In the Shadow of a Dream

by Sharad Keskar

  ‘Shot, sir.’

  ‘Good. Yours Lamba is a bunker, 12 o’clock and 800 yards. Shell or shot?’

  ‘Shell, sir,’

  ‘Good. Bandy you first. Let’s hear the orders to your gunner.’

  ‘Right sir,’ Bhandari shouted. ‘Look to your front! 1,200 yards! 2 o’clock!’

  ‘ON!’ the gunner’s shout from inside the turret could be heard.

  ‘FIRE!’ screamed Bhandari.

  ‘FIRING NOW!’ responded the gunner, but there was no sound from the gun.

  ‘Arrey! What happened?’ Bhandari stared into the turret.

  ‘Tell him, Lamba.’ The Major said.

  ‘You forgot to order the loader to “load”, Bandy.’

  ‘Indeed, Captain Bhandari. Your poor loader must be looking up at you aghast. And the gunner having pressed the trigger, will be equally surprised.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. I’ll get it right this time.’

  ‘Let me remind you Bhandari, if Dusty is the CO’s blue-eyed boy, it’s for a damn good reason. End this rivalry. We are fellow officers, bound by esprit de corps.’

  While in Delhi, Dusty bumped into “Cash” Kapoor, an old friend of his Tejpore days, and now in the Army Supply Corps. ‘And how’s the ASC?’ He called out.

  ‘That you Dusty? I say Dust, I’m terribly sorry about cancelling that holiday.’

  ‘Good Lord! Never gave it another thought…Where are your glasses?’

  That’s just it. I mean, why I had to cancel our holiday. Mother took me to an eye specialist chappie in Switzerland. Bloody magician. Now, I only need spectacles for reading. Hey, we could do that promised holiday. To Charbag, Kekri.?’

  ‘I don’t know. I…’

  ‘Oh, come on Dust. It’s a great place for a base. Ideal for touring Rajasthan.’

  ‘Has that deal come through? Wasn’t there some sort of hitch, about the house?’

  ‘That’s some years ago. It was the Munshi.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘They didn’t want to sell it while the nawab was alive. Now, the present owner, and nephew of the nawab chappie, has agreed. With effect, two months from now, it’s dad’s, the house I mean. Look, I’ll write. But you’ve got to come. Say yes.’

  They drove from New Delhi back to Batiala and the Ranges Camp. This time Har Prasad, told his driver, Omed Singh, to take the wheel while he sat with Dusty at the back. ‘You should take up the holiday offer your friend has made,’ his CO said. ‘Yes I heard most of it. Your friend has a loud voice. It’s good to have a break. Besides in six months you’re due to a transfer. A three-year stint outside the Regiment. ERE.’

  ‘Extra Regimental Experience?’

  ‘Some day I’ll catch you out. Anyway, when you go, the Regiment will miss you. I certainly shall. But, can’t hold you back. It’s good for career, promotion-wise, as Americans say. Soon you’ll be wearing your third pip.’ His Sikh driver smiled and glanced up at the mirror. ‘Han, Omed Singh,’ Har Prasad said in Punjabi, ‘Dustoor sahib will be Captain. But you watch the road.’ He lowered his voice. ‘When you’re back, Dusty, after those three years, you’ll be off again on a Field Officers Course, which is essential for the rank of Majors and above. By then the Regiment will have a new CO and I’ll have retired and settled with Preeti, in Rajpur, near Dehra Dun.’

  Colonel Har Prasad stroked his chin thoughtfully. Dusty studied the pale patrician face and the thinning grey hair under his beret, which swept over his ear in a short trim curl. Something about the head reminded him of Sam. He couldn’t think what.

  ‘You know, dear boy, I saved you from the clutches of General Gagan Bakshi. He was impressed by you, and wanted you to be his ADC with immediate effect.’

  ‘How did you manage that, sir?’

  ‘I said you hadn’t taken leave for years and I had just granted you four weeks off. So, you better say yes to your friend.’ He threw his head back and laughed. ‘You’ve lost nothing. It may seem a privilege to hobnob with a general, but it’s fatal when it comes to promotions and, you don’t want to be checking the temperature of his bath, play a losing game of golf, or go on shopping expeditions with his wife?’

  ‘Someone else said that, sir.’

  ‘What, about shopping?’

  ‘No, sir. About a losing game of golf. Sen Gupta, Commandant at Tejpore.’

  ‘Now that’s a strange coincidence. I met Minnie. Dinner. Last night…by the way, I hope you were comfortable at the Red Fort Officers’ Mess?’

  ‘Very, sir. I gather the food’s a lot better than at your Senior Officers’ Mess.’

  ‘Don’t you believe that. As I said, I met Minnie at this top brass dinner. When she heard I was the CO of the Rathore Lancers, she asked after you. Said she had news, important news, for you. Couldn’t wait to meet you as she was catching the late train from Delhi Station, on the…in her own words…long, tiring journey to Ranchi—Sen Gupta was recently posted to Namkum, Ranchi. And I committed a terrible faux pas. Ranchi, I said, famed for its loony bin? “Yes”, she said. “I’m President of LUCID.” She gave me her card.’ He took it out from his wallet and read. Ladies Union Caring for Insanity and Dementia. She said she’d write to you.’

  Minnie’s letter came a month later. She addressed him as her “Dearest Sam” and went on to tell him that she had met an old Portuguese nurse named Esther Lobo, who was a nurse in Basirabad Military Hospital, in 1939. “There she became a friend of another nurse, a Goan named Molly D’Silva and remembers how, on many off-duty evenings, they went to the Railway Institute, where they met and danced with British soldiers. Molly, she said, was a little careless and got herself pregnant by a soldier, who got posted to Burma before her child was born. An angry Esther wanted to write to the soldier’s CO, but Molly begged her not to, saying he was a good lad. She trusted him to return and marry her, as he promised. But the soldier was killed at the beginning of the war. When Molly could no longer hide the fact of her pregnancy, she was sacked. With Esther’s care and help, the child was born in the Hospital, but Molly, feeling she was being a burden to her friend, told Esther she had decided to return to Goa and to her parents. Molly left without leaving an address. Esther hoped to hear from Molly and when she did not, wondered if she would ever see her again. Some months later, Esther was detailed to accompany a shell-shocked soldier to Ranchi, where for a while he was admitted into a mental rehabilitation ward. To cut short a long story, there she saw Molly, who did not recognise her. Esther, convinced the authorities she was prepared to take full responsibility for Molly, sign papers and face any claims on the poor abandoned woman. Esther brought Molly back with her to Basirabad. Molly was a very sick and physically weak woman and in little more than a month, during a high-fever bout of malarial typhus, she died, but not till after, in a moment of sanity, she talked about being on a train to Baroda with her son; of getting off at a small station and walking towards a village, and leaving the boy on the steps of a temple. She told Esther that the village had a high wall, which surrounded a big fort-like gate. Esther thought of travelling to make inquiries about the walled village, but realised such an undertaking, for a single European woman, was fraught with problems. So she asked a Dr Ram Prakash, who knew that part of Rajasthan, to find the village, if it existed, but she got posted to Rangoon and they did not meet again till 1961. According to Ram Prakash, Fatehpur was the only walled village near Baroda. It was off the beaten track, and fitted the description she gave him. The villagers were unhelpful, saying, there were and are many motherless boys. Only two were prepared to say anything. One, an old herdsman, remembered a six-year old boy, who ran away to Bombay with some older boys, adding, with a sad shake of his head, that he would be dead by now; the other, a temple devotee. She did recall a strange child with peculiar eyes and rumours of him being an incarnation of Lord Krishna, and is believed to
have returned to his water gardens in Mattura.

  “Sam, I know you are that boy. Joe, my husband, who’s seen your records, won’t commit himself, but admits to the possibility. I thought you should know. And if it is true, then you are, as I suspected, not a Parsee but an Anglo-Indian, with an English father. You are, indeed, as that old woman said, a genius, blessed with everything except, as I told you, a mother’s love. Alas, that is now beyond reach. Molly, if she’s your mother, is buried in the chapel graveyard of the Convent of St Mary & St Anne, Basirabad. But someday when you can, go there, to that grave, and lay on it a garland of flowers. You’ll be blessed for that. With love, Minnie.”

  The letter upset Dusty and that made him furious. Why was Minnie doing this? But could he blame her? She hadn’t set out to make inquiries. It happened. He would write at once; and tell her this tale of the past was just a coincidence with which he denied any link. Then he would destroy her letter. That would help him forget. He started to write, trying to be terse and with the aim of discouraging a response. How could he do that without hurting her feelings? Why reply at all? There was no good reason to invite or continue a correspondence with Minnie. But it would be rude not to reply. She was a general’s wife. It would do his career no good to snub a woman of such importance. “My dear…” He stopped. He couldn’t call her “Minnie”, even though she had signed her letter “Minnie”. “Dear Mrs Sen Gupta,” I have no wish to act upon your…” He tore the sheet of paper off the pad, crumpled, discarded it, and started again. “Thank you for your letter. A welcome and pleasant surprise and so kind of you to remember me, but you must know, I have by now shed the past and moved on. I have not been without love—I have known love, a kind of love, and I do believe it may have worked out better than real parental love in important ways.” He hesitated over whether he ought to tell her of Sam’s death, and decided to mention it in passing. “I knew freedom, and now that he’s gone, I am truly free.” He stopped. His pen hovered over the sentence. It had come out spontaneously. He let it stay. “I keep shedding the past as my life and livelihood moves on. It matters little who gave birth to me. What I make of my life is the question. I’m a man of my environment, not my beginnings. I close with thanks for the time and care you spent on your long and thoughtful letter. Forgive me if I choose to do nothing about it, and please do not press me. My respects and regards to the General Sahib, Sincerely, Sam Dustoor.”

  Dusty joined Lieutenant Kashi Kapoor at the Moti Bagh Palace Hotel in Jodhpur, where they spent the night before driving off to Charbagh. Cash’s father had placed one of his cars, a Mercedes Convertible, at their disposal. Sitting next to Pannalal, the chauffeur, was Laxman, the cook.

  ‘Cash,’ Dusty said, as they set off, ‘do we really need a cook?’

  ‘Oh yes. During the day we may manage with roadside dhabas, but in the evening you’ll want a good dinner, substantial, properly prepared. Also, sandwiches for lunch for a change. And Laxman makes terrific sandwiches. How does that sound?’

  ‘Wonderful, but you must let me make a contribution. I’m talking money.’

  ‘Nonsense, Dust. Hell, what’ll I do with it. Relax, man. All this is not coming out of my pocket.’

  ‘But a six-week holiday romp is long and expensive…’

  ‘Forget it. Okay, you can buy a meal or two. That reminds me. Four weeks is all I could wangle. But for the last two weeks you can stay in dad’s flat in New Delhi.’

  Dusty said nothing. His thoughts parodied Kipling’s “A St Helena Lullaby”. How far is Fatehpur and that little boy today? Here he was, the once poor orphan, in the company of riches. But he wasn’t going to be overwhelmed into being over-grateful.

  They lunched in Ajmer at a neat and clean Goan Cafe, run by a matronly woman whose husband worked as a foreman in the Carriage & Locomotive workshop. Then they set off towards Charbagh and some hours later their car entered the long, shady drive of a red-roofed, white house with a long pillared veranda. Half-way up the drive their car was stopped by a little man in a dhoti. He wore a black waistcoat, a black pill-box cap and carried a thick red book. Bending into the car he whispered to Cash. Cash nodded, turned to Dusty and said: ‘We’ll walk up the drive. I gather the last owner of the house is here and about to leave.’ Cash told Pannalal to park at the back of the house, and Laxman to unpack stuff from the boot and get cracking with tea and dinner.

  As they neared the house, Dusty stopped suddenly. ‘God! What’s that?’

  ‘What’s what?’

  ‘In the veranda… It’s okay. She moved. She was still and white like marble. For a moment I thought it was a statue. A Greek statue. Venus De Milo with arms.’

  ‘And clothes. She’s a beauty. That figure would look great, naked.’

  ‘Not so loud, Cash! She’s looking towards us.’

  ‘And you! Good Lord Dusty, you look struck down.’

  ‘Yes I am! I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful. Not even in books. I’ll never forget that face. Not ever.’

  A man came from the house, joined the woman in the veranda, put an arm round her waist and talked earnestly for a moment. Then they went into the house together.

  ‘Lucky blighter! But he’s not a bad-looker either.’

  ‘Yes. A dark Rupert Brook type, and she, something by Raphael or Burne-Jones.’

  ‘Dark? He’s my colour. Not yours, light like a bloody Parsee. Hell! I should have guessed. That’ll be Sandy. The chap dad bought the house from. He’s Rajput. Sandy Thakur. I could introduce myself and you. Then you can have a good look at her.’

  Dusty shook his head. ‘No. I don’t see what good that’ll do me. Anyway, they’re off. Listen.’ A car engine started.

  ‘They’ll come this way,’ Cash said. ‘You’ll get another look at her. Cross to the passenger side. Who the hell is Raf…whatever that was you said, earlier?’

  ‘An artist. Medieval…never mind here they come.’

  A car with large chromium headlights approached and as it went past the man saw them and waved. The woman, lost in thought, stared large-eyed ahead, very still, her raised chin accentuating her drooping mouth and pouting lower lip.

  ‘God,’ Dusty exclaimed, ‘what a profile! Pure Raphael. Sorry, you were asking?’

  ‘Forget it. I suppose you know all about Medieval Art. Spare me. I’ve already had a long lecture from you en route here; and I’m not even sure what that was about?’

  ‘Colonel Todd’s Annals of Rajasthan. That’s why we’re here.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll use my eyes. You use your head. I remember the bore of being forced to attend those long debates organised by the School Debating Society, with you in the Chair. You always were a bookworm. What a relief, for once, to see you take an interest in a woman. Give yourself a break. Think women. Hey, I remember now, not much, because we weren’t in the same company and you were six months senior, but there was… what was her name? Something Min or Mun…the Commandant’s wife? You danced with her, didn’t you? Oh, yeah. There was talk. It looked as if you two were, you know, what I mean…’ he made a rude gesture, rubbing his forefingers together. ‘Jig-jig…we expected Sen Gupta to expel you.’

  They reached the veranda and, as if from nowhere, the little man with the red book appeared. Folding his hands he bowed and with the meek emphasis of a clerk spoke: ‘Please to forgive delay, but a room is now been arranged for the purposes of rest and sleep. Chai too is being prepared.’ He drew a hob watch from his waistcoat and looked at it anxiously. ‘It is phive p.m. Dinner will be arriving at eight.’

  Cash nodded and gave a slight wave of the hand. The little man rolled his head. They sat down on the two central steps of the veranda. Behind them the setting sun reflected sharply on the window panes. Cash gave Dusty a sly nudge. ‘We were, you know, talking about women in my life. Let’s have your story.’

  ‘What makes you think there were a
ny? No use looking at me like that.’

  ‘You know. You and Minnie. There, I even remembered her name.’

  ‘Goes to show how misleading rumours can be. Actually Sen Gupta was good to me. Gave me a book autographed by him. And we almost played a round of golf.’

  ‘No smoke without fire, man,’ Cash said with a triumphant gleam. ‘But, anyway, she was old enough to be your mother. But sexy.’ Getting no answer, he waved his right hand before Dusty’s eyes. ‘Hey, you’re not listening. You’ve gone all dreamy. Thinking about the woman you saw just now? She’s only a dream.’

  ‘No, she’s a goddess. Women like that are worshipped.’

  ‘The best.’ Again he rubbed his forefingers. ‘Each time, is like a rape.’

  ‘Stop that. Where did you pick that up? That gesture with the fingers.’

  ‘Pannalal, our chauffeur. He did that when he asked if we wanted a woman. That reminds me. Have you done it, or are you still a virgin?’

  ‘As one virgin to another. No. I mean, no I haven’t done it.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll admit it. I too. So, why not during this holiday?’

  ‘What here? In Rajasthan? Land of the purdah?’

  ‘He’ll fix it, Pannalal, a man of infinite resource. And discreet too.’

  ‘No thanks. I don’t want a dose of you know what. I’d rather…’

  ‘Don’t tell me. You’d rather read a book.’

  ‘That’s what I do all the spare time I can get. I wish you’d read too. You wouldn’t pester me, then. And don’t trouble your dad any further. I can do without Delhi. I’m happy to spend a quiet fortnight in my room at Mahijit Niwas.’