Out of India
Page 1
BY THE SAME AUTHOR:
Five Romantic Poets
The Royal Fusiliers
The Founding of the Jesuits
The Age of Patronage
Tudor Portraits
Undreamed Shores
Chivalry
Traditional Nursery Rhymes
Folk Tales of the British Isles
The Children’s Songbook (with John White)
The Borgias (under the pseudonym ‘Marion Johnson’)
The Real West
Treasury of Nursery Rhymes*
Treasury of Fairy Tales*
Looking for the Last Big Tree (fiction)*
Beyond the Black Stump*
On Tour: The British Traveller in Europe*
Poetry of the World Wars*
The Greek Myths (under the pseudonym ‘Michael Johnson’)
Gods and Heroes: The Story of Greek Mythology*
The World of Camelot*
Celtic Myths and Legends*
People of the First Crusade*
The Search for Cleopatra (in association with BBC Timewatch)*
*Published by Michael O’Mara Books Limited
Copyright
First published in Great Britain in 2001 by
Michael O’Mara Books Limited
9 Lion Yard
Tremadoc Road
London SW4 7NQ
This electronic edition published in 2012
ISBN: 978-1-843178279 in ePub format
ISBN: 978-1-843178262 in Mobipocket format
ISBN: 978-1-843178060 in hardback print format
Copyright © Michael Foss 2001
Map copyright © Michael O’Mara Books Limited 2001
The right of Michael Foss to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Every reasonable effort has been made to acknowledge all copyright holders. Any errors or omissions that may have occurred are inadvertent, and anyone with any copyright queries is invited to write to the publishers, so that a full acknowledgement may be included in subsequent editions of this work.
All rights reserved. You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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Contents
By the Same Author
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Map
PROLOGUE: WHAT HAVE I LEARNT?
Empty Tents
PART I: WAR GAMES
CHAPTER ONE A Child’s View of the Ocean
CHAPTER TWO The Gate Closed
CHAPTER THREE Corridors
CHAPTER FOUR Banana Man
PART II: IN THE CLEAR
CHAPTER FIVE A Brief Introduction to Magic
CHAPTER SIX The Vindhyas
CHAPTER SEVEN A Hush in the Hostel
CHAPTER EIGHT Interrupted Lessons
CHAPTER NINE Victory
CHAPTER TEN Blue Hills of the South
CHAPTER ELEVEN In Churchill’s House
CHAPTER TWELVE Time’s Up
EPILOGUE
Where Am I Now?
In the recovery of these events I thank my brother for the use of his memory, though the errors and misinterpretations are my own.
MICHAEL FOSS
March 2001
PROLOGUE
WHAT HAVE I LEARNT?
Empty Tents
SOME TIME AGO I saw a picture on the back page of one of our national newspapers. It was a photo that had nothing to do with news or comment but was an artistic image indicating, I suppose, the respectable culture of the paper. The picture showed flooded land in India towards the end of the monsoon season, when the rising waters form temporary jheels or shallow lakes in the long hot flats of the plain give to a land of too much desolation and dust the momentary charm of lakes and islands. Some water buffaloes were wallowing in this unexpected playground, their glistening black backs and the large sweep of their horns standing out just above the level of the water. A thin, barefoot boy in shorts and a loose cotton shirt was leaping from the back of one buffalo to another. The camera had caught him in mid-air, in an act of the utmost grace and agility. It was a picture of pure joy.
As I looked at it I thought I had never seen such a representation of an ideal childhood, a life so in tune with a particular place and time.
The boy in the photo was some ten or eleven years old, about the age that I was when I left India.
*
I hardly knew my father when I was young, since by profession he was a soldier and naturally had serious business to attend to in the early years of my life. Later perhaps I no longer wished to know him too well. I had never formed the habit of him and then it was too easy to drift away. Wartime separation, then boarding school, holidays apart from my parents abroad, a home quickly abandoned for a student apprenticeship, and then a flight to new lessons of the world and more hopeful skies – what chance did I have to overcome the shyness that crippled both of us, and the mutual suspicion of fathers and sons? When he died, an old man gasping from emphysema, trying to find bearings amid the scrabbled memories of Alzheimer’s disease, there was, after the small griefs of the leave-taking, if not nothing, at least very little. I wondered at my … what? Unfilial coldness? Lack of charity? An impediment of the heart? He left me no keepsakes; but his watch, which remained unclaimed, came into my possession. In a similar casual manner, as if dropped behind in the fitful passage to quite another destiny, I found in my hands a large photograph album. I have been going through this album recently, again and again, trying to find the true tracks of early wanderings half-remembered, half-understood.
The photos dated from a period shortly before the First World War, pictures of an Anglo-Indian world ten to fifteen years before my father came to know it. The photos were large prints, the work of a professional photographer whom I assume to have been an Englishman. Large compositions, at that time, demanded some technical dexterity, and portraiture of the Raj also required tact and a proper sense of the rightness of things. The task was not lightly entrusted to Indians. So I imagine the photographer, a civilian tradesman deferential perhaps in the presence of so much military brass, in Norfolk jacket and plus-fours, his head ducking in and out from beneath the green baize cloth that covered the bellows of the box camera. He was in any case a competent man. His pictures came out clear and sharp and well-composed, many in the sepia tint that always lends nostalgia to the most ordinary of everyday events.
Most of the photos were of regimental groups and places, or views of Indian towns and landscapes, particularly on the mountainous north-western borders fronting onto Afghanistan. There were confident group portraits of the English officers and the Indian subadars and jemadars of the 57th Frontier Force. This was the regiment known as Wilde’s Rifles, which my father later joined. There were views of the town and the hills and the Army Signalling Station at Kasauli, in the foothills of the Himalayas. There were views of Peshawar and the bleak eroded mountains and the little lonely hill stations beyond, at the limit of safety, in the harsh wilderness that the regiments of
the Indian Army Frontier Force were supposed to keep secure for civilization against the Pathans of the hills, those inveterate brigands and disturbers of all colonial peace. Then there were flat vistas of the Indus plain, an expanse so vast and empty that it was in its own way as cheerless and intimidating as the mountains themselves. And lastly, in a big group, there were numerous photographs of the great Indian durbar that took place in Delhi in 1911.
It seems to me that some huge matters were implicit in those images. A powerful moment in history, if only I could catch it. Again and again I turn over the pages of these photos, drawn to the scenes of that durbar.
From all over British India the soldiers and the administrators of the Raj had collected to do honour to the King-Emperor (such a title for that middle-aged gent in a tight coat, with his bug-eyed Hanoverian stare hardly humanized by a bluff sailor’s beard!). The photographer had taken many pictures by day and by night, of the temporary military encampments around Delhi. By day, ranks of empty army tents, squared-off in the straight lines beloved of the military mind, were strung out amid the yellowing grass, the scrub and the low trees on the edge of the Old City of Delhi. It looked as if the city was encompassed by the lines of an invading army. An enemy was penned within. By night, under the flare of petroleum lamps, the pale forms of the tents looked ghostly and alien, a sublunary world full of menace.
Inside this ring of tents a Moghul gate to the Old City, ablaze with floodlight, was hung with a giant picture of George V and carried across the main arch, in very large English letters, the legend LONG LIVE THE KING-EMPEROR. I wondered at the effrontery of this message, smack in the face of a teeming oriental city that spoke many local languages but where only the clerks and the well-heeled could have read English. The message, quite obviously, was one of self-satisfaction directed elsewhere than at the Indian population.
On the field of the durbar a square dais with many slender columns was topped by a gilded onion-dome, under which the King-Emperor was seated. The effect was not fortunate. Here East and West jostled, and the Brighton Pavilion came to mind rather than the court of Akbar. At the foot of the dais Indian soldiers in dark uniforms and white topees guarded a compound marked off by a velvet rope. Indian princes and high officials in their best ceremonial robes looked on from a small but sufficient distance. The impression was of a sunny day at a Royal Ascot race-meeting. Several of the high-ranking men – I could see no women in this enclosure – were sheltering from the sun under black umbrellas more often seen in a London winter. Around the important people was an empty space. Then the mass of spectators sat in a broad circle under an awning striped like circus canvas. All these spectators were Europeans, the men in uniforms as spick and span as braid, polish and brass could make them, and the women in iridescent silks and feathers looking as flighty as a flock of Himalayan pheasants.
This durbar of 1911 was the last great imperial occasion in India. The last inflation of the bubble before the pricking of nationalism caused that confident gas to leak rapidly away. The durbar spoke clearly and without embarrassment of old rapine, old strength, old moral blindness. But the Delhi it was aimed at, the witness of the tamasha, was no longer the old seat of ancient empire, the Moghul city so knocked about in the mutiny siege of 1857. It was now a place handed back to the puzzle and mess of ordinary life. It had become a ramshackle city where the ever-growing native population – Hindus and Muslims mixed and stirred among members of all the peoples of northern India – spilled out into a huge cock-crowing, donkey-braying, cattle-lowing caravanserai down on the stony bank of the Yamuna river. A place of shanties, godowns and befouled lanes made alive by the necessity and energy of poverty. That was the real Delhi. Durbar Delhi was little more than a theatrical back-drop, painted for the delusion of England. It was a stage-set that pretended to imitate the grandeur of the Potsdam of Frederick the Great or even the Versailles of the Sun King.
The durbar and its aftermath, which saw the New Delhi of the British Raj arise under the showy architectural hand of Edwin Lutyens, was England dreaming. It was too late for dreams. Sick of the malady of empire, the nationalist movement was beginning to kick India awake.
*
Looking back at the world of these photos I do not know whether I belonged to the betrayers or the betrayed. Have I turned in disgust from the tomfoolery of this transposed England, so fatefully placed under the wide kite-wheeling skies, where vultures rooted in dead bodies on the tops of the Towers of Silence? Have I, in a cricketing phrase beloved of British-educated Indians, ‘let the side down’?
Or have I been restrained, by timidity or training or perhaps some disability inherent in imperial genes, from finding a worthwhile path in that great, muddled, dangerous, dazzling maze into which I had been born?
*
I was born in the British Military Hospital of one of those little northern hill stations, at Murree, where the families of the Raj took refuge each year from the summer heat of Rawalpindi. A couple of years before the Second World War, I was hastened into the langorous after-midnight hours of a July night by an Australian army doctor anxious not to miss the Bombay boat booked for his leave. For him, as for most of us, India, whatever it was, did not count as home. There was always a boat out that one could not afford to miss.
Just before the start of the war I too was on a boat, taken into exile to a land called England, reputed to be my home.
PART I
WAR GAMES
ONE
A Child’s View of the Ocean
ONCE MORE, WE were on a ship, all our family together, leaving Glasgow to return to India. When the inscrutable military had brought us back from India, despite the alarms of Munich and an impending war, my father had been assigned to a ‘course’ in Northern Ireland. The aim of this course remained mysterious to him. He, a sunburnt soldier of a dry and withered Indian frontier, was sent under weepy skies to the foggy green fields around Belfast to mould territorials whose destiny still tottered between appeasement and Hitler. Trained to try to read the runes of a lawless wilderness, where bloodlust, treachery and a cheerful aptitude for guerrilla warfare had made life hot for all regular forces with a pretension to modernity and efficiency, from Alexander the Great to Emperor Babur and then onward to the Indian Army of the Raj, my father now found that the nice judgement demanded of him was to distinguish carefully between Paddy and Prod.
In an unguarded moment in the territorial Officers’ Mess he had admitted that he was married to a southern Irish Catholic. In consternation, a friendly hand had led him outside. ‘For goodness’ sake, man,’ the local had whispered, ‘if you value your health in these parts, never admit to have anything to do with Catholics.’ The instruction was not so much military as a lesson for life. But valuable though it was my father did not feel that it warranted a journey from India. Even after the declaration of war, when my father was impatient to get back to his regiment and anxious also to take his wife and two very young boys away from the whistle of bombs and the stringency of rationing, he was forced to study for a while longer the punctilio of religious difference ground out in sweat and blood over some two hundred and fifty years of extreme prejudice.
‘Perhaps,’ my father told me later, at the start of more recent Irish troubles, ‘it was not so very different from the world of the Frontier.’
In the summer of 1940 he received orders to return with his family to India.
*
Today, when I think of the sea, it holds no particular terrors. Everyone of sense respects the sea, that latent danger, the shifts and swell of the water that suggest nothing so much as the bunching of titanic shoulders. Storms are always fearful, and the thought of drowning is a door I would not open, for that nether world is dark and ominous beyond conjecture. Yet I have good reasons to fear the sea.
*
Out of nowhere, I am standing on a deck. I am holding a hand and I can feel the edges of a precious stone set in a ring. I am not apprehensive. It is cold but not excessively so �
�� late September chill – and I am dressed in warm stuff as for some trek or adventure, though what that could be in the depth of the night I have no idea. A long way below I can make out the black mat of the sea. It is heavy and stirs easily with a calm procession of small swells. The moon looks enormous in cloudless skies, making everything sharp and clear.
It is saying: Now, this is a moment not to be missed.
At a distance all around are friendly quiet shapes, familiar ships very like our own, as if a hand might casually pluck them from the bath at bedtime. Engines have stopped and I hear only the light slap of the sea at the water line. There is no song of the wind in the rigging, and the canvas covers on the lifeboats are as taut as a drum. I stand among adults as stiff as lead soldiers, as silent as sleep.
All this is the grammar of toytown, formal and static and emptied of emotion, so that even a child of three could begin to understand it.
Suddenly, in my memory, the scene has become animated with meaning and consequence, and I now realize that for the first time I was not only hearing but also recording the strange demotic language of life.
We had been brought to the deck, where we had been standing for some time, by dull thuds suffusing up from below the surface of the sea. What did they mean, those slow heavy bubbles of doubt and unease bursting out from unseen monsters? The sailors amongst us on the crowded decks knew those signs well enough. Most of the passengers guessed but hoped helplessly that this fate might pass them by. They were landlubbers, after all, without any commitment to the realm of the sea. From time to time, on a neighbouring ship that seemed uncomfortably near, a spurt of flame would flare and die, a match lit and extinguished with its work smartly done. Then one of the ships dotted around us would gradually tip and with a sad grace slip slowly away.