In the Shadow of a Dream (19 page)

‘My father would disagree with you. He says that the best time to read philosophy is on a train journey.’

‘Indians waste much time on philosophy. Kant, much too complicated. Language most hard to follow. But, one must always adhere to what fathers say.’

Dusty nodded. ‘But, what reading would you suggest, Mr Kumaraswami?’

‘
Ai, ai Yoh
! Much to choose from. My own favourite is Kipling. When I was a boy, you could find Kipling in Railway Station, A H Wheeler bookshops.’

‘I like Kipling too. But I’m happy with Kant. The language may be complicated but the ideas behind it are simple.’

‘At the next station I’ll send the boy from the railway book shop.’

‘Not now. In the morning. See that I’m not disturbed tonight.’

Mr Kumaraswami rolled his head. ‘Every consideration will be observed.’

“I am never to act otherwise than so that I could also will that my maxim should become a universal law.” Dusty smiled. The Guard, he thought, could not have had the good fortune of an excellent tutor like Dr Sam Dustoor: “Laddie, the fun of Kant is the mental exercise he provides. Simplify the rigmarole and what do you get? Ask yourself: Would it be all right for everyone to act as I do? If the answer is: No. Then don’t do it, because it will not be a universally moral course of action.”

Dusty put the book down. He knew what he had to do, and he was determined to succeed—determined to dismiss those nagging feelings that were upsetting him; that were making him restless. “Time heals all wounds”, that’s what she meant. He smiled as he recalled William Powell, in
The Thin Man
, saying: “Time wounds all heels”. He took a sharp breath. Was he a “heel”? He had resolved, since school days in Bombay, to grow up to be principled, strong, upright and, above all, independent; unmoved by weaknesses and what in his innate wisdom he considered, human folly. He had been weak. He had, till now, taken immense pride in himself and, with self-congratulatory approval, his ability to be indifferent. He hated dependence, had eschewed friendship and treated people as stepping stones to achievements. He realised that unhappiness and pain came from attachments to people, to things. Sujata, Daadi, Asif, Yousef, yes, even dear Sam, were all means to an end; and he had succeeded, till now. Now he was confused, ashamed. Pride, in his ability, in his prodigious mentality—no self-delusion but one affirmed by the evidence of people’s astonishment when confronted by it—had taken a knock. He felt defeated, violated; and worse, helpless. Did these ridiculous aching desires mean he was in love with Minnie? He had had to fight those strange feelings which kept him awake last night, and had to summon all his mental strength not to give in to a desire to masturbate—that had nothing to do with the Reverend Jack Jones talk on the evils of masturbation to the boys at the Orphanage. He was too intelligent for that. Besides Asif told him he, Asif, often masturbated to get a good night’s rest, and Asif was no weakling. No, he declined to masturbate on aesthetic grounds and because it was absurd and pointless. Wet dreams were another matter. Till last night they just happened and were loveless. Last night was different. Minnie had appeared, naked, magnificent and desirable; her breasts, bare, firm, splendid. He yearned, yearned to be drawn into their yielding tenderness. Something new had stirred within him. But why breasts? Breasts were nothing new to him. As a boy in Fatehpur village he had seen them, all shapes and sizes. He had even been repelled by the sight of some—Sujata’s, fat, ponderous and heavy. Daadi’s, flat and shrivelled. Yes, those images he recalled to kill the enticements and temptations of the night; and now he would exhaust himself physically, while on holiday in the hills… He picked up the book again, read till sleep overcame him. The book fell to the floor.

Chapter Nine
 

T
he 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, c
hutti
. 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.’