In the Shadow of a Dream (13 page)

‘Indeed. Well, see you in the morning. I won’t forget the trench coat.’

The train arrived at Tejpore in the early hours of the morning. A cold sun tried hard to pierce the grey, damp mist enveloping the station platform on which Dusty stood shivering.

‘You’ll be met,’ said the Colonel as he handed Dusty a khaki trench coat.

‘Thank you, sir, I’ll treat it with care.’

‘It’s a good fit. Keep it. I mean that, and you need not mention it to anyone.’

The Colonel climbed back into the compartment just as the Major was getting out. ‘You never see a coolie when you want one,’ the Major said and startled Dusty with a heavy thump in the small of his back. ‘You’re not the only late comer.’ He pointed to two figures at the far end of the platform. ‘D’you always travel First Class? Last year, I was detailed to meet the cadets. Packed the lot off in a Bedford three-tonner. That’s the meeting point, under the station clock. Wait there. Ah! I see they’ve sent the Sergeant Major to collect the stragglers. You’ve made a bad start to your first term in the Academy, young man.’

Dusty decided not to explain again, though he did wonder why Major Amarjit missed his explanation last night. ‘That very tall man, sir. Is he the Sergeant-Major? But he’s got red tabs on his collar and a red band round his peaked-cap.’

‘He’s an Englishman. Sergeant-Major Vallins, Grenadier Guards. Borrowed from the British Army to advise us on matters of drill and ceremonial parades. The last of his kind, I hope. As part of the drive to Indianise the army, the words of commands will soon be in Hindi. Then he’ll hand over to Sergeant Gurung. Jung Bahadur Gurung MC. He is the little Gurkha chap, standing next to him. Well, best of luck, young man.’ He went past the two men, who stamped to attention and saluted.

‘Wasn’t that terribly smart?’ Colonel Dhanraj said as he walked up to Dusty. ‘I overheard the major telling you about the army turning native. Yes, but you’ll see our traditions are still very British. Sen Gupta is Sandhurst trained. That reminds me. Minnie. I’d better see to…’

‘They’ve left, sir.’

‘How d’you know?’

‘I saw them get into the jeep that was parked on the platform.’

‘Good. My jeep will be here shortly…ah, there’s Amarjit with a coolie and the driver. There’ll be coolies to help with your stuff.’ He walked on, and keeping his voice down, but loud enough to be audible, addressed the Major. ‘I say, Jiti, do you realise Captain Dhillon failed to board the train. Typically, bad form.’

‘Yes, sir. Typical, as you say. He’ll be on the mat this time. He’s asking for it. Mind you he could be on the bus if he missed the train. Gets into town…two hours from now. So I guess he can still make it in time.’ There was more talk between them but Dusty missed the banter for at that moment he felt the Sergeant-Major’s pace-stick jabbed sharply into his midriff. He looked up at a pair of very stern blue eyes. ‘Are you a new cadet?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The pace-stick dug deeper. ‘Don’t “sir” me. It’s yes, Sergeant-Major or “Sar”. Get that? Now did you see that sign which says “Assembly point”.’

‘Yes, Sar…’

‘That’s where you should be. What’s keeping you?’ Roared the Sergeant-Major, ‘Waiting to be kissed? Get a move on! Sharpish! Never mind your kit. It’ll be taken care of. Smartly, now! BY THE LEFT, QUICK MARCH! Don’t slouch! LEFT RIGHT, LEFT RIGHT!’ The Sergeant Major’s footsteps crunched close behind Dusty’s. ‘Eyes front! Look sharp! Get those legs moving! DON’T LOOK DOWN! The sweepers have been HALT. Stand still. At ease. That means, legs apart, hands behind you back.’

‘I know, Sar, we marched and drilled on Founder’s Day, at my school.’

Sergeant-Major Vallins eyes glared down at Dusty. ‘You’ve got a lot to learn, me lad. You don’t speak till I say you can. And that’s never.’ He growled as he circled round Dusty. ‘Yes. I like your jacket, not what’s in it.’ The Gurkha joined them and handed him a clip board and pencil. Vallins tapped the board. ‘Are you Mr Joshi, Mr Tiwari or Mr Dustoor?’

‘Dustoor, Sir, er Sar!’

‘I’ll get the other two, Sar,’ the Gurkha said, marching away, his small plump legs moving like clappers within his starched-stiff, bell-shaped, olive-green shorts.

‘Not to worry, Jung Bahadur. Here they come.’ Then Vallins whispered to Dusty. ‘If you lot are the future hope of the Army, thank God we’ve got a Navy.’

Dusty laughed. Vallins pounced. ‘Nothing to laugh about, you dozy man you.’ Then looking away at the approaching cadets, he shouted. ‘Stop slouching! Swing those arms! Bahadur sahib, tell those coolies to make it
Jaldi, jaldi
! Right, you lot follow me. There, see the truck? Mount! On the double! That means run; and lift those feet, you sloppy lot, you!’

The Central Clock Tower of Clive Hall overlooked a large, pristine, tarmacked Parade Ground. Across the width of its asphalt, behind a gleaming white saluting dais, a fifty-foot high flagpole flew the Indian Union Flag from Reveille to Last Post. Built in 1926, Clive Hall, renamed Bharat Sena Hall, is flanked on either side by the East and West Wings of Wellington Barracks—a name, surprisingly left unchanged. These neatly pointed, red-brick, neo-Georgian buildings, form a stately symmetrical arrangement that is the pride of Tejpore’s Military Academy and the hub of the new Military Cantonment. From 1949, to meet the need of an expanding Indian Army, new barracks were raised for the accommodation and training of young cadets. Much of the materials for the barracks were prefabricated, and sadly, because of this haste, the grandeur of the Academy’s original blue print suffered. But since the authorities had placed the project into the able hands of one Pritam Singh, a precocious young architect, who admired Sir Edwin Lutyens and had studied his methods, chiefly the planned layouts for New Delhi, Pritam mapped out a network of tree-lined avenues and barracks in squares to hide much of what he considered ugly. Sunken sheds for washrooms, latrines and bicycle stands, maintained the discreet and tidy look; and not content to conceal both the Cinema and Swimming Pool in a wooded hollow, he had their corrugated tin roofs painted a discreet olive green, to blend with the pine and lush ilex,
which cleverly camouflaged these plain buildings. The kitchens of the two dining-rooms had serving counters, that ran along one entire side of these large detached buildings. They were located between the Wellington barracks and the new prefabricated quarters. Behind a line of poplars, a library and science laboratory were near completion and beyond them flat areas of forest were cleared for playing fields and far into the rising foothills of the Shivalik hills, was the obstacle course, a First Aid Centre, a field hospital and the Rifle Range.

Neighbouring the Academy, the vast Victorian complex of the Institute for Forest Research, had rooms surplus to its needs. These were leased to the Academy and refurbished into lecture halls for the studies of Military History, the Sciences, Civics and Geography.

The shortage of funds thwarted Pritam Singh’s ambitions and consequently won him faint praise. The disappointed architect left India, settled in the USA, and found the recognition he deserved in California.

His grandest legacy, the Great Avenue, led from the Parade Ground towards the high boundary walls and main gates. There, by the sentry box, were the Armoury and the Guard House. Outside the tall cast-iron gates, a cattle-grid not only discouraged Tejpur’s nomadic sacred bulls, but also warned sentries of the approach of trucks and other vehicles.

On that cold January morning Vallins stopped the military truck on the grid and made the cadets dismount and line up in front of it. ‘From here you’ll march to your barracks,’ he said. ‘It’s the shortest way. The truck will go round the back with your luggage. Now, I’ll hand you over to Sergeant Gurung, and I’ll see you lot on parade tomorrow morning. After you’ve settled in your rooms, an hour from now, you will have breakfast, then issued with bicycles. The Sergeant will then show you round. Get to know the geography of the place, because there are no excuses for being late on parade. Late comers are punished with severe drills and extra parades. Is that clear? Say, “yes, Sar-Major”. What? Can’t hear you! Scream it out!’

‘YES, SAR-MAJOR!’

‘You miserable specimens you! If you’re the country’s
creme de la creme,
God help us!’ He stamped his highly polished jack-boots hard, took two steps forward, gently prodded Dusty in the ribs with his pace-stick. ‘More I see of you, the more I begin to believe in the practice of birth control. What’s your name again?’

‘Dustoor.’

‘Where I come from, that’s what we call the backside of a she-camel. Stand still! Stop laughing! YOU THERE! Josh-Josey, Tee-Teeberry, whoever you are, WIPE THOSE SMILES OFF YOUR FACES! If you must laugh, laugh by numbers.’

‘How does one laugh by numbers? Sar!’ Dusty asked.

‘QUIET!’ Vallins shouted and turned to Bahadur.

The stocky Gurkha sprang to attention. ‘Two, three, one: ha! Two, three, one: ha! Two, three, one, hee! hee’ Sergeant Gurung’s earnest face betrayed no levity.

A faint twitch at the corners of Vallins mouth made his thin ginger moustache quiver. Then, as he got into the truck next to the driver he smiled at Dusty, who till that moment wondered why he was being singled out for jokey criticism. The smile made him decide the Englishman had taken a liking to him. Dusty turned in time to see a tall young man in khaki with a red sash across his chest standing next to Jung Bahadur Gurung. ‘This,’ said the Gurkha, ‘is Gentleman Cadet Sukdev Chadda. He wearing this,’ he pointed to the red sash, ‘so he’s cadet on duty. Second termer! He look after new boys! Show you Academy.’ Sergeant Gurung spoke in rapid bursts. Then he stiffened himself, hands by his sides and raised his voice. ‘ATTENTION! SINGLE FILE!’ ‘QUICK MARCH! Left, left, left right left!’

They marched or rather shuffled along much to the dismay of Sergeant Gurung, who kept hopping around the nervous cadets, shrieking: ‘Keep in step! No, in step! Halt! Squad, av’rybody, halt! You, Mr Dustoor, you go! Go! Go wait under Clock Tower.’ Dusty marched on. His brisk step attuned to his thoughts. He felt, as never before, a deep excitement. At last, this was what he wanted. Here, where he would be independent, with no obligation to anyone but himself. In a response to impartial rules, within an impersonal and ordered framework of discipline, he could discover a new sort of freedom, a start to a new life. Two years, he mused, two years of toeing the line. Then a freedom, learned and earned. Not licence. A freedom, making him invisible, invulnerable; and with a salary. He would have security. Self-respect and pride he had in full measure, born of self-confidence and of capabilities to excel. He recalled Colonel Hafiz, of the Poona selection Board say: “Dustoor, you put down Dr Sam Dustoor MA., Ph.D., as your guardian. You have his name, but he is not your father? Right. But your age, confirmed by your School Certificate, unfortunately puts you three months under Entry Age bracket. However, I am recommending for this disqualification to be overlooked. I’m doing this on the basis of your IQ test results. Never, in all my time here and for that matter as long as any of my colleagues can recall, has any one scored so highly. There may be delay, but you should receive a letter with details of training and ETA, that is, estimated time of arrival, at Tejpore. Courses start January and June. Letter will inform you when. At the end of two years training you’ll be a commissioned officer with a regimental posting…” It all came back to him, word for word. Yet this ability of total recall saddened him. It was a curse, not a blessing, to be haunted and hunted by memories he could not shed. Fat Sujata, drunken Randhir, black, kind Daadi; brave Asif, young Yosef, old Jaswant; and all life in Fatehpur was as clear as if projected on a cinema screen! And another, a nagging memory, not as clear, but an even more troubling vision of a young, tender frenetic face, pressed against his, while he choked, struggling for air till it became an old, smiling, toothless face; a gnarled fingertip dipping into a brass bowl, pushing between his lips drops of milk, while around him buzzed disembodied, angry voices. Dusty sat down on the marble steps that led up to the Great Hall and covered his ears to shut out the sounds. ‘I’ll learn to forget,’ he told himself, then stood up as Gurung arrived with the other two.