In the Shadow of a Dream (14 page)

Chapter Six
 

A
fortnight later Dusty received a letter from Sam. It enclosed a photograph of Sam and looking up soulfully at him, a Red Setter on a lead. “That’s me with Rex in the garden, isn’t he a handsome beast?” Sam wrote. “Soli Mehta took the snap on his Rolliflex. I tried hard to steer away from his pet subject, photography, but with no luck. Now I know so much about the damn thing, I’ve decided to get a camera—a Leica, no less—a typical complex of the amateur, safest to go for the best—and hope to take some good ones of you when next we’re on holiday. I got your postcard of safe arrival but have had no news from you since—getting on for twelve days! (Exclamation! Explanation?) Hope all’s well. I see Tejpore Academy follows the school-pattern of hols, so I’ll be seeing you around Christmas. I suppose a military army regime gives you little time to relax and a good reason for not writing. But drop a line whenever you can. The house feels empty without you. Anyway, your absence has motivated me to write to Muriel more often. She believes you’re my son and that you must have your mother’s looks. But with typically dry English aplomb adds that a large nose is all right on a man, not a woman, and can understand why a rather “nosey” state of matrimony couldn’t last. I’ll put her right on important things, but won’t say too much. Not yet.”

Sam’s letter touched Dusty’s sense of guilt. “Your letter shamed me,” he wrote back that same evening, “and though we do have a full timetable, I have no excuse for not writing. Forgive me old chap! Apologies by the score. ‘Lights Out’ is at ten thirty but I have, on an average afternoon, after compulsory games/shower, an hour before dinner at eight thirty. Less on week days ’cos dinner is formal and we have to dress up to the nines. I’ve got all my uniforms (speed tailoring out here) but during the day it’s thick cotton dungarees, boots, canvas anklets…The morning half of our timetable is Drill, PT (i.e. physical training), field exercises and a punishing obstacle course. Academic subjects are after lunch, but we are so physically exhausted that, by then, most of the cadets nod off during lectures. Well, not all. Lecturers press on regardless. They have ranks of captains or majors according to seniority—honorary ones for the civilian staff—and because we have to salute them they are recognised by their grey suits and maroon ties. I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting Major Amarjit again, but Colonel Dhanraj—I’ve returned his trench coat—has twice taken us out, on Field Exercises. He’s a bit of a wag—thanks for that word, I use it a lot. He’s a stickler for correct English usage. On our first outing with him, we were given tasks of making simple diagrams and maps, for which we had to follow a rigid procedure of drawing attention to landmarks, by plotting it on our handcharts and giving it a name. For practise, we took turns. One of us began thus: ‘Look to your front, six hundred yards, one o’clock, a tree by itself, call it “lonely tree”.’ Dhanraj pounced: ‘Gentlemen, we are in no position to judge the sentiments of that tree. Lonely or not, it’s not for us to say. I’d call it “lone tree”.’ On the last occasion, three days ago, I arrived at a briefing session without a notebook. He turned to me: ‘No notebook? Who do you think you are? Napoleon?’ The rest of the news is a slog, so I shan’t bore you. I liked the snap. You look distinguished. The dog completes the squire-like image. I envy the corduroy jacket. Glad to hear you’ve rationed the alcohol intake. Don’t weaken.”

Dusty found an envelope and was about to address it, when he stopped to add a postscript. “Dear Sam, As letters go to our
daftar
before being taken by the mail truck to the post office in town, I’m addressing you in full: Dr Sarman Dustoor, MA., Ph.d., because it’s impressive and I want to show off (you haven’t told me why your father named you ‘Sarman’ and after whom) and I’m going to borrow your way of signing off. I like it. Yours as ever, Dusty.

PPS I’ll make Saturday my letter writing day so that you’ll get a regular weekly news bulletin.”

But there followed a long wait before Dusty heard from Sam again. After a month he began to worry and asked to see his Company Commander, who gave him a “gate pass” to send a telegram from the town post office. It was not necessary. That same day he received Sam’s telegram: “Dear Boy, Sorry for the long silence stop Literally seeing the world with jaundiced eyes stop Been in hospital stop Letter follows stop Sam.” The letter, which arrived a few days later explained how Sam had a surprise visit from brother Dinshaw and aunt Gul. Dinshaw had flown from Boston earlier and had been staying with Gul in Surat. “Their unexpected advent forced me to lie. That, as you know, is a foolhardy course of action and one you’ve advised me never to try. To escape them, I said I had to leave for Bangalore in two days, which I was forced to do, since Dinshaw insisted on seeing me off at station. Oh, the tangled web etc… In Bangalore, at a not very reputable hotel, I must have been infected, jaundice and was forced to take a genuine holiday in Coonar, in the Nilgris (with Rex and a stout walking stick) to recover from it all—when it comes to demands on time, dogs are worse than wives or friends. The telegram, I sent on my last day at Coonar. I’m now back in Bombay, and most upset. Dinshaw has run off with my brand new book on Curzon. I was halfway through it when the barbarians landed!”

“Dear Sam,” Dusty wrote back as promptly as he could, “Please don’t avoid your family because of me. I don’t know what’s going on but I can guess they want you to have nothing further to do with me. They have a point. I would rather you forget me and got on with them, because clearly it’s killing you and I’d be irresponsible not to stress that it’s all so unnecessary. They are right to look upon me as a stranger or a parvenu. You have done your bit by me, as I said before and my future is now clearly laid out before me. Please, you must forget me. You’ve fed, clothed and educated me—more than adequately equipped me for life’s journey. I knew there’s nothing more I should expect from you, and why I took steps to fend for myself. You found me in a sty and put me in a palace. I’m for all that, forever grateful, and I will never forget you. Now, with me out of the picture, life with your family should be smooth sailing. Yours ay, Dusty. PS I feel like an old man talking to a novice, when it should be the other way round. D”

“Gosh! Dusty you’ve grown fast! Are you really just eighteen? When you said not all the cadets nodded off during lectures, I guessed you’d be the wide awake one. It has to be you. But I have to say your letter hurt me. You’re all head and no heart. In saying that, I hope I’m doing you an injustice. Yes, it would have been enough just to have helped you in life by all I did for you and left it at that—keeping a distance, surveying the result and giving myself a smug self-congratulatory pat on the back— but, did we not have a relationship? Do we not have one still? Did I not treat you like a son and, unless I’ve totally misjudged you, did you not respond in some filial measure? Your concern for my health, is that without affection? Dear boy, ‘Yours ay’, has meaning. Sam.”

“Oh, Sam! I’m a child again. ‘Bewitched, bothered and bewildered, am I’ (a song going the rounds here) and I’m in a spin. I do care. Let me try another tack. At least do this for me. Forget your family, forget me. Think about you. Go West Old Chap, go. Leave me here, I’m doing fine. Leave Rex with Mehta. Fly to the England you’ve always loved. Marry Muriel and live happily ever after. Dusty”

Four days later a brown envelope arrived. In it was an autographed photograph of Denis Compton, Dusty’s favourite cricketer, and on the back Dusty read: “My word! What a little giant I’ve created. Will do, or as they say in military circles “wilco”. But I’ll wait for the Summer hols before I go. I want us to be together, for one last time. As ever, Sam.

PS Sticking to cricket jargon, I’m unlikely to have a long innings, but finally, you’ll get the ashes.” S

At the Departure Lounge in Bombay’s Santa Cruz Airport, two men held hands in a tightening grip and regarded each other with fixed smiles.: ‘Sam, I refuse to break down, because you’re doing what I’ve asked you to do, at last.’ Dusty freed his hand and picked up a flat brown parcel that rested by his foot. ‘This, for Muriel, an Indian miniature painting, Kangra School. Tell her I bought it in Kangra District itself.’

‘Thank you, I will. It’s what she’d like. Muriel will know Tejpore’s in Kangra. On her trip to Dharamsala, she toured the area.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’ve wound up. Left everything cleared and settled…We’re unlikely to see each other again…’

‘Nonsense. I refuse to listen to such talk. If you don’t come back to India, well, as they say, if the mountain won’t…’

‘You once said that you don’t wish to cross the
kala pani
, the black waters?’

‘I know. I still feel uncomfortable about it, I don’t know where that comes from.’

‘Your roots, dear boy. It’s a Hindu thing.’

‘For no good reason. I should’ve set it aside, After all, officially I’m Christian.’

‘It may be years before you get over that, and years before you can take time off from the army, to gad about.’

‘You’ll be around. And you must see to that.’

‘Dusty, are you sure about the army? Think of your avid love for reading…’

‘In the army I’ll get more time for reading, compared with any other career. You know, the army doesn’t work after lunch. Well, officers don’t. Not much. You see, there’s method in my madness.’

‘Soli Mehta always marvels at the range of your English vocabulary.’

‘Surely he knows, all credit goes to you. If not, I’ll tell him next time we…’

‘I’ve told him. Not about me, but that you’re mad about encyclopaedias and dictionaries…but time is slipping away. Listen, your twenty-first birthday is not too long away. You’ll hear from Taraporevala, my lawyer chappie and I don’t care what the family thinks. In any event they won’t know. I’ve left you a nest egg. You won’t have to fight for it, or justify having it. That’s why I wanted you to open a bank…’

‘You’re determined to make me a living monument to your generosity.’

‘Well, I shan’t have any other; and I want to be remembered.’

‘The egg will remain in its nest. I intend to live on my salary.’

‘Don’t be too sure of that. Whichever cavalry regiment you choose, you’ll need to draw on extra funds. I gather, that cavalry regiments are notoriously spendthrift and expensive. No officer seems to manage on his salary. There’ll be fellow officers who are rajas and nawabs…aristocrats all. Why the Cavalry?’

‘The uniforms. Chain mail on my shoulders and spurs in my boots…this is what happens when you pick someone from the gutter and show ’em the grand life.’

‘You mustn’t ever say that…It’s a terrible thing to say. How could you!’

‘Sorry. I expect it was a joke in poor taste.’

‘Yes. Anyway, the next important item. You won’t be getting a salary for some time. Fifty rupees per month can’t be enough, even for incidental expenses. Half that must go to your orderly. And, I don’t want you to apply for a Governmental grant. Actually you can’t without…well, without revealing everything. And in triplicate.’ Sam laughed. ‘Indian bureaucracy is…no I’ll stop there. That’s
my
poor joke. With immediate effect, Taraporevala has been told to make it ninety rupees. Hello! Hullo! Yes, over here.’

‘Who are you talking to?’

‘The chap with the camera. Don’t smile, I hate smiling pictures. Don’t give him your IMA address. I’ll pay him now and send a copy when I get it, but not if it’s a terrible one of me. He’s taking another. One moment,’ Sam passed a hand through his thinning grey hair. ‘I think my eyes were shut then. Lord, that was the last call, I must go. Goodbye. Write.’

Dusty watched Sam raise his brief case as he went through the turnstile. ‘Sam!’ he called. ‘Sam, marry her!’

Sam did not look back. Dusty was not sure he had heard.

Chapter Seven
 

M
innie, wife of General Jotender Sen Gupta, Commandant of the Tejpore Military Academy, was an aristocrat, related to the Nawab of Mandipur. After her schooling in England, she spent time in France and returned to India captivated by the culture and lifestyle of the West. In addition, she was beautiful as only Bengali women can be, and unlike most Indian women of her age, emphasised her trim figure by the alluring way she tied her plain soft silk saris. Their plainness was a feint, meant to offset her bright tight fitting blouses, many exquisitely patterned in gold lamé and tailored to display a wide band of bare flesh above her waistline. These she modestly covered with the free end of her sari which, constantly slipping off her shoulder, had to be retrieved in graceful movements that drew attention. And though she dressed like an Indian, her hair, not yet grey, was bobbed and neatly coiffured. Against that luxuriant backdrop, she wore pendant earrings that were long, French, but distinctly Fabergé inspired.