to be informed if it’s going to serve any good.’

  ‘Touché. Anyway, forget all that, it’s not why I chose to sit next to you. As you know Prime Minister Nehru died yesterday. Well, I’ve been called to Delhi, to join a ceremonial guard, along with an officer of my choice. I’d like you to come.’
<
br />   ‘Whatever you say, sir. I’m at your service.’

  ‘Good, then that’s settled. We leave soon after lunch, in my jeep. I’ll be taking my driver, as per regs. But you can drive.’

  Later that afternoon, three officers walked towards the tanks that were lined up at the firing range. ‘I see you’re itching to say something,’ Major Himmat Singh said.

  Captain Bhandari gave a nervous laugh. ‘Nothing. It’s all right, sir.’

  ‘Come on, out with it.’ Himmat Singh and Kishan Lamba exchanged mischievous glances. ‘Now is as good a time as any.’

  ‘It’s just that you gentlemen seem not to comment on the absence of Dusty.’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘I happen to know he’s Harry’s, I mean the CO’s, blue-eyed boy. Dusty has been given a special assignment.’

  ‘That, Bandy, is stale news. I knew about it this morning. The Colonel consulted me. He’s quite a democratic sort of guy, the CO is.’

  ‘ Actually,’ said Lamba, with a smug smile. ‘I knew yesterday.’

  ‘This is one-upmanship,’ Himmat Singh growled. ‘But that would only mean you knew about the CO having to go. You couldn’t have known about Dusty.’

  ‘True, but Dusty’s an obvious choice for the job, sir.’

  ‘Right, Bandy, let’s test your OLQ. That, in case you’ve forgotten is, “officer-like qualities”. There, now get on to the deck of the tank, the second from the left. Lamba yours is the third.’ Major Himmat Singh stood between the tanks, raising his field-glasses. ‘Now, in the turret you chaps have a gunner and a loader. Captain Bhandari, your target’s a scrap tank, at 1,200 yards, 2 o’clock. Raise a hand when you’ve seen it. Look through your glasses. Good. So what will it be, shot or shell?